THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN
 
 
 NEW NOVELS. 
 
 THE HARDING SCANDAL. Dy Fkank Bakrett. a vols. 
 THE MASTER OF TRENANCE. By T. W. Speight. 3 vols. 
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE. By Mrs. Hungerford. 3 voU. 
 THE CRUCIFORM MARK. By Riccardo Stephens, i vol. 
 A WOMAN INTERVENES. By Rodbrt Barr. i vol. 
 A CROWN OF STRAW. By Allev Upward, i vol. 
 AN EASY-GOING FELLOW. By C. J. Wills, i vol. 
 THE TRACK OF A STORM. By Owen Hall, i vol. » 
 
 BASILE THE JESTER. By J. E. Mludock. i vol. 
 THE REAL LADY HILDA. By B. IM. Choker, i vol. 
 THE MYSTERY OF JAMAICA TERRACE. By Dick 
 
 I)(TN(1VAN. I vol. 
 
 A LIVING LIE. By Paul Bourget. i vol. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.
 
 THE 
 
 MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE,' ' ARMOREL OF LYONESSE, 
 
 'all sorts and CONDITIONS OF MEN," ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO 6c WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1896
 
 82 3 
 
 V. I 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I, 
 
 D 
 
 :> 
 
 3> 
 
 *J CHAPTER i'AGK 
 
 PROLOGUE - - - - - 1 
 
 L ' MARRY MONEY ' - - - - 29 
 
 H. ' TRY POLITICS ' _ - _ - 46 
 
 III. THE COUSIN - - - - -59 
 
 r 
 
 » IV. WAPPING - - - - - 73 
 
 X V. THE FAMILY HOUSE - - - - 87 
 
 VI. 'TEA IS ready' _ _ . - 102 
 
 VII. A BARGAIN - - - - -115 
 
 VIII. IN THE YARD - - - - -130 
 
 IX. IN THE EVENING - - - - 140 
 
 X. THE CHURCHYARD - - - - 151 
 
 - 166 
 XII. THE PHYSICIAN - - - - 1 8p 
 
 i XI. AN ADDRESS 
 
 »^ XIII. IN THE FIELDS ----- 202 
 
 r
 
 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Ox a certain evening of July, in the year of giace 1804, 
 old John Bumikel sat in his own chair — that with arms 
 and a high hack — his own chair in his own place during 
 the sunnner — not his winter place — on the terrace out- 
 side the Long Room of the Red Lion Taveni. This 
 old tavern, which, they say, was once visited by King- 
 Charles the First, when he hunted a deer across the 
 Whitechapel meadows, and afterwards took a drink on 
 the steps of this hostelry, was built of wood, like most of 
 the houses on the River Wall. It had a tumble-down 
 and I'icketv appearance ; the upper windows projected, 
 and were either aslant or askew ; the gables stood out 
 high above the red-tiled roof, which had sunk down in 
 the middle, and for a hundred years had threatened to 
 fall down ; there Mere odds and ends of buildings pro- 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 'J'Hi: MASTKK CUAKrsMAN 
 
 jeftin«r over \\\v nwi, which also hud looked foi- h 
 hundi-etl yeai-s as it' they were falHii^ into it ; the plat-e 
 had never got as iiiiich painting as it shouhl have; the 
 half-obliterated sign liung creaking on rusty iron liinges. 
 As it was in ITOl, so it wits in 1804, tottering, but 
 never falhng ; ready to (h()|) to j)ieie>, l)ut never actually 
 (iropping to |)ieees. 
 
 The red blinds in the windcjw looked uaini antl eoni- 
 forting on a cold winter's night ; and from many a ship 
 homeward bound making its slow way U}) the river there 
 were wafted signs of satisfaction that \\'apj)ing and the 
 Red Lion Tavern and old John Burnikel could be seen 
 once more. 
 
 The Long Room was on the fii-st-floor, a room run- 
 ning right through the whole depth of the house, with 
 one great window on the north, and another opening 
 from rioor to ceiling on the south. From the window- 
 on the north side could be seen in spring a lovely view 
 of the tree> and hedges of Love l^ne and the broad 
 orchartls, all white and pink with blossoms of a})ple, 
 pear and plum, which stretched away to the ponds and 
 fields of Whitechapel, and to the tall buildings of the 
 l^ndon Hospital. 
 
 The tavern, tiom that window, seemetl to Ik- some 
 rural retreat far from the noisy town. In the winter, 
 when the company was gathered round the roaring fire.
 
 PROLOGUE 8 
 
 with shutters close, drawn blinds, and candles lit, there 
 was no pleasanter place tor the relaxation of tlie better 
 sort, nor any place where one could look for older rum 
 or neater brandy, not to speak of choice Hollands, which 
 some prefer to rum. For sunnner enjoyment there was a 
 l)road balcony or terrace overhanging the river where the 
 company might sit and enjov the spectacle of the home- 
 NNard-bound ships sailing up, and the outward-bound 
 sailing down, and the loading and unloading, witli 
 lighters and barges innumerable, in midstream. 
 
 The tavern stood beside Execution Dock, anil the 
 company of drinkers might sometimes, if they pleased, 
 witness a moving spectacle of justice done on the body 
 of some j)oor sailor wretch — murderer, mutineer, or 
 pirate — who was tied to a stake at low tide and was 
 then left to expect slow Death ; for the grim Finisher 
 dragged cruel feet and lingered, while the tide slowly 
 rose, and little by little washed over the chin of the 
 patient and gently lapped over his li})s, and so crept 
 higher and higher till, with relentless advance, it Howed 
 over his nostrils, and then, with starting eyes of agony 
 and hoiTor, the dying man was dead, llien the tide 
 rose higher still, and presently Howed quite over his 
 head, and left no sign of the dreadful Thing l)elow. 
 
 ITiere had been, however, no execution on thi> day. 
 John Burnikel sat on the terrace, the time being eight
 
 4 THE MASTER CRAITSMAN 
 
 in tlie evening, before a table on which was a bowl of 
 punch, his ni<rhtly drink. \Vith him, one on each side, 
 sat his two grand-nephews, first cousins, partners in the 
 firm of Rurnikel and Rurnikel, boat-bnildcrs, of Wap- 
 ping High Street — Robert and George Rurnikel. The 
 rest of the company consisted of certain reputable 
 tradesmen of Wapping, and one or two sea-captains. 
 
 At this time John Rurnikel was an extremely ancient 
 person. His birth, in fact, as recorded in the register 
 of St. John's Church, Wapping, took place in the year 
 1710. It was not everybody who knew that date, but 
 everybody knew that he had far surpassed the limits 
 accorded to man. Nobody in the parish, for instance, 
 could remember any time when John Rurnikel was not 
 visible, and walking about, an old man as it seemed, in 
 a time when, to this riverside people, greatly addicted 
 as they were to rum, a man of fifty Nvas accounted old. 
 Nor could anybody remember the time when John 
 Rurnikel was not to be found every evening in the Long 
 Room of the Red Lion, or on the terrace overlooking 
 the river. 
 
 Old or not, he walked erect and briskly ; he looked 
 no more than sixty ; his features were not withered or 
 shrunken or sharpened ; he had no look of decrepitude ; 
 he had preserved his teeth and his hair ; the only sign 
 of age was the network of wrinkles which time had
 
 PROLOGUE 5 
 
 thi'own over his face. And when he walked home ai 
 night he brandished his tiTisty club with so much reso- 
 lution, and in his old arm there was still so much 
 strength, that although the place was lawless, and 
 robberies and assaults were common, and although he 
 walked through the street every night alone, at ten 
 o'clock, nobody ever molested him. Such is the virtue 
 of a thick stick, which is far better than sword or pistol, 
 if a man hath a reputation for readiness in its hand- 
 ling. 
 
