REMINISCENCES 
 
REMINISCENCES 
 
 BY 
 
 M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 THE WHITE HOUSE BY THE SEA," " DR JACOB," " KITTY 
 
 I 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE REDWAY 
 
 1898 
 
(U 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Childhood ....... 
 
 A Baby Taking Notes— The Vanishing Pies— A Village -Mystery— KiiKenc 
 Sue — A Child Suicide. 
 
 II. Our Rector ....... 
 
 Pulpit Amenities — What's in a Name? — "Only one I) d DrO]) ! " — 
 
 " A Chapter of Sammie " — Burial Fees — Plaints of a Poor Rector's Wife— ( '.iris 
 of the Period — " Who had the Parson's Wine ? "' 
 
 M 
 
 III. Our Village ....... 29 
 
 Types and Feats — A Vestal Virgin — Manetta and the Ghost— Our Sappho. 
 
 IV. The Sons of the Soil . . . . .42 
 
 Notions Geographical and Cosmographical — Moral Standards — Chivalrous 
 Feeling — A Ploughman's Career — One-Eyed Dick — Pharisees in the Pulpit — 
 Photography— Turtle and his Gang — Schools — Stewed Prunes — Prison Fare — 
 The "House." 
 
 V. Lady Farmers and others . . . .60 
 
 Lady Farmers — Gigs, Toll-bars, and Matrimony— Pigs and Pianos— Balls— 
 The Cost of pulling a Neighbour's Nose — Contrasts — A Look Ahead. 
 
 VI. The World of Books . . . . -73 
 
 The Triune Splendour — Will Wimble — Nursery Saints— The Devil's Story- 
 Book — Mrs Forsdyke and her Donkey-Cart. 
 
 VII. The Social MediuxM . . . . .86 
 
 The Grande Chartreuse— Lot's Wife— A Prodigal Son— A Catastrophe and 
 a Coincidence— The Rev. J. C. Ryle and his wayside Blessings— " You've got 
 the wrong colours, my dears. Go and change them I " 
 
 VIII. The Social Isl-EDiuu—confuiucd . . . .100 
 
 A Quaker World — A Ycing Quakeress's Pin-Money — Contrasts — Tlie 
 
 Struggle for Gentility : "'Anything to pass the time away" — Jules R : A 
 
 Key to French Character. 
 
 IX. Mimosa House . . . . . .110 
 
 A Comparison— Accomplishments in the Fifties— Morals— Rebecca H 
 
 and her Guardian Angel— A School-girl's Religious Notions. 
 
 X. The Two Dromias . . . • • .121 
 
 Amelia B. Edwards— Damp Fireworks— The Organist of Wood Green— My 
 Uncle— Sterling Coin— A Twelvemonth's read at a Bookstall— An Autodulacte. 
 
 XI. Idyllic and Bibliographical . . • • '34 
 
 Reaction— Drifts and Pightles— Lord of the Harvest— Bait and P.cver-The 
 Last Waggon— The Biography of a Book— Publishing Old and New. 
 
 XII. Old Germany . . . • • • '44 
 
 Life in a Wurtemberg Schloss— An English Abbess— The Cene-is of a N.>\cl 
 — Frankfort as a Free City. 
 
 XIII. Old Vienna . . . . • • ■ '57 
 
 The Private Physician of Prince Metternich— A Pupil <.f Jenny Lj"*' 
 Contrasted Splendour and liarbarism— Political Stagnation — '1 he l.xodn- — 
 Farewell- 
 
 2G08G(i 
 
VI CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. . I'Aca- 
 
 XIV. Might have beens . . . . -171 
 
 David Swan — Shadows of Death — Love — Wealth — The Dromias in Con- 
 ference — My Miss Browne. 
 
 XV. Semi-Bohemian Paris 
 
 ursdays — A would 
 
 Empi 
 
 Mile. Eugenie and her Thursdays— A would-be "Ingenue'' in white 
 ;lin— The Sentimental Trio— Paris under the Empire— Parisian Life a 
 
 la Balzac. 
 
 XVI. A Girl Farmer . . . . -194 
 
 " II faut bien choisir ses Parents "—Suffolk Wags and Ways— A Homeric 
 Parallel— Swede Turnips and Swedenborg. 
 
 X\^II. The World OF Letters, Art AND Science . . 207 
 
 Old Kensington— Rev. W. E. Channing— Professor Sylvester— Charles 
 Bradlaugh. 
 
 XVIII. More London Souvenirs .... 219 
 
 Dr Karl Marx and the International— John Stuart Mill— Louis Blanc— 
 "The Camels" — Flowers in Finsbury — A Witticism. 
 
 XIX. George Eliot and Madame Bodichon . . 233 
 
 "The Overture to ' Fidelio,' my dear !" — " Marian " and " Barbara ' — 
 Rembrandt and Bordone — The Parting of the Ways — "Oh, Barbara, 
 Barbara, what have you done?"— A Dinner Party. 
 
 XX. George Eliot and Madame Bodichon— ^(9;?/z>7?/'£'^ . 246 
 
 Sunday Afternoons at the Priory — Grace and Amelia — Browning — "Sing- 
 ing Birds" — Tugeneff — William Allingham — The Isle of Wight — Beethoven 
 — Talks of "Polly" — Shanklin — "A Serious Tea"— A Christmas Dinner — 
 — " I always do that sort of thing I " 
 
 XXI. George Eliot's "Barbara" .... 263 
 
 George Eliot at High Mass — Daubigny — Old Hastings — " Poor Little 
 Priscilla" — Portman Hall School — Algerian Society — Under the Third 
 Empire — Afforesting — Girton College — Dr Bodichon. 
 
 XXII. Leipzig . . . . . . .279 
 
 Dr B and his Bibles— A Strange Comradeship — Auerbach's Cellar— 
 
 The Head of the House of Tauchnitz — International Bookselling — A 
 Compromising Visitor— The Price of Glory. 
 
 XXI II. The Goethes at Weimar .... 290 
 
 First Impressions — Ottilie von Goethe and her Sons — "DerVater" — A 
 Melancholy Jacques — A Goethe on TroUope. 
 
 XXIV. The Abbe Liszt . . . . . .302 
 
 A Phenomenal Fourth Finger — A Table d'Hote (Jroup — Tausig — 
 Friiulein Constance — A Historic Glass of Champagne. 
 
 XXV. The Abbe \A'&ZT—co7itimicd . . . -314 
 
 Ave Maris Stella — Liszt improvising — .\ Picnic — " Keine Forellen I " 
 A Ticklish Charge — h Tragic Love Story. 
 
 XXVI. I)R Thomas Wilson . . . . .326 
 
 Souvenirs of George ICIiot and Carlyle— Sketch of a Career — Mirage— 
 Nozrani in Egypt — "The Clementine Homilies." 
 
 XXVII. A Group of FRn«:NDS . . . . .339 
 
 My Capucin lirothcr — His .Antipodes, Poverty, Chastity, Obedience, and 
 Novel-reading— Two Ex-Priests— Ex-Priest Pastor B.— Kx-Priest the Com- 
 mission .Agent — \ Spanish Convert to Protestantism. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 M. BETHAM- EDWARDS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 A Baby Taking Notes— The Vanishing Pies — A Village 
 Mystery— Eugene Sue — A Child Suicide 
 
 I SUPPOSE everyone has some recollection of 
 first consciousness, some memory, more or less 
 distinct, with which individuality and the 
 recognition of it began. This experience in 
 my own case Is definite. Years have failed 
 to obliterate the Impression. A life-time of 
 unceasing activity and of no little change has 
 not dimmed the picture. Looking back across 
 the bridge of years, I see to-day what I real- 
 ised then. Were I transported to my child- 
 hood's home, I could put finger on the scene. 
 Nursemaids In former days were no less 
 
2 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 given to flirtation than at the present time. 
 A red coat in a rustic village was ever as tinder 
 to the spark. One sunshiny afternoon, some 
 gallant soldier encountered or waylaid a young 
 woman carrying a baby. The little girl in her 
 nurse's arms was too young for tale-bearing, 
 not too young, however, for observation. The 
 scarlet coat so strikingly contrasted with blue 
 sky and green hedges, the ingratiating smiles 
 of the wearer, who, whilst making love to the 
 maid, warily ministered to the good humour of 
 her charge, the animation of the pair, all 
 these things made up a clear, ineffaceable whole. 
 From that incident memory begins. 
 
 The next landmark of childish life may 
 also call up a smile. When about four years 
 old I was sent with a sister to school. The 
 arrangement was temporary ; we were only 
 exiled in view of an approaching event, but 
 even under such circumstances our anxious 
 mother did not forget her darlings. A hamper 
 of home-made cakes and fruit pies was dis- 
 patched in order to console us. It occurred 
 to the schoolmistress and her husband that 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 3 
 
 here was an admirable opening for economical 
 hospitality. The little boarders were packed 
 off to bed betimes, card tables were laid out, 
 an occasional song or jig on the piano created 
 pleasing diversion. 
 
 Now Mrs S 's school occupied the rooms 
 
 over her husband's shop, he was a chemist, and 
 were all on the same floor ; children are sure 
 to remain wide awake when for some nefarious 
 purpose their drowsiness Is most desired. As 
 we lay abed, the door of our room being 
 ajar, with silent Indignation we saw our cakes 
 and currant pies carried into the dining-room 
 opposite and deliberately placed on the table. 
 
 We had expected the hamper and recognised 
 familiar dainties and dishes at a glance. 
 Whether any unpleasantness arose out of 
 the affair I cannot say. Years after I met 
 the worthy couple, so in the main they were, 
 and we chatted affably, my own mind being 
 full of these misappropriated pies. I could not 
 see that either husband or wife had outwardly 
 changed in the least. 
 
 Every village has, I suppose. Its mystery and 
 
4 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 our own ought to have figured in a romance. 
 Adjoining the fine old Elizabethan manor- 
 house, which was my home, lay a small farmery 
 with pleasant dwelling-house and garden. It was 
 indeed adapted as a pleasure farm, the residence 
 appearing out of all proportion with the quantity 
 of land. Here, at the time I write of, lived 
 in utter solitude a strange, as some thought 
 a Satanic, being. Whence he came, his family 
 history, antecedents and profession were alike 
 dark. After a fashion he now farmed, keep- 
 ing his fifty and odd acres in some sort 
 of cultivation by a labourer or two. During 
 the daytime he was rarely to be seen ; towards 
 dusk, all the year round, the awful figure, wrapt 
 in a long black cloak, would stalk to and fro, 
 frightening passers-by, never losing eerlness 
 in the eyes of near neighbours. 
 
 '* Master," one evening said a village wag, 
 emboldened by potations, ''you remind me of 
 the old one." 
 
 '' You will find the difference if you ever get 
 to a certain place," was the slowly enunciated 
 reply. " You are on the right road for it, too." 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 5 
 
 The spokesman of the gaping, tittering hobble- 
 dehoys was no very reputable character, but 
 it required some boldness to accost the doctor, 
 Dr Owen he called himself. One loafer would 
 egg on another, less for the love of sport than 
 of oracular response. How different these 
 utterances to the tongue of every day ! 
 
 Suffolk speech is a drawl, sentence after 
 sentence forming a gamut, each ending on the 
 upper note. The doctor's matter was as strik- 
 ing as his manner. 
 
 '' Master," upon another occasion cried a 
 looker-on, "your cloak wants mending!" 
 
 "It does not want mending so much as 
 your manners do," was the reply, the speaker 
 statelily continuing his twilight stroll. Up and 
 down, backwards and forwards would stalk 
 the tall, attenuated figure, enveloped from head 
 to foot in a black cloak, the litde girls of 
 his next door neighbour scuttling away at the 
 apparition. 
 
 What intercourse this strange man held 
 with his fellow farmers was characterised by 
 grim humour. Everyone had his nickname 
 
6 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 or diminutive. Thus my father, whose bap- 
 tismal name and patronymic were one, was 
 always '' Neddy." One day our young heifers, 
 in local phraseology styled ''buds," got into 
 the doctor's premises and committed all sorts 
 of depredations. 
 
 " Tell Neddy to drive his buds back," was 
 the doctor's sole remonstrance, the messenger, 
 of course, as best he could, imitating the 
 sonorous voice and unaccustomed elocution. 
 
 No woman ever crossed his threshold, and 
 on his departure, the keeping-room or parlour 
 fireplace was found piled up with egg-shells 
 and other rubbish. He had evidently lived 
 after anchorite fashion, paying no heed to 
 order or hygiene. It speaks well for the 
 harmless unsuspecting nature of those Suffolk 
 villagers that such a character should remain 
 unvictimlsed by horse-play or brutal jokes. 
 As will be seen further on, intolerance reigned 
 elsewhere. We must go to the rectory, the 
 pulpit, for anathemas and display of bitter anti- 
 Christian spirit. 
 
 There is little doubt that the solitary thus 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 7 
 
 puzzling his neighbours was a foreigner, per- 
 haps some Polish refugee finding harbourage 
 on our shores. The misfortune was that his 
 sojourn did not occur ten years later. What 
 a study would he have afforded a young 
 novelist ! The reminiscences here for the first 
 time put upon paper are of early childhood, of 
 years spent in the nursery, not the schoolroom. 
 The dawn of literature as a force upon any 
 active intelligence is ever of psychological in- 
 terest. Some of us are awakened to the con- 
 sciousness one way, some another. Oddly 
 enough, a novelist who has sedulously avoided 
 sensation, who in maturer years has but mod- 
 erately relished this element in fiction, should 
 have surrendered to the wand of Eugene 
 Sue ! The masterpiece of this writer, perhaps 
 the masterpiece of all sensational literature, 
 was now making a noise from one end of 
 Europe to the other. A translation fell into 
 the hands of our governess, who read it aloud 
 after tea and lessons, her older pupils plying 
 the needle, the little ones, myself among the 
 number, busy with their dolls in a corner. 
 
8 reminiscp:nces of 
 
 To one of these, a child of six or seven, 
 doll-dressing now proved quite unattractive. 
 Not venturing to betray my interest, I listened 
 breathlessly, every page heightening feverish 
 excitement. Bedtime came as a cruel sen- 
 tence ; to demur would of course have been 
 fatal, a brusque end of enchantment. So the 
 gaps were filled by aid of imagination, enough 
 being heard to glow over in secret, to remember 
 ever after. 
 
 That marvellous story has never since come 
 in my way, the gaps remain, yet vivid as 
 when heard are the scenes taken in so breath- 
 lessly — Adrienne's escape from the convent — 
 Rodin and the old woman in the church — 
 Prince Djalma and the poisoned dagger — Rose 
 and Blanche separating as they entered a 
 cholera ward in search of their father, at the 
 other end falling into each other's arms fatally 
 stricken with the pestilence. Why seek disen- 
 chantment by reading the story right through 
 to-day.'^ Spell-bound I could hardly be as in 
 that Suffolk schoolroom years ago. The effect 
 of those dramatic episodes was, I may add, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 9 
 
 purely literary. They no more terrified than 
 the witch scene in Macbeth or the ghost scene 
 in Hamlet, both of which very soon afterwards be- 
 came also familiar to me. Creative art, whether 
 poetic or plastic, is or ought to be, illusion. Yield 
 to the illusion and the artist receives final ver- 
 dict. Here was no question of the reader's 
 personality of daily surroundings. A police 
 report, the description of a cholera ward in 
 newspapers, demoralise, disturb young readers, 
 and why ? Because they are living truths, 
 not imaginative pictures. 
 
 The divine law of retribution, the stupendous 
 problems of good and evil, of mutability and 
 death, were not slow to present themselves 
 to my mind. 
 
 The only play-fellow of these three little 
 girls, the younger children of a numerous 
 
 family, was a little boy named Arthur W , 
 
 and that most terrible phenomenon, a youthful 
 prodigy. Born of elderly parents, the hope of 
 a scientific but whimsical father, the fetish of 
 a handsome, winning, but most fond and foolish 
 mother, he had obtained this reputation from sheer 
 
lO REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 presumptuousness and a total disregard of ac- 
 cepted canons. The right and the wrong of 
 any matter in his eyes and his mother's was 
 his own incHnation. Extraordinarily beautiful, 
 the bloom of that cherubic face, the trans- 
 parency of those blue eyes are before me as 
 I write, he knew how to trade upon such 
 personal advantages and human weakness. 
 Whenever the terrible boy spent a day with 
 us, it was a case of topsy-turveydom, of 
 general racket, discomfort, and disorder that only 
 several days' brooming and brushing set right. 
 His favourite diversion was what he called 
 preaching the Gospel. In order that this 
 could be done with due ministration to his 
 vanity, a little surplice had been made for 
 him, having stole and bands of orthodox pat- 
 tern. In this guise he would harangue the 
 household, a large landing-place being fitted 
 up as a church, mattresses placed for seats, 
 young and old, farm lads and dairymaids, 
 called from their occupations to listen. The 
 spectacle never seemed to strike anyone as 
 irreverent, yet my mother was a deeply re- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I I 
 
 ligious woman, and family church going at that 
 time was the order of the day. 
 
 Another of Master Arthur's favourite pas- 
 times was custard-making, so-called, for the 
 hens. He would look up eggs, then carry them 
 to a favourite resort of our feathered kind, a 
 raised sandy spot of the orchard in which they 
 could burrow and take their dust baths. Smash- 
 ing half a dozen eggs into one of the holes here 
 abounding, and stirring the whole with a stick, he 
 would complacently proceed to the next, wasting 
 a shillings' worth of farm produce, but as he 
 said, ''leaving all the hens a nice custard." 
 
 This fooling came to untimely and most 
 tragic end. Arthur's father, a retired ship's 
 surgeon, combined the two professions of 
 surgeon and apothecary, coloured globes as 
 in chemists' shops to-day announcing the fact. 
 Mr W was a man of considerable scien- 
 tific attainments and given to experimentation. 
 It was quite natural that an active-minded 
 child should interest himself in his father's 
 pursuits and pick up many facts relating to 
 drugs and their effects. 
 
12 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Natural it was also that school seemed any- 
 thing but attractive in his eyes. There at 
 
 least the will of Arthur W did not reign 
 
 supreme. There he could neither preach the 
 Gospel in stole and surplice nor make cus- 
 tards of eggs and dust for the hens. On the 
 matter of attendance papa ever remained in- 
 exorable, or ever tried to remain inexorable, 
 whilst mamma exhausted her ingenuity in finding 
 pleas for default. It dawned upon the boy's 
 mind that as he always stayed at home when 
 physicked by paternal hands, he might just 
 as well physic himself in order to play the 
 truant. An occasional dose of mild purgative 
 answered very well. Something had given 
 him the colic, said his mother. Stay at home 
 for once he must. 
 
 There came at last temptation of desperate 
 kind. One day he returned from school de- 
 termined not to go on the morrow, or to have 
 done with it for once and for all .^ Dread 
 of punishment or disgrace, perhaps sheer perver- 
 sity, actuated the deed. Surreptitiously stealing 
 into the surgery, possessing himself of a deadly 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 3 
 
 drug, he swallowed the dose, and one summer 
 morning news came that he was dead ! To 
 his little play-fellows the shock was great. 
 Who could entirely love a being so self- 
 centered, so perverse ? But he seemed part 
 of our own lives, his very vagaries made the 
 loss more sensible. When the funeral pro- 
 cession stopped for some minutes at our garden 
 gate, the gate he had ofttimes swung wide 
 with such joyful shout, there was a general 
 wail through nursery and schoolroom. Death 
 had become a reality to the youngest ! 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 OUR RECTOR 
 
 Pulpit Amenities — What's in a Name? — "Only one 
 
 D D Drop ! " — Burial Fees — Plaints of a poor 
 
 Rector's Wife — Girls of the Period — "Who had 
 THE Parson's Wine?" 
 
 Before the reasoning faculty Is awakened, 
 children appraise things not as they are, but 
 as they seem to be. Their unformed minds 
 cannot strip off excrescences, take account of 
 what Spinoza calls limitations, divine the 
 kernel hidden in unsightly shell. Thus it comes 
 about that institutions and embodiments, noble 
 as ideals, elevating in their essential character, 
 are wholly misjudged by youthful thinkers. 
 We blame and criticise what is really a de- 
 cadence or maybe a parody, no reflex of 
 lofty original. 
 
 And nothing is more difficult to get rid of 
 than prejudices, rather notions, formed in early 
 life. The following pages will illustrate these 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 5 
 
 remarks. Again and again have I been 
 blamed for severity when writing of the 
 Church of England and its clergy. Strange 
 indeed were it otherwise ! 
 
 Our village numbered three hundred and odd 
 souls and well bore out Voltaire's famous dictum 
 as to the disproportion of English sauces and 
 sects. Two of the former were certainly known 
 — celery-sauce eaten with roast pork and apple- 
 sauce served with the Michaelmas goose. Sects 
 were almost as diverse as surnames. One 
 farmer was a Quaker, another a Swedenborgian, 
 a third a Dissenter, of what precise denomination 
 I do not recollect, our toll-gate keeper was a 
 Roman Catholic, our cobbler a free-thinker, 
 our labouring folk, except during a few weeks 
 in the year, Nonconformists of various de- 
 nominations. 
 
 The infinitesimal minority attended church. 
 I should say that the general attitude in theo- 
 logical matters was one of scepticism or pro- 
 found indifference. 
 
 My penultimate remark demands explanation. 
 Noncomformity was of course the one unpar- 
 
1 6 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 donable sin In clerical eyes. On my childish 
 ears from a neighbouring pulpit once fell inter 
 alia this horrible sentence: — "The doors of a 
 Dissenting chapel are the gates of hell." It may 
 readily be Imagined that when Christmas came 
 round and the parochial charities were to be 
 distributed, poor families eking out existence 
 on eight or nine shillings a week thought of 
 their beef and coals. Some pious person hun- 
 dreds of years before had bequeathed a certain 
 sum to be thus expended by parson and church- 
 wardens. The latter did their best to secure 
 an equitable apportioning, but no chapel-goer 
 could feel sure of his dole. Laughable, yet 
 pathetic, it was to see how the church gradually 
 filled as Christmas drew near. By the third 
 week in December hardly a seat remained 
 vacant. And of course the rector always hoped 
 against hope that some who came for beef and 
 coals might stay for their souls' sake. 
 
 This worthy man emptied his church and 
 drove his congregation wholesale into the arms 
 of dissent by sheer want of tact and self-control. 
 He was not without kindly impulses ; he paid his 
 
c 
 
 M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 7 
 
 way and lived uprightly. But an enormous 
 family taxed alike his resources and his naturally 
 bearish and ungovernable temper. He was no 
 more fitted to be a clergyman than to be dancing- 
 master to the Royal family. 
 
 Of his numerous children one boy was par- 
 ticularly obstreperous at church. He would put 
 his mother's bonnet strings into her mouth when 
 the poor woman drowsed during the long marital 
 sermon, make wry faces at his brothers and 
 sisters, and otherwise set them a'titter. The 
 family pew lay immediately under the pulpit, 
 but at last, the contagion of mischief proving 
 irresistible, the incorrigible youngster was im- 
 prisoned on the steps behind his father. 
 
 On a summer afternoon hardly had the final 
 benediction escaped the preacher's lips when a 
 tremendous blow resounded through the church. 
 Everyone stared aghast. With a backhanded 
 cuff that might almost have felled an ox our 
 rector had sent the unfortunate boy backwards 
 shouting for all to hear, 
 
 " How dare you, sir, thus misbehave yourself 
 when I am preaching God's word in the pulpit ? " 
 
l8 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Doubtless a highly effective moral lesson was 
 intended. The result was that many church 
 people betook themselves to chapel ever after. 
 Upon another occasion as he entered the 
 aisle and was proceeding toward the reading 
 desk he perceived the village clerk whispering 
 to a neighbour. It was the fashion in those 
 days, for aught I know may be so still, for 
 this functionary to sit close to the officiating 
 clergyman and read responses and alternate 
 verse of the day's Psalms. 
 
 " You, parish Clerk," shouted the rector, 
 ' ' how dare you carry on conversation when 
 your minister has entered the church ? " 
 
 The clerk explained that he was only asking 
 after a neighbour's health, but the altercation, 
 for so it was, caused several people to quit the 
 sacred building and created no little excitement. 
 
 Here is another souvenir. A young married 
 couple had determined, for some reason or 
 other, to have their first born christened 
 simply " Fred." The fancy was perhaps fool- 
 ish, but the child's name certainly concerned 
 its parents only. They would have nothing 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 9 
 
 to do with Frederick, but only the mono- 
 syllabic pet name. 
 
 This is the scene I witnessed as a child. 
 We were especially interested in little Fred, 
 and had sent him his christening frock. 
 
 Clergyman — "Name this child!" 
 
 Mother, shyly — ■'' Fred, sir." 
 
 Clergyman, roughly — " Frederick, you mean ?" 
 
 Mother, growing nervous, feeling that all eyes 
 are upofi her — '' No, sir, Fred, if you please, sir." 
 
 Clergyman, with a7i impatient murmur and 
 vicious splash of holy water — " Frederick, I 
 baptise thee in the name of the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 As a matter of course, Fred's parents after- 
 wards patronised the meeting-house. All kinds 
 of queer names had been accorded in orthodox 
 fashion ; one neighbour's boy was called Julius 
 Caesar, another child Rosabella, why not Fred '^. 
 
 These scandals should have been stopped by 
 appeal to ecclesiastical courts, public protest, 
 wide publicity, but the Suffolk temperament 
 is somewhat lethargic, people are slow to move, 
 unwilling to encounter litigation. Whilst the 
 
20 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 weather remained fine they went farther afield, 
 attending church or chapel elsewhere. On the 
 return of winter, snow and slush kept them nearer 
 home. The parish church became 2l pis aller. 
 
 As I have before said under the rector's 
 rough, even bearish exterior, beat a kindly heart. 
 He would laughingly recount how a poor 
 parishioner once begged the loan of his black 
 trousers in order to attend his father's funeral. 
 The request was granted. Another form of 
 kindliness became liable to abuse. 
 
 I do not know how it may be in most country 
 places, but in our village a curious custom 
 prevailed. The wine used for communion 
 service was luscious Tent or Malaga, and what 
 remained in the chalice was given to the aged 
 poor who were present. The ceremonial had 
 a peculiarly aristocratic character little according 
 with the doctrine of Christian humility. No 
 chamberlain more exactly assigned the rank 
 of court visitors. First knelt the rector's wife 
 and daughters and squire's family, next in 
 order came the larger or so-called gentlemen 
 farmers and their womankind, following these 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 21 
 
 the village shopkeeper and small tradesman 
 and tradeswomen ; lastly, the labouring folk, 
 generally a pitiable group, consisting of decrepid 
 grandsires and crones just able to hobble. 
 
 No sooner had the solemn rite been ad- 
 ministered than a sonorous deep drawn quaffing 
 was heard from the lower end of the rails, 
 the poor old men and women gratefully swallow- 
 ing the remains of the wine. It might have 
 been better to go through this little perform- 
 ance in the vestry. Anyhow, who can doubt 
 that such a custom proved a snare ? My 
 nurse (the good woman lives and corresponds 
 with me still) was returning from her own 
 church one Sunday morning when she en- 
 countered a neighbour coming from his ; it 
 was Sacrament Sunday. 
 
 *' So, Master (labourers were called Master 
 never Mister) Smith, like me, I s'pose, you 
 have been to the table." 
 
 "Yes," was the ruffled reply, "and I might 
 as well have staid at home. I only got one 
 d d drop " ! 
 
 These honest souls believed in church and 
 
22 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 chapel up to a certain point, but had very 
 little reverence about them. Ouiet humour, 
 a rationalist frame of mind, are Suffolk char- 
 acteristics. The spiritual aspect of religion and 
 of religious observance, if it came at all, did 
 not come from without. In the matter of 
 Biblical criticism, they were often far ahead of 
 their teachers, at any rate of their teachers' 
 avowed belief. Formalism, incompetence and 
 scandals in the church, exaggeration and 
 grotesqueness in the meeting-house, had brought 
 about a dead level of indifference. In the 
 defence of material interests there was much 
 more alertness. Clerical kindnesses were 
 shown towards both rich and poor during 
 sickness. But when a well-to-do parishioner 
 died there was sure to be a squabble about 
 burial fees for "cutting the ground," "bricking 
 the grave," etc. The family losses which 
 saddened my childhood, the sickness and 
 death of mother and sisters, are subjects of no 
 general interest, and too sacred, too near — 
 so they seem, although divided from the present 
 by a long life-time — to be more than just hinted 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARr3S 23 
 
 at here. But there are circumstances attend- 
 ing these sorrows which seem almost matters 
 of history, at any rate they contribute to an 
 understanding of the times. I well remember 
 unseemly bickerings as to a certain bricked 
 grave, one of the many I stood by in these 
 early days. So outrageous were the charges 
 for burial ground and attendant privileges that 
 my father demurred. The only answer to his 
 protest was a little volume of printed tariffs, 
 from which it appeared that a churchyard was 
 an incumbent's property, and that he might 
 charge just what he chose for the permission 
 to lie there. In one corner was a congeries of 
 tiny mounds, graves of unbaptised babyhood. 
 
 A country parson although having a good 
 house, garden and glebe, and three hundred a 
 year, was not rich at the time I write of, 
 when twelve boys and girls had to be fed» 
 clothed and educated. 
 
 '' My dear Mrs G " said his wife to 
 
 a neighbour in my hearing, " I assure you, it is 
 as much as we can do to cover our children's 
 nakedness." 
 
24 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 That she certainly contrived to do, poor 
 woman, but the fare was ofttimes Spartan, 
 while education was regarded as strictly a uni- 
 sexual affair, no more a girl's prerogative than 
 breeches or tobacco. These sisters in more 
 senses than one had to pick up the crumbs 
 that fell from their brothers' table. 
 
 '' I love being ill," was the confidence of one 
 little girl to a playfellow, " because then I have 
 a little lump of butter and piece of bread and 
 spread for myself." 
 
 Many undesirable lessons these poor girls 
 acquired ; of education, in the accepted sense 
 of the word, they got no inkling, but one 
 thing they did learn thoroughly, namely, the 
 doctrine of self-abnegation. Whilst the sons 
 obtained scholarships and nominations, by hook 
 or by crook wriggled their way into some- 
 thing that could euphemistically be termed a 
 profession, the daughters mended stockings, 
 nursed the little ones, toiled from morning to 
 night in keeping up appearances. I well re- 
 member one instance of sisterly devotion. A 
 young brother was obliged to keep a prostrate 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 25 
 
 condition for many weeks in consequence of 
 an accident. Day after day, hour after hour, 
 he would amuse himself by shooting peas from 
 a popgun, his eldest sister, a tall growing 
 girl, stooping to pick them up. The perpetual 
 bending to the ground must have been very 
 trying ; not so much as a playful remonstrance 
 passed her lips. Young women of the present 
 day, Girton and Newnham students who ''go 
 up" or "come down" with their brothers and 
 comrades of the other sex, little dream what 
 girl-life was like in former days. Whether 
 higher education of women so-called has in 
 equal degree developed this quality of self- 
 abnegation is another matter. For my part 
 I have my doubts, and was ever of opinion 
 that unselfishness is pre-eminently a mascu- 
 line virtue. We must, however, know where 
 to look for it. Despite the difficulty of cloth- 
 ing juvenile nakedness and the thread-bare 
 gentility of a poor parsonage, it enjoyed num- 
 berless privileges. Amongst others was that 
 of a well-filled wine-cellar, gift or legacy of 
 rich patron 
 
26 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 " The parson's wine and who had it," now 
 matter of local tradition, is too good a story 
 to omit here. Every village has its wit, and 
 rustic wit is no respecter of persons. When 
 the great robbery occurred, when the par- 
 sonage was burglariously assailed and its 
 stores of port and sherry ransacked, public 
 excitement knew no bounds. The wine-cellar 
 abutted on the dwelling-house and before 
 effecting their purpose the thieves were 
 obliged to reckon with a fierce dog chained up 
 close by. Every circumstance pointed to intimate 
 acquaintance with premises and surroundings, 
 but police and detectives could obtain no clue. 
 
 One day rumours got about that our wit 
 and oracle, a tall, lean bricklayer, had dropped 
 significant hints and inuendoes as to the theft. 
 He was even heard to say that he knew 
 well enough who had the parson's wine. 
 
 Without losing a minute the rector hurried 
 off, at once announcing his errand. 
 
 " I understand, Kersey," he said, *' that you 
 should say you know who had my wine ? " 
 
 " Well, sir," was the answer with a mis- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 27 
 
 chievous twinkle of the eye, ''and so I do. 
 You had it once, but could not keep it ! " 
 
 The poor rector went home slightly crest- 
 fallen, but he was too much of a humourist 
 himself not to relish the joke. 
 
 That mystery remains unsolved to this day. 
 General suspicion lighted upon an old and much 
 trusted dependant of the rectory, groom, gard- 
 ener and boots, who had grow^n grey in clerical 
 service and looked like an out-of-elbow^ parson 
 himself. 
 
 As I have before mentioned narrow means 
 did not stand in the way of routine benevolences. 
 When labourer's wives lay in, gifts of broth 
 and arrowroot accompanied the parish bag, and 
 even infectious diseases failed to deter visits of 
 condolence or charity. But there existed no 
 real liking or sympathy between class and 
 class, no tie binding rectory and cottage. 
 This is the parody I heard in our clergy- 
 man's nursery : — 
 
 " Whene'er I take my walks abroad, 
 How many poor I see 
 Eating pork without a fork, 
 
 Oh, Lord, what beasts they be ! " 
 
28 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Petty slights, little acts of tyranny, made folks 
 forgetful of broth and arrowroot. They did not 
 relish their front doors being pushed open 
 without preliminary knock, nor the clipping 
 of their children's curls at school. As to 
 dissenters these remained under perpetual ban. 
 Were not the doors of a meeting-house the 
 gates of hell ? 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 OUR VILLAGE 
 
 Types and Feats — A Vestal Virgin — Manetta and the 
 Ghost— Our Sappho 
 
 Our village, and I presume every other, could 
 furnish almost as many types as Homer's Iliad. 
 We had our Hector, our Calchas, our Odysseus, 
 the strong man, the seer, the man of wile. We 
 had also a Sappho, and to come to modern 
 parallels a longer catalogue. These exceptional 
 men and women have earned no immortality. 
 Their reptutation died with them, but whilst it 
 lasted was widespread and tremendous. An 
 awful halo surrounded their brows ; one and 
 all enjoyed a certain kind of solitude, the 
 solitude that waits on inborn, unchallengeable 
 superiority. None wore his heart upon his 
 sleeve for daws to peck at. 
 
 Our strong man was the miller, and em- 
 blematically his wind-mill occupied the highest 
 
30 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 point of the village. The sails as they delib- 
 erately rose and fell seemed to say — touch me 
 who dare — to symbolise the strongest arms to 
 be found for miles around. In local speech 
 you could ride a white mare black before you 
 
 would find a match for miller T 's thews 
 
 and sinews. What feats of bodily prowess he 
 had displayed I never learned ; that they must 
 have been superlative high renown testified. 
 Did a half-drunken encounter take place at 
 the Swan ; did bullies and braggadocios threaten 
 the public peace, the words — " Send for the 
 miller," sufficed. A regiment of dragoons could 
 not have more promptly and effectually restored 
 order. Had he lived in the early part of the 
 century he would most certainly have been 
 despatched to Folkestone or Dover, regarded 
 as more than enough to conquer Buonaparte 
 himself. 
 
 He was no giant, on the contrary, under 
 rather than over medium stature. But you had 
 only to look at him to endorse popular opinion. 
 
 Nature had made him up not of bone and 
 muscle, but of steel and iron. He would have 
 
M. BF.THAM-}i:i)WARDS 3 1 
 
 crushed an ordinary athlete as easih' as a lion 
 makes mincemeat of a lamb. Personal courage 
 is fortunately not dependent upon physical 
 supereminence, and our bold man, whom I will 
 next describe, was a weakling. Long his "deed 
 of high renown," one of many, lived in local 
 annals. 
 
 It was a bitter winter night when neighbour 
 
 S , a small farmer, heard suspicious noises 
 
 on his premises, stealthy movements of marauder 
 or house breaker. 
 
 Springing from his bed, without stopping 
 to put on shoe or stocking, coat or breeches, 
 he felt his way downstairs and out of doors. 
 At the sound of his approach the thief took 
 to his heels. Farmer S orivino- chase. 
 
 Across farmyard and orchard, past pightle* 
 and field, over stile and five-barred gate skurried 
 the pair, pursuer barefoot and in his shirt — ■ 
 an ordinary cotton shirt, so folks said — pursued 
 having the advantage or perhaps disadvantage 
 of full equipment. But the farmer, a thin, 
 
 * Pightle, a little enclosure. Prov. Eng., Webster. This word 
 is in common use in Suffolk. 
 
32 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ailsome, slip of a man had made up his mind. 
 The hen- stealer, horse-stealer or burglar should 
 be lodged in Ipswich jail if his name was John 
 S . 
 
 Caught the runaway was, and I never heard 
 that his captor was worse for his wintry chase. 
 The adventure became famous, a favourite story 
 in alehouse and chimney corner ; alas, no one 
 ever put it into rhyme ! John Gilpin's ride 
 in itself was not more suggestive than Farmer 
 
 S 's run. No one ever saw him afterwards 
 
 without conjuring up the scene, his thin legs 
 bare to the knee, his white cotton shirt flutter- 
 ing ghost-like in the wintry starlight, his frantic 
 leaps over hedge and ditch, his tumbles and 
 lightning-like recuperations. 
 
 Our wit has been already mentioned, we had 
 also a master of drollery, considered as a fine 
 art, from whose lips never under any circum- 
 stance dropped what he considered to be a 
 truism or common place. 
 
 A sheep-shearer by trade he travelled the 
 country far and wide, supplying every farm with 
 comicalities till next season. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 33 
 
 His person evoked a smile. Preposterously 
 tall and preposterously lean he stalked about 
 with an expression of face impossible to describe. 
 His features were so composed as to be in 
 themselves the best possible jest ; folks laughed 
 when he opened his lips and giggled ex- 
 pectantly when he remained silent. Sheep- 
 shearing, presided over by old Tim, did duty 
 for the year's comic annual. His grand- 
 iloquence never for a moment quitted him. 
 Thus instead of saying " Bring me the small 
 sheep as your master bids," he would say, 
 " Now for yonder hanimal that Mr Edwards 
 tarm (terms) a littl'un." I have seen my 
 father laugh at sheep-shearing time till the tears 
 ran down, but most likely old Tim's jokes 
 were not all suited to the family circle. Anyhow 
 his reputation must here be taken upon trust. 
 
 The women of our village offered infinite 
 diversity of type. 
 
 First and foremost I must place our only 
 
 old maid, named Sarah M . In this little 
 
 Paradise there was a lover and more to spare 
 
 for every lass. The disastrous migration to 
 
 c 
 
34 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 towns of a later generation had not as yet 
 begun. Partly from this reason, and partly, 
 I presume, from the fact that spinsterhood 
 and an unassailable reputation were not common 
 
 in rural districts, Sarah M enjoyed a 
 
 respect bordering upon veneration. No vestal 
 virgin of Rome in its austerer days was hedged 
 about with more sanctity. Middle-aged widowers 
 and bachelors sighed as they watched the 
 trim, spick and span figure, well assured that 
 it would never dignify their fireside. Gay 
 Lotharios, Don Juans of the plough, wondered 
 what a woman could be made of to resist 
 every advance, humdrum or otherwise. No 
 tragic story of lost or faithless love had hard- 
 ened Sarah's heart. She preferred spinsterhood, 
 that was all, the bare, cruel perplexing truth. 
 Many and many a time have I seen her on 
 the way to church, prayer-book and spotless 
 pocket-handkerchief in her neatly gloved palm, 
 little shawl nicely adjusted, the composed, 
 slightly severe features and direct glance seem- 
 ing to challenge criticism. She ever consorted 
 with matrons and elderly folks, never with 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 35 
 
 youths and maidens, although at this time she 
 could not have been much over thirty. 
 
 A washerwoman by trade, she used to take 
 laundry-work from the town, herself wheeling 
 it in a barrow to and fro. Her cottage and 
 garden were ever models of neatness. Well 
 I remember the borders of Sweet William, 
 Jack behind the Garden Gate, and Welcome 
 home Husband, how-ever-so-drunk ; the second 
 flower here named is the Polyanthus, the third, 
 the common yellow Sedum. Cottage folks 
 never knew this last mentioned plant by any 
 other name, inappropriate enough in Sarah's 
 virginal domain. 
 
 Manetta P , known in local parlance as 
 
 the terrifier, was the direct opposite of her 
 demure neighbour. Well indeed did Miss 
 Manetta deserve her nickname, for she had 
 done her best to drive folks stark starinof 
 mad. A girl's life in those days was passing 
 dull. Here marriage came in the way of all, 
 but if anything, it was duller than maidenhood. 
 And although Manetta was unbeautiful, not at all 
 of the taking sort, she would be wooed and won 
 
36 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 after most prosaic fashion. These drawbacks 
 made the poor thing bitter and mischievous, 
 ready for Httle maHcious turns or for anything 
 In the way of sensation. To use a favourite 
 French expression, elle cherchait des Amotions, 
 she sought after emotions, good, bad or In- 
 different, change she must have at any price. 
 Thought-reading, theosophy, psychical research, 
 had not as yet disturbed weak brains, table-turn- 
 ing had not emerged from the Limbo to which 
 It has since been consigned. But what village 
 ever wanted Its ghost story, and many a blood- 
 curdling, hair-bristling one had our own. On 
 a certain wintry twilight, a carter — I knew him 
 well — was returning from Ipswich when a 
 woman with eyes gleaming like red hot coals 
 and black hair streaming upon milk - white 
 raiment, seized his horse's head and forbade 
 advance. He dropped on his knees, mumbled 
 some words out of Scripture, and lo ! when 
 he looked up, the wraith was gone. Countless 
 stories of the kind passed muster. Signs 
 and wonders were religiously believed in. 
 Fortune-tellers did a brisk trade. Even the 
 
M. BKTHAM-EDWARDS 37 
 
 '' wise man " was hardly a survival, I mean 
 to that useful individual who could elucidate 
 every mystification, interpret dreams, discover 
 lost property, throw light upon coming battle, 
 murder and sudden death. It entered Manetta's 
 head one day that life would become much more 
 diverting and the object of her destiny be 
 immensely furthered, if she could succeed in 
 scaring her neighbours out of their wits. So, 
 without taking counsel of anyone but her own 
 foolish self, she put on a sheet, floured her 
 face, let down her hair, and noiselessly stole 
 from a back window. Circumstances at first 
 favoured this bold undertaking. Hiding her 
 diseuises under her mother's dark market cloak, 
 she could get unperceived to high ground over- 
 looking the village street, there unrobe and 
 flit hither and thither. In summer time, folks 
 did not all go to bed with their hens. There 
 would, anyhow, be stragglers from the Swan, 
 belated stockmen or a gossip or two abroad. 
 To Manetta's intense gratification she was 
 observed, fled from, evidently believed in, as 
 the saying goes, swallowed whole. Radiantly 
 
38 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 she flitted behind a bush, popped on her 
 market cloak and almost creeping on all fours, 
 made the best of her way home. 
 
 Next day and the next, this terrible appari- 
 tion appeared, but it was not till several had 
 elapsed that anyone opened his lips on the 
 subject. All were afraid to begin, to become 
 the general laughing stock. When once the 
 matter was broached, excitement became general, 
 and the more people discussed their ghost the 
 readier were they to believe and to caress their 
 belief. In itself the thing w^as portentous, of 
 a piece with judgments and visitations, Sodom 
 and Gomorrha, but, considered from a local and 
 individual point of view, inviting and desirable. 
 A ghost conferred so much distinction, created 
 such widespread curiosity! The notabilities of the 
 county — who could say? — of the kingdom, would be 
 magnetised to our villa<:>e. Its fortune was surely 
 made as that of Shottisham "^ by its fasting girl. 
 
 There is ever one rationalist to a host 
 of the credulous. When several children had 
 been nearly frightened into fits and only the 
 
 * A well-known local incident. 
 
M. betham-p:i)wards 39 
 
 more valiant of their elders dared stir abroad 
 at dusk, matters were brought to a climax. 
 Egged on by some bold spirit a band of youths 
 set upon the hapless Manetta, her ghost-hood 
 was Ignomlnlously unveiled, and with rough 
 horseplay the sorry farce w^as brought to an end. 
 
