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 LIBRA R.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 B46a 
 1883 
 v.l
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STKKET SQUARE 
 
 AND TAKLIAMLNT bTKLLT
 
 f 

 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR 
 
 ^f)C Oimpic Oiori? of ^f)rcc "JJono un5 a o^irt 
 
 r.v 
 
 WALTER 13ESAXT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'all M>RTS AND CONDITIONS Of MBN ' *1IIE REVOLT OK MAN* 
 
 •tmk captains' koo.m' etc. 
 
 IN TIlkKi: NoI.LMKS 
 VOL. I. 
 
 1*01) bo 11 
 
 CHATTO cS: WINDUS. LICCADILLV 
 1883
 
 V. I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CH.VITER TAOK 
 
 IXTRODUCTIOX— TUE PKIZE OF TflE GOLDEN APPLE . 1 
 
 P.iiiT I.-TIIE MAKIXG OF A MAN. 
 
 I. THE VILLAGE GREEN 
 
 II. THE FORBST OF HAINAULT 
 
 III. WHAT TUERE IS OUISIDE 
 
 IV. A NEW SHAME 
 
 V. THE CONFESSIONS OF A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 VI. THE TYRANNY OF THE THOUGHT 
 
 VII. SAMSON AND DELILAH . 
 
 VIII. IN THE CIIAMUEU . . . . 
 
 IX. POET UNTO POET .... 
 
 I. THE TEACHING OF ART . 
 
 XI. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE . 
 
 XII. THE GRE.\T CONSPIRACY 
 
 II 1 1. THREE PROPOSAIJ^ .... 
 
 XIV. THE BANQUET .... 
 
 IV. biver'b legacy . . . . 
 
 21 
 43 
 
 6G 
 84 
 lUO 
 119 
 141 
 J CO 
 179 
 195 
 213 
 239 
 247 
 2Ci} 
 29fl
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 IXTEODUCTIOX. 
 
 THE PKIZn: OF Till': GOLDEX AITLE. 
 
 If tlic montlis of the year are feminine, like the 
 fleeting liours, then the most feminine, the most 
 variable, the greatei^t coquette of the ^vliole 
 twelve, is that nymph whom we call May — -fol 
 qui sy fie. She is inconstant ; she never 
 remains of tlie same mind ; she is faithless ; 
 she is full of whims ; sometimes she is so sweet 
 and charming that she carries all hearts, not by 
 savage assault, but by tlie mere asj^ect and 
 sight of her. Sometimes she is so full of smiles 
 and winning ways that men, looking upon each 
 other, wonder how any could be found to speak 
 a word in her dispraise ; she sings, and laughs, 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 ALL IX A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 and crowns herself with flowers, iind trips with 
 light foot and careless ease over meadows 
 ankle-deep with buttercups. During these her 
 happy moods we all fall to being happy too ; 
 every poet thinks of rhymes to fit a sonnet ; 
 every musician reaches down his fiddle ; and 
 everywhere there is such a twanging of lyres, 
 singing of madrigals, dancing of ballads, war- 
 bling of ditties, and universal chorus of praise, 
 that it is enough to turn the head of any god- 
 dess, to say nothing of a mere minor deity 
 and simple country nymph. And all in a 
 moment — lo I — she changes ; she frowns ; she 
 is cold ; she sings no longer ; she puts on sad- 
 coloured robes ; she is as forbidding as poor 
 !Miss February with her sealskins, her red nose 
 her frozen toes, and the cold in her head. 
 Alas ! poor May. Then the lyre, the theorbo, 
 the viol, the bagpipe, the scrannel straw, the 
 lute, the dulcimer, tabor, and pipe are all, with 
 one consent, silenced and put upon the shelves; 
 the musicians sit down, sad ; the poets tear up 
 their unfinished lays ; the sonirs cease ; every-
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 3 
 
 body goes home ; doors and windows are shut 
 tight, and tlic poor maid is left out of doors all 
 in the cold, deploring, alone in her gloom to 
 lament her caprice. Yet another hour, and she 
 forgets her ill-humour ; we forgrt it too : she 
 is once more the sweet, the lovely, the blushing, 
 merry, and merry-making month of May ; we 
 are grovelling slaves again. 
 
 It was in the evening of, perhaps, the most 
 lovely day that this fickle goddess ever vouch- 
 safed to England that four children wxre play- 
 iniT toirether under the trees of an ancient 
 forest. The sun was going down, and the west 
 wa<i already making preparations to receive him 
 with a grand illumination. Tlie young leaves 
 were at their bravest and brightest, and the air 
 was heavy Avith the fragrance of the May 
 blossom, because there is no sucli place in tlie 
 world as this forest for tlie liawthorn. Three 
 of the playing children were boys of thirteen, 
 the foiu'th was a girl of about eleven. She 
 ran, and jumi)ed, and pla3'ed with the boys as 
 if she were a boy herself, being, in fact, iis 
 
 B 2
 
 4 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 strong and sturdy as any boy of her age, with 
 a length of limb which gave goodly promise for 
 the future, to tliose who love their mistress and 
 queen to be tall. They had been running and 
 playing the wliole afternoon and were now 
 growing a little tired. When a boy begins to 
 feel tired he jumps and runs harder than ever, 
 and becomes rough, just to shov; that he is not 
 tired at all. But when a girl feels tired she 
 wants to sit down. Presently, therefore, this 
 young lady, who had been, all day long, sun- 
 shine and mirth, grew a little cross, and began 
 to cry fie upon the boys for their rough 
 handling, a fault which besets and spoils their 
 sex, and to say severely that she wished there 
 were no such things as boys, and that they 
 ought not to have been invented — yet conscious 
 all the time that she preferred boys to girls as 
 playfellows — and that she sliould play no longer, 
 but should leave them to bang each other with 
 their shoulders and their elbows. The sky, in 
 fact, became cloudy and the wind chill. 
 
 So she walked away, dangling lier hat by
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 5 
 
 tlie strings, in the direction of a fallen trunk, on 
 wliich sat a man, thoughtfully regarding the 
 group, Avith his chui upon liis hand, and a 
 contemplative cigarette between his lips. He 
 rose to meet the girl, and took both her hands 
 in his and kissed her forehead. This was her 
 father. 
 
 He was a little man, though his daughter 
 looked as if she woukl be tall ; yet not a very little 
 man. His narrow sloping shoulders — a feature 
 one may remark more often in Paris than in 
 London — his small head, and the neatness of 
 his figure made him look smaller than he was. 
 Small Engrlishmen — tliis man was a Frenchman 
 
 o 
 
 — are generally sturdy and broad-shouldered, 
 and nearly always grow fat when they reach 
 the forties. But tliis was a thm man. In ap- 
 pearance he w^as extremely neat ; he wore a 
 frock-coat buttoned tightly ; behind it was a 
 white waistco.it ; he had a (lower in his button- 
 hole ; he wore a pink and white necktie, very 
 striking ; his shirt-front and cuffs were perfect ; 
 his boots were highly polished ; lie was five-and-
 
 6 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 forty, but looked tliirty ; his hair was quite 
 black and curly, without a touch of white in 
 it ; he wore a small black beard ; his eyes were 
 also black and as bright as steel. It is perliaps 
 misleading to compare them with steel, because 
 it is always the villain whose eye glitters like 
 steel. Now M. Hector Philipon was not a 
 villain at all. By no means. The light in his 
 eyes came from the kindness of his heart, not 
 from any villainous aims or wicked passions, 
 and, in fjict, though his beard and his hair were 
 so very black — black of the deepest dye, such 
 as would have graced even a wicked uncle — he 
 frightened nobody, not even strangers. And of 
 course everybody in tliose parts knew very well 
 that he was a most harmless and amiable 
 person. He liad a voice deep and full like the 
 voice of a churcli organ; honey sweet too, as 
 well as dee}). And at siglit of his little girl 
 those bright eyes became as soft as the eyes of 
 a maiden in love. When he spoke, although 
 his English was fluent and correct, you per- 
 ceived a foreign accent. But he had been so
 
 ALL LV A GARDKX FAIR. 7 
 
 long ill the country and so far away from liis 
 own countiynien that the accent was shglit. 
 Yet he neither looked nor spoke like an 
 Englishman. 
 
 ' You are tired, Claire ? ' 
 
 ' Xot much, papa, but hot with so much 
 running. And the boys began to push.' 
 
 She sat beside him, laying her hand upon 
 his arm. Already they were companions, this 
 little girl and her father. Presently there aro:e 
 a great shouting of the boys ; a cloud fell upon 
 the girl's brow, because they had learned 
 ah'eady to play without hei\ and in half a minute 
 she was forgotten. It was a very white brow 
 over a face Avlhcli mii>lit become beautiful. As 
 yet, no one except a prophet (of whom there 
 are lamentably few nowadays, and those few 
 have their hands full of other things) could say 
 anything about the child but that she was 
 singularly like her lather, only, a very un- 
 common thing, she had deep blue eyes, with 
 dark eyebrows and black hair. This com- 
 bination, so far as one can learn, happens
 
 8 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 nowadays hardly anywhere except in Tasmania, 
 where it has been accounted for on various 
 scientific grounds, such as, that the soil is 
 strongly impregnated Avith phosphate — a thing 
 in itself quite sufficient to account for anything ; 
 and that the air is remarkably charged with 
 ozDne — what cannot ozone effect? — and that 
 the proximity of the South Pole w411 account 
 for everything not previously explained. All 
 these reasons are excellent, and enable us to 
 see quite satisfactorily why Tasmanian ladies 
 get black hair and blue eyes. Br,t they do not 
 apply to Mademoiselle Claire, because she never 
 was in Tasmania, and, I believe, is not likely to 
 go there. The question wliy she got blue eyes 
 and black hair may therefore be referred to 
 the Eoyal Society. 
 
 She looked at them WTCstling and running, 
 just as happily without her as with her, regret- 
 fully. She had thought, i)erhaps, tliiit they 
 would follow her and sit down on the trunk 
 beside her, and refuse to play any longer 
 because she would i)lay no longer. At least,
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. g 
 
 she did not think that they would go on just as 
 if she were not in existence. Boys are truly 
 horrid creatures. They are born witli none of 
 the fnier shades. And neglect is the greatest 
 insult one human being can offer to another. 
 Presently she slipped off her seat upon the 
 trunk and opened the lid of a basket. They 
 had been having a little inconsiderable picnic, 
 a cheap picnic, with cold tea in a bottle, and 
 bread and butter, and bread and honey, and a 
 little fruit. The bottle was empty, and the 
 bread and butter and honey were all eaten up. 
 But there was lying, iu the corner, the last of 
 the oranges. 
 
 She took it out. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, ' shall the boys race 
 for it ? ' 
 
 ' They shall,' replied her father. ' We will 
 finish with a race. Boys,' he shouted, ' we 
 will finish with a race — Claire holds the prize. 
 The course shall be — what? Then, mark it 
 out for yourselves.' 
 
 He looked on with a smile, which was not
 
 lo ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 tlie smile of benevolence, or of affection, or of 
 good manners, or of condescension, or of in- 
 terest or anticipation, because he really did not 
 care about the excitement of the race at all, but 
 of philosophy. He smiled, because he remarked 
 the little coquetry of his daughter and the 
 emulation of the boys. 
 
 As for Claire, the suns] line returned to her 
 face, the sky Avas clear again, the wind was 
 warm ; the boys were going to fight for her 
 gifts ; any woman at any age appreciates this 
 discernment of beauty. Her eyes were bright 
 and her black locks were blown across her 
 face. The boys meanwhile, as if a kingdom 
 depended on the result, measured the ground, 
 pacing side by side. When they were quite 
 satisfied tliat they had got an exact two 
 liundred yards they stood in a line awaiting the 
 signal. 
 
 ' She holds,' murmured M. riiilipon, ' the 
 gift of the golden apple. This was long ago 
 the cause of discord, and she is happy because 
 she has it to bestow. Instead of three god-
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN L^AJR. ii 
 
 desses I see tliree schoolboys ; instead of a 
 shepherd tliere is a girl. Why does one think 
 of Paris ? Yet they will all grow up, and per- 
 haps some day the golden apple will be a golden 
 ring, and .... aha ! Claire, my angel, thou 
 wilt be worth many golden apples. Are you 
 ready, brave boys ? Eeady all ? Go ! ' 
 
 When he dropped his handkerchief the 
 lads started with a rush. The biggest and 
 tallest of them took the lead and kept it. He 
 was closely pressed by a slighter-built boy, 
 who promised to make a good second ; long 
 behind these two toiled the third, who Avas 
 of shorter frame and ran as if he were in 
 bad condition, panting laboriously yet not 
 giving in. 
 
 'Will wins,' said the philosopher. * Happy 
 boy ! he is born to win everything. The world 
 is his, because he is strong and brave and not 
 too clever. Tiiose arrive — Uein? — who are 
 not so much cleverer than their neighbours. 
 To have too many ideas is to be inconipris, un- 
 comprchended ; no one understood my ideas
 
 12 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 when I was young. The world belongs to 
 Will Xo ! he loses ! the boy with many 
 thoughts wins — no — it is over — tliey are even. 
 Now, in the big race which may come after- 
 wards, to wliom would the girl bestow^ the j^rize ? 
 An orange or an apple may be divided in 
 halves, but a woman ? No ; she is like the 
 Eepublic, One and Indivisible.' 
 
 In fact the race seemed in the first boy's 
 hands ; he was ten clear feet ahead, tliere were 
 but twenty feet between liim and the girl, who 
 clapped her hands and cried out ; he turned to 
 laugh at tlie second : it was a sad example of 
 pride before a fall ; his foot caught in a tuft of 
 grass and he was grassed. He was up in a 
 moment, but he was already overlapped, and 
 although he made up tlie difference it was a dead 
 heat, and tliey were in neck and neck. 
 
 Tlic third boj^ continued the race long after 
 it was hopeless, and came in witli a smiling and 
 satisfied face. 
 
 Tlie Frenchman patted this boy on the head 
 approvingly.
 
 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 13 
 
 'You did well,' lie said. 'Never know 
 that you are beaten. Then j'ou will always 
 feel the pride of victory. My daughter, divide 
 the prize into four portions and give Olinthus 
 one of the quarters.' 
 
 ' I Avas winning easily,' cried the tallest lad. 
 He was as handsome a boy as you may wish to 
 see anywhere, with clear, fresh complexion and 
 brave outlook ; a lad of mettle who liked fair 
 fighting and the rigour of the game ; a boy with 
 plenty of ability, as was shown by his broad 
 forehead and clear-cut nostril, yet perhaps 
 without the yearning for books which makes a 
 scholar and a writer. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' laughed the other. ' So you 
 were, Will; I own that. All the better for me 
 that you fell down.' 
 
 ' All fair, Allen. But it is a beastly sell.' 
 
 Allen laughed again. He was a much 
 handsomer boy, but his face wanted the strength 
 that lay in the other's ; his eyes were full and 
 light, his lips were mobile, his forehead was 
 hiirh rather than broad.
 
 14 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 Claire liesitated between the two. While 
 she hesitated Will took the prize out of her 
 hand. 
 
 ' We will divide it,' he said, ' as your father 
 orders. And Tommy shall have his quarter.' 
 
 ' The ])rizcs of life, my sons,' observed M. 
 riiilipon, sententiousl}' — he really was a most 
 profound philosopher, and so lonir as he could 
 say what seemed a good thing was careless 
 whether or no it was new — ' the prizes of life 
 are bestowed, not at random, as foolish people 
 think, but by fixed rules ; they are not given 
 to the men who run fastest, but to those who 
 run most wisely. Combine, Will, prudence 
 with swiftness. Then doubt not the issue, but 
 run with courage. As for Olinthus ' 
 
 ' Tommy was out of it from the beginning,' 
 said Will, interrupting in the truthful but brutal 
 manner common among boys. 
 
 ' If it had been a three-mile, or even a one- 
 mile course,' said Tommy, ' you fellows would 
 have seen — as for your little hundred-yard races, 
 it is only a rusji. Give me a long course.'
 
 ALL IX A CARD EX J AIR. 15 
 
 ' As for Olinthus,' continued M. Pliilipon, 
 ' let him continue to run bravely, short course 
 or long course, and many prizes will be his.' 
 
 Olinthus, commonly called Tonuny, blushed 
 to the roots of his hair. Nobody noticed this 
 proof of modesty, because his face was already 
 so red from the running that no amount of 
 blushes could have deepened that hue. It was 
 a blush absolutely wasted. At a later age, 
 when blushes are rare, this might have caused 
 subsequent regret. Who would not wish to 
 retain that bUish which adorns the cheek of 
 youth when good deeds come to light ? Wliy, it 
 is an incentive to good deeds. Titus blushed 
 daily. ]^ut Tommy did not mind. Ho Avas, 
 as I have said, short of figure and bruad of 
 shoulder, his legs were sturdy, his fiice broad 
 and rather flat, and his nose was a little turned 
 uj) at the end. rerha])s he was only a com- 
 monplace boy to look at. He who makes it 
 the business of his pilgrimage to watch his 
 fellow-men becomes something like a portrait 
 painter, inasmuch as he finds no one common-
 
 i6 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 place. At fourteen a flice, however plain, may 
 mean a great many things — there are infinite 
 possibiUties in every young face on which his- 
 tory has not yet set a mark ; at five-ancl- 
 twenty the number of tliese possibiUties begins 
 to be counted ; at forty there is a stamp upon 
 it ; at sixty there is the indelible seal of a 
 life's history upon it. Tommy's face as yet 
 was the face of possibihty, and to ordinary 
 observers its range, so to speak, was limited. 
 Yet you sluiU see to what lieights this Tommy 
 subsequently lose. 
 
 When they liad eaten their orange Claire 
 packed up the basket, and they all began to 
 stroll homewards. Ey this time the sun had 
 disappeared and the evening was upon them. 
 
 First walked tlie girl between AYill and Olin- 
 thus, and they all three chattered together and 
 pretended to know everything. Boys of thirteen 
 are encyclopaedias of information ; like the great 
 mediasval scholars, they know all that there is 
 to know ; or, which is exactly the same thing, 
 they know all that they talk about, from the
 
 ALL IX A GARPEX FAIR. 17 
 
 liyssop to the oak, and from Bunny to Bclie- 
 motli. 
 
 M. Pliilipon walked behind \vitli Allen. 
 
 When the sun had quite gone down, there 
 fell upon the forest an awful sense of the 
 mysterious deepening twilight. The tln'ee who 
 led tlie way took hands and dropped into 
 silence ; only now and then Tommy shouted, 
 just to keep up his spirits and to show that the 
 more awful the outward look of things, the 
 higher his courage rose. Allen was perfectly 
 silent, and presently his companion saw that his 
 eyes were wide open, luminous, gazing steadily 
 before him, yet seeing nothing, and his lips 
 parted. He watched the boy awhile, then spoke 
 softly. 
 
 ' Boy, shall I tell your thoughts ? ' 
 
 The boy started and laughed ; he was called 
 back to himself. 
 
 ' If you can, sir.' 
 
 ' When the sun sank behind the trees, your 
 courage fell ; you became sad ; you began to 
 long' for something ; you expected something. 
 
 vor.. [. c
 
 i8 ALL L\ A uARDJiX J'AIR. 
 
 Xow tlie wind is like a voice to you, but you do 
 not know what it says ; the trees beckon to 
 you witli long arms, but you do not know why; 
 beneath the branches in the deep blackness ai"e 
 caves filled with things wonderful and myste- 
 rious ; you would wish to penetrate these dark 
 caverns and fight the devils which hide there, 
 but you do not know how to begin, nor where 
 to begin.' 
 
 The boy interrupted him. 
 
 ' How do you know, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Because, my son, I too have been a boy. 
 There are some boys with whom their dreams 
 linger ; mostly they die away and are forgotten. 
 There are other boys, but not many, ^^hose 
 dreams take shape and live in words. Per- 
 haps you may be one of these boys. Who 
 knows ? ' 
 
 ' And yet,' he said to him.self, ' I suppose 
 there will be nothing for it but \\\q 'petit commis 
 — the little clerk. Poor boys ! The pity 
 of it!'
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE MAKING OF A MAN
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VILLAGE GREEX. 
 
 All the houses of the vilhige stand along one 
 side of a broad road which leads, like all other 
 roads, to London and to Eo.r.e. It is not a 
 high-road, and has but little trafTic. It is only 
 a road which connects one small town with 
 another small town — Romford, in fact, with 
 Chi})ping Ongar. When the road was con- 
 structed there was so mucli ground to spare 
 that they did not trouble about breadth, and 
 allowed to remain a belt of grass t\venty, thirty, j 
 or forty feet wide on the side of it. The houses 
 of the village vary in size from the great square 
 villa set in a great square garden, to the little 
 cottage of four rooms built of i)lanks painted 
 white, with a high pointed gable and porch
 
 22 AIJ. L\ A uAKPKX FAIR. 
 
 overgi'own with jessainiue. Naturally, because 
 Ave always have tlie poor with us, there are 
 more small cottages than there are great villas. 
 If there were any ragged children they would 
 use the green side of the road for a playground ; 
 but there are none, for tliis is not a country 
 village at all, but a suburban viUage. On the 
 green, in place of the children, you may see 
 when the day is fine certain elderly gentlemen 
 walking together : it is their Exchange, their 
 boulevard, their place for conversation. 
 
 One summer morning, about half-past eight 
 or nine o'clock, there were three of these 
 habitues already out upon the green. 
 
 Two of these were standini]^ toorether in the 
 shade of the tree : one, Sir Charles Withy- 
 comb, ex Lord Mayor of London, was a little 
 old gentleman witli a short nose and white hair, 
 a ruddy cheek and a twinkling eye, a cheerful 
 face and a ready smile — an old gentleman who 
 might not be very wise, but who was certainly 
 kind of lieart. The one who stood beside him 
 was tall and thin, with a long wliite beard, and
 
 ALL L\ A CARPKX FAIR. 23 
 
 — uhich 3'oii observed when he took off his liat 
 — a liead as bald as an cg!j. lie liad a stoop 
 ill liis shoulder Avhich lu^ave him a deferential 
 manner, and he rubbed his hands and bowed 
 his head when lie spoke, whieli increased the 
 appearance of deference to superior judgment. 
 His name was Skantlebur^'. The third, Mr. 
 CoUiber, ^vas somewdiat yoiuiger, but grey- 
 headed too. lie was sharp and thin of face, 
 Avitli a hooked nose and the eye of a bird of 
 ])rey. He lacked the kindly expression of Sir 
 Charles, and looked angry and hungry. This 
 was because he w\as both angry and hungiy. 
 lie hungered after shares, bonds, coupons, 
 consols, funds, stocks and quotations, which had 
 been his daily food for many years. He w^as 
 angry because he could get them no more. He 
 was as angry and as hungry as a hawk before 
 breakfast. He was walking up and down the 
 green looking occasionally at the Money ^larket 
 article in the paper which he carried in his 
 hand. On passing the other two he would 
 stop and exchange a word or two.
 
 24 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 Presently there came from one of the lanes 
 "svhicli led into the road a very neat and dapper 
 little man, with shiny boots, buttoned frock, 
 and a white waistcoat. In his button-hole was 
 a sprig of jessamine. Beside him w^alked a 
 little girl of twelve or so. On passing the 
 gentlemen he raised his hat politely. Sir 
 Charles acknowledged the salute with a friendly 
 gesture. 
 
 • ' A worthy man,' he said, ' and lives, the 
 butcher tells me, on a pound and a half of meat 
 or thereabouts every week, and that not the 
 prime cut. But, to be sure, he is a Frenchman. 
 I wonder, Skantlebury, wdiether the French City 
 Companies ever have a real banquet. I re- 
 member, in my Company — all ! ' 
 
 There are some reminiscences better left 
 unexpressed, because it is not in the power of 
 words to do them justice. It is a cruel injustice 
 that not a single poet has ever sung of a City 
 Company's bancpiet. Wherefore worthy alder- 
 men can only wag their heads and fall back 
 upon an interjection.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 25 
 
 Next tliere came running out of a cotta<:je 
 beside the green — one of tlie little white wooden 
 cottages, with six rooms or so — a boy of thirteen 
 or fourteen. As he passed the gentlemen he 
 touched his hat respectfully, as a junior should. 
 Sir Cliarles nodded kindly. 
 
 ' A tall boy,' he said. ' Grows like his 
 ft\ther : too much like his father. Who failed,' 
 he added after a moment, because there was no 
 hurry and they all knew the story, ' fcr a con- 
 temptible sum. Quite a contemptible sum.' 
 He sighed and shook his head, but his face was 
 so cheerful and his eyes so bright and his lips 
 so red, that the butcher, looking out of his shop, 
 thought Sir Charles was chuckling over some 
 joke, and smiled in sympathy. 
 
 ' In the silk trade, was he not ? ' asked Mr. 
 Colliber, looking after him. ' There was money, 
 once, in silk.' 
 
 'In the silk trade,' repeated Sir Charles. 
 ' Though in a small way ; antl furmerly in 
 Brimage and Waring's. His partner got him 
 into the mess. Name was Stephens, and he
 
 26 ALL 'IX A GARDKX FAIR. 
 
 bolted : yes, lie got hold of all the money that 
 he could and bolted. Then Engledew fiiiled, 
 and — I suppose because it was such a disgrace- 
 ful thing to fail for such a trifle — he — he — in 
 fact he was ashamed of it, and he hanged himself. 
 But the boy knows nothing of that.' 
 
 ' Lucky,' said Mr. Colliber, ' that some of 
 u^ weren't troubled by the same scruples. Else 
 we might be all hanging in a row.' 
 
 ' There are differences, my dear friend,' said 
 Sir Charles gently. ' My own failure was for a 
 hundred and fifty thousand. Yours, Colliber, 
 as all the world knows, for a colossal half- 
 million. It is an event in history. It will not 
 be forgotten. To fail for such an amount is 
 glorious — glorious.' 
 
 His fixce, on which the sunshine seemed to 
 linger, glowed with admiration at the thought 
 of so much greatness. But Mr. Colliber only 
 scowled, as if this greatness had been thrust 
 upon him. 
 
 ' The iaihircs of the residents in tliis village,' 
 said Mr. Skantlebury, rubbing his hands,
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. 27 
 
 * amount in the aggregate, it has been computed, 
 to more than a miUion and a quarter.' 
 
 ' All ! ' said Mr. Colhber, witli a snarl-hke 
 ghmpse of white teetli ; ' don't you wish you 
 had failed yourself, Skantlebury ? ' 
 
 This was a cruel thing to say, because Mr. 
 Skantlebury had, on the contrary, made money, 
 though in quite a small way. To be almost 
 the only man in the place who has not failed, 
 and to have actually made a small fortune while 
 all the rest have lost large fortunes, is a painful 
 position for a man. 
 
 Mr. Skantlebury blushed and coughed 
 behind his hand. The action was significant 
 of the small way. It almost, taken with the 
 roundness of his shoulders and the bowing of 
 his head, suggested the retail way. 
 
 Sir Charles took no notice of this remark, 
 and went on about the boy, although no one 
 was listening. 
 
 ' The boy's mother,' he said, ' was a Fool. 
 Nobody but a Fool would have acted as she 
 acted. She had some money of her own —
 
 28 ALL LV A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 settled upon her and nil — and islie positively 
 gave it up to the creditors ! A pitiable business 
 to see so much money clean thrown away. 
 They took most of it, and left her a poor fifteen 
 hundred or so. They live upon it.' 
 
 ' De-plorable,' said Mr. Skantiebury. 
 
 Then there passed another boy running 
 after the first, a lad with a strap and a bundle 
 of books. 
 
 ' Young Gallaway,' said Sir Charles. ' ITis 
 father died too youno-. If he had lived he 
 would have foiled for a far larger amount. The 
 Gallaways have been in the oil line for many 
 years. That boy's uncle is a warm man. Oli ! 
 yes, a warm man ; I remember he lost money 
 by me.' 
 
 Sir Charles spoke as if tlie more this warm 
 man had lost by him, the warmer he had 
 become. 
 
 At the end of tlie green tlie two boys were 
 joined by a third, and tliey all set off walking 
 together as fast as they could. 
 
 ' Young Massey,' said Mr. Skantiebury.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDL-.X FAIR. 29 
 
 'Another case; his faLher, too " said 
 
 Mr. Colliber. 
 
 ' Yes, oil ! yes/ replied Sir Charles. * A 
 credittible failure. Seventy thousand only ; 
 but the circumstances Avere romantic. The 
 failure happened two years before I was Lord 
 Mayor.' 
 
 lie then proceeded to describe circum- 
 stantially the way in which Mr. Massey dissi- 
 pated a good business and became a bankrupt. 
 Unfortunately, the particulars, of the greatest 
 interest, are too louii; to be narrated here. It 
 is sufficient to explain that Mr. Massey was one 
 of those brilliant speculators who seek a fortune 
 by shipping coals to Newcastle, sugar to Mauri- 
 tius, rum to Jamaica, tea to China, or claret to 
 Bordeaux : a man full of ideas. He tried to 
 realise them, and the result was — that he came 
 to the villai^e. 
 
 ' And they are pretty poor, too, I suppose ? ' 
 asked Mr. Collibur. 
 
 ' De-plorably,' rei)lie(l Mi-. h^k:intlebury, 
 rubbin^jT his hands ai^aiii.
 
 30 ALL L\ A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 ' If you want wealth,' said SirCliarles, 'you 
 cau go to Buckliurst Hill, or to Sydenham, or 
 to Chi.^lehuist : here you Avill not find it. But 
 we have our })iide.' 
 
 One would not grudge Sir Charles Withy- 
 comb his pride, because it afforded him so much 
 sohice ; but in assuming that he and his friends 
 were singular in its possession he was wrong, 
 because pride is one of the things to which 
 everybody is entitled : it is a right of man ; it 
 belongs to equality and fraternity : and so 
 benevolently equal are the distribution of the 
 choicest gifts in store, that a City waiter may 
 be as proud as the City Eemembrancer, and the 
 ship's car[)enter as proud as the purser. 
 
 'Some of us,' Sir Charles went on, 'have 
 received distinctions from her Most Gracious 
 Majesty the Queen ; some of us have been on 
 terms of familiarity with the great — yes, Mr. 
 Colliber, have lived in Kensington Palace Gar- 
 dens ; some of us have been in a large way ; we 
 have failed, as my friend rightly tays, for an 
 aggregate of millions. I have myself enter-
 
 A I.I. IX A GARDEX IWIR. 31 
 
 tained his Eoyal Iligliiiess tlie riiiicc of Wale:^. 
 It was when I was Lord flavor ' 
 
 Here ]\Ir. Colhber moved slowly away. 
 
 'Wlieu I was Lord Mayor, Mr. Skantlc- 
 bury. At the Mansion irouse. When he 
 Clime away ' — at this point of the well-known 
 story Sir Charles's emotion always overcame 
 ]iim, to the absolute destruction of his aspirates, 
 wliich had been acquired partially and at a 
 comparatively late period — ' when he came 
 away his Eoyal 'Iglmess said to me, " My Lord 
 Mayor," he said, "I 'ope that every Lord Mayor 
 that comes after you will entertain me as 'and- 
 some as you 'ave entertained me 'andsome this 
 night;' lie did, indeed, Mr. Skantlebury.' 
 
 * It must be a glorious recollection, Sir 
 Charles,' said the only hearer left, * glorious.' 
 lie rubbed his hands again and bowed his 
 head as if he had heard the anecdote for the 
 first time. Presently Mr. Colliber returned, and 
 the group was joined by Mr. Massey, a large 
 old gentleman with a rich voice and a dignified 
 bearing, who appeared capable of failing for
 
 32 ALL L\ A GARDLX FAIR. 
 
 niillions. Then tliey talked about investments 
 and consulted the sliare list.^, and were as eager 
 over it as if they were all going ofTwitliout a 
 moment's delay to invest the money for which 
 they had failed. 
 
 There is not much money in this village, 
 but there is continual talk of money, and the 
 perilous ways of merchant adventurers are 
 familiar to the residents. There is no hurried 
 rush to the City in the morning, nor is there 
 the slow return in the evening ; their feet tread 
 no more the golden pavement ; yet they have 
 been there and still would go ; and in their 
 eyes it is the nearest approximation to heaven 
 below. There was once, I have read in the 
 ' Penny Magazine,' a sailor who was too fond 
 of ram. Everybody in the lleet, including the 
 Admiral, Lord Nelson, took the. greatest in- 
 terest ill til is rare and exceptional case. It 
 was finally decided tliat the only way to 
 cure the patient was to give him nothing 
 else to drink. The lirst day he was in 
 hap])y heaven ; sang all the songs he knew.
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 33 
 
 ^vitll many that he did not know ; danced all 
 the hornpipes lie knew, with many steps which 
 he only guessed ; and smoked as much tobacco 
 as can be smoked in a single day. The next 
 morning he was no longer in heaven, but in 
 l)urgatory. The next — but here we must leave 
 him, the Admiral, Lord Nelson, and the fleet 
 still looking on with increased interest. Now, 
 as these gentlemen had been pursuing the 
 shadow^ of wealth all the time they were in the 
 City when they had money to play with, it was 
 a kind of purgatory to them that they must 
 pursue it still when they had none. People 
 who are so unhappy or so wicked as to have 
 actually become rich need not be considered 
 ill this story. 
 
 In fact the village reversed the proverb, 
 because it showed how pride comet h after a 
 fall, instead of before it. For the people who 
 inhabited its cottages and trim villas had all, in 
 fact, failed, wound up, made composition, or 
 agreed with their creditors. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 ;,4 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 At first thoiiglit it seems strange that any 
 village should be blessed with so great a dis- 
 tinction. Yet it is not really strange at all. For, 
 if you think of it, every town must have some 
 peculiarities. It may be placed on the Thames 
 or on the Potomac, but it must be placed some- 
 where, else it would be worse off than a mathe- 
 matical point, w^hich at least hath position. 
 Then it must have residents, else what sort of 
 a town would it be ? And the residents must 
 have distinguishing marks — unless they are 
 Chinamen, who are all alike over the whole 
 Empire. We have, for instance, all heard of 
 the one-ej^ed man in the city of the blind. 
 Abdera, again, was a city where all, from young 
 to old, were confessedly born fools — no doubt 
 proud of their folly. Gotham (impudently an- 
 nexed by the Americans) is a city, on the other 
 hand, where they are all proud of their wisdom. 
 Surely, therefore, there is nothing remarkable 
 in a village — not a city, but a small village — 
 occupied entirely by people who have broken 
 down in the world. It would be strange, con-
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 35 
 
 sidering liow iiumy surli tliere be, if there were 
 no such viUago. 
 
 There was once an island in the neighbour- 
 liood of l^yzantiuni wliitlier they used to send 
 deposed emperors, simply dressed in monastic 
 garb, to live the rest of their lives on beans, 
 lentils, and cold water. I h:ive often pictured 
 to myself the mingled sympathy and joy with 
 which these unfortunates Avould welcome a new 
 arrival. They would hold i)leasing converse 
 with him on the glories of the throne when 
 they sat upon it. They would explain to him 
 the true nobility of their own conduct, which 
 mankind had basely misinteri)reted ; and they 
 would ask of him, or exchange with him, cre- 
 dence as to the extraordinary purity of their 
 own motives and the greatness of their reigns. 
 Ilalf-a-dozen of these old emperors sitting in a 
 row, like old sailors on the Conunon Hard by 
 Tortsmouth Harbour, would be a truly delight- 
 ful picture. One can imagine the stories they 
 would tell about the greatness of tlu'ir fall, 
 the consolation they wt)uld derive from the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 conteraplalioii and recollection of this fall ; and 
 the Hutter among the cowls when another boat 
 was signalled having on board another deposed 
 emperor. Such as this island, so was this 
 village. 
 
 As for the men in this vilhitre, the ex- 
 bankrupts and compounders, they were, as a 
 rule, cheerful and chiq)y. They had the Green 
 to meet in on warm and sunny days. The past 
 was filled with pleasing memories. They 
 would compare notes on former splendoms. 
 They would persuade themselves that they 
 were not quite forgotten in the City yet ; in 
 fact they were not, nor will they be, forgotten 
 for a long time. Sir Charles might still hear 
 very, very truthful things said about him. Mr. 
 CoHiber's nanie will still be received with the 
 warmest blessings of those whom he has mined, 
 unto the third and fourth generation. 
 
 As for the ladies, the older ones found, like 
 their husbands, consolation in memory. But 
 it was bad for their daughters and for their 
 sons ; for lovers come not to this place. Th^
 
 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. yj 
 
 girls — there are not many — are as perfectly 
 sure of a loveless life as Jephthah's daughter ; 
 they go about in despondency. When one 
 thinks about these poor girls thus liidden away 
 and kept out of sight of marrying man, one 
 feels first, vaguely, that something ought to 
 be done and must be done ; and secondly, that 
 there really should be held, some two or three 
 times in the year, a Babylonian marriage 
 market. We have got the Babylon all ready, 
 and really I think there would not be much 
 difficulty in getting an auctioneer and a steady 
 supply of lots. And, after all, such a mar- 
 riage would not be much more matter of 
 chance than plenty that are celebrated every 
 day. 
 
 Naturally, at nr^i, the boys grew up to 
 regard a big bankruptcy as a just cause for 
 pride ; they considered, for inst^mce, that Whit- 
 tington came short of solid greatness by dying 
 in good credit ; and they looked uix)n the great 
 offices in the City as steps in the splendour of 
 a career which would presently end in a failure
 
 38 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 for liuudreds of tliousands. It was long before 
 Allen and Will realised that this glory existed 
 only in the eyes of the village. The truth was 
 rudely brought home to them by contrast and 
 comparison. They learned when tliey went to 
 school that bankruptcy means poverty. Other 
 boys — sons of less illustrious citizens — could 
 have new clothes, while they had to endure 
 patches in unseemly places, lettings down, 
 additions of cuffs, and all kinds of makeshifts 
 to keep on the old clothes as long as they held 
 together. Other boys, again, could have plenty 
 of books ; they had to make one set of books 
 do between them. Some books they had to 
 borrow. There was scrimping in such small 
 matters as pens, ink, and paper. They could 
 not subscribe to the school club, and were thus 
 cut off from full companionship, and they had 
 no })ocket-money at all. Poverty is nothing so 
 long as it is not felt. It mattered httle to be 
 l)Oor while the boys lived at home and did not 
 go to school, because there was at least enough 
 to eat and to drink. It was when tliey were able
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 39 
 
 to compare that tlie truth gradually became 
 clear to them. 
 