 The old man lived in one of the small houses of 
 Broad Street, in an old cottage with four rooms, with 
 diamond panes in the window, and a descent of a foot 
 or so from the street into the front-room. The house 
 at the back looked out upon the open expanse of 
 orchards and market -gardens, with a distant prospect 
 of Whitechapel Mount. He lived quite alone, and 
 he 'did' for himself, scrubbing his floors, personally 
 conducting the weekly wash, and cooking his own food. 
 This was simple, consisting almost entirely of beef- 
 steaks, onions, and bread, with beer by the gallon. 
 When he had cooked and served and eaten his breakfast 
 or dinner, and when he had cleaned up his frying-pan 
 and his plates, the old man would sit down in his arm- 
 chair and go to sleep, in winter by the fire, in suunner 
 outside, in his back-yard. He had no books, and he
 
 6 THE MASTKH ( 11 A FIRMAN 
 
 wanted none; he had no IViciuls (.'xcc])! at tlii* tavern, 
 and was cheerful without them. At the tavern, however, 
 whithci* John liuiiiikcl repaired at ni^ditt'all, or about 
 six oVloek, every eveIlin;^^ lie was iVieiidly, hosj)ita))le, 
 and full of talk, drinkin«>-, takin^i; liis tobacco, and 
 convei*sin<; with the otlier fre{juentei-s of the house ; 
 and since he was ^rc>nerous, and often called for bowls 
 of punch, grog around, and drams, so that many an 
 honest fellow was ena])lecl to go lioine di-unk who would 
 otherwise have gone home sober, he was allowed, and 
 even encouraged, to talk and to tell liis adventures over 
 and over again as nuich as he pleased. To do him 
 justice, he was alwavs readv to take advantage of this 
 license, and never tired of relating the perils he had 
 encountered, the heroism he had displayed, and the 
 romantic manner in which he hml accpiired his riches. 
 
 For the old man boasted continually of his great 
 riches, and in moments of alcoholic uplifting he would 
 declare that he could buy up the whole of the company 
 present, and all AN'apping to boot, if he chose, and be 
 none the worse for it. These were vapourings ; but a 
 man who could afford to spend every day from five 
 to ten shillings at the tavern, drinking the best and 
 as nuich as he could hold of it, treating his friends, 
 freely ordering bowls of punch, nuist needs possess 
 means far beyond those of his companions. For the
 
 PROLOGUE 7 
 
 village of Wapping, though there were in it many 
 substantial boat -builders, rope -makers, block - makers, 
 sail-makers, instrument-makers, and others connected 
 with the trade and shipping of the Port of London, 
 was not in those days a rich quarter. 
 
 The wealthy London merchants, who had houses at 
 Mile End, Hoxton, Bow, Ham, and even Ratcliffe, 
 never chose Wapping for a country residence ; and, 
 indeed, the riverside folk from St. Katherine's by the 
 Tower as far as Shadwell were, as a whole, a rough, 
 rude, and dishonest people, without knowledge, without 
 morals, without principle, without religion. The mob, 
 however, found not their way to the Long Room of 
 the Red Lion Tavern. 
 
 The old man was always called John Bumikel ; not 
 Captain Bumikel, as Avas the common style and title 
 of ancient mariners, nor Mr. Bumikel, as belonged to 
 business men, but plain John Bumikel without any 
 title at all. And so he had been called, I say, during 
 the whole length of time remembered by the oldest 
 inhabitants, except himself, of Wapping, and this was 
 nearly seventy yeai's. 
 
 It was a romantic history that the old man had to 
 tell. He was the son of a boat-builder — a Wappineer — 
 that was well known and certain ; the business was still 
 conducted by those two gi'and-nephews. At an early
 
 H rm: master ( kaitsman 
 
 Jige he had run a\va\ to scu ; this was also perfectly 
 (Tt'dihle, hi'caiiM' all I he la(l> ot" Wappiii*^ who possessed 
 any i^omTous instincts al\\a\> did run awav to sea, or 
 became apprentices on hoaid ^hip. No one doubted 
 that Jolni Huinikel was an old sailor. He said that 
 he hud risen to coiniuand an East Indiaman ; this may 
 have been true, but the sbitement wanted confirmation. 
 His manner and habits spoke perhaps of tlie fo^ksle 
 rather than the quarter-deck, but, then, there are quarter- 
 decks where the manners are those of the To'ksle. How- 
 ever, in the year 1804 nobody cared whether this part 
 of his history wjus true or not, and at the present 
 moment, ninety years after, it is of still less impoi-tance. 
 On the visit of a stranger, or on any holiday or on 
 any festive occasion, John Burnikel was wont to relate 
 at gi*eat leno^h, and with many flourishes and with 
 continually new embroideries, the series of adventures 
 which enabled him to return to England at an early 
 age — not more than five-and-twenty — the possessor of 
 a handsome fortune. It woultl take too long to relate 
 this history entirely in the old man's words. Besides, 
 which history — told on wliich evening — should l)e 
 selecte<l ? Suflice it to say that while it was in pro- 
 gress the com})any finished one bowl, ordered another, 
 and sometimes finished that wliile the naiTative pro- 
 ceeded. For listening without talking is thii-sty work,
 
 PROLOGUE 9 
 
 and a thirsty man must drink or die. Antl since tlie 
 punch was paid for by the old man, 'twould be the 
 neglecting of chances and opportunities not to take as 
 much of it as the rest of the company allowed. 
 
 The substance of the earlier part of the stoi-y was 
 this : John Burnikel was on board the East Indiaman, 
 the Hooghly, bound from the Port of London to 
 Calcutta. She had a goodly company of passengers, 
 and was laden with a miscellaneous cargo. They fell 
 into a huri'icane in the Indian Ocean. The ship was 
 dismasted, and lost her rudder and her boats ; she 
 drifted helpless for many days, and at last struck on a 
 rock. When, after dangers and difficulties of the most 
 extraordinary kind, John Burnikel found himself on 
 shore at last, he was alone, naked, destitute and helpless 
 on a hostile coast, the people of which he declared were 
 notorious cannibals. 
 
 They did not, however, proceed to eat him ; on the 
 contrary, they clothed him, fed him, and presently took 
 him up country as a present, presumably, to the kitchen 
 of their King, 'or, as in their jargon they call him, 
 gentlemen, their Rajah.' 
 
 Here he would break off to reflect upon the situation. 
 Every storyteller loves to take advantage of the reflec- 
 tions suggested by a situation. ' Gentlemen," he would 
 say, ' 'tis a melancholy thing to find youi-self growing
 
 10 11 n: MASTER CRAITSMAN 
 
 cvcTV (lay fatter and luoiv ii'ady for the spit ; even the 
 (hstiiutioii of heiiiH- reserved foi* the private larder of 
 His Majesty could not make nie cheerful. What, I ask 
 you, is the idle honour of hein*;- served at the table ot 
 i-oyalty m hen one thinks of wliat you must <^o through 
 in order to ^et there ? I would compare, gentlemen, in 
 my own mind, that portion of me which might be on 
 the Royal disli — a sirloin or a brisket or saddle — \nth 
 a leg or a loin of I'oast ))ork on oui" own table ; and I 
 would remember that in order for us to get that tooth- 
 some loin the animal must first be stuck. 'Twas, I confess, 
 mortifying to leHect that sticking nuist be undei-gone. 
 
 ' Gentlemen, with the utmost joy T discovered that 
 this Prince was too gi-eat and too high-minded to be 
 a cannibal. Cliildren of tender years, indeed, as we 
 take sucking pig, he might welcome at his table, but 
 not a sailor grown up and tough. He received me, on 
 the other hand, with a gracious kindness which I cannot 
 forget ; he gave me an impoi-tant office about his person 
 — that of Hereditary Grand Mixer of the Royal Punch 
 — a most responsible office, with a uniform of red silk, 
 and a turban stuck all over with diamonds. This, 
 gentlemen, is the Court uniform of that countrv. Here 
 we know not what uniform means for splendour.' 
 
 The story at this point vaiied from dav to day. Let 
 us select the version most in use. He rendered some
 
 PROLOGUE 11 
 
 signal service to His Majesty, the nature of which was 
 differently told ; in fact, it was impossible to reconcile 
 the various naiTatives, for he discovered a conspiracy, 
 revealed the conspirators at their work, and saved the 
 King and the Dynasty ; or he rescued the King's daughter 
 from a fierce man-eating tiger ; or he captured the 
 kidnappers who were running off with that daughter ; 
 or he snatched the whole of the Harem from a consuming 
 fire ; or he healed them all of a dangerous sickness by 
 administering tar-water. In fact, John Burnikel had 
 a most lively imagination, and used it freely. Choose, 
 therefore, the kind of service which you think most 
 worthy of a great reward. 
 