 Manetta had succeeded In obtaining notoriety, 
 but of no enviable kind. For months existence 
 became unbearable. But years wore on ; she 
 found a husband with the rest ; very likely a 
 time came when she gloried In the frolic of 
 her youth. Of a very different type was Betty 
 
 H , our village Sappho, rather should I say 
 
 our feminine Heber, her gentle muse dealing 
 not with lovers' ecstacy or frenzied desire, but 
 pious themes and religious consolation. 
 
 Betty H to this hour, for she lives still, 
 
 cannot write her own name. In early days, 
 however, she taught herself to read, and in early 
 days she composed verse. Needless to say 
 that her literature consisted of the Bible, Sunday 
 hymnals, and a few old-fashioned stories, such 
 as "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," "The 
 Dairyman's Daughter," " The Cottagers of Glen- 
 
40 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 burnie," " Coelebs in search of a wife." But a 
 ploughman's wife has little time for reading 
 and native faculty requires no spur. Over 
 her household work, her baking, brewing, and 
 mending, Betty would put rhyme to rhyme, 
 verse to verse, thus beautifying homely toil. 
 If ever existence needed the embellishment of 
 poetry it was her own. Two dire problems 
 must be resolved somehow, namely, the feeding 
 of six mouths, in village phrase, the filling of 
 six bellies, and next in importance, the covering 
 of so many nakednesses upon perhaps ten 
 shillings a week. Betty's culinary inventions 
 were many and ingenious. It is wonderful 
 how she contrived that filling of bellies. In 
 harvest time, her board was more generously 
 spread. Plum-puddings then attracted the wasps 
 in every cottage, harvest cakes were eaten at 
 bever,* as the afternoon collation was called, a 
 taste of beef was added to the daily pork. Then 
 in times of child-birth and sickness how terrible 
 were her deprivations ! I have no hesitation in 
 
 ■* Bever, old French bevre, Lat. bibere. "Without any 
 prejudice to their bevers." — Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 4I 
 
 affirming that the lot of an average workman's 
 family nowadays is positively luxurious, Sybarit- 
 ism itself, compared to the Spartan rdgirne of 
 former times. The little folks who flock to the 
 board schools, alike in town or country, have no 
 idea how their grandparents lived. Betty's ex- 
 periences, written by herself, might cure many 
 a malcontent. 
 
 Many years ago her little pieces were published 
 under the title of "Verses by the Wife of a 
 Suffolk Ploughman," the authoress, I rejoice 
 to say, profiting by the sale. But Fame, that 
 last infirmity of noble minds, offered guerdon 
 sweeter still. Betty enjoys a renown undimin- 
 ished by time or change. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SONS OF THE SOIL 
 
 Notions Geoc;raphical and Asaiographical — Moral 
 Standards- Chivalrous Feeling— A Ploughman's 
 Career— One-Eyed Dick— Pharisees in the Pulpit — 
 Photography— Turtle and His Gang— Schools- 
 Stewed Prunes — Prison Fare — The "House" 
 
 Hardly is there greater divergence between 
 metropolitan bustle and some Cranford of to- 
 day, than between our village at the present 
 time and its former self Public life, inter- 
 course with the outer world, cosmopolitan 
 sympathies, were non-existent. Perhaps a 
 London daily might reach Hall or Rectory. 
 One or two local weeklies did duty in farm- 
 house, mill, general shop and smithy. Here 
 the newsvendor's business began and ended. 
 Farmers for the most part remained illiterate 
 to a degree which now appears incredible. 
 In the matter of politics, farm-labourers were 
 as ignorant as P^rench peasants before the 
 
M. BHTHAM-EDW'ARDS 43 
 
 Revolution. Jacques Bonhomme, Indeed, even 
 under Louis XIV., the greatest and worst des- 
 pot who ever Hved, enjoyed certain municipal 
 privileges, took part in what was a partially- 
 developed Parish Council. Hodge, throughout 
 the greater portion of the Victorian era, no 
 more shared political or civic existence than 
 the black population of X'irginia before the war 
 of Secession. To him an election meant only 
 so much boozing in an ale-house, so much 
 throwing of rotten eggs and dead kittens at 
 the hustings, so much hip, hip, hooraying at 
 the bidding of his employer. 
 
 As to parochial business, the mere sug- 
 gestion of voting on rural affairs in company of 
 parson and squire, would have shocked his moral 
 sense, savoured of sacrilegiousness, of sin against 
 the Holy Ghost itself. Farmers could of course 
 read, write and keep simple accounts ; their 
 labourers, as a rule, couki do none of these 
 things. Otherwise the mental horizon of the 
 two classes differed surprisingly little. 
 
 At some distance from our village lay a 
 hill, or what by euphemism was so called. 
 
44 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Suffolk being as fiat as a barn-floor. This 
 almost imperceptible slope was known as 
 ''America Hill," why, I cannot say. The 
 village folks, alike wise and simple, firmly 
 believed that if you climbed "America Hill" 
 and walked on and on and on, you would 
 wake up in Columbus' Continent. 
 
 Here is a well-to-do farmer's notion of cosmo- 
 graphy, heard by myself at home. After those 
 wonderful farm-house teas, to be described later 
 on, host and guest would smoke a pipe over 
 what our French neighbours call ''un grog." 
 And conversation would occasionally diverge 
 from fat stock and corn prices to topics more 
 remote and elevating. 
 
 " There is one thing I should much like to 
 know," said a visitor, ''if, as wise folks say, the 
 world is round as an apple dumpling, how on 
 earth is the water kept in its place ? " 
 
 "Why," was the prompt reply, "it must, 
 of course, be boarded up." 
 
 The listeners made no observation. Poor 
 as the solution seemed it was evidently 
 thought better than none at all. 
 
M. BETHAIM-EDWARDS 45 
 
 Whether morals and manners were better or 
 worse for such artlessness, who shall decide ? 
 Certainly folks neither spoke, acted, nor thought 
 as they do now. Standards of conduct differed 
 from those now in general acceptance. For 
 instance, walking one day to Ipswich, we met 
 a labourer's wife and her two daughters, girls 
 of twelve and fourteen. 
 
 "So, Mrs P ," said my eldest sister, 
 
 '' you have been shopping ? " 
 
 "No, Miss," replied the good woman with 
 an unmistakable air of self approval, " but I 
 am anxious to do my girls all the good I 
 can, so I have just taken them to see a man 
 hanged." 
 
 I was about twelve years old when I heard 
 this and another little dialogue one summer 
 twilight in the village lane ; the meaning of 
 the latter did not dawn upon my mind till 
 many years after. 
 
 " Come, Ann," cried a village swain to a 
 tall, red-haired girl standing on the doorstep, 
 "are you ready for a walk.^" 
 
 "Oh! no, Tat," rejoined the maiden with- 
 
46 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 out the slightest hesitation. ''It is not dark 
 enough yet." 
 
 Moral standards were certainly not high, 
 nevertheless these uncouth ploughmen often 
 testified a chivalrous sentiment, perhaps less 
 common in other ranks. More frequently than 
 otherwise, the girl who had been betrayed 
 was " made an honest woman of," that is to 
 say, taken to church by her lover. One 
 benevolent clergyman of the neighbourhood 
 did his best to stop irregularities by marrying 
 his parishioners for nothing ; many unions 
 were thus legalised. 
 
 Those poor faithful lovers of the plough ! 
 Where did they learn chivalrous sentiment ? 
 How Indeed could a spark of romance take 
 fire in such breasts, a single ray of joyousness 
 warm such hearts ? Alike mentally, morally, 
 spiritually, each son of the soil could say with 
 Topsy, '' I growed." Set to rook-scaring and 
 stone-picking at an age when children of a 
 better class are coddled in the nursery, 
 breeched without the civilising influences of 
 ABC, Jack the Bean Stalk and Cock Robin; 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 47 
 
 as a hobbledehoy boarded and lodg-ed by 
 
 some farmer, his daily routine hardly above 
 
 the level of creatures more long suffering still, 
 
 of 
 
 " sheep and goats, 
 That nourish a blind hfe within the brain," 
 
 as a man, his loftiest ambition soaring no 
 higher than the prize of a tin kettle at a 
 ploughing match — who but feels a tinge of 
 shame as he contemplates the picture ? 
 
 In Mr Stead's amusing account of his im- 
 prisonment he tells us how strongly he felt 
 tempted to throw his prayer book at the 
 chaplain's head, the cause of provocation I 
 forget. I well remember feeling temptation of 
 the kind stronger still some years ago. The 
 occasion was the march of a Labourer's Union 
 to church in Sussex. Some fifty or more 
 ploughmen had tramped thither from the neigh- 
 bouring parishes and It seemed natural to ex- 
 pect an appropiate allusion in the sermon, some 
 word of sympathy and encouragement, at least 
 a friendly God-speed. The preacher was no 
 poverty-stricken parson, whose wife found it 
 
48 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 difficult to cover her children's nakedness ; he 
 was rich, kept plenty of servants, had doubt- 
 less risen from a roast beef lunch and would 
 go home to an orthodox dinner of soup, fish, 
 and joint, with port at dessert. This is what 
 he said after a long rigmarole setting forth 
 the claims of his brethren to gratitude. 
 
 '' Do not be misled by flatterers and false 
 teachers who would raise your expectations to 
 equality and an equal share of earthly bless- 
 ings. Remember what the Scripture says : 
 ' Blessed are the poor in spirit for their's is 
 the kingdom of Heaven.' If your portion is 
 hard here below, comfort yourselves with the 
 thought that in your Father's House are many 
 mansions." — &c. &c. 
 
 With what relish could I have hurled, not a 
 prayer book, but a text at that man's head ! — 
 '' Thou hypocrite," but I leave the rest to the 
 reader's memory or imagination. Disappoint- 
 edly the delegates went home to their tea and 
 bread and butter, whilst with unctuous self- 
 complacence the rector without doubt carved 
 his fat capon and sipped his old port, caress- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 49 
 
 iiig himself with the conviction that for a time 
 at least he had stemmed unlawful ambitions 
 and curbed unholy aspirations.^ 
 
 It is my misfortune not my fault if early ex- 
 periences of what the late Lord Houghton wittily 
 described as "that branch of the Civil Service 
 usually called the Church of England," have 
 been deplorable. But even twenty years ago 
 a farm labourer's life differed immensely from 
 that I am describing. In our village there 
 was neither reading-room, cricket club, annual 
 flower-show, brass band, nor any other organ- 
 isation, social, literary or political. There were 
 neither pictures on the cottage wall nor books 
 on the cottage table. And here I would note 
 the incalculable, the beneficent influence of 
 photography. Only those familiar with rural 
 life of an ante-photographic period can measure 
 the revolution here affected. Schopenhauer 
 truly remarks that prolonged separation must 
 in time render friends visionary to each other. 
 
 The cheap photograph has done more than 
 
 ■^ This happened somewhere about 1873-4, years and years after 
 
 I had taken leave of Suffolk, 
 
 D 
 
50 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 brighten the Hfe and strengthen family ties of 
 the poor, it has served to awaken an artistic 
 feeHng, a craving for house decoration, beauty, 
 or at least adornment, in the home. 
 
 "Ah, miss," said our old charwoman to an 
 artistic young lady trying her hand at portraits, 
 "if only you could draw my Carrie! What a 
 comfort for me to behold her features long 
 after she is dead and gone ! " 
 
 It apparently never occurred to Mrs W 
 
 that in all probability she would be dead and 
 gone before her Carrie, but my Suffolk friends 
 had an odd way of expressing themselves. 
 
 We hear a good deal of Darkest England, 
 periodic distress, agricultural depression, and so 
 on. There is no doubt that a cheap tripper 
 at Hastings, whether artizan or rustic, spends 
 more on a single day's outing in 1897 than 
 his forerunner, maybe his forerunner's family, 
 of fifty years ago, on recreation from the cradle 
 to the grave ; equally certain it is that cottage 
 boards of the present time are regally furnished 
 forth by comparison with those spread when 
 Oueen Victoria was a bride. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 5 1 
 
 Two stones will illustrate the latter assertion. 
 '' Don't I like passing Mr G 's (Mr G 
 
 was a farmer) on Christmas Day," said a lad to 
 his mother, " such a smell of roast beef ! you 
 can smell it ever so far." Roast beef in these 
 days could only be enjoyed thus vicariously. 
 
 Here is another anecdote equally suggestive. 
 In every farm-house was kept a " baccus " boy, 
 z.e., a boy employed in the back-house, that 
 back kitchen containing the enormous large 
 oven heated by faggots once a week, the kit- 
 chen proper being reserved for servants' meals 
 and the mistress's domestic operations. 
 
 The '' baccus " boy I remember was a waif and 
 a stray known as one-eyed Dick. His em- 
 ployer's wife learned one day that Dick before 
 washing up her dessert plate containing goose- 
 berry husks, was accustomed with epicurean lick 
 to swallow the whole. From that time Dick had 
 his daily cabbage leaf of ripe gooseberries, and 
 was strictly thus forbidden to rob the pigs. 
 
 Poor Dick ! He afterwards took to himself 
 a surname and a wife, and his eldest daughter 
 married a "gentleman" i.e., a person whose 
 
52 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 avocations demanded broad cloth instead of 
 corduroy, the invariable distinction. 
 
 These "baccus" boys, although ignorant of 
 what I once heard called " the rudiments of 
 reading," often possessed good parts. 
 
 One day a lady farmer took up a knife and 
 showed her little scullion how to clean knives 
 quickly and well. 
 
 "Ah, but, ma'am," retorted the youngster, 
 *' don't you know, they re your own}'' 
 
 Here was a young mind proof against the 
 most enticing theories William Morris and 
 dreamers of his school could propound. 
 
 All very well for Beranger to sing, " Voir, 
 c'est avoir ! " This lad knew the human heart 
 better than all the Fourierists going. His re- 
 tort was almost worthy of that little scullion 
 immortalised by De Commines. 
 
 One day Louis XL, whose man-cages and other 
 devilish devices are forgotten when we read such 
 tales as this, went incognito into the kitchen. 
 
 *' How much do you earn a day?" he asked 
 of a little *' gate-sauce " ^ turning a spit. 
 
 * Colloquial, a boy scullion apt to spoil the sauces. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 53 
 
 **As much as the king," retorted the smart 
 lad. '' By the grace of God I earn a livnig and 
 the king can do no more." 
 
 The youthful epigrammatist, we learn, was 
 showered with royal favours. A " baccus " boy 
 would perhaps pronounce himself happy as a 
 king. The rinsing of dried currants on baking 
 days is a fascinating job when we have a handful 
 given us by way of averting temptation. No 
 less seductive is the carrying of harvest cakes, 
 apple turnovers and Whitsuntide custards from 
 baking-board to oven when we get hot buns 
 and sugary odds and ends. 
 
 Ham-pickling also is an enjoying business 
 for humble helpers. Now pounding sugar and 
 spice in a mortar, now watching the spiced 
 beer as it seethes on the hob, what an im- 
 provement are such tasks upon that of scaring 
 crows or picking stones in a gang ! 
 
 ''Turtle's gang of stone-pickers " was a local 
 institution, part of a system then in full work- 
 ing order throughout the country, and hardly 
 less degrading than that of slavery itself. Turtle 
 did not wield the lash, it is true, nor as Legree, 
 
54 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 had he a troop of bloodhounds in his service ; 
 the shrill-voiced, evil-tongued, hard-visaged little 
 man nevertheless made himself a terror to his 
 bondservants. No other word can express the 
 relation between gangmaster and gang. 
 
 Many a time have I watched that train from 
 nursery or schoolroom window ; little children, 
 girls and youths, the mentally and bodily infirm, 
 the decent and the disreputable — all these would 
 be herded together throughout the stone-picking 
 season, their labour paid by the piece, Turtle, 
 the middle-man, exacting his pound of flesh, 
 making what he could out of his contracts. 
 
 The moral atmosphere into which children 
 were thus thrown may easily be guessed. Not 
 for the more thriving and uplooking was such 
 an employment. The chaste Sarahs, the poetic 
 Bettys, the frolicsome Manettas, would have 
 nothing to do with Turtle or his gang. But for 
 the rest the temptation of a weekly shilling or two 
 over-ruled all scruples. And here as elsewhere 
 scolds and shrews, and perhaps worse feminine 
 types still, were to be had for the asking. Stone- 
 picking no more than turnip hoeing or barley 
 
M. BHTHAM-HDWARDS 55 
 
 sowing can wait. Thus the ranks of the gang 
 were filled by volunteers from town and neigh- 
 bouring villages, no matter their character or 
 career. "^ 
 
 It will be asked, what about schools.^ Were 
 children no more sent to school at this period, 
 than peasant boys and girls in France before 
 '89 ? Well, yes, we had in my childhood one 
 Dame's school, and a most benignant old lady 
 kept it. Whether she could carry her scholars 
 beyond the '' rudiments of reading " f is doubtful. 
 She taught little boys to say hymns and '' make 
 their bow," little girls their sampler and 
 curtsey, which was something. Then there 
 was the '* Church School," a small room built 
 on to the church, as much a part of it as 
 pulpit and communion table, as completely under 
 rectorial control as the churchyard outside. The 
 teacher's salary, arising from what source I 
 
 ■^ I believe it was mainly owing to the efforts of that excellent 
 Radical the late Henry Fawcett that this system was prohibited by 
 Act of Parliament. 
 
 t "How do you get on at school?" asked an aunt of mine of 
 a little girl. "Thank you, ma'am, nicely in the rudiments of 
 reading," was the reply. 
 
56 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 cannot say, was exactly fifteen pounds per 
 annum. Two schoolmistresses I remember well, 
 both respectable young women, who could just 
 read, write, and do easy sums. In these days 
 they would pass no standard whatever. Boys 
 and girls enjoyed such opportunities, advantages 
 of improvement together ; but as stone-picking 
 and other labours of the field interfered with 
 scholastic routine Miss Martha's task was not 
 very onerous. Miss, did I say? Let me hastily 
 recall the unpardonable slip. There were no 
 Misses in those days, except at rectory, hall, 
 farm-house and shop. Had even the black- 
 smith's daughter arrogated to herself such 
 an assumption of gentility she would have 
 become general laughing stock. Master was 
 the designation of elderly labouring folk, their 
 sons were young So-and-So, their daughters, 
 the girls Smith or Brown. 
 
 But to return to Martha L our school- 
 mistress. A well-to-do farmer's son fell in love 
 with her. Of course such a mesalliance was out 
 of the question, not so romance. Every morning 
 fresh flowers were surreptitiously placed in the 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 57 
 
 schoolroom window, till at last folks gossiped. 
 
 With tears in her eyes Martha L complained 
 
 to the rector that the neio:hbours soueht to 
 ''impinge her modesty." Where she got that 
 Newtonian predicate Heaven only knows. Had 
 it come in a dream, when '' deep sleep falleth 
 upon man " } Be this as it may, the floral 
 offerings were stopped, her modesty was not 
 seriously impinged. In due time she became 
 a matron with the rest. 
 
 Recreations were of a piece with moral in- 
 tellectual and social conditions. A fair, a plough- 
 ing match, a travelling circus, such were the 
 staple recreations. Whitsun Fair was a day 
 of exotic dainties. 
 
 Regularly as the day came round the sisters 
 
 F , in new print dresses, set up their booth 
 
 before the Wool Pack — our village possessed 
 two ale-houses ; here for degustation of carters, 
 drovers and holiday-makers in general, stood 
 saucers innumerable, each containing a ha'porth 
 of stewed prunes, and in this dainty a brisk trade 
 was done from early morning till dusk. 
 
 Why one especial regale should be chosen, and 
 
58 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 no other candies or syrups, I cannot say. Year 
 after year, with clock-work precision, appeared 
 the new cotton dresses, the booths and the 
 array of saucers in front of the Wool Pack. 
 
 Afflicting as is this picture of rural life from 
 one point of view, from another, it awakens 
 quite opposite reflexion. There was no juvenile 
 smoking, no poring over Penny Dreadfuls, no 
 betting in our village at this time. 
 
 The only criminal affair disgracing its annals 
 throughout a period of thirty years, was a 
 drunken affray, one young ploughman being 
 sent to jail for three months. Poor fellow ! 
 Ill as he fared at home, he fared much worse 
 in prison. When he came out he was mere 
 skin and bone. 
 
 *' I hardly liked to begin my bread and spoon 
 victuals," he said, ''for I always left off almost 
 as hungry as when I began." Joyfully he re- 
 turned to his " flick," i.e., fat salt pork, his dump- 
 lings, i.e., balls of flour and water, and *'flet" 
 cheese, i.e., cheese made of milk that has been 
 skimmed or flet, * a compound hard as nougat. 
 
 ■^ Fleet, Anglo-Saxon, flet, to take the cream from, skim. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 59 
 
 In colloquial speech a hatchet was needed for 
 the attack. 
 
 And the last days of the farm labourer 
 in the natural order of things meant " the 
 House," with what comfort and mental stay 
 a prospect of heavenly mansions could afford. 
 The House, as the workhouse was always called, 
 rewarded three score years of Spartan fare, 
 life-long labour unrelieved by a single holiday, 
 a harmless, ofttimes respectable existence, do- 
 mestic duties admirably performed. Truly a 
 retrospect even for outsiders to blush at ! 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 LADY FARMERS AND OTHERS 
 
 Lady Farmers — Gigs, Toll-bars, and Matrimony— Pigs 
 AND Piano— Balls — The Cost of pulling a Neigh- 
 bour's Nose— Contrasts— A Look Ahead 
 
 How it may be now I cannot say, but at the 
 time I write of, lady farmers were found in our 
 village and in most others — widows, sisters and 
 daughters of deceased tenants to whom their 
 lease had been renewed. Such renewal was 
 secured by a clause, and an excellent provision 
 it proved to capable women. Some landowners 
 held back, preferring to have their property 
 represented in Parliament, and this has ever 
 seemed to me a capital argument on behalf of 
 female suffrage. Tenant farming no longer offers 
 the same guarantee, the lease of a good farm 
 is no longer in itself a little fortune ; yet we 
 may ere long see an improved condition of 
 
 things. Fruit culture, poultry-rearing, dairying, 
 
 60 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 6 1 
 
 may profitably replace the old-fashioned crops 
 and methods. Women are sure to take ad- 
 vantage of the reaction. Why they should man- 
 fully keep the world a'going-, support Her 
 Majesty's soldiers and sailors, contribute to 
 Colonial expansion, yet, like occupants of the 
 Oriental harem, be subject to masculine law- 
 making, has ever seemed to me directly opposed 
 to common sense and the most elementary 
 notions of justice. Women's rights had not as 
 yet become a rallying cry. At the time I write 
 of it was a common thing to see Mary Smith 
 or Ann Brown, Farmer, on tumbril and waggon. 
 My own name, as will be seen further on, has 
 thus figured. But although we could all hold, 
 our own in practical matters and farm as high ^ 
 as our neighbours of the other sex, political 
 equality was almost undreamed of, mooted only 
 by the few. Here I would mention the fact that 
 women farmers never went to market! Their 
 
 * To farm /n'^/i means much more than to farm lus//, more 
 initiative, more outlay. 
 
 t That is to say, they never entered the corn exchange. Mr 
 T. Hardy's "Bathsheba" has often made me and many others 
 smile. Her presence on the corn market is quite at variance 
 with experience and the accepted order of things. 
 
62 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 samples of wheat and barley in neatly sewed 
 brown paper bags were exhibited either by male 
 relative, friend or bailiff; nor did they ever 
 attend cattle fairs, stock sales, or rent dinners. 
 Here etiquette was rigid. But they got in 
 their wheat early, kept their land clean, 
 and sent prime sheep and bullocks to the 
 fair. 
 
 In the house their management was equally 
 beyond criticism. Thrift, method, above all, 
 cleanliness reached the high water-mark. Some- 
 times the latter proved a thorn in the flesh ; 
 emulation became absolute servitude. 
 
 Nothing like a Suffolk girl for this excellent 
 quality. 
 
 In later years I took Sarah C , my in- 
 valuable Suffolker, to London and showed her 
 Westminster Abbey. As she stood before the 
 smoke begrimed time-honoured pile, she heaved 
 a deep sigh, "How I should like to set to work 
 on those black walls with soap and scrubbing- 
 brush ! " she exclaimed, adding regretfully, " but 
 it would take too long to get off all that dirt." 
 In Sarah's eyes London smuts seemed a pouring 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 63 
 
 out of the Seven Vials, a judgment of Sodom 
 and Gomorrah. 
 
 AHke for men and women with capital, farming 
 was a fine business fifty years ago. To procure 
 the lease of a good farm was as difficult as to get 
 into Parliament, so folks said, and they were not 
 far out. One riddle of local wit ran thus : — Why 
 
 was Mr W (an octogenarian) like the Duke 
 
 of York ? Because he kept a Groom-in-Waiting ; 
 the said Mr Groom having the promise of Mr 
 
 W 's farm on the old gentleman's demise. 
 
 Bankruptcies among farmers, large or small, 
 men or women, were all but unknown.* Rents 
 could not be called moderate. The corn rent, or 
 rent rising and falling with prices, nullified the 
 effect of extraordinary years; gentility, with its 
 attendant outlay, was gradually invading the farm- 
 house. Through seasons good, bad, and indiffer- 
 ent, the agricultural industry remained solvent. 
 Nor can mercenariness be held responsible for 
 such prosperity or at least solid circumstance. 
 
 * My friend and former neighbour, R. E. Everett, Esq., late 
 M.P. for the Woodbridge division of Suffolk, said the same thing 
 in the House of Commons. 
 
64 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 The East Anglian farmer never or very rarely 
 indeed thought of a dowry first and a wife after- 
 wards. To marry for money was looked upon 
 mean and low, a derogation of manhood, Such 
 an offence against accepted standards was never 
 forgotten. Any man who married for money 
 straightway lost caste and consideration. 
 
 There was once a case in which such a 
 sacrifice seemed of pressing necessity. Mr 
 
 H E , younger son, then middle-aged, 
 
 of a numerous family of farmers, had been un- 
 lucky, a few thousand pounds would set him 
 on his feet and enable him to hire a more 
 promising " occupation," thus was a farm usually 
 called. Half a dozen miles off lived the Misses 
 
 S , spinsters of known fortune and of reputed 
 
 shrewishness. Egged on to the enterprise by 
 his brothers and sisters, literally worried Into 
 the business of wooer, the recalcitrant one day 
 had his gig cleaned, his harness polished, and 
 dressing himself in his Sunday's best, drove off 
 to propose for the better favoured heiress's hand. 
 Two hours later he was seen dashinof home- 
 wards in a state of frantic jubilation. As all 
 
I\I. BETHAM-EDWARDS 65 
 
 the members of his family rushed out to meet 
 him they felt that they could not misread the 
 tell-tale front. 
 
 "Thank God," cried one and all, "it is 
 settled ! " The bridegroom to be, so they re- 
 garded him, threw the reins over his horse's 
 head, lead animal and gig to the stable, then 
 returned not as yet having opened his lips. 
 
 Once inside the house he burst out with 
 unfeigned relief. "She has refused me!'* 
 
 In after years he revelled in telling the story, 
 no discreditable one either to wooer or wooed. 
 The one had made no pretence whatever at 
 sentiment, the other had honestly taken his 
 compliment for what it was worth. 
 
 As has been already mentioned gentility was 
 gradually invading the farm-house. For the 
 most part farmers regarded wedlock as a step 
 forward, but in the direction of social not material 
 advancement. The gently bred daughter of a 
 poor clergyman, a governess with superior ways, 
 possessed far more attractions than money. 
 
 Many marriages were brought about after 
 highly romantic fashion. I am here writing of 
 
 E 
 
66 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 an epoch when gigs and toll gates were the 
 order of the day, and these formed important 
 matrimonial agencies. 
 
 On market days everyone who could do so 
 of course went to town, i.e., to their special 
 market. In the genteeler sort of farm-house 
 a governess would be kept, but as a gig only 
 holds two persons, or at most two and a child 
 between their knees, the young lady presiding 
 over the schoolroom must either walk, get a 
 lift, or stay at home. 
 
 A happy solution was offered by the toll-bar. 
 Miss So-and-So had merely to reach the near- 
 est toll-bar and there await a spare seat in 
 some neighbour's gig, the spare seat naturally 
 belonged to bachelor or widower, and thus it 
 came about that the drive to market as often 
 as not resulted in a drive to church. The 
 modestl}^ endowed young persons to whom I 
 am indebted for instruction in '' the rudiments 
 of reading," all in turn became farmer's wives. 
 Their acquirements were of the slenderest, but 
 they could play the piano, with more or less 
 propriety speak the Queen's English, and in 
 
M. BETHAM-F.DWARDS 6j 
 
 fine brought an atmosphere, rarefied and thin 
 it might be, of ''Shakespeare and the musical 
 glasses." 
 
 Culture, or what passes muster as such, 
 was as yet the merest infiltration, only here 
 and there modifying social strata. The largest 
 tenant farmer in our village openly avowed 
 that he would rather hear the squeaking of 
 pigs than the pianoforte ! As, however, public 
 opinion was leaning towards pianos rather than 
 pigs' squeaking, he bought an instrument and 
 allowed his little girls to learn. 
 
 It must not be supposed that there was 
 any dearth of social intercourse. Farming folk 
 were devotees of what one rustic pedant of 
 my acquaintance called, "the Terpsichorean 
 Muse." 
 
 In the winter everyone gave a dance, the 
 guests driving perhaps fifteen miles through 
 the snow, their gala attire packed in the gig- 
 box, themselves well protected by enormous 
 gig umbrellas. 
 
 Sometimes the roads were blocked and no 
 one arrived but the blind fiddler, he, prudent 
 
68 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 soul, well assured of a welcome, would gener- 
 ally appear the day before. A fiddle could do 
 without a dance, but what In Heaven's name 
 could dancers do without a fiddle ? When no 
 mishap of this kind occurred, right merrily he 
 set a-goIng country dance and Sir Roger de 
 Coverley. From seven In the evening till cock- 
 crowing, alike old and young, footed It merrily, 
 a wonderful supper, crowned by the Inimitable 
 and Invariable tipsy cake. Invigorating dancers 
 and musician. That spirited old fiddler ! I 
 feel Inclined to dance as I recall him now. 
 
 Very rarely whiffs of '* Shakespeare and 
 the musical glasses " varied the festive atmo- 
 sphere. When this phenomenon did happen 
 the effect was not always agreeable. 
 
 "Is It the custom In Suffolk for gentlemen 
 to stand by their partners without speaking ? " 
 asked a pert young lady from London of 
 her cavalier In the quadrille. The unfortunate 
 young man coloured, stammered a word or two 
 about the weather, and, it need hardly be said, 
 refrained from asking her hand for another dance. 
 This happened In my own home. '' Unpleasant 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 69 
 
 little contingencies and delinquencies," as a 
 grandiloquent neighbour used to say, '' are un- 
 avoidable in the very best society." 
 
 All the year round social intercourse was 
 strictly regulated by the lunar calendar. " The 
 moon after next you may expect me," a habitual 
 guest was wont to tell us. In Gibbon's Auto- 
 biography he alludes to the same custom : — 
 '' Dinners and visits (of neighbours) required in 
 due season a similar return, and I dreaded the 
 period of the full moon which was usually 
 reserved for our more distant excursions." 
 
 Gigs would be got ready soon after the 
 early dinner, arrival being timed for three or 
 four o'clock ; the gentlemen would take a farm- 
 ing survey, the ladles chat over needlework, at 
 five o'clock tea, if tea it could be called, await- 
 ing hosts and guests. The first course of this 
 elaborate regale consisted of home-cured ham, 
 that incomparable Suffolk ham pickled In spice, 
 and harvest beer ; harvest beer, Itself clear as 
 sherry and twice as strong, was drunk with 
 this dish ; next came the strongest of tea and 
 the richest of cream with rusks, also a Suffolk 
 
yo REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Speciality, and cakes equally unrivalled. The 
 tea things removed, hot water and spirit de- 
 canter would be brought out, pipes smoked, 
 thereby apparently digestion being restored. 
 Seldom did anyone seem the worse for such 
 prolonged eating and drinking. 
 
 The moon regulated social intercourse and 
 farming operations superseded the nomenclature 
 of the calendar. Thus no one ever talked of 
 spring and summer, autumn and winter, but of 
 harrowing and haysel,"^^ harvest and wheat-sow- 
 ing. Fair days stood in place of Easter and 
 Michaelmas, "the rent-feast," or audit dinner 
 marked Midsummer or Christmas. 
 
 Urbanity and kindliness characterised these 
 jolly farmers. Good faith marked their deal- 
 ings one with another, a charitable spirit their 
 behaviour as employers. During the long 
 wet winter when very few hands were really 
 needed, old men and " three-quarter men," i.e., 
 the feeble or undersized, were kept on out of 
 pure benevolence. Some kind of work was 
 found for them at reduced wages. 
 
 * This word is always used in Suffolk for hay-harvest. 
 
M. BKTHAM-HDWARDS 7 1 
 
 Personal animosities were very rare. It was 
 chiefly at electioneering times that "unpleasant 
 little contingencies and delinquencies " would 
 mar the general harmony. 
 
 Upon one of these occasions two gentlemen 
 farmers had a fierce fight on horseback. Upon 
 another a highly esteemed paterfamilias pulled 
 another's nose. The Irate victim of political 
 rancour went to law, with the result that 
 damages were assessed at five pounds. His 
 antagonist thereupon sat down and coolly made 
 out his cheque as follows: — ''To Messrs So- 
 and-So, attorneys, for wringing their client's 
 (Mr William Smith) nose." 
 
 Humour varied the dull routine, life was 
 sometimes viewed with Rabelaisian eyes. If 
 the squeaking of pigs might occasionally be 
 preferred to pianos, on the subject of a good 
 joke opinion remained unanimous. 
 
 When in Germany, years after these early 
 experiences, an old German schoolmistress thus 
 expressed herself to me: — -"Ah! those English 
 farmers, Fraulein, with their red faces, great- 
 coats and smart gigs ! Nothing I saw in England 
 
72 REMINISCENCES 
 
 pleased me half so much as the sight of those 
 fine farmers driving to market." 
 
 Fraulein Fink was right ; there existed indeed 
 matter for enthusiasm here. And who shall 
 say ? The wave of ruin that has of late years 
 spread over agricultural England may disap- 
 pear, the good old times may be repeated. 
 America, Argentina, Russia, must in the far 
 future have vaster markets than Europe to 
 supply with corn. English farmers in all 
 probability will never again eat bank-notes 
 between their bread and butter as their fore- 
 fathers are said to have done a hundred years 
 ago. Perhaps the lease of a good farm will 
 never again be as hard to gain as a seat in Parlia- 
 ment. It seems impossible to believe that the 
 present state of things can last, agricultural 
 bankruptcies of daily occurrence, thousands of 
 acres to be had without rent for the asking, 
 able-bodied men becoming survivals in rural 
 districts, the great corn country of Eastern 
 England, a waste ! 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE WORLD OF BOOKS 
 
 The Triune Splendour— Will Wimble— Nursery Saints 
 —The Devil's Story-Book— Mrs Forsdyke and her 
 Donkey-Cart 
 
 To have entered life in the words of Charles 
 Lamb *' an encyclopaedia behind the time," is 
 perhaps no unmixed evil. *' So farewell, Horace, 
 whom I hated so ! " would never have been 
 uttered by a self-taught student. " Hamlet " were 
 surely not '' Hamlet " to him whose acquaintance 
 with Shakespeare should begin by working up 
 the greatest play in the world for a Junior or 
 Senior Local ! Without doubt the acquisition 
 of a school or college certificate nowadays 
 represents something more solid than literary 
 rapture, or an epicurean appreciation of *' the 
 dainties that are bred in a book." To the 
 youth or maiden whom our French neighbours 
 would describe as a struggle-for-lifer, such guar- 
 
 73 
 
74 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 antees of successful cram have become indis- 
 pensable, represent indeed, so much money 
 invested at the best possible interest. The 
 self-educated, moreover, may sigh in after years 
 for some of the crumbs that now fall, not 
 from the rich but the poor man's table. We 
 who started in life's race modestly equipped 
 with '' the rudiments of reading," would fain 
 have acquired one or two other things, to-day 
 the accomplishment of workhouse foundling and 
 street urchin as yet unbreeched. I suppose 
 everyone of us goes down to the grave with 
 some rankling regret, some unsatisfied wish. 
 Mine will be a hankering after the Rule of 
 Three. Had I but learned the Rule of Three, 
 I should style myself, that rare exception, an 
 individual picking no quarrel with his horoscope. 
 But there were compensations. The fine 
 old manor-house in which these early years 
 rolled by, contained a small but priceless library. 
 My first educators — could any of mortal born 
 chose better? — were the Bible, Shakespeare and 
 Milton. Next after this triune splendour, this 
 matchless trinity, came Walter Scott, the 
 
M. RKTHAM-EDWARDS 75 
 
 Spectator ^nd Tatler, "Don Quixote" (Smollett's 
 translation), the ''Arabian Nights," ''The Vicar 
 of Wakefield," " Robinson Crusoe," " Gulliver's 
 Travels" and Boswell's "Johnson." Looking 
 back I can hardly remember the time when 
 these books were not familiar acquaintances. 
 Before I was twelve years old I had read them 
 all and again and again. Let me here protest 
 against the assumption that the childish mind 
 can be tainted by intimacy with the sublime 
 masterpieces and delightful chefs d'oeiivre here 
 named. The born booklover seeks delight 
 in imaginative literature, food for the fancy, 
 intellectual beauty on which to dwell in 
 solitude. Not in a single instance did any 
 of these readings awaken a morbid curiosity 
 or impure thought. 
 
 First let me speak of the Bible, a venerable 
 folio with curious old prints and containing 
 the apocrypha. Here, naturally, the poetic 
 aspect appealed, the pastoral, the allegorical, 
 the superhumanly grand. Being of a very 
 practical turn, theology in itself, dogma, and re- 
 velation so-called, have never occupied my mind, 
 
76 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 spiritual problems have always been relegated 
 to a secondary place. The Bible was to the 
 child as it has remained to the mature thinker, 
 a great poem, a second world in marvel and 
 beauty hardly behind the visible globe we 
 inhabit 
 
 The family Shakespeare (I have it still) 
 is a Johnson and Malone edition in fifteen 
 octavo volumes, published by Longman and 
 others, 1793. On winter evenings when the 
 family party were assembled in the keeping- 
 room, ^ one little girl would become absorbed 
 over a big volume in grey paper cover. 
 She knew no Christmas trees, cards or gift- 
 crammed stockings ; juvenile balls, pantomimes 
 and other excitements with which boys and 
 girls of the present day are surfeited, did 
 not come in her way. But rapture of quite 
 another and more durable kind made ample 
 amends. Not for the most dazzling memories 
 would I exchange my first recollection of 
 "Winter's Tale," read to myself in the family 
 
 * Thus the family sitting-room was always called, the best 
 parlour being" reserved for visitors. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 77 
 
 circle, too absorbed to heed the chat of the 
 rest, or snuff the candle at my elbow. 
 
 Moments as exquisite and unforgetable were 
 afforded by Cervantes and Scott. The breath- 
 ing into life of Hermlone's statue, Dorothea 
 at the brook, Noma of the Fitful Head uttering 
 her wild prophecies, by such waving of magic 
 wand was I ushered into the pleasure-house 
 of Romance. 
 
 Milton may seem an odd idol of childhood, 
 but perhaps on the principle of the ''baccus" 
 boy mentioned earlier, I adored " Paradise 
 Lost " because it was my own. Some grown- 
 up cousin had purchased the book for me, 
 most likely attracted by its gay binding, gilt 
 edges and pretty engravings. This edition of 
 Milton's poetical works, published by Milner 
 & Sowerby, Halifax, at three shillings and 
 sixpence, contained Addison's famous critique 
 and Channing's memoir, also some very credit- 
 able steel plates. 
 
 Pored over morning, noon and night, the 
 volume proved in itself a liberal education, 
 alike moral, spiritual, and intellectual. Not 
 
78 RExMINISCENCES OF 
 
 for its weight in gold would I part with 
 the somewhat tawdry looking little book in 
 the crimson and gilt cover, now lost amid 
 the more imposing array of my library 
 shelves. 
 
 As beloved, but in quite a different way, 
 are twelve small octavo volumes, the Spectator 
 and Tatle7^, in their original bindings, blue 
 figured paper, olive green leather backs and 
 corner pieces, "printed in 1793 for J. Parsons, 
 No. 21 Paternoster Row." How the young 
 reader wished that every day could still wel- 
 come its Spectator with poetic motto or Tatter 
 dated from White's Chocolate House, or " My 
 own Apartment " ! The wit and learning, variety 
 of subject, genial temper and incomparable 
 knowledge of men and manners, made these 
 readings also an education, but unlike the 
 afore- mentioned. 
 
 Whilst Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Scott un- 
 veiled the realm of Fancy, whilst Milton 
 lifted into the lofty region of the epic, Addi- 
 son and his goodly brotherhood initiated into 
 the more prosaic but hardly less fascinating 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 79 
 
 precincts of literature in its wider sense, the 
 universal world of letters. 
 
 Stinking weeds will find their way into every 
 garden, and in this collection of masterpieces 
 were one or two very bad books. The first 
 of these ought certainly to have been burnt by 
 the common hangman. 
 
 Some misguided relation had sent us for 
 nursery reading, a little book by a certain 
 Rev. Baptist Noel, called " Infant Piety." 
 A more deliberate effort to render religious 
 melancholia a juvenile malady, inevitable as 
 measles or whooping cough, failing that, to 
 turn tiny boys and girls into pietistic prigs of 
 the most intolerable type, was never made. 
 All these babies had but one concern, namely, 
 for their souls, but one desire, '* to go to 
 Heaven." At two years old they would 
 discourse glibly as a full-blown Salvationist 
 on original sin, faith, good works, and re- 
 generation. One and all died before they were 
 fairly emancipated from crib and go-cart, and 
 one and all made edifying end after the man- 
 ner of Mr Peace. 
 
8o REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 I ask, what useful end could be served by 
 writing such stuff as this ? Have the majority 
 of children, alas ! come into the world invulner- 
 ably fortified against morbid introspection and 
 religious mania by virtue of inheritance and 
 natural temperament ? Fortunately in the pre- 
 sent case the bad seed had fallen upon stony 
 places. Those odious little Davids and Abners — 
 thus were they called — with their egregiously 
 unctuous sayings and doings, were quizzed, smiled 
 at, and speedily laid aside. Of a very different 
 kind was the other work alluded to, and of 
 which I have forgotton alike name and author- 
 ship. An appropriate title for this most im- 
 moral * yet vastly entertaining book would be 
 not the sorrows but " The Joys of Satan." In 
 a series of brief parables or apologues were set 
 forth the easy triumphs of his satanic majesty, 
 here no awful personage recalling the classic 
 Pluto or the Miltonic Lucifer, rather a pseudo- 
 Mephistopheles, caricature of the devil who so 
 divertingly tiirts with Frau Marthe in " Faust." 
 
 * Immoral in the sense that must be all works treating such 
 subjects with the jocosity of the music-hall. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 8 1 
 
 This out and out scoundrel — so human is he 
 made to appear that the appellation fits — goes 
 about his business in the most matter-of-fact way, 
 tackling by turns sluggard, tippler, gamester, in 
 fact everyone who from his especial point of 
 view seemed a promising subject. Just as in 
 '* Infant Piety" the Unseen Power was treated 
 with smug familiarity, much as if folks were 
 talking of some favourite in black cloth and 
 white choker and his '' sweet truth preached last 
 Sunday,"* so here every vestige of the super- 
 natural was stripped from the Incarnation of evil. 
 Satan was simply an insinuating villain bent 
 upon helping his fellows with all possible 
 speed to prison, the gallows and perpetual 
 burning. 
 
 The book was nicely bound in dark fancy 
 leather with gilt edges, and contained numerous 
 steel engravings. One of these I remember 
 well, although the work belongs to early child- 
 hood and was never seen later, it suddenly dis- 
 appeared, perhaps being hidden away of set 
 purpose, perhaps being borrowed and intention- 
 
 * An expression I once heard after service in a chapel. 
 ¥ 
 
82 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ally forgotten. The vignette alluded to repre- 
 sented sin in the shape of the Upas tree, under 
 its shade lying the prostrate figure of some 
 victim. It was an endearing cut and gazed at 
 often and fondly. 
 
 Mudie's and Free Libraries were not as yet 
 thought of, but the capital of East Anglia was 
 ever to the fore in matters intellectual. Ipswich 
 already possessed its Mechanics' Institution, the 
 subscription to the same being half a guinea a 
 year. For this modest sum subscribers could 
 read newspapers and periodicals, and borrow 
 several volumes. 
 