 'It is all very well,' said Will at length, 
 ' for a fellow to look forward to be like Sir 
 Charles and Mr. CoUiber. They failed for so 
 mucli that they are grand ; everybody here is 
 proud of having been a bankrupt. But my 
 f\\ther isn't grand at all. He says that if he 
 hadn't failed I should have gone to Eugby and 
 Cambridge. Very well, then, what is he so 
 proud of it for ? As for me, I don't intend to 
 fail. I mean to make a fortune.' 
 
 * So do I,' said Allen. 
 
 ' So do I,' said Tommy. * My uncle is an 
 oil broker in a large way ; he'll give me a 
 burth to begin with. You should see his house 
 at Brixton. I mean to make money too. You 
 should hear him order about his butler. We 
 had champagne there last Christmas.' 
 
 The three boys were the only boys in the 
 place, and an object of interest to the residents, 
 who gave them advice in a paternal spirit, and 
 sometimes, but seldom, sixpences.
 
 40 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ' Stick to your books, boys/ said Sir Charles, 
 ' stick to your books, especially your account 
 books. They have made me, boys, what I am.' 
 He puffed out his clieeks as lie spoke, and 
 Allen, though he regarded Sir Charles as the 
 greatest of men, thought of the frog in the 
 fable, while Will began to wonder whether it 
 was the adding up of tliose books wrong which 
 had made him wliat he was. 'They made 
 your fathers, lads. Now which of you three is 
 best in arithmetic ? ' 
 
 The other two pointed to Will, who blushed, 
 but did not deny the accusation. 
 
 ' Well,' said Sir Charles, ' I hope you are 
 all good at figures. And what is your ambi- 
 tion, Will?' 
 
 ' I shall try, sir, not to fail,' said the boy in 
 his downright way. 
 
 Mr. Colliber laughed sarcastically, Sir 
 Charles looked uncomfortable, Mr. Skantlebury 
 coughed behind his hand. 
 
 'Ah! yes — good. And you, Olinthus?' 
 asked Sir Charles.
 
 ALL IN A GARDE X I- AIR. 41 
 
 ' I sliall try to be Lord Mayor of London, 
 and ^vhen I fail it shall be for hundreds of 
 thousands,' replied the ingenuous Tommy. 
 
 ' A noble boy indeed ! Truly a noble boy. 
 That is the spirit, lads, in which to enter life. 
 Thus was England made.' He patted Tommy's 
 head and would have given him half-a-crown 
 but that he had no half-crowns just then. 
 ' Lord Mayor of London,' he repeated. ' Yes, 
 that is worth aiming at. Did I ever tell you 
 how I entertained his Royal 'Ighness the Prince 
 of Wales?' 
 
 Had he ever told them anything else ? 
 
 'When he went away, his Eoyal 'Ighness 
 was good enough to say, " My Lord Mayor, all 
 I ran say is this, I only 'ope your Lordship's 
 successor will entertain me as 'andsome as you 
 'ave entertained me 'andsome this night." That 
 was about enough, boys, wasn't it ? Eh ? 
 eh ? eh ? ' 
 
 'Will,' said Allen, 'I hate money. They
 
 42 ALL L\ A GARDEX I-AIR. 
 
 talk about notliing else. Where are the people 
 ^vho read books and talk about things that 
 don't mean money ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' Will answered. ' I don't 
 hate money. With money you can buy what- 
 ever you like. The richer I get the better I 
 shall like it. With money, Allen, you can 
 even buy books.' 
 
 They went to an old grammar school about 
 two miles nearer town. To ^et there the lads 
 had to tram}) the two miles there and back 
 every day ; they marched side by side ; fre- 
 quently, on Saturday afternoons especially, they 
 would encounter otlier lads from Stratford, 
 Bow, Clapton, Stepney, and Old Ford. Then 
 there would be a fight, in which they sometimes 
 came off victors and sometimes had to retire. 
 Yet not ingloriously, for who could resist the 
 ponderous charge of Will, master of an iron 
 fist, ambidexter, the Achilles of the Forest ? 
 Beside him charged Allen, as plucky yet not so 
 stout of build ; and, outside the melee^ Tommy 
 plied the dexterous pebble. Insomuch that
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 43 
 
 the prowess of the three was bruited abroad, 
 and the cliivalry of the East-end came fortli. 
 When the worsted combatants went home again 
 they always boasted of a victory and egged 
 their friends to go too, and try their luck. But 
 it was observed by the thoughtful that no one 
 went twice. 
 
 The school wa.^ an ancient foundation, and 
 tlie boys were well taught. It was not wholly, 
 for instance, a school for the training of the 
 Perfect Clerk, whirli is simple, and means 
 handwriting, spelUng, and book-keeping. The 
 Perfect Clerk needs little more. It was rather 
 a school for tlie training of the ambitious clerk 
 who aspires to a partnership. Most of the boys* 
 fathers were already partners, and intended 
 that the boys should follow after them. There 
 were many things tauglit in the school, and it 
 was the fault of the masters if the Literce 
 humaniores were generally regarded by the 
 boys as encumbrances, or perhaps useless orna- 
 ments, to their possession. The masters, for 
 instance, knew quantities of Latin — a fact most
 
 44 ALL L\ A GARDE X FAIR. 
 
 discouraging to the student, because clearly 
 they made no money. There was an atmo- 
 sphere of the City about the school. And it 
 was an interesting school, and had a most 
 charming old building of red brick with ivy 
 and picturesque masters' houses ; yet it was a 
 school from which the boys did not run away 
 to sea, or enlist in the army, or go on the stage, 
 or become artists, or take to letters, or try any 
 of the fancy methods of living. They all looked 
 forward to going into the City. The knowledge 
 of this ought to make the fortune of the school.
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 45 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FOREST OF HAIXAULT. 
 
 TiiK village where these boys were brought up 
 stands on the fringe of tlie old forest whicli 
 once covered the whole of the north of London. 
 It has no beauty of its own, apart from the 
 white wooden cottages with gables and porches 
 and garden paUngs all covered up and almost 
 hidden by every kind of creeping plant, and 
 the gracious amplitude of garden which sur- 
 rounds every house big and little, so that the 
 inhabitants may enjoy the fruits of the earth in 
 due season. It is so near London that a boy 
 with an imagination may at any time fancy that 
 he can hear the bells of Bow Church — not 
 Stratford-le-Bow Church, which is much nearer 
 — and if he stands with his head half turned
 
 46 ALL I\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 and his left liancl curled round his left ear, he 
 can easily make out what tlic bells say, and 
 urn again, and become Dick Whittington, and 
 sk Sir Charles the best way to become Lord 
 Mayor. Yet it is so far away that London fogs 
 fall never upon its pleasant gardens, and as for 
 that great canopy of i)erpetu'al smoke of which 
 we hear so much, there is not so much as the 
 fringe of it l)etween the children's eyes and the 
 blue of heaven. 
 
 It is so far from London, again, as to be 
 full of country delights, rural sounds and rural 
 sights. The rurality of the i)lace, to one fresh 
 from town, seems overdone, an affectation of 
 rurality, a pedantry and pretence, somewhat 
 over acted, of rusticity. 
 
 Thus, nowhere are the roads more liberally 
 edged with broad belts of grass, a^ if laud was 
 plentiful and chea]) ; nowhere will you lind 
 such broad, ugly, uncared-for ditches, with 
 ])ollard wilhnvs and old oaks beside them, 
 blackberrv bushes and brambles scramblinjx 
 over them, and tall weeds, reeds, and stran^re
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 47 
 
 -svild flowers growing in them ; nowhere will 
 you find the ducks waddling by the roadside 
 with more perfect trustfulness, as if there were 
 no tramps or gipsies in the world; surely, a 
 duck, of all creatures, must be sincere : she 
 would not pretend a trustfulness she did not 
 feci. Tlie roadside inns are picturesque and 
 dirty ; their signs — brave old signs such as the 
 *Good Intent' and the 'Travellers Rest' — 
 hang creak ily over the wooden trough full of 
 water for tlic horses. There is generally a 
 lioi^se and cart waiting ; the horse drinks at 
 the trough, the driver, leaning against a door- 
 j)ost of the inn with a nuig of beer in his hand, 
 drinks and exchanges opinions with the land- 
 lord ; the i)cople in the road roll as they walk, 
 with hands in pockets, lifting feet accustomed 
 to a clay soil — quite iw if they were hundreds 
 of miles from London ; the very children roll 
 in their walk ; they roll up, ragged and brown, 
 like the cloud rack ; they are rosy and pic- 
 turesque children, save when they bang and 
 beat each other and cry with dirty knuckles in
 
 48 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 tearful eyes. Tlie roads are quiet and there are 
 few wayfarers. Sometimes when the weather 
 is warm and the sun is sloping downwards you 
 may see, leaning over the green palings of tlie 
 cottage garden, the meditative maiden, looking 
 up and down the dusty way. She waits, I sup- 
 pose, for the Prince, wlio is to come some day 
 and change lier quiet life, and give her a high 
 old time, a real romantic time, and make her 
 happy ever after. The seasons and the days of 
 these quiet girls' lives are very beautiful to con- 
 template and to read about — in little bits. All 
 lives are to be taken, as the artist takes his 
 landscapes — in bits. If you take a bit so big 
 as to be, so to speak, a Piece, it becomes mono- 
 tonous, even considered as a study of character. 
 The girls themselves in this quiet place say that 
 to be always studying your own character 
 grows in the long run almost intolerable. And 
 as for that Prince, unless he goes about on a 
 bicycle on a Saturday afternoon, I liave never 
 met him in any of tlie lanes in these parts, and 
 one fears indeed that he may not come until
 
 ALL LY A GARDEX FALR. 49 
 
 tlie spring of soft cheeks and tender eyes be 
 gone. 
 
 In tlie road, besides the ditches and the 
 belt of grass, tliere is pig — wliite pig and bhxck 
 pig ; tliey lie in the warm nuid happy and 
 satisfied witli life. Tliey burrow tlieir noses 
 among the coarse tufts of grass in searcli for 
 something toothsome, of which tliey know, and 
 would tell us if they could ; let us never forget, 
 iny brotliers, that the pig w^as the original dis- 
 coverer — the Columbus — of TrulHeland. Tlie 
 expression of the intelligent and mobile tail, as 
 its owner pokes his snout into the mud, indi- 
 cates the curiosity and excitement of research, 
 and perhaps the gratitude of success. Lastly, 
 just to prove how deep we are in the country, 
 llie air is full of sounds absolutely rural. No- 
 where else so near to London can you hear 
 such sinujiiiix of birds ; nowhere else so near do 
 you get the nightingale, nowhere else so near 
 does the dove coo. You may hear the tinkle 
 of a sheep-bell just as if you were on Dartmoor. 
 You may see a hawk hovering in the air as if 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 50 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 you were on Malvern Ilill. You may liear (lie 
 sharpening of tlie scytlie, tlie liammer of tlie 
 blacksniitli, and tlie wo-wo-ing of llie plougli- 
 boy. On Sunday evening you may wateji 
 the plonghboy making love. And never an 
 omnibus, or a tram, or the whistle of a 
 train. 
 
 The forest, by which the village lies, was 
 once a very magnificent and royal place indeed. 
 It has associations of histor}^ One of the kings 
 was wont to hunt here, a fiict which makes it 
 interesting to everybody. Another king once 
 rode through the forest. The old trees re- 
 member both events very well, yet attach very 
 small importance to them, being more con- 
 cerned with the recent steps taken for their 
 own ])reservation. For a very remarkable cus- 
 tom formerly prevailed there. The people were 
 a religious folk and anxious to live Avell and 
 keep a clear conscience. Everybody will ai)plaud 
 them for this. And in order to make the clarity 
 of conscience easier and safer, they took the 
 eiiihth connnandment out of the decalogue,
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 51 
 
 and very soon forgot that it had ever existed, 
 except wlien a new curate came and noticed its 
 omission, and fumbled about and turned red, 
 wlien one of the cliurchwardens would <io and 
 explain to him brieliy, that in the spiritual 
 interests of the parish, this excision had been 
 found necessary. Because they gave up their 
 whole leisure time to carving bits out of the 
 forest and adding them to their own gardens, 
 sticking up palings round these bits ; here a 
 cantle and there a snippet, here a slab and there 
 a slice ; a round corner and a square corner ; a 
 bare piece of turf, or a wooded clump : and all 
 so neighbourly, encouraging each other the 
 while with a ' Brother, will this be to your 
 mind?' or 'Help yoiu'self, neighbour;' and 
 * Let me recommend, sir, another slice ; ' or ' A 
 piece of the Avoody part, dear friend.' The 
 only tune which was popular in that otherwise 
 unmusical neighbourhood was the Eogue's 
 Marcl), and the only articles in demand were 
 axes to hew down the trees and v.ood ready cut 
 and shaped for palings wherewithal to stake 
 
 E 2
 
 52 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 out tlie now property. On Sundays they 
 knocked oil* work and went to church and liekl 
 the plate. If a rustic lopped a branch of these 
 stolen oaks he got six months' hard, because 
 the inequalities of rank must be respected, and 
 nobody can be allowed to steal anything until 
 he has begun to pay income tax. 
 
 Tliis was, in fiict, all that was left of the 
 great Forest of Ilainault ; once a vast wild 
 wood filled with wild creatures, boar and stag, 
 fox and wolf, marten, weasel, badger, stoat, 
 polecat, water rat, and squirrel. Xobody 
 looked upon it, nobody lived in it, not even the 
 gipsies ; and as it was on no high-road, nobody 
 ever visited it. In the good old days when the 
 Lord Mayor's Court used to put rogues and 
 vagabonds, whom pillory failed to cure, outside 
 the city walls, they came to this forest and set 
 uj) ill business as robbers, murderers, highway- 
 men, pilferers, and farm-house sneaks. Few 
 grew fat in tliose trades: most were caudit 
 and luingcd : tlie rest, less fortunate, starved 
 when the winter came. All throusrh the last
 
 ALL IX A GARDEX I' AIR. 53 
 
 century the great forest was a safe, commodious, 
 and convenient rendezvous for those gentlemen 
 of tlie road who took the eastern circuit. 
 Wlieu tliis profession decayed, tlie forest was 
 deserted indeed, save for tlie chpping, picking, 
 and stealing all round its edge. Thirty years 
 ago they resolved on destroying it altogether : 
 in fact, they did destroy an enormous shee of 
 it — the larger slice : they converted miles of 
 wild forest, with rough uplands and green dales, 
 covered witli grand old trees, into a treeless 
 tract, staked out in square fields and rectangular 
 roads. Then they wagged their stupid heads 
 and rubbed tocjether their ridiculous hands and 
 said it was a great improvement. 
 
 Yet not all ; there remains a glorious frag- 
 ment, so large as to be still called the Forest. 
 And this place was the playground of the 
 children of whom we write. 
 
 When Claire first began to run about with 
 the boys I know not ; the custom grew up by 
 degrees ; its origin is pre-historic ; she was a 
 very little girl at the time, and it continued till
 
 54 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 she became a great girl, and a maiden fully 
 grown. 
 
 To begin with, she had no other playmates ; 
 she lived a good w\ay from the school, where 
 the other girls were mostly boarders. Then 
 the forest is a safe place for children ; yon may 
 climb up a tree and fall off a branch, no doubt ; 
 or a branch may be detached by an evil-minded 
 tree and come doAvn upon yon, but very little 
 else can happen. There are pools in the 
 forest, but most of them are shallow ; there are 
 marshy places and qungs, but a wet foot is the 
 worst that can happen ; there are gipsies, but 
 they have ceased to steal children, and only 
 steal linen, poultry, ducks, and sucking-pigs ; 
 and even on Sundays there are never here, as 
 there are in Epping Forest, men who bawl, 
 drink too much beer, laugh at nothing, carry 
 their hats at the back of their heads, shout, and 
 behave, as regards walking, like unto a sailor 
 on board ship when the raging winds do blow. 
 
 Then the cottage in which Claire lived was 
 the nearest to the forest, so that she could wait
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 55 
 
 at the garden gate for tlie bo^'s 011 their way, 
 and be left there by tliem on their return. 
 
 As the cliildren grew older tliey went 
 fiirther afield, so that there was no part of tlie 
 forest whicli they did not know. They be- 
 longed to the forest ; wlien they left the houses 
 and crossed the great meadow which stretches 
 away from the road, and found themselves in 
 the broad green way which, like a made road, 
 runs here into the very heart of the forest, they 
 were at home. The lanes which lead right and 
 left from this green road were known to all of 
 them; they are lanes of springy turf; over 
 them are the boughs of oak and elm and birch ; 
 beside them, sometimes across them, are tufts 
 or clumps or little jungles of hawthorn, honey- 
 suckle, elder, and blackberry ; the sunlight falls 
 on these lanes through the leaves and is always 
 soft, and there is a continual shifting of light 
 and shade caused by the movement of the 
 branches. The children explored all these 
 lanes and knew whither each one led : where 
 the broad way of turf widened out into an
 
 56 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 amphitheatre, they made it a playing ground, 
 a race-course, a stage for dramatic representa- 
 tion ; where it narrowed again and became no 
 wider than one of tlie httle lanes they followed 
 on through shade and sunshine under tlie 
 branches of the old oaks till it opened again. 
 They knew it all. It is not a very great forest ; 
 beside Fontainebleau and the forests of Eu or 
 Chantilly, or the New Forest, or the Forest of 
 Dean it is small ; but it is real forest, it is wild. 
 An active lad would soon cover the whole 
 ground. But then a forest is not a park nor is 
 it a field ; there are endless things to explore 
 in it ; tliere are creatures — wild creatures — 
 which may be started in the underwood ; 
 among them are the tame cats who have grown 
 wild and now ])nss ])recanous lives in great 
 discomfort ; in the spring and summer the air 
 is musical with birds of which these children 
 knew every note ; in the winter there are the 
 donkeys who run loose and keep themselves — 
 they will let themselves be ridden in hard 
 times, bare backed, and never a kick, for a
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 57 
 
 crust of bread ; and there are things, yea, 
 tritons and evvets, and wrigirling things, in the 
 ])Ools, and jack may be cauiilit in tlie river 
 Eoding ; tliere are butterflies and niotlis to be 
 chased ; tliere are flowers in the spring, and 
 blackberries in the autumn. Besides the 
 creatures and the trees and flowers there is 
 scenery ; here and there hill-sides clothed Avith 
 wood ; slopes on ^vhich, as you stand upon 
 them and look among the trees, the sun pro- 
 duces strange and Avonderful effects ; stretches 
 of elastic turf; places where the forest seems 
 to recede and still to recede as you walk 
 along, great trees, avenues of oaks, gather- 
 ings of beeches, with ash and elm and syca- 
 more ; everywhere the underwood of hawthorn, 
 honeysuckle, and wild rose ; everywhere the 
 freshness and fragrance of the wild wood ; 
 always light and colour even in January, when 
 the delicate purple bloom lies upon the masses 
 of bush and shrub and the late leaves linger on 
 tlie sheltered branches, and always silence and 
 rest from the talk of man. In such a forest
 
 58 ALL LX A GARDEX FALR, 
 
 tlie talk of money, llial was too much in tlie 
 ears of these boys, was forgotten ; tlie mean- 
 ness and the poverty of their homes were for- 
 gotten ; it was a school in which the boys 
 learned those things which cannot be written 
 down. 
 
 It is, moreover, a forest so deserted, so 
 forgotten, that Eobinson Crusoe might live 
 there and seldom regret his island ; no one 
 knows of it ; no one goes there ; it leads no- 
 where : it is five miles from any railway 
 station ; the children had it altogether to 
 themselves. The rowdy and the rough know 
 it not ; there are no tea-gardens ; on Sunday 
 or on the week day it is silent and lonely ; 
 you may dream away the livelong day alone 
 under the old trees, as grey as those olives of 
 Provence, which are born a hundred years old. 
 No one ever goes to Ilainault excei)t, two or 
 three times a year, a few school feasts ; and 
 then the children do not penetrate f\ir into the 
 wood; they play in the broad meadow that 
 lies stretched out before it ; and if you get to
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 59 
 
 the right distance from tliem yoii may catch 
 the sweetness of the hymns which they sing ; 
 but you must not be too near tliem or you will 
 hear the Cockney twang. Why, even the 
 guidebooks do not know Hainault Forest. 
 
 To have such a place all to themselves, witli 
 such a country-side to walk in, surely com- 
 pensated for poverty. Why, witli a turn of 
 the wheel they might have lived at I>ancaster 
 Gate and then they would liave had nothing 
 but Kensington Gardens. On the other hand, 
 with another turn of the wheel they might have 
 lived in the Mile End Road and so have liad 
 nothing at all but Stepney Green. 
 
 In long summer holidays the children could 
 take their dinners with them and make excur- 
 sions around and outside the forest. For in- 
 stance, they would walk over to the school at 
 Chigwell and thence take a path across fields to 
 Loughton ; the river Roding runs through these 
 fields ; they could fish in the Roding, which 
 after rain is an impetuous, headlong stream, 
 out is sluggish in fair weather. There are
 
 6o ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 houses to be passed at Loughton, but beyond 
 the houses is Higli l^eech, and beyond High 
 Beech stretches another forest outside the 
 range of tramp and rowdy, and as wild ahuost 
 asHainault; beyond this comes the road, and 
 beyond the road Copped Hall Green, an out- 
 lying bit of wild wood ; and then three miles 
 of road and then an ancient town. There is 
 nothing in the town except the bridge over 
 the Lea and the old Abbey Church. The 
 Abbey buildings have long since been pulled 
 down ; the east end and chancel of the church 
 are gone, yet what remains is stately ; and it 
 is surrounded by a churchyard in which stands 
 an old, old tree, bound about with iron bands 
 and ])rovided with a bench on which should be 
 sitting none but old men, contemplating with 
 foith and resignation the place where tiiey soon 
 must lie. To one of these boys, if he went 
 there alone and sat ong enough, there presently 
 came a vision. lie saw a fierce battle, with 
 men in armour, and armed with cross-bow, 
 long-bow, pike, lance, and heavy sword. There
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 6l 
 
 was a great shouting and clashing of weapons ; 
 there was the heavy tramp of chirgers carrying 
 knights in iron armour ; there was tlie rusliing 
 to and fro of men wlio charged and men wlio 
 fled ; tliere was the liurtling of bolts and arnnvs 
 in the air ; there was a flight and a slaughter. 
 It was the vision of Senlac Fight which oime 
 to the boy, because somewhere at his feet there 
 lay the bones of King Harold and his brothers. 
 Or, there is another field-path which takes 
 you to Buckhurst Ilill, where tliere are more 
 houses ; but you can soon get tlirough these 
 and then you are in the forest again, where 
 there are avenues of oaks. When you get 
 through these you are only a mile or so from 
 an ancient deserted church. It is empty now 
 and dismiintled ; its windows are broken, its 
 roof is gaping, it is covered all over roof and 
 walls with the ivy of live hundred years. A 
 place hallowed by the joys of love and mar- 
 riage, the lio[)es of childhood, the prayers of 
 life, the tears of death, through all these 
 generations. Those who have lived and loved,
 
 62 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 rejoiced and Ave[)t, lie now around tliuir ruined 
 churcli ; their forgotten dust, and tlie very 
 oblivion of their lives and their hopes ccnsecrate 
 the place. It is by such things, far more than 
 by the formal footstep and perambulation of 
 the bishop, that a churchyard is set apart and 
 hallowed. 
 
 Or, again, there is another way beyond the 
 forest which leads along narrow leafy lanes, the 
 like of which you cannot find outside of Devon- 
 shire. You pass by the way a place at which 
 the children always stopped to look over 
 crumbling old wooden palings into a strange 
 deserted graveyard. There is no church or 
 chapel in it or sign of any building ; it is a 
 small square covered with graves, and contahi- 
 ing one or two headstones ; trees stand round 
 it, and it is covered with long grass ; a wild 
 and ghostly place. A mile or so farther you 
 come to a little old town ; a town of which 
 nobody ever heard, whither nobody goes ; a 
 town of red-brick gabled houses with red-tiled 
 roofs standing all huddled together in a circle,
 
 ALL L\ A CAKPL.X LAIR. 63 
 
 as if tlierc were once walls round it ; a strangely 
 quiet town, which looks as if. it had never even 
 heard of the outer world, and took no interest 
 in anything but itself, but proposed to go on in 
 this retired fashion, as secure and ha])})y and 
 peaceful as the city of Laish. 
 
 A child wlio is brought up beside the sea 
 learns daily lessons in the vastness and illimit- 
 able variety of the world. lie sees the stately 
 ships go by ; he watches the waves and gathers 
 the shells ; his mind may become full of great 
 thoughts ; it cannot learn from the sea any 
 thoughts that are small and mean. A child 
 brought up in the monotony of endless streets 
 must get great and noble thoughts in spite of 
 the houses standing innumerable, row after 
 row, line ui)on line ; tliere is no education for 
 such a child outside its home. A boy born on 
 the steppes of Central Asia is not so badly off, 
 because there are quantities of things to watcli 
 and wonder at on the steppe — snakes, wolves, 
 bears, Kurd and Co?siick, Turcoman and Tartar. 
 But a cliild biought up in a forest learns,
 
 64 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 besides the manners and customs of trees, the 
 underwood, the flowers, the grass, and tlie 
 forest creatures ; besides the beauty of the open 
 glades and hanging woods and tangled branches 
 overhead ; the cheerfulness of nature, the joy 
 of every living thing, and the freedom which 
 makes that joy possible for humanity. 
 
 This forest playfield, these wanderings iii 
 the free and open woodlands, among green 
 glades and wild woods, affected the boys in 
 a different way. For one, they strengthened 
 brain and nerve and eye ; they made him strong 
 of limb, stout of heart, and keen to see things 
 as they are. As regards the second, the forest 
 filled his imagination and gave him food for the 
 vague, delightfid dreams which haunted him 
 day and night. 
 
 There was the tliird boy. But he very soon 
 dropped out from among them and longed for 
 the City pavement, lie sat at home, where he 
 ruled over his mother and sisters and read tales 
 of fiishionable life, and wondered how soon it 
 would be before he, too, might smoke cigarettes
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 65 
 
 ^vitli reckless baronets, and listen to the popping 
 of champagne corks and sit up gambling till 
 they were all knee deep in cards. 
 
 But Claire went with the other two, when 
 she was a httle crirl and it was delif]^ht enoudi 
 to run and jump ; when she was older and could 
 learn with them the secrets of the forest ; and 
 when she was so old that she could think and 
 wonder and ask herself, in vague and girhsh 
 way, what life had yet to give. 
 
 VOL. I,
 
 66 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 CIIAPTEE III. 
 
 WHAT THERE IS OUTSIDE. 
 
 They ^vill be notliing after all,' said Hector 
 Philipon, looking at the boys at play, ' but little 
 clerks — ijet'ds commis. Poor little chaps ! that 
 must be their flite.' He rolled another ciij^arette 
 and began to reflect upon the various conditions 
 of mankind, and especially on clcrkery. 
 
 He knew {\\q petit commis of Paris, and he 
 rashly concluded that he of London resembled 
 him, not knowing tliat in clcrkery, as -in the 
 Church or the law, or any other calling, there 
 are degrees, grades, deptlis, and huights. He 
 thought that all alike Avere hopeless. Their 
 labour, he argued, from these unsound premises, 
 is not skilled ; they have no skill or craft ; they 
 cau write, spell, read, cast accounts ; they are
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. ' 67 
 
 worth in the market from fifteen to eighteen 
 shillings ii "week; and tliougli many ariive at 
 two, three, or even fonr pounds a week, lliat is 
 only by the genercsity and pity of tlicir em- 
 l)loyers, a race of men who are always con- 
 founding social economists and breaking the 
 rules of the most lovely theory. These people, 
 he ignorantly thought, must be miserable, be- 
 cause they have no pride in their work ; because 
 their work is monotonous, and the same from 
 youth to age ; because there are no prizes for 
 them ; because there is no dignity in their lives; 
 because they must always remain servants ; be- 
 cause they must pretend to be gentlemen ; be- 
 cause they have no holidays, except K.ma week 
 in the year ; because of necessity they nuist 
 live amidst mean and monotonous surroundings. 
 This class of humanity did not seem, to this 
 philosopher, even interesting: a rrenchman is 
 never moved by a thing which is not dramatic : 
 and it is didicult to dramatise that kind of 
 sorrow which comes of pinching; one feels little 
 sympathy Avith a man who seldom starves yet is 
 
 Y 2
 
 68 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 always kept low ; wlio is pinched all rouiul, in 
 his pay and in liis work ; in his education and 
 his knowledge ; in his ideas and his hopes ; in 
 his art — here he is not pinched but deprived and 
 robbed ; in his religion, which requires a whole 
 chapter of ex[)lanation ; in liis morals, to ex- 
 plain which requires a visit to tlie nearest 
 music-hall ; in his home, whicli is all pinching 
 and pricking ; in his joys, whicli are of the 
 saddest. Yet this uninteresting person, if he 
 exists, needs a great deal of pity. 
 
 lie does exist, though M. Philipon ignorantly 
 exaggerated his numbers : the hopeless clerk is 
 found in every city. He is in London as well 
 as in Paris, and wherever he is found he is 
 always the same he}i)less, ignorant, hopeless log. 
 
 Now two, at least, of these three boys w^re 
 from the beginning, as it seemed to their honest 
 friend, destined to live the life of tlu* hoi)eless 
 clerk. 'JliL'ir parents were too poor to keep 
 them at school after fourteen or fifteen, or to 
 teach them anything beyond the ordinary school 
 course. Thev had no friends, no influence, no
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 69 
 
 money, and, wliicli was worse*, tlicy liad no idea 
 lliat life outside the City was even possible for 
 any boys. It was, therefore, fortunate that 
 they were ' found out' by Hector PhiHpon. In 
 the eyes of the vilhiL'e M. Phih[)on was nothing 
 but a very pohte and well-dressed little French- 
 man, who held a post generally supposed to 
 belong to the most harmless and the meekest 
 of mankind ; thoso who, like hair-dressers, 
 drai)ers' assistants, waiters, and vergers, have not 
 so much as a single kick in all their profession. 
 lie was teacher of French in a large girls* 
 scliool. Meekness and harmlessness were pro- 
 fessional attributes. It was known, besides, 
 that his butcher's bill was ridiculously small, 
 and this was taken as in itself a proof of meek- 
 ness. None of the girls had ever seen him out 
 of temper, though he was continually tempted 
 to commit child-murder. This was another 
 proof of meekness. lie was also reported to 
 follow the pursuit of gardening during liis leisure 
 moments, and this was another proof of meek- 
 ness, if any more were wanted. Lastly, he had
 
 TO ALL JX A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 never been in business, andliad therefore never 
 failed. Tliis was contemptible. He lived in a 
 very little cottage of six small rooms, standing 
 on the skirts of the forest, and surrounded by 
 green wooden palings ; beyond the palings you 
 saw the old trees. The cottage was built of 
 the old, not the new, warm red brick, and 
 possessed a broad Avooden porch with a bench 
 on either side. One could sit in the porch in 
 almost all weathers. A wistaria climbed up on 
 one side and a jessamine on the other; round 
 and about the house there were honeysuckle, 
 hawthorn, lilac, laburnum, and roses — roses 
 yellow, roses red, roses white, roses of all 
 kinds ; in the front a dainty floAver garden ; at 
 the back a lari^e ve^^etable and fruit crarden. 
 The harmless, polite little man could be seen 
 on half-holidaj's, early in the morning, late in 
 the evening, dressed in a blue blouse, at work 
 among his flowers and his cabbages. He was 
 a model teacher of French for young ladies, and 
 he had but one fault, that he did not go to 
 church. Jkit tlien a French master is always
 
 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 71 
 
 allowed to be a Eoman Catholic, and tliere was 
 no Catholic Churcli in tlie place. He was 
 iguorautly supposed to say mass, all by himself, 
 alone. Harmless ! And yet he was tlie only 
 man in all that village who had ideas ! The 
 only man who knew his fellow-men, and they 
 tliought him harmless ! If I were a lady, and 
 if, in addition to this transformation, I ^vere to 
 become a lady who ' bossed ' a girl's school, I 
 should not choose for my French master one 
 whose favourite reading was Voltaire, liousseau, 
 Diderot, and such revolutionary writers of the 
 last century ; nor should I feel comfortable if I 
 knew that a red republican Wiis turned loose 
 among my innocent flock ; nor should I keep a 
 bit longer than I could help a man who every 
 day, in the privacy of his home, propounded 
 maxims and gave utterance to thoughts and 
 sentiments of the most dangerous character. 
 You shall see how harmless he was. 
 
 M. Philipon, while the boys were young, 
 was un]ia])py because he liad no one to talk to 
 except his little daughter. At the school lie
 
 72 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 would talk to the girls in Frencli, but he hated 
 the girls. Yes ; had ^liss BilHngsworth known 
 it ! He hated the girls and he detested the 
 grammar of his own language, and he was alone 
 and could not express his sentiments. Fortu- 
 nately he began to talk to the boys who played 
 in the forest with his Claire, and before long he 
 made the discovery that two of them, at least, 
 were boys with heads upon their shoulders. 
 Then he began, partly because he had nothing 
 to think about, to watch them and to listen to 
 their talk while they played, because it is the 
 talk of a boy at play which reveals the character 
 of that boy, and he made an observation about 
 certain differences between them. This was 
 that one of the boys \vas always wanting to sit 
 by himself and read, and always ready to 
 borrow any book he could get and go away to 
 secluded spots in order to read his book ; fm'ther, 
 that another was always interested in hearing 
 the contents of that book without desiring to 
 read it for himself, and that the third neither 
 read nor listened, and was not athirst for infor-
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR, -ji 
 
 mation. Now boys are like sheep in tliis 
 respect, that no two bo3's are ahke. But it 
 requires observation to discover the difTerences 
 between them. Therefore M. Philipon began 
 to consider these boys more carefully, and he 
 beciinie interested in them. And by conversa- 
 tion and observation he was made aware that 
 they were desperately poor and would be sent 
 into the City as soon as they could be taken 
 away from school. lie thought of the 'petit 
 com mis of Paris, and his soul was sad for the 
 future of the two l>^'s, briglit and brave, and 
 born for better things. Yet what help? 'What 
 can we do, Claire ? ' he asked his daughter. 
 ' What can we do to help your friends ? ' 
 
 ' Will has got a prize for arithmetic, and 
 Allen for Latin, and Tommy for writing,' 
 said Claire, im[)lying that they wanted no 
 help. 
 
 ' That is well ; yet, my child, the ignorance 
 of all three is profound : it is phenomenal. To 
 be sure, you are as ignorant as the boys. That 
 matters less. None of you, I believe, know
 
 74 ALL LX A GARDEX FALR. 
 
 that there are a great many people outside the 
 City of London.* 
 
 'Oil! papa. Why, we all learn geography. 
 I am in A?<ia already. Of course we all know 
 that.' 
 
 ' Claire, my dear, sit here at my feet and 
 listen.' They were in the garden alone on a 
 sunny afternoon. ' You are a very little girl 
 yet, but you are thoughtful. Consider what I 
 say. Boys who learn nothing know nothing. 
 Boys who know nothing and have no money 
 have no chance. Boys who have no chance 
 become 'peiits coinmis — little clerks. These 
 are the miserahles who spend their lives copying 
 at a desk ; do you wish your friends to be 
 copying machines ? ' 
 
 ^ No, no. ]]ut Allen and Will could never 
 be that.' 
 
 'They must be that, my child, unless we 
 help — you and I togetlier.' 
 
 'Why, what can I do, papa? ' 
 
 ' You nuist become suddenly five or six 
 years older. You must try to luiderstand
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 75 
 
 -svliat I am doing and ^vliy. Now listen. The 
 only thing that can hel[) these boys is know- 
 ledge. They must know more than their com- 
 petitors. What tJiey learn at school will not 
 liel[) them mucli. I shall try to teach tliem 
 the things that Avill be useful. Do you under- 
 stand me?' 
 
 'Yes, papa.' 
 
 ' Good. In order to do this I must make 
 them eager to learn ; you nuist helj) me by 
 being yourself niore eager to learn than to 
 play.' 
 
 Her face fell a little. She would certainly 
 rather play. 
 
 ' It is for the boys' sake, my daughter.' 
 
 She hesitated no longer. 
 
 ' I will be eager to learn, pa|)a.' 
 
 'Good girl ! I will reward you by telling 
 you more. While they are learning they shall 
 think that they are playing; only you and I 
 will know that they are teaching themselves 
 useful things. All the time I shall be putting 
 thiinrs into their heads and makin«j them am-
 
 76 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 bilious. And you sliall have the satisfaction of 
 knowing that you are helping to make men 
 instead of machines. You may even, if you 
 please, tell the boys.' 
 
 ' The boy/ he went on, ' who knows no- 
 thing is dangerous ; he has power and does 
 not understand how to use it ; he is an elector, 
 perhaps, even, an elected ; he is like a loaded 
 gun in the hands of a monkey. Stupidity is 
 only safe when it is blind, deaf, and sleepy. 
 When it wakes up it is mad. Let us prevent 
 the boys from being stupid.' 
 
 The Frenchman proceeded to act. lie put 
 on his best coat and a fresh flower in his button- 
 hole, assumed his most diplomatic manner, and 
 made three calls in tlie village. First he called 
 upon Mr. Massey, and next upon i\Ii's. Engle- 
 dew. To eacli lie pointed out tlie importance 
 to a young man entering the City of one foreign 
 language at least, and he oflered to teacli 
 the l)oys his own gratuitously. The ofler 
 was accepted prom])tly and Avith grateful sur- 
 prise. For to fnid a man ready to give his
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 77 
 
 services for notliing is ti lliiiig (juite out of the 
 common. 
 
 ' I have always said,' remarked Sir Charles 
 when he heard of it, 'that Monsieur Philipon 
 was a harmless, good enough sort of person. 
 For nothing, did you say, Massey ? Dear me I 
 In the City, now, we know better.' 
 
 ' We do, indeed. Sir Charles,' said Mr. 
 Skantlebury. It is dilficult to see what services 
 a man can render his brother man for nothing 
 in the City, unless he gives him cargoes for 
 nothing. 
 
 ' The man is a foreigner,' said Mr. Colliber. 
 ' Tve ahvavs thoudit that another name for 
 Tom Fool.' 
 
 ' But if he teaches the boy French ' — ob- 
 served Mr. Massey, with a little doui)t. 
 