 ' For this service, gentlemen, the Great Mogul showed 
 the gratitude of a Christian. He sent for me, and 
 when I fell upon my knees, which is the only way in 
 which His Majestv can be approached, he stepped down 
 from his golden throne and bade me graciously to rise. 
 Then he created me on the sjoot, a Duke, or a Lord 
 Mayor — I forget which. This done, they gave me a 
 splendid cloak to wear. And then — for the best was 
 yet to come — the Emperor bade me prepare for some- 
 thing unexpected. Ah !' — here he drew a long breath — 
 ' unexpected indeed ! With that he led me through 
 the golden halls of his Palace, crowded with dancing 
 girls, till we came to a place where there was a heavy
 
 12 TIIK MASTER CKAITSMAN 
 
 (l()(»|-. '' Unlotk it,"" sHvs tlie Kin<;. So the ilooi" was 
 o|K'iiL(l, and Nvt' went down a tew steps till we came to 
 an underground hall. It' vou1l believe me, geiitleiiieii, 
 that hall hadn"t need of candles to li«^ht it up. It was 
 full of li<rht ; it dazzled one's eves onlv to stand there 
 and look around ; full of its own hght, for it wa.s full 
 of precious stones — hca|)s of 'em, boxes of 'em, shelves 
 of 'em, strings of 'em ; there they were — diamonds, 
 rubies, pearls, emeralds, opals — every kind of precious 
 stone that gi'ows anywhere in the world. Gentlemen, 
 there was a sitrht ! The diamonds came from the 
 
 o 
 
 Emperor's own diamond ground — Golconda they call 
 it — where I've been. I will tell you some day about 
 Golconda. The rubies were brought bv the King's 
 armies from Burmah. I've been to Burmah, and I'll 
 tell you about the peo}>le there some day ; cruel torturei-s 
 they are. The pearls came from Ceylon, where they 
 are got by diving. I've been a famous diver mvself, 
 and ril tell you, if you ask me to-morrow, how I fought 
 the shark under water ; you don't knoM what a tight 
 is like till you tackle a shark under water, with the 
 conger and the cuttle and the codfish looking on ! As 
 for the emeralds, I don't riglitlv know how they got 
 there. I have heard of a mountain in South Americ^i 
 which is just one gi'eat emerald, and at certain times 
 the natives go with hannneiN aiul chop off little bits.
 
 PROLOGUE 13 
 
 ril go out there next year to see it. However, gentle- 
 men, there we were, the Great Mogul and me, standing 
 in the middle of these treasures. " Jack,"" says he, ** yon 
 shan't say that the King of India is ungrateful. For 
 the service vou have done me, I say — help yourself. 
 Fill your pockets. Carry out all you can !" And I 
 did. Gentlemen, it is seventy years ago and more, and 
 still I could cry only to think that my pockets were not 
 sacks. However, I did })retty well — pretty well ; weigh 
 me against any Lord Mayor of London you like, and 
 you would say that I did very well. Better still, I 
 brought these stones home with me. Best of all, I've 
 got 'em still. When I want money I take one of my 
 diamonds or a handful of pearls. Aha ! You a\ ould 
 like to know Avhere I keep these jewels ? Trust me ; 
 thev are in safe keeping — all that's left of 'em — and 
 that's plenty — in right, good, safe keeping.' 
 
 Was not this a splendid, a romantic story to be told 
 in Whitechapel by a simple old sailor ? Nobody believed 
 it, which mattered nothing so long as the punch held 
 out. Yet the old man most certainly did have money, 
 as he showed by his nightly expenditure alone, let alone 
 the fact that for seventy years he had lived among 
 them all at Wa})ping, and had done no single stroke 
 of work. Among his hearers there sat every night 
 those two gi'and-nephews of his ; they were cousins,
 
 U Tin: MASTKll CKAl'TSMAN 
 
 I liHVf said, aiul partiuTs in [\\v Ixmt-lxiikliii^ business. 
 They caiuo, inovetl l)V luitunii uftectiun — who would 
 not love an untie wlio uiiolit he tehin*;- the truth, or 
 .something; hke the truth, about these jewels ? They 
 also came to learn what the old man mi^ht reveal, 
 which would be a clue to findin<;- more; and they came 
 out of jealousy, because each sus})ected the other of 
 trying- to su|)i)lant him in the favour of the uncle. 
 They sat, therefore, and «Midured the story ni^ht after 
 niaht, and endured the comi)any, which was not always 
 of their own rank and sbition as j-espectable tradesmen ; 
 but still they got nothing- for their trouble, ])ecause 
 the old man told them no more than he told the rest 
 of the world. Nor did he show the least sign of 
 affection for either. Every evening, when the cousins 
 left the tavern, which was not until the old man had 
 first departed, one would say to the other : ' Cousin 
 George, our uncle ages ; he ages visibly. I gi'eatly fear 
 that he is breaking.^ And the other would reply : 
 ' Cousin Robert, I greatly fear it, too. Yet it is the 
 way of all fiesh.' It was a time when every event had 
 to be received in a spirit and with words }3ro})er to the 
 occasion. ' We must resign oui>>elves to the impending 
 blow.* 
 
 ' Heaven grant * — the tribute to religion having been 
 duly paid, they became natural again — ' Heaven grant
 
 PROLOGITK 15 
 
 that we find the truth ahout these jewels. The story 
 cannot be time." 
 
 ' Yet liow has he lived for seventy years in idleness ?' 
 ' I know not, nor can I so much as surmise." 
 ' Consider, cousin. He lays out from eight shillings 
 to ten or even twelve shillings every cAening at the 
 Tavern. xVnd there are his meals and his rent besides. 
 Say that he spends twelve shillings a day, or eighty-four 
 shillings a week, which is two hundred and eighteen 
 pounds eight shillings a year. In seventy years this 
 makes the prodigious sum of fifteen thousand two 
 hundred and eighty-eight pounds. AN^here did he get 
 all that money .'' Cousin, he has either a secret hoard 
 somewhere, or he has property — houses, perhaps, of 
 which we know nothing." 
 
 ' When he dies I suppose we shall learn. A man 
 cannot have his property buried with him.' 
 
 Now, on this night, as the company at the Tavern 
 j)arted at ten o'clock, instead of shouldering his club 
 and marching off, the old sailor turned to his nephews. 
 ' Boys,' he said — he had never called them ' boys ' before 
 — ' I have something to say. I had better say it at 
 once, because, look you, I think I am getting old, and 
 in a few score yeai*s, more or less, it may be too late to 
 say it. Come with me, then, to my poor house in 
 Broad Street."
 
 16 THE MASTER CRAITSMAN 
 
 Tlu' 1 le J )hews, greatly astonished and marvelling much, 
 followed him. Thcv ^^c'l•L' ^oin<; to be told something. 
 What? 'I'he truth ahoiit the jewels ? The nature of 
 the property ? 
 
 The old man led the way, brandishing his stiek, stout 
 and ereet. He took them to his liouse, ojiened the 
 door, closed it and barred it ; got his tinder-box, and 
 obtained a light for a thick ship's tallow candle. Then 
 he barred the window-shutter. His nephews looked 
 round the room. It was the first time they had stood 
 within those walls. There Avas a table ; there was an 
 arm-chair, a high arm-chair in which one could sit 
 protected from the drauglits by the fireside ; there was 
 a tobacco-box, with two or three churchwarden pipes ; 
 there Avas a cupboard with plates. A kettle Avas on 
 one side of the hob, and a gi'idiron on the other. There 
 was no other furniture in the room. But the door and 
 the window-shutters were both of oak, thick and massive. 
 And on the Avail were hung a cutlass and a brace of pistols. 
 
 ' Wait here a bit,"* said the old man. He took the 
 candle and earned it into the other room, leaving them 
 in the dark. After a few minutes he returned, bearing 
 a small canvas sack. 
 