 The librarian, who possessed the noble name 
 of Franklin, was a very shabby, dingy, semi- 
 blind, semi-deaf old man, not always accommodat- 
 ing to omnivorous readers. Upon one occasion, 
 a Saturday, a young man, a shop-assistant, ad- 
 dicted to light literature, could find nothing to 
 his mind. " I must take home a book of some 
 sort or another," he said desperately ; " to-morrow 
 is Sunday." 
 
 "Read your Bible!" growled the librarian 
 in his surliest manner, and the devotee of poetry 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 83 
 
 and romance was sent empty away. To ''old 
 Franklin," as he was always called, seldom fell 
 the uncongenial task of offering stones for bread 
 or thistles for figs. The Mechanics' Institution 
 of my native town,* one of the first established 
 in the United Kingdom, was a golden treasury 
 of wit and learning. The threadbare figure of 
 its one-eyed custodian always reminded me of 
 some wizard of fairy tale, uncouth porter of en- 
 chanted palace. 
 
 Books, donkey-carts and frail t baskets do 
 not at first sight seem assoclable, but true it Is 
 that to this day the sight of a market woman 
 in a country road transports me to bookland. On 
 Saturdays the Ipswich butter-market was held, 
 and a certain rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed old dame, 
 with silvery hair, having sold her eggs and butter, 
 would bring home our books and parcels. With 
 what ecstacy I caught sight of the donkey-cart 
 halting by our garden gate ! With what eagerly 
 
 * I may call it so, although Westerfield Hall, my childhood's 
 home, lay two miles off. 
 
 t Norman French ; fraile^ a basket made of rushes. In East 
 Anglia, a large flat basket like those used for fish, and always 
 called "a frail." 
 
84 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 trembling hands the frail was unloaded ! groceries,, 
 draperies, perhaps a leg of mutton, placed in 
 layers ; at the bottom, lying half a dozen books, 
 one and all in that delightfully bethumbed con- 
 dition so dear to Charles Lamb. 
 
 Good Mrs Forsdyke of the rosy cheeks and 
 blue eyes ! Little didst thou dream of the be- 
 nignant part played by thee in another's life, that 
 life as remote from thine as if one of us had 
 lived under the Pharaohs ! The honest soul, 
 I daresay, could neither read nor write ; old 
 Franklin's precious burdens represented to her 
 a few pence paid for porterage, that was all. 
 But to me they were richest store. 
 
 With the parcels of tallow-candles, spices for 
 ham-pickling, canvas for cream sieves, and the 
 rest, came some of the best books and some 
 of the best of their kind, ever written. Among 
 these were Lockhart's " Life of Scott," Bruce's 
 *' Hue's Travels," Warburton's "Crescent and the 
 Cross," and Melville's delicious romances, "Typee 
 and Omoo"; in quite a different vein, Miss Mar- 
 tineau's stories of *' Political Economy," Hallam's 
 great works and G. H. Lewes's " History of 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 85 
 
 Philosophy," then appearing in a more popular 
 form than in later enlarged editions. 
 
 Years and years after, when spending a week 
 with Lewes and George Eliot in the Isle of 
 Wight, I mentioned the well-thumbed little 
 volumes and the butter woman's cart. He 
 listened delightedly, as well he might. Not 
 to many authors comes the satisfaction of what 
 may almost be called posthumous fame ! 
 
 But I must tear myself from a subject on 
 which I could write volumes. The books of 
 our youth, the friends who neither forsake us 
 nor drop awa}^ on our onward progress through 
 life, the silent yet ever present witnesses of 
 man's better, undying part, how can we cherish 
 these too dearly, too often renew the iTnmortelley 
 offering of affection — the poet's tribute of a 
 bay wreath ? 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SOCIAL MEDIUM 
 
 The Grande Chartreuse— Lot's Wife— A Prodigal Son 
 —A Catastrophe and a Coincidence— The Rev. J. C. 
 Ryle and his wayside Blessings— " You've got the 
 wrong colours, my dears. go and change them ! " 
 
 Twelve months' schooling may sometimes an- 
 swer the purpose of twelve years, that is to 
 say, stimulate the pupil's peculiar aptitude and 
 thus aid a natural leaning to fittest career. If 
 I here dwell on matters purely personal, it is 
 because the subject of education, considered in 
 its widest sense, possesses universal interest. 
 My own opinion is that children of all classes 
 nowadays run the risk of being over-educated. 
 Those of quick brains educate themselves much 
 more than we suppose ; the slow and the sure 
 should be developed practically rather than 
 mentally, their faculties being turned to matters 
 well within their reach. 
 
 86 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 87 
 
 Nothing is more inexplicable than parental 
 blindness here. The brilliant one of the family, 
 the intellectual gymnast, is often never heard of 
 after school and college triumphs. The quiet 
 plodder, set down as a dunce, will often be- 
 come the mainstay of broken fortunes, perhaps 
 shine as an inventor, suddenly become famous 
 for heroism or ofenius ! 
 
 By some happy chance the little day school 
 to which I went when ten years old, was 
 directed by a devotee of grammar in general 
 and of French grammar in particular. Like 
 another schoolmistress of my acquaintance, her 
 belief was grammar, her tenets of faith were 
 the subject and the predicate, the major sentence 
 and the minor sentence. Daily she woke up 
 to do battle for the predicate, daily she girded 
 her loins on behalf of the major sentence. 
 From the dogged purpose she put into these 
 lessons, it might have been supposed that the 
 fate of the British Empire depended upon the 
 syntax of half a dozen little Ipswich girls. 
 As my lucky stars would have it this admir- 
 able woman w^as a thorough mistress of French. 
 
88 REMINISCENCES OE 
 
 She had spent some years at Grenoble. An 
 excursion to the Grande Chartreuse, no every- 
 day adventure at that time, had apparently 
 been the great event of her life. She was 
 never tired of describing it, now throwing 
 her experiences into the form of a little 
 lecture, now dictating an account, now set- 
 ting us the task of a narrative. The Grande 
 Chartreuse gradually became a dream of 
 marvel and beauty that must be realised 
 somehow and at some time or other. By an 
 irony of fate, when years and years after, when 
 having travelled, re-travelled and re-travelled 
 again France from end to end, I found myself at 
 Grenoble, enthusiasm about the Grande Chart- 
 reuse was cold. Mountain roads and awful 
 passes make me giddy. Of monks and mon- 
 asteries I had already seen enough and to 
 spare. So I left my fellow traveller to visit 
 the long dreamed of site, myself spending the 
 day with farmers close by. 
 
 To this admirable woman I attribute the 
 pleasure with which I have read French from 
 early childhood and the passionate interest 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 89 
 
 afterwards taken by me in France and French 
 affairs. Miss Baker was not without subkuiary 
 reward. She soon after married a Baptist min- 
 ister and set up a young ladies' school on her 
 own account, I had reason to believe with 
 entire success. 
 
 The nominal mistress of the little school 
 in question was a widow lady with a large 
 family. Her part of the day's business con- 
 sisted chiefly in keeping an eye upon everyone 
 and in quaffing at stated intervals tumblers 
 of foaming porter brought on a tray. How a 
 person so utterly incompetent came to secure 
 one of the best woman teachers then living 
 is a mystery. The first class had not much 
 in common with the ardent candidates for a 
 Junior or Senior Local Examination nowa- 
 days. The only thing thought of seemed 
 some possible or perhaps wholly imaginary 
 lover. We used to walk to school, a distance 
 of two miles, and be fetched home by one 
 of our brothers in a dog-cart. The elder 
 girls would always contrive to get a peep at 
 the dog-cart, its conductors transmitting by 
 
90 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 our fifteen year old sister, poetic billet-doux 
 in walnut shells, flowers or fruit. A niece of 
 the austere Miss Baker headed the giddy 
 band, no product, alas ! of this especial school 
 or town. When I think of these early days 
 nothing strikes me more than the immense 
 improvement in one respect. Young women 
 may still be as sentimental as Lily Dale, as 
 foolish as the girls of a garrison town described 
 by Miss Austen. But they no longer flaunt 
 their folly in the eyes of the world. They 
 may dream of lovers, sigh for a lover morning, 
 noon, and night, at any rate they would be 
 ashamed to confess it. 
 
 Here I will mention another circumstance 
 showing the curious notions of discipline pre- 
 vailing at this time. 
 
 On our way home, on the outskirts of the 
 town we passed a second ladies' school, one 
 with less pretensions to gentility than our 
 own. We often noticed in the winter twilight 
 some girl's form standing like a statue just 
 opposite the front door. It was not always 
 the same girl, and oddly enough the apparition 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 9 1 
 
 seemed somehow immediately connected with 
 bad weather. When a drizzHng rain was 
 falHng, when a north wind blew and scattered 
 snow-flakes, herald of winter, might be seen 
 here and there, then we were pretty sure of 
 passing the motionless figure. Bare-headed, 
 shivering, abashed, there stood a well-dressed 
 girl of fourteen or fifteen, doing public penance 
 for some petty offence. 
 
 So much we learned afterwards. The image 
 recalling Lot's wife was merely some boarding- 
 school miss guilty of having giggled over Mrs 
 Markham, omitted her scales, or perhaps made 
 signs to the chemist's assistant over the way. 
 And chilblains, neuralgia, consumptive coughs 
 thereby induced seemed of quite secondary 
 importance. Oh, time, oh, manners ! These 
 girls of the period, be it remarked by the 
 way, were very insufficiently clad by com- 
 parison with their fellows of to-day. Not to 
 go into too much details, I will cite one fact. 
 A young lady belonging to well-to-do people 
 once visited us in the depth of winter, of a 
 Suffolk winter. Under her French merino 
 
92 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 skirt she wore a flimsy white cotton petticoat, 
 just as one would do in the blazing heat of 
 July. Fashion and hygiene must have selected 
 the fittest with a vengeance. 
 
 We had a little social circle. First must 
 
 be named Mr and Mrs W , parents of 
 
 the unfortunate little Arthur. Mr W , now 
 
 practising as surgeon and apothecary, had been 
 a ship surgeon in early days and had more 
 than once circumnavigated the globe. He 
 was a remarkable man in every way, small, 
 almost to dwarfishness, with an enormous head, 
 denoting that delightful combination, the man 
 of science and the visionary. Ever soaring to 
 the clouds, he yet had ever scientific light to 
 throw upon passing questions. Fruitless chatter, 
 gossipy personalities were impossible to him. 
 He must illustrate the microscope or electric 
 bar, dilate upon the excellent use to be made 
 of thistle-down, or otherwise to diverge from 
 
 the commonplace. Mrs W , an Irishwoman, 
 
 it need hardly be said, was in every respect 
 his very opposite. She was twice his size to 
 begin with, and very handsome. I see before 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 93 
 
 me now her blue eyes with their sweet vivacious 
 endearing expression, auburn hair piled up in 
 curls above the forehead, and exquisitely fair 
 throat set off by a white linen collar and blue 
 ribbons. Whilst her husband lived in the 
 fairyland of science, she was all sentiment, 
 her especial hero and heroine being Lord 
 Byron and the Empress Josephine. One of 
 her favourite books was Ganganelli's *' Letters," 
 and I believe she was a Roman Catholic, al- 
 though she never openly declared herself. No 
 one reads Ganganelli nowadays, but the letters 
 are charming. There was an elder son I will 
 call Ralph, who was grown up when little 
 Arthur made such lamentable end. This Ralph, 
 a handsome harum-scarum, had of course been 
 fooled to the top of his bent also by an adoring 
 mother, and as naturally had turned out ill. His 
 father was constantly sending him out to some 
 remote quarter of the globe ; a few months 
 and the prodigal would be back again, de- 
 nuded of everything but effrontery and good 
 looks. 
 
 Upon one occasion employment had been found 
 
94 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 for him in the heart of Russia. Just as the 
 snow began to fall at Ipswich Mr W ac- 
 costed a friend with an air of extraordinary- 
 jubilation. 
 
 "The Neva is frozen!" he cried, rubbing his 
 hands. '' We shall not see Ralph back till 
 the spring anyhow." 
 
 But lo and behold ! the very next morning 
 Ralph walked into his father's shop, nonchalant 
 as ever. He had scraped up money enough 
 to defray the expenses of his journey over- 
 land ! 
 
 Upon another occasion he was shipped off 
 to the Cape third class. Ralph might be a 
 blackguard, but no matter how travestied, re- 
 mained in appearence a gentlemanly blackguard. 
 It was impossible to make him look insignificant 
 or common. Among the saloon passengers 
 happened to be some pretty girls who very soon 
 discovered that the most attractive person on 
 board belonged to the steerage. A flirtation 
 ensued with the result that the first thing Ralph 
 did on arriving was to book a berth by the next 
 steamer bound homeward ; arrived at Ipswich he 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 95 
 
 soon wheedled the money out of his mother for a 
 first-class ticket, returned to the Cape In fine 
 style, left his card with the saloon acquaintances 
 of the first trip, enjoyed a few gay, idle, flattering 
 weeks, then returned home, not a whit sadder 
 or wiser than he went away. 
 
 In spite of these harassing circumstances, with 
 no skeleton in the cupboard but a diabolical Jack- 
 in-the-box, ever ready to spring upon him un- 
 expectedly, the little doctor maintained a per- 
 sistently cheerful demeanour ; the kindliest, most 
 truly Christian spirit, embellished, animated and 
 enlarged that small square grotesque frame. 
 Just as his prodigal could not be outwardly 
 vulgarised, so neither surroundings nor company 
 could detract from his own Inborn nobility. He 
 never lost an opportunity of lifting others out 
 of the everyday atmosphere, or of imparting 
 instruction. To one of his scientific hints I 
 believe I owe the excellent eyesight I have 
 hitherto enjoyed. '' Never let the eye dwell 
 on an unbroken surface of white," he told us 
 one day, as he spoke placing a coloured wafer 
 on a sheet of notepaper. '' There," he added, 
 
96 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 *' break the surface by ever so slight a bit of 
 colour and the eye is thereby relieved and 
 saved from strain." The hint was taken by 
 at least one youthful listener, and from that day 
 to this I have followed Mr W— — 's advice and 
 used only deep coloured writing paper. 
 
 Quite different in character was the hospitality 
 of this farm-house, and that, the drive to 
 and fro being the principal attraction. In the 
 parental gig would always be found room for a 
 small third passenger, in whose eyes every scene 
 made a new world. The style of these wonderful 
 country teas has been already described, I will 
 only mention one circumstance regarding them 
 sufficiently strange in itself and of a nature to 
 impress the childish mind. 
 
 A favourite jaunt, because the longest, was 
 that to a bachelor uncle's, he the gayest, most 
 mundane, least reflective of my father's numerous 
 brothers. Returning home from market one dark 
 winter s night, his perceptions presumably blunted 
 by an extra ''grog," this uncle was pitched with 
 horse and gig into a deep pit by the road-side. 
 Fortunately, after some time his moans attracted 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 97 
 
 attention, he was carried to the nearest farm- 
 house and there carefully tended till his death, 
 which happened from internal injuries a few 
 days later. 
 
 On the morning after the accident an elder 
 brother livincr in London came downstairs with 
 a worn-out look. '' Thank God, I am alive and 
 well," he said to his wife. ** All night long I 
 was tossed about precipices and having my 
 limbs broken by a fall." A few hours later he 
 received news of his brother's fatal accident. 
 This curious coincidence, for of course it was 
 nothing more, created a considerable sensation 
 at the time. It is hardly necessary to add that 
 the spot in which my ill-fated uncle thus met 
 his death, was immediately rendered safe by 
 palings. 
 
 A wayside acquaintance showed his love of 
 children in a fashion very different to that of 
 the good little doctor. Instead of opening 
 their eyes to the marvels of science or nature, 
 this reverend gentleman — he is now a Bishop 
 — as he rattled past in his high gig used 
 to scatter tracts headed " Fire, Fire, Fire ! " 
 
98 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 '•Why will you go to Hell?" and so on. 
 Fortunately, the young ladies entrusted with 
 us at that time were much more occupied 
 with romance than theology. They pocketed 
 the flying sheets, wondering all the while 
 what would come of next Tuesday's drive 
 to market. But to this day I never recall 
 childish primrosing in Suffolk without a 
 vision of the Rev. J. C. Ryle and his 
 tracts. 
 
 Other and more amusing acquaintances were 
 made on election day. We used to sit in a 
 row at the open schoolroom window, from 
 which hung blue flags and streamers. Of course 
 my father, who had married a clergyman's 
 daughter, was a tremendous Conservative. 
 What a pageant it was, the voters dashing by 
 in carriages, gigs and spring carts ablaze with 
 blue or orange trappings, as the case might 
 be! 
 
 I well remember one jolly farmer, what with 
 his yellow scarf and waistcoat, looking like 
 a sunflower. As he jogged past he glanced 
 at the three little girls vigorously waving their 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 99 
 
 Tory draperies and shouted — " You've got the 
 wrong colours, my dears. Go In and change 
 them." Which I did very soon afterwards 
 and for once and for all. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SOCIAL MEDIUM COfltimieci 
 
 A Quaker World— A Young Quakeress's Pin-Monev 
 —Contrasts— The Struggle for Gentility : '' Any- 
 thing TO Pass the Time Away"— Jules R : a Key 
 
 TO French Character 
 
 The Thee and Thou of the Quakers echo 
 pleasantly across this long stretch of years. 
 I seem to hear still the bland '' How do 
 thee, friend Matilda," of a venerable Quaker 
 acquaintance of early years. 
 
 These "egregious enthusiasts," as Hume 
 calls them, had long conferred a distinctive 
 character on my native town. The most 
 important, most liberal and wealthiest com- 
 mercial houses belonged to the Society of 
 Friends. The Nonconformist body was here 
 immensely powerful, and ever — as else- 
 where — in the van of progress, just as the 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS lOI 
 
 clerical world was invariably in the rear. 
 But the Quakers, although by no means 
 unsociable, formed a community apart, adher- 
 ing to traditional faith, customs, and mode 
 of life. 
 
 Both sexes rigidly adhered to primitive 
 costume, although the younger members were 
 showing signs of revolt. There were Quaker 
 linendrapers, Quaker milliners, Quaker tailors. 
 A sobriety, not without its poetic aspect, was 
 imparted to these ancient streets by, figures 
 that might have shaken hands with William 
 Penn. 
 
 With all their studied simplicity the matrons 
 were very richly dressed. Of finest lawn 
 their kerchiefs, of softest cashmere their dun- 
 coloured gowns and shawls, whilst for great 
 occasions they had an especial black silk, the 
 like of which for beauty of texture and dura- 
 bility I have never since seen. 
 
 Young girls were condemned to a novitiate 
 of the strictest economy, their gala gown, like 
 poor Jane Eyre's, being a clean, well starched 
 muslin. Among our Quaker friends were two 
 
I02 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 sisters belonging to one of the wealthiest 
 families. These girls made no secret of 
 their allowance for dress and pocket money. 
 Each received exactly ten pounds a year with 
 the gift of a new dress at Christmas. On 
 this sum they continued to attain the simplex 
 mMuditiis, the exquisite neatness, extolled 
 by Horace ; they would also contrast very 
 favourably with flaunting damsels of our own 
 day, who spend twice as much on a cycling 
 costume. Already these two girls were un- 
 obtrusively breaking down the barriers, making 
 innocent little raids into the region of coquetry. 
 One day, a neck-ribbon suspiciously verging 
 on rose-colour would be introduced ; another 
 time, something very like a flounce would 
 be ventured upon. Restrictions of other kind 
 were also resented. Dancing was forbidden 
 in Quaker circles as ''an ungodly shaking of 
 the limbs," but nothing better pleased our 
 young friends than a waltz or polka when 
 away from home. Even the Thee and Thou 
 were reserved by them for members of their 
 own community. And as time wore on the 
 
M. BltTHAM-EDWARUS IO3 
 
 younger members of the Society of Friends 
 fell away from its ranks, married outsiders, 
 betook themselves to the world worldly and 
 the Church of England ! 
 
 I linger lovingly over one gracious figure 
 that stands out conspicuously from these old 
 memories. 
 
 The elder of the two sisters mentioned 
 above was not beautiful, but possessed a 
 distinction far rarer than mere personal 
 comeliness. Her dark eyes were wonder- 
 fully soft and expressive, and from every 
 feature seemed to beam the light of a be- 
 nignant and noble nature. Her voice, too, 
 was one of uncommon sweetness and feeling, 
 and she spoke with an ease, clearness, and 
 precision that deserved the name of an ac- 
 complishment. A first-rate horsewoman, her 
 slight, strong form never showed to better ad- 
 vantage than on horseback, although there was 
 witchery enough about the little white straw 
 bonnet with plain ribbon trimmings and lilac 
 and white muslin dress guiltless of frill or 
 furbelow. 
 
I04 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Young Quakeresses did not go to finish- 
 ing schools, but they learned many things 
 rarely acquired by girls of that period. Kate 
 and her sister had gone through the first 
 books of Euclid and could read Homer in 
 the original, these exceptional endowments 
 being very modestly acknowledged. Learning 
 is doubtless a good thing, alike for daughters 
 of Eve and sons of Adam. It might, how- 
 ever, be well that the unpretentiousness of 
 my dove-eyed Quakeress were commoner among 
 the young ladies who now ''go up" or '*go 
 down " with their brothers. 
 
 As contrasted as well as could be with the 
 sobriety, dignified ease and self-respect of 
 these Quaker circles was another, that of a 
 country doctor's family some miles off. This 
 doctor was wealthy and had an enormous 
 practice, besides '' great expectations." There 
 would not, therefore, have been the slightest 
 difficulty in comfortably settling his numerous 
 rather good-looking daughters in their own 
 position of life. But no, the fond, misguided 
 father was positively consumed by worldly 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS IO5 
 
 ambition. Having brought up his girls gen- 
 teelly, and being able to portion them, he 
 determined upon finding sons-in-law in what 
 is called good society, that is to say, the 
 enchanted regions from which, as a rule, 
 country doctors were rigidly excluded. What 
 a study for Thackeray was here ! The 
 worthy practitioner working at his profes- 
 sion as if for daily bread, after long 
 drives across country making up medicines 
 in his surgery, never affording himself the 
 least little bit of leisure or distraction, and 
 all the while dreaming of gentilit}^ of that 
 Will-o'-the-wisp, that Jack-o'-lantern, that 
 maddening mirage now apparently within 
 reach, now further off than ever. Upon 
 one occasion the doctor was thrown into 
 a transport from which he did not easily 
 recover. He trod on air. In his case 
 truly one might have said, joy maketh afraid. 
 The wonder was that he did not die of 
 heart disease. 
 
 His elder daughters, it seemed, had been 
 invited to an evening party at a neighbour- 
 
I06 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ing vicarage. Next day their father retailed 
 the great news as he made his round. 
 *' The aristocracy helped my girls on with 
 their cloaks," he said, with an air of pom- 
 posity that would have been ludicrous but 
 for the glint of a tear accompanying the 
 words. 
 
 Alas ! that aristocratic helping on of cloaks 
 was like a certain American road leading to 
 a squirrel track, or that time-honoured par- 
 turition of the mountain. Nothing came of 
 it. It must be admitted that beyond a certain 
 limp, languid personal charm, the girls were 
 terribly uninteresting. Their great trouble 
 was how to get through that portion of the 
 twenty-four hours not devoted to sleep. 
 One of them was showing a new kind of 
 fancy work to a friend and resumed the 
 needle with a sigh. 
 
 . ''Anything to pass the time away, dear!" 
 she said dolefully. 
 
 Year after year rolled by. As one class 
 of suitors had been snubbed and another class 
 did not come forward, the limp, languid 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I07 
 
 damsels became churchy old maids. They 
 finally settled at Clifton, or some such place, 
 where, doubtless, early services, clerical 
 bazaars, rummage sales, and curates' com- 
 pany to tea, nicely helped to *'pass the time 
 away." 
 
 Refreshingly different from other early ac- 
 quaintances was that of a Frenchman, a 
 
 certain Jules R , winegrower of Burgundy, 
 
 who travelled on his own account. My 
 brothers had made his acquaintance in Ipswich 
 and he often walked over to dinner or tea. 
 He was a very typical Frenchman, and 
 an observation he dropped at this time 
 has ever seemed to me a key to French 
 character. 
 
 Speaking of his calling as vintager and 
 wine merchant, he said, '' I take great care 
 not to increase my business." 
 
 Since these early days I have had a 
 long and extraordinarily varied experience of 
 French temperament and modes of thought. 
 
 Jules R 's simple confession of faith 
 
 and view of life generally have constantly 
 
I08 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 recurred to me as throwing light upon 
 both. 
 
 '' I take great care not to increase my 
 business." Have we not here an explana- 
 tion of the social and economic problems 
 that well-nigh drive French statesmen to 
 desperation ? Why Is Algeria In reality a 
 Jewish and Italian colony, French subjects 
 not being tempted thither even by free 
 grants of land and other bribes ? Why Is a 
 tremendous money premium to be awarded 
 the father of a numerous family ? Why are 
 French commerlcal houses, French hotels and 
 offices filled with German employes.'^ The 
 national ideal Is that of my childhood's friend 
 
 Jules R , a life of mental and bodily ease, an 
 
 assured future on native soil, an absolute im- 
 munity from daily wear and tear. Apart 
 from all other nations Is the French ; certain 
 brilliant qualities and endowments alike of intel- 
 lect, heart and brain, here attaining high water 
 mark. But there Is a danger that the Jules 
 
 R- s, the type, the norma, will swamp 
 
 the remnant, the higher-minded, more aspiring 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS IO9 
 
 portion. For when men take great care not 
 to increase their business, no statesmanship 
 can do the work for them. *' One man can 
 lead a horse to the pond ; not twenty can 
 make him drink," says the proverb. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 MIMOSA HOUSE 
 
 A Comparison — Accomplishments in the Fifties — 
 
 Morals — Rebecca H and her Guardian Angel — 
 
 A Schoolgirl's Religious Notions 
 
 I CAN but believe that one of the greatest 
 changes of the Victorian era Is a progressive 
 moral standard. The incidents and conditions 
 described in the following pages could not, I 
 dare aver, be paralleled in the present day. In 
 some matters we have gone back, in others, 
 we have remained stationary, yet in others it 
 is satisfactory to feel that humanity has un- 
 doubtedly become more respectable. Before 
 beginning my narrative I will here put in a 
 connecting word of explanation. 
 
 Family circumstances are of no general in- 
 terest, family sorrows — no matter the interven- 
 ing lapse of years — are too sacred for printers' 
 copy. I will only say that when I was twelve 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I I I 
 
 years old I lost my mother, a beautiful, refined 
 and, for her day, highly educated woman. From 
 that time, partly owing to domestic affairs, partly 
 owing to the fondness of an adoring father, 
 the direction of my life was left in my own 
 hands. The direction was naturally not always 
 of the wisest. Circumspection at so early an 
 age would be abnormal ; prudence, self-interest, 
 would be equally precocious. But the oppor- 
 tunities thus put in my way had for result 
 the first and vital stock-in-trade of a novelist, 
 namely, an experience of life, a knowledge of 
 men and manners as few possess on the 
 threshold of life. 
 
 About a hundred years since the greatest 
 of great novelists, the Immortal Goldsmith, 
 entered upon the career of usher at Peckham, 
 a young Suffolk girl, modest aspirant in the 
 same literary field, took up her abode as 
 governess-pupil at Mimosa House, very near 
 the site of Dr Mllner's Academy. And per- 
 haps, could the author of the '' Vicar of Wake- 
 field " have revisited this earthly scene and com- 
 pared the nineteenth century establishment for 
 
112 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 young ladies with that for the other sex famihar 
 to him, his verdict would be in favour of the 
 latter. 
 
 Another suggestion is here evoked. Who 
 can say ? Might not the sordidness and crush- 
 ing ignominies of the Peckham Academy have 
 occasioned that reaction to which we owe the 
 idyllic tale of Wakefield ? Certainly in the 
 case of his humble follower a century later it 
 was so. Mimosa House, with its unutterably 
 low ethic standards and intellectual dead level 
 drew me towards the ideal as to a harbour of 
 refuge. On quitting those ever-abhorred doors, 
 my first essay was in the field of pure romance. 
 
 Here I must explain what is meant by that 
 now obsolete term, a governess-pupil. I was 
 then to pay a small sum for board and lodging, 
 teach the juniors for two or three hours every 
 morning, and by way of return received lessons 
 " from approved masters " in music, drawing and 
 dancing. It may be asked, what in Heaven's 
 name a studious and rather severe young person 
 should want of a dancing master ? The fact 
 is, two maternal aunts, great authorities on such 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I I3 
 
 matters, had laid it down as an axiom that " danc- 
 ing implies birth and breeding." It was to please 
 them that I had made the arrangement, an 
 arrangement soon repented of; I very quickly 
 renounced the dancing class for the piano. 
 
 The drawing lessons proved a dead sea 
 apple. Twice a week a stout, good-natured 
 
 lady, Mrs R , came to instruct the young 
 
 ladies in copying Julien's heads with crayon, 
 and pencil landscapes with flat pencils, the 
 latter accomplishment being called "the Galpin 
 style." 
 
 No greater waste of time, no more complete 
 illusion, could be conceived. The teacher knew 
 nothing and her pupils learned nothing, no one 
 apparently finding this out. 
 
 The music lesson was a solid, honest fact. 
 
 Miss A , the head partner of the school, 
 
 had studied at the Royal Academy and was 
 an accomplished musician. I am also bound 
 to add that she very conscientiously went 
 through this part of her daily routine. I 
 never missed my lesson nor the stipulated 
 use of a piano. 
 
 H 
 
114 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Materially the girls were not badly off; that 
 is to say, they had enough to eat, did not 
 suffer from chilblains more than was then 
 usual, and took outdoor exercise every day. 
 The pretence of the thing consisted in the 
 utter want of education, either religious, moral 
 or intellectual, the daily giving of stones for 
 bread and thorns for figs. 
 
 Several of the elder girls, indeed, I should 
 say the majority, belonged to a very low type. 
 Vices with which they ought to have been 
 absolutely unfamiliar, were openly discussed, 
 and in language that savoured of the gutter, 
 language new to my own ears as would 
 have been the argot of the Quartier Latin. 
 It will be said, my duty was clearly that of 
 an informer, but I had nothing whatever to 
 do with the first class. These loathsome con- 
 fidences overheard by chance would never have 
 been believed at headquarters. And the 
 offenders were the most profitable of Miss 
 
 A 's pupils. Twenty governess-pupils could 
 
 be had for the asking, but daughters of wealthy 
 hotel-keepers were not so easy to replace. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS II5 
 
 Where had girls of well-to-do middle-class 
 parents learned such abominations ? The 
 matter has ever seemed a mystery to me. No 
 vile literature found its way into school lockers. 
 Principal and head governess were propriety 
 incarnate, the two servants were enimently 
 staid young women. It would really appear 
 as if in some natures evil takes root spon- 
 taneously, just as some plants become eaten 
 up with green-fly despite the gardener's care. 
 
 This ingrained depravity was less shocking 
 than a want of sensibility, rather, I should say, 
 a callousness to which only Balzac could have 
 done justice. And sad to say, this callousness, 
 instead of being checked, was fostered, as the 
 following story will testify. 
 
 Among the younger pupils was a little girl 
 
 of six or seven named Rebecca H , 
 
 daughter of a neighbouring baker. Why this 
 unfortunate child should have been signalled out 
 as a scape-goat I could never understand. It 
 
 is true that Mr H was a retail tradesman, 
 
 and that instead of paying for his child's 
 schooling, he paid in kind, that is to say, the 
 
Il6 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 yearly sum-total was taken out In daily cart- 
 loads of bread. Surely such a bargain was 
 highly creditable to the baker and must have 
 been far from disadvantageous to the school- 
 mistress. The price of bread might rise or 
 fall, little Rebecca's board and education cost 
 a mere nothing, and meanwhile, from January 
 to December, Mimosa House and all Its hungry 
 mouths were liberally supplied with the staff 
 of life. But the other girls belonged to just 
 a higher rung of the social ladder, and the 
 
 treatment of Rebecca H arose partly from 
 
 this reason, partly because she was a dull, 
 plebeian - looking plain child, and doubtless 
 partly because degraded humanity must find 
 its victim, some ugly toad it would be 
 delightful to stone if foolish sentiment and 
 genteel manners did not forbid. The poor 
 child was sometimes guilty of an offence doubt- 
 less due to physical infirmity, and here is an 
 account of her punishment. 
 
 At eight o'clock, just before bed-time, all the 
 girls marshalled by principal and head gover- 
 ness trooped down to the kitchen. There, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS II7 
 
 Stripped naked, in a tub, stood Rebecca H , 
 
 exposed to the taunts and objurgations of the 
 rest. For some minutes this disgraceful scene 
 lasted, the chorus increasing in fury and vol- 
 ume. "Oh, Rebecca! Oh, dirty, odious Re- 
 becca! oh, filthy Rebecca!" cried, howled, shouted 
 these vicious lookers-on, the little naked figure 
 bearing her martyrdom in stolid silence. Not 
 a tear, not a cry escaped her, very probably 
 her feeling being one of intense thankfulness, 
 amazement that vindictiveness ended here, and 
 that she was not beaten within an inch of her 
 life as well. 
 
 A pearl may lie on a dunghill in fact as well 
 as in fable, and among this dehumanised, un- 
 sexed crew was one angel in ungainly shape. 
 
 Harriet A was a large-featured, muddy 
 
 complexioned girl about twelve or thirteen, 
 and with others of the first class, had a little 
 boarder under her charge. Each younger 
 pupil was mothered in this way, for there was 
 no matron or wardrobe woman ; the young 
 ladies made their own beds, and two maids 
 did the rest of the work. 
 
Il8 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 . As good luck would have it, Rebecca H 
 
 fell into Harriet A 's hands, and no fairy 
 
 godmother ever showed more devotion. This 
 unprepossessing, sallow, phlegmatic girl be- 
 longed to the category of noble women whose 
 mission it is to protect every hunted down 
 creature that crosses their path. The task 
 came as a matter of course, by no means as 
 
 a self-imposed duty. Harriet A with all 
 
 her care could not make Rebecca look pretty 
 and taking as the other little girls. Rebecca's 
 hair would not curl, her Sunday frocks were 
 plain and ill-made, the worthy baker evidently 
 setting more store by learning than fashion, 
 and the child herself was graceless and unde- 
 monstrative. But what mattered these things ? 
 Rebecca's very defects and disadvantages but 
 endeared the more. Harriet did not want cent 
 per cent back again with accumulated interest. 
 She lavished protectiveness and devotion upon 
 one in need of both, simply because the need 
 was there. Were I to live a hundred years 
 never shall I forget that picture, a picture to 
 reprove humanity as the great lesson of Lear, 
 
AI. BETHAM-EDWARDS I IQ 
 
 the little ill-favoured, plebeian, despised child 
 and her equally undowered guardian angel 
 smoothing her hair, making the best of cheap 
 Sunday frock, all the while uttering little words 
 of endearment and love. 
 
 The girls were of course taken regularly to 
 church, once a day in winter, twice in the long 
 days. Prayers were also read night and morn- 
 ing. There religious instruction began and 
 ended. Not a trace, of pious or even reveren- 
 tial feeling could I ever discover in any. Upon 
 one occasion three or four of the elder pupils 
 were discussing a future state. 
 
 "Well," said a pert little minx of thirteen, 
 " I only hope that when I do go to Heaven 
 I shall be permitted to carry my work in my 
 pocket, or how on earth should I get through 
 the day ? " 
 
 This sally evoked a round of laughter. It 
 is hardly necessary to add that alike head and 
 under teacher were taken upon trust. No 
 certificate of proficiency was or could be ex- 
 pected. 
 
 At the end of six months I quitted Mimosa 
 
1 20 REMINISCENCES 
 
 House, and from that day to this have never 
 re-visited rPeckham. Whether the big red 
 house with the large back garden still stands 
 or has long since given place to semi-detached 
 villas, I know not. Certain it is that as a 
 finishing school for young ladies Mimosa House 
 of evil memory ceased to exist long ago. No 
 less positive is the fact that we might nowa- 
 days search the United Kingdom through with- 
 out finding its counterpart. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE TWO DROMIAS 
 
 Amelia B. Edwards— Daimp Fireworks— Thp: Organist 
 OF Wood Green— My Uncle— Sterling Coin — A 
 Twelvemonth's read at a Bookstall — An Auto- 
 
 DIDACTE 
 
 One result of that six months' stay at Mimosa 
 House was the cementing of a very close 
 friendship with the late novelist, Egyptologist 
 and founder of a Chair of Egyptology, Amelia 
 Blandford Edwards. My senior by several 
 years, my superior in knowledge of the world 
 and in intellectual attainments generally, this 
 first cousin and boon companion seemed rather 
 an elder sister. Yet so strictly did we both 
 adhere to the essential conditions of friend- 
 ship, namely, a certain measure of reserve and 
 absolute freedom of action, that, throughout an 
 affectionate intimacy extending over thirty years, 
 we never consulted each other about literary 
 
122 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 work or business. Each went her own way 
 unfettered by loving interference, counsel or 
 criticism. 
 
 This excellent rule is, I feel convinced, the 
 very basis of a good understanding ; neither 
 to proffer too much nor to expect too much, 
 the principle on which hangs all satisfactory 
 relationship. A true poet, who for reasons best 
 known to himself, long ago gave up the lyre 
 for the circulating library, has put this senti- 
 ment into four exquisite lines. Were they 
 made of daily application how much smoother 
 were the paths of domestic life ! 
 
 " Vex not thou thy violet 
 Perfume to afford, 
 Or no odour wilt thou get 
 From its little hoard ! " 
 
 Thus wrote George Macdonald, and hardly 
 a day passes but one sees the subtle wisdom 
 thus expressed set at naught. 
 
 In the case just referred to, only one 
 matter, for which we were neither of us re- 
 sponsible, marred the intercourse of Amelia 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 23 
 
 B. Edwards and her cousin. This was that 
 most unfortunate B with which our second 
 names began, a cause of frequent annoyance 
 and occasionally of serious inconvenience. As 
 Frances Power Cobbe wittily said, we had 
 each a bee in our bonnets, a bee that at 
 all times buzzed most uncomfortably, and 
 sometimes gave a sting. It was a case of 
 the two Dromios with change of sex and 
 circumstance- The prettiest possible compli- 
 ment paid to M. B. E. would be intended 
 for her namesake. Literary successes or 
 failures would invariably be attributed to the 
 wrong author. Alike the reading public and 
 society in general blundered to the last. And 
 neither of us could make up our minds to 
 give up that bewildering B, the cause of all 
 the mischief. Amelia stuck to hers for the 
 sake of euphony, I to my own because 
 Betham was my mother's maiden name and 
 possessed literary associations. 
 
 Sometimes drawing-room mistakes occasioned 
 poignant anguish. 
 
 At a famous literary breakfast, for instance, 
 
124 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 I was introduced to an Archbishop, who began 
 blandly — 
 
 "Ah! how glad I am to shake hands with 
 
 the author of that charming book " My 
 
 heart leapt into my mouth, for I had 
 never in my life received so much as a poor 
 little compliment from Canon, Dean or Bishop, 
 much less from a Primate. Alas ! exultation 
 was short lived. The fireworks proved damp. 
 '* Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys," 
 he added, alluding to a work on the Dolomite 
 mountains by Amelia B. Of course there 
 was nothing to do but smile away his Grace's 
 embarrassment and look for all the world as 
 if my cousin's literary offspring were cherished 
 fondly as my own. 
 
 Upon another occasion a musical composer 
 sent A. B. E. a little poem copied from 
 the pages of a magazine, begging permission 
 to set it to music. Letter and song were 
 sent on to me with the pencilled words : — 
 '^ This must be yours ; I know nothing about it." 
 I returned both saying, '* Neither do I ; ransack 
 your memory." Again the verses came back 
 
M. BETHAM-EDVVARDS 1 25 
 
 with words to this effect, — " ransack your own," 
 and unable to identify the piece it was for- 
 warded to the composer. This gentleman, 
 nothing daunted, betook himself to the British 
 Museum, unearthed the original, and lo and 
 behold, they bore my own signature ! ^ 
 
 To the very last the blundering went on. 
 A few years back a friend bequeathed me the 
 sum of a hundred pounds. As she was both 
 mentally and bodily afflicted, the transaction was 
 entrusted to a hanger-on, one of those persons 
 unable to care for any interests but her own. 
 The legacy was of course made out in the 
 name of Amelia Betham Edwards, and it was 
 not without considerable difficulty that my cousin 
 could convince the lawyers of the mistake. 
 
 And another, by no means laughable error, 
 was made a year or two after that life-long 
 friend had gone to her rest. 
 
 At the Hastings railway station an ac- 
 quaintance catching sight of me drew back 
 horrified as from an apparition. 
 
 * These verses, " Oh ! would that Love could die," have since 
 been several times set to music. 
 
126 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 '' I — I — I — " she stammered forth — " I read 
 in the papers that you were dead ! " 
 
 To the bulk of the novel reading public it 
 was not a case of the two Dromios or 
 even of the Siamese Twins. A. B. E. and 
 M. B. E. were simply one and the same 
 person. 
 
 About this time Amelia filled the modest post 
 of organist at a little country church near 
 London ; for a generation and more ago, 
 Wood Green, Hornsey, was far too rural to be 
 called surburban. I suppose most Intellectual 
 workers have a dual capacity, a choice before 
 them, not of Prodicus, rather of equally excel- 
 lent and enticing paths. Be this as It may, 
 a lady who attained considerable literary emi- 
 nence, who wrote at least one novel that will 
 long keep her name alive and ended her career 
 as an Egyptologist of European repute, began 
 life as a professional musician, and — can any 
 say ? — but for accident, chance, casual circum- 
 stance, might so have ended It, occupying her- 
 self with dominant sevenths instead of hiero- 
 glyphics, with fugues, fantasias, and concertos, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I 27 
 
 Instead of the seventh dynasty, perhaps adding 
 a woman's name to the pages of musical 
 biography ? She was at this time a highly 
 accomplished musician, a thorough mistress of 
 the keyboard and well versed in harmony 
 and counterpoint. Some compositions for 
 
 the organ belonging to the period in question 
 show considerable taste and skill. At all times 
 a tremendous worker, for years she devoted 
 eight hours daily to the piano, other studies 
 being pursued till far into the night. 
 
 It was a curious household, that home in a part 
 of London, now pronounced quite uninhabitable, 
 but, when Amelia's parents settled there more 
 than half a century ago, almost genteel. I 
 confess to an ineradicable affection for the 
 proximity of Colebrooke Row with its associations 
 of Charles Lamb, of Saddler's Wells dear to 
 Shakespearians, of the sombre Irvingite church, 
 and even the dusty little gardens of Percy 
 Circus and Myddelton Square. Islington, Pen- 
 tonville, Bloomsbury, these made up the Lon- 
 don of my youth, and youthful recollection 
 confers an immortality of its own. 
 
128 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Long before that stay at the Peckham 
 School, a stay so barren of all pleasant ex- 
 perience, I had paid a long visit to London 
 and become familiar with " merry Islington." 
 How pleasant on summer evenings to stroll 
 past Charles Lamb's house by the new river ! 
 How attractive the High Street with its fine 
 old church surrounded by trees and green 
 sward, recalling some market town far away ! 
 And the stir and metropolitan aspect of the 
 Angel corner ! All these have left inspiring 
 memories. 
 
 The young organist's home was east of 
 Islington, herself being a Cockney, born within 
 sound of Bow Bells. My uncle was an old 
 Peninsular officer, who had served under 
 Wellington in Spain and taken part in the 
 battle of Corunna. Slight and spare as a 
 man could well be, tactiturn, austere and 
 methodical to clockwork, he formed the 
 strangest possible contrast to his lively, soci- 
 able theatre-loving little Irish wife. For years 
 he occupied some post in a city bank, 
 always setting forth and returning to the 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 29 
 
 minute, after tea reading the Times or some 
 historical work with his watch by his side ; 
 at the stroke of nine retiring to rest. On 
 Sundays he went every morning to a dull 
 church close by, as regularly taking a walk 
 afterwards with two elderly ladies of his ac- 
 quaintance. The walk would be along the 
 City or Marylebone road, never lasting a 
 second longer than a stated time. In the 
 summer he spent a couple of weeks or so 
 with one brother or another, the life of the 
 Suffolk farmhouse being his only annual 
 change. 
 