 ' Take his offer, Massey,' said Mr. ColHber. 
 * Take all you can get for nothing.' 
 
 Hector also mtide the same ofler to Mrs. 
 Gallaway, but it was declined because tlie ruler 
 of the liouse said that his uncle, who had the 
 great house at Ihixton, and was in a Large
 
 78 ALL IX A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 Way ill Oil, had jjot on without French, and 
 so could lie. 
 
 The lessons were not at all wlial the boys 
 expected. Tliey looked forward witli little 
 eaf^rerness to learninf? irrainniar and writia<^ 
 exercises. They found no grammar at all, and 
 no exercises. On the contrary, tlie lamp was 
 lit in the sitting-room; there were two or three 
 books on the table. Their teacher ^velcomed 
 them in French, and then informed them in 
 En^rlish that for the future no word of their 
 OAvn language was to be spoken in his presence. 
 The boys looked at each other in dismay. 
 Why, he was always with them. Not a word 
 of English ? Were, then, their very s])orts in 
 the forest to bo conducted, so to s])eak, in 
 French? Then ]\L. riiilipon rolled a cigarette, 
 lit it, and began to talk to Claire. Then Claire 
 began to talk to the boys, but they understood 
 not one word. Then she read to her father, 
 and ])resc'ntly handed them the book, but they 
 could not read a word. 
 
 When they went home they felt inclined to
 
 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 79 
 
 cry, and wondered whether it was ])ossible lor 
 two boys to look more profoundly foolish. 
 
 The next evening Claire met them at the 
 j^arden f^te and told them a few French 
 ])hrases, and the names of things about them, 
 and what she was going to talk about with her 
 father. Accordingly, when the lesson began, 
 they knew Avhat was meant, and she went 
 round the room Lnvinir names to the thing's. 
 Then they bei^an to find French names for 
 everything; as they played in the forest; as 
 they walked to school and back ; whenever 
 they w^ere with Claire. Remark, that the first 
 thing you want in a language is the vocabulary; 
 men who learn many languages begin after the 
 manner of Adam, with the names, not after the 
 maimer of the schoolmaster, with the syntax. 
 Those who do not want to le:irn a languaiie 
 begin with grannnar and exercises; this is the 
 wny of our schools, and it is the cause of our 
 brilliant success in modern languages. Next, 
 they learned, chiefly by Claire's helj), how to 
 connect the names with verbs and adjectives
 
 8o ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 and tilings of tliat sort; mid tliey perceived 
 that a certain amount of grammar was neces- 
 sary, which M. rhili})Oii was so good as to put 
 into their lieads ; but there was no regular 
 teaching ; lie sat and listened while they talked 
 and read. One may remark that if he had 
 adopted the method at his school, the girls 
 would have really learned French ; but he was 
 expected to follow the lines to which his em- 
 ployer was accustomed. That is to say, he 
 read Eacine Avith the girls and made them 
 write exercises on the experiences of the watch- 
 maker's aunt and the gardener's grandfather. 
 Therefore, the girls did not learn French at all 
 and the boys did, though they wrote no exer- 
 cises at all and knew nothing about the gar- 
 dener's grandfather. The diilerence was that 
 Miss Billingsworth bought a machine warranted 
 to grind in one way only, and that the boys 
 got a man's brains given to their service and 
 always tliiiikiiig wliat would be best for tlicm. 
 
 Wlien tlieir ears liad caught the sound of 
 the French language, when tliey had learned
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 8i 
 
 a copious vocabulary and could read with 
 ])lcasurc and talk freely, though still with 
 plenty of mistakes, their teacher set them to 
 write; they read a story one evening and 
 wrote it down the next ; then tliey compared 
 what they had written willi what tliey had 
 read and were put to shame. It was necessary 
 to find out many more things in the grammar ; 
 they found these out. 
 
 Hector rhilipon,in fad, was a man of ideas 
 and of clear mind. lie wanted the boys to 
 learn, not to pretend. He therefore made 
 them teach themselves by an intelligent pro- 
 cess, while he taught his girls by the con- 
 ventional process. In two years they really 
 knew French. Hector, by this most precious 
 gift, lifted them by one step out of the lower 
 levels of olerker}^ ; their commercial value was 
 doubled. 
 
 One does not talk every evening with a 
 man who has read, and can think, and has 
 acted among his fellow-men, without results. 
 First of all, the boys read quantities of books, 
 
 VOL. I. (J
 
 82 ALL L\ A GARDICX FAIR. 
 
 lively travels, in wliicli tlie ^vriters, being 
 Frenchmen, looked out perpetually for dramatic 
 situations ; biographies, also Avritten by French- 
 men, and tlicrefore compiled ^vith a view to 
 tahleaux ; history, which is full of splendid 
 scenes ; and tales, especially the tales of Erck- 
 mann-Chatrian. Next, they learned that there 
 are other forms of life besides business life in 
 the City ; this was an immense stride in know- 
 ledge ; and other occupations besides making 
 money by buying cheap and selling dear, and 
 other men and women besides the people of 
 the City. They got all kinds of ideas, with 
 vague ambitions ; they forgot their poverty 
 and the very small and humble debut into life 
 which was before them ; thuir hearts glowed in 
 thinking of the ureat deeds of the men who 
 had gone before them, and the splendid things 
 which they, too, would achieve. In the course 
 of time there grew up in both the boys a dim 
 and shadowy ^"isi()ll of a great and wonderfid 
 future opening out for all the world ; what it 
 was they did not know, nor did they inquire ;
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 83 
 
 nor did th^y realise that the thing had been 
 suggested by their instructor. All that they 
 understood as yet was, that some time or otlier 
 llic wars and battles would come to an end 
 because there would be nothin<T left to fidit 
 for ; that the history of the world is a history 
 of people fighting for justice ; that they w^ould 
 at last, someliow, arrive at justice ; and that 
 tliis would so far extend the general stock 
 of happiness that tliere would be enough 
 to go round and to si)are. Was not this 
 a great and suggestive lesson for the boys to 
 learn ? 
 
 Oh ! liarmless M. Phihpon ! Oh ! unsus- 
 pecting village I Oil! condescension and pat- 
 ronage! For here were two boys, with strong 
 brains and stout arms, already full of ideas and 
 athirst for knowledge, and here was a crafty 
 teaclun* of girls — nothing more than that — 
 leading them on, step by step, into ways of 
 thought, which gentlemen who hud failal for 
 an aggregate of a million and a quarter could 
 not contem])late witliout horror.
 
 84 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A XEW SHAME. 
 
 The time came when tliey must leave school 
 and beghi work. They w^ere now fifteen years 
 of age, and tall lads, who might have passed for 
 seventeen. There is a House in the City — 
 lirimageandWariiig's — whose offices are situated 
 in the square of Great St. Simon Apostle, 
 where there is the Dutch Churcli, and at the 
 London and the St. Katharine Docks. It is a 
 House in the silk trade, which has a long and 
 splendid histoiy, and om])loys an immense 
 quantity of cleiks, workmen, porters, carters, 
 and })C()])le of all kinds : and il lias branches 
 and agencies in the far East, and in Erance. 
 The grey-headed men who draw large salaries, 
 or have a share in the profits, have been in the
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 85 
 
 Ilouse since tlicy were boys. Tliey entered as 
 clerks, ambitious rising clerks. There are, 
 also, grey-headed men Avho entered witli them 
 as clerks, witliout ambition, hopeless clerks, 
 wlio began to copy letters and add up, and are 
 doing the same tliiug still, and draw, some of 
 them, as much as two hundred pounds a year, 
 and live at Stepney, or Pentonville, or, it may 
 be, hai)py Hoxton. Allen's father began as an 
 ambitious clerk in this Ilouse, but he went out 
 of it and set up for himself, as do most ambi- 
 tious clerks who lo\e to be their own masters. 
 
 It was natural, therefore, that Allen's 
 mother should apply to the partners of this 
 House in her son's behalf. Thuy promised to 
 receive him, and thuy informed the widow that 
 the boy should be favourably looked after. 
 
 By good fortune, ^^'ill also got into the 
 same Firm at the same time, so that the two 
 boys, who had so long trudged together back- 
 wards and forwards to school, now went to the 
 City and back by the same train, sat beside 
 each other at the same desk, and took their
 
 86 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 dinners togetlicr for ninepence at tlie same lun- 
 cheon-bar. 
 
 As for Tommy, iie was, of course, taken 
 into his uncle's office. 
 
 But on tlie evening before Allen's duties 
 began, his mother begged hiai to stay at home 
 with her. She had something to tell him. She 
 was a woman born to be comely, smiling, and 
 contented, but fate had been against her. The 
 memory of past misfortune and the pinch of 
 present poverty had taken the sunshine out of 
 her face, which was generally hard, except 
 when her eyes fell upon the boy. For in him 
 was her only hope. A daughter of the City, 
 too, who knew of no other life for a man than 
 to go off ' to business ' every morning, and to 
 make himself a position. What her husband 
 had tried to do, her son would succeed in 
 doing. 
 
 The thing she had to tell was so dreadful 
 that, when she began to tell it, she fell into 
 passionate sobbing and crying, sucli as Allen 
 had never seen before.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. 87 
 
 ' Why, mother,' he said, ' if it distresses you, 
 do not tell me.' 
 
 ' It is about your father,' she cried. ' Oh ! 
 Allen — Allen — I must tell you about your 
 father at last.' 
 
 ' But I know, mother, without your telling. 
 He failed in business, and he died, and we have 
 been very poor ever since. You see, I know. 
 But never mind, I will make you rich again.' 
 
 ' No ! ' she said, bursting into fresh tears. 
 'There is a great deal more. The worst 
 remains to be told. Listen, Allen. He had a 
 partner — a man named Stephens — Engledew 
 and Stephens was the Firm, with offices in 
 Laburnum Court, Threadneedle Street. I knew 
 John Stephens before I knew your father. 
 Yes ; I knew John when we were boy and 
 girl together, and before he became a bad man. 
 Sometimes I think that he did it out of revenge 
 when he did it, because he asked me once to 
 marry him, and I refused. I5ut he went on 
 being friendly, and I never sus[)ected — never. 
 A bad man — a bad man.'
 
 88 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 Shu i)uut}cd and wiped her eyes. 
 
 ' Eemember, Allen, always remember, that 
 there never was any one like your father for 
 honour and rectitude, "which made it all the 
 worse. And his only fault was that he believed 
 other people to be as honourable as himself. 
 As for his })artnc'r, he trusted lii.u entirely ; 
 whatever Stephens told him he believed. 
 And, oh ! the thiuLTs which that man told 
 hhn.' 
 
 'Go on, mother,' said Allen gravely. 
 
 ' My dear, I have always intended to tell 
 you about the wickedness of this man as a 
 warning to you. But I cannot. You must 
 guess his wickedness when you hear about other 
 men, as you grow older. AMiatever you hear 
 of treachery and lies and wicked i)rofligacy, 
 rmiember tliat Stephens, your fathers partner, 
 was worse. 1 tliink there never was, since the 
 world began, a man so horribly — so incredibly 
 wicked.' The poor woman's experience of vice 
 was, to be sure, conHned to this one example, 
 so that possibly there was some exaggeration.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 89 
 
 But Allen was not in a critical mood. lie per- 
 ceived that something,' had to be told him, 
 much more painful than anything that had 
 gone before. ' One da}'/ his mother continued, 
 ' your father did not come home at liis ujsual 
 time. I waited for Jiim till l)a:^t nine o'clock. 
 Then I was frightened, and I put on njy things 
 and took an omnibus to town to see if any- 
 thing had happened. It was ten o'clock when 
 T got to the City, and all the offices were 
 - losed, and the streets empty. But in my hus- 
 band's ofTice the gas was burning, the door was 
 uidocked, and I found him — oh ! my dear hus- 
 band ! oh! my poor husband! — sitting at his 
 table with papers before him, and on his white 
 face, as he lifted it when I opened the door, I 
 saw despair.' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands. The tears 
 ran down Allen's face, but he said nothing. 
 What word of comfort could the boy find to 
 «;iy ? 
 
 ' Without a word of warning, Allen, the 
 blow had fallen. Stephens had run away.
 
 90 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 leavinc: a letter in which he confessed all. Your 
 father was ruined.' 
 
 * What had he — Stephens — done, mother ? ' 
 ' I do not know. That is, I knew once, 
 because they told me. But I have forgotten, 
 I know no longer. He had robbed all the 
 money, he had borrowed more in the name of 
 the Firm ; everything was gone, credit as well 
 as money. Your father's good name was gone ; 
 no one, he said, would ever believe that he 
 knew nothing of the frauds — think of the word 
 fraud — the frauds perpetrated by his partner ; 
 ruin and disgrace were before him, very likely ; 
 most likely, he said, a criminal prosecution and 
 a prison. Think of that, Allen. Oh ! boy, you 
 have wondered why your mother never laughed ; 
 she can never laugh again, because of that 
 night. All these things he told me in a quiet, 
 cold way, without any anger or any hope, so 
 that I knew his heart was quite broken. Pre- 
 sently, it was then half-past eleven, he kissed 
 me — oh ! God of mercy, it was the last kiss he 
 would ever give me, my dear — my good — my
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 91 
 
 noble husband — and lie bade me leave him, 
 because he had much to do, and I must go 
 home and think of tlie child. Who was I that 
 I should disobey him at such a moment ? I 
 left him, my dear. Oh ! I left him. I Avent 
 home and I waited all night long beside your 
 cradle, but he did not come home all night 
 long — what a night ! ' She stopped with a kind 
 of spasm. 
 
 Allen sprang to his feet and began to walk 
 up and down the room. 
 
 ' Mother ! go on. Tell me all.' 
 
 ' He never came home any more. They 
 brought me a letter in the morning. He said 
 that he could have borne poverty with me, but 
 not shame. He could see no way of escape, 
 he C(juld hnd no means of proving that lie 
 knew nothing of the frauds which liad been 
 committed by his partner in his name. That 
 he had written to everybody concerned stating 
 the truth, and that as Heaven had taken from 
 him what was dearer than life, he would give 
 up tliat too, and he prayed tliat it might be
 
 92 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 forgiven liim, and that God's blessing would rest 
 upon us, his wife and innocent boy. And then 
 — Allen — Allen — he destroyed himself 
 
 She was silent. She had told all there was 
 to tdl. 
 
 ' Xow you know, poor boy. It will not 
 make you happier to know it. At the office 
 where you go to-morrow everybody knows. 
 Sir Charles knows about it. I suppose that all 
 the village knows.' 
 
 ' Everybody, except me,' said xVllen bitterly. 
 
 ' And now you too know. But, Allen, 
 there was a meetinfx of the creditors, and — and 
 — the people who had been rol)bed. And they 
 passed a resolution that they believed Mr. 
 Erigledew was free from any guilty knowledge 
 in his j)ai-tner's frauds. And they oflfered a 
 reward for John Stephens's apprehension.' 
 
 ' And did they catch him ? ' 
 
 ' Xo ! lie was never heard of afterwards. 
 We may suppose that he is dead. Something 
 dreadful is sure to have hai)})ened to such a 
 man. I hope,' she added then, with a little
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 93 
 
 hesitation, as if she was n<jt quite satisfied witli 
 the honesty of her wisli, ' I liope that he repented 
 before lie died. But, no doubt,' she cheered 
 ii[) a little, • he died unrepentant and went to 
 his own place.' 
 
 Allen threw his arms about his mother's 
 neck and kissed her. Then lie went out, put 
 on his hat, and made for the forest. The even- 
 ing was warm and light. As he passed the 
 cottage he saw Claire in the garden alone. Iler 
 father, as usual, was hunting the common slug 
 among the lettuces. 
 
 ' Claire,' he whispered, ' come with me.' 
 
 She ran out and took his hand. They ran 
 together across the meadow beyond which the 
 forest bejiins. When thev came to the trees and 
 were hidden among the branches, Allen stopped. 
 
 ' Oh, Claire,' he cried, but his voice failed, 
 and he burst into cries and tears. 
 
 ' Allen, what is it ? You are going into the 
 City to-moiTow to make your fortune, and you 
 are not happy ? Will was with us half an hour 
 ago. He was full of delight.'
 
 94 ALL LN A GARDE X L\4LR. 
 
 'Claire, I Avaut tlic earth to open and 
 swallow me,' said Allen. ' I wish I had never 
 been born. I \<\^\\ I was dead.' 
 
 'Please, Allen, tell me why.' 
 
 He told her, in as few words as he could 
 find, the substance of liis mother's story. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' he said, ' I have to go into the 
 City and into tlie office where they all know 
 me. They will say, '• Is this the son of the 
 man who was bankrupt, and who, because he 
 might have been accused of dreadful tilings, 
 killed himself? 
 
 'Poor Allen.' Tlie girl was only thirteen 
 years old, but slic knew already the simple arts 
 by which women become ministering angels. 
 'Poor Allen! Do you think that any of the 
 three or four who know will care to speak or 
 to think of such a thing? As if it was your 
 father's fault ! As it' it was your fault ! You 
 may l)e j)r()ud of your father, Allen, not 
 ashamed. I have heard ^^ir Cliarles say that 
 there was no more lionourable man in the City 
 of London. Allen, dear, don't cry, I liave
 
 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 95 
 
 knoAVii — ^vlly, we have all kiKnvii this all aloiiL^ 
 but no one thinks the worse of you for it. 
 IIow can they ? Come, let us go back to my 
 father. Tell liim that you are going into the 
 City to-morrow for tlie first time — to make 
 your fortune.' 
 
 ' I hate the City,' cried the boy passionately. 
 ' It has robbed my father of his fortune and 
 his good name ; it has robbed my mother 
 of her happiness ; Avliat will it take from 
 n)e ? ' 
 
 ' Come, Allen,' said Claire, ' come to my 
 father : he will comfort you.' 
 
 Despite the philosopher's consolations, it 
 was with downcast eyes and shameful heart 
 that Allen went into the City for the first time, 
 while Will looked as if lie, for his part, must 
 dance and sing for joy that the time f )r action 
 had arrived. 
 
 'Kemember, Allen,' he said in the train, 
 'they think that we are just a cou})le of boys 
 from school who know nothing but to copy 
 letters. Wait a bit. Thev will find us out
 
 96 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 after a time, and tlien we .^liall make our way. 
 Don't be afraid, old boy.' 
 
 All day long Allen went about his work 
 expecting to hear some allusions to his father's 
 fall and suicide. Yet no one said anything 
 about it, for the simple reason that the whole 
 thing was forgotten, save by one or two. This 
 forgetting of things is a natural event which 
 people concerned in events which should be 
 forgotten do not consider or expect. I met the 
 other day a clergyman whom I had not seen 
 since old days at Cambridge. He accosted me 
 with something like a maidenly blush, saying, 
 ' They acknowledged afterwards that it was all 
 my handwriting.' For some time I could not 
 understand what he meant. Then I remem- 
 bered that he had been ])lucked for Classical 
 Honours. It was twenty years ago, but the 
 sight of me recalled the old shame, and he still 
 imagined that everybody was talking of it. 
 This was exactly the case uilh Allen Engledew. 
 Nobody cared any longer to remember the 
 misfortunes of his father. They were buried,
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 97 
 
 and will only be exhumed again when, if ever, 
 Allen is talked about for other things — if, for 
 instance, he should write a successful book — 
 and then men will rake up the story and 
 quote it in order to reduce by a measurable 
 quantity the greatness of the new man. Who 
 on earth cares about the father of a boy 
 clerk, and whether he shot himself or hanged 
 himself or disposed of himself in any other 
 fashion ? 
 
 ' What is it, Allen ?' asked Will, when they 
 were coming home. ' Wliy have you been 
 looking so blue all day ? I call it jolly. Why, 
 we are at work at last. Don't you like the 
 lookout ? I think it is splendid. Once we get 
 our chance we shall go ahead. Did you see 
 the old gentleman who got down from his 
 carriage ? That is the senior partner. lie lias 
 got a town house at a place called Lancaster 
 Gate, and a country house in Hampshire, and 
 he's a Member of Parliament. We shall have 
 our carriages and be Members of Parliament 
 too. Put what's the matter, Allen ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 98 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 He saw Allen's eyes were flooded, and lie 
 was fain to hide liis tears in the old schoolboy 
 fashion — with his knuckles. 
 
 'Tell me, Will,* he said, 'do you know — 
 did anyone ever tell you, how my father died ? ' 
 
 ' Poor old boy,' said Will, ' you are thinking 
 of that; 
 
 ' I only heard last night. My mother told 
 me.' 
 
 ' Why, Allen, it was nearly fifteen years 
 ago. Think no more about it. Of course we 
 know. It was his partner's fault. Everybody 
 knows that. Cheer up, old chap. Let's go 
 and tell Claire about the City. You shall tell 
 her about the golden pavement — that's all in 
 your line — and I'll tell her about the turtle 
 soup we had for dinner, all for ninepence, eh ? 
 at a luncheon-bar, after we'd danced on the 
 pavement and filled our pockets with nuggets. 
 That's in my line. Hooray ! Who wouldn't 
 be in Brimage and Waring's ? What a lucky 
 pair we are ! I say, Allen, partners always, 
 man ; no quarrelling between us two. We're
 
 ALL L\ A CAKDEX FAIR. 99 
 
 brothers, we are. You and I will go up the 
 ladder together. Don't you feel as if you were 
 quite ready for the second rung ? ' 
 
 They shook hands and Allen cheered up. 
 
 ' And Tommy ? ' he asked. 
 ' Tommy shall be only a first cousin,' replied 
 Will. 
 
 H 2
 
 lOo ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE C0NFESS10>'S OF A nilLOSOPIIER. 
 
 TiiEY Still spent their evenings at the cottage, 
 and they still conthiued their readings. But 
 the schoolboy days Avere past ; their guide 
 began to put serious books into their hands. 
 Ilis library Avas not large, but he could borrow 
 of a compatriot, a bookseller in Soho. He 
 therefore introduced the boys to such writers 
 as Chateaubriand, Prosper Merimee, Alexis de 
 Tocqueville, Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Alfred 
 de Musset, Beranger, and he made certain 
 sparing use of the older writers, such as Mon- 
 taigne, Eabelais, Moliere, Marot, and the great 
 tragedians. The boys read tlie^e works before 
 they read any English literature at all. They 
 knew, whicli is strange, ]Wa'anger before they 
 knew Shakespeare, and Victor Hugo before
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. loi 
 
 ^[iltoii. Tliey did a great deal of massive read- 
 ing in those years, and acquired a vast quantity 
 of ideas. 
 
 When the boys got promotion, whicli came 
 in due course, and wlien it was found lliat tliey 
 knew French and could write it, and were con- 
 sequently rewarded witli saharies wliicli gave 
 til em money to spend, Allen began to buy 
 books. Every boy who loves reading knows the 
 joy of seeing his shelf fdl up and overflow into 
 other shelves, until a whole bookcase is filled 
 up — yea, even a Avhole house, a house of tlie 
 largest size. And then he began to plough his 
 delightful way through the English poets. Yet 
 the interruption to reading caused by the eight 
 hours of work at his desk was very grievous to 
 him. And he made no friends among his fellow- 
 clei-ks. 
 
 ' Out of the Ijoy who is always reading,' 
 said Hector to himself, ' comes, if he is properly 
 looked after, the man who writes." 
 
 lie watched the boy more carefully, lie 
 saw that Allen now neglected his French books
 
 I02 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 and read nothing but EnglL^^h, and principally 
 English poetry. 
 
 lie observed that the boy would go away 
 by himself into the Forest, book in hand. He 
 followed him and saw him, alone as he thought, 
 reading aloud and declaiming. He began to 
 wonder what, if anything, would come of it. 
 And he congratulated himself on his own teach- 
 in o", because in one thing he was successful — 
 he had made both boys ambitious. 
 
 If you consider, you will find that every 
 Frenchman knows, what few EngHshmen ever 
 learn, tliat what one man has done another 
 can do. He therefore respects himself as much 
 as he respects the great men of history. The 
 magnanimity of Scipio, the heroism of Horatius, 
 the wisdom of Cato, the eloquence of Demos- 
 thenes, the genius of Hannibal — all these quali- 
 ties may, he thinks, be united in himself. These 
 boys had learned the same lesson. They believed 
 in themselves. 
 
 The time passed by. While it improved 
 the appearance of the young, it played tricks, as
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 103 
 
 usual, Avitli tlie middle-aged. Time did not 
 knock out Hector's teeth, nor make him bald, 
 nor did it cripple his legs, nor did it put chalk- 
 stones in his knuckles, as he does to some im- 
 fortunates ; but it turned his once black hair 
 into a creamy white, beard and all, which made 
 him resemble one of the Seven Sages, but I do 
 not know w^hich. They all had white hair, 
 white beards, and bright eyes ; they also had, I 
 am sure, deep and sweet voices like this man, 
 their successor. 
 
 Time, also, made Will a great strong fellow 
 of six feet, with broad shoulders and sturdy 
 limbs, as comely a lad as one may look to see 
 anywhere. Allen was of slighter build, and he 
 had already at eighteen acquired the stoop of 
 \\\o^Q, who read. His features were regular, 
 his eyes fidl and lustrous. With a young man's 
 regard for appearance he carried an eye-glass, 
 but ill his pocket lay the glasses with which he 
 read and wrote. 
 
 On Will's face was wniien the brave resolve 
 to succeed ; on Allen's a curious, triumphant
 
 104 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 look, as of one avIio lias already succeeded. 
 Will's face was generally grave, because, though 
 many resolve to succeed, few carry out that 
 resolution. Many long to travel on the same 
 road as Dick Wliittington, but cannot find their 
 way. Yet the air of London is charged with 
 the stories of those who have succeeded : the 
 pavement is worn with the steps of those who 
 have succeeded. He would get on, somehow ; 
 he must find out the wav, some time. 
 
 Allen never felt any doubt or despondency 
 at all. He held his head high, as one who has 
 already succeeded ; his eyes were triumphant ; 
 he was a young conqueror, because in imagina- 
 tion he had already succeeded, and because the 
 success of which he dreamed can be won at a 
 single bound, and because it is success in a 
 line in which tliere are not many rivals, and 
 because it is success of a kind not desired by 
 the practical. 
 
 We have not forgotten Olintlius. He had 
 long since left them, yet he lived in the village 
 and was still one of tlicm. His future looked
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 105 
 
 bright ; his uncle liad ah'cady promoted liiiii 
 to a place of some trust ; he thought the way 
 was clear before him. In person he had not 
 attained quite to the proportions of Apollo, his 
 lines being laid for strength rather than for 
 grace. Compared with the other two he was 
 like a Portsmouth wherry laid up in Ilaslar 
 Creek beside a racing 3'acht ; he was short 
 and thickset. In order to prevent him from 
 repining, and by way of compensation — kind 
 Nature is always dealing out compensation and 
 making up for things — he was endowed at the 
 outset with an excellent opinion of his own 
 beauty, abilities, and attractions. lie ' fancied 
 himself ' as much as Narcissus, and had there 
 been anywhere in the Forest a clear fountain, 
 I am satisfied that he would have imitated that 
 self-conscious shepherd, perhaps to his own 
 undoing. Besides this, he was a young man 
 possessed of great good-humour and natural 
 amiability. These excellent qualities shone, 
 visible to all observers, on his large, round, 
 shiny face, wreathed in perj)etual smiles. Few
 
 io6 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 things conduce to make a man uniformly 
 cheerful more than a good opinion of himself. 
 Wives should remember this fact and foster 
 such an opinion, especially on days when con- 
 tentment is wanted for cold mutton and herbs 
 therewith. Upon his cards was written his 
 really magnificent name, Mr. Olinthus Galla- 
 way ; but to his friends and all who love him 
 he will ever remain plain Tommy. 
 
 Hector no longer treated them as boys — 
 they were young men with whom he could 
 converse as equals. They were men — he could 
 reveal himself in his true light. He could 
 even confess his sentiments on tlie nature of his 
 occupation. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' he said sorrowfully, one day 
 towards the end of January, ' to-morrow I re- 
 turn to my classes. You think, then, perhaps, 
 that I love them — my classes — //rm? Listen! 
 I will tell you a tiling. I ablior them.' lie 
 spread out both his hands in tlie attitude of 
 detestation. 'I shrink ironi thum. If it were 
 not for Claire, I would jump out of this frying-
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 107 
 
 pan, which scorches and broils — ^yes, still, after 
 twenty years and more — into the fire, which 
 burns. I would cross the Channel. I would 
 go to the gendarmerie of Calais. I would say 
 — *' Behold me ! it is Pliilipon, the man of the 
 Barricades ; you would have sent him to 
 Cayenne. He gives himself up, he surrenders ; 
 send him, then, to exile." Yes, my friends, but 
 for Claire, who would weep, I would brave the 
 danger of the voyage, I would be a convict 
 with my brethren.' 
 
 He forgot that the Emjiire which would 
 have sent him there was gone, and that there 
 was no more any reason why he should go to 
 Cayenne at all, even if he did land at Calais. 
 But the habit of regarding himself still as a 
 refugee was too strong. Everybody knew, of 
 course, that lie was a French exile ; it was 
 rumoured that an inunense price had been set 
 upon his head, and it was believed that tlie 
 Emperor — while Sedan was yet afar ofT — liad 
 often declared that he should know no rest 
 till Hector rhilii)on was in a dungeon.
 
 lo8 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Behold,' lie went on to the astonished boys, 
 ' the irony of fate ! I, wlio love all women, 
 because they are women ; I wlio would beheve 
 them faultless — have to spend my life in find- 
 ing out tlie faults of undeveloped woman — 
 Girl. I would yive them nothing but pleasure, 
 yet I give them continual pain. It seemed to 
 me, at first, incredible. Dionysius certainly 
 became a schoolmaster, but he had alleviations. 
 He was allowed to teach boys. He could 
 therefore flog them, whip them, beat them, 
 reward them with good strokes of foot and 
 hand. You cannot beat — Girl. You may 
 not throw books at — Girl. You must not 
 sufler yourself to grow angry with — Girl. If 
 you do, she laughs ; she rejoices ; she triumphs. 
 Such, my friend, is the true disposition of 
 Girl.' 
 
 On the subject of Girl he was eloquent, 
 even after twenty yeai-s of teaching. Time, 
 the great consoler, could not reconcile him 
 with his occupation. 
 
 ' I was at first,' he said, * unhappy and
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 109 
 
 Inimiliated. I fult as if my guddess had been 
 torn from me. But an inspiration — no doubt 
 from her — made me separate Woman — whom 
 I love — from Girl — whom I abhor. I regained 
 my divinity. Woman smiled and became once 
 more the giver of love and joy. As for Girl, 
 she is not Woman at all. Slie is not like her 
 in any respect. Woman has a figure to ravish 
 the beholder's eyes ; Girl is bony and makes 
 her elbows to be felt. Woman thinks ahvays 
 in kindness ; Girl nourishes hatred. Woman 
 is confident of herself; Girl is jealous and 
 suspicious. Woman inspires poetry ; Girl has 
 no imagination. When Woman pnts on dress 
 she becomes a Parisienne ; Girl puts on dress 
 and remains — Girl. Woman always tries to 
 please; Girl, never. E'/i^;?, she is not Woman. 
 She is, if you please, caterpillar, grub, chrysalis. 
 Can one love a chr}'salis ? 
 
 ' Again, can one love a creature who cannot 
 learn the verb irregular, who steals her exer- 
 cises, copies her translation, and looks over her 
 neiirlibour's shoulders at the dictee, who even
 
 no ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 makes grimaces — figure to yourself a Venus 
 making grimaces ; wlio piuches — yes, pinches — 
 her companions ? I understand tlie prudence 
 of Frencli mothers wlio confide their girls to 
 tlie care of nuns. It is in order that men 
 should not behold the chrysalis. But I am 
 unhappy no longer. I have returned to my 
 old worship. I say, " This is not Woman ; this 
 is Girl." ' 
 
 These revolutionary sentiments were not 
 uttered in the presence of his daughter. Claire 
 knew that her father regarded his pupils with 
 feelings which admitted of no favouritism, 
 except that of the least dislike. But she did 
 not know, and would not have understood, the 
 distinction which he drcAv between Girl and 
 Woman. lie spoke also of graver things, of 
 the Great Eevolution, and her daughters, and 
 of what they mean. 
 
 ' I was born,' he said, ' when the Bourbons, 
 who had learned nothing and forgotten no- 
 thing, had been back for ten years. I liave 
 conversed with many who remembered the
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. iii 
 
 beginning of tlie devolution. Some of them 
 had not forgotten its ideas and its phrases ; 
 they spoke still — though it was not the time for 
 such Avords — of the Sovereign People, the 
 Rights of Man, and oppressed Humanity. To 
 them a Priest was an accursed hypocrite ; a 
 King was a sanguinary tyrant ; and the voice 
 of the People was the voice of God. 
 
 'They were phrases — yes, phrases. Yet, 
 remember, before the Eevolution there wxtc 
 no people, there was only a mob. Do you 
 know what La Bruyere said ? 
 
 ' " I see certain wild animals scattered over 
 the fields ; black, livid, burnt by the sun, bound 
 to the earth. They have an articulate voice, 
 and when they rise on their feet, they show a 
 human foiin and are, in fact, men.'* 
 
 'It was a great thing to have made a 
 people out of a herd — a flock. When the 
 people found out themselves they began to 
 dream greater things. I, too, my friends, being 
 young and generous, dreamed witli tlie others, 
 and told my dream.'
 
 112 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 His voice sank and lie went on talking, as 
 if to himself, in deep musical tone. 
 
 * The world for mankind. Yes — for wliom 
 else should it be ? But they made mistakes. 
 They talked of the Eights of Man. Yet the 
 w^eak must be defeated. Is that a Eight? 
 There must also be rich and poor. Is it a 
 Eight — to be poor ? They talked of the Voice 
 of the People, and the Voice of God. How is 
 one to recoc^nise that Voice .^ I have sought 
 for it, but I have never been able to hear it. 
 Is the utterer of that Voice perchance a priest ? 
 Or if the people were to speak would they ask 
 for more than sleep and idleness, with dancing, 
 and feasting, and love-making? Is that the 
 Voice of God ? 
 
 ' They told us tliat tlie people are full of 
 generous aspirations. Tliere have been four 
 Eevolutions. I do not remember any generous 
 deeds or noble tlioughts from the crowd. There 
 liave been guillotine and hanging a la lantrrne, 
 witli pikes and heads upon them and barri- 
 cades. But I do not remember to have heard
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 113 
 
 of mercy or forgiveness, or any virtue at all. 
 Wlierefore I now think tliat noble thoughts 
 descend not to the iLniorant and tlie unlearned.' 
 
 The young men li.steiied without interru[)t- 
 ing. 
 
 'When a man gets the idea of humanity 
 into liis liead it never leaves him. Never, 
 never, lie is henceforth doomed to think of 
 his brotlier-man. To comprehend, even but a 
 little, humanity is to till tlie brain. As for us, 
 we meant well, but we hoped too much from 
 governments. That is the mistake we always 
 make ; the thing we search for lies at our feet, 
 we may stoop and pick it up, l)ut we expect 
 a government to do it for us. The llepublic 
 follows the Empire, yet the people remain the 
 same, for even a llepubhc brings us no nearer 
 the dream.' 
 
 ' Yet if it is a noble dream,' said Will, ' you 
 would not have it die.' 
 
 ' It cannot die.' 
 
 ' Will you tell us what it is — the dream ? ' 
 asked Allen. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ' No. There are some things, siicli as tliis 
 dream, -whicli cannot be taught and must be 
 found out. It may l)e found by both of you, 
 but it will be in different forms.' 
 
 About this time a grievous doubt and per- 
 plexity fell upon the philosopher. He asked 
 himself Avhether he had done right in putting 
 into the lieads of these young men knowledge 
 of all kinds which miglit only make them dis- 
 contented. He was wrong to doubt. Dis- 
 content hurts no young man unless it is 
 accompanied by laziness, when it is the Devil. 
 As for knowledge, there is no position which 
 is not rendered happier by its possession. I 
 once knew a man whose business it was to 
 tramp from office to office selling ])ens and 
 books ; in the evening he read and taught 
 himself all kinds of things. His life was 
 hallowed by his evenings. I have known a 
 waiter who read the ' Saturday Eeview ' 
 regularly and was a hai)])y waiter ; and I have 
 known a policeman who found food for thought
 
 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 115 
 
 when on his beat by recollections of Herbert 
 Spencer. He was a contented pohceman. 
 
 ' My daughter,' he asked, ' have I done 
 well?' 
 
 Claire did not know exactly what he meant, 
 and therefore replied, in general terms, ' that 
 he always did well.' 
 
 ' Have I done well,' he repeated, ' for these 
 young men ? There is not a better educated 
 couple of young men in London, yet they are 
 only clerks, and may remain servants all their 
 lives unless they get a chance. Fate is some- 
 times malignant. They may never get the 
 chance. Yet I cannot believe that these two 
 boys, who know so much and can think and 
 reason, will remain wliere they are.' 
 