 ' Nephews," he said, laying the bag on the table, and 
 keeping both hands upon it, ' you come every night 
 to the Red Lion in hopes of finding out something
 
 PROLOGUE 17 
 
 about my property. It is your inheritance ; why 
 shouldn't you come ? Sometimes you think it is much, 
 then your spirits rise. Sometimes you think it is little, 
 then your spirits sink. When I begin to talk you 
 prick up your ears ; but you never hear anything. 
 Then you go home and you wonder how long the old 
 man will last, eh ? and how much money he has got, 
 eh ? and what he will do with it, eh ? A\^ell, now, you 
 shall have your curiosity satisfied.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said one of the nephews, ' our spirits may wel I 
 sink at the thought of your falling into poverty.' 
 
 ' And,' said the other, ' they may well be expected to 
 rise at the thought of your jjrosperity.' 
 
 ' I have told you many stories of travel and of profit. 
 Sometimes you believe, in which case you show signs 
 of satisfaction. Sometimes you look glum M-hen vou 
 think that you are wasting your evenings.' 
 
 ' Oil, sir,' said one of the nephews, ' sure one cannot 
 waste one's time in such good and improving company 
 as yourself.' 
 
 'We come,' said the other, 'for instruction. Your 
 talk is more instructive than any book of travel.' 
 
 ' The time has now arrived ' — the old man paid no 
 attention to these fond assurances — ' to tell you what 
 I have, and to show you what you will have. I 
 am now grown old, so old that I nnist expect before 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 THE MASTER CUAtTSMAN 
 
 many years arc over ' — he was already, as you have 
 seen, ninety-four — ' to tlie ' — he si<rhed heavily — ' and 
 to give my substance to those who come after. Look 
 you ! I bear no manner of affection to you. When 
 a man gets to ninety, he cares no longer about anything 
 but himself. That is the beauty and excellence of 
 being old. Then a man gets everything for himself, 
 no sharing, no giving. I shall give you nothing — not 
 even if you are bankinipt — in my lifetime. But I mean 
 not to defraud my heirs. You shall see, therefore, all 
 I have got. Many a rich merchant living in his great 
 house would be glad to change places with you when 
 I am gone — many a merchant ? All the merchants of 
 London Town I" 
 
 He took up the bag. It was a long narrow bag of 
 brown canvas, (]uite two feet long, and shaped like a 
 purse of the period. 
 
 I know not what they expected, but at the sight of 
 the treasure which he poured out upon the talkie these 
 two respectable boat-builders gasped ; tliey looked on 
 with amazement unspeakable, with open mouths, with 
 starting eyes, with flaming cheeks, with quivering hands 
 and trembling knees. They could not look at each 
 other ; they dared not speak. It was like the opening 
 of the gates of Paradise, with a full view of the interior 
 arrangements.
 
 PROLOGUE 19 
 
 They had never dreamed of such a sight. Five 
 hundred pounds ail in gold would have seemed to these 
 worthy tradesmen a treasure, five thousand pounds great 
 wealth, ten thousand pounds an inexhaustible sum, 
 for this old man poured out upon the table a pile, not 
 of guineas, but of precious stones. Why, then, his 
 stories about the countless treasures of the Great Mogul 
 nmst be true. There they were — diamonds, emeralds, 
 rubies, pearls, all the stones which he described, hundreds 
 of them, thousands of them ; there were precious stones, 
 large, splendid, worth innnense sums, with smaller ones, 
 with strings of pearls, enough to fill quart pots. And 
 now they understood what was meant by all those stories 
 concerning precious stones over which they had grown 
 as incredulous as Didymus. 
 
 The old man bent over his heap and ran his fingers 
 into it, and caught a handful and dropped it back again. 
 ' See my beauties !' he cried. ' Look at the colours ; 
 the sunshine in them and the green and the red. Saw 
 you ever the like ? Oh, if a man could but live long- 
 enough to work through this heap ! Why, 'tis seventy 
 years since I first came home, with this bag in my hand 
 for all my fortune, and there's no difference in it yet. 
 It grows no less ; I sometimes think it grows bigger. 
 No man, live as long as he could wish, would work 
 through this heap.'
 
 OO rilK MASTER ( RAFrSMAN 
 
 ' Mav NNf hmiihlv ask, sir," said our of tlu'iii, taking 
 hetu't, ' how imikIi iiionLy is rc|)rc'scntc(l by this bag 
 of jewels P** 
 
 *I know not. Take this stone; 'tis a nibv. Look 
 at it, weigh it ; I sold one like it three months ago 
 for fifty |)ounds. There are huniheds bigger. WelP — 
 he began to put the stones back into the bag — ' I have 
 shown these treasures to you because the time will come 
 — not yet, I liope — it nuist come, I suppose ' — lie spoke 
 as if there was still a chance of an exception i)eing made 
 in his favour — ' when I nuist give the bag to you two 
 and go away. I shall have to go aboard a strange ship 
 and join a strange company, as boVn, maybe, or 
 able seaman, or cook — who knows ? — and sail away 
 in strange waters on a new ci-uise where there are no 
 charts." 
 
 ' Not for many years,' nununured one of the nephews 
 fervently. 
 
 ' Not if our })rayers, our daily }n'ayers, can keep you 
 here !' added the other, clasping his hands. 
 
 ' Thank ye," said John Bumikel, tying up his bag. 
 
 * I trust, sir," said one of the nephews, ' that you 
 keep this precious treivsure in a safe place. A whisj)er, 
 a suspicion, would fly through Wapping like wiUl-flre, 
 and you would be robbed and murdered.' 
 
 ' Devil a whisper will there be/ said John. ' Vou
 
 PROLOGUE 21 
 
 won't start a whisper, that's certain. And I won't. 
 And as for the place where I keep it, no one will see 
 me put it there, and no one would think of looking 
 there. And now, nephews, good-night. Say nothing — 
 but of course you will not — and be as patient as you 
 can. I believe you will have to wait a dozen years or 
 so before you get the bag.' 
 
 They stepped out into the street, and heard him, to 
 their satisfaction, bolting and baning the door behind 
 them. 
 
 ' Cousin,' said one, ' this has been a wonderful evening. 
 Who could have believed it ? We are now rich men — 
 oh, rich beyond our dreams ! AVe can leave Wappi ng, 
 and court the society of the Great.' 
 
 ' Unless his bag is stolen, which may happen. I 
 tremble only to think of keeping such a treasure in such 
 a mean little cottage among all these rogues and 
 villains ! It ought to be in a strong room such as 
 merchants use.' 
 
 * I think — I fear — we shall not have to wait long. 
 Methinks the old man's voice is breaking. He seemed 
 feebler to-night than I remember to have seen him. 
 Ninety-four is a great, a very gi'eat, age.' 
 
 ' Ah ! he may not have many weeks — many days — to 
 live. His voice, I also observed, was weak. It is a 
 happiness, cousin, to reflect that an uncle who now
 
 ftSt THE MASTER CRAFl^SMAN 
 
 entertains a disposition of so nnich justirc towards his 
 nephews, can hard I v fail of Aln-ahani's bosom,'' 
 
 '^Diis anxiety proved ])rophetic. Exactly a week 
 afterwards Jolni lkn*nikol did not a))pear at the tavern 
 at six o'clock, nor at half-past six. The nephews hnrried 
 round to Broad Street. The door was open ; there was 
 no one in the front room. In the room behind they 
 found their uncle Ivino- on his bed, his face drawn as 
 with pain, and with the gray look which often falls 
 upon those who are about to die. 
 
 ' Ah,' he said, ' I thought you wouldn't be long. 
 Come in, boys. Shut the door and come in. Fve had 
 a kind of fit ; my legs don't seem right. Get me a 
 drink ; the barrel of beer is in the other room. I shall 
 be better to-morrow — much better.' He drank a 
 copious draught of beer, which refreshed him. He 
 tried to sit up, but could not. It was a day in 
 August, when it gets dusk about eight. At nightfall 
 they found tlie tinder-box and got a light, and sat 
 down one on each side of the bed. 
 
 So they sat all night till three in the morning with- 
 out saying a word to each other. The old man seemed 
 sleeping. At daybreak he began to murmur, rambling 
 in his speech. 
 