 That attenuated automatic frame held a 
 valiant spirit. On the breaking out of the 
 Crimean War, my uncle, then considerably 
 past middle age, sent in his name to the War 
 Office with the words, ''able and willing to 
 serve." His monotonous, apparently joyless 
 existence, was made exceptional by pride in 
 his brilliant daughter. The success of her 
 pretty novel " Barbara's History," shed a 
 ray over a life that to outsiders seemed 
 pathetic in its sameness and self-sought 
 
130 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 isolation. Theatres, private theatricals, musical 
 evenings, conversaziones were not to his taste. 
 Most often his evenings were spent alone. 
 
 On Sunday evenings we used to take tea at 
 the house of Mr Sterling Coyne (I always 
 feel inclined to write Sterling Coin), the play- 
 wright, in Wilmington Square. There was 
 an immense family of charming boys and 
 girls, and after tea they acted charades or 
 little plays, papa being stage manager. 
 Sterling Coyne had a fund of good things to 
 tell us, one of which I will relate. He was 
 reading at a bookstall in Oxford Street one 
 day when a friend tapped him on the shoulder. 
 " Wish me a good journey and safe return," 
 he said ; *' I am off to-night to New York." 
 The friends chatted for a few minutes, then 
 parted with a hearty handshake, Sterling Coyne 
 resuming his book. 
 
 Twelve months afterwards he was poring 
 over some volume at the same bookstall when 
 again he was tapped on the shoulder. 
 
 *' Good God, Coyne," cried a familiar voice, 
 you don't mean to say you have been reading 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I31 
 
 three hundred and sixty-five days and nights 
 at a stretch?" 
 
 It was the friend who had there taken 
 leave of him just a year before. 
 
 Delightful, too, were the Shakespearian even- 
 ings at Sadlers' Wells, "As you like it," in which 
 the parts of Celia and Rosalind were taken by 
 the sisters Leclerc. The spectacular element was 
 not then a foremost attraction. Theatre-goers 
 were enticed rather by an actress's charm and 
 skill than by the richness or eccentricity of 
 her gowns. What an audience wanted was 
 Shakespeare, not a historic pageant. 
 
 As these brief memorials of a remarkable 
 woman need no apology, I will add a few 
 more particulars. Very soon after this visit, 
 the young organist of Wood Green finally 
 relinquished a musical for a literary career. 
 Already, when nine years old, she had gained 
 a prize offered for a tale in a penny tem- 
 perance magazine. Some pretty musical stories 
 published in Chambers Journal and elsewhere 
 had followed at intervals. About the same 
 time the two Dromias appeared as novelists, 
 
132 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 the success of her first story deciding Amelia's 
 future life. 
 
 A few years later the little household near 
 Wilmington Square was tragically broken up. 
 The old Peninsular officer and his wife died 
 within seven days of each other, having just 
 lived long enough to enjoy their daughters 
 early triumph. It was not till many years later 
 that romance was laid aside for Egyptology, 
 a dozen or so novels having been written 
 during the interim. An exceptionally brilliant 
 lecturing tour in America during the winter 
 of 1889-90 was marred by an unfortunate 
 accident. Amelia never recovered from the 
 shock, although not a single lecture had been 
 relinquished in consequence. In April 1892 
 she died, having by her will founded a 
 chair of Egyptology at University College, 
 London, and bequeathed her fine library to 
 Somerville Hall, Oxford. 
 
 One characteristic has yet to be mentioned. 
 As an Egyptologist she was what our French 
 neighbours call an *'autodidacte," i.e., self- 
 taught ; and, indeed, she had taught herself 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 33 
 
 most things that she knew. " I can never 
 learn of others," she once said to me, " I 
 must be my own teacher and acquire in my 
 own way." A more ardent, self-sacrificing 
 student never lived. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 IDYLLIC AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 Reaction— Drifts and Pightles— Lord of the Harvest 
 —Bait and Bever— The Last Waggon— The Bio- 
 graphy OF a Book— Publishing Old and New 
 
 How refreshing the drifts and pightles of 
 Suffolk after the prison walls of Mimosa 
 House and the dust and glare of Pentonville! 
 How refreshing, too, the naive talk of our farm- 
 ing folk after the tittle tattle of low-bred 
 school-girls ! Here must be explained for 
 the benefit of non-East Anglicans that a 
 drift, of common usage in Suffolk, means an 
 enclosed lane, and is probably an abbreviation 
 of drift-way, a common way for driving cattle 
 in '^ ; Arthur Young, author of the famous 
 travels in France, uses the word, but I am not 
 familiar with its appropriation in this sense by 
 many writers. Pightle or pightel, from pight, 
 
 '"' Webster. 
 
 134 
 
M. BETH AM-ED WARDS 1 35 
 
 an enclosed piece of land,^ and in Suffolk 
 meaning a little enclosed paddock or meadow, 
 is used by that master of pure English, George 
 Borrow. 
 
 The words have not reached my ears since 
 these early days, but to see them in print 
 recalls exquisite beauty and rapturous enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Figure to yourself, reader, a long well- wooded 
 lane or natural avenue, leading from field to 
 field or meadow to meadow ; in spring time 
 its banks redolent of white and purple violets, 
 in summer, its hedges a tangle of wild rose 
 and honeysuckle, overhead stately oak and elm 
 lending perpetual shadow, musical with wood 
 pigeon and little birds. Except for occasional 
 passage of lazy herd or tumbril slowly making 
 way over grass green ruts, all is quiet and 
 solitary. The drift indeed belongs to the 
 farm, as much as orchard or potato garden. 
 A delicious retreat when no young colts are 
 disporting themselves in its precincts is the 
 pightle, now a glory of cowslips, sweetest of 
 
 ■* W^ebster. 
 
# 
 
 136 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 all sweet flowers, now of wild clover, pasturage 
 of the bees. A breeze blows freshly even in 
 July, there are no sultry days in my beloved 
 Suffolk, and here also the idler would find him- 
 self alone. How delightful to lie cushioned 
 on the grass, a favourite poet in your hand, 
 or, following the poet's advice, your gaze 
 fixed on the ever varying, ever spectacular 
 heavens.^ 
 
 That bygone pastoral, I am tempted to 
 say pageant, has never been supplanted by 
 richer, more varied experiences. With the 
 reaping machine, the patent mower, the steam 
 thresher vanished all poetry from cornfield 
 and farmyard. With the improved kitchener, 
 mechanical churner, and the inroads of gen- 
 tility, farmhouse life has become prosaic as 
 that of a stocking factory. But in former days 
 it was not so. Hardship there might be, boor- 
 ishness there might be, yet a bucolic spirit 
 
 "^ " Oh ! contemplez le ciel, et des qu'a fin le jour, 
 
 En tout temps, en tout lieu, d'un ineffable amour, 
 Regardez a travers ces voiles." 
 
 V. Hugo, " Feuilles d' Automne." 
 And Tasso : — 
 
 " Mira il ciel com' e belIo."^G. D., Canto 2. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I 37 
 
 from time to time reigned in these homely 
 scenes, for a brief interval existence wore the 
 aspect of Bacchanalia. Their ruddy faces 
 gleaming like red hot coals against the golden 
 sheaves, the lusty reapers obeyed beck and 
 nod of the '' Lord of the Harvest," leader 
 chosen for his prowess, commanding presence, 
 and high character generally At a signal 
 from the lord all hied off to the nearest 
 hedge for '* bait " ^ and "bever," i.e., eleven 
 and four o'clock collations of harvest cake and 
 beer, a can of the oldest and strongest being 
 supplied from the farm upon extra occasions. 
 Decency characterised the conversation, oft- 
 times master and men sitting down to bait 
 and bever together. 
 
 Meantime at home housewives were busy. 
 Alike in farm and cottage huge plumpuddings 
 would dance in the boiler, before the dinner- 
 hour being taken up to cool. What a com- 
 motion among the wasps ! No matter the 
 devices resorted to, as well try to keep school- 
 
 * " Bait." " My lord's coach conveyed me to 13ury and thence 
 baiting at Newmarket." — Evelyn. 
 
138 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 boys from green apples as drive away wasps 
 from a harvest pudding. To this day the 
 sight of a wasp recalls that savoury steam on 
 the window sill. 
 
 But the crowning gala was the coming 
 home of the last waggon. When both crops 
 and weather had proved propitious, when 
 farmer and reapers were in high spirits, and, 
 above all, when the moon was full, this was 
 a festival indeed. 
 
 Long before the procession approached 
 joyous shouts and singing announced the 
 culminating event of the husbandman's year, 
 the prosperous gathering in, the happy close 
 of so many anxious nights and laborious days. 
 Louder and louder grows the chorus of un- 
 trained voices, more distinct the tramp of feet 
 and rumble of wheels ; then in the summer 
 twilight, the harvest moon rising in full 
 splendour behind it, appears the last waggon, 
 to-day, a triumphal car decorated with green 
 boughs and field flowers ! 
 
 Is it to be wondered at that such scenes 
 for a time held me captive ? for a time 
 
M. BETHAM-EUWARDS 1 39 
 
 at least keeping me to early association ? 
 Any other young writer would I think have 
 been influenced by a similar reaction ; instead 
 of describing school life as depressing from 
 the moral point of view, as that portrayed by 
 the great Bronte, taking refuge in idyllic 
 scenes and ideal portraiture. 
 
 Soon after returning home I set to work 
 on my first novel (some youthful attempts 
 I had destroyed long before), and as an 
 authors experiences after such lapse of years 
 assume almost the character of history, I will 
 give some purely bibliographical details. The 
 production of a book, that is to say, the 
 printing, publishing and circulation thus re- 
 trospectively considered, may be as interest- 
 ing as the genesis of a book itself, always 
 presuming that the work in question can 
 lay claim to a genesis, is not merely so much 
 " copy " paid for per thousand words. 
 
 I suppose that in the present day a young 
 author's method of procedure would be as 
 follows. First of all he would send his MS. 
 and fee to the Author's Society ; having ob- 
 
140 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 tained advice, next try his luck with a pub- 
 lisher ; if successful, again address himself to 
 Great Portugal Street, get an agreement 
 properly drawn up, signed and sealed, then 
 betwixt hope and fear await the issue, 
 criticisms, advances from other houses, 
 editorial offers, notoriety, royalties. 
 
 Very different was a young author's position 
 when a Suffolk girl then just twenty put the 
 colophon to her first novel, ''The White 
 House by the Sea." 
 
 "Has any of you ever heard a more 
 wonderful adventure than this of the hunch- 
 back, my jester ? " asked the Sultan of his 
 courtiers in Arabian story. And wholly 
 irrespective of its virtues or demerits, this 
 little book deserves a biographer. 
 
 There was of course no parcels' post in 
 those days. Despatched to London through 
 the agency of the family grocer, the manu- 
 script was duly acknowledged and, wonderful 
 to relate, very soon afterwards accepted by 
 one of the foremost publishing houses. 
 
 1 must here for once and for all make it 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I41 
 
 quite clear that I do not in the very least 
 reflect upon anyone else but myself through- 
 out the history of this transaction. The 
 important, I may say, the only object, I had 
 in view was to get my book well put before 
 the public — which it was, my payment being 
 in kind, instead of money, that is to say, I 
 received twenty-five copies of new one, two 
 and three volume novels. For a young writer 
 the bargain cannot be called a bad one. My 
 work was well printed, well bound, well ad- 
 vertised and presented to the world in ex- 
 cellent company. The curious part of the 
 business is this ; before me lies the original 
 edition in two handsome volumes dated 1857, 
 beside it, the last popular issue dated 1891. 
 Between those two dates, a period of just upon 
 thirty-five years, the book had contrived to 
 keep its head above water, that is to say, 
 had been steadily reprinted from time to time, 
 yet from its first appearance to the present day, 
 when it is still selling, not a farthing of profit 
 has accrued to the author ! 
 
 However, all is not gold that glitters, and 
 
142 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 a writer whose first story has long survived a 
 generation may complacently view the " boom " 
 of a "Dodo," a "Trilby," or of the latest 
 Kailyarder. What would you have ? We 
 may as well own to our little vanities ! 
 
 An author's step first and successfully made 
 there is no doubt whatever that his chances 
 both of recognition and money were infinitely 
 better in those days than now.* Probably to 
 one literary aspirant of forty years ago there 
 are five hundred, perhaps ten thousand to-day. 
 Publishers were also a mere handful compared 
 to their present numbers. They brought out 
 fewer works and exercised more literary dis- 
 crimination. Again, public taste had not been 
 
 * Mr IV. E. N orris on Yoimg Writers' Chances. — The home 
 of Mr \V. E. Norris, the novelist, stands on the top of Lincombe 
 Hill, overlooking Tor Bay. Here is an extract from an interview 
 with the novelist in the British Weekly : — 
 
 " Do you think that a young writer has a better chance now of 
 securing recognition than when you first began to write ?" 
 
 " On the whole, I think not so good a chance," Mr Norris 
 replied. " There are a few authors whose sales are so enormous 
 that they practically fill the market to the exclusion of others." 
 
 Mr Norris prefers the three-volume system of publication to the 
 one-volume. " In three volumes a writer has more space and 
 more freedom, and the book is much pleasanter to read." — West- 
 7ninster Gazette^ Jan. 13, 1898. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDVVARDS 1 43 
 
 vitiated by the imitators of bad French models. 
 Novel readers felt the influence of the great 
 triad — Dickens, Thackeray, Currer Bell. Keep- 
 ing up this high standard, came George Eliot 
 and her worthy compeer, creator of the im- 
 mortal Mrs Proudie. 
 
 Again, the good old system of selling a book 
 just as you sell a house had its . advantages. 
 There was no suspense, no delusive wait- 
 ing for royalties or half profits. An accredited 
 author, despite the absence of newspaper syn- 
 dicates, American copyright, and other advan- 
 tages, had only himself to blame if he failed 
 to amass a little fortune in those days. 
 
 The next few years were chiefly spent in 
 Wurtemberg, the Free City of Frankfort, 
 Vienna and Paris. There, too, as in Suffolk, 
 conditions of life being very unlike those of 
 the present day. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 OLD GERMANY 
 
 Life in a Wurtemberg Schloss— An English Abbess — 
 The Genesis of a Novel — Frankfort as a Free City 
 
 Hardly more pretentious was the life of a 
 Wurtemberg Schloss, my first foreign experience, 
 than that of the Suffolk farmhouse left behind. 
 Yet with what an exhilarating sense of novelty 
 came those South German days, their atmos- 
 phere as completely vanished as the Suffolk 
 of my youth ! The Procrustean bed, called 
 German unity, had not amalgamated a dozen 
 charming little kingdoms, lopping off every 
 vestige of spontaneousness and originality. In- 
 stead of the actual dead level, the Prussia- 
 nizing of Europe from Potsdam to Stutt- 
 gart, a traveller formerly passed from one 
 picturesque state to another. Wherever he went 
 he found engaging naivete of manners, costumes, 
 speech. All this belongs to the past. Despite 
 its literary, artistic and musical attractions, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 45 
 
 Germany has become totally uninspiring, depress- 
 ing indeed, to the freedom-loving Anglo-Saxon 
 mind. 
 
 Railways in these days were not so common 
 as now and the post-wagon or stage-coach con- 
 veyed us from Stuttgart to our destination, my 
 fellow-guests being two English ladies, resident 
 in the capital. The German post-boy was a 
 striking feature of rural life, and well worthy 
 of the poetic immortality conferred upon him.* 
 My first acquaintance of this kind was a wiry 
 little old man in bright orange coloured coat 
 with very short tails, sky-blue trousers, and 
 black, almost brimless, hat. Around his neck 
 was his horn ornamented with green tassels, and 
 this horn he blew upon every occasion : the 
 martial blasts echoed back from the vine-clad 
 hills, the intervening plain, a brilliant chess- 
 board of flax, Indian corn, tobacco and beetroot. 
 It recalled an artist's palette on which lie 
 patches of green, purple, yellow, brown and 
 
 * I here especially allude to Lenau's well-known poem, '' The 
 Postilion." An English rendering of it in similar metre appears 
 in "The Golden Bee," Dean & Co. It is a wonderfully beautiful 
 poem. 
 
 K 
 
146 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 blue. An old-fashioned open carriage, with a 
 moustached coachman In livery, awaited us at 
 the last post-house, and an hour's drive through 
 alleys of fruit trees — such was the aspect of 
 the hio^h road — brouQ^ht us to the Schloss, a 
 gaunt building with low roof and turrets at 
 each corner, its enormously thick walls showing 
 engraved armorials. A mediaeval moat or fosse 
 now formed a belt of orchards, here and there 
 little stone stairs leading from the first floor 
 of the Schloss to the pleasure gardens below. 
 
 Nobleness of character and tragic circumstance 
 take firmer hold of the imagination than scenes 
 however far removed from common-place. To 
 this sojourn in an old Wurtemberg castle belong 
 memories as touching as they are strange. 
 
 The owner of the Schloss, Baron B , was 
 
 a widower, his two children being under the 
 charge of an English girl, whilst the household 
 generally, and indeed the business of the estate, 
 were managed by an elderly relation, a most 
 competent and estimable person, whom I will 
 call Fraulein Theresa. Whether the Baron at 
 this time held any official post or no I forget, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 47 
 
 but the recent loss of a beautiful and fondly 
 loved young wife was alone enough to account 
 for his frequent and prolonged absences from 
 home, perhaps partly accounted for some rare 
 and winning qualities. 
 
 In some respects this country gentleman of 
 South Germany was one of the most amiable 
 characters I ever knew. Having been bereft 
 himself he seemed anxious to solace all others 
 equally stricken. 
 
 It happened that the young English governess 
 of his little boy and girl was an orphan, one 
 of several sisters, all earning daily bread as 
 teachers in Germany. To these hard working 
 exemplary girls the Baron had proved more 
 than a kind friend and protector. Far too 
 chivalrous to affect the air of a patron, he 
 treated them as honoured guests rather than 
 proteges. In holiday seasons the Schloss was 
 their second home, his carriage, his table, his ser- 
 vants being placed at their disposal. Had they 
 been court ladies from Windsor their welcome 
 could not have been warmer, more gracious. 
 
 The young teacher of his children, I will call 
 
148 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 her Erminia, without being exactly handsome 
 or pretty had a face of singular sweetness and 
 charm. At this time she seemed, as indeed she 
 undoubtedly was, perfectly happy in her sur- 
 roundings, with no cravings for the unknown, 
 no wish to plunge into the vortex of passion or 
 romance. As I gaze upon her portrait now it 
 is difficult to believe in the sequel, to conjure 
 up another vision, the quietly joyous, affectionate, 
 practical girl transformed into a stern lady 
 abbess, the whilom young governess swaying 
 little children with grave smile or gentle ad- 
 monition, now mother superior, austerely ruling 
 a houseful of cloistered women, her frown making 
 offenders tremble, from her sentences, however 
 severe, being no appeal. 
 
 Two or three years after this visit I heard 
 that Erminia had gone over to the Romish 
 faith and entered a convent, intending to take 
 the veil. And only the other day — after an 
 interval of thirty years — I learned that she 
 had attained the pinnacle of conventual ambi- 
 tion, namely, the position of mother superior and 
 lady abbess in a large South American convent. 
 
M. BETHAM-KDWARDS 1 49 
 
 Strange to add, it was no love affair that 
 had brought about Erminia's perversion from 
 the Protestant faith and withdrawal from a 
 wholesome, rational existence into the prison 
 walls of mediaeval superstition. It must be 
 mentioned that she had a brother of her own, 
 her elders were only step-sisters, and to this 
 brother, of whom she had seen but little, she 
 was entirely devoted. From childhood upwards 
 the pair had agreed to make a home together 
 in the New World. When at last realisation 
 of these dreams appeared at hand, circum- 
 stances decided the brother upon a quite differ- 
 ent course. He went his own way, married a 
 wife, and Erminia committed a kind of suicide 
 which nineteenth century progress has neither 
 abolished nor succeeded in rendering generally 
 preposterous. 
 
 Village life hereabouts recalled a page of 
 Voss's matchless idyll, *' Luise." Much was 
 certainly needed in the way of tidiness and 
 sanitation, but the cordial relations of chate- 
 laine and dependents — Fraulein Theresa repre- 
 sented the Baron — the amazing fruitfulness of 
 
150 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 the land, the equally amazing frugality of the 
 people, made up for many shortcomings. And 
 it must ever be borne in mind, that the most 
 crushing of all taxes, enforced military service, 
 had not yet crushed the spirit of the people. 
 
 Stuttgart itself was still in many respects 
 a century behind the age. The town sewerage 
 ran into the Neckar, watering the beautiful 
 Royal Park, and every drop of water for 
 domestic purposes had to be fetched from the 
 nearest fountain. I think I see now my 
 friend's old woman-servant bravely mounting 
 to the fourth storey with a great tub of water 
 balanced on her head. 
 
 Some odd customs prevailed. At the close 
 of every season, the Queen's left-ofT dresses 
 were sold by her ladies' maids and were much In 
 request. It was a sight to see one piece after 
 another of well-worn finery — for her majesty 
 was economical — tried on, walked to the glass 
 in, haggled over. And diverting to the Queen 
 must have been the glimpse at park, garden, 
 or theatre, of some familiar robe or bonnet. 
 No one seemed to look at the matter from 
 
j\r. BETHAM-EDWARDS 15I 
 
 a humorous point of view. The bargain- 
 ing was conducted gravely. Faded brocade 
 and threadbare velvet were complacently 
 paraded. 
 
 From the little capital of Wurtemberg to the 
 Free City on the Maine was a change in- 
 deed. The glittering Zeil, the equipages of 
 Jewish bankers, the suburban villas, far out- 
 shone in splendour anything to be seen at 
 Stuttgart. Here, too, the stamp of originality 
 was much stronger. On every side, and at 
 every moment, a stranger recalled the Frank- 
 fort of Goethe's youth, the historic Frankfort 
 to-day as completely vanished as if swallowed 
 up by an earthquake. 
 
 I do not know how things may be now, 
 but at this time an English clergyman was 
 stationed there by some society at home for 
 the purpose of converting the Jews. How 
 many Jews were converted yearly or if at all, I 
 never learned, certain it is that the repre- 
 sentative of the said society was himself the 
 best possible argument, having relinquished 
 the Talmud for the New Testament and the 
 
152 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 roll of the law for the Thirty-nine articles. 
 This agent of conversion had an English wife, 
 and at the request of a common acquaintance, 
 I was received into their house as a boarder. 
 On reaching the pretty surburban villa, a 
 curious reception awaited me. The initial 
 greetings over my host sat down and, adjusting 
 his spectacles, deliberately studied the new 
 comer. He was a man of medium height, of 
 unmistakable Jewish origin, and evidently alert 
 dialectic mind. As apparently, the garb of an 
 English divine was worn proudly, significant 
 of the inner struggle and self-conquest of which 
 he felt the right to be proud. Apparent, too, 
 was that incongruousness and look of pathetic 
 complacency I have seen in French priests 
 converted to Protestantism and officiating as 
 pastors. The tonsure and priestly aspect sort 
 as ill with their new garb and office as Jewish 
 physiognomy with surplice and pulpit, but such 
 contradictions, even whimsicality, only strike 
 observers. Fervency of conviction renders 
 blind or callous to such matters. 
 
 The perusal over, having perhaps satisfied 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 53 
 
 himself as to my listening capacities and in- 
 terest in psychological problems generally, he 
 asked abruptly — 
 
 " Have you heard of the great scandal that 
 has happened in the English church and com- 
 munity here, the history of Doctor J ? " On 
 
 my reply in the negative he told me the 
 following story. 
 
 A short time before there had appeared in 
 Frankfort an elderly English clergyman, of 
 noble presence and most winning manners, 
 claiming suffrages for a self-imposed mission. 
 This was no less than a crusade against 
 Judaism in the city of Jerusalem itself, a 
 winning over of souls to Christianity amid the 
 awful scenes of Gethsemane and Calvary. 
 No one could doubt in the validity of his plea 
 
 or in the sincerity of the pleader. Dr J , 
 
 moreover, brought with him the very best 
 credentials. His ecclesiastical status was high, 
 and had it been otherwise, had wavering doubts 
 arisen here and there, his first appearance in 
 the pulpit would have quelled them for ever. 
 With an oratory that could only be described 
 
154 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 as electric, he took the congregation by storm. 
 Women wept, men were shaken by emotion, 
 and gold pieces rattled into the collector's 
 plate like hailstones ! 
 
 For some weeks the business of enlisting 
 sympathy, in other words, of raising a fund, 
 went on. Dr J • became the idol of Frank- 
 fort society. He accepted every invitation, 
 received the adulation alike of the devout 
 and the worldly, repaid hospitality after regal 
 fashion, with the costliest toy for bebe, floral 
 offering of rare exotics for Madame, choice 
 little souvenir for Monsieur. The soberer of his 
 worshippers regretted just a touch of world- 
 liness and parade in this gifted and godly 
 man. But had not St Paul bade his followers 
 be all things to all men ? 
 
 And did not princely ways beseem one of 
 Nature's noblest ? Women, one and all, from 
 the titled dame to the washerwoman, lost their 
 heads about this irresistible sexagenarian. Alike 
 physiognomy, presence, voice, were pronounced 
 ineffable, fascinating beyond the power of words. 
 
 Quite suddenly the bubble burst. As a 
 
M. BETHAiM-EDWARDS 1 55 
 
 thunder blast in fine weather fell the blow. 
 One morning all Frankfort was a-titter with 
 the odious story. 
 
 Dr J had quitted the Free City over 
 
 head and ears in debt, fleeing from dishonour, 
 perhaps a debtor's prison. Needless to add 
 that the little fortune eollected for the con- 
 version of Jerusalem had been squandered 
 upon himself and his uncalled-for generosities. 
 Such was the genesis of '' Dr Jacob,"* and the 
 story with its picturesque surroundings might 
 well have proved the genesis of a novelist as 
 well ; who could have helped putting it upon 
 paper? And who, having known Frankfort as 
 a Free City, would care to revisit it now ? Not 
 even Dannecker's ''Ariadne" nor Del Piombo's 
 superb portrait could tempt me thither again. 
 
 In the days I write of the Zeil and the 
 Zoological gardens were spectacular with col- 
 our and costume ; the Frankfurter officers in 
 their dark green and red uniforms, the Burger- 
 master's equipage with its armorial bearings, 
 gorgeous trappings and coachmen in cocked 
 
 * thirst edition 1864, latest 1897. 
 
156 REMINISCENCES 
 
 hats, and blue, gold-braided coats, the muni- 
 cipal police, so affable to strangers, the civic 
 insignia on public officers — all these belong to 
 a past, the Prussian helmet here as everywhere 
 symbolizing military rule, the maximum of en- 
 croachment upon individuality and the claims 
 of human development. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 OLD VIENNA 
 
 The Private Physician of Prince Metternich— A Pupil 
 OF Jenny Lind— Contrasted Splendour and Barbar- 
 ism—Political Stagnation— The Exodus— Farewell 
 
 Six months of the year 1862 were divided be- 
 tween Vienna and Frankfort, my second sojourn 
 in the latter place being under a German roof 
 for the purpose of perfecting myself in the 
 language. Of old Vienna and Viennese society 
 in the sixties, some reminiscences may be 
 acceptable. 
 
 The arrangements for this stay were highly 
 advantageous and at the same time peculiar. 
 Through the medium of German friends, I 
 secured rooms and attendance under the roof of 
 an eminent physician, formerly Leibarzt or body 
 physician to Prince Metternich, the famous 
 diplomat. There was no promise of hospitality 
 
 or companionship on the part of Dr von J 's 
 
 wife and daughter, only an understanding of 
 
158 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 protection, advice as to German masters, and 
 so on. But when this charming family found 
 that their English tenant was an unobtrusive, 
 studious girl, bent upon making the most of 
 her opportunities, nothing could exceed their 
 attention and kindness. A cover was con- 
 stantly laid for me at the elegant little three 
 o'clock dinner and simple "abendbrod," or supper. 
 I was invited to join them in visits to suburban 
 friends, whilst the doctor and his daughter 
 took pains to show me all the splendid his- 
 toric and artistic marvels of the capital. 
 
 Dr von J was a tall, aristocratic looking 
 
 man of seventy-two, who might well have been 
 a prince and a diplomat himself He belonged 
 to the old school of politicians, entertained a 
 supreme aversion to English statesmanship 
 and theories of government, often twitting me 
 about Kossuth and Mazzini, but frankly con- 
 fessed his liking for the English individually. 
 His wife, a benignant old lady, remained at 
 home knitting stockings and reading Goethe, 
 whilst the Imperial Councillor dined off gold 
 and silver at royal and ducal palaces. Their 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 59 
 
 only daughter Augusta, had attained the 
 age of thirty without entering upon the 
 marriage state. She had a plain, beautiful 
 face,* that is to say, whilst wanting symmetry 
 of feature and bloom of complexion, she 
 possessed that rare adorable loveliness, the 
 beauty of soul and music. Instead of endow- 
 ing her with laughing eyes, dimpled cheeks, 
 and a mouth made for lover's kisses, Nature 
 had bestowed a voice of marvellous power and 
 sweetness and a character to match. This 
 treasure of a voice was trained by Jenny 
 Lind herself, but the daughter of an Imperial 
 Councillor and Princely Leibarzt could not of 
 course become a prima donna. So Auguste 
 
 von J sang for love and not for money 
 
 or fame, taking part in concerts given for the 
 poor or performing the solos at churches 
 where any especial collection was to be made 
 for charitable purposes. Never off the stage 
 or on it have I heard a voice to be compared 
 
 "^ This is no oxymoron or contradiction of terms. Some very 
 handsome faces are ugly from sheer want of expression, or expres- 
 sion of depravity, and vz'ce versa. 
 
l6o REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 to hers ; especially in the Ave Maria of May, 
 the Catholic month of Mary, was her singing 
 indescribably moving, wholly phenomenal in its 
 pathos and rich vocal quality. Dear Augusta ! 
 How came it to pass that we who once loved 
 each other so fondly, should so soon and so 
 completely have faded out of each other's life? 
 The portrait of her passionately musical face 
 is all that reminds me now of this cherished 
 friendship. 
 
 One's first impression of Vienna at this time 
 — ^just a year before the fiendish Haynau's 
 Polish Terror — was of contrasted splendour 
 and barbarism. On arriving at my destina- 
 tion, the woman servant told off to wait upon 
 me almost prostrated herself as she kissed 
 my hand in token of subservience. This 
 slavish* act I need hardly say was not re- 
 peated. Nor would I ever address serving 
 folk with the contemptuous thee and thou then 
 in vogue. 
 
 But other contrasts were far more shocking. 
 
 * Not perhaps so considered. At this time children here 
 always kissed the hands of their elders when taking leave. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS l6l 
 
 In the poorest Suffolk farmhouse familiar to 
 me, alike ploughmen, who used to be boarded 
 and lodged as I have before mentioned, and 
 dairymaids, had ever their bedchambers, the 
 latter being lodged close to master and mistress. 
 The accommodation was humble but decent ; 
 a good bed, washstand, pegs for clothes, and 
 cupboard. Will it be believed that at the 
 time I write of, i.e., only a generation ago, 
 domestic servants in rich Viennese house- 
 holds slept like cats and dogs where they 
 could? For some time after my installation 
 
 in the von J 's handsome and spacious 
 
 flat, I was puzzled by certain noises outside 
 my door late at night and very early in the 
 morning. I soon unearthed the mystery. 
 When the family had retired to rest the 
 Vorsaal or entrance - hall was strewed with 
 mattresses and rugs, and here slept the three 
 or four maids composing the household. 
 
 At dawn, as quietly as might be, the bed- 
 ding was cleared away, the Vorsaal swept and 
 scoured, elegant lamps, hatstands, and other 
 pieces of furniture replaced, not a vestige 
 
1 62 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 remaining of the bivouac. We English, I 
 admit, are a very boastful race. There is 
 no denying that fact. I must aver, however, 
 that the English nation may well be proud 
 of two inventions — that of the bedchamber 
 and of another and smaller apartment, which 
 shall here be nameless. 
 
 That arch-despot and arch-voluptuary Louis 
 XIV. was as utterly without a sense of 
 decency as a cannibal king. The women of 
 his hareem were no better off when lying-in 
 than itinerant tinkers' wives. In the very 
 height of her ascendancy Louis de la Valliere 
 was brought to bed in a landing or passage 
 of general use. '' Pray be quick and bring 
 the child into the world," she groaned to her 
 accoucheur ; *' lots of people will be passing 
 presently." "^ 
 
 But neither had Viennese ladies anything 
 to be called a bedchamber. Fraulein Augusta's 
 room was as completely transformed, night 
 and morning, as the entrance-hall ; by dint 
 of shut-up washstand, sofa-bed and other 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 63 
 
 ingenious devices turned into a boudoir. 
 One might suppose from the care taken to 
 disguise the fact, that sleep, the business of 
 the toilette, and other bodily exigencies, were 
 brands of infamy, so many marks of Cain to 
 be hidden, if possible, ignored. 
 
 The von J s were good, kind, charming 
 
 people, but autocratic to the core, and saw 
 no more harm in servants sleeping on the 
 floor than in rinsing the mouth publicly at 
 dessert ; a small tumbler was always placed 
 in the finger-glasses for this purpose. 
 
 How can one fix the criterium of good 
 manners ? A Viennese girl just returned from 
 England had been equally shocked by an insular 
 habit, that of ladies entering a drawing-room 
 without lifting their veils. 
 
 "If I kept my veil down when paying a 
 visit here," she said, " I should expect to have 
 it torn from my face." 
 
 Yet, I daresay, this acquaintance felt no 
 scruple whatever about her housemaid sleep- 
 ing on the mat in the corridor ! 
 
 Whilst the Rotten Row and Hyde Park of 
 
164 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Vienna showed a parade far outshining that of 
 London, the ramparts, then in course of de- 
 moHtion, were scenes of poverty and toil, 
 hardly to be matched in any European capital. 
 As the afternoon wore on the Graben would 
 be deserted for the Prater, culminating point 
 of brilliance and gaiety. Now the Emperor 
 drove past in a showy carriage drawn by six 
 white horses, the postilions having orange- 
 coloured livery. Now appeared a gallant and 
 popular figure, doomed to unutterably tragic end. 
 I allude to the Archduke Maximilian, Prince 
 Max, as he was then called, victim of that 
 simulacrum of the greatest criminal who ever 
 lived, the third Napoleon. The Lichtenstein 
 equipage, with its footmen in scarlet and flow- 
 ing sashes, was conspicuous ; equally so were 
 the Esterhazy trappings and liveries ; Hun- 
 garian nobles, with servants plumed and booted, 
 their ladies wearing black lace headgear, 
 braided cloaks of military pattern, and mittens ; 
 Polish lancers, elegant Viennese in the latest 
 Parisian toilettes — all these made up a daily 
 pageant. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 65 
 
 But the Other side of the picture ? From sun- 
 set to sunrise, myriads of Sclavonic peasants 
 were at work on the ramparts, aged men and 
 women, boys, girls, little children manipulating 
 pickaxe and barrow under the broiling sun, 
 earning a few kreutzers by dint of twelve 
 hours' labour. Already in May the heat is 
 tropical here, and the rich and well-to-do 
 retire to the country. These poor people re- 
 mained at their post, many dying of sunstroke. 
 That demolition of the ramparts and turning 
 them into pleasure-grounds always recalls to 
 my mind the building of the Pyramids. The 
 poor Sclavonians were not slaves, it is true, 
 otherwise the comparison held good. Their 
 look of patient, dogged wretchedness and 
 resignation haunt me still. 
 
 At this time Austrian finances were in a very 
 ominous state. Paper money did duty for 
 coinage. Halfpenny banknotes were issued and 
 1 long preserved one of these curiosities. Yet 
 luxury and pleasure were the order of the day. 
 Even the peasants kept holiday at fair-time, 
 flocking to the Wurstl Prater, indulging in a 
 
1 66 RE.AIINISCENCES OF 
 
 mug- of beer and kreutzerworth of cheese, the 
 latter being advertised by hawkers, finding 
 another kreutzer for Punch and Judy or the 
 mountebank. Curiously enough the old Imperial 
 Councillor, cultivated as he was, and aristo- 
 cratic as he was, enjoyed nothing so much 
 as these popular amusements. He became 
 a boy on entering the Prater, his eyes would 
 twinkle merrily at sight of a puppet theatre, 
 with an epicurean smile he would drop 
 one lump of sugar after another into his iced 
 coffee. 
 
 My kind friends wished me not only 
 to see but to realise the life of the capital, 
 and some of these experiences deserve 
 mention. 
 
 The court and society dined at three o'clock, 
 but the work-a-day world at midday. Res- 
 taurants were crowded then and, each had an 
 upper and lower dining-room; the first splendidly 
 furnished, in charge of smart waiters and offering 
 a dinner of seven or eight courses ; the second 
 was conducted on a very different scale, the 
 motley attendants had dingy napkins swung 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 67 
 
 over the shoulder, folks were at liberty to smoke, 
 spit on the floor, order a single dish and proffer 
 a halfpenny banknote by way of tip. 
 
 The daughter of an Imperial Councillor could 
 not, of course, dine at a city restaurant; my own 
 case was different. A neatly-dressed, demure 
 
 young Englishwoman, so the von J s said, 
 
 could go anywhere. And with satisfaction it is 
 to be noted that although I dined alone at one 
 popular restaurant after another, never in a single 
 instance was I treated with anything but polite- 
 ness and consideration. The same may be said 
 of the people generally. Nowhere and under no 
 circumstances could a young foreign girl enjoy 
 greater freedom and safety. I remember upon 
 one occasion having somewhat rashly accom- 
 panied a countrywoman to the opera. We 
 returned home at midnight on foot, parting 
 company on the way. Neither of us had the 
 least occasion to regret the adventure. Vienna 
 was certainly well, in some respects far too 
 well, policed. 
 
 At this period, politics formed no prominent 
 interest of life, yet I could not help contrasting 
 
1 68 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 the conversation of men like Dr von J and 
 
 his associates with the after tea talk of Suffolk 
 farmers. These highly-cultured Austrian gentle- 
 men avoided political discussion just as Germans 
 do now, because speech no more than the press 
 was free. 
 
 I was especially struck by this fact when 
 
 paying a visit with the von J family 
 
 to their friend Prince E y in his summer 
 
 Schloss, just outside Vienna. It is a fairy- 
 like place, veritable palace of art, treasure- 
 house of statuary, pictures and exotics. On 
 every side is heard rippling fountains and 
 rustling rose-leaves, in so far as possible 
 we are made to feel out of doors. As we 
 wandered amid these enchanted scenes the 
 Prince and Imperial Councillor chatted in 
 animated, argumentative strain. Not an allu- 
 sion to politics escaped their lips. Yet the 
 political situation at that time was full of in- 
 terest. Another anomaly struck an English 
 stranger. In these polished, highly-cultivated 
 social circles, it was ever the hostess or her 
 daughters who served their guests, proffering 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 69 
 
 coffee, handing round '*butter-brod " or apple- 
 cakes, whilst the men of the party compla- 
 cently kept their seats. 
 
 Despite these little drawbacks how charming 
 was this home-life in the Schottenhof! Some- 
 times we took tea with friends amid the vine- 
 yards and cornfields of Dobling, sometimes we 
 kept holiday on the Kahlenberg, dining in 
 sight of that wonderful panorama, the blue, 
 far-off Carpathians, the dim spires of Presburg, 
 the blood-stained plain of Asperg, the broad, 
 bright Danube, with its wooded islets and ruin- 
 crested banks afar ; under our feet, St Stefans 
 and the suburbs and pleasure gardens of Vienna. 
 The hot winds of early summer put an end 
 to my stay. Before May was out the great 
 exodus from the city began. Rich people fled 
 to the Tyrol ; humbler folks, carrying furniture 
 and bedding with them, established themselves 
 in outlying villages. Only the commercial 
 world and the poor remained behind. 
 
 My kind hosts had arranged for me to visit 
 friends and relations at Gmunden and in the 
 neighbourhood of Salzburg. By their advice 
 
170 REMINISCENCES 
 
 I booked a place by steamer to Linz, and at 
 seven o'clock one brilliant June morning took 
 
 tearful leave of Augusta von J on the 
 
 quay. I never again saw that dearly-loved 
 friend or revisited Vienna. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MIGHT HAVE B E E N S 
 
 David Swan— Shadows of Death— Love— Wealth— The 
 Dromias in Conference— -Mv Miss Browne 
 
 From some points of view I have ever 
 regarded Nathaniel Hawthorne as the great- 
 est story-teller who ever lived. One of his 
 subtlest tales, " David Swan, a Fantasy," must 
 occur to everyone when reviewing the past. 
 It is an illustration of the oft-repeated "might 
 have been," the daily touch and go of unseen 
 destiny, the pitch and toss of invisible circum- 
 stances, chances, forces, call these what we 
 will, the innumerable accidents that, unknown 
 to ourselves, determine the bent of our career. 
 " We are but partially acquainted," wrote 
 the wizard of romance, " even with the events 
 which actually influence our course through 
 life and our final destiny. There are innumer- 
 
172 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 able other events, if such they may be called, 
 which come close upon us, yet pass away 
 without actual results, or even betraying their 
 near approach, by the reflection of any light 
 or shadow across our minds. Could we know 
 all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would 
 be too full of hope and fear, exultation or 
 disappointment, to afford us a single hour 
 of true serenity." David Swan, a youth of 
 twenty, on his road to Boston lies down and 
 falls sound asleep. When he awoke he knew 
 not that Wealth, Love and Death had each 
 in turn claimed him for his own. A rich 
 elderly couple all but made up their minds 
 to arouse the comely lad and adopt him ; a 
 wealthy country lass fell in love with the 
 sleeper, and had he only waked up, most 
 likely an acquaintance would have ended in 
 wedlock ; next came a couple of highwaymen, 
 who opened his bundle, ready to use their 
 knives if its owner so much as stirred. 
 
 Not to all have befallen the romantic sleep 
 of David Swan, but hardly less strange the 
 fortunes or misfortunes we are aware of hav- 
 
M, BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 73 
 
 ing just missed. Three occurrences that followed 
 my stay in Vienna recall those passing visitants 
 in Hawthorne's tale, Wealth, Love, Death, 
 although they did not come in the same order, 
 nor invisibly. Youth is proverbially fearless, 
 English girlhood eminently self-protective and 
 independent. Thus it comes about that the 
 quiet, timorous chronicler of these pages, meek- 
 est of silvery-haired little ladies, who would 
 now not for worlds take a two-mile walk on 
 a country road unaccompanied, as a girl con- 
 fronted daring adventure with the happiest 
 unconcern, defiant of danger, no matter what 
 shape it wore. And certainly the worst ills 
 and crowning checks of existence are consoled 
 by the reflection : — I have lived my life. 
 Life, the great teacher in me found an alert 
 pupil, has no more to teach ! 
 
 The Austrian Tyrol was not at that time as 
 in the present day overrun with tourists. Cook 
 had not turned the world into a vast raree- 
 show, picturesque Europe into one enormous 
 Hampstead Heath on Whit-Monday. Instead 
 therefore of traversing the Salzkammergut with 
 
174 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 crowds of English and American excursionists, 
 it happened that I was the solitary fare of post- 
 wagen, or stage-coach, and its ill-favoured 
 driver. 
 
 By four o'clock in the morning I was 
 bidden to take my seat, and I well remember 
 two unpropitious circumstances of the start. 
 The hotel recommended by my friend was 
 on the outskirts of the town, so that it was 
 necessary to be up betimes. Unfortunately I 
 had forgotten to reserve my thick walking 
 shoes and in my search for the '' Boots," dis- 
 covered the kind of accommodation provided 
 for these obliging men-of-all-work. The poor 
 fellow here had only the floor for a bed, 
 sleeping on some old coats in an open 
 landing place amid his boots and blacking 
 brushes. 
 
 The starry twilight of the summer morning 
 was disturbed by another unpleasant impression. 
 In a lonely suburban street I came upon two 
 lads cruelly ill-treating a poor little calf. Time 
 pressed, I could only pause for a momentary 
 remonstrance, then hurried on. On reaching 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I 75 
 
 the post-house, however, I found that punctual- 
 ity was not then a feature of His Imperial 
 Majesty's mails. For an hour at least I 
 waited on a bench outside the inn, fortunately 
 obtaining a cup of coffee. When at last we 
 did set off, I discovered that I was to be the 
 only passenger. The fact hardly seemed worth 
 a second thought, but as the day wore on. 
 circumstances lent it an eerie aspect. Our 
 way led through scenes of unimaginable beaut}', 
 wildness and grandeur ; soon the cattle bell 
 of little lawny valleys was heard no more, 
 the far-off hamlets catching the earliest sun- 
 beam vanished, instead came mountain gorges, 
 forests of gigantic pine, the glimpse of chamois 
 on inaccessible peaks, the flash of eagle's 
 wings across the fitfully bright heavens, the 
 roar of torrent and cascade. 
 