 One day a Thought came to him. It wa« a 
 lialf-holiday, and he was gardening among his 
 lettuces, clad in the blue blouse which protected 
 his shirt front and white waistcoat. It was a 
 Thought so great, so splendid, so magnificent, 
 that for the moment it intoxicated him and he 
 reeled to and fro as one who had drunk strong
 
 ii6 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 drink. Wlioii lie partly recovered from tliis 
 first shock his Thought flared u}) in his brain 
 like an electric light, as bright as a little sun 
 or two, insomuch that he was blinded by its 
 splendour. It took him half an hour, or there- 
 abouts, to recover his sight, and then his cab- 
 bages looked every one like a great Koh-i-noor 
 diamond, so bright was the s})lendour of this 
 Thought. Next, the Thought began to bellow 
 in his ear, like the roar of cannons, or the blast 
 of brazen trumpets, wilh the clashing of cym- 
 bals, the beating of big drums, and the nuisical 
 roll of mighty organs, and all tlic lime as bright 
 as before. Finally, tlic Tliouglit, still in this 
 intense light and amid this unearthly instru- 
 mental clang, flew at him, banged him from 
 side to side, shook him to and fro. thwacked 
 him on the shoulder, buflfeted him t)n either 
 cheek, and finally doubled him up so that he 
 fell backwards into the wheelbarrow among 
 the cabbngestalks, and weeds, and dead leaves 
 — an undignified situation for one who never 
 forgot his dignity.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 117 
 
 All really great Thoughts are thus masterful 
 when they first seek to possess a man. The 
 liistor}' of great Thoughts is, in faet, one of the 
 few really important subjects which remain to 
 he written. The case of Peter the Uermit, for 
 instance, may be compared with that of Ilector 
 Philipon. Peter's Thought came to him one 
 niglit in his cell. He wrongly received it as 
 if it was a diabolical visitation, or the result of 
 indigestion, and he wrestled with it all through 
 the night but met defeat and discomfiture, and 
 was found in the morning by a brother hermit 
 — who had peacefully slept through the whole 
 of the combat, dreaming of nothing but lentils, 
 and beans, and pulse — fairly doubled up, limp 
 and shattered, a thread paper, all the conceit 
 knocked out of him, and in the disposition of 
 liis shattered frame Uke unto a cocked hat. 
 The story was published in the last century by 
 Mr. Dicey, of Northampton, in a chap book, 
 illustrated by a curious cut showing the holy 
 man on a shutter after the chipjK'r-clawing of 
 the Thought. Christopher Columbus, ou the
 
 ii8 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 Other hand, made no resistance, but obeyed 
 at once, and allowed the Thought to take pos- 
 session Hke a bailiff. In his case it was a voice 
 which called, a finger which pointed, a hand 
 which pushed, day and night, so that he could 
 never rest, never sleep, never sit down, never 
 s^^eak of anything unless in obedience to the 
 perpetual admonition of that Thought. As was 
 Christopher, so was our Hector. He accepted 
 the Thought after the briefest resistance, and 
 allowed it henceforth to guide and rule him. 
 
 If that Thought had not come to Hector 
 Philipon this history would never have been 
 written. If that Thought had not seized him 
 one knows not w^hat lives of discontent, un- 
 satisfied desire, and thwarted ambition might 
 have been the lot of these two clerks. And yet 
 they do not know the history of this supreme 
 moment, this wrestling and defeat. One can 
 hardly guess in what words, did they know it, 
 their gratitude could be expressed.
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 119 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TYRANNY OF THE THOUGHT. 
 
 M. Phi LI PON, therefore, as soon as he recovered 
 consciousness, submitted to the domination of 
 the Thought. It was, in fact, the wisest thing 
 he could do, and he was rewarded presently by 
 fiilling into an ecstasy or rapture which carried 
 him out of himself for the space of ten days. 
 This is a thing which happens to none but tlie 
 most exalted souls. During this period he con- 
 versed not at all with any one. It was the last 
 fortnight of the summer vacation wlien this 
 strange thing befell him. 
 
 Claire first observed the strangeness of it at 
 dinner. Her father took the meal without a 
 word, answering when he WiW addressed, but 
 advancing no remark or proposition of any
 
 I20 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 kind. After dinner he went into the <£arden 
 and walked up and down the laAvn. The boys 
 came as usual and spoke to liim, but he sliook 
 his head, and they joined Claire in lier own 
 room, wondering. 
 
 ' What is it, Chiire ? ' they asked. 
 
 ' I do not know. He says notliing ; he is 
 quite silent. I have never known him Uke this 
 before.' 
 
 Then Allen plucked up courage and went 
 out upon the lawn again. 
 
 ' Are you ill, sir .^ ' he asked. 
 
 M. Phihpon stopped. ' Not ill,' he rephed, 
 lifting eyes which were troubled. ' There is 
 nothing the matter. Do not speak to me just 
 yet.' Then his Thought overpowered him 
 again, and he spread out his hands with a 
 gesture of impatience and resumed his soHtary 
 walk. 
 
 The three witliin s])oke in wliis})ers. Night 
 fell, but he was still walking, and took no heed, 
 as if it mattered not to him whether it was night 
 or day. Claire played something, but it did
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 121 
 
 not seem to rouse liiin. At tt'ii tlic boys ^vent 
 away, but lie did not return tlieir good-iiiglit. 
 Tlien Claire cauie and took liini by the hand, 
 and led him into the house unresisting. Pre- 
 sently she gave him a candle and told him to 
 go to bed ; and in the middle oF the night she 
 woke uj) and heard him walking uj) and down 
 Ills room. 
 
 This kind of conduct, rej)eated the next 
 day, and for several days afterwards, gave his 
 dau2^hter and his friends the f^reatest uneasiness. 
 lie was not ill ; he took his breakfiist and 
 dinner exactly as usual, but he did not talk, 
 nor did he read, nor did he work in the garden. 
 He was not unhap])y, because as he walked 
 about he smiled or laughed, and waved his 
 hands cheerfully, yet with mystery, because no 
 one could inter] )ret that gesture. 
 
 In fact, he was wholly absorbed and domi- 
 nated by the Thought, which, as he now quite 
 clearly perceived, was not only powerful be- 
 yond all belief, but also full of grace, and like a 
 goddess for inex[)ressible beauty, and moreover
 
 122 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 a stupendous Thou<flit. So stupendous did it 
 seem to liim, that it loomed before his wonder- 
 ing eyes as a Thouglit more wonderful than 
 had ever before been vouchsafed unto men. 
 
 ' It is,' he might have said, enumerating 
 other great Thoughts for purposes of compari- 
 son, in tliis communion and silent meditation, in 
 this rapture of his mind, ' it is a greater Thouglit 
 than that of Peter tlie Hermit, wlio yet did a 
 considerable stroke of business with his ; it is 
 greater than that of Christopher Columbus, be- 
 cause he only doubled mankind, and therefore 
 multi])lied our troubles ; it is greater than the 
 Thought of him who pro})osed by means of 
 steam to divide every kilometre by a thousand ; 
 greater than the Thought of the man who, with 
 an electric wire, abolished space altogether, so 
 that people can go on quarrelling at opiK>site ends 
 of the world; greater tliau the Thought of the 
 man wlio proposed to send letters for a penny ; 
 greater even tlian that of him who discovered 
 how to abohsh pain and to let a man sleep 
 while surgeons saw off his leg — yea, to permit
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 123 
 
 the martyr to dream of heaven ^vllile they toast 
 liim on a gridiron and perforate him with red- 
 hot irons. Until I find words to express this 
 Thouglit I am dumb. I cannot speak of any- 
 thing else, and of this I have not yet learned to 
 speak.' 
 
 In fiict, M. Philipon was looking for words, 
 and as yet no words came into his mind which 
 were at all adequate to express the gravity of 
 the crisis and the nature of the thing whicli 
 was in liis head. A Thought, however great, 
 is nothing to the outer world uuless it can be 
 fitly and adequately expressed and presented 
 in words so that everybody shall iniderstand it. 
 For instance, I know at this moment a man 
 who lias, quite unsuspected by his friends, in 
 his head, and absolutely complete in all its piu'ts, 
 nothing less than a whole three-volume novel, 
 and the best work of its kind ever yet presented 
 to the world, lie says so himself, and it is un- 
 likely a man should be deceived in so im})ortant a 
 point. Uc says, further, that the charactei-s are 
 absolutely original, the incidents new — fancy
 
 124 ^I-L IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 getting new incidents even from this kaleido- 
 scopic world — the pathos inimitable, the wit 
 and the humour quite unapproached. There 
 is an immense, a universal, and a deathless 
 reputation — he says, who ought to know best — 
 in tliat noveh When once published it Avill be 
 translated into every language ; it will be the 
 deliglit of Eskimo and Patagonian ; it will 
 civilise tlie Papuan, who wants civilising very 
 badly ; it will teach the Veddah how to laugh ; 
 it will, if anything can, convert the American 
 Irish to ways of humanity, and will even soften 
 the heart of the Nihilist. There only wants 
 one thing — that tliis incomparable work shall 
 be written down ; and this, somehow, does not 
 get done. It is always in his mind ; he has 
 arranged the situations ; he has grouped the 
 characters, constructed his plot, prepared tlie 
 opening, and ])i'ovided the dcnouemmt. ]3ut 
 he does not write it. He refuses to communi- 
 cate the nature of the story, of which he is as 
 jealous as a traveller who has discovered a new 
 hike ; he waits, growing moody, for the moment
 
 ALL AY A GARDEN FALR. 125 
 
 of inspiration, which never comes. He is getting 
 old now, and he may some day soon die with 
 the novel unwritten ; he may even die of that 
 obscure and ol)stinate disease — novel ou the 
 brain. 
 
 Something of this kind oppressed M. Phili- 
 l)on. His Thought held him fast, and he could 
 not fmd fitting words in which to express it. 
 It was not until many days of wrestling — not 
 till he had turned the Thought over and over in 
 his mind, and looked at it from every point of 
 view, that he found freedom of speech. Had 
 it been term-time, one trembles to think of un- 
 corrected exercises and neglected rude trans- 
 lations. 
 
 ' He will come round some time,' said Claire 
 to the boys. ' Do not seem to be minding him.' 
 
 It mattered very little whether they minded 
 him or not, because he observed nothing. 
 
 It was in the evening, when the boys had 
 gone, that deliverance came. Claire had gone 
 as far as the garden gate with them ; then she 
 returned and laid her hand u]ion hor father's
 
 126 ALL LX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 arm, saying iiotliing. It was a fair moonlight 
 niglit ; the air was heavy with tlie fragrance of 
 jessamine and lioneysuckle ; a still and solemn 
 air of full but late summer, after a still, hot day. 
 Claire's hand startled her father. He stopped, 
 looked round hmi, sighed, and held up his fore- 
 finger, Avhicli meant ' Attention ! ' 
 
 The girl sat down on the seat within the 
 porch, and listened. She was now nearly 
 sixteen years of age, taller already than her 
 father, a girl remarkable as yet for nothing but 
 those deep bhie eyes and that black hair. But 
 one expects nothing remarkable from a girl at 
 fifteen, unless she happens to be a maiden of 
 Verona, where adventures have been known to 
 arrive at a still earlier age. 
 
 She stood outside in the moonlight. He 
 spoke gravely, even solemidy ; and he spoke 
 slowly — in his native tongue, of course. 
 
 ' My cliikl,' lie said, * listen attentively to 
 mo. You are now nearly sixteen ; you have 
 the manner and air of a greater age ; you are 
 grown up ; you are a woman.'
 
 ALL LX A GARDEX FAIR. 127 
 
 ' Yes, moil ])ere.' She was rather friglit 
 eiied at this solemn intnxluetioii to tlie un- 
 fold in £^. 
 
 ' I Avill treat you henceforth as a grown 
 woman. You are also my daugliter.' 
 
 ' Yes, moil pere.' 
 
 ' I will treat you as a daughter who can be 
 trusted; 
 
 She stooped down and took his hand, and 
 kissed it. 
 
 'I have a great thing to tell you. I have 
 the grandest — the most magnificent scheme to 
 communicate. I demand your absolute — your 
 profound secresy. That is necessary. Without 
 secresy I shall fail ; without your aid success 
 will be difficult. Understand, Claire, what I 
 ask of you will be diflicidt : it will require dis- 
 simulation ; pretence ; perhaps even we must 
 do violence to Puritan ideas ; we may have to 
 invent.' 
 
 Claire began to tremble. Secresy, grandeur, 
 magnificence, with pretence ! WJiat could 
 these mean but another revolution, with which
 
 128 ALL LX A GARDEN I- AIR, 
 
 slie associated barricaeles and her fatlier upon 
 them ? 
 
 ' At least,' slie said, ' I ho])e I should never 
 betray any secret intrusted to nie.' 
 
 Her father suppressed an epip;rani about 
 Eve and liei* daugliters, and went on — 
 
 ' You will not, Claire, I am sure. Yet I 
 want more than a mere promise of secresy. I 
 want a tongue which will not add to suspicion : 
 I want a clear eye, an open face, a frank smile ; 
 en effet, if you are a conspirator you must look 
 as if there is no conspiracy.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she cried ; ' do with me what you 
 j)lease ; but if 3'ou arc killed, and — and — oh ! 
 what a pity to put up btu'iicades in the 
 Forest ! ' 
 
 lie laughe'J. ' Pretty innocent ! ' he said, 
 ' be reassured, no one will be killed, there will 
 be no fighting.' 
 
 ' If there is to be no fighting, and if no one 
 is to be in any danger ' 
 
 ' No one, have no fear ; j^ou shall j)lay 3'our 
 ])art with smiles on your face and j(.)y in j^our
 
 ALL IX A GARDEX FA JR. 129 
 
 lieart, because the object of the conspiracy is 
 one of your friends.' 
 
 'One of the boysP' 
 
 * Yes ; you liave ah'cady lielped me well 
 and fai til fully ; lielp nie again, but this time 
 follow my instructions in secret.' 
 
 ' Which of them ? ' she asked eagerly, 
 ' which of them is it ? ' 
 
 ' It is Allen.' 
 
 'But what has Allen to do with conspiracies 
 and revolutions ? ' 
 
 ' Notlnng — yet. Ikit let us go within, I 
 have much to say to you.' 
 
 She led the way into the house and lit the 
 lamp. Then he began to imfold his })lan, 
 standing before the empty fire])lace while Claire 
 sat in her chair and listened. A well-bred 
 Frenchman gesticulates but little, yet more 
 than an Englishman, and he enforces his })oints 
 with hands and fingers both. This was an im- 
 ])ortant occasion and he gesticulated more 
 freely than usual. 
 
 ' First, child,' he said, ' forget that I have a 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I30 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 \Aw\\ iiiid let u.< coii.<ider the boy, Allen. Fix 
 your tliouglits wliolly upon Allen. 
 
 ' He is eighteen years of age ; he has been 
 for three years a clerk in the City of London. 
 lie goes there every morning at half-past eight, 
 and returns every evening at half-2)ast six. He 
 is away, therefore, for ten hours. During this 
 long time he sits upon a stool, he copies letters, 
 he enters figures in a book, he adds up, he 
 make notes, he carries messages, he goes here, 
 he goes there — what do I know? He is a 
 servant. It hurts no man to be a servant for 
 a time. The discipline of obedience is good. 
 Yet it must be a service where he will rise to 
 be a master. In Allen's service he cannot rise 
 miless by extraordinary chance, because he has 
 no money. For him there is no future, he 
 must always be a servant. It is alivady, for 
 him, the life of a dog. In ten years it will be 
 the life of a thousand dogs.' 
 
 ' But if it is bad for Allen, it is also bad for 
 Will,' said Claire, the impartial. 
 
 ' I told yoti to consider Allen, onlv. It is
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN LAIR. 131 
 
 not, however, so bad for tlie other. Will must 
 rise : he is a young man who designs his own 
 future and ^vill force events ; for such as Will 
 are the great prizes of a merchant's career. I 
 do not pity Will at present, I pity him only 
 because in the end he will be so rich. It is the 
 misfortune of the English people that they 
 become so rich.' 
 
 'Then, about Allen?' 
 
 ' He will become more and more miserable. 
 In the City he has no future, he will neglect 
 whatever chances offer ; he will see no oppor- 
 tunity ; such men as he are blind to opportunity; 
 if a hundred doors lie open to success he would 
 see none of them, his thoughts will be else- 
 w^here. Money is not in his mind, nor is suc- 
 cess. I [)ropose, therefore, first of all, to rescue 
 tlie boy from the fate of the unsuccessful 
 clerk.' 
 
 ' But if Allen lias no other opening? * 
 
 ' Child, you have [)laycd all your life with 
 the boy and you know not what he is, you 
 know nothing about him. To be sure you are 
 
 K '1
 
 132 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 not yet of tlic a<ic wliicli looks below the sur- 
 face. Know, then, that this boy is one of a 
 kind not common. Nature makes but few like 
 Allen EnL'ledew ; of those whom she does make, 
 most are tlirown away and lost for want of f 
 guide and instructor. They waste their lives ir 
 regrets, in idle efforts ; they succeed in nothinir 
 because they do not try the one thing for whicl 
 they were born ; they never know the satisflic- 
 tiou of life wlii(.'li comes of doing what thej 
 were intended to do. That, my child, is th( 
 only happiness. IIow happy, for example, i; 
 tlie grocer whom Heaven intended for thai 
 trade ! IIow enviable tlie lot of him born foi 
 a pork butchery, wlio actually becomes a porl 
 butcher ! lUit such as Allen, without a guide 
 stray into wrong paths and are lost. I hav< 
 been already — I will continue to be that guid( 
 to Allen. ]5y my hel[) he shall be what natun 
 intended him to be.' 
 
 ' 15ut what is that.^' The girl's curiosity 
 was now roused. She was to be a conspirator 
 there was to be a ivvolutidu ; In.t without thosi
 
 ALL IN A CARD EX FAIR, 133 
 
 dreadful barricades with which her fathers 
 early hi^^tory was so deeply charged. What 
 was to be the part destined to be played by 
 Allen ? Was he to be an OHver Cromwell, a 
 Robespierre, a Marat, or Lamartine, even ? For 
 none of these positions did Allen seem eminently 
 fitted. 
 
 Her father went on explaining. lie secmal 
 to forget that he was talking to his daughter 
 before setting forth his views so as to make 
 them clear to himself 
 
 ' Such a boy as Allen is, before all things, 
 fond of liooks. This means two things — first, 
 that he is curious about the world, eager to 
 learn, and, secondly, that he is open to the 
 influences of form and style. Words and phrases 
 move him in the silent page as the common 
 man is moveil by the orator. lie has been 
 seized by the charm of language. You undir- 
 stand me not, my daughter ; but listen still. 
 When a boy has once learned to love words, 
 when he feels how a thing said one way is de- 
 lightful, and said another way is intolerable,
 
 134 ALL L\ A GARDEX FALR. 
 
 that Ijoy may become a mere rhetorician, pe- 
 dant, and precisian ; or an orator, one of those 
 Avlio move tlie world ; or a poet, one of those 
 born to be loved.' 
 
 ' And Allen, you think, will be — what? A 
 rhetorician, or an orator, or a poet P ' 
 
 ' It may be the first, but I think he will 
 not be. For I also obsei've in the boy the 
 intuitions, the fire, the impatience, and the 
 emotion, which belong to the orator who speaks 
 because he must, and to the ])oct who writes 
 because he cannot help it. I think — nay, I 
 am sure — that a lad Avitli these sympathies 
 cannot be a mere rhetorician or a maker of 
 phrases.' 
 
 Claire listened, trying still to connect this 
 theory with the conspiracy, but she failed. 
 
 ' He reads, because it is his time for read- 
 ing ever^'thing. lie has no choice. It is liis 
 nature to read. Wv was born to read, lie 
 reads by instinct. He reads poetry, and his 
 brain is filled with ningnificcnt colours and 
 splendid women, lie reads romances, and he
 
 ALL IX A GARDILN FAIR. 135 
 
 (1 reams of kniglits and stately dames ; lie 
 reads history, and his heart burns ^vithin liim ; 
 lie reads biograpliy, and he worships great 
 lieroes ; lie reads tragedy, and he straightway 
 stalks about the Forest another Tahna ; he 
 reads idyls, and the meadows become peopled 
 to him with shepherds and shepherdesses ; he 
 lives two lives. One of these is dull and mean ; 
 to think of it, while he is living the other, 
 makes him angry and ashamed, for in the other 
 he lives in an enchanted world where he is a 
 magician and can conjure spirits.' 
 
 ' You know all this, mon pere ? But how, 
 unless Allen has told ?' 
 
 'Allen has told jk^ one, but yet I know. 
 Some day, my cliild, I will tell you how I 
 know. Allen is already half a poet ; he must 
 be made a poet indeed.* 
 
 'That will be delightful. Is this, then, 
 your fine conspiracy ? ' 
 
 ' It is, my daughter, the first part only. Of 
 the second we will speak later.' 
 
 ' But if he is already half a j-^oet '
 
 136 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' At every step, my child, in the life of a 
 man, there arc two ways open, a right way and 
 a wrong way. Allen must be guided into the 
 rifiht way.' 
 
 'Oh, yes, mon pere!' She clapped her 
 Lands. ' Allen shall be a great ])oet, and I 
 will do what you please to tell me. This is a 
 conspiracy that I shall like.' 
 
 It had been a long preamble, and she did not 
 understand why there was so much mysteiy. 
 
 ' For your part, my child, Allen has arrived 
 at a time when he must have a confidant and 
 a companion. I have studied the symptoms. 
 I am sure tliat he has already begun to try 
 timidly whether he too cannot put thoughts 
 into rhyme. I know the blush of his cheek, 
 the flashing of the eye, tlie outward sign of the 
 secret thought. Beliold him I I can see him 
 now ' — he stood as if actually watching the lad, 
 with his forefmger lifted — 'I .'.ee him alone in 
 his room at night. The door is locked, the 
 lamp is lit, tlie desk i> open, tlic paper is before 
 him, but he writes not ; he hesitates, he is
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. 137 
 
 ashamed. At last with a bhisli, as a girl who 
 confesses her love, he timiclly sets something 
 on the paj)er. Indeed, to write tliese lines is 
 more diificult for him than for any girl to con- 
 fess her love. Oh, holy modesty! Oh, blush 
 of virginal youth ! It is only from those Avho 
 feel the sacred awe for written words that 
 great things can be expected. The written 
 word remains ; it must not be lightly spoken, 
 it remains whether it is false or true, whether 
 it is beautiful or it is ugly ; whether it is 
 sublime or whether it lifts up or drags down 
 the heart. Let Allen always tremble when he 
 translates thought into word.' 
 
 ' I do not understand, mon pere. How do 
 you know all this?' 
 
 ' Again, my child, I will W\\ you another 
 day. You know now whtit Allen is and what 
 he may be. First, he is to be a |)oet. You 
 must help me — thus. 
 
 ' Allen must liave some one in whom he 
 can confide. Will possesses not the poetic tem- 
 perament. The blood of Olinthus is pure
 
 138 ALL fX A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 beer. Therefore, Claire, my child, it is you 
 Avlio must be liis friend.' 
 
 ' But he tuUs me nothing about his poetry.* 
 
 'My daughter, a clever girl can make a 
 young man tell her everything.' 
 
 Claire blushed. It is not unpleasant to be 
 told that one has such great power over other 
 people. Of course she did not believe the 
 statement. It is fortunately given to few girls 
 to understand how great is tlieir power over 
 men. I do not think they will fmd it out 
 until they have so altered themselves with 
 political economy and platform oratory that 
 they have destroyed this power and lost 
 it all. 
 
 'To begin with. Claire, you will lead him 
 to talk of himself, of poetry, and will nsk him 
 why he, too, does not write verse.' 
 
 Had Claire been some other man's daughter. 
 Hector would have added to this simple in- 
 junction a few remarks on the wiles of co- 
 quetry, but he refrained.
 
 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 139 
 
 ' When the hoy lias become a poet, tlien — 
 tlie next stage — Ask not,' he added in the 
 deepest tones, ' what this stage may be.' 
 
 * I do not want to know%' slie replied ; ' it 
 is enough for me that Allen is to be a great 
 poet.' 
 
 Just then a thing happened which at the 
 moment had a supernatural appearance. Be- 
 yond the cottage garden was the lane which 
 led to the Forest. As Claire spoke, there 
 passed before the garden gate, slowly, with 
 han<xinf:' head, no other than the figure of 
 Allen Engledew Jiimself. As he passed he 
 raised \\\< head and turned as if to look 
 at tlie house. The moon fell full upon his 
 face and lit it with a strange, ghostly light. 
 His large and lustrous eyes met Claire's, but 
 tliey did not seem to see her, and he passed 
 along like a ghost, or like a dumb actor upon 
 the stage. 
 
 It was nothing supernatural ; it was only 
 Mien liiinM-lf in the flcvl,. \\v had been
 
 140 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 strolling alone in the Forest, to dream away a 
 summer evening beneath the moonlit branches. 
 ' Behold !' said the man with the Thought, 
 ' we have seen our poet! His future is in our 
 hands, and he knows it not.' 

 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 141 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SAMSON AND DELILAH. 
 
 Once in the East, a long time ago, when man- 
 kind was still in the enjoyment of lusty youth, 
 and carrying on as if youth would last for ever, 
 with continual fighting, feasting, drinking, sing- 
 ing, plundering, murdering, pillaging, sacking, 
 burning, hanging, drowning, and torturing, 
 there was a kinglet who made the personal 
 acquaintance of two or three gods. Not that 
 he really was admitted into the very best 
 circles, but one or other of the more afliible 
 deities would sometimes call and dine, drink 
 his best wine, and promise things. Silenus, for 
 instance, got his pu[)il Bacchus to let this king- 
 let turn everything he touched into gold; but 
 the gift would not work, as his majesty found
 
 142 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 out \vl It'll lie :?ul down to breakfast and dis- 
 covered lliat not only the plale but also tlie 
 bloater on the ])late became pure gokl. It 
 is related that the hungry and discomfited 
 monarch immediately traded away the gift for 
 something in the eveilasthig-youth hue (wliich 
 proved a forgery). Now on one occasion this 
 friend of the Immortals was asked to hear a 
 rival performance on the flute by Pan and 
 Apollo. lie had no ear for music at all, and 
 so tossed up heads for Pan and tails for Apollo. 
 It came down heads, and so he gave the de- 
 cision for Pan. ' You are an ass,' cried Apollo 
 in a rage, ' and the son of an ass, and your 
 ears shall be the cars of an ass.' The king put 
 up his hand to feel — and so they were. It is 
 not recorded what Pan said or did, but pro- 
 bably he only laughed in an unfeeling way, 
 and went off with his syrinx to frighten the 
 shepherds of Arcadia. Then this kinglet got a 
 tall bonnet made, into which he poked both 
 his long ears, and hoped that nobody would 
 find out. As people were then, as now, en-
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 143 
 
 tirely occupied Avitli their own iifTuirs, nobody 
 did lind out the fact for a long time. But it 
 made the king uneasy, lie was afraid to take 
 liis usual allowance at night for fear of getting 
 tipsy and prattling or letting his long caj) I'all 
 oll^. One day, however, being alone in the 
 garden, he could not refrain from removing the 
 cap as he sat in the shade, and while the wind 
 l)layed deliciously about those long and hairy 
 ears, it happened that an under-gardener, a 
 varlet at six shillings a wi.*uk and his dinner, 
 who was pretending to be at work in the 
 bushes, saw this remarkable and wonderful 
 tiling. Could it be? Was it possible? Did 
 liis eyes deceive him ? Was witchery about ? 
 The king with two long, very long, com[)letely 
 fmished, perfect donkey's ears ! While he gazed, 
 motionless, his majesty replaced the bonnet and 
 walked away with as much dignity as if his 
 royal ears were human. 
 
 When that varlet knocked oil work for the 
 day it was observed that he was |X)ssessed of a 
 strange manner. lie forgot his siii)per beer ;
 
 144 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 lie sat a])ait ; lie was gloomy. The reason 
 was this dreadfiil secret. For if he told any- 
 body, his own head would certainly be off — in 
 a jiffy, he assured himself; or he would be tied 
 up in a sack and so go a -fishing or a-shrimp- 
 ing in the sea by himself ; or he might have 
 liis outlying portions cut off, such as hands, 
 feet, nose, ears, and tongue ; or he might be 
 burned ; something dreadful would infallibly 
 happen to him, unless he could keep that secret 
 as tight as wax. 
 
 He kept it for a week, suffering all the 
 time tortures as great as the punishment he 
 wished to escape. He did nut suffer himself to 
 talk at all, knowing tliat he was, by gift of the 
 gods, a babbler. lie could not drink ; he ven- 
 tured not into any company, although a youth 
 of rrrcffarious turn ; he did not dare even to 
 
 DO ' 
 
 sleep, because he talked in his sleep. At last 
 he felt that he must tell that secret or die. 
 He went, therefore, into the biggest and most 
 solitary field he could find, and then, making a 
 little hole in the LH'ound, he coufKU'd his secret,
 
 ALL LV A GARDEM FAIR, 145 
 
 Ciirefiilly wrapped in a i)ig*.s wliisper, to tlie 
 cartli. TIkmi lie covered up tlie liole and went 
 lionie quite liappy, and got drunk t])at very 
 evening, so relieved from fear was lie. 
 
 ]5ut there Avas grass growing beside that 
 hole, and near the grass there wxre reeds, and 
 beside the reeds a l)ro()k. Xow the srrass 
 whispered the secret to the reeds, and the 
 reeds to the brook, and the brook to the river, 
 and the river told the sea. That did not 
 matter much, because tliongh the sea is credu- 
 lous and swallows everything, it never gossi[)s. 
 But the grass told the flowers as well, and the 
 ilowers told the bushes, and the bushes told the 
 trees, and the trees told the birds, and they 
 told everybody; and the undcr-gardener pre- 
 tended to wonder like the rest of the world, 
 and the king left off his long cmj) and went 
 back to his old little cap, and let his ears stick 
 up, and had them gilded, and said they were 
 beaut ii'iil and an ornament to any crowned 
 head and the blessed gift of the gods, lie also 
 ordered them to be represented on his coins 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 mid statues, and prayors were oHlTcd to Apollo 
 tliat lie Avould thus niak(; tlie ears of all tlie 
 peo|)le. ]jut Apollo refused to hear. 
 
 Thus is it shown, l)y lively ])aral)le, after 
 the manner of the ancients, how one single 
 secret may embitter and even destroy a life. 
 But, in fact, it is only at tlie outset tliat a secret 
 is intolerable. When it is in tlie way of a 
 man's profession to hear and to guard secrets, 
 they cease to be a burden. Lawyers who get 
 to know a prodigious quantity of secrets are 
 never a bit the worse, and I know at least one 
 freemason whose knowledge of the craft secrets 
 has never caused liim a moment's ])ang. 
 
 Claire, with this secret ii})oii her mind, went 
 about at first in the most dreadful terror of 
 letting it out. She dreamed at night that she 
 had I'evealed it to Olinthus, who grinned con- 
 temptuously and i-ointed fmgers of scorn at 
 Allen and her father, and at herself, and said, 
 'Gar! lie a poet! AVliy he hasn't got a 
 penny ! ' And next, she told Will, Avho said it 
 was a thing very likely indeed to be fulfilled,
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 147 
 
 because Allen ^vns a first- rate ibllow and capable 
 of anything ; but that she 'was a silly child for 
 telling, and that he should never ihink well of 
 her any more. And lastly, that slie told ^^ir 
 Charles Withj'conib and his friends u])on the 
 Green. Sir Charles said that it ^vas a most pre- 
 sumptuous and imimdent thing of this young m.an 
 even to think of — being a clerk on fifty ])ounds 
 a year and his father bankrupt for a paltry 
 sum — and that it ^vas a most mischievous thing 
 of Monsieur Philij-on to ])Ut wild ideas into a 
 boy's head. Then Mr. Colliber said that he felt 
 it his duty to acquaint Miss Billingsworth with 
 the fact tliat slu^ was nourishing a seditious 
 viper, wlio made boys discontented, and turned 
 away their tlioughts from getting money. This 
 he j)roceeded to do, and her fatlier was turu((l 
 out of his j)lace, and in her dretnn slie saw liini, 
 with herself, trudirini^ aloni^ the road, botli with 
 bare feet, and so dreadfully lumgry that she 
 really had to wake up in order to escape those 
 awful i)angs. Then she imitated the Lydian 
 kiuL^'s under-gardener, because she felt that she 
 
 I, '1
 
 148 ALL JX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 iiuist say something about it to somebod3\ But 
 slic was not so foolish as to tell the grass or to 
 whisper her secret anywhere in the Forest. She 
 told the school-girls, and in sucli a crafty and 
 cunmng manner that they did not understand the 
 least bit in the world what she was telling them. 
 By this time Claire had begun to take part 
 in the teaching work of the scliool, being half 
 pupil, half teacher. She learned music, and 
 she taught everything, including the elements 
 of French. A great part of this work consists, 
 as everybody knows, of exercises, which Claire, 
 instead of giving out of a book, now began to 
 write upon a blackboard for her pupils to copy 
 and translate. At this crisi-^ slie used to write 
 exercises such as tlie following : ^ The poor boy. 
 The son of the widow, lie became a poet. 
 He wrote beautiful verses. The girl helped 
 him. He became famous. He became a great 
 man. The girl watched him. Everybody 
 ]<)\e(l him.' She rould not possibly help it : 
 she nnist tell some one. In this way she told 
 the girls. They were quite young girls, who
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 149 
 
 ineclianically wrote down what slie dictated, 
 and tlien, with no more feeling for the 'poor 
 boy ' than boys llieniselves nnder siniihir cir- 
 cumstances liave for Cains and Balbus, pro- 
 ceeded to smudge tlieir fnigers, write down and 
 scratcli out, pinch each other, whisper and 
 copy, ask the governess, wisli it was twelve 
 o'clock, wisli tliat tlie Tower of Isabel liad 
 never been built, blot llieir books, dog's ear 
 tlieir dictionaries, make grimy tlieir grammars, 
 and vie with each other in committing just as 
 many faults as can possibly be made in a given 
 number of words. 
 
 They finished and liandcd in tlieir work, 
 and Claire sent them away to wash oil' tlie ink, 
 and to dry tlie tears of injured vanity which 
 had been provoked during the lesson. She 
 never corrected that set of exercises ; she was 
 afraid lest some of the elder girls might get 
 hold of them and suspect something, so she 
 burned them all. But nobody would have 
 suspected ; what was there to suspect ? Who 
 in that seminarv of useful knowled^ie dreamed
 
 ISO ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 of poets? The pupils wrote down the words, 
 but took no heed of them, and her secret was 
 safe. How fortunate ! For if she liad told the 
 grass, and tlie grass liad told the river Eoding, 
 and the Eoding liad told the Lea, and the Lea 
 had told tlie Thames, the secret would have 
 been all over London in no time. 
 
 Claire's opportunity came in a day or two. 
 Li fact, it w^as at four o'clock on Saturday 
 afternoon when Allen appeared at the garden 
 gate and asked her if she was going into the 
 Forest that afternoon. Her father was in the 
 garden hunting slugs. Will was away at Abridge, 
 or among the Eodings, or on tlie Waltham 
 road, on his bicycle : tliey would be quite 
 alone. 
 
 Allen had been reading and liad forgotten 
 to take oir his glasses ; he walked ])eside her 
 pensive, dreamy, full of thouglit, and silent. 
 Claire, in liur wliile frock and straw liat, tripped 
 beside the lanky youth, wailing for liim to 
 speak, and wondering how she should introduce 
 the subject. Whi'U she tliouglit of what wa^
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 151 
 
 iutendecl slie blushed and t'clt a kind of awe. 
 Slie was to help make Allen a great man. 
 When he was already a great man, she thought, 
 he would be separated entirely from them : 
 they would watch his rise from the obscurities 
 of the Forest. This made her feel sad, yet 
 more resolute to do her part. As for him, he 
 was to know nothin<]j ; he must ^o on beinj^ 
 trained without sus})ieion ; he must never know 
 that lie was guided and directed by an unseen 
 hand. 
 
 They walked side by side across the mea- 
 dow, on which stood two or three gipsy cara- 
 vans, and up the long broad walk of grass with 
 the old trees on either side. Presently they 
 nnived at the old trysting-place, where lay 
 the fallen tree, and where they had once, 
 long ago, run the race for the golden 
 ai)i)le. 
 
 No one had taken away the old fallen trunk. 
 But gipsies or country people had lopped oft' 
 tlie branches bit by bit for firewood ; mosses 
 had irrown in its chinks and crannies; the bark
 
 152 ALL LX A GARDEN L-AIL^. 
 
 liad ftillcii of]', and tlie wood itself was full of 
 rotten places. Some of the old roots were left, 
 and these Avere overgrown with ivy — the broad- 
 leaved, green ivy of which the Forest is so pro- 
 digal, and with which so many startling effects 
 are produced. The ivy lent to the rugged roots 
 a touch of beauty. As to the trunk no one 
 knew, except the woodpecker, what a host of 
 creatures this old trunk of rotting wood con- 
 tained ; and beneath and beside it there was 
 quite a little coppice, a tangled undergrowth of 
 grasses, ferns, and wild flowers. 
 
 ' Our old tree,' said Claire, ' grows more 
 beautiful every year. When it was first blown 
 over do you remember how ugly it was, and 
 wliat an eyesore? ' 
 
 Allen, being still in tlie first stage of the 
 poetic development, when the hands are 
 reached out to Lrrn^i) evervthini^-, thoufrht 
 grandly how things might here be said about 
 the decay of life, and the beauty of suffering, 
 and the picturesqueness of death. But lie found 
 no words ready at the moment to express
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 153 
 
 tliese ideas, which were consequently lost and 
 wasted. 
 
 ' Is it not a place,' the girl went on, blush- 
 ing, because she did not feel what she said, but 
 only pretended — ' is it not a place full of poetry, 
 Allen? That is why you love it so much. The 
 others come here seldom now. Ikit y<ni never 
 tire of the Forest.' 
 
 ' I come,' he replied, ' because I like to be 
 alone and to think.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Claire. ' Your mind is so full of 
 verses that you come here to remember their 
 beautiful thoughts.' 
 
 Allen blushed. At his age one blushes 
 easily. It was kind of Claire to credit him 
 with beinir fidl oC beautiful thou<^hts. No one 
 else thought of such a thing. And yet it was 
 quite true, and the only dilliculty was that of 
 separating his own beautiful thoughts from 
 other men's. 
 
 ' Whom are you reading now, Allen? ' 
 
 ' I have got Keats. Oh ! ' — he breatlied a 
 deep sigh — ' Claire, you must read Keats ; he
 
 154 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 takes the old Greek stories, you know, and then 
 lie dresses them up in his own language, and 
 then— then— uli ! ' 
 
 ' I know,' said the <iirl, Avise now, like all 
 girls when they have been taught, 'I know 
 what you mean ; he puts life into tlie old 
 stories, and the fii]^ures live aoain, and we feel 
 that he has taught us to see how beautiful they 
 are.' 
 
 ' Yes, Claire ; you, too, can feel poetry. I 
 did not know it.' 
 
 'You did not give me your confidence, 
 Allen. If you had chosen to talk to me about 
 what you like, you might have found out that I 
 can understand a httle as well as Will.' 
 
 Slie spoke with the words and she looked 
 with the eyes of a coquette. She was, in fact, 
 makiiiLi" a first tentative attempt to use that 
 })ower whirh liur father said a woman lias over 
 every man. Slie had pondered over that 
 maxim a great deal, Init as yet she did not 
 understand its full meaning. 
 
 'Claire!' he cried with a L^esture of im-
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 155 
 
 patieuce. 'there is notliing in the world like 
 poetry ; there is nothing else worth trying for. 
 Oh I you must read Keats. Listen.' He opened 
 the volume at hazard almost, and read : — 
 
 Lo ! I miist tell a tale of chivalry ; 
 
 For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye : 
 
 Not like the formal crest of later days, 
 
 But bending in a thousand graceful ways. 
 