 ' The man's mad. He won't know ; he won't find 
 out. He will die mad No one will know — no one will
 
 PROLOGUE 28 
 
 know. Boys ' — he opened his eyes — ' you both know 
 where the bag is hidden away. I think this is the end. 
 Well, Fve left you rich — half as rich, each of you, as 
 myself.* He closed his eyes. Presently one of the 
 watchers bent over him. 
 
 ' Cousin,' he said, ' the breath has gone out of the 
 bod3\ Our excellent, wealthy uncle is no more. 
 Nothing remains but to weep for him."* 
 
 ' Let us find the bag and divide the property,' said 
 the other, ' before we call in the neighbours.' 
 
 ' It is our sorrowful duty to do so, as his heirs, and 
 quickly, before the thing gets wind." 
 
 It was the custom to construct at the head of the 
 great wooden bed of the period a secret box, drawer, or 
 repository. Everybody knew the secret place at the 
 head of the bed. It was an open secret, yet it was 
 commonly used in every house for the concealment, as 
 in a place of perfect safety, of the silver and the 
 valuables. 
 
 They searched in this receptacle. The bag was not 
 there. 
 
 ' It is in this room, because he brought it out of this 
 room. Let us look again.' 
 
 Again they searched every corner and cranny for the 
 secret hiding-place. It was not there. There might 
 be some other hiding-place in the bed. It could only
 
 «4 THK MASTKH ( KAFJSMAN 
 
 be at the head. Tiiev tapped and liaiiimered. In vain. 
 Was it on the head of the bed ? Tliey climbed up and 
 looked. No; it was not tlu-re. Was it under the bed? 
 Thev looked, but it was nt)t tluic. Could it l)e in the 
 mattress? in the feather l)e(l ? in tlie bolster? under 
 the bolster? under the mattress? They lifted the dead 
 man on to the tloor, and they examined these places 
 and other constituent portions of the bed. In vain. 
 They lifted their nreat-uncle back a<jjain to the bed, 
 and gazed at each other with anxious eyes. 
 
 'It must be in this room/ they repeated. 'He 
 brou<;]it it from tliis room ; he took it back.' 
 
 They looked round. There was a three-legged stool 
 leaning against the wall, because one of its legs was 
 broken oft*. There was a sea-chest in the corner — a big, 
 heavy box with a lock, and bound strongly with iron. 
 .Vh ! the sea-chest. They dragged it out and threw 
 open the lid. Within was a curious collection of 
 miscellaneous property : a big silver watch, a knife, a 
 dirk, an ugly Malay creese, an old pistol, a bo's'n's 
 whistle, a mariner s com})ass, a bundle of charts, a few 
 triHes in cai'ved wood from India, two or three broken 
 figures from India, a dead fiying-fish, together with a 
 bundle of decayed or decaying clothes, which filled up 
 the bottom of the chest. They ])ulled everything out 
 with eager ha^te, each man looking jealously at the
 
 PROLOGUE 25 
 
 other for fear he should secretly cojivey the bag into 
 his own pockets. Everything lay on the floor, and the 
 bag was not in the chest. It was divided into two 
 compartments, a larger and a smaller. They held 
 it up to the light. No, there was nothing in the 
 chest. They looked again about the room. There 
 was a cupboard in the wall. Both discovered it at the 
 same moment and rushed at it. They threw open the 
 door. It was a spacious cupboard ; but there was 
 nothing in it at all. Old John Bumikel had never 
 used that cupboard. 
 
 ' Let us lift the hearthstone," said one of them. 
 Everybody knows that the hearthstone was often the 
 family bank where money was stowed away for safety 
 when there was no secret hiding-place at the head 
 of the bed. And the family continued to put faith 
 in the hearthstone long after the secret was perfectly 
 well known to those persons who break in and steal. 
 
 They did lift the hearthstone. Nothing was under 
 it. The earth had never been disturbed since the stone 
 was laid. 
 
 Tlieir faces were now haggard. Could the bag be 
 stolen ? 
 
 They then prized up the boards of the floor ; they 
 tore down the wainscoting; they searched the little 
 back-yard for signs of recent disturbance; they re-
 
 26 TUi: MASTKH C'RAFFSMAN 
 
 iiicmbercd that there wuie two rooms upstairs; they 
 were empty and iinruriiislied, I)ut tliey tore ii}) the 
 boards; they searched in the roof; they searched in the 
 chimneys. Heavens ! there wius no si^n of the bag 
 anywhere. Where was it .'' — where was it .'' All that 
 day thev searched. The next dav— which was indecent 
 in haste — theybuiied the old man, neither of them attend- 
 ing^ the funeral for fear of the bag being found in their 
 absence. And then they began again. They wrecked 
 tlie house ; they reduced it to its bare walls of brick ; 
 they pulled the bed to pieces ; they left, as they thought, 
 nothing unturned. But the bag was not in the house. 
 
 Then they l)egan to think that, while the old man 
 lay unconscious, the door open, the bag might have 
 been stolen. But it must have been hidden away, 
 and nobody knew that it was there, or had thought 
 of it 
 
 Then another suspicion entered the heads of both at 
 the same moment. One of them, when it had taken 
 shape with the firm outline of moral certainty, j)ut it 
 into words : 
 
 ' His last words, George — his dying words — were : 
 " You know where Fve put the bag ^ ; and he looked 
 at you — at you. What did he look at you for ? 
 Because you know where he put the bag.' 
 
 ' He looked at you, Bobert, not at me. AVhy ?
 
 PROLOGUE 27 
 
 Because he had told you ^vhe^e it was. You wormed 
 his secret out of him.' 
 
 * And now you try to turn it off on me. YouVe 
 taken the bag ; you've got it somewhere ; you think to 
 take it all for yourself/ 
 
 ' This impudence passes everything. Do you think I 
 am simple enough not to see through this villainy ? 
 'Tis you — you — you who have taken the bag.' 
 
 It is sad to relate that these recriminations became 
 more and more bitter; that the two boat-builders of 
 Wapping — churchwardens, jurymen, most respectable 
 and responsible persons, partners and cousins — did, in 
 the agony of their disappointment, call each other rogue, 
 thief, villain ; that they proceeded, being beyond and 
 beside themselves Avith bitterness, to shake their fists 
 at each other ; that they next — it was a fighting age — 
 fell upon and mauled each other ; that they only desisted 
 when exhaustion, not satisfaction, compelled them to 
 separate ; and that they parted with threats, curses, and 
 promises of Newgate Gaol and the Condemned Cell. 
 
 To conclude, the bag could not be found. The 
 agonies endured by those two disappointed men were 
 terrible. To have these treasures just shown to them, 
 dangled before them, and then withdrawn ! Heard one 
 ever the like ? To conclude, they dissolved partnership. 
 One of them left AVapping altogether, to enjoy at a
 
 28 Tin: MAS'l'Ki{ CR AFl^^MAN 
 
 disUincv, the otlu-r said, liis ill-<r()tten wt-nltli ; tlu* other 
 reinaiiR'(l to coiuval, tin- lii-st said, the tart oi" his stolen 
 propertv. Aiul as tor the few remaining goods of John 
 Burnikel — tlie tahle, the bed, and the household gear — 
 they were conveyed to tlie hoat-huilder's house, and after 
 one more final search the old man\ cottage in Broad 
 Street was abandoned. 
 
 Hut the cousins were wrong. Neither of them had 
 the bag, and it remained undiscovered. You shall 
 see how, in the course of this history, it came to l)e 
 disco vereti.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' MARRY MONKV/ 
 
 ' Yes, Sir George/ said the lawyer, looking mighty 
 serious. * We have at length ascertained how vou stand. 
 \"oiir father conducted — misconducted — his affairs with- 
 out consulting us — and we knew nothino* of what was 
 going on — nothing at all.' 
 
 I inclined my head. I had already heard certain 
 things which had led me to expect something un- 
 pleasant. Now I was to leani the whole truth. 
 