 To heighten the sublimity of these scenes, 
 sublimity I have never seen excelled in my 
 various travels, European, African, Asiatic, there 
 came on one of these terrific storms so com- 
 mon in Alpine regions, thunder and lightning, 
 followed by a very deluge of rain. Whether 
 
176 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 SO much as an evil thought crossed the 
 mind of my ill-visaged conductor I know not. 
 Certain it is that for some reason or other, 
 from time to time he did pull up, bend down, 
 and eye me with a strangely sinister look. 
 Certain it is also that, although at this time 
 I did not know what fear was, the thought 
 struck me, were I here robbed, maltreated 
 and thrown into the nearest mountain torrent, 
 who would be the wiser? 
 
 But the awful, unforgetable journey came to 
 a safe end. Whether or no, like David 
 Swan, it had nearly been my last, remains 
 mythical. 
 
 A few days later I was at Munich, on my 
 way to Erminia and her sisters. Having 
 some hours to spare I naturally utilised them 
 after an English girl's fashion in seeing all 
 that I could. What was my consternation on 
 finding myself in the Cathedral face to face 
 with a Salzburg acquaintance of the other 
 sex, a Hungarian patriot, not to be dismissed 
 with a cold inclination of the head or mere 
 how d'ye do and good-bye. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 77 
 
 The nation of Kossuth, as well as that of 
 Kosciusko, must ever appeal to an enthusiastic 
 mind. Exile shared with a victim of despotism 
 can but wear an enticing aspect in the eyes 
 of a romantic girl. And foreign love-making 
 has charms of its own. 
 
 As we recall certain scenes from the dis- 
 solving views of life, we may well here and 
 there ask ourselves, are we not deceived, 
 surely yonder tableau belongs to another? 
 Yet every detail of that strange interview is 
 fresh in my memory as if it had happened 
 but yesterday — the stroll round the cathedral, 
 the groups of English tourists encountered 
 there, the last half hour in the railway 
 restaurant. I could to-day put my hand on 
 the very table at which we sat thirty and 
 odd years ago, and as there is ever a vein of 
 comedy running through the sober texture 
 of life, I smile as I did in secret then, at 
 certain incongruities ; the bare wine-stained table, 
 the tall glass mug of beer, the black bread 
 and cold sausage off which I supped whilst 
 listening to outpourings fervid as any 
 
 M 
 
178 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ever poured into a maiden's ear. Perhaps 
 no one noticed us, for the restaurant was 
 crowded, but the fact of pubHcity did not at 
 all affect the desperate lover. My train for 
 Stuttgart was nearly due, time pressed, and 
 there was so much to say ! Prudence how- 
 ever got the better of impulse. Like David 
 Swan I continued my journey fancy-free ; 
 instead of accepting Hungarian nationality and 
 a home in the new world I pursued a literary 
 calling at home. 
 
 A few days later came the third " might 
 have been," no mere Will-o'-the-Wisp, but a 
 reality tangible to the grasp. 
 
 The two Dromios, I should say Dromi<2s, 
 sat in a hotel at Heidelberg in gravest con- 
 ference. 
 
 " My darling Dromia," said the first, she 
 was fond of endearing epithets, ''my own 
 Dromia, do not accept. Keep your freedom. 
 Return to Suffolk. Go your own way. Let 
 that delightful" (I am not sure that she did not 
 add another expletive beginning with the same 
 letter) — " Let that delightful Miss Browne go!" 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 79 
 
 Excellent advice ! advice which coincided with 
 my own notions, and w^hich yet, strange to say, 
 the first Dromia had not acted up to in similar 
 case herself. The Miss Browne in question, 
 I forget her real name, was one of those 
 " sweet little women of fifty," to quote George 
 Macdonald, who by the thousand travel with 
 maid and courier, and who, in spite of wealth, 
 freedom, and a certain amount of culture, occa- 
 sionally find existence just a trifle dull. There 
 was no mistake, no veneer about my Miss 
 Browne. She was exactly what she appeared 
 to be, nothing more nor less than an amiable, 
 w^ell-bred, mildly interesting lady possessed of 
 a handsome fortune. 
 
 The high spirits and immense capacity for 
 enjoyment of the two Dromias had taken her 
 fancy, and as the brilliant number one was 
 already adopted, she professed herself ready to 
 be content with the more commonplace number 
 two ; in other words, I had only to make my- 
 self agreeable and the best of everything 
 material, horses, carriages, good dinners, foreign 
 travel, were mine for the rest of my days. 
 
1 80 REMINISCENCES 
 
 But the alluring bait was refused. With 
 David Swan I trudged on, depending upon 
 my own resources. Miss Browne, whose 
 pleasant refined face I see still, continued 
 her journey to Baden-Baden, and doubtless 
 soon found somebody to adopt. 
 
 The reference to Amelia Blanford Edwards 
 requires explanation. Adoption in her case 
 was a matter of affection, by no means of 
 personal interest. Having lost both her 
 parents within a week of each other, she 
 accepted the shelter of a friendly roof, retain- 
 ing as much of independence as was possible 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 From Heidelberg I journeyed to Frank- 
 fort, this time taking up my residence with 
 my excellent friend, Fraulein Fink, and de- 
 voting myself to the study of German. As 
 I have described this admirable woman and 
 her school elsewhere I will pass over the 
 subject here. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 SEMI-BOHEMIAN PARIS 
 
 Mlle. Eugenie and her Thursdays—A would-be "ingenue" 
 IN WHITE MUSLIN— The Sentimental Trio— Paris under 
 the Empire — Parisian Life a la Balzac 
 
 DuRiNc; the following year I spent some months 
 in what I feel bound to call semi- Bohemian 
 Paris. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, 
 those experiences were not to result in a 
 second Trilby.* I add fortunately, because 
 there is nothing more fatal to a young author 
 than the kind of success by Americans called 
 a "boom." 
 
 My abode in Paris was under the roof of 
 a certain Mile. Eugenie, the surname is not 
 needed, a certificated professor of the French 
 language and literature, with her sister, occupy- 
 
 * It would be interesting to know if Du Maurier borrowed 
 that taking name from Charles Nodier's charming "Trilby," 
 a classic three quarters of a century old, and most likely sure of 
 existence when its later namesake is clean forgotten. 
 
1 82 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ing a fiat in the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, 
 at that time, I believe, called, the Chaussee 
 d'Autin. Another young Englishwoman ac- 
 companied me. These were their only in- 
 mates. 
 
 Mile. Eugenie was a slightly deformed, ill- 
 dressed, ill-kempt little personage, as the French 
 say, " of a certain age"; of a certain age also, 
 although somewhat younger, was her sister Mile. 
 Josephine, who being well proportioned and 
 not absolutely ugly, seemed to regard herself 
 as a fairy, a veritable syren, by comparison. 
 To fresh-coloured English girls of twenty and 
 odd years she appeared quite elderly, but very 
 possibly she had not passed the Rubicon of 
 forty. Anyhow she was petted by poor little 
 Eugenie as if she belonged to a superior order 
 of beings, and on the great occasion of the 
 week, the Thursday's At Home, would wear 
 white, not, I fear, like Madame Roland to sym- 
 bolise the immaculate purity of her soul. That 
 school-girlish frock of white muslin, unadorned, 
 except for blue or pink sash, only made her 
 look twice as old and twice as withered ; on 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 83 
 
 Others, however, the travesty produced quite 
 a contrary effect, and her entry into the Httle 
 salon would evoke a perfect buzz of admiration 
 from a circle of admirers. 
 
 Nothing is more difficult than to say where 
 semi- Bohemia ends and Bohemia pure and 
 simple begins. There is no doubt whatever 
 that Mile. Eugenie and her world were what 
 my worthy friend Polly Cornford calls, " a little 
 respectable," and certainly a little respectability 
 is better than none at all. 
 
 These wonderful Thursdays were conducted 
 after genteel and absolutely correct fashion. 
 Conversation never went beyond the borders of 
 strict propriety, i.e., propriety according to certain 
 standards. Whist, dominoes, readings, recitals 
 and music, offered a lively and instructive pro- 
 gramme. Tea, lemonade, sugared water and 
 biscuits sufficed to stimulate gaiety and that 
 untranslatable mood, called entrain. At eleven 
 o'clock the little gathering broke up. But — 
 but — by the light of after experience, also from 
 certain hints dropped by outsiders later, I 
 must believe that Mademoiselle Josephine's 
 
184 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 coquetries and the sentimental adulation of her 
 elderly admirers, meant much more than met 
 the eye. 
 
 There were three distinguished men of some- 
 what shabby appearance who invariably joined 
 us on Thursday evenings, whom I will call M. 
 TAvocat, M. le Poete and M. le Peintre ; the 
 first was a tall, attenuated, unprosperous looking, 
 but quite gentlemanly personage of perhaps forty- 
 five. He called himself a barrister and evidently 
 had something to do with the bar, for with great 
 urbanity he met us in the Salle de Pas Perdus, 
 wearing advocate's cap and gown, conducted us 
 over the Palais de Justice, and patiently waited 
 whilst we witnessed a trial. To him, I think, the 
 really clever conversation of Mile. Eugenie, the 
 atmosphere of sociability, maybe also the game 
 of dominoes with her English pupils, proved 
 no less attractive than the middle-aged nymph 
 in white muslin. Frenchmen, as we all know, 
 cannot exist without a daily interchange of 
 ideas ; chat, raillery, discussion, are as neces- 
 sary to them as oxygen itself And to poo 
 professional men, a weekly salon, a Thurs- 
 
M. BETHyVM-EDWARDS 1 85 
 
 day, an evening agreeably provided for, is a 
 boon indeed. 
 
 M. le Poete was atypical Frenchman outwardly 
 but wanting the usual Gallic light-heartedness. 
 He was a middle-aged man of medium height, 
 rather good-looking than not, and only needed 
 a new frockcoat and red ribbon to look like 
 the most eminent Academician going. His 
 poetry, which he read aloud to us, was really 
 very good, and to this day I reproach myself 
 for never having purchased a copy. His ad- 
 miration seemed pretty equally divided between 
 the sisters. Whilst Eugenie acted the part of 
 critic, a critic of no mean capacity, Josephine's 
 feminine wiles chased away despondency and 
 doubtless inspired still more impassioned love- 
 strains. 
 
 But the Odysseus of this Calypso was M. le 
 Peintre, a rubicund, beaming, loving little man, 
 whom no disappointments could depress and no 
 checks could sour. He had exhibited in the 
 Salon — it must be remembered that the standard 
 of admission was considerably lower than at 
 present — and he now and then got orders for a 
 
l86 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 portrait or lessons, in fact he just contrived to 
 live. There could be no doubt concerning the 
 sincerity of his devotion to Josephine ; equally 
 palpable was the fact that he no more dreamed 
 of matrimony than of reaching the moon on a 
 bicycle. There was something pathetic in this 
 perennial romance, despite its semi-Bohemian 
 atmosphere. One wondered if adhesion to 
 primeval legend, traditionary worship of the 
 prototype Eve could farther go. It was the 
 story of Titania and Bottom reversed. Where 
 other folks saw make-believe youthfulness and 
 artificial graces, a complexion of whitey-brown 
 paper and features sharpened by years, he 
 revelled in visions of angelic loveliness and 
 feminine perfection. 
 
 M. le Peintre sometimes came to midday 
 breakfast. It was a sight then to see him watch 
 his enchantress swallow her digestive pill. In 
 those days French folks had a habit, now happily 
 abandoned, of thus inaugurating a repast. 
 
 Little lame Eugenie, before serving the soup, 
 would shuffle up to her sister and place the pill- 
 box by her plate; Josephine being a young 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 87 
 
 frolicsome thing could not, of course, be expected 
 to look after her digestion herself. Then the 
 syren would take out a globule with her long 
 thin fingers, drop it into a spoonful of soup, 
 lackadaisically meet the eyes of her adorer, and, 
 as if thereby strengthened in her resolve, gulp 
 down the pill. Had she swallowed Cleopatra's 
 pearl — or an elephant — he could not have testi- 
 fied more admiration. There was always the 
 same exclamation : — 
 
 '* It is gone! Mon Dieu, it is really gone!" 
 And always the same ecstatic hand-clapping, 
 Josephine complacently going on with her 
 meal. 
 
 When Paris became unbearably hot Josephine 
 went away for a course of sea-bathing or mineral 
 waters. Her health demanded it, Eugenie said, 
 the little lame hardworking professor remaining 
 behind. 
 
 On the morrow of her departure M. le Peintre 
 came for news and staid to breakfast. Eugenie, 
 who was the soul of hospitality, brought out a 
 bottle of Bordeaux with which to drink her 
 sister's health. As the forlorn lover held up 
 
1 88 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 his glass and in a voice trembling with emotion 
 got out the words " a la chere absente " (to the 
 dear absent one), a tear was hastily wiped 
 away. 
 
 That tear of undoubted genuineness has 
 puzzled me all my life. Was he weeping 
 because he had no means to follow his lode- 
 star ? Did he dread lest, like some meteor, 
 she should be swept from his ken for ever, 
 attracted by the force of gravitation into some 
 unreachable sphere ? Or being, as he evi- 
 dently was, a thoroughly kind-hearted, naturally 
 affectionate, honest soul, did he feel regret, 
 shame — but I will not venture upon other 
 hypotheses. Sufficient to say that she went 
 and he staid behind. 
 
 Josephine, by the way, was said to be a 
 singing mistress, but we never heard of her 
 pupils, and her vocal performances were exceed- 
 ingly unprofessional. The Thursdays flagged 
 after this departure, although Eugenie was still 
 at home to her friends. 
 
 Here may be mentioned a striking con- 
 trast between Paris under the Empire and 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 89 
 
 Paris of the last twenty-six years. Conver- 
 sation, at the time of which I write, was 
 restricted, as is still the case in Germany 
 and Russia. No one ventured to discuss 
 politics or criticise the Government. Instead, 
 good talkers argued about books, pictures, and 
 general topics, the long, animated, well ex- 
 pressed sentences proving the best possible 
 French lesson to English listeners. 
 
 Here I would observe that an intimate 
 acquaintance with Paris and Parisian life under 
 the Empire, immensely aids us in under- 
 standing after-events. Those safety-valves of 
 freedom and stability, a Habeas Corpus Act, 
 liberty of speech and of the press, had been 
 ruthlessly removed by the tinsel Caesar then 
 holding dissolute state at the Tuileries. One 
 of the first measures of the new-made Emperor 
 was the suppression of municipal liberties in 
 the capital.* Every vestige of civic inde- 
 pendence and representative administration 
 disappeared under the new regime, the muni- 
 cipal council and central 7nai7ne or mayoralty 
 
 ■'^ See " Petite Histoire de Paris." Par F. Bournon. Paris, 1888. 
 
igO REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 being replaced by two prefectures of the Seine 
 and of police, the E7npe7^07'' himself naming 
 a ''commission municipale," composed of thirty- 
 six members. 
 
 Is it astonishing that when this state of 
 siege came to abrupt end, popular excesses 
 should be the result? Herein lay the germ 
 of the Commune. At this time Emperor, 
 Empress, and their unfortunate offspring, were 
 living in a fool's paradise. Every morning 
 the little prince on his pony would dash out 
 of the palace gates accompanied by a glittering 
 cavalcade, Spahis and Turcos superbly mounted, 
 their barbaric arms and trappings making a 
 wondrous show. The Imperial family never 
 enjoyed any more popularity than that of their 
 Orleanist predecessor. But a show is ever a 
 show, and in this respect the Parisian remains 
 youthful to the last.* At sight of the pretty 
 
 * A public monument ought to be erected to the honour of 
 Mr Frederic Harrison. It is mainly due to his initiative and 
 magnificent protest that the remains of the Prince Imperial, so- 
 called, were not interred in Westminster Abbey, in near proximity 
 to the grave of our great Elizabeth. The late Dean Stanley 
 lost his temper about the matter and referred to the death of 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS IQI 
 
 little fellow and his dazzling followers, folks 
 would pause for a moment, raise their hats, 
 wave their handkerchiefs and smile encourag- 
 ingly. But I dare aver that throughout the 
 length and breadth of France not a tear was 
 shed over his tragic end. The Napoleonic legend 
 had cost French fathers and mothers too dear. 
 Louis Napoleon's police, as we all know, 
 meddled with academic and professional chairs 
 no less than with newspaper offices and print- 
 ing presses. But Philarete Chasles could 
 lecture delightfully upon English literature at 
 the College de France, and our learned little 
 Eugenie escorted us thither and everywhere else 
 in search of improvement. One day she took 
 us to see a friend lodging in a " Pension Bour- 
 geoise," or middle-class boarding house, near the 
 Jardin des Plantes. This was a curious experi- 
 ence. The house stood In a by-street cast Into 
 deep shadow by high walls and chestnut trees. 
 
 the hapless lad as "a great historic event." In one sense, so 
 it was, but not in the sense the ill-advised Dean intended. 
 Owing to the stir made by Mr Frederic Harrison the matter 
 was brought before Parliament and the] proposal vetoed by an 
 immense majority. 
 
192 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 At the back stretched a long narrow garden, over- 
 grown with grass, flowers and vegetables. Under 
 the trees were ranged hencoops and garden 
 chairs. We could have fancied ourselves in 
 some sleepy provincial town. 
 
 A shabby old man cleaning salad outside 
 the kitchen door proved to be Monsieur le 
 Proprietaire, the stout lady in dressing-gown 
 and curl papers, busied with frying-pans, was 
 Madame. She tidied herself for dinner, and 
 in company of fourteen boarders we sat down 
 to table. Everyone of those boarders, young, 
 old and middle-aged, of both sexes, presented 
 a study of character, the whole thing as like 
 a chapter of Le Cousin Pons or Le Pere 
 Goriot as it is possible to conceive. 
 
 A somewhat similar establishment at Rouen 
 in which I staid with my companion on quit- 
 ting Paris, was so much Balzac to the life 
 also. And not more changed is Paris of the 
 Third Empire than Rouen of a generation 
 and more ago. Just as I should now search 
 vainly for the straggling old house, the chest- 
 nut trees, the vegetable garden and the 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 93 
 
 chicken coops near the Jardin des Plantes, 
 so do I fruidessly look for that homely 
 boarding-house, with its straggling orchard and 
 garden, in the very heart of the Norman 
 capital. The comedy of human life goes on 
 still, how has the 7nise en scene, the decora- 
 tion, changed ! 
 
 N 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A GIRL FARMER 
 
 "IL FAUT BIEN CHOISIR SES PARENTS"— SUFFOLK WaGS 
 
 AND Ways— A Homeric Parallel— Swede Turnips 
 
 AND SWEDENBORG 
 
 The next two or three years were mainly 
 spent in Suffolk, by the death of my father, 
 the management of a small occupation having" 
 devolved upon me. Here I would say a 
 word or two concerning the aphorism of a 
 witty French writer quoted above. "II faut 
 bien choisir ses parents " — we must exercise 
 very great discrimination in the choice of 
 our parents. 
 
 Happy the man or woman who with my- 
 self can say — here the gods chose for me 
 as I would fain have chosen for myself! 
 
 Such topics are too sacred for unknown friends 
 194 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I95 
 
 of the circulating library, whilst the most 
 sympathetic reader will be satisfied with a 
 couple of sentences. 
 
 Of my mother, the little Barbara Betham, 
 to whom Mary Lamb penned as charming 
 letter as was ever addressed to a child, I shall 
 perhaps say something later. The story of 
 the De Bethams of Betham will aptly illus- 
 trate the vicissitudes of an ancient and by no 
 means commonplace family. Concerning my 
 father I will only say that he was generally 
 acknowledged to be the best farmer in that 
 part of the world and that he was a born 
 humorist. If in any of my works I have 
 displayed a particle of the saving grace of 
 humour, that good gift is a paternal inherit- 
 ance. The younger son of a family, the elder 
 branches of which had been landowners and 
 yeomen for generations, my universally esteemed 
 father did not enjoy those intellectual advan- 
 tages he so highly prized in others and at 
 immense personal sacrifices placed within 
 reach of his children. One touch of nature 
 makes the whole world kin. Let me add 
 
196 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 that his daughter's Hterary success brightened 
 the close of a laborious and much tried life. 
 The wide world and all its libraries holds no 
 volume so precious to me as the copy of my 
 first romance on which fell paternal tears of 
 pride and joy ! At this time we had removed 
 from the fine old manor-house, my childhood's 
 home, into a pretty cottage nearer Ipswich, 
 the small farm alluded to being a mile and 
 quarter off, and the farmhouse being occupied 
 by my "head-man," or foreman, and his 
 wife. 
 
 This worthy pair were both excellent farmers, 
 although neither one nor the other could read 
 or write. Had they only possessed a little 
 capital they would have done as well as thrifty 
 peasant owners in France. But the emancipation 
 of the farm labourer was still very far off; the 
 very suggestion of the rural franchise maddened 
 Tory landlords. From the pulpit folks even 
 heard o' Sundays warm apologies of slavery 
 backed up with citations from Scripture. It 
 is not the last hair that breaks the camel's back 
 {again to quote my good friend Polly Cornford) 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS I97 
 
 but the hand that lays it on. That upholding 
 of slavery in Suffolk pulpits during the war of 
 Secession, for once and for all, alienated me 
 from the Church of England. Had dogma and 
 priestly ordinance seemed to me necessities 
 or even luxuries of existence, the Mortara case * 
 — to say nothing of earlier iniquities, the In- 
 quisition, the Massacre of St Bartholomew, the 
 Revocation of the edict of Nantes — would as 
 irrevocably have cut me off from St Peter, 
 Mariolatry, and image worship. Nor did 
 Nonconformist Chapel or Friends' Meeting- 
 House attract. I remained unattached. To 
 return now to practical matters, the affairs of 
 the only condition concerning which we can 
 speak with any certainty. " An der Nachste 
 muss man denken " — we must bend our 
 minds to the thing at hand, wrote Goethe, 
 surely the best maxim for human midgets, 
 creatures of a day ! Torquemada and his 
 
 It can hardly be necessary to recapitulate this story of 
 fanaticism and crime, the kidnapping of a Jewish child, its 
 surreptitious baptism into the Romish faith and forcible retention 
 by its kidnappers. See for details of this monstrous act of 
 injustice and inhumanity, Chambers' " Encyclopaedia," latest 
 edition. 
 
198 reminiscp:nces of 
 
 creatures thought otherwise, with what result 
 history shows. 
 
 To return to the girl farmer and her experi- 
 ences. A near neighbour, by name Mrs Ann 
 Payn, kept me in countenance, whilst the largest 
 farm of an adjoining parish was leased to another 
 widow. But although our names figured on 
 tumbril and waggon we did not go to market. 
 Samples of corn in little brown paper bags — 
 many and many of these have I fashioned with 
 needle and packthread — were showed by rela- 
 tion, neighbour, or head-man. In the same 
 way we purchased pigs and sheep and sold 
 our fat stock. Butter, eggs, and poultry we 
 sold ourselves to market women who called 
 once a week. I well remember a withered little 
 old market woman, Mrs Frost, once saying to 
 me huffishly, '' Well miss, since I cannot have 
 the butter, I must recline the eggs." I had 
 wanted my supply of butter for a friend, but 
 these good souls stuck to tradition and their 
 privileges. If you did not give all the produce 
 of your dairy and poultry yard, they declined a 
 portion. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 1 99 
 
 Suffolk wags and ways were often diverting 
 enough. 
 
 There was an inquisitive, rather muddle- 
 headed old clergyman in the neighbour- 
 hood, who used to hang about farmyards 
 asking absurd questions or questions a propos 
 of nothing. 
 
 One day he was watching a stockman feeding 
 my younger brother's pigs. 
 
 " What fine pigs, what uncommonly fine 
 pigs, to be sure ! " he said, as he looked on 
 admiringly. "How old may these pigs be?" 
 he asked. 
 
 ''Well, sir," replied the man, who was a bit 
 of a wag, '' I should not like to say exactly, 
 but to the best of my knowledge yonder hogs 
 must be just upon fifty year old ! " 
 
 '' Fifty years old ? Really, now ? Dear me, 
 who would have thought it. Fifty years did 
 you say ? On my word, what an age for a 
 
 pig!" 
 
 Country folks, with no pretensions to wag- 
 gishness or wit, had often a whimsical way of 
 putting things. 
 
2O0 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 I was settling up with the wife of my head 
 man one day, when I noticed an old man 
 sitting in the ''baccus." 
 
 ** So you have a visitor, Mrs Sadler," I said; 
 " some relation, I suppose ? " 
 
 ''Well, yes, miss, to be sure," was the 
 reply, "he is a little related to me"; then she 
 added by way of an expletive, " he's only my 
 father." 
 
 The worthy woman had evidently an idea 
 that relationship to be worth mentioning, must 
 go much farther back, like the genealogical 
 tables of Numbers date from Babel or the 
 Flood. 
 
 The following anecdote will illustrate the 
 innate self-respect and true gentlemanliness 
 often underlying these uncouth exteriors. 
 
 My younger brother noticing one day that 
 the breeching* of a cart-horse attached behind 
 the waggon had slipped, ran after the driver 
 to call his attention to the fact. 
 
 " Good God, sir ! " exclaimed the poor fellow 
 
 * That part of harness round the breech of a horse. — Webster. 
 
.M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 20I 
 
 beside himself with mortification. " I passed 
 two women just now ! " 
 
 He was very deaf and imperfectly catching 
 the words, thought that the caution applied to 
 his own nether garments and that a brace 
 button had given way. 
 
 The Suffolk ploughman adored his horses, 
 would steal corn for them, if his master 
 allowed stingy measure, would spend hours in 
 brushing and braiding their tails, would talk 
 to each, calling him by name as if to a bosom 
 friend. 
 
 It happened that the husband of my old 
 nurse, Betty the poetess, lost his place through 
 the death or removal, I forget which, of his 
 employer. Anyhow there was an auction of 
 furniture, farm implements and live-stock. 
 The plough horses had to go. There was one 
 supreme favourite, between whom and his 
 master existed the warmest affection. That 
 sorrowful morning the man was up betimes, 
 for the last time grooming the sturdy, gentle, 
 intelligent creature. Then with a heavy heart 
 he started. Had any miraculous intervention 
 
202 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 happened then, had some angel in human 
 shape suddenly came that way and learning 
 or divining the story pulled out his purse with 
 the words — '' Here good man is gold. Yonder 
 beast is your own " — I feel sure that he would 
 never have borne the overjoy. Either his wits 
 or his heart would have given way under 
 such unimaginable good fortune. Nothing of 
 the kind happened, and I have seen moisture 
 in the eyes of rough, prosy farmers as they re- 
 counted the sequel. When the sale was over 
 and John had to say good-bye to the loved 
 companion of so many years, he put his arms 
 round the animal's neck and kissed it, big 
 tears rolling down the eyes of both. The 
 horse wept, well understanding that the parting 
 was final. 
 
 And in the face of such facts as these we 
 are asked to regard vivisectors as benefactors 
 of humanity ! 
 
 A near neighbour and fellow farmer would 
 often drop in to supper ; ostensibly his visits 
 were for the purpose of affording friendly 
 advice, the discussion of stock and crops, and 
 
M. betha:\i-edwards 203 
 
 so on, in reality, my worthy acquaintance had 
 quite other motives. We have all our shyly 
 avowed aspiration or romance, some spiritual 
 or intellectual secret not to be proclaimed on 
 the housetops. 
 
 Good Mr B accompanied his wife and 
 
 children to church on Sundays, and was on 
 the best possible terms with our rector, but 
 the slovenly service, the cut and dry sermon, 
 the terrible discrepancy between preacher and 
 holy office, had rendered him as lukewarm 
 a Churchman as the rest, whilst abouring 
 folk took refuge in their Bethels and 
 meeting-houses. This large, well-to-do farmer 
 did not care to break with orthodoxy, 
 instead he sought spiritual guidance and 
 uplifting in Swedenborg and the New 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 An odd volume of this prolific writer had 
 fallen in his way, I believe one of the "Arcana 
 Coelestia" or Heavenly Mysteries. The work, 
 Moore's " Almanack " and the Ipswich Journal, 
 published weekly, made up his literary stock- 
 in-trade. Most ingeniously when calling upon 
 
204 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 me he would lead up to his one subject, very 
 often by the mention of Swede turnips. Some- 
 how Swede turnips always seemed a topic of 
 the day. 
 
 " Talking of Swede turnips," he said again 
 and again, "reminds me of a question I 
 wanted to ask you. Swedenborg says — " then 
 we were fairly launched on a long Sweden- 
 
 borgian discussion, Mr B knowing much 
 
 more about the subject than myself. But 
 books and bookish people were not plentiful 
 as blackberries in our village. The mere 
 fact of having published a book accorded 
 authority. My neighbour placed explicit con- 
 fidence on my opinion, he trusted me in the 
 matter of Swedenborg as completely as I 
 did his own judgment in the matter of Swede 
 turnips. 
 
 Among the '* might have beens " of these 
 early years must be mentioned a poetic career. 
 From my earliest years I had been an in- 
 defatigable rhymster, and an exhilarating 
 accident well-nigh turned the scale, poetry 
 instead of romance kicking the beam. An 
 
M. BETHAM-EDA\ARDS 205 
 
 incident that came under my notice suggested the 
 poem entitled, " The Golden Bee." With the 
 audacity of youth I despatched it to the great 
 Dickens, then editing his Hotisehold Words. 
 After some time came a cheque for ^5 and 
 a number of the magazine containing my 
 contribution. 
 
 Five pounds for the artless rhymes of a 
 little country girl — was not this half the 
 price of " Paradise Lost"? But overwhelming 
 as seemed the payment, the approbation of 
 Charles Dickens was guerdon far more prized. 
 And the " Golden Bee " has not falsified 
 the master's judgment. It is now a stock 
 piece at Penny Readings and, like the "White 
 House by the Sea," has long survived a 
 generation ! ^ 
 
 The death of my only unmarried sister and 
 partner in the farm severed the last link that 
 bound me to Suffolk. No other spot in 
 England ever possessed or ever will possess 
 such attractions for me, but the climate of my 
 native place was rude, the intellectual resources 
 
 * Lately issued with other popular poetic pieces by Dean & Co. 
 
206 REMINISCENCES 
 
 within reach were nil, I naturally turned my 
 eyes elsewhere, determined in the words of an 
 excellent but somewhat pedantic old friend, 
 a local stationer, "on permanent residence 
 in the metropolis." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE WORLD OF LETTERS, ART, AND SCIENCE 
 
 Old Kensington — Rev. W. E. Channing — Professor 
 Sylvester— Charles Bradlaugh 
 
 What a change from the Suffolk village ! 
 Instead of farming folks and farming ways, 
 pastoral scenes and a tide of tranquil mono- 
 tonous existence, the sudden plunge into the 
 intensest life of London, the life of Letters, 
 Art, and Science! Instead of colloquies upon 
 barley sowing and artificial manuring, wheat 
 threshing and pig feeding, I now enjoyed the 
 historic conversaziones at George Eliot's, the 
 hardly less historic breakfasts of the late 
 Lord Houghton, Madame Bodichon's cos- 
 mopolitan gatherings, and how many more 
 rare, delightful and most fruitful experiences ! 
 The social and intellectual centres here named 
 have long since been broken up, the leading 
 spirits of each no more dignify, embellish and 
 
208 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 inspire the world ; most readers will therefore 
 be grateful for reminiscences of a brilliant 
 society, now passed away, of men and women 
 so gifted and so influential in wholly different 
 fields. And here I would add that I propose 
 only to speak of the past in its personal sense, 
 omitting all mention of the living. 
 
 My home was made in a part of Kensington 
 now utterly metamorphosed, but at that time 
 wearing a quaint, old-world, suburban aspect. 
 From my uppermost window I looked upon 
 the vast, beautiful old garden of Abingdon 
 House, then the abode of Dhuleep Singh. 
 The stately figure of the Hindoo prince could 
 be seen, as in native dress he sauntered with 
 his attendants under the trees. 
 
 Quiet little streets, so-called, are of course 
 ever noisy with street cries, but the neighbourhood 
 of Abingdon House possessed enormous attrac- 
 tions for a country girl. The little Brompton 
 lanes still existed, recalling, however faintly, 
 Suffolk drifts and field paths. Here and there 
 stood lonely old granges or walled-in mansions 
 imparting a picturesque, provincial look. Spring- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 209 
 
 tide and early summer brought a glory of leafage 
 and blossom. Those ancient gardens with their 
 venerable apple or pear trees made me think 
 of Ipswich and the fine old Quaker residences 
 familiar to me in childhood. 
 
 When not long since revisiting my whilom 
 London quarters I found myself a stranger amid 
 entirely new surroundings. The handsome 
 workhouse stands amid brand - new, fashion- 
 able quarters, every vestige of old Kensington 
 has here disappeared. 
 
 Perhaps on the other side of the High 
 Street may still stand an old red brick house 
 with an endearing memory. Here on Sunday 
 mornings the Rev. W. E. Channing used 
 to hold a simple but impressive service. I 
 suppose not more than fifty earnest men and 
 women would be gathered in the big old- 
 fashioned drawing-room, attracted thither by 
 the enthusiasm, I am tempted to say in- 
 spiration, of the preacher. There was little 
 in those impassioned addresses that could be 
 retained, even by the most retentive memory. 
 
 We hearkened as to the improvisations of 
 
 o 
 
2IO REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 some great musician, wholly carried away for 
 the moment, lifted out of littleness and earthly 
 dross ; no sooner did the voice cease, the 
 accents die on the ear, than the world and 
 our old selves came back again ! Only an 
 impression remained. An impression, how- 
 ever, of great preciousness. Mr Channing's 
 theme was ever of universal brotherhood and 
 of the Golden Age to come, the terrestrial 
 anticipation of the heavenly Utopia. As he 
 enlarged upon the theory, his face would w^ear 
 a look I have never seen but in one other, that 
 of a second, but quite different dreamer, whose 
 portrait will follow later on. This glow, I 
 should rather say, flash, revealing a soul un- 
 speakably ardent in the search after spiritual 
 truth, and a nature of transcendent depth and 
 purity, once seen could never be forgotten, 
 I have never read a line of Mr Channing's 
 writings, nor wish to do. He convinced me, 
 and, doubtless many who heard him, that we 
 may yet encounter angelic spirits, heavenly 
 ministrants in human form, men whose 
 fleshly garment and mortal hap seem acci- 
 
M. BETHAIM-EDWARDS 211 
 
 dental, mere extraneous and lamentable circum- 
 stance. 
 
 Of very different calibre was another ac- 
 quaintance of this period,* the great mathe- 
 matician Sylvester. 
 
 Rubicund, burly, of commonplace exterior, 
 Professor Sylvester was as full of whimsi- 
 calities and contradictions as it is possible for 
 any human being to be. Of his astounding, 
 his unrivalled mathematical capacities and 
 achievements he took small account. To 
 perfect his "upper C," for he greatly prided 
 himself upon his vocal accomplishments, lightly 
 and elegantly to jump over a stile, and to 
 translate an ode of Horace in accordance 
 with his own laws of Syzygy, t these were the 
 ambition of the greatest expert in modern 
 algebra. " Now for my upper C," he would 
 say at the house of his old friend Madam 
 Bodichon, that lady delighting to humour him. 
 So one of the party sat down to the piano 
 
 "^ For I had often met Mr Charming at the great cosmopoHtan 
 soirees of Mr and Mrs Peter Taylor. He afterwards called upon 
 me at Hastings. 
 
 t Syzygy, meaning, union, from the Greek. See Webster. 
 
212 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 and again and again the Professor repeated 
 his upper C. 
 
 During the summer we used to meet at 
 Madam Bodichon's country house in Sussex. 
 There happened the stile incident. We were 
 crossing some fields when his hostess, 
 then in brilliant health and spirits, very 
 dexterously took a stile or five-barred gate, 
 I forget which. "Dear me!" said the dis- 
 concerted Professor, who had just before 
 managed the business after slowest and clum- 
 siest fashion, *' Dear me, you must really 
 teach me, Madam Bodichon, how to get over 
 a stile, you really must ! " 
 
 And the lesson was good-naturedly given ; 
 but the first living mathematician in Europe, 
 who could easily solve algebraical problems, the 
 very contemplation of which would make ordin- 
 ary brains reel, very nearly dashed out his own 
 in attempting to clear a stile. His two lady 
 companions rushed to the rescue, or without 
 doubt he would have fallen head foremost, 
 doing himself deadly harm. 
 
 It was the Professor's habit, no contemptible 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 213 
 
 one, to carry a little notebook about with him, 
 and therein jot down any remark that appeared 
 suggestive or original. Some of these jottings, 
 pencilled when I was by, are alluded to in his 
 ''Laws of Verse." "^ When translating Horace 
 with Boileau the Professor could say, '' Je 
 cherche et je sue" (I seek and I sweat), but he 
 made his friends seek and sweat too. 
 
 I can see him now standing on the hearth- 
 rug of my tiny drawing-room, reciting his 
 latest version of the famous ode to Maecenas. 
 An excellent version it is, but few readers 
 would guess the cost to its author in time 
 and labour. In the original translation his 
 first line had run thus : — 
 
 " Tyrrhenian progeny of Kings." 
 finally altered as follows : — 
 
 '' Birth of Tyrrhenian regal Hne ! " 
 
 In that happy amendment I claim some share. 
 Again and again the Professor recited his 
 ode on the hearth-rug, and again and again 
 we argued about that word " progeny." It 
 
 * Longmans, 1870. 
 
214 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 sounded In my ears so very unpoetical, so 
 very unmusical. At last he gave way, and 
 certainly " regal line " Is a vast improvement. 
 Whimsicalities apart, Sylvester was a great 
 and estimable man, and let us not forget the 
 fact, In one sense, victim of nineteenth century 
 intolerance. He was a Jew, and In spite of 
 his brilliant achievements at Cambridge, could 
 neither hope for the much-coveted Smith's 
 Prize, a Fellowship or Professorship In his 
 University. These good things, forsooth ! were 
 reserved for adherents of the Thirty-Nine 
 Articles and members of the Established Church. 
 The greatest mathematical genius of his genera- 
 tion was reduced to the drudgery of teaching and 
 had to content himself with Transatlantic honours. 
 Sylvester, It is said, deeply felt this Injustice, 
 as well he might. " Unhappily," he wrote 
 in those early years to a young Noncon- 
 formist mathematician of great promise, " there 
 are very few positions In this country offering 
 a suitable nest for the fostering of scientific 
 progress of an abstract kind. All such berths 
 are appropriated by the Universities, which 
 
yi. BETHAM-EDWARDS 215 
 
 are positive evils and Impediments to all 
 born out of the pale, or at least to all who 
 do not flock within the pale of the Estab- 
 lished Church ; their existence precludes the 
 State encouragement which would otherwise 
 be bestowed Indiscriminately on all." 
 
 When aged seventy-two he was Indeed named 
 Savlllan professor to the University of Oxford 
 and Fellow of New College. 
 
 Another striking figure of this period, and with 
 Professor Sylvester also a victim of nineteenth 
 century Intolerance, was Charles Bradlaugh. 
 
 What an Irony runs through the career of 
 that epoch-making man ! So much we may 
 surely say of one who, single-handed against 
 society, the Church and the law, obtained for 
 English law-makers liberty of conscience ! The 
 Immense moral victory was perhaps Bradlaugh's 
 most coveted reward ; such a character could 
 not set great store by popularity or worldly 
 fortune. And perhaps he Inwardly chuckled 
 at a reaction, surely the strangest witnessed 
 in our own or any time ! but yesterday a scape- 
 goat, a bugbear, a reprobate, on the morrow 
 
2l6 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 not only a man and a brother, but a positive 
 exemplar and shining light. How deepseated 
 was universal prejudice against Bradlaugh, the 
 following story will show. The very last people 
 in the world to be repelled by anyone's religious 
 or anti-religious opinions were surely George 
 Eliot and George Henry Lewes ! Yet I well 
 remember that when describing an evening 
 at the Hall of Science, the latter observed 
 laughingly, 
 
 " I verily believe, Polly," thus he usually 
 called his companion, '' that our friend has a 
 sneaking fondness for Mr Bradlaugh ! " 
 
 The speech, goodnaturedness itself, evidently 
 implied tacit cause for astonishment, the notion 
 that such sympathy was hardly credible, hardly 
 admissible, in a well regulated mind. 
 
 Truth to tell, despite my respect for non- 
 conformity in any shape,* the first impression of 
 Charles Bradlaugh was anything but favour- 
 able. No one can entertain profounder rever- 
 
 *■ " In this age, the mere example of nonconformity, the mere 
 refusal to bend the knee to custom, is itself a service." J. S. Mill, 
 On Liberty. I have ever been of this opinion. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 217 
 
 ence for the founder of Christianity than myself, 
 and on the occasion In question, a discussion 
 took place between Mr Bradlaugh and a dis- 
 senting minister upon the origin and author 
 of the Christian religion. The two disputants 
 were unequally matched, the sceptic being In 
 the prime of bodily and mental faculties, whilst 
 the believer was an old white-haired man, full 
 of conviction and having the Scriptures at his 
 fingers' end, no doubt, but unable to combat 
 the other's bitter sarcasms and unanswerable 
 logic. At last a painful scene occurred. The 
 worsted adversary put his hand to his head 
 and staggered as one suddenly stricken with 
 paralysis. 
 
 '' I — I — cannot answer you," he stammered, 
 evidently abashed, horrorstricken at finding 
 himself so poor an upholder of the faith that 
 was in him. 
 
 At that time Bradlaugh's hand seemed against 
 every man and every man's hand against Brad- 
 laugh, a position in itself calling for pity if 
 not for commendation. It was the hero of 
 later days one felt glad to have seen, the pale. 
 
2 1 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 buffeted, hustled, but unconquerable figure, ex- 
 errand boy, trooper, coal retailer, and lawyer's 
 clerk arraigning that awful body, the House 
 of Commons, arraigning traditional England, 
 in his own person embodiment of all that has 
 made England's greatness, the passion for 
 spiritual as well as political freedom ! 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MORE LONDON SOUVENIRS 
 
 Dr Karl Marx and the International— John Stuart 
 Mill — Louis Blanc — "The Camels" — Flowers in 
 FiNSBURY — A Witticism. 
 
 At the time I write of (i 867-70-1) the Inter- 
 national Working Man's Association held Its 
 sittings in High Holborn under the presidency 
 of Dr Karl Marx. As the author of *' Das 
 Kapitel " may now be pronounced a historic 
 personage, these recollections do not call for 
 apology. 
 
 Strange it was to quit the world of fashion 
 and pleasure for the purlieus of penury, toil, 
 and clubs of political exiles ! 
 
 At eight o'clock on a summer evening the 
 Kensington High Street showed one unbroken 
 stream and counter-stream of glittering equi- 
 pages and gay toilettes, all West-End London 
 
 219 
 
220 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 bound being to theatres, dinners, and enter- 
 tainments manifold. 
 
 As one journeyed eastward it was not so. 
 Lurid November were more in harmony with 
 the surroundings here ! instead of growing 
 more animated the great high road of Hol- 
 born main artery of industrial London became 
 quieter and less peopled. 
 
 We stopped at a small shop, of which 
 shutters, front and side door were all shut, 
 the latter being opened by a young foreign 
 mechanic in working dress. The council as- 
 sembled immediately the workshop closed, so 
 that members had no time to change their 
 clothes. Following our conductor we climbed 
 a dark, narrow staircase, and were ushered 
 into a small, dingy, but well lighted room, 
 the council chamber of redoubtable Inter- 
 national Working Man's Association* Round 
 the table sat perhaps a score of working- 
 men, most of them foreigners, German, French, 
 
 ^ The public was not admitted to these sittings. My com- 
 panion of the other sex was a member and prominent supporter 
 of the movement. 
 
M. BETHAAI-EDWARDS 221 
 
 Spanish, Italian, with two or three English- 
 men. Intellectually the types were good, and 
 much as one might differ from the rest, all 
 showed the same quiet determination and 
 fixity of purpose. The average physique was 
 poor. All looked more or less worn out with 
 the day's labour, whilst some were terribly 
 attenuated and sallow. 
 