 ' You see, Claire, he cannot help writing 
 
 poetry ; he sees it all plain before him. And 
 
 this: — 
 
 He was a poet, sure a lover, too, 
 
 Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there blew 
 
 Soft breezL'S from the myrtle vale below. 
 
 And brought in faintness, solemn, sweet, and slow, 
 
 A hymn from Dian's temple. 
 
 Isn't it splendid ? Or listen to this : — 
 
 Full on the casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair bi*east, 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 liose bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
 
 And on her hair a glory, like a siiint. 
 
 Oh, Claire, it takes away your breath only 
 to rend it ! What iiui-t it have been to liave
 
 156 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 "smtteii it?' Why, his secret had escaped him, 
 but he knew it not. 
 
 ' Allen ! ' cried Claire, becoming, for tlie 
 moment, Delilah or Vivien, clasping her hands 
 to her heart, ' what must it be actually to be- 
 come — to be — a Poet ! Oh ! oh ! ' 
 
 She did not over-act her part a bit. In 
 fact, she was so much of an artist that she 
 half-unconsciously under-acted it. There was 
 enous^h feelino^ in her voice, in lier gesture, 
 and her attitude as she clasped her hands ; but 
 not too much. There was less emotion than 
 Allen himself would have put into it if he had 
 dared to say all he felt, yet more than he 
 Avould have expected from Claire. 
 
 ' To be a Poet, Allen ! ' she repeated. 
 
 The conscious swain made no reply; his 
 cheek became crimson; he trembled; the tears 
 even came into his eyes by reason of tlie great 
 yearning that possessed him to tell Cl.iire what 
 she already knew. 
 
 She went on, watching him. Surely he 
 would confide in her ; he would confess.
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 157 
 
 ' If I thought,' she said, ' that I liad the 
 gift of verse, liow small everything else Avould 
 seem to me ! Ikit I would not dream a])OUt 
 it, as I tliink some youmr uieu do. I would 
 work every day.' This it is to have liad lessons 
 from your fatlicr in the art of diplomacy. A 
 week before slie could not have made any part 
 of this speech. 
 
 ' Claire ! ' cried Allen liel[)lessly. 
 
 'I would work by myself; I should be 
 ashamed, perhaps, to show my work ; every 
 day I should feel that I was nearer to being a 
 Poet : that would make me hapi)y. I should 
 say to myself that so great a gift must not 
 make one ])roud, but grateful, and a Poet may 
 make men so much better. Ihit I would have 
 no other ambition — not one other ambition.' 
 
 He was listening with rapt eyes and burning 
 < lieeks. A long, ill-dressed lad, with worn 
 roat and baggy knees, large red liands, and 
 spectiicies. Yet his eyes inadi' him beautiful. 
 Why, all that Claire described lie had felt — he 
 was feeling ; the same liopes, the same shame,
 
 158 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 tlic same locking \\\) in liis own room, with llie 
 paper spread before liini, the same sacred awe 
 at seeing words coherent, words liis own, flow 
 from liis pen. He gasped, lie choked ; the 
 temptation was irresistible. He fell. Like 
 Samson, he parted with his secret to a w^oman 
 — perhaps, like Samson, to his own undoing. 
 Certainly from that moment his career was no 
 longer his own ; it belonged to the Conspiracy. 
 Had he kept his secret he Avould have continued 
 the City clerk ; he might have become the 
 perfect City clerk ; he might even have become 
 a Partner, or the clerk with a share in the 
 Concern ; but lie would never have been a poet, 
 except in ambition. It was a supreme moment, 
 and he knew it not. 
 
 ' Claire,' he whispered, 'are you a magician ? 
 Can you read thought? I am — I am — I am 
 enduring all that you say. Oh, Claire ! Claire ! 
 keep my secret.'' He grasped her hand. 'I 
 am trying to be a poet ; I dream all day that 
 I am a great poet ; at night I am kept awake 
 by the splendour of the vision that is before
 
 ALL LV A GARDEX FALR. 159 
 
 me. I lliink I <oc tlie pods passing before my 
 heil, biddiniz nic l)e of i^ood couraire, because 
 I am one of tliemselves. There are I^yron, 
 Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley — all of them. And 
 I am a poet, too, Avhen I see them. They 
 smile as they pass. Yet not a line written — 
 that is, ])nblishcd ; hardly a sinirle thought 
 caught out of the thousands in my head and 
 turned into verse. Yet I dare to dream.' 
 
 'Poor Allen I ' Her eyes filled wiih tears. 
 Iler father, then, was ridit. 'The time will 
 come; you Avill catch tlie thouuht, you will 
 find the words; be of good conrage.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes. I live in h()|)e ; yet it is all to do.' 
 
 'Why, you fooli>h boy, at eighteen what 
 would you have ? Begin to work. Allen. J)o 
 not dream any longer. Begin.' 
 
 'I have begun,' he said, with more l)lu>hes; 
 ' that is, I have already — trir<l to write — 
 ])()etry.' 
 
 So all was told ; so Allen fell into the traj); 
 so his secret became the [)roperty of the Con- 
 spiracy.
 
 i6o ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN THE CHAMBER. 
 
 After the confession they walked home in 
 silence. Claire was ashamed becanse she pre- 
 tended while Allen was so much in earnest ; 
 yet she rejoiced over her success. The reality 
 of a man's ambition always frightens a Avoman 
 at first. 
 
 Allen was also ashamed and yet relieved. 
 It was become almost intolerable to have no 
 one in wln^m he could confide. At home, in 
 the family circle, ambition is too often treated 
 with tlie wet blanket or the bucket of cold 
 water: no one believes tliat Johnny is going to 
 be a ,irreat man. How ran lie ? Xone of his 
 j^n-andfathers, c(nisins, brothers, or sisters have 
 been great. Of course, he will grow uj) in
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. i6i 
 
 obscurity, like the rest of them. To dream of 
 anything else is like contempt for one's ances- 
 tors — a dreadful inii)ioty. Every house, in 
 fact, is situated iu tlie city of Nazaretli. Allen 
 knew that his motlier, for instance, could not 
 have the least sympatliy with poetry. She 
 knew none except the ancient and modern 
 poems in her hymn-book. Even if he were to 
 succeed she would have no sympathy. There 
 is a success more disheartening than any failure 
 — to win the greatness you desire and not to 
 have it recognised. There was once, I remem- 
 ber, a respectable pair in a country town. 
 They had three sons born unto them. One of 
 these carried on his Other's trade, became rich, 
 and was much thought of by liis fellow-citizens. 
 The second, who was tlie dullest of the three, 
 went to Cambridge, and was fain to take a 
 degree in Law. Now, in his day this branch 
 of learning was considered to be reserved for 
 those wlio could not take their degree, by 
 reason of ignorance and thickness of brain, 
 ill Art*!. Then he presently went into holy 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 orders, and is now a country vicar, and more 
 solemn than tlie whole bench of bishops. The 
 third became a painter, and a great painter, 
 and an Academician, and is held in high 
 esteem, so that his name is known everywhere. 
 The venerable parents regard this son even as 
 the Prodigal. To be sure, he does not live on 
 husks, nor has he yet returned to ask for the 
 fatted calf, and from all they can hear he hves 
 in a good house. But, you see, his greatness 
 is not of a kind they can understand. Their 
 eldest son is, in his line, eminent ; he is a warm 
 man ; he is ex-mayor, and is greatly respected. 
 They are proud of him. Their next son, who 
 took the Law degree, and wags an unrelenting 
 forefinger in a pulpit, dressed in a white sur- 
 plice and a hood, is also an intelligible success. 
 It is not every mother wlio has a son in the 
 Church. But how is the painter to be classified, 
 and with whom compared ? 
 
 This might be, in some sort, Allen's portion. 
 Uis mother s disappointment would be dreadful 
 if she learned his ambition. When he set forth
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 163 
 
 Oil that morning when lie was to mount the 
 desk of the City clerk for the first time, she 
 took him hi her arms and solemnly kissed lum 
 with tears. ' Go,' she said, ' go, my son ; re- 
 trieve the disgrace of your father. He failed, 
 poor man, not through any fault of his own — 
 no, no — it was his partner's doing — it was all 
 John Stephens. But work, Allen, work, and 
 get a good name, and perhai)s some day you, 
 too, will be rich.' 
 
 So it seemed to him, as he walked home- 
 ward through the great forest, that there was 
 no one to trust except Claire. Will, to be 
 sure, might be trusted to keep a secret. But 
 he cared nothing at all about poetry ; he re- 
 garded books and litemture from the simplest 
 point of view, namely, as the means of con- 
 veying information. lie had no feeling for 
 style; did not understand, in spite of instruc- 
 tion, what it meant, and was careless of tlie 
 collocation of words, provided they conveyed 
 the meaning intended. Allen, on the contrary, 
 wiis quite hap[)y even if there was no meaning
 
 i64 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 at all, provided the words were musical and 
 rang melodiously on his ear. Claire would 
 understand him — nay, she had already under- 
 stood him. 
 
 ' You think,' he asked timidl}^ ' you think, 
 Claire, that I may, some day, succeed ? * 
 
 ' Oh, Allen, I am sure you will ! ' she re- 
 plied, with the generous warmth of feminine 
 sympathy which strengthens a man's courage 
 and consoles the most despondent. Observe 
 that Claire pretended no longer ; she was now 
 quite overpowered by the depth of his am- 
 bition. She believed in him henceforth as 
 Kadijah believed in the Prophet — because he 
 said it. Had he never produced a line of 
 poetry in his life she would have beheved in 
 him to the end. 
 
 ' As for the City,' Allen went on, ' I hate 
 it, Claire. The same work every day; the 
 same letters to be written ; the same papers to 
 be copied ; the same figures to be entered and 
 added \\\) ; the same chatter of the clerks. 
 Will doesn't mmd it ; he takes an interest in
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 165 
 
 it. I take none — I hate it ! Why, if I were 
 to tell the fellows in the office about my — my 
 verses they would think it the best joke they 
 had ever heard.' 
 
 ' Patience, Allen,' she said, ' patience, and 
 keep up your courage.' 
 
 ' I should have courage, and I could endure 
 a great deal more of the City, if I had only 
 confidence in myself.' 
 
 They parted at the garden-gate. Usually 
 Claire contented lierself with a nod and a good- 
 night. This evening she gave Allen her hand. 
 He understood the act to mean an assurance of 
 sccresy, but slie meant more, though she did 
 not dare to put it into words. She meant an 
 act of respect and an appeal for forgiveness. 
 She started with pretence and play-acting ; she 
 ended with conquest which brought luimiliation 
 with it. 
 
 ' Allen,* she whispered, * you have only 
 half trusted me.' 
 
 ' What more is there that I can tell you ? ' 
 
 ' You can show me your verses.'
 
 1 66 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 lie bluslied to the roots of his hair, and left 
 lier Avithout a word. When he got home lie 
 found his mother waiting suj^per for liim. She 
 knew that he spent nearly all his evenings at 
 the Cottage, and she asked no questions. 
 
 'Things going on well at the office, Allen?' 
 she inquired. It was a daily question, just as 
 the old residents, when they met in the morn- 
 ing, asked each other what news was stirring 
 in the City. 
 
 ' Nothing changes at the office, mother,' he 
 replied wearily. 'We go there every morning, 
 we come away every evening ; nothing ever 
 will change.' 
 
 She sighed. It was not tlius tliat an am- 
 bitious youth should talk. 
 
 ' There are many things,' she said, ' which 
 change. Young men become known, they are 
 promoted, they become lieads of departments, 
 they even become partners, or tliey go away 
 and set up for themselves, as your father did 
 when lie luid saved some monuy, and was 
 known to all the friends of the House.'
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 167 
 
 ' Yet he failed,' said Allen bitterly. 
 
 ' Yes, he failed.' The widow's eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 * Forgive me, mother. I will — I will re- 
 trieve the name ; if not in one way, then in 
 another. There are may ways, believe me, my 
 dear mother.' 
 
 ' There is only one for you, Allen ; it is to 
 win a good name, and make money in the City — 
 where he hoped to make it.' 
 
 lie made no reply, but presently finished 
 his supper, and went to his own room for the 
 night. There, with a beating heart, he un- 
 locked his desk and spread out his verses before 
 him. Many nights had he done this, but this 
 night it was diflerent ; he was going to read 
 them to himself for the last time ; to-morrow 
 he would give them to Claire. The sweet 
 secresy would be gone ; he would no longer 
 be sole guardian, so to speak, of his children. 
 Even for Claire's eyes to rest on them seemed 
 a profanation. Besides, what would she think 
 of them ? How would she like them ?
 
 1 68 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 The door was locked, liis mother liad gone 
 to bed ; the house was perfectly silent ; he 
 was quite alone with his poems. He was not 
 going to write ; he was going to correct, to 
 arrange, to read dispassionately. He spread out 
 his papsi's, placed the light conveniently, and 
 began his reading critically. Here a very odd 
 thing happened to him. To-night he felt very 
 strongly the strangeness of it. It happened to 
 him, in fact, whenever he sat down to read 
 his own verses, but it never happened so very 
 strongly as on that night. The thing was this. 
 At the first outset, particularly if he had not 
 looked at the verses for a week or so, a chill 
 disappointment fell upon him, and he grew 
 pale with shame ; for he always, on each oc- 
 casion, found them cold, weak, and ineffective ; 
 a dreadful flatness marked them all. Presently, 
 as he continued reading, a change would come 
 over his mind — the verses would become 
 natural, w\arm, glowing with fiuicy, full of 
 sacred fire. Now the reason, which he did not 
 know, was this, and no other. He began his
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 169 
 
 reading determined to maintain the attitude of 
 an outijider. He was resolved to read on as if 
 tlie leaflets before him were the work of another 
 man altogether ; as if he had been called upon 
 by publishers to give an opinion on the literary 
 merits of the poem. lie began well, but he 
 could not keep up the mental position. Pre- 
 sently, little by little, he began to remember 
 the things which had been in his head, the 
 eflects which he desired to produce, when he 
 wrote down those lines. These effects were 
 always ambitious, so that he really read, not 
 tlie actual words, but the great and soaring 
 thoughts which had been in his heart. There 
 is nothing in the whole of literature so splendid 
 in shape and colour as the half-defined imagery 
 of a young man's fancy ; but it has never been 
 caught. And, while Allen read, it was well 
 that the door was shut, because he sat with 
 tears in his eyes, with trembling hand, and 
 with his heart aglow. 
 
 While he read and corrected, this short night 
 of June passed away, and presently he became
 
 I70 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 aware tliat it was already broad day — that the 
 sun was up and the blackbird singing in the 
 Forest. He bitterly thought of the morrow; 
 he would have to go to church, instead of 
 talking to Claire about his poetry. He threw 
 himself upon the bed, where he dreamed, not 
 of sweet verses, as he would have wished, but 
 of an ignoble day at his desk in the City, and 
 a dinner at Crosby Hall in the company of 
 Tommy. 
 
 ' Your face tells me something, Claire,' said 
 her fiither when the girl retm-ned. 
 
 ' Allen has confessed to me,' she rephed 
 gravely. 'You were right. He dreams of 
 being a poet.' 
 
 On Monday evening Allen came again, but 
 not alone, for Will was Avith him on his bicycle. 
 Claire joined them, and they all three went off, 
 as usual, into the Forest. By this time Will, 
 nearly six feet high, Avas as handsome a young 
 fellow as one may wish to see, rejoicing in his 
 strength and in his youth. The girl could not
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 171 
 
 avoid observing the diflereuce between his 
 careless, natural ease, his confident bearing, his 
 brave eyes, which looked as if he was ready to 
 meet any reverses which Fate might send, and 
 fight them all, and the anxious, nervous face of 
 Allen, with his sharj^, thin face, slight figure, 
 and stooping shoulders. Will managed his iron 
 liorse with dexterity, sometimes careering round 
 them, sometimes reining in the eager steed to 
 a walk, sometimes darting swiftly ahead, and as 
 swiftly returning. In these brief absences the 
 pair conversed in guilty whispers. 
 
 'I sat up all Saturday night,' said Allen, 
 *and looked over my verses. It seemed as 
 if I was reading them for the last time. Do 
 you tliink you would like to see them, Claire 
 — really P ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Allen, of course I would, if you 
 think you can trust me with them.' 
 
 They were both blushing, as if the secret 
 were the recollection of a crime. 
 
 'I want,' he went on hurriedly, because 
 Will might return at any moment, ' I want
 
 172 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 nothing but a candid opinion, Claire — not praise 
 which I do not deserve.' This is, in fact, what all 
 young writers want. ' I want your dispassionate 
 judgment. Tell me what my faults are.* 
 
 ' I shall see no faults, Allen.' 
 
 ' Yes, oh yes ! I am sure there are faults. 
 Sometimes I think they are full of faults ; but 
 sometimes — oh I Claire, do not think me vain — 
 sometimes I think they are really good — 
 worthy even of being pubhshed.' 
 
 ' I am sure they are, Allen.' 
 
 ' Then, Claire ' — his hand stole into the 
 breast-pocket of his coat — ' I have them here. 
 Kemember, if I give them to you it must be on 
 the promise that you are not to flatter me. 
 Put them into the fire if you find them bad.' 
 He said this with so rueful a face that Claire 
 was fain to laugh at him. 
 
 ' You silly boy,' she said ; ' give me the 
 papers. And what would you say if I were 
 really to put your poems into the fire ? To be 
 sure, we have no fire in June.' 
 
 He handed her the packet, solemnly and
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 173 
 
 slowly, almost as an alchemist might hand to a 
 disciple the secret of the ehxir. 
 
 ' Here is my work,' he said. ' Hide the 
 packet, Claire. Quick, quick ! I see the 
 bicycle coming back.' 
 
 Back, in fact, it came, the face of the rider 
 glowing in the sunlight. 
 
 ' Oh, you two ! ' he cried, ranging alongside. 
 ' Hi\s Allen been firing off any more verses, 
 Claire ? The way he spouts sometimes is 
 enough to lift off the top of a fellow's head. 
 Did he tell you what Keats had the good luck 
 to say about the sunset ? With these fellows 
 it*s all what they say about a thing. I don't 
 believe they really care about anything half so 
 much as we people who don't make rhymes.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Claire ; ' they care so much 
 more for beautiful things than we do that they 
 cannot help putting their thoughts into beau- 
 tifid words.' 
 
 'Don't believe it,' said the lad of prose, 
 ' else they wouldn't make so much fuss about 
 what they say. But I like a rattling good
 
 174 ^I^L IN A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 story ill verse. Give me the tale of the fellow 
 who kept the bridge ; but I can't see any fun 
 in bothering one's head about a fellow who 
 couldn't be happy aboard ship till he'd said 
 something fme about the sea.' 
 
 Claire laughed. 
 
 ' Mostly he throws Keats at my head. 
 Keats w^as no end of a fellow ; once he worried 
 the life out of the west wind, and once he got 
 hold of a moon, and turned it full into a room ; 
 you never saw such a sight. He died young, 
 did Keats — so that Allen had better look out.* 
 
 'Why?' asked Claire. 
 
 'Well, you see, Allen is getting so full of 
 the poets that one of these fine days he will be 
 setting up for a poet himself Next thing, 
 he'll die young, like Keats ; or he'll leave oQ' 
 believing anything at all, like Shelley ' — here 
 he wondered why Claire, as well as Allen, 
 looked red and guilty — ' or perhaps he'll leave 
 the City and live here, and write odes on the 
 buttercups, like Wordsworth. He'll be a lost 
 Allen, Claire.' Hl' laughed, turned his vehicle.
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 175 
 
 and was off again along the level road. Will 
 at least was a lad witli no dreams. 
 
 * You see/ said Claire, ' tliere is no great 
 merit in guessing your secret. But it was my 
 father who told it to me first.' 
 
 * Your father?' 
 
 ' Yes ; and now Will half guesses it. 
 Allen ' — she spoke, the deceitful creature, as if 
 moved by a sudden thought — ' you want better 
 advice than I can give you. All I can say is, 
 that I shall find your verses beautiful and 
 delightful; I know I shall. You must read 
 them yourself to my father.' 
 
 ' To your father ? Claire, I could not.' 
 
 ' Wliy, he is not a harsh critic. Besides, 
 you must have some one to take counsel with, 
 and I am only a very ignorant girl.' 
 
 ' Xot ignorant, Claire, unless Will and I are 
 ignorant. You know all that we know.' 
 
 ' Then, come, Allen, come with me to my 
 father. See, he has guessed your secre'. 
 already.' 
 
 'I am a.sliamed, Claire.' This tall lad of
 
 176 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 eighteen was like a girl for shyness over his 
 own verses. A man's works are to himself, 
 when he is a boy, and bashful, even more 
 than tlie charms of a maiden are to her. 
 
 ' You are ashamed ? Why ? Because your 
 verses are your own, Allen? That is all the 
 more reason for pride. Come.' 
 
 They found M. Phihpon in the garden 
 among the vegetables. Consequently he had 
 on his working blouse. At their approach he 
 stood up and straightened his back. ' In this 
 garden, Allen,' he said, ' there is a slug — not a 
 common slug, a slug of vast resource and 
 insatiable appetite. Every night I search for 
 this slug. I give liim no peace ; I have vowed 
 his destruction. Yet lie is a crafty slug, and 
 he eludes my hunt. The nature of the slug is 
 treachery, cowardice, and greediness. For him 
 I grow the finest peas, tlie largest lettuces, the 
 roundest cabbages. He mocks me. He eats 
 my substance ; he waits till I am in bed ; then 
 he laughs and comes out. By this time he 
 must be hke a pillow for fatness.'
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR, 177 
 
 ' Father,' said Claire, ' can you leave the 
 sing this evening? Allen wishes to ask your 
 counsel/ 
 
 They all went solemnly into the house, and 
 M. Philipon sat down, assuming visibly the air 
 of a Boileau. 
 
 ' Allen has written some verses,' Claire 
 explained, abruptly plunging at once into the 
 middle of tilings. Girls have no understanding 
 of a young man's modesty. ' He wants no one 
 to know about them as yet, except ourselves, 
 and he asks you to hear him read them.' 
 
 Allen acquiesced by a feeble inclination of 
 the head and a sickly smile. He could not 
 have said all this for himself in terms so plain 
 and direct ; and he felt somehow as if Claire 
 should have participated, so to speak, in his 
 own reserve. 
 
 * Allen has written some verses.' Why, 
 she might just as well have said, 'Allen has 
 walked ten miles.' Yet the thing was said, 
 and her father was in the secret. It seemed 
 like the letting out of water. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 ALL LY A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 ' You liave done well,' said the critic, 
 folding liis arms, ' to entrust your ambitions 
 to the sympathy of your playfellow and tlie 
 experience of your teacher. Eead your works. 
 Expect, young man, from me a rigid censure. 
 I look for nothing short of the merits of French 
 verse : these merits are precision, iiettetc, clear- 
 ness of thought ; eveiy where the right word. 
 Even in English, where there are so many 
 words, there is always tlie right word. Claire, 
 my child, sit beside me. Open your heart to 
 the noble sentiments of the poet, and leave to 
 me the coldness of the critic' 
 
 This was encouraging : iJoileau, in his age, 
 might so have received 13eranger in his youth.
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 179 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 POET UNTO POET. 
 
 Allen took his papers from Claire's hands and 
 prepared to read them. ls\. Philipon made one 
 more eflbrt towards liardening liis features to 
 tlie rigidity of tlie unbending critic, while 
 Claire became obviously the sympathetic ad- 
 mirer. 1 cannot conceive of any situation 
 more awkward for a young man of eighteen 
 than I his — fortunately an unusual one — of 
 reading his own verses aloud. When a man 
 has achieved a reputation, when he is sure of 
 receiving at the end murmurs of thanks and 
 praise, to read a poem is [)art of the greatness. 
 Ikit in the inception, even before the very 
 beginning, when one is still a timid, sensi- 
 tive lad, conscious that the verses are essays,
 
 i8o ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 tentativos, at tlic best not too good, tlie ordeal 
 is terrible. 
 
 In tliis case tliat dreadful feeling already 
 alluded to, of chill disappointment and disgust 
 with liis own work, remained witli him from 
 the beginning to the end, and it made him read 
 badly, so tliat he did not even do his work 
 justice. He saw, too, that Claire was dis- 
 appointed ; he saw it because her eyes, which 
 should have brightened liad the verses pleased, 
 and were tell-tale eyes, dropped, and slie 
 did not lift them again. There was no en- 
 couragement in her drooping head and down- 
 cast eyes. The critic's upper lip was evidently 
 stiffened to say cruel tilings. 
 
 As for the verses, what can one expect of 
 eighteen? They were skeletons, feeble imi- 
 tations, weak in language, Mse in sentiment; 
 they had every fault. They had, however, one 
 virtue — they possessed that quality difficult to 
 define, impossible to describe, which is called 
 promise. If you go to the Grosvenor Gallery, 
 for instance, or any other gallery, you will find
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 18 1 
 
 plenty of feeble pictures by amateurs and 
 beginners ; among them, however, you will 
 discover one or two which have promise. 
 
 Claire, who could see that the verses wxre 
 stilted, wTak, and cold, but could not see the 
 promise in them, was bitterly disappointed. 
 Poor Allen ! was this the outcome of all liis 
 reading? Was it with this little bundle of 
 feeble couplets that he hoped to achieve immor- 
 tality? Not an original thought, not one novel 
 expression, not one happy phrase from beginning 
 to end. She could not lift her eyes. She would 
 have cried with vexation had she dared. 
 
 When the poet finished his reading he 
 stood pale, gloomy, almost despairing. For he 
 was self-convicted ; he felt now for the first 
 time how really bad his verses were. The 
 enthusiasm of his conception came not, as usual, 
 to conceal the feebleness of his execution. He 
 looked so miserable that Chiire would have 
 burst into tears, but for a most surprising thing. 
 
 Conceive her astonishment when, at this 
 painful moment, her father sprang to his feet
 
 1 82 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 and seized Allen by both hands, crying, ' Courage, 
 my pupil ! I congratulate you ; you shall be a 
 poet.' 
 
 It was not out of kindness. Hector, the 
 critic, saw the promise. Allen gasped. 
 
 ' You think so ? ' he cried, with burning 
 cheeks and glowing eyes. ' Oh, you think ' 
 
 ' I am siu-e,' replied the new Boileau. 
 
 I do not suppose that Allen will ever again 
 experience a moment — it was only one moment 
 — of such unalloyed, such unexpected rapture 
 as this. He cannot ; such happiness can only 
 come — once — to a very young man. The 
 earthly heaven recedes and disappears as one 
 grows older. It was a momentary glimpse of 
 paradise. But, the critic who opened the gates 
 closed them again abruptly. 
 
 ' As for your verses,' he said, with incon- 
 ceivable cruelty, ' they are detestable. So far 
 as I can judge, being a Frenchman, and not an 
 Englishman, they are detestable.' 
 
 Allen dropped the papers out of his hand, 
 and turned as pale as a girl who is ' going off,'
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 183 
 
 ^vlnlo the verses fluttered helplessly to the 
 iloor. 
 
 Allen ! ' Claire sprang forward and caught 
 his hand. ' My father means — he does not 
 mean ' 
 
 ' I mean,' said her father firmly, ' that they 
 are detestable. Now, Claire, my dear, play 
 something that is soft and pleasant to take away 
 the remembrance of those verses. So — so let 
 me talk to this young poet if only to forget his 
 rhymes.' 
 
 The young Apollo stood motionless, his 
 verses lying down on the carpet. lie would 
 have shed tears had he been alone. 
 
 ' Courage ! ' said his critic, ' courage, my 
 son ! Did you never before hear of a poet 
 writing utterly detestable vei^ses at eighteen ? 
 That is nothing ; they all do it. Tut tlie rul)- 
 bish away and look at it, if you like, in three 
 years time. That is my first advice ; read this 
 rigmarole make-believe no more or you will 
 fall in love with it, and then it will stop your 
 growth. Do you not know that to love any
 
 i84 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 below the best of women is fatal to a poet ? 
 And as your mistress so your verse. Would 
 you take your Muse from an English institution 
 — hein 1 — a school for young ladies ? Think 
 no more about tlie verses. Are you brave ? ' 
 
 Certainly, at this moment he did not look 
 brave, but the exact opposite, for the shock of 
 hearing his verses called detestable was too 
 much for his nerves, and he was trembling, as 
 only a lad of extremely nervous and sensitive 
 temperament can tremble at that age when one 
 is still a boy, but with some of the instincts of 
 a man. All liis hopes were lying in those verses, 
 and they were detestable. 
 
 ' Come, Allen,' said Ilector kindly, ' do not 
 be cast down. Detestable as they are, they 
 have tlie right ring, they have promise ; they 
 show that you will, some day, write good verses. 
 Now, are you brave ? ' 
 
 ' I could be if I tliought my work would 
 not always be ' — liere he choked — ' detestable.' 
 
 ' It Avill not, believe me. Be prepared, 
 however, to meet witli tlie disappointment which
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 185 
 
 belongs to tlie career of every poet, even tlie 
 worst of evils — for a poet — neglect. Yet you 
 must persevere. Success will seem flirther off 
 than ever, yet you must persevere. Give up, 
 first, what men most care for — wealth.' 
 
 ' I do not desire money,' said Allen grandly. 
 
 ' Then you will be more than a poet ; you 
 will be a philosopher. But sometimes money 
 means — love, and to a poet love is a necessity.' 
 
 ' Love ? ' Allen glanced involuntarily at 
 Claire. 
 
 ' Yes, but women love men who succeed ; 
 they only pity those who fail. It is sometimes 
 the fate of a poet to succeed only when he has 
 one foot in the grave. You may be sohtary, 
 but you must work ; you may be laughed at by 
 your friends, but you must go on working. In 
 time you will have your reward. Yes, a great 
 reward. The prizes of the world are all for 
 those who Ciin go on working.' Allen was 
 silent. ' For the present read — read daily, and 
 practise daily. To write verse easily is the first 
 thing. That you will learn by practice. I
 
 1 86 ALL LY A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 command you to ^vritc every day something. 
 And now, if you please, I will tell you, in order 
 to encourage you, the story of a niijn wlio tried 
 to be a poet and failed, because he left off 
 trying.' 
 
 ' I would rather,' said Allen, feebly smiling, 
 * hear the story of the man who succeeded.' 
 
 'You may read plenty of such stories in 
 books. Listen, Claire, my child ; if you can 
 listen and make music at the same time, please 
 to go on playing. If not, leave the piano and 
 sit on your stool, and give your father both 
 your hands.' 
 
 Claire sat at his feet and gave him her 
 hands. She knew that he was going to tell 
 them something about himself. 
 
 ' The young man of whom I speak was a 
 student — it faisoit son droit — he was studying 
 law. In the same way began young Arouet 
 and young Poqueliii. It is not, my friend, that 
 law produces poets, but tliat poets quickly 
 abandon law. This young student, who never 
 opened a law-book, spent all liis time in writing
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR, 187 
 
 poetry. At the age when you were wandering 
 in tlie woods, he wandered in the streets of 
 Paris. It Avas nearly thirty years ago. He 
 was a young man — there were then many such 
 — who had learned the ideas of the Eevolution, 
 and saw that all was not finished, but, on the 
 other hand, all was to begin again. You do 
 not know yet what that means, but you will 
 some day. This young man, while his fellow- 
 students went to Auteuil and sang of lilacs and 
 love, used to spend his time walking about the 
 streets of Paris, and talking with the men who 
 wear the blouse. It is through these men, you 
 see, that revolutions are made. He w^anted to 
 find out what they think and what they want. 
 If you talk to these men long enough they will 
 tell you freely what they think. This young 
 man began to write down the stories he heard 
 in verse ; he began t<3 write songs for the 
 people ; he told them what they wanted, and 
 how they were to work in order to get it — all 
 in his songs. lie would become — he — this 
 young man — one of tlie Poets of Uumanity.
 
 1 88 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 That was a noble ambition, was it not, Allen ? 
 Nothing less than a Poet of the People ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Allen, kindling. 
 
 ' When his verses were finished he took 
 them to a publisher. Do I say one pubhsher? 
 lie offered them to all the pubhshers. Not one 
 would take tliem. But he had a brother 
 engaged in commerce. This good brother, 
 though a plain bourgeois who abhorred the 
 Revolution and desired order above all things, 
 in order that he might become rich, gave him 
 the money to pubHsh his poems. The book 
 was printed, it appeared ' 
 
 lie was silent awhile. 
 
 'Then?' asked Allen. 
 
 ' Nothing more, my friend, nothing more. 
 It appeared from the statement of the publisher 
 that nobody at all bought a single copy, nobody 
 noticed the book.' 
 
 'Nobody at all? Oh, my poor father!' 
 cried Claire. 
 
 ' Nobody at all. The poet lauguislied in 
 absolute neglect. His verv brother did not
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 189 
 
 ])iiy a copy. Yet T think that somebody must 
 liave read tliein, I do not know wlio. For, 
 mark this strange thing : it was in DecemlxT of 
 the year 1847 tliat these poems were pubhshed, 
 and in February, 1848, tlie Eevolution began. 
 Yes, the Eevolution. Now when it began, a 
 coincidence happened. The people acted ex- 
 actly as I in my verses had exhorted them to 
 act. Y''es ; in those verses which nobody 
 bought.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' said Allen. 
 
 'Yes, there was the spontaneous rising; 
 tliere were tlie barricades ; there was the street- 
 fighting. I felt, as I stood among the ouvriers 
 on the Boulevard des Italiens, that every man 
 in the crowd nmst have read my verses. My 
 children, that wiis a proud moment. I was the 
 Poet of Freedom ! ' 
 
 ' And the books? * asked Allen. 
 
 ' Behold another coincidence. The shop 
 was pillaged ; the people wanted materials for a 
 barricade. They took the handiest, the books 
 out of that [)ublisher's shop. Books, if you get
 
 I90 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 enough of them, make excellent barricades. 
 The Eevolution, in fact, devoured the whole 
 edition of the very book, to which — I do not 
 say — I do not know — to wdiich, perhaps, it 
 owed birth.' 
 
 ' And not a single copy left ? ' said Claire. 
 
 ' My daughter, there is not one. Nothing 
 remains of that unknown volume, unless, in- 
 deed, the memory of the Eevolution.' 
 
 Allen's eyes glowed. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he cried ; ' to think that a poet 
 could so move the world ! ' 
 
 ' And a poet of twenty- one ! ' said Claire, 
 gazing with pride upon her father. She 
 knew that he had taken no ignoble part iu 
 the great revolutionary outbreak, but she 
 had never suspected him of being its prime 
 author. 
 
 ' Only three years older than myself,' echoed 
 Allen. 
 
 'It may have been,' said this Tyrta3us of 
 Eevolution, trying to suppress the external 
 betrayal of pride, ' that this young man only
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 191 
 
 caught the ideas of llie workmen and tlie 
 students, and echoed tlieni ' 
 
 ' No/ said Allen with decision — ' no : the 
 poet leads.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' said Claire, ' the i)eople always 
 wait for their poet.' 
 
 They both spoke as if they knew all about 
 it, and as if they were quite familiar with the 
 ways of the people. We, avIio know more of 
 our brethren, may admit that if the people do 
 always wait for their poet, they wait with great 
 patience — ^^ much patience as the mother of the 
 people waits for that Ship to come home which 
 is going to bring fortune and haj)piness. They 
 wait, in fact, so patiently that they do not even 
 talk about the advent of the poet. 
 
 'Yet,' said Hector, glowing witli the 
 memory of this unknown achievement, and 
 still endeavouring at modesty, ' yet not one 
 copy sold ! ' 
 
 * Some of the books must have been lent,' 
 said Allen. ' I have read of books being 
 passed round secretly from hand to hand ; and
 
 192 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 tlie printers may have printed for themselves 
 copies of which they told you nothing.' 
 
 'That may have been,' said M. Philipon. 
 ' I liad quite forgotten tlie printers. Why, 
 they were red republicans to a man. Yes, that 
 must be the explanation. That makes all clear.' 
 
 ' I always knew, mon pere,' said Claire, 
 kissing his hand, ' that you were as clever as 
 you are good, but I did not know that you 
 were so glorious.' 
 
 Allen gazed upon him with admiration, 
 amounting to worship. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he murmured, ' we have been your 
 pupils all these years and ^ve never suspected. 
 Why, Sir Charles is proud because he failed 
 for a luuidred thousand pounds, and ruined 
 hundreds of families. -And you, who are not 
 proud, have ' 
 
 He stopped abruptly, because it suddenly 
 occurred to liini tliat two or three parallels, all 
 equally unlucky, might be followed out on 
 these lines. As, for instance, tliat Sir Charles 
 failed for a hundred tliousand pounds, and the
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 193 
 
 Revolution of 1848 failed for many liundred 
 millions ; or, that Sir Charles ruined famihes 
 by the dozen, and the Revolution ruined 
 families by the milhon, and so on ; each one 
 affording great matter of congratulation to the 
 obscure and unknown but genuine author of 
 the great movement. 
 
 'My little poems,' said Hector modestly, 
 * merely had the luck to precede the second 
 convulsion which shook llirones and made 
 priests tremble — that is all.' 
 
 'Your doing, your doing,' repeated Alk*n. 
 
 'My friend, I do not claim that honour. 
 I only remark a simple coincidence. That is 
 the story I wished to tell you. First, remark 
 that in spite of the remarkable success of those 
 verses I did not continue to write poetry. 
 That was because from being an active director 
 in modern history I had shortly to become a — 
 a — what I am now. A mind, narrowed to so 
 small a thing as the verb irregular, and to so 
 contemptible a field as tlie intellect of Girl, 
 cannot write poetry.' 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Your country — the world — has lost you/ 
 said Allen. 
 
 * Yet my story should encourage you. One 
 may not sell one's works, yet they may pro- 
 duce great, even wonderful results. There- 
 fore, courage ; and work. Put away that 
 rubbish, and work. And it was a noble 
 thought, was it not, to leave love and lilacs in 
 the age when lilacs and love are most dehght- 
 ful, and to become the Poet of Humanity ? ' 
 
 The bright eyes of the man who should 
 have been a great poet grew humid, and his 
 musical voice trembled. 
 
 ' Of Humanity ! ' Allen echoed, with glow- 
 ing cheeks and brightened eyes.
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. ^95 
 
 CHArTEll X. 
 