 My father, the second Baronet, and son of the well- 
 known judge and lawyer, had died five weeks or so 
 hefore this interview. He died at the age of fiftv-two, 
 having led a perfectly quiet and apparently harmless 
 life. Harmless ! Vou shall see. I was twenty-five, 
 and after the usual run of Eton and Cambridge, I had 
 mv chambers in Piccadilly, and my club, and led the 
 life customary among young men of fortune. 1 knew 
 nothing, and learned nothing, and could do nothing,
 
 30 THK MASTKK ( KAFl'SMAN 
 
 except })lav witli a latliL-. I was not Ixxjkisli, or artistic, 
 or scientific, or iniisical, or lit^rarv, or anythin;^. There- 
 fore the intelligence that 1 was ahout to receive was 
 even more cleH<;htf"ul than it would have been to a man 
 who could do thin<^s, write thin*^, and sell thinti^s. 
 
 * Vou know already/ the lawver continued, ' that your 
 father met with serious losses on the Stock Exchange?^ 
 
 'I know so much, certainly.' 
 
 ' I have here everything; ready tor you. Beforc you 
 look at it, Sir Gcor«;e, be prepared for a very — a most 
 painful surprise.' 
 
 ' Tell me all — at once.* 
 
 * Then, Sir George — it is a most distressing communi- 
 cation to make — but you are youn<2;, which is the only 
 consolation — young and strong — and, I doubt not, a 
 philosopher ' 
 
 ' I am especially and above all things a philosopher. 
 But pray get on.' 
 
 ' Your grandfather, with his magnificent, his un- 
 equalled practice, and the habits of prudence which 
 guided all his investments, rolled up wliat we call, in 
 the profession, a colossal fortune — not colossal in the 
 Citv sense, but in our sense. It wtvs over a quarter of 
 a million, which your father, then forty yeai-s of age, 
 inherited. When he died, live weeks ago, at the age of 
 fifty-two, he had managed by those speculations of his
 
 'MARRY ^rONEV" 31 
 
 to get through the whole of it — the wliole of it — with 
 his country house and his town house. Ah ! Sir George, 
 whv — why — wliy did not the Judge entail the wliole ? 
 It maddens me only to think of it ! He has lost all — 
 everything/ The lawyer rubbed it in with resolution. 
 ' You have no longer any fortune left ; you have no 
 house ; my poor young friend, you have nothing but a 
 few scraps and crumbs left of that splendid fortune that 
 seemed to be yours two months ago.' 
 
 ' Lost the whole of the fortune 1 In ten yeai-s ? He 
 could not.' 
 
 ' Everything is possible on the Stock Exchange. He 
 has lost it all.' 
 
 ' You mean that I have nothing. Say it again.' 
 
 ' Your father, in ten years, lost the wliole of his 
 fortune. You have got left, practically, nothing.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I have got nothing. I shall realize it 
 presently. It makes one feel chilly. I have got nothing.' 
 I put my fingei-s in my waistcoat pocket. ' Here are 
 some coins. They are mine, I suppose. There are two 
 or three hundred pounds standing to my account at the 
 Bank ; are they mine, too 'f 
 
 ' Yes. .\nd to speak of crumbs and scraps, I think I 
 may save a little something for you out of the wreck. 
 But it will be a mere trifle. I estimate it at the most 
 as *ihree thousand pounds.'
 
 32 IHK MASTER C'RAFFSMAN 
 
 * Oh ! I have three thoiisiind pounds. Vou are quite 
 sure you have done your very woist r' 
 
 *I ran do n()t]iin«i: worse than tliis for you/ 
 I o-ot u|) and stood over the empty fireplace. *I 
 suppose/ I said sloulv, Mhat it is veiy had. I am not 
 a pei-bon of iman;ination, you know, and I cannot feel, 
 all at once, how had it is. A thin^^ like this cannot he 
 appreciated all at once. It takes time — it has to «;et 
 into the system/ 
 
 'There is, at all events, sometliing — a solid some- 
 thinn-, though small,' said the lawyer, watchin*:; me with 
 some curiosity to see how I took it. 
 
 * Ves, a kind of nu£>oet. It promises to hecome 
 exciting. I shall hecome the penniless adventurer of 
 fiction. Should I, do you think, hegin to practise 
 billiards 'i Or does ccarte offer a better opening .''" 
 
 ' You must consider. Sir George, when you come to 
 take this busir.^ss seriously, that many ii nian with less 
 than that has got on in the world, and made a name 
 for himself, and even amassed a fortune. Your grand- 
 father certainly began with less." 
 
 'The men who get on in the world are the men who 
 start with twopence. Reduce me to twopence, with an 
 introduction to the Lord Mayor, and no doubt I shall 
 get on.' 
 
 ' Nonsense. Take the thini!; seriously : think over
 
 'MARRY M()NP:Y' 83 
 
 what can be done n\ ith three thousand pounds. It is 
 (juite enough, witli prudence, to keep you while you are 
 (luahfying for a profession, and to start you afterwards 
 — law, medicine, the church, which will vou have ? Or 
 there are the new-fan«>led professions which used to be 
 trades — science, art, engineering, architecture : you may 
 take up any one of these and qualify for practice with 
 three thousand pounds. Or you might start a hoi*se or 
 cattle farm — there is an opening they tell me, and the 
 rent of land in some places is very low. Or you might 
 buy a partnership in a house of business — three thousand 
 pounds would go a long way in manv houses. Tliere 
 are a hundred ways in which a prudent man might 
 invest that sum of money. I assure you. Sir George, 
 that there are thousands of young fellows, as well 
 educated as yourself, who, if they had three thousand 
 pounds to begin with, would feel that all the wealth of 
 Lombard Street was well within their reach. And 
 they'd manage to get a good slice of it, too.' 
 
 ' Very likely. I don't feel that way at all myself. I 
 am quite certain that, whatever I did, I should get none 
 of the wealth of Lombard Street.' 
 
 * I am only pointing out the possibilities of things.' 
 'You see, I am not that kind of young man at all. 
 And that is not the kind of life that I desire. Monev- 
 niaking — I suppose it is natural to one whose money has 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 84 Tin: MAS'IKU CHAITSMAN 
 
 been nuule for him — seems an ii^niohle ])ni-suit, at the 
 best/ 
 
 * Well — well, but permit me, voii haven't yet f^ot the 
 true feelinf^ of your poverty. Vou don't quite under- 
 stand vet what it means — the differenee it makes. 
 ^V}len it reallv ^eis into ^'()lIr blood and vour bones, 
 and vou see risini^ up walls between vou and the old 
 world of enjoyment, with proliibitions, and exclusions, 
 and limitations, then, my dear youufr friend, you will 
 feel stimulated to make an effort in a way tliat as yet 
 you cannot understand. How should you understand 
 all these evils in a moment ? Let me tell you, Sir 
 George, poverty i^^ a terrible thing — a terrible thing. 
 It deprives a young man like you of the chief pleasures 
 of his af^e ; it denies a middle-a<jed man what most he 
 desires at that time of life, consideration and authority ; 
 and it robs an old man of those comforts and attentions 
 and cares which alone can solace his infirmities. I have 
 been j)oor myself, Sir George, and I speak with full and 
 bitter knowledge. Never say that money-making is 
 ignoble ; the methods may be ignoble, but the pursuit 
 is natural, laudable, honourable. Money, my friend, 
 is the only thing — the only thing — that makes life 
 tolerable. Without it there can be no happiness, no 
 independence, no authority, no self-respect. Get money 
 somehow."' The old man spoke with sincerity and con-
 
 'MARRY MONEY ^ 36 
 
 viction. Of course, he was quite right. Yet, as I 
 afterwards reflected, in the possession of money there are 
 degi-ees. Many an old man with two hundred a year is 
 as happy as another old man with ten thousand a year. 
 Yet some monev nmst be made. Wherefore let every 
 man calculate what he wants for comfort, and money- 
 make u}) to that standard, and no more. 
 
 * Well,' I said, ' I will think it over. At this moment 
 you cannot expect me to have any coherent ideas on 
 the subject. I really do think, however, that thei-e 
 is no one in the world less able to make money than 
 myself." 
 
 ' Wait — be patient — and consider what things mean. 
 Heavens ! If we could only make young men under- 
 stand." 
 