 My attention was naturally concentrated on 
 the figure of the President, a figure no more 
 attractive than that of Charles Bradlaugh, but 
 fully as rememberable. The portly, command- 
 ing frame, the powerful head with its shock 
 of raven black hair, the imperturbable features, 
 and slow, measured speech, once seen and 
 heard could never be forgotten. Yet, in spite 
 of the colossal intellect and Iron purpose here 
 embodied, neither in Karl Marx's physiognomy 
 nor In Charles Bradlaugh's did I read a 
 certain Inexorableness characteristic of a quite 
 difierent personage to be portrayed later. 
 I should say that the predominating mental 
 trait of the German social reformer was that 
 Teutonic, speculative dreaminess so often allied 
 
222 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 in Germany with reasoning power of the 
 highest order. 
 
 The proceedings were not at all lively. 
 One by one several members stood up, and 
 after reading a report laid propositions before 
 the council. Occasionally the street bell tinkled, 
 when the secretary would go down and admit 
 a tardy member. Citizen after citizen — thus 
 each speaker was called — said what he had to 
 say, then reseated himself Soon after ten 
 o'clock the meeting broke up, the gloomy little 
 council chamber was left to darkness and 
 solitude. 
 
 The International Working Man's Associa- 
 tion may not have set to work in the right 
 spirit, its theories of social reorganization may 
 be radically wrong. Yet let us ungrudgingly 
 grant so much. When later, France was being 
 egged on to war, devastation and the verge 
 of bankruptcy and dismemberment, the Inter- 
 national, and the International alone, protested 
 against such delirium. ''Are we mad," said 
 its members, "that this pseudo-Napoleon, this 
 charlatan and enemy of free thought and 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 223 
 
 free speech, should do with milHons as he 
 will, for the sake of a hateful and fatal 
 dynasty ? In God's name, let us bestir our- 
 selves whilst it is yet time, and avoid the 
 calamity." None took heed, and the end was 
 what ? France forfeited her historic frontiers, 
 was orphaned of her best and bravest, for a 
 time lost rank among nations because she had 
 once more entrusted her fortunes to a make- 
 believe Bonaparte ! * 
 
 The Woman's Suffrage question, with many 
 another of abstract justice, is utterly wanting 
 in attractiveness, at least to myself We listen 
 to speakers on the subject resignedly as to a 
 report of the Society for the Protection of 
 Children or the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. 
 I have, moreover, from the very beginning of 
 my literary career wholly abstained from taking 
 any part whatever in social, philanthropic or 
 political agitations. " An der Nachste muss 
 
 * I afterwards, with the kind help of a former secretary, con- 
 tributed a history of the International Working Man's Association 
 to Eraser's Magazine (1875). This history was translated into 
 Italian and published in the Diritto. 
 
224 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 man denken," wrote the '' wise-browed Goethe," a 
 motto I have persistently adopted. We must 
 bend our minds to the matter in hand, and a 
 conscientious writer, whether noveHst or other- 
 wise, has enough to do to attend to subject- 
 matter and sentences. I am fond of quoting 
 Mr John Morley. His apothegms remain in 
 the memory whether you will or no. And 
 none are truer than one of which I here give 
 the substance rather than the exact words, for 
 I quote from memory : — *' No easy matter is 
 it to manipulate that mighty engine, the English 
 language." This has ever been my own 
 opinion. Instead, therefore, of stumping the 
 country on behalf of the divided skirt, and 
 other praiseworthy objects, I have stuck to 
 the immediate business of an author, namely, 
 literary workmanship, the art of writing, the 
 doing one's best possible with native gifts. 
 
 But a meeting at which John Stuart Mill 
 was to speak would surely magnetize anyone 
 and under any conceivable circumstances. This 
 especial gathering, moreover, was I believe the 
 first great public meeting got up by advocates 
 
M. BIiTHAM-EDWARDS 22$ 
 
 of female suffrage, and as such has historic 
 interest. 
 
 What was said for the most part escapes 
 my memory ; unforgetable on the contrary, 
 remains the impression of John Stuart Mill as 
 a personality. His countenance in its look of 
 final conviction, of a thinker whose mind upon 
 weighty subjects was irrevocably made up, from 
 whose ethic verdicts there was no appeal, had 
 something awful, even sublime, in its rigidity 
 and marble-like implacableness. You felt as you 
 gazed that chance and destiny, inclination and 
 human weakness exercised no sway whatever 
 over this man, that here were the immovable 
 purpose, iron will and unflinching self-oblivion of 
 which, for good or for evil, the world's umpires 
 and leaders are made. Had Stuart Mill lived 
 in mediaeval or revolutionary times, who can 
 say? Born in Spain he might have discerned 
 duty with the eyes of a Loyola, in France a 
 century ago with those of a Terrorist. By 
 way of relief to his sober, almost solemn utter- 
 ances, came the wit and raillery of the late 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
226 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 "Was ever such inconsistency?" he said. 
 '' The French Revolution did not recognise the 
 poHtical rights of women but made no scruple 
 whatever about cutting off their heads as politi- 
 cal offenders ! " 
 
 The history of the French Revolution was 
 not as familiar to me then as now, or I might 
 have observed afterwards that whilst the great 
 Danton satirized women-statesmen in the per- 
 son of his political rival and bitter enemy 
 Madame Roland, long before, Marat had 
 written upon the intellectual and political 
 equality of the sexes. Marat's odious reputa- 
 tion ^ must not blind us to the fact that he 
 was no horseleech living over a stable, as 
 Carlyle would have us believe, but, on the 
 contrary, a highly-accomplished physician, who 
 had amassed a competency by the exercise 
 of his profession. 
 
 The French Revolution recalls another 
 interesting and unique figure belonging to 
 
 * See the Pall Mall Magazine for Sep.-Oct. 1896. " Marat," by 
 I^rofessor Morse Stephen. Marat, Hke most of the Terrorists, 
 was possibly much less black than he was painted. 
 
M. BETHA^r-EDWARDS 227 
 
 this period. Louis Blanc I met both in Lon- 
 don and at Brighton, and charmingly he talked, 
 his shabby dressing-gown folded over his 
 knees, his tiny form enlarged and ennobled 
 by a head of magnificent proportions and 
 startllngly brilliant black eyes. 
 
 He spoke English with Academic fastidious- 
 ness and loved to recount an early experience 
 of exile in England. Louis Blanc, be it re- 
 membered, was a victim of Napoleonic con- 
 scription. 
 
 In attempting to climb a London omnibus he 
 once missed his footing and in saving himself 
 presented, I daresay, a whimsical figure enough. 
 Some outside passengers laughed aloud, where- 
 upon Louis Blanc turned upon them severely — 
 
 " Is it the custom in England, gentlemen, 
 for folks to laugh when a man breaks his leg ? " 
 
 The rebuke was well received, the merry- 
 makers apologised and vied with each other 
 in offering their aid and other acts of polite- 
 ness. He used this anecdote as an illustration 
 of the kindliness underlying the rough exterior 
 of an average John Bull. 
 
228 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 The popularity of Louis Blanc in Paris 
 was enormous. When in 1878, having returned 
 from exile, he gave a lecture on Rousseau 
 at the Cirque D'Hivef; the stream of people, 
 forming what in France is called " une queue," 
 was a quarter of a mile long. I turned away 
 hopelessly. As well try to get into the Grand 
 Opera on a free day ! All the workaday 
 world of Paris had turned out to hear the 
 author of '' L'organization de Travail " and pro- 
 jector of national workshops. About his history 
 of the French Revolution M. Cherbuliez has just 
 told us a pleasant story.^ Asked what had 
 first suggested the writing of such a work 
 he replied — " ' Les considerations sur la 
 Revolution' de Mme. de Stael ! " What an 
 argument in favour of the extension of Uni- 
 versity degrees to women and women's rights 
 generally ! 
 
 Many other engaging recollections crowd on 
 my mind. I well remembered one Sunday 
 afternoon's walk with friends to " The Camels," 
 at Fulham, the home of Joseph Bonomi, the 
 
 * La Reviic dcs deux Mondcs^ April i, 1897. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 229 
 
 famous Egyptologist. We started early, taking 
 one little lane after another, on either side 
 having privet hedges in bloom, market gardens, 
 or isolated manor-houses. It was next best to 
 a walk amid native meadows and cornfields. 
 "The Camels" was no piece of antiquity, 
 instead a new, well built, imposing villa, built 
 by its owner for family use, and having an 
 emblematic bas-relief on the facade, a group 
 of camels, life-size and carved in red stone. 
 Jenny Lind, then Mme. Goldsmid, lived next 
 door. At the back of the house stretched a 
 large garden, and here Mr and Mrs Bonomi 
 received their friends, an unintermittent stream, 
 not of mere callers but persons on a footing 
 of real intimacy, who poured in, some to sit 
 down to the enormous and substantially spread 
 tea-table, others to join the equally solid supper 
 later on. 
 
 There was something particularly cordial and 
 unpretending about this hospitality. It was no 
 matter of a cup of coffee and mere ''So glad 
 to have seen you," or conventional chat ; instead 
 intercourse in the proper sense of the word, 
 
230 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 an assemblage of sympathetic friends and ac- 
 quaintances with ample time and opportunity 
 for discussion. All too was so easy and home- 
 like, with abundance of culture and learning, 
 but not a vestige of parade artificiality. 
 
 Some mortals seem to enjoy two lives, their 
 span of existence being doubled. Thus It was 
 with Joseph BonomI, a man whose achieve- 
 ments already belonged to the historian and 
 the encyclopaedia, yet In quite another sense 
 living over again, beginning the pleasant life 
 of home and family ties. At this time '' The 
 Camels " resounded with the voices of happy 
 children, a large young family of our host 
 swelling the numbers at tea. 
 
 Another recollection of unconventional kind 
 carries me Into quite another scene. It has 
 always seemed to me that the choicest pleasures 
 of London lie outside the daily routine, the 
 calendar of fashion and guide books. 
 
 On Saturday afternoons of early summer how 
 good and fruitful were the botanical lectures 
 delivered In the rotunda of the London Institu- 
 tion, FInsbury Square ! The gathering of 
 
M. BETHAAI-EDWARDS 23 1 
 
 Students, old and young, all attracted thither 
 by love of science, all belonging to the middle 
 or humbler classes, afforded in itself a charming 
 study. Everyone was so attentive, so anxious 
 not to miss a single word ! The vast heap of 
 wild flowers lying on the lecturer's table doubt- 
 less to many recalled childish rambles in country 
 lanes, whilst to other minds the piled-up blossoms 
 would bring visions of rustic joy perhaps as yet 
 untasted. Here were " Lady Smocks all silver 
 white," Marsh Marigolds recalling Rossetti's 
 fine verse,* Shepherd's Purse, most modest of 
 wayside graces, cowslips, gorse and branches 
 of pink and white may, with others in abund- 
 ance. The demonstration over, students were 
 permitted to carry away these treasures, the 
 condition being that they were students indeed. 
 
 Strange it was that a country girl should 
 first have been attracted to the study of botany 
 in the heart of London ! Thus, however, it 
 came about, and after a long lapse of years I 
 recall the Rotunda of the London Institution 
 with positive affection. Later on, I attended 
 
 * " The flooded marshland flaunts its marigold." 
 
232 REMINISCENCES 
 
 some equally attractive botanical lectures by 
 Professor Thiselton Dyer at the South Ken- 
 sington Museum ; also the private course of 
 an accomplished lady professor, Mrs Whelpdale. 
 The study of flowers, plants and the entire 
 vegetable world, has ever seemed to me the 
 most fascinating in the world. 
 
 A smattering of scientific knowledge, often 
 so much more useful than painfully acquired 
 accomplishments, is ever attainable in London, 
 we may now add, everywhere. This reminds 
 me of a witticism too good for the world 
 willingly to let die. In company of Hamp- 
 stead friends I had attended a lecture by the 
 late Professor Lancaster on the human body, 
 its constituent parts and formation. As 
 we emerged from the lecture hall a lady 
 acquaintance, who had evidently been intensely 
 bored by the proceedings, said to her husband — 
 ** After all, what is the use of knowing about 
 the human body." 
 
 " Well, my love," good naturedly replied her 
 partner, ''there is no premium put upon 
 ignorance that I know of." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AND MADAME BODICHON 
 
 "The Overture to 'Fidelio,' my dear !"—" Marian" and 
 "Barbara" — Rembrandt and Bordone — The parting 
 OF the Ways — "Oh, Barbara, Barbara, what have 
 
 YOU done?"— A DINNER PARTY 
 
 I FIRST saw George Eliot in the early summer 
 of 1868. During the preceding winter I had 
 made with her intimate friend and my own, 
 Madame Bodichon, a deeply interesting tour 
 through Spain, followed by a somewhat ven- 
 turesome and perilous journey to Algiers by 
 way of Oran. At that time drivers of the 
 diligence carried firearms, and every inch of 
 the road was beset by dangers of one kind 
 or another, Arab cut-throats and plunderers who 
 if caught were summarily shot down, malaria, 
 and, last but not least, earthquake. The final 
 stages of this memorable expedition took us 
 
 through a region desolated by shock after 
 
 233 
 
234 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 shock, towns and villages abandoned and in 
 ruins, and the entire population camped 
 out. 
 
 Madame Bodichon, who at that time always 
 wintered at Algiers, did not return to London 
 till May. One of her very first visits was 
 naturally paid to the Priory. 
 
 Of this eminent, I am tempted to say illus- 
 trious, woman, nee Barbara Leigh Smith, I 
 shall speak at greater length hereafter. I will 
 only mention now that Madame Bodichon's 
 library contained a copy of "Adam Bede," in 
 which the author had written a short time after 
 its appearance : — '' To hej^' who first recognised 
 me in this workT The pair called each other 
 "Barbara" and "Marian" and were sisters 
 as far as exceptional natures like that of 
 George Eliot, can be said to have any re- 
 lations. Despite George Henry Lewes' lover- 
 like petting, despite her numerous adorers, in- 
 tellectually speaking, of the same sex, despite 
 the affection of such a woman as Barbara 
 Bodichon and the little court of devoted ad- 
 mirers admitted to her intimacy, she ever 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 235 
 
 seemed to me alone, sadly, almost sublimely 
 alone. 
 
 The popularity of George Eliot's works may 
 fluctuate from time to time, their sadness and 
 in some their learnedness may alienate many 
 readers. Her life -story will always prove a 
 stumbling block to the puritanical. But the fact 
 of intellectual supremacy remains. " Middle- 
 march " is an unanswerable argument against 
 the assertors of unisexual intellectuality. Many 
 stories exhilarate more. For my own part I 
 would not give that immortal chapter in which 
 Jane Eyre puts on a clean muslin dress and pre- 
 pares to meet her lover for the whole of George 
 Eliot's great prose epic. Such opinions, of 
 course, do not in the least affect the merits of 
 the case. I should like to set, say, ten or a 
 score of ordinary upholders of male superiority, 
 the following task : — Given a single reading and 
 a certain time (the book of course being with- 
 held, as grammars and hand-books from students 
 under examination), write down an exact de- 
 tailed and concise account of the plot and 
 interweaving of counter-plot in " Middlemarch." 
 
236 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Many windbags fresh from Oxford or Cam- 
 bridge, whippersnappers who having ''gone up" 
 and "gone down " a certain number of times, feel 
 in consequence able lordlily to criticise every- 
 thing under the sun, would scratch their empty 
 heads over the job and confess themselves, in 
 slang speech, hopelessly ''floored." Perhaps 
 *' Middlemarch" would be none the less in- 
 teresting for a simpler plot. As it stands, the 
 work is stupendous, Shakespearian, a canvas 
 to be set beside the half-dozen ofreat ima- 
 ginative creations of the world, whether in 
 poetry or prose. 
 
 The first thing Madame Bodichon did on 
 her return from Algiers was to call at the 
 Priory, taking me with her. Being a privileged 
 person she used to call there at very unconven- 
 tional hours, upon this occasion immediately 
 after dinner. 
 
 " You stay outside," she said, " and if I obtain 
 permission to introduce you I will call out." 
 
 So I waited in the road just behind the 
 cloister-like gate, but only for a minute or 
 two. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWy\RDS 237 
 
 " You may come in," shouted Madame 
 Bodichon from the hall door. Accordingly, in 
 I went, receiving cordial welcome. 
 
 George Eliot was at this time about fifty, 
 but looked years older. She wore, as she 
 always did, a plain black silk dress, to-night 
 havinpf a white shawl about her shoulders and 
 light gloves in her hand, being indeed dressed 
 for the opera. Some people have talked and 
 written of the ugliness of this great woman ; 
 this sort of criticism recalls a famous scene 
 in " Middlemarch." " Mr Casaubon has a wart 
 on his nose," said pert little Celia to her sister. 
 " I dare say he has," was Dorothea's dignified 
 rebuke, "when certain people look at him." 
 And thus George Eliot in some eyes was 
 ugly because, forsooth, she lacked dimpled 
 cheeks, round eyes, and pretty mouth! If 
 hers was ugliness, would we had more 
 of it in the world ! When in speaking, her 
 large, usually solemn features lighted up, a 
 positive light would flash from them, a lumin- 
 osity irradiate, not her own person only, but 
 her surroundings. A sovereign nature, an 
 
238 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 august Intellect, had transported us into Its 
 own atmosphere. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you, associated as 
 you are so pleasantly with Barbara's letters 
 from Spain," she said, then her friend took 
 possession of her and George Henry Lewes 
 chatted with me on Spanish Literature and 
 the last new Spanish novel or play. This 
 wonderful and most genial little man seemed 
 to know everything, to be an encyclopaedia 
 before, and not behind, his time like Charles 
 Lamb. As we talked the sound of carriage 
 wheels was heard outside. Lewes started up. 
 
 " The overture to ' Fidelio,' my dear, we shall 
 miss the overture ! Our friends must excuse 
 us," he cried. 
 
 They had seats at the opera, so we accom- 
 panied them to the door and saw them drive 
 off Lewes, delighted as a schoolboy bound 
 to the pantomime, George Eliot smiling gravely, 
 " Fare thee well, dear," she said, waving her 
 hand to Madame Bodichon, whom the minute 
 before she had tenderly kissed. 
 
 A greater contrast than that presented by 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 239 
 
 the friends could hardly be imagined ; the 
 author of " Middlemarch,' with her large 
 sallow features lighted up by intermittent 
 flashes of thought or feeling, her angular, 
 somewhat stooping figure, stifly habited in 
 black, the whole forming a sombre Rem- 
 brandt-like picture ; the foundress of Girton 
 College, whose portrait, some one has said, 
 is in every picture-gallery of Europe, her 
 magnificent complexion, golden hair and lovely 
 expression, recalling the Bordone of the 
 Louvre and the Titian of our own National 
 Gallery. Madame Bodichon's blue eyes 
 beamed with " the wild joy of living," * and 
 her great animal spirits were generally in- 
 fectious. George Elliot, her '' Marian," whilst 
 evidently revelling in such a personality, never 
 quite caught the glow, never like Lewes, 
 became playsome and effervescent. But the 
 pair were friends of long-standing, no social 
 complications, no verdicts of the world clouding 
 their intimacy. Madame Bodichon was far 
 too large-souled and large-hearted to sit in 
 
 * R. B. Browning. " Ride in the Metidja." 
 
240 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 judgment upon a fellow-being whose defiance 
 of precedents concerned herself only. The 
 following story throws light on the early 
 relations of these two women, each so ex- 
 ceptionally gifted, each so influential in a 
 wholly different sphere. The acquaintance of 
 Mary Ann Evans and Barbara Leigh Smith 
 had ripened into friendship long before the 
 first was known to fame, and before she had 
 taken the perilous leap, in other words, had 
 challenged society by a precedent. On the 
 brink of that decision, when love and womanly 
 pride were battling for mastery, when the 
 great novelist to be, trembled before the only 
 shadow clouding a radiant future, the lovers 
 and Barbara Leigh Smith spent a day to- 
 gether in the country. As she stood thus at 
 the parting of the ways, Mary Ann Evans 
 unbosomed herself to her friend, even asked 
 counsel. Should she take the perilous leap 
 or not, forego this dream of passionate love, 
 take refuge in the consolations of renounce- 
 ment and ordinary self-praise? 
 
 '' What earthly right had I to advise her in 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 24 1 
 
 such a case ? " Madame Bodichon said, when 
 years after recounting the story. " I repHed that 
 her own heart must decide, and that no matter 
 what her decision or its consequences should be, 
 I would stand by her so long as I lived." 
 
 There can now be no reason for withholding 
 an incident which indeed I was never bidden to 
 keep secret. 
 
 We all know the share that George Henry 
 Lewes had in George Eliot's literary career. 
 What if at this juncture his influence had 
 been wholly withdrawn ? In all probability the 
 world would have lost " Daniel Deronda " and 
 '' Romola," and perhaps gained a second " Adam 
 Bede" or '' Mill on the Floss." Or perhaps w^e 
 should have had no novelist at all, instead a great 
 woman-philosopher, Kant or Spencer of the other 
 sex. That mighty intellect and commanding 
 spirit would have silenced boyish supporters 
 of male supremacy anyhow. Maybe the con- 
 viction that Madame Bodichon had proved 
 the silent, the unconscious umpire of their 
 destinies, rendered her so dear to George 
 Eliot and George Henry Lewes. Their 
 
242 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 affection and joy in that bright, exhilarating 
 presence was delightful to witness. Madame 
 Bodichon's attitude in this matter affords 
 the key to her character. For her the 
 individual was everything, conventionalities, 
 public suffrages, the homage of the world, 
 of no account. It was respect for humanity 
 in the concrete that made her life so salutary 
 and stimulating. 
 
 At this time she spent some months every 
 year at her London house, 5 Blandford Square, 
 and was privileged to call at the Priory 
 whenever she pleased, indeed to invite herself 
 to the two o'clock luncheon. Upon one 
 occasion she rang the bell twenty minutes 
 or a quarter of an hour too soon, where- 
 upon out rushed her hostess, pale, trembling, 
 dishevelled, a veritable Sibyl, disturbed in the 
 fine frenzy of inspiration ! 
 
 *' Oh, Barbara, Barbara ! " she cried, extremely 
 agitated, *' what have you done ? " 
 
 The ever welcome guest had disturbed her 
 friend in a scene of " Romola ! " 
 
 ** I felt ready to cry like a naughty child," 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 243 
 
 added the narrator, "but from the opposite door 
 out rushed Mr Lewes, who, in the kindest 
 manner, soothed us both and put everything 
 right." 
 
 The metaphysician worked as hard as the 
 novehst, but despite his metempirics, a philoso- 
 phical term of his own invention, in spite of 
 poor health, Lewes remained frolicsome to 
 the last. 
 
 One evening as they were expected to 
 dinner, no one being there but the hostess 
 and myself, the drawing-room door was flung 
 wide with the announcement — '' Captain and 
 Mrs Harrison." 
 
 *' Good Heavens," whispered Madam Bodichon 
 aghast, "some self-invited relations from the 
 Antipodes, and George Eliot and George 
 Lewes coming ! " 
 
 A well-known laugh in the doorway re- 
 assured her. It was one of Lewes' little jokes. 
 
 The dinner prefaced so playfully was rather 
 a solemn affair. Instead of light, digestive 
 chat anent books, the drama or literary matters 
 in general, one of the three, for I played the 
 
244 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 part of listener, mooted no less of a topic 
 than the destruction of the globe, the when 
 and how, our familiar world would come to 
 an end. 
 
 I think I hear George Eliot's many-toned 
 fervid voice as she put forward one hypothesis 
 after another. 
 
 " And yet, dear Barbara, it might happen 
 thus," and so on. 
 
 I believe when we rose from the table 
 the casting vote had been in favour of com- 
 bustion by the tail of a comet. Somehow 
 even Madame Bodichon's usually high spirits 
 flagged, and no wonder. There are moments 
 when all of us need a little relaxation, 
 a hum-drum human laugh. This wonderful 
 pair seldom enjoyed either. They longed 
 to ride a hobby-horse but found the pastime, 
 I should say, accomplishment, unattainable. 
 
 I well remember a lament of George Henry 
 Lewes on this subject. 
 
 '' A bramble bush reminds me of a friend 
 more fortunate than myself," he said. *' This 
 learned fellow had a hobby, and his was 
 
M. BETHAAI-EDWARDS 245 
 
 brambles. One day he came to me with a 
 radiant face. ' I have at last found my 
 bramble,' he cried, alluding to an especial 
 kind that had hitherto alluded his search. 
 How I envied that man ! " 
 
 In all probability a hobby-horse would have 
 prolonged the lives of both metaphysician 
 and novelist. Their intellects had no repose. 
 With Madame Bodichon, who was also con- 
 sumed by abnormal mental activity of quite 
 different kind, they were worn out at a period 
 when many men and women may be considered 
 still in their prime. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AND MADAME BODICHON — COUtimied 
 
 Sunday Afternoons at the Priory— Grace and Amelia- 
 Browning—" Singing Birds "—Turgeneff— William 
 Allingham— The Isle of Wight— Beethoven— Talks 
 of "Polly"— Shanklin— "A Serious Tea"— A Christmas 
 Dinner—" I always do that sort of thing " 
 
 After this Introduction I occasionally attended 
 the historic Sunday afternoons at the Priory ; 
 at one time, when George Henry Lewes made 
 tea, as he styled it, "the whole duty of man," 
 these were small gatherings of pre-eminent in- 
 tellects, as years wore on, large reunions, with 
 quite a conventional, one might say a fashion- 
 able, even frivolous element. Handsome 
 equipages, powdered footmen and elegantly- 
 dressed ladies now animated those sober 
 precincts, greatly to the delight of Grace and 
 Amelia. The middle-aged domestics, sisters, 
 
 I believe, and long in the service of their 
 
 346 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 247 
 
 employers, now became wildly ambitious. 
 They hoped and firmly believed that some 
 fine day the Queen herself would call upon 
 their mistress, but the hope and the dream 
 were never realised. And who can tell ?; 
 Perhaps such disappointment and bitter illusion 
 had something to do with what afterwards 
 happened ; Grace and Amelia became cap- 
 tious, moody, tyrannical, finally took their 
 departure. 
 
 A young author's preconceptions of great 
 men or women are apt to prove illusory also. 
 Browning had ever seemed to me a poet 
 immensely inferior to his glorious wife.* I was 
 nevertheless hardly prepared for the person- 
 ality here before my eyes. It was difficult 
 to believe that the hero of the *' Sonnets from 
 the Portuguese" and the elderly flirt and 
 chatterer of nonsense, could be one and the 
 same person. I have certainly heard Browning 
 
 * A year ago I visited the Poet's Corner with a Frenchwoman. 
 What was her astonishment and profound disgust to find no 
 monuments here of the immortal trio, E. B. Browning, Currer Bell 
 and George Eliot, the only monument erected to a woman being 
 that of a foreign opera singer ! Her feelings I fully shared. 
 
248 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 tell a good story (from a newspaper) at Lord 
 Houghton's famous breakfast table. As a 
 rule he was magnetised by pretty dresses, 
 high sounding titles and flippant feminine 
 tongues; by George Henry Lewes' "singing 
 birds," Lady Flora this, Lady Emilia that, 
 who could sit down to the piano and warble 
 in drawing-room fashion some new French 
 song. 
 
 For it had come to this ; instead of the 
 grave discussions or brilliant talk of former 
 days, instead of listening to George Eliot's 
 suggestive utterances and most musical, many- 
 toned voice, folks were silenced by the rattle 
 of a pianoforte accompaniment and the trills 
 of a lady amateur ! 
 
 A knot of thinkers,* foremost men of our 
 day, still frequented this now eagerly sought 
 salon, and few illustrious foreigners but suc- 
 ceeded in obtaining an introduction. One 
 afternoon Turgeneff's colossal figure appeared, 
 by his side the equally colossal figure of that 
 
 * I forbear throughout these pages to make any illusion whatever 
 to celebrated personages still living. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 249 
 
 first-rate Russian scholar and estimable man, 
 the late W. S. Ralston. What chiefly struck 
 me about Turgeneff, for I had no conversation 
 with him, was his unpretendingness and air of 
 vague, quiet, dreamy sadness. The man re- 
 sembled his books. Great Turgeneff un- 
 doubtedly is, but one and all of his stones 
 are characterised by the same vague, unde- 
 finable sadness, the monotone of the steppes. 
 We are impressed as we read ; the impression 
 fades. We re-read, again to find that alike 
 plot, situation and characters elude mental 
 grip. It would be interesting to learn whether 
 his own countrymen pronounce the same literary 
 judgment. 
 
 An ever welcome and gracious personality 
 was the Irsh poet William Allingham. With 
 neither epic nor tragedy has the author of 
 ** Laurence Blomfield in Ireland," enriched the 
 world. But he has accomplished what should 
 satisfy the sincerest and the most ambitious ; 
 several of his songs and poems have long 
 since become common property, being included 
 in every anthology and poetry book for 
 
250 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 schools. Lives the child who has not by 
 heart, — 
 
 " Red Cap, Blue Jacket and White Owl's Feather ? " 
 
 "William Allingham is no echo," said George 
 Eliot of him ; he was more than a pleasant, 
 easy talker, as she called another acquaintance. 
 The Irish poet, a close friend of Madame 
 Bodichon's also, had flashes of wit and gaiety, 
 the charm of perpetual youth, but was yet 
 capable of deep seriousness. And in the very 
 best sense of the word he was no respecter 
 of persons, with George Eliot being as natural, 
 as entirely and transparently himself, as with 
 any other friend or comrade. 
 
 In the early winter of that terrible year 
 1870, Madame Bodichon took a furnished 
 house near Ryde and invited me to join her. 
 George Eliot and George Henry Lewes 
 coming for Christmas, as the former wrote 
 to her friend, *'to weep together over the 
 sorrows of France." 
 
 In some respects the pleasant plan failed. 
 Not for years had weather so severe visited 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 25 1 
 
 the traditionally mild little island. Instead 
 of finding roses and violets in Ventnor gardens, 
 sunshine and balminess everywhere, skating, 
 snow and a bitter north wind were the order 
 of the day. Our abode, too, a recently built 
 commodious High Church rectory, in spite of 
 tremendous fires in every room and passage, 
 could not be made snug and warm as a 
 second " Priory." Poor Lewes sometimes 
 looked blue with cold and although the pair 
 delighted in the society of their friend, and in 
 the absolute quiet and such glimpses of 
 natural scenery as could be obtained, the 
 arctic visitation and awful calamities of France, 
 kept down high spirits. 
 
 I well remember their arrival. As the 
 hostess entered the drawing-room with her 
 friends, George Eliot bent almost ecstatically 
 over an exquisite flower on the centre table, 
 what flower it was I have forgotten. The 
 lovely bloom, the delicious fragrance brought 
 out that radiance in her face I have before 
 alluded to, a luminosity, no other word seems 
 applicable, as transforming as it was evan- 
 
252 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 escent* '* Why, oh, why," she cried in her 
 pecuHar sighing voice, a voice that was often 
 indeed a sigh, *' not pray to such lovely things 
 as these ? " and she hung over the flower 
 in an attitude of positive adoration. It was 
 this intensity, alike of feeling, conviction and 
 aspiration that characterised her as I suppose 
 it characterises most sovereign natures. 
 
 The pair had brought a little work with 
 them and the Vicar's handsome study was 
 assigned to Lewes as a study. But on the 
 second morning he joined George Eliot in 
 hers, a smaller, less cheerless breakfast room. 
 The work, I think, consisted only of proof 
 correcting, whilst for holiday reading, they had 
 brought surely the strangest book in the world, 
 namely, Wolff's '' Prolegomena." The volume 
 possessed certainly one attraction. It did not at 
 all bear on the painful events of the day. After 
 dinner George Henry Lewes would tell us the 
 most wonderful stories or his companion would 
 sit down to the piano. 
 
 * Perhaps the kind of \\ght described by the Italian poet, 
 " the lighting of the angelic smile." 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 253 
 
 ''What shall it be, dear little boy?" she 
 would ask as she turned over the contents of 
 the music waggon, and the dear little boy — I 
 loved to hear these terms of endearment among 
 the great — -generally demanded Beethoven. One 
 Sonata she played to us was Op. 14, No. 2, 
 containing the slow, plaintive Andante in A 
 Minor, ever one of my favourites. 
 
 She played correctly, conscientiously, but not 
 with the entrain and charm of far inferior 
 musicians. It is not geniuses, it is the merely 
 talented people who can be universally brilliant, 
 shine in everything, dazzle by parade of mere 
 accomplishments. And listening to George 
 Eliot's pianoforte playing one could but feel 
 here as ever the deep-seated melancholy that 
 had not, as some suppose, her own life for its 
 cause but the life of all humanity. On her 
 shoulders seemed to rest the material and 
 spiritual burdens of the universe. 
 
 The stay lasted a week, during which I saw 
 much more of the metaphysician than of the 
 novelist, although of course we all met at meals 
 and spent the evening together. Madame 
 
254 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Bodichon, ever enthusiastic to the verofe of 
 infatuation, was naturally athirst for the society 
 of her adored Marian. Maugre their devotion 
 to each other, such opportunities of intercourse 
 were rare. The foundress of Girton, the prime 
 mover in bringing about the Married Women's 
 Property Bill, the charming water-colour amateur, 
 lived from the first of January to the thirty- 
 first of December in a perpetual whirl of busi- 
 ness, study and pleasure. No wonder that such 
 feverish energy, mental activities so manysided, 
 and an existence absolutely devoid of repose, 
 rendered her, alas ! an aged, broken-down woman 
 at fifty ! 
 
 Madame Bodichon would therefore carry off 
 George Eliot in one direction, Lewes and I 
 taking a long brisk walk in another. 
 
 He loved a country ramble even in winter 
 and generally talked the whole time of '' Polly." 
 It delighted him to discover in me a whole- 
 hearted admirer of " Felix Holt," a work less 
 generally admired than their great brethren, but 
 to my thinking as fine in its way as '* Middle- 
 march." 
 
M. BETHAiM-EDWARDS 255 
 
 How Lewes laughed when I quoted that 
 denunciation of his own sex by Mrs Transom's 
 maid, " the creatures who stand straddHng and 
 gossiping in the rain ! " 
 
 George EHot never talked of her own books ; 
 had she done so, I was at that time too bashful 
 to ask her the following question : — " Is it 
 your experience, is it your conviction, that 
 throughout life the lower nature subdues, leads 
 in chains, the higher? Your Romola, meek 
 slave of the despicable Tito, your Maggie 
 Tulliver, ever swayed by that incarnation of 
 masculine selfishness, her brother Tom, your 
 Lydgate fawning as a beaten hound on the 
 heartless, brainless, essentially vulgar Rosa- 
 mund, and the rest, for the parallel holds 
 good throughout all your works, — can it be 
 that such is your summing-up of human lot 
 and character ? " If so, no wonder that alike 
 the author and her books were steeped in 
 sadness, not the hard, revolting pessimism of 
 an Ibsen, a Flaubert, rather the tearful, pious 
 sympathy of a Saint Francis d'Assisi or a 
 Santa Theresa. 
 
256 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 One afternoon we all visited Shanklin, an 
 excursion I never recall without a twinge of 
 conscience. After enjoying the magnificent 
 Chine together we separated, George Eliot 
 and her companion continuing their stroll, my 
 hostess and self calling upon a lady novelist, 
 author of some pretty stories published under 
 a pseudonym, then living in the village. We 
 had arranged to meet at the station, and 
 thither, after half an hour's chat, the authoress 
 in question accompanied us. We sat down 
 on the platform, catching a glimpse of our 
 illustrious Incognitos at the farther end. How 
 I longed to whisper in my fellow novelist's 
 ear "yonder stooping veiled figure in black 
 is the author of ' Adam Bede.' " It seems posi- 
 tively unchristlanlike to withhold a piece of 
 information so full of surprise, so thrilling. But 
 the condition of silence had been Imposed. 
 Regretfully, self reproachfully, morosely, I held 
 my peace. That lady Is ignorant to this day of 
 the tantalising ''might have been." 
 
 Tell George Henry Lewes a good story 
 and he became your fast friend for life. 
 
M, BETHAM-EDWARDS 257 
 
 At this time another authoress Hved in the 
 Isle of Wight, a lady whose clerical stories 
 for girls have enjoyed and perhaps still enjoy 
 enormous popularity. She kept a celebrated 
 school for young ladies near Ventnor, and 
 through common friends expressed a wish 
 to make my acquaintance. As, however, it 
 was the period of examinations, she wrote 
 saying that she much regretted that " she 
 could only do herself the pleasure of 
 
 inviting Miss B E to a serious 
 
 tea ! " 
 
 " I thank thee, friend, for that story/' Lewes 
 exclaimed, laughing heartily, and he was greatly 
 interested in the tea Itself, which did prove 
 somewhat serious. 
 
 We always all breakfasted together, and on 
 Christmas mornlnof there was the usual round 
 of good wishes. *'A merry Christmas to you, 
 Ann, and a marrying New Year," was Lewes' 
 greeting to his hostess's staid middle-aged 
 parlour-maid. In spite of dyspepsia and other 
 drawbacks to existence he remained captlvat- 
 ingly genial and pranksome. When we sat 
 
258 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 down to our Christmas dinner, and Ann with 
 extraordinary flourish deposited a huge covered 
 dish on the table, he rubbed his hands, smihng 
 at the mistress of the house. 
 
 " You will, I am sure, Barbara," he said, 
 'excuse the liberty taken by an old friend. 
 I have ventured to add a little delicacy 
 to your bill of fare. Ann, remove the 
 cover ! " 
 
 We all started back with a scream. Some- 
 thing like a snake lay there, rebounding 
 as it uncoiled. It was indeed the vicar's 
 scourge which Lewes had unhooked from 
 its nail in the study, and which, doubtless, 
 often served the purpose of self flagellation. 
 We were occupying the house of a so- 
 called High Church clergyman, one of those 
 gentry who delight in confessing foolish girls, 
 who love Rome much, but adore the 
 emoluments of the Church of England even 
 
 't>' 
 
 more ! 
 
 George Eliot would not have relished the 
 notion of "a chiel among them takin' notes," 
 nor can my late friend Professor Sylvester's 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 259 
 
 habit of the perpetual note - book be com- 
 mended. Still I regret now that I did not 
 journalise that historic week at Swanmore 
 Parsonage. One well - remembered conversa- 
 tion arouses reflection. 
 
 The topic was literary excellence and literary 
 fame, or perhaps, I should rather say, recog- 
 nition, and the criterium of both. 
 
 "There is the money test," George Eliot 
 said, and paused, as she often did before 
 continuing a train of thought. Would she 
 have uttered that sentence now, could the 
 money test be accepted as a criterium 
 when she spoke ? I played the part of 
 listener, but have often dwelt on the words 
 since. 
 
 The money test ! But compare the sum 
 paid for a consummate work of art, perhaps 
 the most perfect romance (I here use the 
 word romance as implying something quite 
 distinct from the novel) ever written, to wit, 
 " The Scarlet Letter," with the price say of 
 a -Trilby"? 
 
 No, George Eliot's criterium fails here I 
 
26o REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Her next utterance will commend itself to all 
 real lovers of literature. 
 
 '' Then," she said in her slow, deliberate, 
 conscientious way, and speaking from another 
 point of view, that of literary excellence rather 
 than of public acknowledgment, *' then there 
 is the test of sincerity." 
 
 A canon, the unassailableness of which none 
 can deny. And if sincerity were the self- 
 imposed test of every author, young, old, and 
 middle-aged, immense would be the economy 
 of pens, ink, and printer's copy — -and the gain 
 to literature. Of course the only, the final 
 test of literature is duration, a foregone con- 
 clusion and point too evident to call for 
 remark. 
 
 The last glimpse I caught of George Eliot 
 and her metaphysician was a year or two 
 later. The " money test " in her case may 
 fairly be accepted, and the pair had just 
 purchased a country house and a pretty 
 victoria in which they drove to 5 Blandford 
 Square. I believe this was their first drive. 
 Madame Bodichon ran down the front steps, 
 
M. BETH Ai\I- EDWARDS 26 1 
 
 embracing her friend affectionately as she sat, 
 whilst Lewes said laughingly — " Of course, we 
 remember, Barbara, that yoic never acknow- 
 ledged us when we had no carriage." 
 
 But I am here anticipating. Let me add 
 another memorial or two of this most historic 
 visit, seven days during which George Eliot 
 was literally at home, In some degree threw 
 off the grand didactic air natural to her, part 
 of herself, in truth, her very self. 
 
 I happened at this time to have a whitlow 
 on the thumb of my right hand, which for 
 some days after lancing had to be carefully 
 bandaged. On Christmas morning when break- 
 fast salutations were unusually cordial, George 
 Eliot fancied that she had hurt my invalid 
 thumb. 
 
 '' I always do that sort of thing ! " she cried, 
 with a look of positive pain, and it was with 
 no little difficulty that I could convince her 
 to the contrary. The notion of having in- 
 flicted pain seemed intolerable. One can 
 understand the sadness underlying a nature 
 so sensitive. 
 
262 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " I always do that sort of thing ! " The 
 accentuation, impossible to describe it, reminds 
 me of Rosamund's directly opposed speech, 
 the callousness of her '* What can I do ? " 
 when Lydgate was distracted with anxiety. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 George Eliot at High Mass— Daubigny— Old Hastings— 
 "Poor Little Priscilla "— PortiMAN Hall School- 
 Algerian Society — Under the Third Empire — 
 Afforesting— GiRTON College — Dr Bodichon 
 
 As I have said our parsonage belonged to a High 
 Church, and the vicar's scourge, stained with 
 expiatory blood, was not alone among suggestive 
 surroundings. In that arctic weather who could 
 help smiling at the large texts adorning the 
 walls of breakfast, parlour, and dining-room. 
 ''Gird up your loins," ''Carry not scrip nor 
 staff," " Take up thy bed and walk," and so 
 on. 
 
 : The place and its present occupants seemed 
 ill-assorted, yet perhaps such incongruousness 
 was more imaginary than real. 
 
 Our High Church rectory adjoined the church, 
 and on Christmas morning Madame Bodichon 
 
264 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 carried off her friend to hear the fine musical 
 service, Mass I feel inclined to call it. 
 
 Reverence is a quality absolutely insepar- 
 able from true moral or intellectual greatness. 
 
 George Eliot hearkened with subdued rap- 
 ture, the clear shrill voices of the choir, the 
 majestic swell of the organ evidently evoking a 
 religious mood, none the less pure or deep 
 because unallied with formulary or outward 
 observance. 
 
 The midnight service was proposed, but 
 " No, dear, I would not on any account keep 
 George up for us so late," said the great visitor, 
 unlike her hostess in one respect. Whilst 
 Madame Bodichon never had enough of the 
 thing she loved, whether good company, down- 
 right enjoyment or aesthetic impression, her 
 feverish energy always craving expansion, 
 George Eliot's nature needed repose. She did 
 not in French phrase go out of her way in 
 search of emotion. 
 
 When the pair departed we had quite a 
 different but hardly less distinguished guest. 
 This was the great French painter Daublgny, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 265 
 
 then in grievous unquiet, not only for the 
 welfare of his country but for the personal 
 safety of those nearest to him. The weather 
 remained arctic. Sketching out of doors was 
 out of the question. French gaiety, genial com- 
 panionship and artistic enthusiasm overcame all 
 these obstacles. 
 
 In the exhilarating society of his hostess 
 Daubigny could at intervals shake off the gloom 
 of that awful period. Must I admit the fact.^ 
 We were gayer, conversation was easier, exist- 
 ence more buoyant. Even Lewes' captivat- 
 ing boyishness and love of fun could not 
 dispel a certain hush, a sobriety tending to 
 pensiveness. 
 
 " Ah, Madame Bodichon, you always inspire 
 me ! " cried Daubigny to his hostess again and 
 again. 
 
 The scenery of the Isle of Wight pleased him 
 much less than the Fishmarket, Hastings, 
 whither we accompanied him a little later. 
 " Yonder flotilla of fishing boats, how delicious !" 
 he would say repeatedly. The attraction of 
 the old town was so strong that he settled 
 
266 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 down with his son at a humble inn in its 
 midst. 
 
 What would the great French painter say 
 to Old Hastings of to-day ? The view of the 
 East Cliff immortalised by Turner is now dis- 
 figured by harbour works, a hideous red 
 building, and farther off", the enormous chimney 
 of a refuse destructor. But vandalism has not 
 stopped short here. It is now proposed to 
 destroy the East Cliff, as glorious a feature of 
 coast scenery as England can show, for the 
 purpose of a harbour railway ! 
 
 This close friend of George Eliot's, Barbara 
 Leigh Smith Bodichon, was in every way 
 worthy of the great novelist's confidence. Two 
 women could not more essentially differ from 
 each other, nor were it easy to find two equally 
 gifted, in more entire sympathy. 
 