 Till-: TEACHING OF ART. 
 
 Allen read no more verfjcs to lii.s guidu ; but 
 lie went on making them in obedience to hi.s 
 advice. If you wisli to be a poet, you cannot, 
 in fact, do better tluui make verses [)er[)etually. 
 It is only by tlie writing of poetry tliat one 
 becomes a poet. Tliis seems elementary, but 
 it is not, because most people believe that a 
 man is born a poet ready-made, and that verses 
 drop from his pen like accounts in double 
 entiy from the pens of tlie less gifted. Besides 
 writing rhyme, Allen read a great deiil aloud 
 to Claire and Will in the long winter evenings, 
 while M. riiilipon rolled his cigarettes, and 
 watched the progress of the experiment, 'i'he 
 bravo Hector Iiad a new intere>t in life since 
 
 2
 
 196 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 the coinmcncemciit of tlie great Conspiracy. 
 The idea^ of his youth had returned to him ; 
 once more he felt himself a man among men. 
 He Ava.s still, it is true, a teacher to young 
 ladies ; but he ^vas more, lie was nmch more. 
 He was a man with power in reserve ; he had 
 still his trump card to i)lay : because he had 
 as yet told Claire only half of his gi*eat Thought. 
 And l>y this time Will was also taken into 
 partial confidence. 
 
 ' I ahvays thought it would come to this,' 
 he said when Allen told him about the verses. 
 ' I believe if you were offered a partnership hi 
 Brimage and Waring with ten thousand a year, 
 or the chance of being an author with what 
 even casual sovereigns you could make, you 
 would take that chance.' 
 
 ' Of course I would,' Allen replied. ' Why, 
 Will, who would not ? If you are a merchant, 
 you live out your life for the sake of making 
 money. Can lliat be compared with the life 
 of an author — a ]H)et — who shows the better 
 life, who interprets the thoughts of the people ? '
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR, 197 
 
 'I don't know much about the People/ 
 said Will. ' If they had any thoughts they 
 "wouldn't want an interpreter, I take it. As 
 for your fine contempt for money, it is very 
 noble, old boy ; but I should like to be rich. 
 A rich man has respect and power. And why 
 shouldn't he live the better life — eh ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose he might if he chose,' said 
 Allen. 
 
 ' I dont quite know what the better life 
 is,' Will continued. ' I don't suppose it's lentils 
 and cold water, with a hair shirt, and a cow- 
 hide for your own shoulders. Is it ? ' 
 
 * Of course not,' said Allen. 
 
 'In that case I see no reason why any 
 one in Brimage and Waring's shouldn't lead it 
 as well as you poets. I dare say lots of the 
 fellows do, only we don't know. I say, Allen, 
 what will the mater say?' 
 
 What indeed? Allen winced at the ques- 
 tion, and shook his head like Lord Burleigh, 
 meaning an enormous quantity of expostulation, 
 tears, and disappointment by that shake.
 
 198 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Will, ' you've got all your 
 work cut out for you there. I should like to 
 see my father's face if I were to tell him that 
 I was going to be a poet. Why, he has got 
 five-and-twenty projects at least, besides those 
 which doubled him u}) y(3ars aL^o, and he is 
 only waiting till I have made some money to 
 take it all away from mc and begin again. He 
 says I shall inherit a vast fortune.' 
 
 Both laughed irreverently, and it must be 
 owned that Will interpreted the fifth command- 
 ment in a narrow sense. He honoured his 
 fiithcr as much as he could, but that was not 
 nuich. 
 
 ' Of course if ever I do make money I shall 
 take care not to lose it,' he went on. ' But to 
 make money one must be in the City. Allen, 
 old boy, I should like to say something, but I 
 am afraid.' 
 
 * You cannot oflbnd mc, Will,' said Allen, 
 ' not even if you were to call my poor verses 
 detestable.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't do that, certainly, because I
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 199 
 
 should always see what you were driving at, 
 and you couldn't aim at anything detestable. 
 
 What I mean is — I sometimes think — well * 
 
 he hesitated a good deal, because this was 
 really a very disagreeable thing to say ; ' I 
 mean — sometimes it seems — that this desire 
 for glory may be a pretty selfish kind of thing. 
 Not that you are selfish, Allen, only there is a 
 heap of things in the world which are waiting 
 to be done. Wouldn't it be better for every 
 one to take his share of the work and do it, 
 without caring about being praised while he 
 is alive and remembered when he is dead? 
 Let a man do his work as well a.s he can, and 
 have done with it.' 
 
 Allen receival this admonition meekly. 
 He confessed that he did think very nuuli in- 
 deed about fame ; the crown of laurel seemed 
 of all things the most desirable. He owned 
 that it might be selfish, but that he greatly 
 longed to distinguish himself. 
 
 ' After all,' said Will, thinking, ' if you do 
 have the admiration of the whole world when
 
 200 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 you liave got one foot in the grave, liow are 
 you to enjoy it? You don't know it when a 
 person a thousand miles olT is reading your 
 verses and admiring ; you don't feel it if that 
 person is laughing or crying over you. How 
 much better off are you than tlie City man 
 -whom nobody knows ? ' 
 
 ' You have the consciousness of your life's 
 work,' said Allen, with grandeur. 
 
 'You don't know,' Will went on, 'how 
 often you are read and by whom. To be sure, 
 your portrait will be in the photograph shops, 
 between the ballet-girls and the Beauties. That 
 will be grand. And when you die your fame 
 will do you no good.' 
 
 ' IIow do you know that ? ' asked Allen 
 shar])ly. 
 
 ' Should it, more than the memory of a good 
 life ? Never mind, Allen, you will be a poet. 
 Ijut you must not give up tlic City. You can 
 go on working all day in an ollicc and writing 
 every evening. You know we are going to 
 have great chances and get partnerships some
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 201 
 
 day and be ricli — but I don't know liow or 
 when. I don't think, so fiir as I know, that 
 there has ever been yet a City merchant wlio 
 was a poet — Eogers, to be sure ; but he was 
 only a banker. You shall be that phenomenon, 
 the first i^reat wealthy merchant who ever 
 wrote poems.' 
 
 Allen laughed. A City merchant he felt 
 very sure he should never be. Ilow long he 
 should have to continue a City clerk was 
 another question, for the irksomeness of the 
 Asork became every day more intolerable to 
 him, and the drudgery more aimless. I be- 
 lieve that there is no torture worse than that 
 of setting men to do work which means 
 nothing. In military prisons they used — per- 
 haps they do it still — to make the j)risoners 
 carry heavy shot from one place to another 
 place and then back again — a punishment 
 which presently brings on either softening of 
 the brain or an irrepressible desire to kill some 
 one. When one thinks of the City clerk — the 
 mechanical clerk — who copies and enters and
 
 202 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 adds up all the day long, one is reminded of 
 the prisoners who carry the shot. The reader 
 of Lempriere, or any other person of classical 
 tastes, may also consider the labours of Sisyphus. 
 Allen felt all day long like the man with the 
 heavy shot. His labours led to nothing and 
 were of no importance to him. He would 
 have been walking in the Forest alone, or 
 reading wuth Claire, or meditating some great 
 design. His mind was filled with books. As 
 yet he w^as able to give his daily work sufficient 
 attention, but he felt as if the burden was every 
 day becoming greater. 
 
 Now I suppose that no one will believe — 
 a thing, however, perfectly true — that neither 
 of these lads had ever been to a theatre, or a 
 picture gallery, or a museum, or a concert, or 
 on opera, or a collection of Art of any kind. 
 To realise the possibility of such destitution 
 you have to comprehend the East End, which 
 is, to those of us who live in tlie West, abso- 
 lutely incomprehensible. It is like a theologi- 
 cal dogma : it is beyond man's reason. You
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 203 
 
 liave also to understand how raiicli out of tlie way 
 is this village where the boys lived. It is on the 
 Great Eastern Eailway, to begin with, which 
 isolates and cuts it off from the cultured West ; 
 and it is five miles from a station. Why, these 
 boys never went anywhere except to and from 
 tiieir school until they left it. Then they went 
 to Liverpool Street, and from that terminus to 
 Great St. Simon Apostle. They saw nothing. 
 I doubt if tliey had ever seen St. Paul's — I 
 am sure they had not seen Westminster Abbey. 
 One day Hector, thinking over his great 
 conspiracy and its progress, suddenly sprang 
 from his chair with a bound, and with a loud 
 cry as of one Avho has a swift and sudden pain. 
 
 * Claire ! ' he cried, ' I have forgotten ' 
 
 ' What have you forgotten, papa? ' 
 
 * I have forgotten — the Theatre.' 
 'Forgotten the Theatre?' she repeated, 
 
 for the words meant nothing tit all to her. 
 
 ' Heaven forgive me I I have forgotten — 
 I — ji ^ari^;ian — have forgotten the Drama! 
 Can it be possible? This it is to have been
 
 204 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 thirty years in exile. My daughter, tlie educa- 
 tion of a poet must include a knowledge of the 
 stage, and I had overlooked it.' 
 
 'Surely it is not too late.' 
 
 'No; we must, however, lose no tune. 
 And there are pictures, nnisic, sculpture, 
 architecture — there is the whole Avorld of 
 Art. Good heavens ! we must indeed lose no 
 time.' 
 
 On the following Saturday the yoimg men 
 stayed in town and met Claire and her father 
 in the evening. They all went together to the 
 pit, where one sees best and pays least. The 
 joy of children at a pantomime is supposed to 
 be a pleasant sight for older eyes ; yet no 
 children at any pantomime ever fell into a 
 greater rapture than ^did these two lads of 
 eighteen — an age when many boys are sated 
 with such sitihts — and the ufirl who sat be- 
 tween them. They were carried out of tliem- 
 selves ; they were no longer in [\ theatre, hot, 
 close, and crowded ; they wei'e in the forest, 
 on the sea, in palaces among great nobles.
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 205 
 
 Fortunately it was a first night ; the house was 
 quite full ; the piece was so sweet and poetical 
 that, though it pleased the critical audience of 
 tlie first performance and was full of poetry and 
 pathos, and tears and laughter, it failed to run. 
 The author was called, and came to tlie front 
 and bowed amid the acclamation of the house. 
 Allen for his part stood up to shout. 
 
 They came away in a dream, Claire's eyes 
 still wet with the tears of the third act — they 
 ought to have taken sheets with them instead 
 of pocket-handkerchiefs, so moving was the 
 situation. 
 
 The walk to the station, however, restored 
 tlieni. Will became critical about the acting, 
 Allen about the story. One, you observe, was 
 himself born to be a m^er, the other to be a 
 recipient of the things made. The poet gives 
 as well as makes, the rest of us only receive : 
 we criticise these gifts, we venture to look into 
 the mouth of the fairest gift-horse. 
 
 'But a story acted,' said Will, ' is ton limes 
 better than a story told.'
 
 2o6 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Aud there cannot be in the whole world,' 
 said Allen with a sigh, ' a happier man to-night 
 than the author of the piece.' 
 
 'There Avill be one man as happy some 
 day,' Claire whispered. ' Do yon know who, 
 Allen?' 
 
 He blushed. Yes, to sit in a theatre to see 
 your own noble thoughts nobly rendered ; to 
 witness the faces of a large audience all moved 
 by the same emotions ; to say to yourself, ipse 
 feci — it is my handiwork ; this is indeed solid 
 and substantial reward. The time is coming 
 again when the best genius of England will be 
 drawn back to the stage, and the writing of 
 dramas will be the chosen life's-work of the 
 future Thackeray. Allen knew what Claire 
 meant. It would be when lie himself should 
 so stand before a crowded House and hear 
 those plaudits ; but he remembered, prudently, 
 that first he must produce a piece as worthy of 
 applause. He must work ; he nnist lead ; he 
 must meditate. 
 
 Mrs. Enizledew about this time became uu-
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 207 
 
 easy about lier boy. It wa3 not only tliat he 
 tliought so much of books and so little of the 
 City, but that his Saturdays seemed now do- 
 voted, afternoon and evening alike, to the 
 pui-suit of pleasure, which to lier was known 
 only as 'sight-seeing.' What possible use or 
 delight could it be for a boy to gape in picture- 
 galleries ? Yet that was what her son was 
 doing. Every Saturda}' afternoon he spent in 
 this manner, accompanied by Will, and some- 
 times by Claii'e. They took kindly to the 
 world of Art ; it was a new and a wonderful 
 tiling to wander among the treasures of the 
 National Gallery. Their minds became filled 
 with new thoughts and new images. Will, for 
 his part, speedily assumed a critical attitude, 
 and pronounced judgment on the execution of 
 the work ; Allen and Claire considered chiefly 
 the conception and the thought of it. 
 
 Everybody ought, we know, every day to 
 hear a piece of good music, to see a good 
 picture, and to read a good i)oem ; he ought, 
 also, to eat a good dinner, to drink a good
 
 2o8 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 bottle of ^viiie, to see a good play, listen to a 
 good song, dance a good dance, flirt Avith a 
 pretty girl — this must never be neglected be- 
 cause, above all tilings, it keeps the heart 
 young — and tell a good story. We waste our 
 lives in neglecting this golden rule. Titus 
 once burst into tears because he had wasted 
 a day in leaving out one or other of these 
 precepts — he had forgotten to tell a good story ; 
 but sometimes we leave them all out. Look 
 to it, brothers. These unhappy young men 
 had to waste six days out of the seven. 
 On the seventli tliey made up as nmch as 
 possible, manifesting a Judaic objection to work 
 beyond what is necessary. They persevered ; 
 they rested on the seventh day and studied 
 Art. They got to know all the collections, all 
 the galleries ; they knew tlie masters in every 
 school. Then they haunted the museums, 
 until they were able to go through the Egyptian 
 and the Greek rooms without yawning. They 
 wandered among tlie great buildings of London ; 
 they went to concerts and theatres ; tliey
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. :loc^ 
 
 visited every show in London during this 
 time. 
 
 If there had been an aisthetic or artistic 
 circle in their village they would all three have 
 become self-conscious prigs ; but there was 
 none. They were left entirely to themselves, 
 and they remained humble, though they were 
 the three most remarkable young people in 
 tlie east of London. Claire, as wise and ac- 
 complished as Lady Jane Grey, continued to 
 teach the rudiments of knowledge, and was 
 patronised by the older governesses. The 
 young men wended their way daily to the 
 place of business, but talked, going and coming, 
 of things which raise the soul. The aristocracy 
 of the village had ceased to take their old 
 interest in them. Who, among an illustrious 
 company of eminent bankru[)ts, regardeth a 
 clerk? Ihit more and more Allen's mind was 
 fdled with the thoughts and dreams which come 
 in crowds to the brain of the boy of books. 
 He should have been sent to Oxford or Cam- 
 bridge, where he might have taken a fellow- 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 2IO ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ship, and in fulness of time drifted l)aok to 
 London, and so, by pleasant paths and among 
 the younger scholars, have fiillen into the better 
 kind of authorship or journalism. But that 
 could not be. He would have, somehow, to 
 make his own way by rude and thorny paths. 
 And he began to inquire, in a tentative fashion, 
 how a man may best besiege that treasurc- 
 liouse of glory and of wealth which is guarded 
 by the heroic band of publishers and editors. 
 Of course, like every young man, he looked 
 upon a book as a copious fountain brimming 
 over Avith glory. And though as yet he took 
 little thought about money, lie had no doubt 
 that every book brought in large sums to the 
 fortunate writer. Some da}-, perhaps, among 
 the lists in that ' special ' column reserved for 
 new woiks his own name would be found. lie 
 read the sj)ecial column every morning and 
 used to wonder how it would feel to see your 
 own name there. Dut no one in th.e ofTioe 
 seemed to know anything about publishing, or 
 books either.
 
 Ar.r /y a gardfx fair. iw 
 
 * \\ t* MIL" ^*>iii|^ «)ii WL'll, Chill u, >ai<i iin 
 
 fallier. ' Our poet knows books, and literature, 
 and art. There are three things which remain 
 for him to know. Two of them must be left 
 for awhile. We cannot uive him time and 
 money for travel ; we cannot take him into the 
 salons of great ladies ; but we can, my dear, 
 introduce him to the People.'
 
 212 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOrLE. 
 
 ' FoRTUXATELY, there is nowhere,' said the 
 philosopher, ' a more ex(;ellent situation for the 
 study of the People, than that which lies almost 
 close to our hand. In the east of London we 
 have the People pure and unmixed. It is 
 better, even, than the Faubourg St. Antoine. 
 Here there are two milhons of the people all 
 living together ; there is hardly a single gentle- 
 man, or a rich man, or an artist, or a man of 
 taste, unless it is a Priest or Minister here and 
 there, among them all. The English are a truly 
 wonderful nation. What other country can 
 show a city of two million —larger than all 
 p^n5 — given over entirely to the ouvrier? To 
 say that they have no anmsements is to say that 
 they are English. No theatres, no place to
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 213 
 
 dance, no })lace for music, no gardens, no cafes 
 — nothing. Or, yes, there are the churches. 
 If it wen3 not for the churclies, we sliould have 
 presented before us a unique example of people 
 developed without control, and according to the 
 laws of their creation.' 
 
 ' I think the working men do not go to 
 church,' said Claire. 
 
 'Is that the case?' said her father, doubt- 
 fully. ' I thought all English ])eople went to 
 church twice every Sunday. If, however, they 
 do not, it is fortunate for the observer. Allen's 
 business is arranged for hini. It is a truly 
 magnificent opportunity. He will discover the 
 natural Englishman — two millions of him — the 
 working man of England as he is, without 
 education, knowledge, government, or religion. 
 Yet they give him tlie vote ; they make him 
 elector ; they make him their master.' 
 
 ' Allen need not go to Wliitechapel to see 
 working men,' said Claire coldly, because she 
 saw no necessity for the study of the People- 
 * He may go to High Beech in Epping Forest
 
 2 14 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 on Sundays. I believe he -will find them 
 there.' 
 
 'Ah! The man who drhiks beer and 
 catches liis friends by the arm ; he who pushes 
 liis liat to tlie back of his head and opens his 
 mouth ; the man wlio tears the branches from 
 the trees, and would pull the hawthorns up by 
 the roots if he were strong enough. Yes, I 
 liave seen that man ; but he is not the People, 
 Claire.' 
 
 Claire smiled. She did not believe in the 
 People, either with a capital letter or without. 
 
 ' I shall begin,' he said, the map of London 
 before him, and a ruler and a red lead pencil in 
 his hand, 'with dividing the East into districts. 
 We will take each district in turns ; we will 
 consecrate Saturday afternoon and Sunday 
 afternoon to our exploration of tlie People : 
 thus we shall be among them twice a week. I 
 estimate, Claire, that there will be one thousand 
 five hundred miles of streets to be walked over. 
 If we take ten miles a day, we shall accomplish 
 the task in a hundred and fifty days, which will
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 215 
 
 be exactly a year and a half. Expect, therefore, 
 in a year and a Iialf that Allen will have a 
 com})lete knowledge of the People.' 
 
 That same evening he partly opened his 
 mind to Allen on the subject, keeping always 
 something behind, like a true conspirator. 
 
 ' My disciple,' he said, * for three yeai-s and 
 more you have followed my counsels and been 
 guided by me. Are you satisfied, so far ? ' 
 
 ' Quite,' said Allen. ' You have taught me 
 more, far more, than I ever expected to learn — 
 more than I had the least right to expect.' 
 
 ' You have, my son, learned to write. 
 Claire tells me your verses arc no longer detest- 
 able but admirable. You have read a gi'eat 
 quantity of books ; you have begun to form a 
 style of your own.' 
 
 Allen blushed with pleasure. lie was still a 
 very young man, though between eighteen and 
 twenty-one there is a great space, almost a 
 gulf; but still he bhishcd when he was praised. 
 
 ' You have received,' contimicd the Sago, 
 Nviih solenmily, ' a j)repaniti()n for your work
 
 2i6 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ^vllicll oiiirlit to fit you for it. A poet should 
 know tlie Voice of nature. You were brought 
 up in tlio solitudes among the trees and thu 
 silence of the forest. A poet should know the 
 great works of other poets. You have read the 
 best of French and English poets. A poet 
 should >h()W himsuir I'cady to struggle against 
 adverse circumstances. You have served your 
 apprenticeship in being forced to spend your 
 days in a City ofTu^c. A ])oet should know the 
 Voice of Art. You have learnal to recognise 
 that Voice, Allen ; your education is comj)lete, 
 except one thing.' 
 
 ' What is tliat I-' ' he asked. 
 
 ' "i'ou have not yet learned to know the 
 Voice of the Teople.' 
 
 ' Oh I " said Will, who was also present. 
 Ikit he s:iid no more, and therefore we are quite 
 free to guess what he meant ; but I tliink he 
 remembered a ceitain saying of M. Philipon's 
 about Tliimaiiily. 
 
 * I was myself,' Hector continued, ' the poet 
 of Humanity. Wliat else a poet e.\i>ts for I
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. 217 
 
 know not, unless to sing of love, which is 
 always pleasant. Go among the people. Read 
 their heart. Stutl}' them. Make friends among 
 them. Listen till you hear their Voice.* 
 
 Allen nodded his head thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Wlien you know them well, when vour 
 heart beats with them, you will no longer care 
 to be a poet of love ; you will be a poet of 
 life; 
 
 ' Of life ? ' echoed Will. ' I.-s that quite the 
 same thing as to be the Poet of the People ? * 
 
 'See,* continued M. Philipon without reply- 
 ing, ' here is the map of great Tx>ndon. Here 
 are the great contiguous cities, the beautiful, 
 picturesque, and unknown, of Whitechapel, 
 Stepney, Bow, Stratford, Old Ford, Clapton, 
 Bethnal Green, Shadwell, and Wapping. They 
 are all of them cities of the People. They are 
 cities of the industrious poor ; they are cities 
 of the ignorant. If their country is great 
 they know nothing of her greatness, because 
 nolx>dy teaches them. You English arc so 
 proud in your greatness that you do not tbiuk
 
 2l8 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 it worth your wliile to teach your own people 
 how great they are. If the country is rich and 
 glorious, they see nothing of the wealth or the 
 glor3\ If it is full of Art and treasures it mat- 
 ters nothing to them ; tliey know nothing of 
 Art, they are left to find out Art and everything 
 else by themselves. They are left entirely to 
 themselves ; they are the People in naked sim- 
 plicity ; a more naked simplicity does not exist. 
 It is wonderful ; it is most wonderful.' 
 
 He paused and went on with his rider and 
 his square. 
 
 'Here, Allen, you must wander till you 
 know the People. I liave marked your country 
 out into districts. The poet must gather 
 materials for his song ; he must be inspired by 
 divine indignation ; lie must be angry. Every 
 Saturday you must take one of my districts and 
 walk over it slowly, and make your observa- 
 tions. Every Sunday, also, you must walk 
 over ; and in this way, in a year and a half, you 
 will have seen the whole. Then, Allen, and 
 not till then, your education will be complete.
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 219 
 
 Your brain will be full, your hand will be 
 ready, when the inspiration comes.' 
 
 Allen accepted the map and considered it. 
 His commission was a roving one : he was to 
 wander among streets, and he was to observe, 
 to watcli, to see what there was to be seen. He 
 was, in short, to learn the People. Simple 
 directions these. He felt like Columbus setting 
 forth on a voyage of discovery. One rule only : 
 keep steering west. 
 
 'Come, Allen,' said Will next Saturday, ' let 
 us begin the pilgrimage.' 
 
 Of course, Will went with him. He was not 
 as yet greatly interested in tlie People, but he 
 wanted to see what would happen. 
 
 They took one of the districts, almost at 
 hap-hazard, and they walked up and down its 
 streets for the whole afternoon, looking about 
 them. 
 
 In the evening they reported, a^ the sum 
 of their observations, that an Irishman under 
 the influence of drink had accosted them, and 
 cursed the Government of tlie country, from
 
 230 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 the Queen to the office-boy ; that he had next 
 produced a knife, which, he said, liad already 
 murdered a great many landlords, and threat- 
 ened to stick it into them. No other adven- 
 ture had happened to them. The streets, they 
 remarked, Avere almost deserted, except for the 
 children avIio played in the irutters and made 
 boats, carts, houses, weapons, armour, out of 
 broken bottles, bits of ])npor, cabbage stalks, 
 fish bones, scraps of wood, and such things. 
 The houses were all exact ly the same, and 
 seemed the result of a combination amonc: the 
 builders to be as mean as they could for the 
 money. Now and then they came upon a 
 chapel. There were no trees, no gardens, no 
 green things at all ; there were not many clean 
 blinds. 
 
 ' The fu-^jt day, Allen,' said Will, ' hasn't 
 brought us mucli nearer the Peoi)le. Listen!' 
 
 Tliey were in a narrow street of small 
 houses, dirty and ill-kej)t. Will stocnl still and 
 held up a finger of attention. 
 
 *I hear nolliiuL',' said Allen,
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR . 221 
 
 * Nor I. Thou let us ^n) home imd report 
 that we have not yet heard tliat Voice.' 
 
 Tlie next (hiy being JSmiday, tliey made 
 another attenii)t. Their district inchided 
 Whitechai)el Eoad, and tliere was prcacliing 
 going on. 
 
 * Here,' saitl Will, ' there seems a good 
 deal of Voice, and it has got jaws of brass and 
 lungs of cast-iron. Let us listen with all our 
 might.' 
 
 One man was standing in the centre of a 
 ring, and proving quite conclusively that there 
 was no soul, no heaven, no after-life, no Provi- 
 dence, no Creator, no hoi)o, no right, no wrong, 
 no rule of life, no reason for anything but self- 
 pre.servation. 
 
 'lie look.s,' said Will, 'as if he hadn't 
 many opportunities in early life of getting to 
 the bottom of things. Do you thitik his is the 
 Voice ? ' 
 
 Ilis audience listened to him with languid 
 interest. They Imd heard the whole thing 
 before, over and over again. Thev were, in
 
 222 ALL L\ A GAIWEX FAIR. 
 
 fact, borc'cl witli a problem which liad nothing 
 to do, they were now persuaded, with tliem- 
 selves. But il wanted more than a quarter of 
 an liour to tlie opening of tlie public-liouses. 
 
 Anotlier stump-orator, also with liis little 
 circle, was loudly demonstrating that the 
 Government of this country, and of all other 
 countries, exists only for the purpose of op- 
 pressing the people and of making rich men 
 richer. There could be no happiness, this 
 philosopher maintained, until the abolition of 
 all governments Avas finall}^ and once for all, 
 carried out. He was listened to by his gi'oui) 
 with the same languid interest. The East-End 
 people have no concern in governments. No 
 one governs them. But they waited for the 
 opening of the public-houses. 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Will, ' if this is the Voice.' 
 In the middle of the next group was a man 
 vehemently gesticulating, and loudly calling 
 upon his hearers to turn away from their 
 wickedness and their filthy sin, and to repent. 
 His hearers stood around him quite as much
 
 ALL L\ A GARDi:X FAIR. 223 
 
 iiiunovcd l)y this as l)y tlio other voices. It 
 )'et wanted a quarter to one, when the doors 
 would be opened. 
 
 Anotlier man ^readied temperance, and 
 drew tlie usual api)alling pictui-es of misery 
 and of money wasted which should have been 
 money saved, and of crime, and deatli, and 
 disgrace, tliroiigli drink. 
 
 ' This,' said Will, ' seems the most sensible 
 Voice of the lot.' 
 
 The workmen on the pavement liad heard 
 it all before ; they knew what was coming. 
 They stood still and listened, but ])aid no lieeil. 
 They only smoked their i)ipes and remarked 
 to each other that it was ten minutes to 
 one. 
 
 In the side streets the young children were 
 ])laying, but no grown pei^sons were visible at 
 all. And the houses in this district were more 
 squalid than any they had seen before. 
 
 ' There is no dcMibt,' said Will, * tliat we 
 have got to the lowest level here — the liard 
 pan, as the Americans say. Do you feel yet
 
 224 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 at all like getting a firm grip of the People, 
 Allen?' 
 
 Allen shook his head. 
 
 They also made the discovery — made by 
 many before them — that all the well-dressed 
 people go to church or chapel, and that those 
 who are not well-dressed stay away. There- 
 fore it would seem at first as if religion begins 
 with a frock-coat, and the man in the work- 
 man's jacket does not feel any necessity for re- 
 ligion. This is a most truly wonderful outcome 
 of civilisation. There seems no active hostility 
 to church or chapel. Eeligion appears to most 
 of the people a very harmless thing, but they 
 don't want it for themselves. And if a man 
 lacks the religious sense, how shall another man 
 restore it to him ? Perhaps, when one lives 
 for e\er in a great crowd, one's own personality 
 is destroyed, and each man thinks only of the 
 crowd. 
 
 Another day their journey took them 
 among rows of streets where the houses were 
 as monotonous, but not so mean ; as uirlv, but
 
 ALL L\ A GARDES FAIR. 225 
 
 not SO squalid ; tliey had white curtains, and 
 every house boasted sonietliin;^ ornamental, 
 such as a big Bible, or a desk, or a vase with 
 artificial flowers, and nicest of the streets ter- 
 minated witli tlie railings of a vast great ceme- 
 tery, crowded with stones, wliicli marked for 
 posterity — who never go to read these stones, 
 and indeed cannot because they are railed off 
 — the names of the obscure and long-forgotten 
 dead. 
 
 * If it is dreadful to live here, it must be 
 more than dreadful to be buried here,' said 
 Will. * Come away, Allen. Let us think of 
 Waltham Abbey or old Chingford Churcli.' 
 
 Another day their district included Lime- 
 liouse and tlie East India Eoad, and they re- 
 marked the manners and customs of the sailors, 
 especially the foreign sailors. Also they were 
 privileged in witnessing a little drama, got up, 
 perhaps, for their benefit. It was a drama for 
 two, the principal part being taken by a Mal- 
 tese sailor, and the second part by a Greek. 
 The play opened with tv.o men gambling, 
 
 VOL. I. <i
 
 226 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 quietly sitting on the pavement. Naturally one 
 was a winner and the other a loser. The latter — 
 who, of course, was the Maltese — lost his money 
 first, his temper next, and his self-control last. 
 Then he sprang to his feet, and with flashing eyes 
 and w^ild gesture accused the Greek of cheat- 
 ing — in fact they wxre both cheating, but the 
 Greek cheated best — and demanded his money 
 back. The other rose too, and in calm and 
 mocking tones gave him to understand that the 
 money was safe in his own pocket and would 
 remain there. Whereupon the Maltese drew 
 a knife — a long, glittering knife — and swiftly 
 plunged it into the body of that Greek, who 
 fell with a yell, and two policemen bore down 
 upon the Maltese, and they carried the Greek 
 to the Foreign Sailors' Home and the Maltese 
 to the House of Eepentance and Little Ease, 
 and the drama was finished. 
 
 There were a good many spectators of this 
 one-act tragedy, and cjuite a little crowd of 
 women, who seemed acquainted with sailors 
 and their ways, and took boundless interest in
 
 ALL LX A GARDKX FAIR. 227 
 
 a fight and a stabbing. They coninionted on 
 the performance very much as if the place Avas 
 the lioyal Britannia Tlieatre, Hoxton, and they 
 were in the gallery. They lamented tliat so 
 fnie a tableau as the fallen Greek and the 
 Maltese with the blood-dripping knife in his 
 hand had not been led up to Avith a more 
 artistic finish. There should have been more 
 dialogue ; there should have been more of a 
 fight. The Greek should have had his knife as 
 well. 
 
 It was too sudden, too soon over ; yet de- 
 lightful while it lasted, t^o in the amphitheatre 
 talked the women of Kome, when some gallant 
 young prisoner, who ought to have made play 
 for them for half an hour, was done to death 
 at once and with a single stroke of the tiger's 
 claw. Too sudden. They love fighting, these 
 women ; they long for more. They would 
 restore the bull- fight. They would throw the 
 enemies of their country to the lions ; they 
 would arm them to fight against cacli otlier in 
 the arena. When they had discussed the fight, 
 
 <i2
 
 228 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 the liidies proceeded to speculate on the trial, 
 the verdict, and the sentence. Should the 
 Greek die — but what a thousand pities that 
 a man can no longer go in public, amid the 
 acclamations of his friends, to his own hanging ! 
 
 'I wonder,' said Will, Mf this is the Heart 
 of the people ? ' 
 
 They reported discouragement. 
 
 ' Go on,' said Hector, ' you will find, some 
 time or other, what you are looking for. Go 
 on.' 
 
 He meant that Allen would fnid what he 
 wished him to find. They went on ; they 
 pursued that tramp week after week, in fine 
 weather and foul, till the monotony of the 
 streets seemed intolerable. 
 
 'They are brought up in this,' said Will 
 one day, ' they don't feel it as we do, who have 
 had the Forest. Do you begin to iniderstand 
 how tliey must look on life ? Do you begin to 
 see why they have no religion ? ' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Will?' 
 
 'I mean,' said Will, Mhat without some
 
 AIJ. IX A GARDEX FAIR. 229 
 
 sense of beaulirul things, I'aiili must be im- 
 possible. What beautiful things can be im- 
 agined in these horrible streets ? ' 
 
 It was Sunday afternoon. They were pass- 
 ing a little chapel, mean and ugly. There was 
 a children's service, or school, going on, and, 
 as if in answer to Will's ([uestion, tlie fresh 
 voices of the little ones sang as they passed, 
 * There is a happy land, far, far away.' 
 
 'Oh !' cried Will, looking round him, 'what 
 sort of happiness, what kind of land, can they 
 expect ? ' 
 
 ]3ut the eyes of his companion filled with 
 tears. 
 
 ' We have been everywhere,' said Will that 
 night to the philosopher. 'We have tramped 
 through Iloxton and Hackney, WhitechaiK*! 
 and Stepney. We know Wapping, Shadwcll, 
 and Limehouse. We have seen the big 
 breweries and the docks, and the gasworks, 
 and tlie cemeteries. We have seen the People, 
 but we cannot find out I heir Heart, and we 
 cannot hear their Voice.*
 
 230 ALL LV A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 'And you, AlK'ii, can you not liuar the 
 Voice of tlie people ? ' 
 
 ' No ; T am farther tlian ever from finding 
 out their Heart or tlieir Voice.' 
 
 ' Often,' said Hector, ' in looking for one 
 thing Ave find another. Do not forget what 
 you have seen.' 
 
 They did not ^Qi give in. Tliey had 
 hitherto gone only about the streets ; they 
 would go to })laces where the people meet 
 together. Tliey found there were two or three 
 music-halls, half a dozen debating societies, and 
 certain radical clubs. 
 
 At the music-halls they heard songs so 
 unspeakably vulgar, so inexpressively detestable, 
 that they ignorantly concluded they were a 
 specialite of the East End. Alas ! even in the 
 more lestlietic West, lliere is a demand for 
 similar musical eflects. The atmosphere of tlie 
 lialls was laden with tobacco, gas, and foul air. 
 'Any was there, with Alf and George, and all 
 their friends. They are the clubs of the lower 
 clerkdom, the p res nux clercs.
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 231 
 
 At the debating-club tliey lieard a most 
 amazing quantity of talk, but no one seemed to 
 liave taken any trouble to master his facts ; no 
 one knew anything. This ignorance to these 
 mistaken young men also appeared a specialite 
 of the East End. ]kit then they had never 
 attended the debates in the Ilouse. 
 
 In the chapels they heard everywhere the 
 same exhortations and expressions, in the same 
 "words, addressed to decent people in black 
 coats, who looked as if they were passing on 
 the discourse to some one else, because it did 
 not concern themselves. 
 
 They went to the ])ublic-houses and called 
 for glasses of beer, and they listened for the 
 Voice there. They heard a voice, to be sure, 
 a thick, hoarse voice, full of ugly words, and 
 certainly not a heavenly voice. Then befell 
 Allen something of the feeling which possessed 
 Dante when he gazed upon the souls of the 
 hapless lost, lie became haunted by crowds 
 of faces, processions of faces, an ocean of faces. 
 When he slept at nitdit these faces gazed ui)on
 
 232 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR, 
 
 ]\\m ; ^vlK•ll lie walked, or rciul, or sat at work, 
 these fixccs were always looking upon liini. 
 There were millions of them- -two millions — as 
 nearly as he could count — and he seemed to 
 know them all. They were all difTercnt, yet all 
 alike in one respect, that they were all faces 
 which lacked something. There was no hap- 
 piness in them ; they were dull, they had no 
 sunshine in them; they bore no secret fountains 
 of joy beneath them, they wanted hope. They 
 were ignorant faces. As Allen looked on them 
 he was seized with terror, for he saw before 
 him the whole of East London — the mighty 
 City, the neglected City, the joyless City, the 
 City of the baser sort, and he trembled. If the 
 vision of the multitudinous face, this troubled 
 and turbid (^)cean of heavy brows and dull, 
 disappointed eyes, had continued, I think the 
 young man would have gone mad ; but pre- 
 sently there came lelief when that thing 
 happened to him, which has also happened to 
 Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, Hood, and many 
 others. Out of the faces, out of the nudtitudes
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR, 233 
 
 which thron^f the thoroughiaros of the Joyluss 
 City like ants upon an ant-hill, there presently 
 began to detach themselves, by ones and twos, 
 singly or in little groui)s, separate figures ; 
 while he looked upon them the background of 
 faces disappeared. These figures, however, 
 never left him, day after day, but continued 
 shadows impalpable, yet plain to behold, and 
 acted and talked before him. He listened and 
 looked imtil he knew them, knew their very 
 thoughtcs, knew why they acted and what they 
 would do next ; knew their manner of speech, 
 their hopes, and their anxieties, their very 
 prejudices ; man and woman they stood before 
 him, and bared their souls, and were not 
 ashamed. They were unlovely ; some of them 
 were like monstrous figments created by a fan- 
 tastic artist, so hideous were tlu y ; but these were 
 the old ; some among the young were beautiful, 
 but it seemed as if while he looked \\\iO\\ tiiem, 
 invisible fingers were taking the beauty out of 
 their faces and the sweetness out of their eyes. 
 Tlicrc were young girls among tliem, quite
 
 234 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 a group of young girls ; and one came forth 
 timidly and said, ' Take me. I will tell 3'ou 
 all that is in my heart, all that I do, all 
 that I hope, all that I know ; I am yoiu's 
 altogether.' He followed and watched this 
 girl among her companions ; she was in the 
 work-room, walking with other fjirls on Sun- 
 days ; she was quite young and full of vague 
 hopes, but she knew nothing. She had her 
 chapel on Sunday ; and she had her lover. 
 She played out her little story — a poor and 
 pitiful one — to the very end, and presently that 
 story was finished and she vanished, falling 
 back into the crowd and w^as no more seen, 
 though Allen looked everywhere for her among 
 the most miserable of her sex. There were 
 children, heaps of children ; presently one of 
 these children came out and held up its arms, 
 and became his property ; and he listened to 
 its story as he walked with it, with saddened 
 heart ; and presently this child, too, finished its 
 tale and fell back and was lost in the oreat 
 ocean of its fellows.
 