 ' Well,' I took up my hat. 'If you have really done 
 your worst ' 
 
 ' Don't go just yet. Sir George. I have one or two 
 things still to say." The solicitor, whose face generally 
 had more of keenness than of benevolence in it, leaned 
 back and assumed an unwonted expression with more 
 benevolence in it than keenness. * I confess I was 
 somewhat nervous about this job. To tell a young man 
 that he has no fortune left — a young man who seemed to 
 inherit so enormous a fortune — was rather a formidable 
 task. I congratulate you, Sir George, on your ])luck.
 
 36 11 IK MASTKll CUAFrSMAN 
 
 Vou take it vei\ wvW. Vou mi«'lit liave fUllen into a 
 ra»>e, and filled the room with reproaches of your dead 
 father; 
 
 ' Siiu-e he was mv father and is dead, tliat would he 
 impossible.' 
 
 'Quite so. ^'el iiohodv can deny lliat he has done 
 you a most grievous injury. \'ou hear this calamity, 
 I sav, with a fortitude which is astonishing. Let us 
 return to what you might do ; you are young, you are 
 well-bred, vou are good-looking, you have pleiusant 
 manners, you are ' 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows into a note of interrogation. 
 
 ' Clever 't No. Nor bookish. Nor scientific. Nor 
 inclined to any of the professions. And ignorant to 
 the last degree.' 
 
 ' Dear ! dear ! What a thousand j)ities this mis- 
 fortune did not ha})})en twenty years ago ! Then you 
 would have been trained to something. WheiXias 
 
 now " He ccmsidered a little. ' liet us think of a 
 
 few other things. Journalism f' 
 
 ' I told you, I am not clever." 
 
 •• Pitv. Journalism retjuires no capital and no train- 
 ing . I would not reconnnend the stage.' 
 
 ' I cannot act.' 
 
 ' There is one thing we have forgotten, Sir George. 
 You are a young man of good family ; you have, there-
 
 'MARRY MONEY ^ 87 
 
 fore, family infill ence. You must set that to work for 
 you. People think tliat every thin<^ nowadays goes by 
 competitive examination. Ho ! ho ! The world is 
 kept in the dark entirely for the sake of young men 
 hke you. There are quantities of hicky people — com- 
 missioners, secretaries, people about the Court, people 
 everywhere — who get in by family influence, and get on 
 by family influence. There are colonial appointments, 
 some of them very good indeed, if you don't mind going 
 abroad. Or you might begin as a private secretary to 
 a rising man. "Why, there was a private secretary once 
 who became a peer. The best thing you can do is to 
 go to your own })eople.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately it is no use. I haven't got any 
 people. My mother was the daughter of a simple 
 country clergyman, and her relations are all middle- 
 class professional folk. My grandfather married as 
 
 soon as he began to <jet on at the Bar — his wife be- 
 es o 
 
 longed sti-ictly to the middle-class. The Judge's father 
 was a West End builder — originally an East End boat- 
 builder. I remember that because there is a romance 
 in the family about an old sailor and a bag of diamonds. 
 ]\Iy great-grandfather's cousin and partner secretly stole 
 that bag of diamonds. That caused a dissolution of 
 partnership and destruction of cousinly aflection. The 
 real reason whv niv grandfather was sent to the Bar
 
 m TUK MASTER CRAITSMAN 
 
 was because the old man th()ii<;lit that if tliere was a 
 lawyer in tlie t'aiiiilv his eoii^in ininht l)e proseeuted, 
 and so his sliare of those jewels !ni«;]it he recovered. 
 But the prosecution never came ottV 
 
 'Odd story. I wonder how nuich truth tliere is in it/ 
 
 ' Not much, I dare say. But the point is that we 
 are quite a l)Our<;eois lot, anil that I do not possess in 
 i-eality, thoup^h I have ^ot this trifiino- handle to my 
 name, either family, friends or inHuence.' 
 
 ' But you do possess your title. And believe me, 
 Sir George, if you are careful you may find that it is a 
 very valuable possession indeed. By means of your 
 title you may once more join the wealthy classes. 
 Thousands of women, rich w omen, daughtei-s of wealthy 
 men, would give anything for a title. Find out where 
 these women are — in York, in Bath, in Birmingham, in 
 Liverpool, in Manchester, here in London. Get intro- 
 ductions, and you will find your path smoother for you.' 
 
 ' MaiTy money ?' I shuddered. 
 
 ' Do not misunderstand me. Vou are not expected 
 to marry an old woman, or an ugly woman. There ai*e 
 as many nice girls and pretty girls who have money as 
 there are old women. Marry money, young man. 
 Marry money. It is the easiest thing in the world for 
 you to do. And, I am quite sui-e, quite the most 
 pleasant. As for love, it is all imagination. And,
 
 'MARRY MONEY ^ 39 
 
 besides, why shouldn't you love a rich girl as well as a 
 poor girl ?" 
 
 ' No. Not to be thought oV 
 
 ' Well, if you won't marry money, there is the City. 
 A baronet's name still, even after the many rude shocks 
 of these latter years, looks well on a board of directors. 
 You would find it quite easy to get put on the Direction 
 somewhere or other. The qualification is not a great 
 deal. What do you think of that ?' 
 
 'Why — as I know nothing whatever of business, it 
 would be a kind of fraud on the shareholders. I should 
 undertake duties of which I know nothing.' 
 
 ' Generally the interests of the shareholders in the 
 appointment of directors is the very last thing the 
 promoters consider. They want the shares taken up.' 
 
 ' Then it would be still more a fraud upon the share- 
 holders. That way won't do.' 
 
 ' Sir George, I fear I cannot help you. These are the 
 existing ways of making money. Choose. If you will 
 have none of them, then we come back to the easiest 
 
 way — many money — and if you refuse that ' He 
 
 spread his hands, meaning, ' then you must starve.' 
 
 I walked away thoughtfully. About the fortitude 
 and the pluck I say nothing. One must not, in these 
 days, sit down and cry. At the same time, it was with 
 a very heavy heart that 1 moutited to my chambers —
 
 40 THK MASTKU ( KAPrsMAN 
 
 Plantrtgem't Mansions, ei^lith floor, about lialt'-way 
 up. 
 
 ' MaiTV »nonev, niarrv money,^ said the solicitor. 
 
 The \\()i-(ls kept rin^nni^ in njy cai-s like the tollin*^ of 
 a bell. 
 
 For, vou see, in order to marrv money I liad no 
 occasion to i;"o to New ^'ork or to IJatli or Manchester 
 or Hinnin<i:liani. The money was actually waitini^ for 
 nie witli the marriage. I had only to reach out my 
 hand and take it, and with the money, the owner of it. 
 And not an old woman, at all ; nor an ugly woman ; 
 nor a woman maimed or lialt in mind or in body; a 
 woman, eminently desirable, beautiful, wealthy, well- 
 born, and of sweet disposition. Attached to the mar- 
 riage there would be certain conditions, but such as 
 most men would consider quite light, easy, and tolerable 
 conditions. 
 
 'Marry money — marrv money — marry money."' The 
 words rang in mv ears like the ringing of a bell. 
 
 So the first eflect of the wreck and ruin of my fortune 
 was a great and strong temptation, a voice urging me to 
 reach out my hand and take this fortune which lay ready 
 waiting for me. 
 
 ' MaiTy money ! Marry money !' said the man of 
 large expenence and of many years. 
 
 T turned mechanicallv into the room called mv study.
 
 'MARRY MONEY' 41 
 
 It was really my workroom. It was fitted with a lathe 
 and with a bench. On tlie wall were lunidreds of tools, 
 bright and ghttering. There was a shelf of books, 
 technical books about carpentering, wood - carving, 
 cabinet -making, fretwork, iron -work, and the like; 
 there were ' blocks ' ready for use ; there were boxes 
 and other things, finished and unfinished, chased, rounded, 
 polished. The lathe represented my one talent. 
 
 I looked at the machine thoughtfully. ' If I could 
 only make money out of you. And now, I am very 
 much afraid, I shall have to sell you for what you will 
 fetch— tools and block and all. Pity ! Pity !" I laid 
 a loving hand upon the bright and delicate machinery. 
 I wish it had sighed, or groaned, or done anything by 
 way of sympathetic response. But it did not. Even 
 in romance machinery is not responsive. 
 