 The basis of Madame Bodichon's character 
 was that very rare, I am tempted to say rarest, 
 quality in my own sex, namely, a sense of 
 abstract justice. Nationality, racial distinction, 
 religion, even colour, for her were non-existent. 
 A human being, whether Christian or Jew, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 267 
 
 foreigner or English, white-skinned or black, 
 remained a brother or sister. As little she cared 
 for demarcations of fashion or routine. This 
 immense largeness of sympathy and independ- 
 ence of mind, showed itself in the least little 
 thing. Injustice she could never forgive. 
 
 We were one day discussing Hawthorne's 
 fine story, *' Brook Farm," and its superb 
 heroine, when she said in her quick, decided 
 manner 
 
 " No, I do not like Zenobia at all, she was so 
 unkind to poor little Priscilla." 
 
 From one point of view all women were poor 
 little Priscillas to her. English law was the 
 unkind Zenobia, and English law, as it unjustly 
 affected her own sex, she combated for years 
 tooth and nail. Her " Brief Summary of the 
 Laws of England affecting Women," and other 
 pamphlets on the subject, are models of their 
 kind — lucid, dispassionate, unanswerable. Alike 
 her time, her talents, and her money were 
 lavished upon a cause of which she witnessed 
 the triumph. It is, indeed, mainly owing to 
 her initiative and exertions that working women 
 
268 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 can now claim their own earnings. The Married 
 Women's Property Act may be called a piece 
 of legislation effected by the unenfranchised, no 
 bad augury for the future, the time that sooner 
 or later must come when rate-paying and a right 
 to the poll will go together. 
 
 Long before a stone of her Girton College was 
 laid, Madame Bodichon had verified her claim to 
 the title of good citizen and large-hearted philan- 
 thropist. There were no Board Schools in her 
 early days, and by way of minimising the ignor- 
 ance immediately around her, she set up a school 
 at Paddington for the daughters of artizans and 
 the working classes generally. The experiment 
 proved an entire success. The Portman Hall 
 School flourished, its doors only being closed 
 in consequence of Barbara Leigh Smith taking 
 to herself a French husband and making her 
 winter home beyond sea. Henceforth, she 
 divided the year between Algeria and Eng- 
 land. 
 
 " I always joked with Barbara about the pro- 
 bability of her marrying a Frenchman," Lewes 
 said to me one day. "But I thought it would be 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 269 
 
 some gallant officer, his kepi cocked on one side 
 and his hands in the pockets of his baggy red 
 trousers." 
 
 To fulfil the duties of an English citizen 
 on French soil is no easy matter, but the 
 tremendous energy, I should rather say, feverish 
 activity of Madame Bodichon's temperament 
 overcame all obstacles. It may be said that she 
 succeeded in everything of a wholly impersonal 
 nature, that is to say, in everything concerning 
 not herself, her own interests and happiness, but 
 the well-being of humanity, especially feminine 
 humanity. Her great artistic gifts were sacri- 
 ficed to purely philanthropic ends. Had she 
 belonged to the middle-class workaday world, 
 she would, in all probability, have achieved 
 success and reputation as a water-colour painter. 
 Dearly as she loved art, delightful as would have 
 been such acknowledgment, she gave up her 
 life to what she considered higher objects. A 
 measure of success she could certainly claim. 
 Frequenters of exhibitions five-and-twenty years 
 ago will hardly have forgotten the brilliant 
 sketches bearing the signature B. L. S. B. 
 
270 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Critics, among these Mr Ruskin, were not slow 
 to appraise the poetic feeHng, originaHty, and 
 dash of every one. But art, no more than 
 literature, can be made the handmaids of social 
 science and duty, political economy, or educa- 
 tional reform. The holding of a salon, the 
 afforesting or replanting of Algerian wastes, 
 Women's Rights and Girton College ever 
 retained the first place. To her own aspira- 
 tions and gifts she proved a negligent step- 
 mother. 
 
 Algerian society in the early years of the 
 Third Empire was not what Madame de Mac- 
 Mahon and the austere Marshal afterwards 
 made it. As a sample of morals and manners 
 at that period take the following stories. 
 Madame Z — , a young, handsome and ad- 
 venturesome woman, moving in the best circles, 
 had a mind to test the fidelity of her husband. 
 Suspecting his presence at a certain ball to 
 which ladies were not invited, she disguised 
 herself as a Moorish girl and somehow obtained 
 admittance. The pair danced together, and so 
 fascinated was the inconstant, yet in one sense, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 27 I 
 
 constant husband by her bright eyes, all he 
 could see of the veiled face, that he made 
 violent love, with what results to his after peace 
 may be guessed. 
 
 Another of Dr Bodichon's famous stories 
 was of a light-minded Frenchman who danced 
 away, not his fortune, as the hero of Greek 
 fable, but his own life. This votary of pleasure 
 went to a ball and danced so furiously the 
 whole night that on returning home, he took 
 to his bed and died shortly afterwards of sheer 
 exhaustion. He had literally danced himself 
 to death. 
 
 These anecdotes illustrate the looseness and 
 frivolity of fashionable life. 
 
 Political moralitv was at a still lower ebb. 
 Alike in civil and military administration, 
 corruption was the rule and honesty the 
 exception. 
 
 But Marshal MacMahon would tolerate no 
 more bribery and malpractices abroad — the 
 Marechale would have no more indecent dress 
 or parade of dissolute conduct at home. The 
 general tone improved greatly, and to this end 
 
272 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Madame Bodichon's salon contributed in no 
 small degree. She was also a zealous pioneer 
 in another most desirable cause, the promotion 
 of Anglo-French intercourse, the uprooting of 
 international antipathies, antipathies from which 
 she herself was wholly free. 
 
 Another work which, in conjunction with her 
 husband, she took up warmly, was the afforest- 
 ing or replanting of denuded tracts in Algeria 
 with the health-giving Eucalyptus Globulus. 
 We had traversed the fever-stricken plains of 
 Oran together and she never forgot the experi- 
 ence. " The fever," I wrote at the time, " every- 
 one was falling ill, was ill, or had been ill 
 of the fever." Since that journey, hundreds 
 of thousands of acres In French Africa have 
 been afforested or replanted, malaria disappear- 
 ing with the rapid growth of the Blue-gum tree. 
 
 Among the first and most zealous afforesters 
 were Madame Bodichon and her husband. They 
 wrote about the Eucalyptus, talked about it, 
 ordered large quantities of seed direct from 
 Melbourne, and for years never ceased their 
 efforts. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 273 
 
 With the aged Faust they said : — 
 
 " A swamp below the mountain stretches wide, 
 Poisoning all husbandry. To draw away 
 The deadly damp, that were the highest gain, 
 I open place for millions here to dwell 
 Busy and free, if not secure from ill." 
 
 It was Madame Bodichon's pen that first drew 
 attention in England to the febrifugal qualities of 
 the Eucalyptus Globuhcs or Blue-gum tree. She 
 had hastily put a few facts and conclusions on 
 paper which she read to George Henry Lewes. 
 He touched up the piece and carried it off to the 
 editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, in which paper 
 it appeared next day entitled, " Australian Forests 
 and Algerian Deserts." This was so far back as 
 the year 1868. 
 
 Even earlier, the scheme of a university for 
 women had been mooted and planned by 
 Madame Bodichon. With Miss Emily Davies, 
 afterwards resident mistress, she discussed the 
 plan morning, noon and night ; the result 
 of their labours and confabulations being 
 the very modest experiment at Hitchin, 
 a house temporarily accommodating half a 
 dozen students. Towards initiatory expenses 
 
274 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Madame Bodichon contributed ^looo, a very- 
 large sum for one who could never be 
 called a rich woman. I well remember the 
 triumph with which she carried me off to see 
 the college of her dreams in embryo. Who 
 could foresee the magnificent building to arise 
 just outside Cambridge a very few years later? 
 Educationalists rallied round the foundress of 
 Girton, money poured in, students were forth- 
 coming by scores, but without the self-sacrifice 
 of Barbara Bodichon, the scheme might long 
 have proved abortive. 
 
 As I said in a former page, I have never 
 been able to feel much enthusiasm about 
 Women's Universities, Female Franchise, and 
 the rest. Such questions from the first settled 
 themselves in my mind as purely matters of 
 abstract justice, unanswerable claims that must 
 sooner or later be satisfied. Commonsense, 
 public opinion and the British boast of fair play 
 would sooner or later resent anomalies at vari- 
 ance alike with social and moral progress. But 
 I could not, with Madame Bodichon, regard 
 Girton College or Somerville Hall in the light 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 275 
 
 of a new era dawning upon humanity, a tre- 
 mendous intellectual revolution. The glorious 
 galaxy of Victorian women, Charlotte Bronte, 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot, 
 what could a college curriculum, a B.A., M.A., 
 or wranglership have done for these ? More- 
 over, in the words of Lessing, it is permitted to 
 genius to remain ignorant of hundreds of things 
 ordinary mortals have by heart. Had that 
 wonderful Yorkshire girl donned cap and gown 
 she would most likely have " modelled her style" 
 on that of a Times leader ; had the great poetess 
 ''gone up" and ''come down" for three or four 
 years, instead of " The Cry of the Children " and 
 " The Great God Pan," we should have had 
 cold, scholarly, unemotional, and consequently 
 uninteresting verse after the manner of " Alaric 
 at Rome " ; had George Eliot, in early girl- 
 hood, quitted Griff for academic air, Mrs Poyser 
 in all probability would never have exhilarated 
 the world, its author being remembered by a 
 second "Prolegomena" of Homer, or, who knows, 
 a synthesis of universal philosophy '^. 
 
 But in the eyes of the generous and large- 
 
276 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 souled foundress of Girton, examinations and 
 college certificates were talismanic. A Girton 
 student in her eyes was no mere woman, a 
 semi-celestial nimbus encircled the head of every 
 ''sweet girl graduate."* Nor did enthusiasm 
 end here. Wherever the interests of her own 
 sex were concerned she showed the same eager- 
 ness of self-devotion. 
 
 " You remind me of the Arabs," I once said 
 to her, ''who pick up any scrap of paper bearing 
 the name of Allah." Articles, leaders, reports, 
 bits of news relating to Women's Rights she 
 never tired of; at last during the long intervals 
 we spent together every year, a compact was 
 made. I undertook to read the daily papers omit- 
 ting all paragraphs dealing with the wearisome 
 topic ; these she heard afterwards from another. 
 
 "* Nothing appalled a well-known French authoress in America 
 more (Mme. Th. Bentzon, en Amerique, 1895) than the addiction of 
 girl students in that country to biological studies accompanied 
 by experiments on living animals. On the same ground I have 
 long parted company, metaphorically speaking, with Girton, 
 Somerville, and the rest, being steadfastly opposed to any 
 educational body or institution permitting such atrocities. Did 
 I meet any young woman who had thus soiled her fingers, were 
 she an Aristotle in petticoats, I would not shake hands with 
 her. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 277 
 
 In 1857 Barbara Leigh Smith had married 
 Dr Eugene Bodichon, of Algiers, a man of 
 singular character and considerable attainments. 
 
 One of the little knot known as the 
 Republicans of '30, among his friends being 
 Louis Blanc and Ledru Rollin, Dr Bodichon 
 had rendered valuable services to the cause of 
 democracy and colonisation. Strange as it may 
 appear, after twenty years of conquest slavery 
 existed in Algeria. Legislators and rulers had 
 overlooked the famous Declaration of the Rights 
 of Man abolishing slavery throughout the 
 French dominions. When in 1848 the Breton 
 doctor was named corresponding member of 
 the Provisional Government, he recommended 
 the liberation of slaves in the colony, a measure 
 which was immediately put into force. Long 
 before the introduction of the Eucalyptus 
 Globulus into Algeria, he had insisted on the 
 necessity of replanting denuded tracts, and his 
 works on the country, especially from an ethno- 
 logical point of view, are quoted by Henri 
 Martin, and the geographer Elisee Reches. 
 Carlyle read and re-read the doctor's monograph 
 
278 REMINISCENCES 
 
 on the first Napoleon and told his friend 
 William Allingham that the perusal had modified 
 his ideas of the French Caesar.^ 
 
 He died in 1885, and his noble wife survived 
 him only a few years, bequeathing ;^iooo to 
 Bedford Square College and ;^ 15,000 to her 
 College of Girton. 
 
 * Included in a popular selection from Dr Bodichon's works. 
 Leroux, Paris. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Leipzig 
 
 Dr B AND HIS Bibles — A Strange Comradeship — 
 
 Auerbach's Cellar — The Head ob^ the House of 
 Tauchnitz — International Bookselling — A Com- 
 promising Visitor — The Price of Glory 
 
 Disillusions ofttimes prove the crowning 
 comedy of life ; most mortifying checks may be 
 its saving grace. As children who wail over a 
 tumble, scratched knees and bleeding nose, yet 
 afterwards glory in having clambered down a 
 steep thorn beset bank, so do their elders de- 
 lightedly recall escapades and peccadiloes any- 
 thing but pleasant at the time. A golden, albeit 
 valetudinarian holiday had passed as a dream. 
 The Mediterranean traversed under a warm 
 spring sky — Egypt, Asia Minor, the Greek Isles, 
 Athens, Venice, Verona — all these were fresh in 
 my mind when I found myself at Leipzig. 
 
 Never was disenchantment more complete, 
 
28o REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 awakening from radiant dreams more prosaic. 
 Midsummer had come here with a leaden sky, 
 gusty rain and an atmosphere of October. To 
 make matters worse, the cheerful surroundings 
 and engaging society bargained for proved a 
 delusion and a snare. Instead of family life, I 
 discovered that my only companion was to be a 
 young law student, the daily board turned out a 
 Barmecide's feast ; all that I must evidently 
 expect for my three pounds sterling weekly — 
 at that time hotel charges in Germany — was 
 the use of a bedroom containing four windows, 
 and thrice or four times the number of Bibles. 
 There were Bibles laid album-wise on the table, 
 Bibles on each window-sill. Bibles on side-tables 
 and brackets. 
 
 The recommendation to the four windows and 
 the Bibles had come in this wise : my excellent 
 friend Dr Paulus, the converter of the Jews at 
 Frankfort, hearing that I wished to devote a 
 little time to music and German, introduced me 
 by letter to a certain Dr B- , a Biblical com- 
 mentator of some renown, and a friend of the 
 celebrated Delltsch. But Dr B was now a 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 28 1 
 
 very ancient man and confined to his room by 
 infirmity ; his wife was at Carlsbad taking the 
 waters. The only representative of the pair 
 turned out to be their son, a University student, 
 more skilled in jurisprudence, slang and duelling 
 than in domestic economy. Vegetable soup and 
 potatoes for dinner, black bread and butter with 
 a morsel of raw sausage for supper, seemed his 
 only notion of a menu. But for good natured- 
 ness one would hardly meet my young student's 
 match in Europe. Finding the daily bill of 
 fare somewhat depressing and being unused to 
 Adam's drink, I suggested the possibility of 
 procuring English porter by way of a 
 restorative. 
 
 '' I'll get you some, liebes Fraulein," he said 
 with alacrity ; ''they keep it at Auerbach's cellar." 
 
 We set off together, and an admirable cicerone 
 he proved to the immortal scene of Faust's 
 carouse. Guiness's stout was forthcoming, a 
 bottle, for which of course I paid, being carried 
 home in each of the young man's coatpockets. 
 Had food and drink been thrown into the 
 bargain, with the use of four windows and six- 
 
282 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 teen Bibles, I should perhaps have stayed ; here 
 was the rarest possible chance of obtaining an 
 insight into German student life. My young 
 host, moreover, possessed many endearing 
 qualities. Obligingness itself, a slashing duellist, 
 an adept in slang, he combined Gallic light- 
 heartedness with Teutonic sobriety. Never for 
 a moment did he forget that his guest was a 
 well-bred young woman, he only forgot that 
 she had a palate not inured to black bread and 
 raw sausage, and that the prospect from four 
 windows and the use of sixteen Bibles was 
 rather dear at the money paid for them. For- 
 tunately George Henry Lewes had given me 
 introductions to the great houses of Tauchnitz 
 and Brockhaus, also to learned friends. On 
 pouring out my grievances to Baron Tauchnitz 
 he immediately carried me off to the excellent 
 Hotel Hauff, and there, but for an alarming 
 spread of smallpox in the town, I should have 
 spent some time. 
 
 Few figures in contemporary history more 
 merit a feeling akin to veneration than the great 
 publisher Bernhard Tauchnitz, none in our own 
 
M. BETH AM-ED WARDS 283 
 
 time have shed more lustre on the pacific annals 
 of Germany. Diplomats, warriors, strategists, 
 with victory and dominion, mete out tears and 
 bloodshed, international bitterness and hardly 
 uprooted hate. 
 
 Their contemporaries, after the pattern of 
 Tauchnitz, make their influence felt in a higher, 
 better way ; linking race and race, people and 
 people, with the touch of nature that makes all 
 men kin, the irresistible spell of poetry and 
 letters. 
 
 It may be urged that this princely publisher 
 was no '' moral inventor," to quote a very good 
 expression of the late Cotter Morrison ; instead, 
 a mere keen, upright, and eminently successful 
 man of business, who saw in the international 
 traffic of books a road alike to popularity and 
 fortune. I cannot for a moment admit this 
 view of the case, a belittling of any high-minded 
 career, simply because it has proved no less 
 beneficial to the individual than to the world. 
 
 Two circumstances must here be borne in 
 mind. The late Baron Tauchnitz was pre- 
 eminently a man of literary tastes. The book- 
 
284 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 lover stood before the publisher. He could 
 not, of course, winnow all the chaff from the 
 golden grain in his series. Several thousand 
 volumes would naturally contain but a small 
 percentage of masterpieces. In so far as was 
 feasible he did make the Tauchnitz library of 
 English authors representative. If claptrap and 
 balderdash were not altogether excluded, the 
 fault lay with the English public, not with foreign 
 printing presses. 
 
 F'or my part, I have never entertained feel- 
 ings of bitterness against American pirates. 
 As no Anglo-American copyright formerly 
 existed, authors on this side of the Atlantic 
 were not legally robbed and thereby gained 
 a million of readers, Goethe's raison d'etre of 
 authorship.* Baron Tauchnitz, although pre- 
 cisely in the position of American publishers, 
 preferred the regal, the magnanimous way. 
 He acted as if International copyright already 
 existed, paying his authors alike, the grand 
 folks and the little people, for the use of their 
 
 * " It is worth no man's while to write unless he can command 
 a million of readers." — Cojivosatioiis with Eckermann. 
 
U. BETHAM-EDWARDS 285 
 
 copyrights. And if it is gratifying to obtain a 
 million readers in the land of the almighty 
 dollar, still more agreeable is it to obtain the 
 same number on the Continent with the addition 
 of a cheque, George Eliot's money test. At this 
 time, the Baron was a fine, portly, handsome 
 man of sixty, in appearance recalling an English 
 country gentleman, and the present head of the 
 house of Tauchnitz was a tall stripling, already 
 his father's right hand. 
 
 Some years later, I visited the family Schloss 
 near Leipzig, bringing away delightful memories 
 of a thoroughly German home, unspoiled by 
 splendour. 
 
 It was delightful to hear the Baron, like 
 
 Fraulein Fink, recite that old-world Lutheran 
 
 grace before meals : — 
 
 " Komm, Herr Jesus, Sei unser Gast, 
 Und segne was Du becheert hast."' 
 
 Pleasant also the '' Mutterchen " on his lips, 
 recalling Voss's good old pastor in " Luise." 
 Soon after my visit to the Schloss, Baron 
 Tauchnitz and his sweet, stately '* Mutterchen " 
 celebrated their golden wedding. 
 
286 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 One noteworthy feature in the history of this 
 great pubHshing house is this ; Leipzig has ever 
 been the very stronghold of SociaHsm, the 
 nucleus of Socialist agitation, yet no strike is 
 recorded of the Tauchnitz workmen. From first 
 to last, relations of employer and employed have 
 remained on a frank and cordial footing. Here 
 I would mention one of those preposterous 
 inconsistencies, as common among nations as 
 among individuals. 
 
 In autocratic Germany, footmen and coachmen 
 are bearded and moustached no less than their 
 masters. In democratic France and England, 
 these ill-used beings are rigidly forbidden such 
 manly adornment. I remember an imposing butler 
 at Schloss Tauchnitz. He was extremely like the 
 late Emperor Frederick, and quite as handsome. 
 
 George Henry Lewes, the Goethische 
 Lewes, as greatly to his delight the Germans 
 called him, had thrown wide for me all 
 the doors of literary Leipzig. Another and 
 even more interesting introduction threatened to 
 close them after abrupt fashion. One of my 
 friends of the International had given me a letter 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 287 
 
 to the great Socialist leader, whose voice still 
 shakes the Reichstag, and whose influence is 
 mightier far now than it was twenty-six years 
 ago. A gentleman when bidden to pay his 
 respects to a lady, cannot of course excuse him- 
 self. Two or three days after my arrival at the 
 Hotel Hauff, and greatly to the consternation of 
 
 house porter and waiter, Herr B 1 appeared. 
 
 We were in the midst of a most absorbing 
 conversation when a second visitor was an- 
 nounced, this time, Lewes' friend. Professor 
 Curtius, the learned translator of Darwin, and 
 of course, a sworn enemy of Socialism in its 
 mildest form. 
 
 Herr B 1, not inclined to act the part of 
 
 overlapping guest, immediately withdrew. As 
 soon as he was gone, the Professor eyed me 
 narrowly, fidgeted on his chair, then got out, 
 " My dear young lady, who on earth could have 
 introduced you to that fellow ? " 
 
 I mentioned the name of Herr B I's 
 
 English friend, a gentleman of ancient family, 
 adding by way of palliative that I was studying 
 Socialism from the literary point of view, and 
 
288 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 wanted information at first hand — which was 
 strictly correct. 
 
 ''Well," he said with a grave air, "all I can 
 say is that if you have such people calling on 
 you, you must prepare yourself for smashed 
 windows and Heaven knows what besides." 
 Domiciliary visits, expulsion from the hotel, and 
 perhaps graver peccadilloes were evidently in his 
 mind. 
 
 The professor was relieved to find that I had 
 given up my plan of spending some months in 
 his town. Truth to tell, the usually cheerful and 
 attractive town of Leipzig just now wore a 
 sinister look. On the heels of glory, so-called, 
 had come its inevitable retribution. The 
 crowding of French prisoners, the massing 
 together of sick and wounded soldiers and 
 defective sanitation had brought about an 
 alarming epidemic. Small-pox, as I have before 
 mentioned, raged here as in some other parts of 
 Germany. You could not walk a few yards 
 without encountering barely recovered small-pox 
 patients. Contagious diseases under normal 
 circumstances have no terrors for me. But to 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 289 
 
 be stricken down in a foreign hotel and straight- 
 way bundled off to a hospital might well alarm 
 spirits far more intrepid than my own. The 
 weather, too, could not well be dismaller. My 
 eight days in Leipzig had been eight days of 
 perpetual rain. So on the coldest, rainiest and 
 unfriendliest fourteenth of June I ever remember, 
 I set out for the little Athens on the Ilm, I 
 had always longed to know. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE GOETHES AT WEIMAR 
 
 First Impressions — Ottilie von Goethe and her sons — 
 "Der Vater"— a Melancholy Jacques— A Goethe 
 ON Trollope 
 
 Less than a generation ago the sojourner at 
 Weimar seemed all but a contemporary of its 
 mighty spirits, just to have missed the meridian 
 of its literary splendour. Goethe's daughter-in- 
 law would then entertain her English visitors 
 with talk of '* der Vater " ; elderly folks would 
 chat of the stately old man so well pourtrayed 
 for us by Eckermann. Schiller's daughter might 
 be recognised in the street by her likeness 
 to the poet. Herder's granddaughter, who 
 remembered the famous interview between 
 Napoleon and the Duchess Luise, was still 
 living. A maiden lady would be pointed out 
 to you as Fraulein Wieland, she too a grand- 
 daughter. The great names that have im- 
 mortalised Weimar now live in history only 
 290 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 29 1 
 
 Goethe's race has become extinct, and the 
 family house is turned into a museum. Schiller, 
 Herder, Wieland have left none of their name 
 and no direct descendants. 
 
 There is something peculiarly fascinating in 
 this apparent nearness to a mighty epoch, this 
 approaching the vesture - hem of earth's im- 
 mortals. There are certain associations that 
 in liveliness and force have the effect of veritable 
 experience. We seem to be not merely affected 
 but impressed, acted upon directly and not 
 through the medium of others. Such was the 
 nature of my intercourse with the Goethe family. 
 The sun gleamed out as I entered the dear, 
 friendly, quiet little town, its provincial air and 
 grass grown streets offering a striking contrast 
 to busy, populous, cosmopolitan Leipzig. And 
 the Weimar before me "^ must have been a small 
 metropolis compared to the Weimar of Goethe's 
 youth, the tiny capital he entered so full of 
 poetic frenzy a hundred years before. 
 
 * Just ten years later I revisited Weimar to find it immensely 
 enlarged, and in a certain Philistine sense improved ; on all sides 
 new streets, a wilderness of bricks and mortar, with its attendant 
 dust, glare and ugliness. 
 
292 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 I had brought with me a satchel of letters 
 introductory, and although court receptions — so 
 pleasant for strangers — were at an end, the 
 theatre was about to be closed, and many other 
 attractions for a time withdrawn, I settled down 
 in the homely, comfortable Erb Prinz for a long 
 stay and with the happiest expectations. When 
 I first arrived, Goethe's house was closed, the 
 large conspicuous structure not being accessible 
 to tourists under any pretext whatever. Ottilie 
 von Goethe was then occupying a modest flat 
 in the Schiller Strasse, and it was there that I 
 made her acquaintance. 
 
 I found an old lady dressed with scrupulous 
 neatness, one might almost say, coquetry, her 
 soft grey cashmere dress and white muslin 
 kerchief recalling the Quaker matrons of my 
 childhood. Goethe's fondly cherished daughter- 
 in-law must have possessed no small share of 
 beauty in youth, her bright eyes, silvery hair 
 and vivacious expression rendered her handsome 
 still, the lower part of the face being marred 
 by a certain heaviness indicative of strong 
 will. 
 
iM. BETHAM-EDWARDS 293 
 
 When foreign speech is made the vehicle of 
 thought, conversational powers are not to be 
 adequately appraised. The Frau von Goethe 
 was fond of talking English, which she spoke 
 fairly well, not well enough, however, to give 
 her thoughts free play. In German I could 
 well fancy her shining in epigram, persiflage 
 and repartee. Intellectual force she hardly 
 possessed. 
 
 " I am very glad at all times to welcome the 
 countrywomen of my late dear friend Mrs 
 Jameson," she said, receiving me with the 
 urbanity and '' grand air " of a great lady, 
 such indeed she had been all her life. The 
 very atmosphere of a court hung still about 
 attitude, speech and intonation. Every word 
 was uttered deliberately and with what I will 
 unhesitatingly call well-bred distinctness. Then 
 she asked me many interesting questions about 
 the higher education of women and its progress 
 in England. My report of Madame Bodichon's 
 Hitchen College and the Girton scheme were 
 listened to with great attention. 
 
 ''If my own daughter had lived," she said, 
 
294 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 *' the college you describe is what I should have 
 desired for her." 
 
 The golden-haired little granddaughter Irma, 
 whom Thackeray mentions in his charming letter 
 to Lewes (see the Life of Goethe), died at the age 
 of sixteen. Her brothers Auguste and Wolf- 
 gang were now elderly men. But such sorrows 
 are immortal. As Ottilie von Goethe named 
 the little girl laid to rest more than a genera- 
 tion before, her face saddened, her voice became 
 tremulous with emotion. From time to time she 
 dropped into German, recalling the past, posi- 
 tively thrilling me with the words, " Der Vater 
 sagte dies, der Vater meinte das " (my father said 
 this, my father thought that). 
 
 Could it be ? Was I in sober earnest chatting 
 with Goethe's daughter-in-law, the fondling of his 
 old age, the one being in the world privileged 
 to caress, tease and even playfully thwart him ? 
 Not perhaps always playfully ! There is a story 
 recorded by Eckermann which shows that to 
 Ottilie the author of '' Faust " was at times only 
 a plaguesome, cantankerous old father-in-law. 
 The great man had given her some archaeo- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 295 
 
 logical treasure, and after the manner of many 
 too lavish givers, wanted his gift back again. 
 "No, father," stoutly replied Ottilie, "you gave 
 me the object. It is now mine and I cannot 
 part with it." The story is highly characteristic 
 of the petted young widow, of a fireside goddess 
 who could do anything. 
 
 One of these references to " der Vater" was 
 noteworthy. 
 
 " In my father's time," she said in German, 
 '' people used to meet and discuss things worth 
 talking about. Now the talk of society consists 
 of mere idle gossip and chatter " (" Plaudern 
 und Schwatzen"). 
 
 She had an amusing horror of being written 
 about in her life-time, either by English travellers 
 or her own country folks, but was very hospitable 
 to anyone introduced by a friend. Alas ! the 
 acquaintance who rendered me this inestimable 
 service has been long since lost to sight. 
 If these lines should ever meet his eyes I 
 hope he will assure himself of my life-long 
 gratitude. 
 
 Before my stay was over the Frau von 
 
296 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Goethe had moved back Into the poet's house, 
 and here I spent a memorable evening. She 
 occupied with her two sons the upper storey, in 
 winter giving small but agreeable little gather- 
 ings, the Grand Duke and Duchess often 
 dropping in without ceremony. 
 
 Fine bronzes, life size, adorned the entrance 
 hall, but that part of the house occupied by 
 Goethe was shut up, no one being ever invited 
 to see his rooms, and no one ever venturing to 
 demand the privilege. 
 
 I found myself in a pretty little drawing-room, 
 a melancholy, handsome man already past 
 middle life holding out his hand to me on the 
 threshold. 
 
 *' My son Wolfgang," said the hostess, and 
 soon after we passed into an adjoining room to 
 tea, an English lady guest presiding at the tea- 
 pot, her young daughter, the kind friend who 
 had introduced me to the Goethe family and 
 one or two others, making up the party. 
 
 The simple board, spread with brown bread 
 and butter and pfefferkuchen or gingerbread, had 
 nothing to distinguish it from any other German 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 297 
 
 tea-table, but how did association impart pomp 
 and circumstance ! To break bread with 
 Goethe's grandson seemed next door to sitting 
 down to tea with descendants of Shakespeare 
 who had gazed upon his face and prattled on 
 his knee, and whether of set purpose or from 
 mere habit, this living likeness of the poet 
 perpetually recalled his august ancestor. Those 
 startling words, '' der Grossvater " (my grand- 
 father), again and again rose to his lips, not 
 uttered vauntingly but with a certain pensive, 
 tempered pride. 
 
 Yes, a melancholy Jacques was this inheritor 
 of the greatest name of modern Europe, and no 
 wonder ! To come of honourable stock is 
 coveted of all. But what mortal shoulders 
 could adequately sustain such Atlantean burden, 
 keep up legend so glorious ? 
 
 " The two sons of Ottilie and Auguste von 
 Goethe," said to me an old Weimaraner who 
 knew them well, " are both able and highly 
 accomplished men, men who might, under other 
 circumstances, have made a position and even 
 a reputation for themselves. But they have 
 
298 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 been dwarfed, etiolated, by the shadow of that 
 mighty tree, the name of Goethe." 
 
 The thought suggests itself, would not 
 diplomacy have offered a career to gentlemen so 
 distinguished and courtly ? We must remember 
 the closeness of the ties that bound them to 
 Weimar, and the insignificance of their little 
 state considered as a body politic, also that the 
 capacities of the brothers lay in quite another 
 direction. Both were admirable musicians and 
 of a literary and artistic turn. 
 
 Perhaps domestic circumstances may have 
 had something to do with this look of habitual 
 resignation, this apparent acceptance rather than 
 relish of existence. Rumour spoke of former 
 financial difficulties, of other complications 
 equally hampering. Be this as it may, the fact 
 remained. The handsome refined face before 
 me was that of a man whose life has proved a 
 failure. And a few years later both grandsons 
 of Goethe passed away, and the world was as 
 if it had known them not. 
 
 Conversation at the tea-table was light and 
 pleasant, a large portion falling to my share. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 299 
 
 Herr von Goethe spoke English pretty well, 
 occasionally lapsing into German. He showed 
 considerable knowledge of our literature, old 
 and new, and we had a long discussion on the 
 contemporary English novel. 
 
 '' No one entertains heartier admiration for 
 Anthony Trollope's talent than myself," I said, 
 when his name had come up. " But I confess, 
 the commonplaceness of his characters wearies 
 me. In a novel, as in real life, I prefer to 
 meet the rare, the exceptional." 
 
 ''There," put in Goethe's grandson warmly, 
 and speaking German, '' I entirely disagree 
 with you. When I read fiction I find more 
 amusement and instruction in stories like 
 Trollope's, dealing as they do with common- 
 place everyday folks such as one meets with in 
 daily life, rather than in pourtrayal of abnormal 
 or out of the way types. Der Gross vater 
 auch meinte (my grandfather was also of 
 this opinion) — " 
 
 Here he quoted a sentence of Goethe in 
 support of his views, whether from hearsay or 
 a printed work I forget. We argued the 
 
300 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 question for sometime, the others listening. I 
 could not unfortunately back up my theory with 
 the words of a French critic who has since lived 
 and died, leaving behind him a brilliant meteor- 
 like reputation. " Genius," says J. M. Guyau, 
 " occupies itself with possibilities, rather than 
 with realities. We recognise true genius by 
 its power of outstepping the real and yet 
 keeping within limits of the possible."* 
 
 Our discussion over, my disputant turned with 
 kindly interest to his mother's youngest guest, 
 the English schoolgirl before mentioned, draw- 
 ing her out, making her feel at home. I noticed 
 the little trait, indicating as it did not only good 
 manners but real amiability. One could hardly 
 help regretting that Wolfgang von Goethe had 
 not a fireside and a family circle of his own. 
 Both brothers, I add, were unmarried. At this 
 time the younger was absent, and I never met 
 him. 
 
 Politics, of course, were not touched upon, 
 nor did we talk of the Franco-German war so 
 
 * Only one of many passages in Guyau referring to this most 
 interesting subject, the limits of art. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 3OI 
 
 lately ended. One point struck me in discussing 
 literature with the Frau von Goethe, namely, 
 her aversion to French language and letters. 
 This was all the more surprising as there was 
 no little of the Frenchwoman about her. She 
 died a year after my visit and her sons soon 
 followed her to the grave. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE ABB^ LISZT 
 
 A Phenomenal Fourth Finger— A table d'hote group— 
 Tausig— Fraulein Constance— a Historic glass of 
 Champagne 
 
 I KNOW not how it may be nowadays, but 
 formerly host and hostess of the Erb Prinz 
 presided at the midday table d'hote. The Frau 
 
 H , bless her kindly heart! finding that 
 
 I was alone, made me sit by her side, an 
 arrangement advantageous in many ways. I 
 felt one of the family circle, I chatted in German 
 and I learned all that was going on. 
 
 Now I know very little of English landladies, 
 but I should hardly expect from them the kind 
 and quality of conversation I heard here. The 
 
 Frau H , a florid, homely-looking lady, and 
 
 her brother-in-law and partner, for she was a 
 widow, would discuss with their friends or 
 clientele, Wagner's music, the drama, past and 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 303 
 
 present, new works of the Kunstschule or 
 academy, and kindred topics. Not only was 
 their conversation animated and spontaneous, 
 but they displayed no little artistic knowledge 
 and insight. And busy as was mine hostess 
 she rarely missed a good concert or play. 
 I have ever loved to fraternise with all sorts 
 
 and conditions of men, and among Frau H 's 
 
 acquaintances was a charming young actress, 
 whom I remember with pleasure. There was 
 a depth of feeling about her, mingled with 
 much sparkle and sweetness, that recalled the 
 subject of Goethe's poetic apotheosis, those 
 lovely lines beginning : — 
 
 " Als eine Blume zeigt sie sich der Welt." 
 
 (" Her apparition was as some sweet flower.") 
 With this fascinating yet wholly unspoiled girl 
 and her fellow actors and family I picnic'd in 
 the country, bringing away one ineffaceable 
 impression. The evident sincerity of these 
 modestly paid artistes brought back '' Wilhelm 
 Meister," and seemed a living testimony to 
 Goethe's influence. My young tragedian cheer- 
 
304 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 fully and as a matter of course supported her 
 younger brothers and sisters ; here was no 
 feverish unrest, no craving for world-wide 
 triumph or dazzling reward. Devotion to art 
 and duty dominated every other feeling. 
 
 Frau H had a little daughter attending a 
 
 day-school ; on learning that one of my objects 
 was musical study, she immediately placed her 
 Mariechen's piano at my disposal. Whenever 
 I chose, therefore, I could leave my nice little 
 room overlooking the market-place and practice 
 in the parlour below. Here I cannot help 
 expressing my astoundment at the extreme be- 
 nignity with which I have ever been treated 
 in all countries and by every class. Such 
 things are especially agreeable when dealing 
 with foreign nationalities. They testify to 
 the fact insisted upon by David Hume and 
 P. G. Hamerton, namely, that men are much of 
 a muchness all the world over, extraneous 
 circumstances, racial distinctions, accidents of 
 climate and language being merely skin deep. 
 
 I had not partaken of the twelve o'clock 
 ordinary many times when I noticed a remark- 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 305 
 
 able figure at the foot of the table, a figure once 
 seen impossible to forget. 
 
 It was that of an elderly priest, tall, almost 
 Herculean in stature, and spare to lankness, his 
 long hair hanging down " in silver slips," his face 
 wearing a strange look only to be expressed by 
 the word illumination, his eyes of diamond-like 
 piercingness and brilliance. But even more 
 striking than build and physiognomy were the 
 hands, m.oved so restlessly and conspicuously. 
 It could not be said that those long, nervous, 
 expressive hands were out of proportion with 
 limbs so large ; the noteworthy characteristic 
 was length of each little fino^er, the fourth in- 
 deed almost equalled in size the pointer. As 
 he sat at table, whether manipulating knife and 
 fork or chatting to his neighbours, his hands 
 were never for a moment still. It seemed as if 
 they were restless spirits not to be coerced into 
 passiveness. 
 
 "Who is that extraordinary being?" I whis- 
 pered to my landlady. 
 
 " Don't you recognise him ? " was the aston- 
 ished reply. "It is the Abbe Liszt." 
 
306 RExMINISCENCES OF 
 
 Truth to tell, the name of Liszt sounded 
 almost like a resurrection in my ears. So 
 many years had passed since the great Hun- 
 garian's appearance in England, that, except to 
 musicians, he was a mere name. The every- 
 day English world had wellnigh forgotten 
 even that ; from the general memory he had 
 completely faded. 
 
 I now discovered that at Weimar Liszt w^as 
 enthroned as a pontiff, a demi-god. To the 
 little world of his followers and pupils, indeed, 
 Weimar meant Liszt and Liszt only. In their 
 eyes Liszt was now the sun in that firmament 
 formerly lighted by Goethe. But to return to 
 the table d'hote group. 
 
 The less said about unpleasant people the 
 better, but it is incumbent upon me to mention 
 his entourage, a marked and often regrettable 
 feature in the career of genius. The present 
 contrast between a man of unmistakable dis- 
 tinction and his companions was, moreover, so 
 striking, it shed so much light upon Liszt's 
 history, that I feel bound here to say a few 
 words. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 307 
 
 On his right hand there sat a particu- 
 larly plain, unattractive looking woman of de- 
 cided Slav origin. She was middle-aged, her 
 grown-up daughter sat next, and the hour was 
 noon, yet her dress was sufficiently ddcolletd for 
 an evening party, and her sleeves only reached 
 the elbow. The young lady beside her hardly 
 called for notice ; she said little and seemed apt 
 at playing the part of dummy. But the adjoin- 
 ing figure evoked compassion. Whilst the 
 elderly coquette, his wife, behaved after the 
 manner of a love-sick schoolgirl, this poor 
 semblance of a man neither opened his lips nor 
 showed the slightest cognizance of what was 
 going on around him. Native infirmity or 
 paralysis had reduced him to the condition of 
 a huge ungainly breathing automaton. Behind 
 his chair stood a valet who adjusted his master's 
 napkin, cut up his food, and otherwise ministered 
 to his wants. 
 
 It would be difficult to say which circumstance 
 here most painfully affected the mind — the im- 
 modesty of this wife and mother, the part of 
 spectator assigned to a daughter of twenty, 
 
308 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 witness of her mother's amours, or the possible 
 semi-consciousness of the man, her father. Some 
 faint gHmmering of the truth must surely have 
 reached his mind however feeble. 
 
 '' The Baroness X Y Z, she is madly in 
 love with Liszt ; and that is her imbecile 
 husband and daughter," whispered my hostess. 
 
 The explanation was unnecessary. In a well- 
 conducted maiden those foolish feminine fetches 
 and deep artifices might have evoked a smile. 
 In a matron with husband and daughter by her 
 side, and a score or more of lookers-on, the 
 scene was positively loathsome. Now she would 
 feign inability to eat, and Liszt must transfer 
 some choice morsel from his own plate to hers, 
 now she could not prepare properly her Alpine 
 strawberries and he must perform the task, 
 all these little tricks being accompanied with 
 lackadaisical — to use a mild word — smiles and 
 insinuating gestures. From Sarah Bernhardt 
 herself in PJiMre this woman could have learned 
 nothing. 
 
 Personal fascination is perhaps of all Pandora's 
 gifts the most to be deprecated. Liszt, its 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 309 
 
 victim, is hardly blameworthy here. Wherever 
 he went sentimentalists and coquettes fluttered 
 about him as moths round a candle. Under 
 such circumstances a man of his type is defence- 
 less. More wholesome and agreeable to witness 
 w^as the devotion of his own sex, pupils like 
 the late Walter Bache and Tausig. 
 
 A day or two later we were all sitting at 
 dinner when poor Tausig burst in, having just 
 arrived unexpectedly from Leipzig. Liszt 
 jumped up, his whole being transformed, spon- 
 taneous joy replacing forced smiles and cozened 
 approval. Master and pupil embraced cordially 
 as emperors when concocting an alliance, then 
 the new-comer was made room for, and dinner 
 went on. 
 
 That afternoon I heard some wonderful 
 pianoforte playing in the hotel, and I said to 
 myself, Liszt, Tausig, or a demon ! It was both. 
 I should perhaps say, all three. The place 
 seemed shaken with superhuman sound. 
 
 Tausig was of striking appearance, but looked 
 by no means in good health. Although a young 
 man he was florid and heavy almost to obesity, 
 
3IO REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 having sacrificed health and hygiene to the 
 piano. And a very few weeks later came news 
 of his death from typhoid fever at Leipzig. The 
 loss of his greatest pupil affected the Maestro 
 deeply. 
 
 Throughout these summer months Liszt 
 remained in his pretty villa, giving musical 
 parties every Sunday afternoon, himself taking 
 part, playing Beethoven, so said authorities, as 
 no one had ever played Beethoven before, 
 or is in the least likely to play Beethoven 
 again. 
 
 But the Open Sesame of such a salon, how 
 on earth to obtain it? I sounded Weimar 
 friends, but one and all gave a melancholy 
 shake of the head. Except to a very few 
 musical people, they said, Liszt was absolutely 
 unapproachable, a newspaper reporter might 
 just as well try to interview the Czar. And the 
 Goethe family and Liszt were not on visiting 
 terms. I had no chance of meeting, rather 
 hearing, the great man in Frau von Goethe's 
 pleasant drawing-room. The little court, so 
 hospitable ever to English visitors, and of 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 3I I 
 
 which Liszt was the darlinof, had removed to 
 Eisenach. 
 
 In despair I bethought me of Walter Bache, 
 whose most intimate London friends I knew 
 intimately also. An answer came back by 
 return of post, chilling in its positiveness. 
 '' Quite useless to ask Bache for such a favour, 
 he would not, I know, take upon himself the 
 responsibility on any account whatever." 
 
 The Peri outside Paradise was not to be thus 
 discouraged. I discovered that the solution of 
 this problem, as is generally the case with 
 others far knottier, lay close at hand. My 
 musical professor at this time happened to be 
 a sweet and romantic girl, more devoted to 
 Liszt, if that were possible, than the rest of his 
 pupils. Fraulein Constance, as I will call her, 
 was about twenty-five, and, without actual beauty, 
 possessed infinite charm and winningness. Per- 
 haps she was more calculated to inspire mere 
 affection and regard than anything like passion 
 in the other sex. She was what her country 
 people called '' schwarmerisch," i.e., sentimental 
 and dreamy, and as a rule, men do not like 
 
312 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 sentimentalists. Here and there indeed you find 
 a man who, to quote Mrs Lynn Linton, " Hkes 
 women who scream easily." The majority prefer 
 smiles to sighs, spirit to sentiment, and the plain 
 face of a girl absolutely at one with herself and 
 the world, to faultless loveliness of lacka- 
 daisical pattern. 
 