 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR, 235 
 
 There ^vere niotliers and wises — tliousauds 
 of them. Presently one came to him, her baby 
 in her arms, and told her tale, Avliich made his 
 fingers to clench and his teetli to grind together. 
 Then she fell back weeping, and was lost among 
 the waves of faces around her. And another : 
 and another : and another. 
 
 Always sadness, always disappointment, 
 always unhappiness ; was there then no glad- 
 ness in this u[reat Citv ? 
 
 There w^ere lovers — thousands of lovers, 
 and presently a pair came out, a workgirl and 
 a workman ; he listened to their tale and 
 understood that there is one thing always which 
 remains to us, even in meanness and monotony, 
 which is love. 
 
 As the visions grew, as I lie ])iippets of 
 his fancy became real, S(^ tlie young man's 
 daily task in tlie City became more intolerable, 
 and he longed, like a prisoner, for tlie hour of 
 his deliverance. For he could now think of 
 nothing but the figures which moved per- 
 ])etually l)efore him, acting and talking before
 
 236 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 him as if he had no will in the matter, and as 
 if the drama of their Hves was not the creation 
 of his own brain. 
 
 You who have never l)een possessed by 
 such phantoms, you who have never made 
 acquaintance with any but men and women of 
 the flesh, cannot understand the strength of 
 such possession. For they do not leave the 
 brain in any waking hour ; they are always 
 present, always acting and talking, always in 
 some Avay carrying on their lives indepen- 
 dently of your own will ; they know nothing 
 of time or space ; the longer they stay with you 
 the better you know them. Some of the men 
 become your friends : j^ou fall in love with 
 some of the girls. Some of them you liate : 
 you weep over the misfortunes of some, you 
 rejoice with their joy. Yet one thing seems 
 strange, that there is in every one of them 
 something of yourself. Tliey ai*e your own 
 children ; even in unlikeness they are like you. 
 These phantoms come only to a few; ;uid of 
 these few there arc not many, indeed, who can
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 237 
 
 describe in fitting terms \vliat they liave seen. 
 For tlie pliantoms pay no more respect to 
 dramatic effect, to grouping, to situation, than 
 tlie man and ^voman in real life. They act in 
 exactly the same way. Every one of them 
 wants for himself all the joy and happiness that 
 can be crowded into tlie twenty-four hours of 
 the day ; every one desires for himself love, 
 ease, pleasantness, sunshine, long life, and 
 health. Now of all these things there is not 
 enough to go round, by a great deal, and 
 })oople have hardly as yet begun to manufacture 
 more. 
 
 ' Allen, my son,' .said tlie riiilosopher, 'have 
 you, then, found at last the Voice of the 
 People?' 
 
 ' I do not know,' he replied ; ' I must think.' 
 
 ' The people have no voice,' said Will 
 bluntly. 'They want to be taught how to 
 speak ; they want the i)Ower of speech, and 
 they want — not a poet — but a leader.' 
 
 ' You arc right, Will,' said Hector. 
 
 'They want,' he repeated, looking at Alk*n,
 
 23S ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' a leader wlio nIuiII tell them what else they 
 want, and what tliey must ask for. As for 
 their Voice ' He stopped abruptly. 
 
 ' Oil ! ' cried Claire, ' do not vex yourself 
 longer about their Voice, Allen. My fiither 
 means that the heart of the people is your own 
 heart, when you know thern. Their Voice is 
 your own voice, when you have learned them.' 
 
 'My daughter,' said Hector, kissing her 
 forehead, ' you have rightly interpreted. Listen, 
 Allen, to your own Voice. Your education, 
 my son, is now complete.'
 
 ALL LV A GARDES I- AIR. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE GRCAT COXSPIRACV. 
 
 *Tkll ine, fatlier,' said Claire, ' uow tliat 
 Allen's education is complete, the other part of 
 your great Conspiracy — tluit is, if I may be 
 told/ 
 
 'You shall be told, my dauLditer.* Ilor 
 father assumed his most important manner. 
 ' When I informed you, my child, that Allen 
 should be a poet, I meant more than what 
 you understood. For such a poet as I 
 designed there is a broader future oikju, a 
 more glorious ambition.' 
 
 ' Can there be a more noble ambition than 
 to become a poet?' 
 
 'The greatest thing of all, my daughter, is 
 to lead the -world. There are no longer any
 
 240 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 kinizs ; but there are dictators. It is the same 
 thing, l)ut witli clianged name. Every man 
 who aspires to lead man.kind must be ready to 
 assume tlie purple, if he succeed.' 
 
 Claire began to compreliend ; l)ut she in- 
 terrupted not. 
 
 ' I myself,' her father went on, ' have made 
 my humble attempt. But for the destruction 
 of my poems I might now be — Gambetta. I 
 failed. Yet to have endeavoured makes all 
 the life illustrious.' lie paused, thinking of the 
 barricades and of himself a lad of twenty-one, 
 brandishing a gun and shouting for tlie Re- 
 public, which was going to do so nuuli for the 
 world and has done so little. ' It was necessary/ 
 he went on, 'that Allen should be a poet first, 
 as I was. The rest will follow. He knows 
 the people; he knows all that I can teach liim. 
 Wlien the moment arrives he will cease to be 
 a poet, and will become a prophet. He will 
 spring to his feet and speak, lie will be the 
 leader, dictator, rex, imperator, scjtus ser- 
 voruni — all that there is of most maifuificent.*
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 241 
 
 Claire shook her head and siniicd. 
 
 ' Ilitlierto/ her fatlier continued, ' in speak- 
 ing of leaders we have meant generals and 
 politicians. I suj)pose there nnist continue to 
 be generals and politicians. But the people 
 -will no longer be led by them. I have made 
 up my mind that the i)eoi)le are concerned with 
 one thing only.' 
 
 ' What is that thing?' asked Claire. 
 
 'Hapi)iness, my daughter. The leader of 
 the future, the next dictator, will be the man 
 who will teach tlic world how to be hapi)y. 
 Politico, forms of government, are nothing. 
 That form of government, that ministry which 
 interferes with the people's happiness must be 
 abolished. Let it vanish ! ' He swej)t the air 
 with a wide and comprehensive gesture, at 
 which kings might have trembled. 'Every- 
 where,* he went on, ' men want to be haj)py. 
 They cannot. Why ? They do not know how. 
 None of their leaders can teach them. A man 
 must be a ix)et before he can find out for 
 them.* 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 342 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 Claire nodded and smiled again. 
 
 ' Allen shall be sueh a leader as the world 
 lias never seen. There have been many leaders, 
 but they have failed ; partly because they were 
 themselves led by selfish motives ; partly 
 because they knew not wither they would lead 
 the people ; partly because they thought that a 
 government can do for the people what they 
 must do for themselves. They look, poor fools, 
 to the Government, and the Government looks 
 to them. " Give us," they say, " what we 
 want." '• Tell us," the Government replies, 
 " what you do Avant." Alas ! they do not know. 
 And as the leader, so the people. They are 
 ignorant, they are deaf, they are dumb, they 
 cannot think, they suffer, and know not why. 
 They are waiting for the man who will tell 
 them wIkiI they Avant. And, my dear, directly 
 the peoj)le lind out tliat, you may be sure that 
 they will luivc it, whether the Government wish 
 it, or whether tliey do not.' 
 
 'It seems a great dream,' said Claire. 
 But still as she spoke and as she listened a
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 243 
 
 strange and subtle smile lingered upon her 
 face. 
 
 ' It is a great dream ; it is more than a 
 dream ; it is prophecy. Allen is already a 
 poet, and shall shortly be a prophet.' 
 
 A vision arose before the girl's mind of a 
 LTreat tall figure clothed in a single robe, Avitli 
 long lean limbs, and one finger pointing up- 
 wards. In the right hand was a stick. It 
 was the figure of Elijali as represented in 
 some book of lier infanc}-. She tried to see 
 the features of Allen in this garb, but she 
 failed. 
 
 ' He must liave courage ; lie must have 
 great courage ; he must not be afniid of rough 
 crowds, of hard words ; he must fight, if need 
 be. Yet, ce nest que le premier pas, his Mends 
 will push him on. As yet, he waits for inspira- 
 tion. The momi'Ut will come, doubt it not. 
 All will go well, Claire ; all will go well with 
 my disciple.' 
 
 As he spoke, the rapture of his great 
 Thought seized him again ; but this time, he
 
 244 ^LL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 spoke sloAvly, and with eyes which saw, looking 
 out into the night, a vision. 
 
 ' I behold,' he said, ' one who comes. He 
 is greater than Voltaire ; he is greater than 
 Shakespeare ; he is the greatest of all wlio have 
 taught or led the people. He teaches them 
 how to make life happy. Xo one has taught 
 mankind that lesson yet. Allen will do it. 
 They shall require of the Government nothing 
 but order and justice : they will rule for them- 
 selves their Avages and their w^ork and their 
 holidays. Tliey Avill find happiness for them- 
 selves. There shall be no more liunger, no 
 more misery, no more cruelty ; there shall be 
 enough happiness for all. To the new Humanity 
 there shall be no talk of Government. The 
 real leader shall be he who can make them 
 happy. Once more, my daughter, this idea of 
 France, the Mother of all ideas, shall be pro- 
 claimed. lUit ill this great Eevolution before 
 us we shall learn by old and sad experience. 
 Tliere shall be no bloodshed, because all men 
 will work with us when tliev understand that
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 245 
 
 we are at last fulfilling the destiny of man, 
 which is to be happ}' ; else why were we 
 born ? ' 
 
 'As for poets,' he went on, 'they are 
 nothing. They are as plentiful as black])erries. 
 Do you think I would have taken all this 
 trouble to produce a poet ? Xo, it was a 
 nobler thought. I would produce a leader.' 
 
 ' Do you think, mon pere,' said Claire, with 
 another subtle smile, * that Allen will become — 
 what you hope ? ' 
 
 'I think he will,' replied her father. 'I 
 have watched him with sympathy. He is 
 gentle, he is ready, he is full of generous senti- 
 ments — enfi.n^ he is a poet who has been taught 
 by me.' 
 
 ' And you believe that he will rise and lead 
 the people ? ' 
 
 Hector had the faith in woman's wit which 
 all Frenchmen entertain. He looked anxiously 
 at his daughter. 
 
 ' Tell me, Claire,' he said, ' wliat you 
 mean.'
 
 246 4I-L JX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' I mean, papa,' she replied, ' that there are 
 two boys, and that you have only thought of 
 one. There is a strong boy, and tliere is a 
 weak boy. If one is to be a leader, it will ])e 
 tlie strong and not the weak.' 
 
 ' And Allen ? ' 
 
 'Allen, mon pere,'she replied with just half 
 a little laugh, ' is so weak that he is even led — 
 by me.' 
 
 Then her flither's face cleared. 
 
 ' Allans I allons ! ' he said, witli a cheerful 
 light in his eye and in the most musical note 
 of his voice, ' all is for the best. Yes : it is 
 a beautiful world. The young poet is led by 
 you, is he ? Women lead tlie world. I keep 
 my hopes.'
 
 ALL I\ A GARDEN FAIR. 247 
 
 CHAPTEE XIIL 
 
 THREE PROPOSALS. 
 
 WiiEX the tliree young men arrived at the age 
 of twenty-one tilings began to happen. If 
 things happen at twenty-one they are almost 
 always good things. If * anything happens ' at 
 sixty, it is generally followed by a procession 
 ill black. Fortune is a woman, and may there- 
 fore only be wooed by the young and comely. 
 
 The first thing to happen was that Tommy's 
 uncle behaved as an uncle should — he admitted 
 liis nephew to a Sliare. ' It will now be ex- 
 ])octed of me,' said Tommy, ' to leave this 
 deserted hole and live in chambers.' 
 
 lie had developed aristocratic^ leanings. 
 He had long since discovered the West End and 
 club-land : lu* iisc^d to n^o there and watrh the
 
 248 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 members walk up and down tlie steps of their 
 palaces ; he used to let his imagination loose 
 over the delicious wickedness that he imagined 
 to be going on within them — the gambling, 
 card-playing, champagne-drinking, and bac- 
 chanalian revels which, as everybody knows, 
 make Tall Mall horrible by day and night 
 for quiet people. He ardently desired to be 
 admitted into this fellowship. The first step 
 must be, certainly, to migrate into fashionable 
 quarters. 
 
 The otJier two remained still in clerkery. 
 But they were advanced : they had been dis- 
 covered ; they now drew substantial pay and 
 did responsible work — young men who know 
 foreign languages are not so plentiful in the 
 City, they conunand a price. This increase of 
 income brouglit plenty and comfort to two 
 houses in the village. 
 
 'My son,' said Mr. ^[assey, who was always 
 sanguine, ' will do well ; lir will go fai'ther even 
 than his lalliur. \\v may even rival you. Col- 
 liber.'
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 249 
 
 Of course the fiction of glor}^ was still 
 maintained. 
 
 ' A clear liead and a sagacious eye,' said 
 Sir Charles. ' Tlic youug man ^vill be a 
 credit to us, no doubt. I hope, Massey, for 
 your sake, tliat he may rival any of us — any 
 of us.' 
 
 'lie certainly ^vill,' said ]\Lr. Colliber, 
 grimly, 'if he takes uj) \\\\\\ any of his father's 
 projects.' 
 
 !N[r. Massey ^vas not offended, because he 
 believed in his projects. ' The boy might do 
 worse,' lie said, ' he might do worse.' 
 
 It was somewhere about this time, too, that 
 Claire became conscious of a change in the be- 
 haviour of tlie young men. The old camarad- 
 erie disappeared ; they no longer treated her 
 quite as an ecpial ; little by little they began to 
 observe a respect and deference towards her 
 quite unknown in the old days. Olii.thus re- 
 sumed his visits and even brought gifts. Allen 
 seemed to think that iier opinion was worth 
 askimr on the only subjects he cared to talk
 
 2 50 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 about. Will paid her on every occasion the 
 petits soins which girls like. 
 
 Perhaps she Avould not have wondered liad 
 she realised the change which a few years had 
 accomplished in herself. She was now eighteen 
 years of age, and at least three inches taller 
 than her fiither. She had the sloping shoulders 
 of a Frenchwoman, with the sweet face, deli- 
 cately coloured, not pale, of an Enghsh girl. 
 Her hair was black like the hair of a Parisienne ; 
 her eyes preserved the deep, full, limpid blue 
 which seems to belong to English eyes ; her 
 voice was low and full like her father's ; her 
 features were as sharp and clear-cut as his ; the 
 grace of her walk, the little quicknesses of 
 gesture, the delicacy of her fingers, w^re alto- 
 gether French. No one but a Frenchwoman 
 could dress so beautifully with materials so 
 cheap and on an allowance so exiguous. 
 
 It was no wonder that the young men fell 
 in love with her. The old, who are even more 
 ready to appreciate beauty than the youEg, 
 were of course in love with her. Sir Charles
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN L^AIR. 251 
 
 made her pretty compliments, and told her how 
 he had received a great many most beautiful 
 young ladies at his Mansion House balls, but 
 none so beautiful as herself. Even Mr. Colli- 
 ber, who was beUeved to have no eyes for any- 
 thing but the price lists, congratulated her 
 father on the girl's beauty and wished himself 
 forty years younger. The lads would have 
 been insensate logs had they not fallen in love. 
 
 They were not insensate, therefore 
 
 Some girls would have recognised the 
 symptoms — Claire did not. She never thought 
 about such things as love at all. These young 
 men had been her companions all her days ; 
 they were her brothers ; Will and Allen were 
 part, the greater part, of her life ; of course 
 they loved her as she loved them. 
 
 Her father observed these indications with 
 discernment. Clearly tliere was something 
 coming. He remembered the race for the 
 orange, and smiled. Which would Claire 
 accept of the three ? He expected that a formal 
 proposal would be brought to himself, perhaps
 
 252 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 through tlie respectable parents. But he waited 
 in vain. The respectable parents did not appear 
 at all. Nor did the young men speak to him. 
 He then remembered that the marriage customs 
 of the Englisli in some respects difler from those 
 of France. Therefore he sat outside, so to 
 speak, and watched. 
 
 He observed tliat Olinthus called twice a 
 week, regularly ; that he evidently wished this 
 regularity to be marked as meaning intentions ; 
 that he always brought something, such as 
 gloves, fruit, neckties, or flowers ; that he laid 
 his gifts upon tlie table without a "word and 
 presently departed after a few attempts at 
 speech ; also that Claire gathered up the gifts 
 with a careless hand and tossed them aside Avlien 
 he was gone. 
 
 lie perceived, next, tliat Allen and Will 
 were rapidly approaching that stage at which 
 jealousy begins. It was quite customary for 
 them to meet at the Cottage, but now they 
 came every night ; sometimes they came to- 
 gether, but often separately.
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 253 
 
 In a beautiful map wliicli shows tlie progress 
 of the pilgrim of love, there occurs, quite early 
 in the pilgrimage, Lite des Petits Soins lying 
 quite close to tlie Tcrre d'Adniivation. It is 
 succeeded by a black and grisly district, horrid 
 with woods and dreadful mountains, as they 
 used to say before the taste for the picturesque 
 was awakened ; it is called the Pays des Jaloux, 
 Now, all these suitors were engaged among the 
 gloomy defiles and black fore^sts of this unpro- 
 mising country. Tommy was the first to enter 
 it, and the reason — as it seemed to him, not 
 knowing that it was part of the pilgrimage — 
 was the fact that Claire continued the old custom 
 of walking with Allen iu the Forest, sometimes 
 in the evening, alone with liiin. She had done 
 this for many years, yet the enormity of the 
 thing never occurred to Tonnny until he began 
 to consider the young lady as, in the sweet City 
 parlance, his own property. 
 
 Tommy did not resolve upon j)ursuing this 
 afTair without great consideration. Before 
 finally deciding upon paying his addresses to
 
 254 ^^/-^ ^^^' ^ CARDEX FAIR. 
 
 Claii^e, he surveyed womankind from China to 
 Peru, reckoning from east to west, or as much 
 of til at space as he could command, inchiding 
 the young ladies of Lough ton, Chingford, Buck- 
 hurst Hill, Chigwell, Theydon Bois, Epping, 
 and even Leytonstone, going to church on 
 Sunday mornings with no other object than the 
 consideration of the other sex. He stood in 
 tlie porch and watched them coming out, seeing 
 them in this way at their best, with their nicest 
 frocks on and in their sweetest looks. He came 
 to the deliberate conclusion that of all the girls 
 Claire was the prettiest, and the best dressed, 
 and tlie nicest. He then informed his mother 
 of his design, not asking her counsel or permis- 
 sion, but announcing: his will, like the o-reat 
 Bashaw. 
 
 'Only a governess, my dear?' slie whis- 
 pered. 
 
 'A beautiful woman, mother, in the eyes of 
 lier lover is the equal of a countess.' He thrust 
 his hand into his bosom as he uttered this 
 magnificent sentiment, and wished himself a
 
 ALL IX A GARDIiX FAIR. 255 
 
 duke, in order to illustrate it the more splen- 
 didly. 
 
 ' Eemember, Olinthus, you are a Galla- 
 Avay.' 
 
 ' I d(^ not forget it,' he replied grandly. 
 ' A man raises liis ^vite to his own position. 
 As a partner in the Coneern, I already enjoy a 
 position, whieh I shall confer upon my wife. 
 You may prepare the girls, mother, for the 
 news. I hope they will like their sister-in-law. 
 Tell 'em,' he added, witli sim])lieity, ' if they 
 don't like her, they may go and live somewhere 
 else.' 
 
 'You might look higher, Olinthus.' 
 
 ' I might,' he replied. ' With manner and 
 appearance, and a partnership in a steady 
 Concern, one might look anywhere, l^ut I am 
 satisfied. Give me Claire. My tastes are 
 simple. Of course, as regards her fother some 
 arrangement must be come to. lie may come 
 to the house once a week or so in tlie middle 
 of the day, when I am in tlie City, or on Sunday 
 to dinner, or perhaps supper will do. with a bit
 
 2 56 ALL LV A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 of salad and tlie col<l beef — all that can be 
 easily arranged.' 
 
 ' Allen,' said Will, one morning in the train. 
 
 Allen changed colonr becanse he foresaw 
 that there was going to be an explanation. 
 
 ' How long, Allen, is this kind of thing to 
 go on ? ' 
 
 Allen shook his head helplessly. 
 
 ' I've been thinking, old man,' Will went 
 on, ' how to settle it. We can't afford to 
 quarrel, we two. If Claire takes either of us, 
 she must become the other fellow's sister. 
 See?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Allen, ' she must be his sister.' 
 
 ' Very well, then. Now I've been watching 
 Claire.' 
 
 ' So have I,' said Allen. 
 
 ' Let us compare notes, then. I say, for my 
 part, that she does not suspect anything.' 
 
 ' I don't think she does,' said Allen. 
 
 ' But the time has come for her to be told. 
 Now I've got a plan. We might toss up who
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 257 
 
 sliould speak first ; but it seems liardly fair to 
 leave such a serious thing to cliaiice. Let us 
 both write to her, and let us send the letters by 
 the same post.' 
 
 This was reasonable. Neither, in this way, 
 could have the least advantage over tlie other, 
 and Claire would learn the truth. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Will a little bitterly, ' you 
 are the cleverer, Allen, and you have been 
 most with her. She is sure to take you. But 
 I should like to let her know — just to let her 
 know — that I'm not such an insensible ass as 
 not to be in love with her. As for that, I've 
 been in love with her — and so have you — ever 
 since we were children together. There is no 
 one else in the world that I could be in love 
 with.' 
 
 ' But suppose she won't have either of us ? ' 
 said Allen. 
 
 ' Then we shall go on just the same as now. 
 Was there ever in poetry a girl with two lovers 
 who would have neither? ' 
 
 ' Eemember, we are only two City clerks.' 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 2 58 ALL L\ A GARDKX FAIR, 
 
 ' Tliat is notliiiig. Wc are going to be rich 
 City merchants. I sliall cliange my name to 
 Whittington.. You shall be a great poet as well 
 as a great merchant.' 
 
 'When, Will, when?' 
 
 ' Soon, old boy — very soon ; w^hile we are 
 young and cau enjoy things. Don't you feel 
 sometimes as if there were ten thousand things 
 wanting to make you quite happy ? Claire, to 
 begin with ; and then pictures, music, and books, 
 and the theatre, and dancing and singing, and 
 sometimes travelling; but Claire to begin with! * 
 
 ' And without Claire ? ' 
 
 Will Avas silent awhile. The light went out 
 of his face. 
 
 ' Without Claire — nothing. Allen, don't 
 you see how she has been everything to us? 
 What should we have been without her and her 
 father? I tremble, somethnes, to think what 
 we have escaped.' 
 
 ' Can't we wait a little ? ' asked Allen. 
 ' Everything is so pleasant. It seems a pity to 
 disturb pleasant things.'
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 259 
 
 Will shook his head. 
 
 ' No ; the pleasantness is disturbed. You 
 glared at me after church last Sunday. That 
 kind of tiling can't go on.' 
 
 * As for that, you looked as if you were 
 going to knock my head off yesterday evening.' 
 
 ' I felt like it; said Will. 
 
 They wrote their letters that same day. 
 First they sat down to the table opposite to 
 each other and resolutely took pen and paper. 
 Then they looked at each other, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' What are you going to say, Allen ? ' asked 
 Will with anxiety. 
 
 ' What shall you say P ' he replied. 
 
 ' If I was a poet — but no, poetry is only for 
 make-believe. Everything real is prose.' 
 
 They applied themselves with determination 
 to thought. Neither had any experience in 
 love-letters. 
 
 * Allen,' said Will, throwing down his pen, 
 ' it's no use, I can't write it. I can't find words 
 to Siiy. Uave you written your letter ? ' 
 
 Allen shook his head. At such a moment, 
 
 8 '1
 
 26o ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ^vhen he slioiild liave found the most glowing 
 words, his brain was barren ; the reason being 
 that he was not satisfied with the plain truth, 
 which was in itself full of poetry, and wanted 
 no more gilding than the crown of England. 
 
 ' The thing is ridiculous,' cried Will. ' Look 
 liere : we will write one letter and both sign 
 it.' He seized the pen again and wrote without 
 fme words the simple truth. 
 'Dearest Claire, — 
 
 ' We both love you ; that you know already. 
 We both desire, more than anything in the 
 world, to be your husband. But you can only 
 grant that to one of us, and the other must 
 remain your brother. That one w^ill go on 
 loving you as a man loves his sister. 
 
 ' Your lovers, 
 
 ' Allen Engledew, 
 ' Will Massey.' 
 
 ' There ! ' said Will. ' We have told her 
 the truth in plain words. It is better than any 
 dressing up. We will post this in the City
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 261 
 
 to-morrow morning, so that she will have it in 
 the forenoon, and have time to think of her 
 answer/ 
 
 * But neither of us,' said Allen, ' must go to 
 the Cottage till an answer is received.' 
 
 That night Will passed in watchfulness, 
 because he distrusted the strength of the frater- 
 nal bond. Would the yearning which had of 
 late possessed him so strongly, to take Claire in 
 his arms and keep her there, cease, even if she 
 were to choose Allen ? 
 
 His rival slept soundly after thinking how 
 the situation would fall into \erse, and fitting 
 some beautiful thoughts which could be put on 
 paper when he found time. 
 
 Next morning they met Tommy at the 
 station. They observed that he was fidgety in 
 manner, as if he had something to communicate. 
 He generally went first class, as a Partner 
 should ; but today he g(^t into a third-class 
 carriage with them. 
 
 ' I've got to tell you fellows something,' he 
 said, with a very crimson blush.
 
 262 M.r. /.y A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ' Go on, Tommy,' said Will encouragingly. 
 Neither of them ever paid Tommy the deference 
 due to a Partner. 
 
 ' It's about Claire.' The other two started 
 and looked guilty. ' Yes, about Claire. I 
 think it right to tell you, because you go to the 
 Cottage so often and seem to consider the place 
 your own property, that after to-day you will 
 have to wait till you are invited.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Tommy ! Why?' 
 
 ' Because I've written to Claire — henceforth 
 Mademoiselle Philipon to everybody except 
 myself, if you please. Remember that — I've 
 written to her, and the letter is in my pocket, 
 asking her — in fact — to become Mrs. Gallaway.' 
 
 'Oho!' cried Will — what did they both 
 laugh for ? — ' And the letter is in your pocket? ' 
 
 ' In my pocket. I've consented to waive 
 the difierencc in rank, and have offered her — 
 my hand.' He held it out, a white, fat hand, 
 with the same expression upon it as upon his 
 face. Everylx)dy knows this peculiarity in 
 hands. It was a carefully groomed hand, too,
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 263 
 
 with three rings. 'My mother/ he went on, 
 ' is going to break it to the girls, and will, of 
 
 course, call upon CI I mean Mademoiselle 
 
 Philipon — as .soon as she has answered my 
 k'tter/ 
 
 ' Upon my word, Tommy,' said Allen, ' you 
 are very good and generous/ 
 
 * A PiUtner in such a Concern as ours might 
 look higher. But never mind. I thought I'd 
 tell you both, because we are old friends, and 
 because, you see, when a man's engaged, he 
 can't have other fellows hanging round his girl.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Will. ' It was very coui^iderate 
 of you to tell us. And now. Tommy, one good 
 turn deserves another. So you must know that 
 Allen and I have both written to her as well, 
 and made i)recisely the same offer. We all 
 start fair.' 
 
 'You've wriiiLii, luor' Tommy tunit-d 
 \ory red. 
 
 'We've written, too. Claire — no — for you, 
 Mademoiselle Philipon — will get the oflers of 
 all three at the sixmc time.*
 
 264 ALL IX A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 ' I call this,' said Tommy, in a great rage, 
 ' confounded sharp practice.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Because you must have known that I 
 meant business. Do you think I have been 
 going there three times a week to have the 
 pleasure of hearing her father talk French? 
 You must have seen it. Anybody must have 
 seen it.' 
 
 ' If,' said Allen, ' I had seen it, I should only 
 have written or spoken sooner.' 
 
 ' Cheer up, Tommy,' said Will. ' Perhaps 
 Claire saw it, and that is, you know, the most 
 important point.' 
 
 Tommy sat glum and sulky — his friends, lie 
 felt, were not afraid of his rivalry — till the 
 train arrived at Liverpool Street. Then he got 
 down with dignity and went straight to the 
 nearest pillar post, into wliich he dropped his 
 letter. 
 
 He really felt very nuich hurt, and seriously 
 alarmed, because it never had occurred to him 
 that the other two should also ' mean business.'
 
 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 265 
 
 III the course of tlie day, however, he took 
 lieart, tliinking that he was a Partner and tliey 
 were only clerks ; also, that Allen might be 
 a good-looking fellow enough, but he was 
 lanky and wore glasses, and that Will was 
 certainly too big a fellow to take any girl's 
 fancy. 
 
 Claire received the letters when she came 
 liome from the school. She read them, and her 
 lieart began to beat and her lips to tremble. 
 Because she felt, somehow, as if she loved two 
 of them in exactly the same w'ay. As for the 
 third, she neither blushed nor trembled when 
 she read his letter. iSlie put it down gently, 
 however, and smiled. 
 
 When her father came in from the garden, 
 she gave him the letters without a word. 
 
 ' Does my daughter wisli to leave her father 
 yet ? ' he said. 
 
 She laid her arms about his neck and kissed 
 him, with a tender love in her eyes. 
 
 ' Wliat answer shall I give, my dear?' he 
 asked.
 
 266 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' I don't know.' She blushed and hid her 
 face ou his shoulder. ' I have no answer.' 
 
 'Allen? Will? Olinthus?' 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 ' Shall I send an answer, Claire ? Shall I 
 bid them wait ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes. Let them wait.' 
 
 ' I mean for a certain period, dear. We 
 will give them a little time to prove themselves. 
 Will is certain to succeed if he gets a chance. 
 Allen will be a poet. Olinthus will be an 
 alderman. Let them wait.' 
 
 He saw two of them and wrote to the third. 
 To Allen and Will he said that they were 
 bidden by Claire to supper the next evening, 
 and at the supper they should have their answer. 
 To Olinthus he said that no father could receive 
 an offer of this kind without emotion. Would 
 he, in person, receive Claire's reply ? If so, a 
 supper awaited him at nine o'clock, after which 
 he should learn her decision. Meantime, let him 
 l)ring to the supper, which was to be a banquet 
 worthy of so great an occasion, a heart of joy.
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 267 
 
 ' A banquet, and a lieart of joy/ There 
 could be no doubt, thought Tommy, of tlic 
 reply. 
 
 ' I suppose, mother,' he said, showing lier 
 the letter, ' tliat we may consider the thing as 
 good as settled. After all, I doubt whether 
 I've done the best for myself, eh ? ' 
 
 ' It's a ijreat honour for her,' said his 
 mother. ' And I only lioi)C she will show that 
 she feels it, and not give herself airs.' 
 
 ' Yet she is, you know, really and truly, 
 mother, a most beautiful girl. Isn't she now?' 
 
 ' I am not denying her good looks, Olinthus. 
 But my son should have got something better 
 than good looks. An heiress, Olinthus, I had 
 hoped for.' 
 
 He smiled and stroked his chin. 
 
 * It would liave been pleasant to have mar- 
 ried an heiress. Yet, what heiress could be 
 half »o beautiful as Claire? In love, motlier,' 
 he said grandly, ' we despise fortune, and think 
 only of beauty. Think of that girl dressed as 
 she ought to be. Oh ! '
 
 268 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR, 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 THE B.iNQUET. 
 
 If the young men brought to the banquet the 
 heart of joy which had been recommended 
 they dissembled. There were no signs of joy 
 at all among the little group upon Hector's 
 lawn the next evening, but rather of constraint 
 and embarrassment. They spoke little, and 
 nobody seemed to pay attention to what was 
 said. M. riiilipon wore his whitest waistcoat 
 and his finest rosebud, and received the three 
 young men with the cordiality of one who 
 bestows, as well as receives, honour. lie was, 
 however, fully alive to the responsibility of the 
 position, and felt that he had a serious speecli 
 to make, and that it was due to his daughter 
 that the speech should be expressed in fitting
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 269 
 
 words. Claire did not appear. Could it be 
 that tliey were going to liave the banquet with- 
 out her? As for the young men, Will and 
 Allen stood together, Allen with one hand on 
 Will's shoulder, as if for support. Olinthus 
 stood apart from the others, wearing a smile of 
 assurance which now and then gave place to a 
 look of anxiety. lie was dressed with great 
 splendour, wore all his rings and chains, and 
 had the shiniest of hats. 
 
 Just when the constraint and the silence 
 became painful there appeared in the porch a 
 little serving maid, w'itli a white cap and a 
 long white apron, very neat, and appropriate to 
 the Cottage. 
 
 ' My friends,* cried .the host, * supper awaits 
 us. Permit me to lead the way.' 
 
 lie led them into the house. They found 
 that Claire was w\aiting them. She was dressed 
 in some sort of creamy white stufl' with a ribbon 
 round her neck and a white flower in her black 
 hair, and she looked so sweet, so dainty, that 
 Allen choked, and Will turned pale, and
 
 270 ALL I\ A CARDEX FALR. 
 
 Oliiitlius ]L'(l. >^lic bowed to them without 
 ofieriiig her hand or raising licr eyes ; and then 
 slie took, her fatlier's arm. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Hector, ' on this occasion 
 I lead my daughter to the banquet.' If she 
 had been a duchess and lie the Regent ; if the 
 Cottage had been the Palais Eoyal ; if the sup- 
 per had been of royal or regental character, he 
 could not have assumed a more courtly air. 
 The young men followed in great awe and 
 expectation. 
 
 ' My dear friends,' said their host, * take 
 your places ; let there be no jealousies ; Claire 
 sits beside me. OUnthus, you are nearest- 
 take the chair next to her. Allen, my pupil,- 
 sit on this side of me, Will, take the opposite 
 chair. So.' 
 
 He sat down and looked about him with a 
 truly festive countenance, though the occasion 
 was a grave one. Yet whatever is to come 
 after su})per, let the joy which belongs to that 
 meal be maintained. The supper was ser\^ed 
 on the whitest of table covers and in the
 
 AU. J\ A GARDEN FAIR. 271 
 
 l)laincst of white cliina. It took a gi*eat num- 
 ber of dislies and in the giver's eyes it was 
 magnificent. Indeed, at lirst, everybody's 
 breatli was taken away by tlie mere aspect 
 of the spread and the profusion of flowers in 
 which it hiy imbedded. No supper, liowever 
 magniflcent, could liave made a more imposing 
 api)earance. 
 
 On tlie i)resent occarsion, there were live 
 tiny lamb cutlets lying on a white bank of 
 mashed potatoes ; there was a dish of new 
 ])otatoes, boiled, another of potatoes sautes^ 
 another of early peas, another of asparagus, 
 another of cauliflower ait gratin, another of 
 spinach served with eggs and butter. There 
 was a dish of gooseberry fool. There was an 
 immense bowl of salad, pre})ared by the hands 
 of Claire herself, there was bread a discvetioii^ 
 and there w^as a little plate of cheese. Every- 
 thing, in fact, except the cutlets and the cheese 
 and the bread, had come straight from the 
 garden. 
 
 'My friends,' said Hector joyously, all his
 
 in ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 embarrassment gone as he surveyed this royal 
 supper, ' this is magnificent, it is superb, it 
 makes tlie heart rejoice ' — lie looked round the 
 table — ' where, but where is the wine ? Ilein ? 
 Is it possible? I had forgotten the wine — aha ! 
 the wine to make us merry. J^ehold the bottle ' 
 — he could reach it from the sideboard without 
 rising from his seat. ' Aha ! the Divine Bottle ! 
 the glou glou of the bottle ! ' 
 
 He handled the bottle as lovingly as if it 
 contained a liquid more precious than words 
 can express. He held it up to the light, held 
 it carefully, so as not to shake it, and inserted 
 the screw as an angler sticks on his worm, as if 
 he loved the cork. Then when, with a volup- 
 tuous pop the cork left the bottle, M. Philipon 
 laughed softly, and placed the Divine Bottle 
 beside liim, wagging his head and forefinger at 
 it as if it, too, were a boon companion. Two 
 of the young men knew the wine well. They 
 were perfectly acquainted with the resources 
 of the cellar, and they both looked straight 
 before them as if fearing to meet each other's
 
 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 273 
 
 eyes. Only from Allen,. who was imaginative, 
 a faint shiver cscai)e(l witli a wliispered trem- 
 bling of the lips as if caused by the rolling of a 
 few r's. 
 
 ' Sup[)er,' said thrir Iiost, a spoon in one 
 hand and a fork in tlu' other, * supper, like all 
 good things, is a French invention. T do not 
 boast, my friends, I merely state a fact. No 
 one knew what sui)per could be before the time 
 of the Regent — the first mm of modern times 
 who understood how to live. We will imagine 
 ourselves — for this evening only — in the time of 
 the Regent; we will feast like him, we will talk 
 like him — that is, at a respectful distance ; we 
 will dismiss the laccpieys and seivants ' — he 
 spoke as if his one little maid was a complete 
 staff — * and we will wait ui)()n eacji other — that 
 is, we will wait u])()ii C'lairi'. My dear, let me 
 find for you, among all these cutlets, the 
 sweetest, the best cooked, the most delicious/ 
 
 It would have been impossible for the most 
 generous of hosts, had his eyes been turned 
 ui)on Olinthus at tliis moment, to escape the 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 ^/'Z- Z-^' ^ uARDKX FAIR. 
 
 discovery tliat lie Avas ceninting, Avitli ii dis- 
 ai)poiiitinciit impo.ssible to bu concealed, llie 
 iiuinber of cutlets iu the dish. There were five 
 — one apiece ; as for the rest, lie had now dis- 
 covered that h was iiothiiiir but salad and 
 flowers. And he had been invited to sui)per, 
 and he liad been promised a royal banquet, 
 and he had taken only a slender meal in tlie 
 middle of the day in ordei' to do justice to that 
 banquet. One lamb cutlet — with sahid I The 
 other two, however, weie not disa])pointed : 
 they knew wliiit to exi)ect. To M. Philipon a 
 cu]) of chocokte was a laige early breakfast ; a 
 cubic inch of beef slewed in a mess of onions, 
 carrots, and potatoes made a midday dejeuner \ 
 a croiite <ia pot^ with another inch of beef and 
 a dish of lentils or beans, made a substantial 
 dinner. This su[)per, with its festive array of 
 dishes, its variety of vegetables, and the presence 
 of his guests, was to him a veritable feast of 
 15elshaz/.ar. They wondered not, but yet they 
 trendjled, because they nuist needs pass through 
 the ordeal of the wine.
 
 ALL AV A GARDEX FAIR. 275 
 
 Their lio.st urged tliem to i>uperliuinau 
 efforts, and congratulated them on tlieir prowess, 
 as if a wliole hunb cutlet was in itself a 
 feast worthy of an alderman. The young 
 men, stimulated by these exliortations, went 
 on eating until there was not a stalk of 
 asparagus, or a single potato, or a morsel of 
 cauliflower. 
 
 'Go on, biave boys,' cried their host, with 
 glowing eyes. ' The English are as valiant at 
 the table as on tlie field. They are lusty 
 foasters. Allen, another potato. Will, more 
 >pinach. Olinthus, you spare the cheese. It 
 is good to see these young athletes. It is 
 Achilles, with Ajax and Diomede — brave Dio- 
 niede ; no doubt he greatly resembled Olinthus. 
 It is a Homeric banquet, or — yes, it is the 
 Centaurs feasting after a fight ; or, still better, 
 it is tlie suitors of Penelope feasting in the 
 Talace of Ithaca. Desist not; eat as valiantly 
 iis Friar John; drink as deej) as a Franciscan 
 fiiar. Allen, the bottle stands by you ; let it 
 move on — !'•' M hot — It :e'. galloi). (Jlinthn*^. 
 
 T '2
 
 276 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 fill up, fill up all ; let us drink like the good 
 folk of Chinon ; let us drink without stopping, 
 except to eat.' 
 
 With these rollicking and Eabelaisian ex- 
 hortations did M. Philipon stimulate the revel- 
 lers and astonish his daughter, who saw, to her 
 amazement, the bottle fly from hand to hand 
 and the young men pour continually more wine 
 into their glasses. They poured as Httle as they 
 could, and it seemed as if the bottle never would 
 get finished. When you added water to the 
 proportion of three to one, you practically dis- 
 guised the sourness of the wine, though you 
 made the water thin. At last Allen, who could 
 bear the thing no longer, and who trembled 
 lest Tommy should say something that would 
 annoy their host — indeed he was beginning to 
 look dangerous — poured out all that was left 
 into his tumbler, and heroically drank it off at 
 a gulp. Claire looked in terror to see some of 
 the signs of intoxication. The young men 
 might, if her father went on plying them with 
 strong drink, roll under the tal)le, or have to
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 277 
 
 catcli each other by the slioulders us she had 
 seen men do in Ei)phig Forest. 
 
 So infectious, in fact, was the gaiety as- 
 sumed by their host at tliis imai^inary feast 
 that two of the tliree guests were ])resently 
 quite carried away by it, and hiughed and 
 talked as if the })otency of the wine had indeed 
 mounted to their brains and unlocked tlieir 
 tongues. The gravity of the occasion, the 
 importance of the decision that was immediately 
 to be announced to them, seemed forgotten. 
 Allen, for his part, brandished his glass in 
 sympathy wlien liis liost flourished the bottle 
 over liis head and quoted the old French 
 
 song- 
 
 Je ne quitter.ii jamais ma mye 
 Tandis qu'elle fern glou glou : 
 Je ne quitterai jamais ma mye 
 Qu'elle ne soit vnide de tout. 
 
 As if the wine was of tlie most rollicking kind, 
 and charged with mirtli and song and revelry. 
 And Will laughed approvingly. 
 
 Claire, for her part, knowing why the 
 young men were bidden to the feast, and
 
 278 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 remembering what was about to be said to 
 them, and wliat hopes were to be destroyed or 
 postponed that evening, felt pained at tlie ex- 
 hibition of gaiety, and wondered how men can 
 be so hght of lieart and so careless even when 
 their own happiness — if they are truthful — is 
 at stake. Claire was not experienced in the 
 heart of male man, else she would have known 
 that the excitement of expectation, of suspense, 
 of a deed done or yet to do, is strangely akin 
 to gaiety. When Oliver Cromwell signed the 
 death-warrant of the King, he fillipped his 
 neighbour with the ink. Not out of frivolous 
 light-heartedness, if you please, but as a relief 
 to the heaviness of his lieart. These young 
 men at least were profoundly anxious, and 
 "when Allen Enj^leduw l)randished his j^lass like 
 a mad monk of Medmenham, it was because 
 he was unconsciously seeking refuge from 
 trouble in merriment. 
 
 This explanation is intended only for meta- 
 l)hysicians, and for the seekers after that wliicli 
 cannot be found.
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 270 
 
 Claire wondered, but she said nothing and 
 was silent, keeping her eyes down and anxious 
 for the time when she might leave the table. 
 
 Olinthus, it may be observed, responded 
 only partially and with cflbrt. He was too 
 hungry to laugh, and, besides, he saw nothing 
 to laugh at. lk*ing asked to drink vinegar and 
 eat salad when one was raging with hunger 
 seemed to him like going beyond the limits of 
 legitimate mirth. 
 
 When there was nothing more to eat, and 
 even the bottle was at length happily empty, 
 their entertainer began to wink mysteriously 
 and to shake a finger with a meaning wink. 
 
 ' Good Heaven ! ' thought Tonnny ; ' what 
 is he going to give us next ? ' 
 
 But his spirits Averc raised when he remem- 
 bered that French people frecpiently finish tlu'ir 
 banquets with a gloria or chasse-cafe . 'Brandy, 
 I hi^pe,' he murmured. 
 
 ' On this occasion,' said M. rhilii)on, ' which 
 is remarkable, I produce a bottle of remarkable 
 wine ; a veritable qrainl rin, w ^finyaux of
 
 28o ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 premier cru. It is as old as Claire, and was 
 enclosed in this casket of glass tlie very year in 
 which she was born.' 
 
 He drew forth, from some secret recess, a 
 small pint bottle covered with dust. This he 
 micorked with immense ceremony. 
 
 ' Claire, my daughter,' he said, his bright 
 eyes softening, ' we have feasted and we have 
 laughed in your honour. Woman is tlie giver 
 of all joy : therefore we do well to be joyful in 
 her honour. This day, my dear, you have at- 
 tained your majority. You are of age, not 
 because you are eighteen, but because these 
 young gentlemen have become your suitors. 
 We shall drink, my best of daughters, to you ! ' 
 
 He filk'd four glasses, which proved to be 
 exactly tlie measure of the bottle, and passed 
 one to eacli. 
 
 Then all stood \\\), glass in liand. 
 
 ' Chiire, my child ! ' 
 
 'Claire!' 
 
 Tliey (li-aincd their glasses and set them 
 d()v;n ; tliat is, three of the four men did.
 
 ALL LN A CARD EX FALR. 281 
 
 Tommy set his dcnvn iinfini.shed with a gasp 
 and a shiver ; for, ahis ! the vaunted wine had 
 been kept too long, and it was even more sour 
 tlian its i)redecessor. 
 
 Claire looked from one to tlie other with a 
 smile of tlianks, and tlicn, l)liisliing violently, 
 rose from her seat. 
 
 'Yes, child,' said her father, 'I will not 
 say in your presence what I have to say to 
 these young men concerning you. Leave us, 
 my dear.' 
 
 He held out both his hands, drew her 
 towards him, and kissed her gravely on the 
 forehead. Then, still holding her — 
 
 'Gentlemen,' lie said, 'before Claire goes, 
 you may each of you — yes — her fatlicr permits 
 80 much — you may kiss her liand.' 
 
 Tommy, outraged by the last glass of claret, 
 thought this })ermission, being of a hollow and 
 Barmecide character, was only a natural ending 
 to a banquet from which he rose more hungry 
 than when he sat down — one lamb cutlet and 
 a ])int of vinegar ! He had no desire to kL^s
 
 282 ALL LN A GARDEN FALR, 
 
 Claire's hand ; lie wanted to kiss her lips; as 
 for a gii-l's fingers, anybody might kiss them 
 that pleased. Still, to refuse might be mis- 
 understood, and if he -svas expected to enjoy 
 the privilege, he must pretend. He therefore 
 hastened to be the first to lift her hand, and 
 imprintol a kiss with as much fervour as he 
 could. Allen, for his part, blushing as much 
 as the girl herself, bent respectfully over and 
 touched the fingers with his lips, murmuring a 
 few words. Will did not bend more than w^as 
 necessary, but he looked at Claire while he 
 raised her hand ; and he was rewarded by a 
 shy and troubled look, as she lifted her eyes 
 for a moment. 
 
 Then she was gone, and the time was ar- 
 rived for the speech to be made. 
 
 j\r. riiilipon invited his guests to resume 
 tliL'ir chairs and presently began : — 
 
 ' Gentlemen, you know why I have called 
 you here. You will appreciate ni}- desire in 
 proposing that before entering upon the sub- 
 ject, at once so delicate and so important, we
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR, 283 
 
 should all feast together as good friends and 
 bans camarades' Here Olinthiis dropped his 
 ryes upon liis plate, where yet lingered the 
 bone of the single lamb cutlet. 'Now, then, 
 that our hearts are glad with old wine ' — no- 
 body smiled : on such a subject a smile might 
 have been misinterpreted — 'we will approach 
 the subject which is in our minds.' 
 
 ' It is the English custom,' he went on, ' in 
 affairs of the heart, to address one's self first to 
 the young lady. In France we arrange these 
 things differently, perhaps more simply, perhaps 
 witli tlie effect of j)roducing fewer mistakes. 
 That is nothing ; I bow, gentlemen, to the 
 Englbh custom ' — he saluted the tlnve witli a 
 • omprehensive sweep. 'You have followed 
 the moth(Kl adopted by y<»nr compatriots. T 
 accept it. And I tliank you for the honour 
 you have conferred upon me and upon my 
 respectable family.' 
 
 He paused here, and sat down in order that 
 these words might produce their full and de- 
 >ired effect, and thev all three bowed. Then
 
 284 ■ ALL LX A GARDES FAIR. 
 
 he rose again, and placed liis left liaiid in his 
 bosom, behind his white waistcoat, reserving 
 his right for gesture. But remark that a well- 
 educated Frenchman does not greatly gesticu- 
 late. A Frenchman in a rage or a Frenchman 
 carried away by the passion of indignation or 
 contempt may use arms and hands in a fine 
 freedom and frenzy, but not, if you please, a 
 dignified fere de famille who is calmly discuss- 
 ing the future of his daughter. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' the speaker continued, ' it is 
 my duty to inform you, at the outset, that the 
 dot of my Claire is — is — in fact — not worth 
 mentioning.' 
 
 Here they all three murmured and spread 
 out their hands and bowed and blushed, and 
 Olinthus made some remark about thinirs beinir 
 enough for two. 
 
 ' I know,' the speaker we-nt on, ' the won- 
 derful English custom of marrying a wife 
 without i\\\y dot at all. Droll manner! It is 
 the husband who finds the dot^ in the shape of 
 an insurance on his life. The insular prejudice
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. ' 285 
 
 against economy is nowhere so strongly sliown. 
 You refuse to save anything. You insure. 
 You trust to your strong arms. It is a vahant 
 nation indeed, where the fathers give nothing 
 to the bride, and the bridegroom has nothing, 
 and both are ricli — in the future. A brave 
 ])eoi)k% truly ! Yet, gentlemen, I love the 
 French custom best, and I would that it were 
 in my power to give my Claire the dot which 
 she merits. Then would her husband be truly 
 rich. As for myself, you have probably heard 
 that the events, known to all the world, which 
 drove me from my country, shut me out from 
 the honourable career in which I should have 
 grown rich. I do not accuse my fate. I am 
 one of the martyrs of France. It is sweet and 
 decorous for your countr} 's sake to be a profes- 
 seur of French in an institution of demoiselles.' 
 Here he paused again, and here Will lifted 
 up his voice and begged him not to let the 
 (luestion of the dot weigh upon his mind at all, 
 because they loved Claire without any thought 
 of money.
 
 286 AF.L l\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 'Brave young men!' said Iier father. 'You 
 would, |)erhap.s, insure.' 
 
 Olinthus said that so lar as a pohcy of a 
 thousand might go he should be most happy to 
 meet M. Philipon's views. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' M. Philipon resumed, ' the 
 family to which I beloni( has \ox\si been honour- 
 ably connected with the commerce of my 
 country. ^ly brother still controls the vast 
 establishment formerly directed by my father 
 and my grandfather. It is a magasin de literie^ 
 a storehouse of — eh — of beddery. In beddery 
 my ancestors have been for three generations 
 of the fii-st force. Eemark, gentlemen, that I 
 pretend not to illustrious birth and claim no 
 great ancestor^:. We are of the people — like 
 yourselves.' 
 
 They nodded their heads gravely. They 
 were not themselves in ' beddery,' but two were 
 in silk and one was in oil, and there is not 
 much difference what you are in, provided you 
 arc deep in it, up to your neck in it ; with room 
 to plunge about in it ; in it 'in a large way.'
 
 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 287 
 
 It is not everybody who Ciiu speak of cou- 
 t rolling ii vast establishment. Words do not 
 convey tlie same significance to all hearers, nor 
 did the young men sui)i)ose that the vast 
 establishment was but an ordinary shop. 
 
 ' ^ly daughter/ the Frenchman went on, 
 * has received from every one of you, and 
 almost at the same time, which shows that you 
 were each anxious to be first in the field and 
 jealous of the others, an oiler which not only 
 confers honour upon her, but also upon your- 
 selves. Because, my tVieiuls, it sliows that the 
 young men who have been my pupils and 
 friends for so many years are fully sensible to 
 the charms of a ^irl who is as good as she is 
 beautiful. Her mother was an Englishwoman. 
 When I think of that fact and remember her 
 \irtues, I would have my daughter, too, all 
 llnglish. You are young men, I confess, of 
 great worth and of much promise, but, boys, 
 which on«' <»f vo'.i T :i-k — i< yd wortfiv of my 
 hild?' 
 
 U])on this Tommy remarked, with a little
 
 288 ALL L\ A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 cough, that lio knew it well and had felt it ; but 
 lie trusted that, Avith the income Avhich he now- 
 hoped to make, ha\ing been lec^'utly admitted 
 to a parlnersliii) in the Concern, not to speak of 
 the insurance he was ready to eflect, it would 
 not be long before he couhl prove himself 
 worthy of the young lady. 
 
 Allen said that he desired humbly to ac- 
 knowledge his full sense of his own unworthi- 
 ness. 
 
 Will. Avith a little thickness in his sj)eech, 
 most certainly not due to the claret, said that 
 nobody coidd be worthy of her, but he would 
 
 do his best for her, if And here he 
 
 stop])ed. 
 
 Monsieur Philipon bowed gravely to each. 
 
 ' It is well spoken,' he said, ' and every one 
 according to his heart. So that, gentlemen, 
 you will not be surprised or offended at my 
 reply on behalf of my dear Claire. You all 
 love her, 1 suppose. Then, gentlemen, prove it 
 by wailing and working ibr her. 1 give you 
 three years. You are all al)out twenty-one
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 289 
 
 years of age. You shall have Claire's answer 
 — from Claire's own lips, not from mine — when 
 you are twenty-four. I do not tell you to go 
 away and see her no more for tliat space of 
 time : I do not ask you to desist from your 
 visits, my dear young friends. I could not 
 think of inflicting so gi*eat a pain upon myself 
 as to see you no more all this time. Whether 
 you go or whether you stay, ask again in three 
 years' time, if you are then in the same mind. 
 Claii'e, meantime, will wait. It will be well if 
 during this time you do not — liein? — talk of 
 love — make eyes of sheep. You will very 
 likely forget her. You will go away and forget 
 lier. You are young. Youth is the time of 
 hasty loves and quick forgetting.' 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! ' they all protested. 
 
 'Again, by the time you are twenty-four 
 you will possibly be more awakened to the 
 blessings of a doi^ and may repent of an en- 
 gagement with a penniless girl.' 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! ' they all protested. 
 
 ' You live, gentlemen, in a village where 
 
 VOL. I. f
 
 290 ALL LN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 the talk is of the money which has been lost ; 
 you work in a city where the talk is all of the 
 money which may be made. The atmosphere 
 everywhere is filled with the perfume of bank 
 notes, shares, bonds, and coupons. You breathe 
 this air — it is like a slow poison to some ' — he 
 looked at Allen — ' like the keen mountain air, 
 which sthnulates, to others ' — he looked at Will 
 — ' and like their own native air to others ' — 
 he looked at Olinthus, who smiled and bowed 
 and felt that the highest compliment had been 
 paid to him. ' So, gentlemen, I have finished. 
 In three years Claire shall, if she then pleases, 
 bestow her hand upon one of you. I liope that 
 she will give it to the most worthy among you. 
 Gentlemen ' — here he became vei^ grave — ' if 
 during this period you live well — as young 
 En^^lishmen do sometimes live— this child will 
 remain to you, and become more and more 
 to you a goddess worthy of all worship and 
 reverence. If you live not well, she will be- 
 come quite a common woman, a wild flower, 
 of no use except to be plucked and thrown
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 291 
 
 away. Remember that the chevalier sans re- 
 proche makes the truest lover.' 
 
 He finished : he sat down : lie rested his 
 liead upon liis liand, and looked gravely u]X)ii 
 his friends. . Diverat : lie had spoken. 
 
 Will Massey made reply, simply. 
 
 He said, ' We thank you, sir. Perhaps w^e 
 eould expect no more. We are young men 
 with till our work before us. We will resj)ect 
 your confidence in us and take no advantage.' 
 
 'No advantage,' echoed Allen. 
 
 ' Three years ! ' murmured Olinthus. 
 
 Then they rose, wished their host good- 
 night, and so out into the twilight of June, 
 where the moon shone on the Forest, turning 
 greys and browns into blacks and whites, and 
 in the soft air the foolish cockchafers were 
 buzzing about and getting into j^eople's whiskers. 
 
 ' I say, you fellows,' said Tommy, wlien 
 they were well in the road, ' wliat do you think 
 of it? Imj)udence, I call it. Nothing short of 
 impudence. For what is ho, after all ? A 
 common French master. Without a rap.' 
 
 u 2
 
 292 ALL AV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 lie leaned against the palings and waited 
 for a reply. 
 
 ' What do you say, Allen ? ' asked Will. 
 
 ' Three years ! ' Tommy went on grumbling. 
 * Three whole years ! Why, in three years a 
 man might be in the Bankruptcy Court. Most 
 likely he would if he stayed on in a hole like 
 this, w^hich reeks of bankruptcy. Three years ! ' 
 
 ' Why,' said Allen ; ' three years is not such 
 a very long time.' 
 
 ' As for me,' Tommy went on grumbling ; 
 ' I want to go away and live as a gentleman 
 should — in Chambers. But if you two are going 
 to hang on here, and take advantage behind 
 my back ' 
 
 ' We promised to take no advantage,' said 
 Will gravely. 
 
 ' Oil ! yes, I know. You won't fall down 
 on your knees to her. But as for you, Will, 
 you will be in the garden working for her, 
 making her tilings, and Allen will be bringing 
 her books, and unless I am to be out of it 
 altogether I shall have to stay here too.'
 
 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 293 
 
 ' Well, Tommy,' said Will, ' you can't ex- 
 pect us to go away just because you want to 
 live ill Chambers.' 
 
 ' A gentleman,* said Tommy, ' cant live 
 here. It is not possible.' 
 
 'Allen and I are only clerks yet,' he re- 
 plied. ' Time enough, later on, to consider the 
 manners and customs of gentlemen.' 
 
 Just then Allen spoiled what might have 
 been an interesting discussion on the manners 
 and characteristics of the British gentleman by 
 suddenly bursting into an uncontrollable fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 * What's the matter, Allen ? ' asked Will. 
 
 ' Did you — did you — ' he gasped, at length 
 — *did you see Tommy's face when he had 
 eaten up his cutlet ? * 
 
 Then Will i)egan to laugh, and Tommy 
 grew hot and angry. 
 
 ' He had had no dinner — on purpose,' iVllen 
 went on, ' to enable him to eat more supper, 
 llo ! IIo ! ' 
 
 ' I don't see what you are laughing at,' said
 
 294 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 Tommy. ' I call it an imposition to promise a 
 supper and give a man a lamb cutlet and cab- 
 bage with vinegar to drink, and to go on all 
 the while hke a Tom Fool at a fair about feast- 
 ing and drinking.' 
 
 But the other two continued to laugh. 
 
 ' And as to unworthiness,' Tommy grumbled, 
 ' we read stuff like that in novels. But, you 
 know, it is dowmight rubbish. That's not the 
 way that practical people — people in the City — 
 look at things. A good-lookuig fellow' — he 
 held out one foot and his eyes fell complacently 
 along the leg — ^ with a good position and an 
 income ' — he hoped his friends would not be 
 hurt in their feelings by this remark, but he 
 desired to assert the truth, and he certainly was 
 a Junior Partner — ' is fit for any girl. Senti- 
 ment does not go down in the City.' 
 
 ' Never mind, Tommy,' said Will. ' I think, 
 Allen, that we were right in having an expla- 
 nation. It wasn't right of us to begin to be 
 jealous and distrustful of each other ; and we 
 ought not to have expected M. Philipon to de-
 
 ALL IX A GARDEN FAIR. 295 
 
 cide for any of us. Why, Jacob served seven 
 years, and seven years more, for Eachel. Can 
 we not serve three for the chance of Claire ? ' 
 
 ' And we are twenty-one, Will. And Jacob, 
 if you come to tliiuk of it, was seventy-eight 
 vhen he began to serve for Eachel.' 
 
 ' Here's more rubbish,' said Tommy ; but 
 whether he was thinking of Eachel or Clake, 
 of Jacob the Patriarch, or of Will the Youthful, 
 did not api)ear.
 
 296 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 biver's legacy. 
 
 Who would have thought, when Biver began 
 to take the brandy bottle to bed with him, that 
 the whole future of two Enghsh lads would 
 have been affected by so simple an act, so com- 
 mon, too, in thirsty climes ? Such a natural 
 accompaniment to so many colonial careers I 
 
 When Biver went out to Shanghai as re- 
 presentative to the House of Brimage and 
 Waring, he was not a thirsty young man at all; 
 he was, on the contrary, a young man who held 
 strong moral objections to thirstiness except at 
 tea-time, and was great in commonplace about 
 the ruin caused by drink. lie was, in short, 
 one of those yoimg men who regard speech as 
 merely a vehicle for the commonplace, and the
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 2<)7 
 
 brain as devised merely for learaing the com- 
 monplace. There ai'e a good many such young 
 men, not only in tlie City but outside it. It 
 was partly because Biver was so good at com- 
 monplace, both commercial and moral, that he 
 was sent out. Yet, sad to say, in five or sis 
 years Biver had actually arrived at taking the 
 brandy bottle to bed with him, and the meal 
 called tea existed for him no longer. 
 
 That was the beginning of the end. It 
 mattered very little so long as Biver went to 
 bed cbimk and got up sober ; a man may go on 
 so for a great many years ; but when Biver 
 bogiin to go to bed drunk, and to get up drunk, 
 and to be drunk all day long, he entered upon 
 a path which quickly leads to deterioration of 
 the finer instincts of business. 
 
 I do not know exactly what it was that 
 Biver did at last ; it was something which not 
 only broke the camel's back, but made the cup 
 run over, and, at the same time, i)ut all the fat 
 in the lire. I believe he sat down and began 
 to buy right and left all the silk in the nuuket
 
 298 ALL L\ A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 at five-and-tweiity per cent, above it^ possible 
 selling value, just as if he had been representing 
 the Government of England instead of a mer- 
 cantile firm. This magnificence was stopped 
 by telegraph before he had lost many millions, 
 and he was deprived of the power to do any 
 more lianii to the Firm. Biver was ordered 
 home ; he liugged his brandy bottle and went 
 on board the next mail. But he had either 
 overrated his own strength or underrated the 
 strength of the brandy, and when the ship was 
 still in the Narrow Seas he had to be dropped 
 overboard, while the passengers stood in a 
 semicircle and the ca})tain read the service, 
 and the youngest steward cried aloud, usmg 
 one of the ship's napkins for a handkerchief, 
 not because he loved and lamented the deceased 
 at all, but because it was the first time he had 
 seen the handiwork of Death the Conqueror. 
 
 This is tlie tragical history of Biver, and, 
 indeed, of many a gallant youth who seeks liis 
 fortune abroad. 
 
 And tliis is the reason why Brimage and
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 299 
 
 Waring wanted a new representative in 
 Shanghai. 
 
 The partners considered their office and its 
 occupants, and their eyes fell upon the two lads. 
 They were both of good character ; they both 
 knew two modern languages ; they were hand- 
 some young men, of good bearing and good 
 address, presentable anywhere. It does a 
 house good to be represented abroad by young 
 gentlemen of pleasing manners. 
 
 But they only wanted one, and tliey hesi- 
 tated which to take. For the appointment, 
 though it led to such risks as that which proved 
 fatal to Biver the bibulous, was gi'cat pro- 
 motion ; a handsome salar}^ was attiiched to the 
 ])0st ; there was no telling what miglit nut 
 follow — even pai'tnerships had followed — for 
 successfully representing the House in Shanghai. 
 
 The partners finally decided on Allen. He 
 was intelligent, though i)erhaps, they thought, 
 knowing nothing about the i)oetry, not so 
 intelligent as the other lad ; he could be safely 
 trusted to carry out instructions with discretion,
 
 300 ALL LV A CARD EX FAIR. 
 
 wliich means, in commercial matters, with 
 alacrity in perceiving when disobedience is best 
 Moreover, which finally decided them, he was 
 the son of an old servant of the House whose 
 unmerited disasters and tragic ending had not 
 yet been quite forgotten. 
 
 They sent for Allen : they communicated 
 with great solemnity the decision they had 
 arrived at ; the senior partner even began an 
 exhortation on the responsibilities of the posi- 
 tion ; when, to everybody's astonishment, the 
 young man, who had been blushing painfully, 
 interrupted him with the astounding information 
 that he was obliged to decline the ofier. 
 
 ' Are you afraid to go ? ' asked the senior 
 partner bluntly. 
 
 ' Are you unable to leave your mother 
 alone? ' asked a junior partner kindly. 
 
 ' Are you anxious about the duties ? ' asked 
 another. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Allen, holding his head 
 very erect, ' I am not afraid to go, and my 
 mother will be very angry and disappointed
 
 ALL L\ A GARDEN FAIR. 301 
 
 with lue, at least I fear so, because I refuse the 
 honour of this poj^t. But I cuunot go.' 
 
 ' You have perhaps formed ties ; yet you are 
 young,' said the senior. 
 
 ' Come, Engledew,' said the other, ' we 
 would gladly befriend your father's son ; we 
 have offered the place to you because we woidd 
 help you if we cotdd. Do not trifle with your 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' I cannot go, sir, thank you.' 
 
 ' We give you till to-morrow. Go home at 
 once ; consult your mother. Such a chance may 
 never happen to you again. Go now, and meet 
 us here to-morrow at noon.' 
 
 Allen retired. lie went home and told his 
 mother of the olfer which had been made him. 
 The widow clasped lier hands and bej/an to 
 shed tears of joy. 
 
 * I must lose you, Allen,' she said ; * but 
 tliat is notliing, for your foot is on the ladder at 
 last, and all you have to do is to climb. My 
 dear boy, you will retrieve the name ; you will 
 wipe out your poor father's disgrace.*
 
 302 ALI, IN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Mother/ siiid her son, ' tliat is already 
 retrieved ; it was never lost. Xot a man who 
 knew my father but knows that he had nothing 
 to do with his partner's evil practices. Yon 
 wish me to wipe out a disgrace which never 
 took place. What has been done cannot be 
 undone ; let us cease to make it worse by 
 supposing the worst.' 
 
 ' But he was bankrupt, Allen, and he 
 committed ' 
 
 ' I know, I know. Yet there was no dis- 
 grace. Mother, I have my own name to 
 think of, more even than the honourable 
 name of my father. I must think of that 
 first.' 
 
 * Surely, Allen, surely.' She began to 
 tremble, lx?cause her son looked so determined. 
 Wliat did he mean ? What was he going to 
 say ? ' Your success will be your own, my son ; 
 and yet — oh ! — doubt not that your dead fatlicr 
 will rejoice in it.' 
 
 * Yes, mother, if I succeed. But if I do, it 
 will not be ' — he laid his hand on hers and
 
 ALL L\' A GAIWEX FAIR. 303 
 
 looked lier iu the face — ' it will not be in the 
 City; 
 
 * Not in the City ? ' She knew of no suc- 
 cess possible out of tjie City. AVliat did he 
 mean ? 
 
 'Xo, mother, the time has come — it has 
 been coming a long time — when I can go to 
 the City no more. Tlio work Jia^ long been 
 intolerable to me.* 
 
 'Oh ! Allen, you mean that you are glad 
 to go to China.' But she knew very well that 
 he meant nothing of the sort. ' You mean that 
 you are rejoiced to have a change. Well, 
 dear, boys are so. If you are pleased, I am 
 pleased.' 
 
 ' I mean, mother, that I am going lo give 
 up my post at Brimage and Waring's and that I 
 '-hall try another hue of life altogether. I shall 
 try to Uve by literature.* 
 
 She only understood one way in which 
 money could be made. There were doctors 
 and clerg}'men, but they did not seem to make 
 any money. The City was the only place.
 
 304 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 ' Letters r You mean by writing things ? 
 But you can't make your fortune by writing.' 
 
 ' Motlier, I am not going to try to make a 
 fortune. I am going to live simply. I shall 
 probably always be a poor man. But I shall 
 try to make a name — and — and to do good 
 work.' His voice trembled a little, because this 
 kind of work seemed to him so sacred a thing — 
 which it undoubtedly is. 
 
 'A name — without money? Allen, you 
 are mad. Oh ! your head is turned with your 
 book-reading and your writing. Allen ! Allen! 
 I implore you. I will go on my knees to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Mother ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, Allen, if you will only give up this 
 '\vild design.' She wept, she implored ; but he 
 was obstinate. ' Y^ou are mad — you are mad,' 
 she repeated. ' You will only starve in such a 
 Hfe.' 
 
 ' I shall not starve, mother,' he said gently, 
 'and you have enough for your own wants. 
 I shall go to London and make, somehow,
 
 ALL LX A GARDEN FAIR. 305 
 
 enough for my own. Only do not send me 
 away in anger/ 
 
 If he liad left her that night, she would 
 certainly liave sent liini away in an<a'r and 
 
 V J CD 
 
 bitterness. Wliat was literature in her eyes? 
 What was anything compared to the City ? 
 And her boy Jiad the fairest i)rosj)ects, and he 
 was going to throw all away — the dream of 
 twenty years, that he would ' retrieve ' liis 
 father's name, and be resjx?cted in the City, was 
 suddenly shattered. 
 
 In the morning Allen again ])resented him- 
 self before the partners. Ilis resolution was 
 unshaken. He declined the China appointment 
 and resigned his situation in the House. 
 
 ' May we ask,' said the senior partner, * if 
 you will give us any reason — what you intend 
 to do ? ' 
 
 ' I iini going to follow literature,' he replied, 
 witli the deepest blush possible. 
 
 Tlie senior partner turned his back upon 
 him, and said no more. His time was tco 
 valuable to be wastal upon a fool — a mere fool. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 3o6 ALL JN A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 One of the juniors asked him if he knew — if he 
 had considered — the kind of life he was about 
 to choose. 
 
 Allen said that he supposed it would be a 
 life of poverty and, perhaps, hardship. But 
 there would be compensations. 
 
 ' Wliat compensations are there ? ' asked the 
 ])arLner, who belonged to three good clubs, 
 lived in the Cromwell Eoad, dined every day 
 like Dives, and saw a doctor twice a week, in 
 order to keep himself and his digestion in good 
 order. * What possible compensations are there 
 for poverty and hardship ? ' 
 
 ' -:\j-t,' said Allen proudly, * compensates for 
 everything.' 
 
 ' Good morning, young man,' said the 
 partner. 
 
 In this way did Allen leave Brimage and 
 Waring's, and turned his back upon the City. 
 
 Then they sent for Will, and made him the 
 same offer. 
 
 He accepted with an eagerness which con- 
 trasted favom'ably with Allen's hesitation,
 
 A J J. J.\ A uAKDKX FAIR. 307 
 
 'You are not afraid to go?' asked the 
 senior. ' There arc always dan^^ers in forei<rn 
 countries.' 
 
 ' To get promotion, sir,' said Will, ' I would 
 cheerfully go to the Gold Coast.' 
 
 * Good. You shall have promotion. If 
 you do well you shall have more promotion. 
 But remember Biver ; we must have no more 
 drunkards.' 
 
 ' I shall not drink, sir.' 
 
 'That is also good. I am informed that 
 there is a good deal of loo and baccarat and 
 other games of chance going on out there. 
 We must have no gamblers.' 
 
 * I shall not gamble, sir.' 
 
 Then they went on to give him instructions, 
 lie was to start at once — that very week, if 
 possible ; he was to follow certain lines laid 
 down for his guidance ; on occasion he was to 
 act for himself. This indepi'iulcut action would 
 ^letermine his future. 
 
 ' We can trust you, I think,' said the senior 
 partner, watching the young man's resolute look
 
 3o8 ALL LV A GARDEX FAIR. 
 
 and quick intelligence. ' Go now. Your outfit 
 will be given you and your passage, of course. 
 Go and begin your preparations.' 
 
 ' So, young man,' said Sir Charles, ' you 
 are going to China, I hear. Money lias been 
 made in China before now, and lost. There 
 have been several most interesting failures con- 
 nected with the Cliina trade.' 
 
 ' You are wrong, Massey,' said Mr. Colliber 
 solemnly. ' You are wrong ; you should stay 
 where the money is. Never go away from the 
 money.' 
 
 ' And young Engledew, his mother tells me,* 
 continued Sir Charles, ' has positively given up 
 his place at Brimage and Waring's, and means 
 to become a common writing person — a writing 
 person ; sad ! sad I ' 
 
 ' Deplorable,' murmured Mr. Skantlcbiuy. 
 
 ' He will not listen to reason. Ilis mother, 
 who has been to me about it, is broken-hearted. 
 Pitiable, indeed,' said Sir Charles. ' A common 
 writing person ! After enjoying our society
 
 ALL LV A CA/^DEX FAIR. 309 
 
 aiid actually possessing the privilege of know- 
 ing a man of your colossal fliilure, Colliber. 
 Wonderful ! ' 
 
 ' The boy is a fool/ said Colliber ; * let him 
 
 go.' 
 
 ' We shall lose all our young men at once/ 
 said Sir Charles. ' That will be a blow. 
 Young Gallaway linds that he must live nearer 
 his otiice, in order to push the business. There 
 is a lad for you— a freeman of the City, member 
 of a Livery, and an ambitious heart ! Massey, 
 hold Olinthus Gallaway as a bright example 
 and pattern. He will be Lord Mayor yet — he 
 "will — ha ! ha ! ha I A noble young man, in- 
 deed ! But, my friends, I fear we shall not 
 ourselves live to see his bankruptcy.' 
 
 Yes, the evening of the banquet was almost 
 the last that they were to spend together at the 
 Cottage. The last was the night before Will 
 went away. Allen was to go too, and tliey 
 were all three sad and silent. 
 
 ' Let us go/ Will said, ' into the Forest.*
 
 310 ALL LX A GARDEN FALR. 
 
 They ^Yalked, tlie three — Claire between the 
 two voiiiif^ men — alon<:^ the well-known broad 
 way of grass, between the trees ; they passed 
 tlie anapliitlieatre where they had played so 
 many games together and held so many talks ; 
 theh' silent footsteps led them into the leafy 
 lanes where the evening^ sunlight coloured the 
 green branches above them and the grey 
 trunks and the underwood, and made them all 
 glorious ; they came to the place where the old 
 fidlen tree lay on the ground. And there 
 Claire sat down and fell a- weeping because both 
 her friends were wvw^ to leave her. 
 
 ' Allen,' said Will, ' you are going away 
 too. Say something to Claire.' 
 
 ' No, Will,' Allen replied, * what I have to 
 say is to you. But I want Claire to hear it.' 
 He hesitated for a moment, and then went on 
 witli a firm voice. ' I have this to say, Will : 
 You are going away for a long while, it may be 
 more than tln-ee years ; it may be ibur or five 
 before you come back. Claire knows that we 
 both love her ; and that we shall always love
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. 311 
 
 her — all our lives. Jiut I shall never a.'ik hur to 
 choose betweeu us, till tlie clay when we eau 
 stand togetlier before her as we do now, and 
 say again what we luive already said.' 
 
 ' Thanks, Allen.' Will held out his hand, 
 but he said no more. 
 
 ' You are too good to me,' said Claire ; ' y«»u 
 think loo mueh of me. I am only a girl ' 
 
 * Only a girl ! ' ^Vllen repeated. 
 
 ' And you are men — strong men. IIow 
 could I ever choose between you ? You have 
 always been in my heart — both of you — from 
 the beginning. You are always in my thoughts 
 — together. And this is our last evening. 
 Will— dear Will. . . .' She laid her hand in 
 his. He stooped and kissed it, and turned 
 away his head. 'IIow can we live witliout 
 you? Write to my father — and to me — and 
 tell us all that you do. Allen will sometimes 
 come to see me. You will rejoice when he 
 succeeds, will you nut, Will? And oh! you 
 must not let any thought of me bring a shadow 
 between you. Tromise me that.'
 
 312 ALL LV A GARDEN FAIR. 
 
 Tliey took liands, but neither spoke. 
 
 ' Xow I can do notliing,' slic said, ' nothing 
 at all but wait and liope and pray. Come, now, 
 and comfort my father, wlio will have nobody 
 to talk to except myself. I think we shall talk 
 about nothing at all, every evening, except you 
 two.' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUMt:. 
 
 ICXDOX : rUINTKI) TY 
 
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