 Fraulein Constance was an excellent musician 
 and gained a very good livelihood * in this way ; 
 from October to May she resided at Cannes, 
 finding pupils among rich valetudinarians. The 
 summer months she spent at Weimar, sunning 
 herself in the presence of her adored master. 
 
 One day we had been playing one of 
 Schubert's mao^nificent duets, Liszt's name came 
 up, and I spoke of my disappointment in 
 failing to obtain an introduction to him. 
 
 '' Liebes Fraulein," she said, with an air of 
 astonishment, "why, in Heaven's name, did 
 you not mention this to me before ? I shall be 
 delighted to manage the thing for you." 
 
 Which she did. That very evening came 
 
 * Perhaps a handsome competence were the better term. At 
 Weimar in 1871 a good music-mistress ranked herself lucky indeed 
 if she earned /70 a year ! 
 
M, BETHAM-EDWARDS 313 
 
 Liszt's visiting-card with an invitation to his 
 Sunday afternoons, and on the following day 
 our acquaintance began after amusing fashion 
 enough. 
 
 Upon this occasion Liszt was not dining with 
 the Russian party, but with other friends at a 
 side table. Soon champagne appeared for the 
 usual health drinking, Liszt doing the honours. 
 I now saw him fill a glass and hand it to the 
 waiter in attendance with whispered instructions. 
 
 That glass of champagne was brought round 
 to me, straightway Liszt's tall figure appeared 
 above the heads of the rest, I rose also and we 
 smiled, bowed and drank to each other from 
 opposite sides of the room. 
 
 *' Dear fellow, how like him!" cried George 
 Henry Lewes, when I afterwards narrated the 
 incident in Blandford Square. 
 
 Dinner over, I add that Liszt sought me out, 
 we shook hands cordially, and I saw my dearest 
 wishes accomplished. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE ABBjfi LISZT COflHuued 
 
 Ave Maris Stella — Liszt improvising — A Picnic — 
 "Keine Forellen!"— a Ticklish Charge— A Tragic 
 Love Story 
 
 On the following Sunday took place a ceremonial 
 of pathetic interest. The Abbe Liszt had 
 promised to play his own beautiful Ave Maris 
 Stella ^ on the organ of a little Catholic Church 
 close to his own villa. 
 
 His performance, needless to say, an event of 
 the utmost rarity, was given in furtherance of 
 some charitable scheme. Needless to say also 
 that miracles were worked with a second-rate 
 little organ, and that anyone with musical 
 knowledge or instinct must here have recognised 
 the master, "der Einzige," with Jean Paul to 
 be acclaimed, " The Only One." 
 
 * Also arranged for piano. I regret I cannot name key, having 
 presented my copy to my friend the now well-known impression- 
 ist and highly-accomplished musician, Mr Brabazon Brabazon. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 315 
 
 The incident also served to show Liszt's 
 innate sweetness of character, a sweetness 
 unspoiled by fulsome homage and feminine 
 following carried to the pitch of positive 
 molestation. 
 
 A number of English schoolgirls, pupils of his 
 own pupils, were present, and he kindly invited 
 them all to that afternoon's reception at his 
 house. Thither then, for the short service ended 
 when the musical matinee was about to begin, 
 w^e all trooped, a pert Miss of fourteen remarking 
 to me on the way — 
 
 " Of course, as mamma says, Liszt is a bad man 
 and we ought not to visit him, but attending a 
 concert at his house is quite another matter." 
 
 The speech remains in my memory as illus- 
 trative of that insular cant so odious to 
 foreigners. Of course this British matron's duty 
 was clear, either to say, " No, my dear, I do not, 
 for reasons I cannot explain, approve of the 
 Abbe Liszt, so we must stay at home," or else to 
 have held her tongue about "the bad man." 
 But no. "We have heard Liszt play," would 
 sound so well in England ! It is just this sort 
 
3l6 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 of Philistinism that makes us hated and hate 
 ourselves abroad. 
 
 We flocked in, Liszt's handsome drawing- 
 room being crowded to its utmost capacity. 
 First of all, one of Spohr's lovely Quartets 
 was perfectly played, the executants being- 
 friends of their host, then uninvited the tall 
 strange figure in priestly garb, his white locks 
 streaminof on his shoulders, moved towards the 
 piano. A genius must ever be greater, more 
 striking in expressing himself rather than in his 
 interpretations, however sublime, of others. I 
 am glad, therefore, that upon both occasions it 
 was Liszt himself I heard rather than those 
 matchless renderings of Beethoven, for which he 
 was so famous. 
 
 I will here add that to my thinking a piano- 
 forte improvisation, except by a Liszt, is of all 
 performances the least inspiring, perhaps indeed 
 the most wearisome. Any fair musician can put 
 together pretty musical phrases, keep his fingers 
 going with passionless harmonies. But Liszt 
 was so distracted, so torn to pieces, by that 
 terrible gift of personal fascination, the moments 
 
:^r. BETHAM-EDWARDS 317 
 
 he could give to composition were so furtive 
 and so irregular that very likely his finest works 
 were never put upon paper. Be this as it may, 
 he did not now merely improvise, he composed, 
 as he went along, the performance being no 
 dreamy, airy fantasia, vague as the melodies of 
 an yEolian harp, but a sublime musical whole, a 
 work impossible to describe or categorize, but 
 having a beginning, a middle and an end, 
 having, moreover, that passionate outpouring of 
 soul by which alone we are transported into the 
 highest regions of art and poetry. 
 
 The hush was intense, for not on one but 
 on all had the spell fallen. When that strange 
 inspired figure rose as much moved by his own 
 powers as his listeners, no one spoke. Not 
 even the four musicians seemed able to utter a 
 word. I do not know w^hat impelled me, rather 
 emboldened me, for, going up to him I said 
 in French, his favourite language, — 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur I'Abbe, vous nous avez 
 transporter dans le Paradis ! " (Ah ! Monsieur 
 TAbbe, you transported us all to Paradise.) 
 He did not speak but clasping both my hands 
 
3l8 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 in his own, long pressed them to his heart by way 
 of reply. On my return to the hotel I in turn 
 improvised, sending him the following lines : — 
 
 Improvisation on Improvisation. 
 To THE Abbe Liszt. 
 
 Fain would I praise such poetry as thine, 
 In fitting measures as a poet should ; 
 But ah ! thy music brings a deeper mood. 
 
 And only tears acknowledge the divine. 
 
 He at once wrote a little note of thanks* in 
 French, especially thanking me for the last words. 
 '' Ce beau vers," this beautiful line. Liszt's 
 excessive amiability, an amiability amounting 
 to positive weakness, was soon evinced in 
 another matter. 
 
 One day Fraulein Constance came to me 
 with a radiant face. She had got up a little 
 picnic that afternoon in my honour, and the 
 Maestro had promised to be of the party. 
 
 "We start at three o'clock for Tieffurt," she 
 
 * I regret that I cannot here give this letter. I have ever 
 entertained a horror of accumulation and long ago gave it with 
 a sweet note from G. Eliot to the son of my late learned and 
 very dear friend, Mr Watkiss Lloyd. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 319 
 
 said, ''stroll about for an hour or two, then take 
 tea at the little restaurant. I have telegraphed 
 for trout, the Herr Doctor adores trout. Heaven 
 forbid that I should be disappointed ! " 
 
 My young friend's lodging looked upon the 
 park, and pleasant was the brief interval of 
 anticipatory waiting. True enough Liszt kept 
 his word. About half an hour after the time 
 appointed we drove off, the two seats of honour 
 being assigned to another guest, a violinist, 
 and myself, on the seat opposite sitting Liszt, 
 Fraulein Constance on one side, another pupil 
 
 of his, Fraulein Anna on the other, an 
 
 arrangement that seemed to amuse him and 
 pleased the two girls mightily. 
 
 The picnic began gaily. Under such circum- 
 stances Liszt was charming. He could unbend 
 without effort and enjoy common pleasures as 
 if he had been an ordinary mortal. He frolicked 
 with his pupils, evidently delighting in this self- 
 abandonment. The weather too was everything 
 to be desired. Goethe's favourite haunt looked 
 especially cool and inviting after the dust and 
 glare of Weimar. 
 
320 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 But no sooner had we arrived than a great 
 chagrin was in store for our hostess. 
 
 '' Es gibt keine Forellen ! " (There is no 
 trout !) she cried, ready to burst into tears. 
 One might have supposed from her mortification 
 that Liszt was some poor protege, some out-at- 
 elbow Bohemian to whom the proposed deHcacy 
 was an event, instead of a great man and petted 
 courtier who could dine off gold and silver 
 whenever he pleased. 
 
 Fraulein Constance had really tears in her 
 eyes when we sat down to tea, her friend Anna 
 was hardly less concerned, but Liszt soon made 
 both smile again. He placed himself between 
 the pair, with his own hands spread brown bread 
 and butter for each, the girls smacking their lips 
 over each enchanted morsel, exclaiming — 
 
 '' Ach ! es schmeckt so gut!" (It tastes so 
 sweet !) 
 
 The violinist and myself also did our best to 
 mitigate the disappointment. We were in truth 
 hungry, and the rye bread, fresh butter and fruit 
 cakes were excellent. 
 
 *' Now tell us Erfurt news" (Erzahlen von 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 32 1 
 
 Erfurt), Liszt said to Fraulein Anna when he 
 turned to his own plate. The young lady had 
 just visited Luther's town and every scrap of 
 musical gossip she brought back interested her 
 listener. Then Liszt chatted with myself about 
 his devoted disciple Walter Bache, whom I had 
 often met in London, the Lewes' and others. 
 The meal passed off agreeably enough, but quite 
 without exhilaration. Somehow or other, it is 
 always thus. Mischievous little sprites seem bent 
 upon checking mortal expectations when raised 
 too high, encroachments upon their own elf-land ! 
 We were in " Tieffurt's Thai," Goethe's 
 loved little valley. Alike in park and chateau 
 every object reminded us of the poet and his 
 time, of those free and easy little banquets at 
 which Carl August, the Duchess Amalia, Goethe, 
 Schiller, Herder and Wieland assisted. Liszt 
 gave me his arm as we sauntered through 
 the quaint little palace in which the Duchess 
 received her great friends without ceremony ; 
 what ceremony indeed was possible in such a 
 doll's house? Wonderful memories crowded 
 upon us ; we were a well-assorted company, the 
 
 X 
 
322 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 twilight of late summer was sweet, yet one and 
 all subsided into calm and commonplace. 
 
 It was growing dusk when we drove into 
 Weimar, a group of girls awaiting us just outside 
 the park gate. Liszt was to get down here, 
 and these adorers wanted to salute the master 
 on his way home. As he alighted they pressed 
 forward, each catching at his hands, kissing 
 them with what can only be called religious fer- 
 vour. He shook off the pretty intruders, good- 
 naturedly pooh-poohing the too fond tribute. 
 
 " There, there, my children, that will do," he 
 said, hastening away, doubtless to find a second 
 bevy of devotees at his door. That daemonic 
 irresistibleness, that magnetic influence felt not 
 only by the other sex but his own, was an ever- 
 present thorn in the flesh ; to a passionately 
 artistic and creative nature like his, it could not 
 be otherwise. And unfortunately Pandora had 
 not accorded a counterpoise, the wholesome 
 antidote of moroseness, the power of being 
 irresponsive and occasionally unapproachable. 
 Without this good gift the most dazzling genius 
 may be wasted. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 323 
 
 I do not know exactly what happened after 
 this picnic, but the relations of my charming 
 young music mistress and her adored 
 Maestro evidently underwent change. It 
 also became plain to me that Fraulein Con- 
 stance's feeling for Liszt was no mere girlish 
 sentiment, or what her country people called 
 " schwarmerei," but a deep consuming passion, 
 the sort and degree of passion that drives men 
 into wild excesses and women either into 
 wasting sickness or worse still, mental 
 aberration. 
 
 Liszt had absented himself for a few days, 
 Fraulein Constance following him to Erfurt or 
 Eisenach, I forget which ; was it this step, 
 this fond espial that alienated or at least 
 cooled her master's affection ? She gave no 
 explanation, only hinted at some little mis- 
 understanding, and meantime w^ould I, oh ! 
 would I see the Herr Doctor and place in his 
 hands a letter too confidential for post or 
 ordinary messenger ? 
 
 I paused before replying. The poor girl's 
 distress was contagious. Short of disturbing 
 
324 REMINISCENCES OF, 
 
 Liszt I would have done any, every thing to 
 oblige her. But the request of a private inter- 
 view for such a purpose, and of one whose 
 privacy was so little respected ? No, I could 
 not bring my mind to the step. 
 
 I satisfied her, however, with the assurance 
 that the letter should be delivered either by 
 myself or a trusty substitute. On this under- 
 standing it was confided to me. A day or two 
 afterwards Fraulein Constance seemed in usual 
 spirits. The little cloud had apparently passed 
 over, all was as before. A lover's quarrel may 
 be easily made up. What happy issue can 
 await such complications as these ? on the one 
 hand, a girl's self-immolating devotion, on the 
 other, the shrinking, unwillingly accorded tender- 
 ness of an elderly man to whom by this time the 
 very thought of a woman's fancy must have been 
 terrible. I shall ever believe that had he with 
 the priestly robe adopted an ascetic rigidly 
 artistic life, he would have rivalled Wagner 
 — of whom, by the way, I am no enthusiast — 
 as a composer. 
 
 Exactly ten years later, I revisited Weimar, 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 325 
 
 and one of my first enquiries was after my 
 dove-eyed Fraulein Constance. 
 
 *' Fraulein Constance ist verschollen" (is 
 vanished), was the reply. 
 
 The unhappy girl had vanished, from mortal 
 ken, not alas ! finding harbourage in some quiet 
 God's acre, but within the prison walls of a 
 Maison de Sa^itd. Love for Liszt had unhinged 
 her reason ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 DR THOMAS WILSON 
 
 Souvenirs of George Eliot and Carlyle — Sketch of a 
 Career — Mirage — Nozrani in Egypt— "The Clemen- 
 tine Homilies" 
 
 It has been my good fortune to enjoy the warm 
 friendship, I may say, the closest, most affec- 
 tionate intimacy of many good and gifted men, 
 EngHsh and French. From none have I learned 
 so much, to none am I more indebted than to 
 the subject of the present chapter. 
 
 There was living at Weimar during my stay 
 in 1 87 1 an old friend of George Eliot and 
 Carlyle, a man wholly unknown to fame, but 
 hardly less deserving of a biographer than his 
 great familiars. For Dr Thomas Wilson was 
 no mere chance acquaintance of the novelist and 
 the sage. He had known George Eliot and 
 George Henry Lewes long before the publica- 
 tion of ''Adam Bede," whilst his friendship with 
 326 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 327 
 
 Carlyle, begun a generation before, was only 
 ended by death. Every time he visited 
 England, Dr Wilson spent a few quiet hours 
 at the Priory and at Cheyne Walk ; and it was 
 his privilege to see both these friends a few 
 months before they died. 
 
 I have never myself been able to entertain 
 much enthusiasm for the apologist of brute force, 
 of blood and iron policy, of slavery. Carlyle's 
 personality too, as pourtrayed, for I never saw 
 him, has ever been unattractive to me."^ Dr 
 Wilson's table-talk and anecdotes, nevertheless, 
 could but be full of interest. And very likely 
 from the lips of this high-minded friend fell the 
 most withering sarcasm ever uttered on Carlyle's 
 
 * Here is an anecdote I can vouch for, well worthy of the man 
 who wrote on " The Nigger Question." A gentleman well known 
 in the world of letters and society having with him his young son, 
 happened to meet Carlyle in the street. " I am so glad," exclaimed 
 the former. " This is the second great man my boy has seen to- 
 day." " And the first ? " sneered Carlyle. The other named the 
 greatest living philosopher, a man whose fame is world wide. 
 " The unending ass ! " retorted the sage of Chelsea. The story 
 is of a piece with his biography. Of any intellectual rivalship he 
 seemed furiously jealous, witness his brutaHties about George 
 Eliot and other women writers. 
 
328 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 system. The pair were holding earnest con- 
 verse one day when Dr Wilson turned to him 
 sharply with the question — 
 
 ''Come now, my friend, answer me. Jesus 
 Christ on the Cross now, do you call that 
 success ? " 
 
 Carlyle was dumb. My Weimar friend, al- 
 though always cutting short unsavoury topics, 
 could not help dropping pregnant hints now 
 and then. " That terrible cat and dog life," 
 he would say, with an expression of disgust, 
 when alluding to Carlyle's fireside. Long 
 before a word had appeared about it in print, 
 I learned of the tragedy that later became 
 so notorious, ''the cat and dog life " of Jane and 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 Dr Wilson was living at Weimar on the occa- 
 sion of George Eliot's first visit to Germany with 
 George ?Ienry Lewes. He used to smile as he 
 recalled a certain table d'hote experience; in the 
 midst of chattering tourists and the clatter of 
 dishes, this grave young woman propounding 
 theories of human and cosmogonic destiny, her- 
 self as utterly isolated from such surroundings 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 329 
 
 as if in their little study at home. The pair 
 then occupied modest lodgings in Regent's Park. 
 
 Dr Wilson's career was full of nobleness and 
 pathos. Blessed — or shall I say cursed^ — with 
 transparent sincerity of mind, with a conscien- 
 tiousness that could brook no via media, he had 
 thrown up the most dazzling prospects rather 
 than palter with the cause of Truth. 
 
 Of good clerical family, possessed of academic 
 distinction, and every becoming personal endow- 
 ment, he had entered the Church, promising to 
 prove one of her brightest ornaments, certain of 
 promotion, dignities, and the praise of men. 
 
 That embarrassing gift of a conscience soon 
 interfered wuth these brilliant prospects. Already 
 preferment was his, ecclesiastical honours also, 
 when the other, the moral side of the ques- 
 tion, forced itself upon his mind. Diligently 
 and desperately he set to work, dissected the 
 Thirty-Nine Articles, saw clear as day that 
 acceptance of them by any intelligent being must 
 be make-belief, that in consequence his own life 
 was a sham, payment for preaching what no man 
 in his senses could believe, what furthermore, no 
 
330 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 man, woman or child should be asked to 
 believe. 
 
 Self-questioning of such a mind could only end 
 one way. The dilemma landed him in Weimar, 
 teacher of English in a ladies' college. It was 
 by Carlyle's advice that he betook himself to the 
 illustrious little capital. There, despite the 
 modesty of his position and circumstances, he 
 received every consideration at the hand of the 
 Grand Duke and his wife. Of the Duchess he 
 was an especial favourite. Anxious to retain a 
 resident so distinguished, the ducal pair made 
 over to his use a delightful old manor-house 
 outside the town. In which he could receive 
 young Englishmen preparing for examinations. 
 
 In the meantime Dr Wilson had married a 
 German lady, one of the lady professors or 
 patronesses, I forget which, of the ladles' school 
 just mentioned. This highly educated, amiable, 
 and most capable woman brought to the fireside 
 exactly those qualities in which her husband was 
 deficient, namely, a capacity for business and 
 practical affairs, the tact, method, and fore- 
 thought necessary in all who have to provide for 
 
M. BETHAAI-EDVVARDS 33 1 
 
 their own future. The middle-aged marriage 
 answered admirably, and it was mainly owing 
 to Mrs Wilson's influence and exertions that 
 years stole on without pecuniary cares. 
 
 At this time the Wilsons occupied the ducal 
 residence alluded to, as pleasant a country house 
 as suburban Weimar could show, and there I 
 ever received affectionate welcome. 
 
 Dr Wilson was now just sixty, and had not 
 with his heresies cast off clerical physiognomy. 
 He looked indeed like a man born for the 
 Primacy itself The teaching of German 
 school-girls, the coaching of school-boys, could 
 not detract one iota from a personal dignity 
 that was absolutely unassailable. He was not 
 without the restlessness and irritability in- 
 separable from fastidious natures. He ever 
 commanded respect. Of course such a man 
 must have been more than human to feel 
 satisfied with his actual position, and here I 
 come to the real pathos of Dr Wilson's history. 
 
 The mere act of renunciation cannot satisfy a 
 heroic nature ; it craves expression, the kind of 
 action to be acquiesced in, the fulfilment of 
 
332 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 destiny. The first part of his life had been a 
 storm, a cataclysm, the second, and perhaps the 
 sadder of the two, was a mirage. As I have 
 mentioned, Dr Wilson was at this time just sixty, 
 and no more living in the present than an exile 
 or a prisoner counting the hours until release. 
 Nor was he changed in this respect when ten 
 years later I spent several months near the 
 Wilsons, then removed to Eisenach, and a few 
 years later still, on the occasion of his visit to 
 Hastings, he was the same, a mirage-haunted 
 man, a dreamer of dreams ! 
 
 His project was this — to settle in London, 
 hire some building as a free church, and there 
 preach Christianity, untravestied, unadulterated 
 by Councils and Synods, St Augustines and St 
 Athanasiuses. Had my great friend lived a 
 couple of hundred years ago he would most as- 
 suredly have been imprisoned, mutilated, perhaps 
 put to a horrible death. Could he have secured 
 a West-End pulpit in the seventies he might 
 have done what Salvationists have effected in 
 the slums. '' I have the gift of speech," he would 
 say wistfully, again and again going over the plan. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDAVARDS 333 
 
 But difficulties seemed insuperable. To a 
 man so delicate-minded the notion of expatriat- 
 ing his wife was painful in the extreme. Again, 
 his scheme involved outlay rather than re- 
 muneration. And later, when mainly owing to 
 that devoted wife's exertions, a modest compet- 
 ence was his, other objections arose. Despite 
 enormous taxation, housekeeping in Germany 
 was simpler, more economical than in London. 
 And he was growing old. Who could say? 
 His experiment might turn out a failure ; he 
 tried too late. 
 
 The mirage haunted him persistently never- 
 theless, and as he would dwell on the little 
 church of his dreams, a strange light came into 
 his face, he seemed to catch a Divine efflatus, 
 some faint reflex of that 
 
 " Strong Son of God, Immortal Love," 
 
 to Whom he ever seemed so near. 
 
 Dr Wilson was no mere intellectual stimulator 
 after the manner of George Henry Lewes, no 
 imparter of encyclopaedic knowledge or general- 
 isation. What he did was to open his listener's 
 
334 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 mind to the deep spiritual meaning of life and 
 life's teachers, revealed in nature or in books. 
 
 Quite naturally Schiller was a favourite author, 
 and one of his favourite pieces of writing was 
 the collection of " Letters on the Esthetic 
 Education of Mankind." How^ much do we 
 learn from our friends' choicest books, the books 
 that have become part of themselves ! Another 
 boon companion was Seneca's Epistles. The 
 "Clementine Homilies,"* a third favourite, he 
 always intended to translate, but the mirage 
 stood in the way of all but obligatory exertion. 
 
 The restlessness of unsatisfied craving and 
 desultory purpose soon after my first visit drove 
 Dr Wilson to Eisenach. When I visited that 
 town in 1881, in order to be near my friends, 
 they occupied a house not far from the station. 
 
 '' I love the signs of life and movement that 
 I see from our windows here," Dr Wilson said ; 
 " especially on fete days and holidays the living 
 
 ■^ The Greek Codex was first discovered in the Vatican 
 Library, 1853, by Dr Dressel, and pubHshed by him at 
 Gottingen in 1853. Criticism refers the work to the middle of 
 the second century, as edited at Rome by Ebionite Christians. 
 It has been translated into English. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 335 
 
 Streams that flow to and fro from morning till 
 night exhilarate me." 
 
 Although cheerfully uttered the speech struck 
 me as implying intense deep-seated melancholy. 
 Was it not a sick man's yearning after the hale 
 and the rosy, a captive's envy of the free ? 
 It only rested with himself to say the w^ord ; 
 but his powers of decision, once so cruelly put 
 to the proof, were gone. From Eisenach he 
 moved back to Weimar, occasionally visiting 
 England. The last time I saw him was at 
 Hastings, a few years ago. We parted at the 
 railway station, where he stooped down and 
 kissed me tenderly. 
 
 ''We shall meet again," I said, for I was 
 always hoping to revisit Weimar. 
 
 He said nothing, but an expression in his face 
 seemed to say, no. True enough, that was our 
 final farewell. A millionaire, as I have ever 
 deemed myself in the matter of friendship, how 
 was my capital diminished by the loss of this 
 most beloved and worthily-beloved man ! Some 
 of our friends embellish our lives, others build 
 up, one or two beatify. Neither a flower. 
 
336 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 melody, nor palmer's staff was the close friend- 
 ship of Dr Wilson, instead a Scripture, plain to 
 read bearing the incontestible stamp of finer 
 spirits, souls, in the words of Plato and Spinoza, 
 exempt from the lot of mortality. 
 
 The keynote of character is struck in early 
 life, and in a little book of Eastern travel,* 
 published by my friend so far back as 1848, I 
 find the following sentences : — 
 
 " Thank God, we have still a leaven of manly 
 Christian devotion working in the world's lump 
 of vexatious vanity ; we may yet hope to see 
 our national worship in spirit and in truth 
 within the walls of our churches, where upon 
 one broad level, rich and poor, old and young, 
 learned and simple, may bow down as brethren 
 in the presence of the God and Father of us 
 all. Here might be a reknitting of that bond 
 of union which is the bond of strength in our 
 social system, now bound by a rope of sand . . . 
 the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the 
 end of practical Christianity realised in our lives 
 as professed upon our lips." 
 
 ^ Nozrani in Egypt. Longmans, 1848, 3rd edition. 
 
M, BETHAM-EDWARDS 337 
 
 And just upon forty years later in a little 
 piece on the '' Clementine Homilies," * published 
 for private circulation occurs the following : — 
 
 " Anxiously painful feelings, to some even 
 bewildering, may at first suggest themselves 
 on this train of thought (the Hebraic attributes 
 of the Divinity) as if tending to lower that 
 standard of Divinity so sacredly identified in 
 all our childhood traditions with the name of 
 ' Our Saviour/ Yet painful as it may be to 
 pious, amiable and estimable sentiment, we 
 must be prepared to confront pain, and much 
 pain, should the service of Truth demand it. 
 All has in this world to be paid for, and Truths 
 or Love of Truth, ranks too high in Heaven 
 to be cheaply appraised on earth." 
 
 Here we have the writer's Christian Socialism 
 and standard of life fairly put forth ; a little 
 lower down occurs a Carlylesque exposition of 
 his theological views. 
 
 " Folks will have to look to it before long, 
 
 * " The Clementine Homilies," by Clericus, M.A., Cambridi,re, 
 1886. Weimar : Court Printing Office. Printed for private 
 circulation. 
 
 Y 
 
338 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to realise what our medlsevalism so readily 
 forgets — that terrible rising of the Copernlcan 
 curtain of the universe, that natural revelation, 
 the Indisputable autograph of Deity, which In 
 the sixteenth century so alternately paralysed 
 and electrified the sensitive Melancthon, and 
 which sturdy Luther (like our own sturdy 
 Samuel with Lisbon earthquake) would not listen 
 to, because It shook his faith." And in a note 
 Dr Wilson adds of '' a popular rhyme sung in 
 our Metropolitan Churches a.d. 1885 : 
 
 ' Jesus is God and made the world 
 And all our golden stars,' 
 
 a couplet surely betraying Its recent escape 
 from the nursery." 
 
 These brief extracts will show that a bottom- 
 less gulf divided Dr Wilson from that most 
 flourishing and pretentious "branch of the Civil 
 Service called the Church of England." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 A GROUP OF FRIENDS 
 
 My Capucin Brother — His Antipodes, Poverty, Chastity, 
 Obedience, and Novel-reading— Two Ex-Priests— 
 Ex-Priest Pastor B. — Ex-Priest the Commission 
 Agent— A Spanish Convert to Protestantism 
 
 Theology and theologians have never possessed 
 the very shghtest attraction for me. Yet strange 
 to say, some of my most valued friends and some 
 of my most interesting acquaintances have been 
 theology mad ! 
 
 A year or two after those Weimar experiences 
 I spent twelve months in the city of Nantes. 
 Among my acquaintances was a young Fran- 
 ciscan monk, an Irishman by birth, who had 
 solved the problem of life after cheerfulest 
 fashion. For him the Darwinian theory 
 existed not. The political tempests from time 
 to time sweeping earth's surface were matter of 
 no concern whatever, wars, pestilence, social 
 
 339 
 
o 
 
 40 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 upheavals, international complications, no more 
 affected him than if he already occupied a 
 fauteuil in Paradise beside his intellectual master 
 the Angelic Doctor. 
 
 Excellent company was this good-looking, 
 florid, blue-eyed young Capucin, his brown 
 serge robe and hempen girdle of true mediaeval 
 pattern, his bare feet sandalled, his red cotton 
 pocket handkerchief thrust in the folds of his 
 pocketless * garment. Easy enough to see that 
 here spiritual dilemmas sat lightly, that no 
 qualms of conscience disturbed this nineteenth 
 century follower of St Francis. 
 
 His enjoyment of existence was artless, and 
 would have been delightful to witness but for 
 some irresistible reflections. Here was a 
 vigorous son of Adam, a man by nature fully 
 equipped for life's battle, thews and sinews, 
 aptitudes and capacities in good order, who 
 had yet unconcernedly thrown aside every 
 vestige of moral responsibility, to whom indeed, 
 humanity in general was less than the worm 
 avoided in his walks. 
 
 * Pocketless because monks possess nothing. 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 3 4. 1 
 
 Could human selfishness go farther, egotism 
 find deeper level ? Alike civic, social, and 
 domestic duties were voluntarily shirked ; for 
 the sake of lazy pleasures and freedom from 
 care he had placed himself in the category of 
 infants, Idiots and minors generally, true man- 
 hood, the only birthright worth having, being 
 sacrificed out of sheer self-indulgence ! 
 
 Father J frankly acknowledged himself 
 
 among the happy ones of the earth. Lay 
 brethren performed the menial work of his 
 community. Coffee was served in his cell 
 just as milk and liqueur to Sybarite under- 
 graduates in their chambers. Six hours a 
 day were traditionally assigned to study ; re- 
 creation, religious exercise, and sleep filled up 
 the margin. And meantime from January to 
 December, from lustrum to lustrum and decade 
 to decade, there were neither rent nor taxes to 
 pay, no military service to be undergone, no 
 worries in the shape of tailors' bills or reduced 
 rate of bank interest. Who would not feel at 
 times tempted to don serge robe and hempen 
 girdle on such conditions ? 
 
342 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 The preposterousness of the situation was 
 brought out all the more striking by Brother 
 
 J 's boon companion, the friend to whom 
 
 I was indebted for the introduction. 
 
 This was an American gentleman of singular 
 engagingness, a shining example of the 
 masculine qualities insisted upon by me in 
 a former page, that capacity for self-sacrifice 
 and devotion so often arrogantly appropriated 
 to themselves by my own sex. 
 
 My Transatlantic friend ought to have been 
 a scholar with an easy fortune, above all things, 
 he ought to have lived at Boston, in Paris, 
 London, or some other literary centre, enjoying 
 and enriching a cultivated circle. Instead, he 
 was a modestly-paid official, condemned to un- 
 congenial routine, to exile in a country of which 
 he understood neither the language nor the 
 people, for compensation so many dollars per 
 month, the meat, drink, and wherewithal to 
 be clothed of a limp little wife and three or 
 four limp little children. 
 
 Father J although under thirty was fast 
 
 emulating Friar Tuck, being plump to rotundity. 
 
]\r. BETHAM-EDWARDS 343 
 
 Mr C , on the contrary, was lankier than 
 
 the average American, which is saying a good 
 deal. His clothes hunor about him as those 
 
 o 
 
 of an outfitter's manikin, so spare and fieshless 
 looked he, that you dreaded lest any moment 
 the slender scaffolding should tumble, the ill- 
 supported structure fall to pieces. 
 
 Tenderly attached to the limp litde wife and 
 limp little daughters, early imbued with notions 
 
 of feminine supremacy, Mr C yet at every 
 
 available moment vanished into a world of his 
 own, a world they knew not, the enchanted 
 region of Bookland. He had contrived, Heaven 
 knows how, to carry his books about with him 
 wherever he went, a choice little collection, 
 chiefly of imaginative literature, and these com- 
 pensated for earthly ills. Shakespeare, Goethe, 
 Calderon, Camoens made him forget the dreary 
 Darwinian problem, the struggle for life. 
 
 Whilst evidently it never struck Father J 
 
 that his existence was one of egregious selfish- 
 ness, so his American comrade took his own 
 hard lot quite as a matter of course. With the 
 most perfect good humour he allowed himself to 
 
344 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 be bundled from one room to another, on the 
 most trivial pretext; now the children wanted his 
 study, being livelier than the other rooms ; now 
 he must make use of the dining-room, and so 
 on. With other American husbands and bread- 
 winners he seemed to be perpetually on suffrance, 
 a necessary evil. 
 
 F'ather J , Mr C , and myself often 
 
 collogued together, our long discussions being 
 upon literature, philosophy or Romanism. 
 The young Capucin was a great novel reader. 
 *' I go to Walter Scott, Dickens, and the rest, 
 for knowledge of life, a knowledge I cannot, of 
 course, acquire within the monastery walls," he 
 used to observe. 
 
 The topic he loved best and the topic on 
 which he shone was the spiritual life as set forth 
 by St Thomas Aquinas. 
 
 The Franciscans have their own school of 
 
 oratory. Father J could roll his eyes, 
 
 lunge forward, go into ecstasies, after approved 
 fashion, expression, attitude, tone, having naught 
 of the lay element about them. Everything 
 was as monachal as could possibly be. 
 
:^I. BETHAM-EDWARDS 345 
 
 Nantes of all great French towns, and I may 
 boast that I know all, has fewest attractions for me. 
 I never revisited the city that lent its name to the 
 first edict of religious tolerance ever published, 
 and later on, to the infamous traffic in human 
 flesh. The young Franciscan and our common 
 friend, the fastidious book-lover, faded from my 
 life as if I had known them in dreams only. 
 
 To later years belong a group of still more 
 striking figures, and all three belonging to 
 French experience. 
 
 We hear in England enough and to spare 
 about perversions to Rome. Little is said 
 about reversions from Romish superstition to 
 Protestant liberty of conscience. Yet such 
 instances are of frequent occurrence. In his 
 new, most important work on Greater Britain,* 
 M. Leroy-Beaulieu notes two deeply interest- 
 ing and gratifying facts, namely, the frequent 
 conversions of Roman Catholics to Protestant- 
 ism in Australasia and the comparative in- 
 significance and stagnation of the Romish 
 element, our young, sturdy, healthy England 
 
 * Les colonies Anglo-Saxonnes. Paris, 1897. 
 
346 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 of the Antipodes is Nonconformist to the back- 
 bone. Whilst the Salvation Army,* a body 
 for which I entertain the utmost respect, is 
 gaining ground on every inch of Australasian 
 soil, our colonists will have nothing to do with 
 confession, tawdry ceremonial and superstitions 
 only becoming the darkest of dark ages. The 
 Salvation Army has the unmistakable, Indisput- 
 able quality of earnestness, freedom from 
 sham. For my part, I adore the poke bonnet 
 and scarlet jersey. I have heard Liszt im- 
 provise divinely, Sims Reeves sing in his 
 apogee, the Garde Republlcaine, the finest 
 orchestral, concerted and Individual perform- 
 ances of our time. No music ravishes my ears 
 as that of the Salvation Army. Those hearty 
 strains, vocal and instrumental, heard every 
 Sunday, never fail to stir my pulse with purest 
 rapture. For do they not remind me of our 
 hardly acquired religious liberty, the right 
 enjoyed by every English subject to save 
 
 * "The phylloxera of Evangelicahsm " is the charitable verdict 
 of a Church of Enjj^land clergyman, the Rev. S. B. Gould on 
 General Booth's sect. See his "Deserts of Central France." 
 
M, BETHAM-EDWARDS 347 
 
 or damn himself as he pleases, to regard his 
 salvation, so-called, as purely a personal affair 
 as that of choosing a partner in life or a 
 career ? 
 
 It was in 1878 that I met the late Pastor 
 Berthuel of Arbois ; there is no need to con- 
 ceal this remarkable man's name, it belongs 
 to the history of French Protestantism.* 
 
 Not many years before, the Romish Church 
 in France had suffered a severe blow, in 
 her own words, had been humiliated by a 
 grave scandal. One of her brightest orna- 
 ments, a priest endowed with rare intellectual 
 and oratorical powers, announced his intention 
 not only of embracing the Reformed religion 
 but of becoming a Protestant minister. Argu- 
 ment, threats, coaxing proved useless. Had 
 he remained where he was, honours and 
 emoluments were certain to be his in due 
 course, and now the most tempting baits were 
 held out. Firm as a rock, unmoved alike by 
 
 * See " Le Chretien Frangais," organ of the new movement ; 
 the reversion of Romish priests to Protestantism now taking 
 such wide development. 
 
348 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 casuistry or the affectionate importunities of re- 
 lations, he took up his cross. For it must be 
 borne in mind that whilst the convert to Rome 
 is fooled to the top of his bent, the killing of 
 the fatted calf being insignificant beside the 
 petting received by a pervert, quite otherwise 
 is it with the renunciator of tradition for liberty 
 of conscience. Cordially welcomed by his 
 brethren and co-religionists of course he is, but 
 alas ! intolerance is a weed not as yet unrooted 
 from French soil. In the eyes of the Ultramon- 
 tane a Protestant is still a heretic, a brand only 
 fit for the burning. What then must be the 
 position of an ex-priest turned Lutheran pastor ? 
 The ddfroqud for conscience' sake is not only 
 an accursed one, a theological castaway, a pariah 
 of society, he is also cut off from the domestic 
 affections. First to fall away from such a 
 renegade are mother, sister, niece, those who 
 loved him, whose pure affection kept alive his 
 own. If kinsmen are less obdurate they are 
 not always able to testify their influence. 
 Feminine Influence is too strong. 
 
 Pastor Berthuel's case reminded me of Dr 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 349 
 
 Wilson's. The one great struggle of his life 
 seemed to have left him not purposeless, he 
 admirably fulfilled his duties, but quite unable 
 to take any further initiative. Protestant friends 
 in England invited him to London ; there he 
 would most assuredly have found stimulus and 
 a fitting sphere. But no, the humblest of French 
 pastorates, a congregation of fiifty souls, chiefly 
 peasants, a stipend of as many pounds, with 
 dwelling, these sufficed. He did not look 
 unhappy ; on the contrary, there was chastened 
 elation in every reference to his new calling. 
 Yet one could but feel the inadequacy of such 
 a position, and he must himself at times have 
 felt the cost of his sacrifice. 
 
 He had married a worthy Protestant lady, and 
 a young niece brightened their humble home. 
 Very pleasantly he did the honours of pretty 
 little Arbois, showing me the exquisite Cluse or 
 valley of the river Cuisance, explaining here 
 the formation of tufa in the river bed, there its 
 dissolution, the two processes being observable 
 near each other. Of the matter most interesting 
 to me, namely, his secession, he dropped no hint. 
 
350 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 I learned afterwards that the confessional and its 
 abuse had driven him from Rome. 
 
 Pastor Berthuel died at Arbois four years ago ; 
 during his ministry he had done more than keep 
 the little Protestant congregation together, adding 
 several converts to the number. One of these I 
 met some years later at Champagnole. 
 
 The second ex-priest whom I have had the 
 honour of knowing was of quite a different 
 calibre. 
 
 With Monsieur C it was a revolt of com- 
 
 monsense rather than of fastidious conscience. 
 He threw up Rome and the priesthood, 
 sacrificing good repute, family ties, home, 
 a livelihood, just because reason had asserted 
 itself The monstrous childishness of the tenets 
 he was compelled to profess and inculcate, the 
 profound immorality of the confessional, the 
 mockery underlying priestly vows, all these 
 made him ashamed of the tonsure and black 
 robe. Without means, without friends, without 
 training for active life, he burnt his boats and 
 breasted the stream. 
 
 Poor fellow! When I made his acquaintance 
 
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 35 1 
 
 in Paris, he was exercising as many trades as he 
 counted years, the most lucrative being that of 
 epitaph writing ! A seminarist may be ignorant 
 of everything else under the sun, he is bound to 
 understand Latin. 
 
 So Monsieur C was, so to say, put on the 
 
 staff of a monumental mason, earning a few francs 
 here and there by wording eulogistic epigraphs 
 in Latin. When any person of note or wealth 
 died, the Inscription would be pretty long and 
 Monsieur C 's emoluments In proportion. 
 
 He also had taken to himself a wife, and 
 domestic anxieties no more spare an ex-priest 
 than one to the manner born. Despite inborn 
 gaiety of disposition and hopefulness not to be 
 checked by rebuffs, occasional fits of depression 
 would overtake him. Here Is an extract from 
 one of his letters to myself: — 
 
 " Love of justice and truth, detestation of 
 hypocrisy, induced me to quit the Romish priest- 
 hood. Without fortune, without a profession, 
 ignorant of practical life and its struggle, I never- 
 theless decided upon this step, confiding in my 
 own courage and in the uprightness of my 
 
352 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 purpose. I have undergone bitter suffering, I 
 have also had my Intervals of joy and con- 
 solation. The hardest part of existence Is 
 this : instead of being able to devote myself to 
 Intellectual pursuits, to literature and philosophy, 
 I am compelled to run about from morning till 
 night In search of daily bread. I have knocked 
 in vain at editorial doors, I have vainly tried my 
 hand at fiction. As a last resource I now follow 
 the calling of commission agent." 
 
 My third recusant from Rome needs no 
 commiseration, rather I should say, arouses no 
 pensive sigh. Senor Jose, a young Spaniard 
 preparing for the ministry at Montauban, was 
 the joyfulest creature conceivable. He had just 
 entered upon the Ltcne de Miel of conversion, 
 that blissful honeymoon when marytrdom for his 
 newly-embraced creed would .have been raptur- 
 ously welcomed, the rumour of a revived Inquisi- 
 tion, a resuscitated Torquemada on native soil, 
 awakened intensest delight. The mere fact of 
 outlawry, odium, revlllngs seemed contemptible 
 drawbacks, wholly unworthy of the occasion. 
 Don Jose was spending the summer vacation 
 
M. BETHAAl-EDWARDS 353 
 
 under the same roof with myself, in a pleasant 
 French parsonage of the Pyrenees. With what 
 ecstasy he replaced the pastor during temporary 
 absence, improvising family prayers, giving long- 
 expositions of Scripture ! Delivered in the most 
 imperfect, strangely accented French, accom- 
 panied by unctuous personalities, intolerably 
 drawn out, we yet listened with the utmost 
 patience. Who could do otherwise ? Let us 
 hope that the fervid convert will celebrate the 
 Jubilee of conversion as joyfully as he has 
 done its initial fete ! above all, that he will win 
 a few fellow-countrymen from their sombre 
 mediaevalism and intolerance ! 
 
 Here, at least for the present, these re- 
 miniscences end. Perhaps I cannot more 
 fittingly close them than with the following 
 verses, verses in which are summed up re- 
 flections that have gone before. No, let the 
 Schopenhauers, the Ibsens, the Nietzches say 
 what they will, Life is good and wholesome ! 
 It rests with ourselves whether it prove a 
 curse or a benediction. 
 
354 REMINISCENCES 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF YEARS. 
 
 I. 
 Rose-garlanded, frail as if fairies wove, 
 
 Wet with the dew of all too happy tears, 
 Those memories of first, best, only love, 
 
 That span from youth to age our Bridge of Years. 
 
 II. 
 As granite, cold, remorseless, obdurate 
 
 Alike to passionate prayer or trembling fears. 
 Those forces, shall we call them Chance or Fate ? 
 
 That sternly, slowly built our Bridge of Years. 
 
 III. 
 Crystalline vault, aerial colonnade. 
 
 Such architecture as the hoarfrost rears, 
 Were evanescent hopes and dreams that made 
 
 Unreal, yet how fair ! our Bridge of Years. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As starry path swept clean by tempest wrack, 
 Far off perspective of a thousand spheres, 
 
 That passing of high souls across our track, 
 Whose lives illuminate our Bridge of Years. 
 
 v. 
 Symphonious as an aisle on Easter Day, 
 
 Or woodland avenue when the springtide ncars, 
 Now with a requiem, now with roundelay, 
 
 Echoes from youth to age our Bridge of Years. 
 
 THE END 
 
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