 * MaiTy money," whispered the voice. 
 
 Was there no way by which I could earn a livelihood f 
 You, who have been carefully taught from childhood 
 that you have your own way to make in the world ; 
 who have served an apprenticeshij) ; who have learned 
 the mystery of a craft ; Avho have learned the way of 
 work, the ordinary groove : who have become keen ; 
 who have lived in City houses, where they think of 
 nothing but business — suppose you were thrown into 
 the world at five-and-twentv, with no special know-
 
 42 Tin: MASlKll CJtAlTSMAN 
 
 le(l»>e whatever. Do voii think voii would ^ink or 
 
 o 
 
 swim ? 
 
 *" MaiTV nionev/ said the soheitor. ' Marry money/ 
 On the widis lum«; the portraits of ancestors. I had 
 three, which is one more than most of us can boast. 
 Vet it is not exactly a louii,- line of ancestry. The 
 portrait of mv father huni;- in the middle — to the Hvin<^, 
 reigning Prince belongs the phice of honour. It showed 
 a man of neat and even sleek appearance, clean-shaven, 
 gray -headed, with mild eyes; a man of no marked 
 character, one would think. The shallow observer 
 would set him down as a man who could do no harm. 
 Quite wrong. There is no one so mild and meek that 
 lie cannot do harm. 'To think,' said his son, addressing 
 the portrait, ' that you have done this mischief — you ! 
 \Vhy did not the painter give you eager, starting eyes, 
 and trembling lips, and a flushed cheek? Lying })ainter !" 
 But to reproach a portrait is next door to reproaching 
 the person it re})resents. I turned to the next picture, 
 that of my grandfather, the Judge, in wig and robes, 
 looking very much like Rhadamanthus. 
 
 'All your money is gone, my lortl. Do you under- 
 stantl ? All the money that you scra})ed togethei-. It 
 is ffone — lost — wasted — thrown awav. You have doubt- 
 less met your son by this time. Perhaps he has explained 
 things. Don't be hard on him."
 
 ' MARRY MONEY ^ 43 
 
 On the other side hung the portrait of the builder. 
 ' AVhat do you say ?' I asked. * How do you Hke the 
 fall of the family fortunes ? Perha})s you can advise 
 something practical.' 
 
 ' Marry money ! Marry money.' Was it the voice 
 of the builder ? 
 
 Portraits seldom respond. Spiritualists should look 
 to it. There would be no need of incarnating a spirit 
 if you could make him speak out of his own portrait. 
 I turned away from these silent, unsympathetic effigies 
 and began mechanically to turn the lathe. But my 
 mind was not with the work ; I laid down the block, 
 and sat down. Again the solicitor seemed to be ad- 
 dressing me. 
 
 'Many money — marry money.' 
 
 I saw letters lying on the table, and tore open the 
 first, the one whose handwriting I knew. It \Nas a 
 woman's. 
 
 'Dear George' (I read), 
 
 ' I am anxious to leani the result of your talk 
 with the lawyei-s, and what you have really lost. Come 
 and see me as soon as you get back. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 ' Frances.' 
 
 I left the other two lettei*s unread.
 
 44 I'lli: MASTKK ( KAFISMAN 
 
 * MaiTV inoiicv — nianv nioncv,' said the solicitor. 
 
 I ()}H*!R'(1 a (IrautT, and took out a dainty case of red 
 velvet hound with ^old. It contained a single photo- 
 gi*a})h. It was the poi-trait of a «!:irl, and showed a 
 very strikini;- facr — the face of a (jucen or a princess. 
 Her uanic was surelv Inijx'ria, cci'tainlv a f^raiidc (hnnc 
 (If par /<• )m)N(/c. A most rei^al face; the hrow and 
 cheek atnple ; the eyes lar;;(' and steady ; tlie features 
 clear and reo^ular ; the li})s firm ; the chin rountled ; 
 evervthin*^ ahout this woman lar<'e, includin<r her mind ; 
 a woman whom the connnon herd would fear, thoufi^h 
 they mii»}it reverence lier. It would re(|uire eithei* a 
 brave man or a ])resumptuous man to make love to 
 her. Her eyes looked out of the ])icture with a kindly 
 licrht. 
 
 ' Tliere is no woman like Frances," I tliought. ' And 
 yet ' 
 
 AVIi(']i one has been brought up from childhood side 
 by side with a <»:irl, seein(>: her every day, a girl a little 
 older than one's self, and a great deal cleverer, the 
 affection which one feels for that girl })artakes of the 
 brotherly emotion. 'I'herefore I said, ' And yet ' 
 
 * MaiTV money — marry money,' this imjwi-tunate 
 solicitor continued. 
 
 Yesterday, perhaps — I don't know — it was possible ; 
 to-dav, no. Mv father, when he threw awav mv money,
 
 'MARRY MONEY ^ 45 
 
 threw away that possihiHty. Fl'alR•e^s vaiiishetl fiom 
 my gi'asp gradually — in wild-cat mines, in gold reefs, in 
 Central African railways, in Central American bonds. 
 
 Again, like a st)ng of rest and happiness, came the 
 temptation : 
 
 ' Marry money — marry money." 
 
 ' She is a beautiful woman,' continued the Tempter ; 
 *she loves you, after a fashion. You love her, after a 
 fashion. You know each other. She is so rich that 
 she will not care about the loss of your fortune. It is 
 all nonsense about brother and sister. Marry her — 
 marry the Lady Frances, who is waiting for you." 
 
 I let these voices go on for half an hour or so. It 
 was rather amusing, I remember, to feel one's self 
 tempted ; but, of course, one had to stop it some time. 
 So I put down my foot, and said resolutely : ' No.' 
 Upon which the two voices became silent, and spoke no 
 more.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 JllV rOLITICS. 
 
 ' Now, George, what have yon got to tell me T 
 
 I^acly Frances, daughter of the famous Earl of 
 C'lovelly, once, twice, three times Premier, and of the 
 even more illustrious Countess, the last of our great 
 political ladies, was also the young widow of that dis- 
 tinguished stiitesman, old Sir C'hantrey Bohun, who 
 died in harness as Secretary of State for India. She 
 was a year older than myself, a difference which, when 
 we were children together, and next-door country neigh- 
 bours, gave \\(v a certain superiority over me. She 
 man'ied, for political reasons, at the age of eighteen ; 
 her friends were all j)olitical friends. It was generally 
 understood that, after a decent interval of two or three 
 years^ widowhood, she would marry a second time, and 
 j)lay over again the role so admirably enacted by her 
 mother. For the moment she closed her town-house, 
 and when she was not in the country lived (juietly in a 
 flat, seeing few people.
 
 *TRY POLITICS' 47 
 
 She was sitting beside the window, into which poured 
 a flood of vaporous sunshine from the west, for it was 
 a day in early April, when the sun sets about seven. 
 The warm, soft light wrapped her as in a cloud, under 
 which her lace was soft and luminous. Truly, a most 
 lovely woman, but to me not a woman who inspired 
 love. These brotherly affections sometimes interfere 
 with things that might have been. 
 
 ' Sit down, George, and tell me exactly all about it.' 
 
 *I would rather stand. Well, to begin: I told you, 
 Frances, about that astounding father of mine — how he 
 secretly gambled and speculated and lost money on the 
 Stock Exchange.' 
 
 ' Yes ; you told me, and it was the most amazing 
 thing that I ever heard. Your father, of rJl men ! 
 The quietest man in the world — meek, even, if one may 
 suggest such a quality in a man. Yes, decidedly meek. 
 Wlienever I hear of meekness my thoughts will now 
 turn to your father rather than to Moses. And vet a 
 speculator !' 
 
 * It is, as you say, the most amazing thing. How- 
 ever, one would not have minded this curious discrepancy 
 between apj)earance and reality if he had only lost a few 
 thousands. He had a quarter of a million to go upon 
 — a few thousands might have been allowed him. But, 
 Frances, he has lost everything — actually cvcrv pcnnv.'
 
 48 THE MASTKK (JtArrsMAN 
 
 * Even jH'iinv, (ic'()rt>c?' 
 
 * Every |)CMniv. lit' bi'^aii, I sav, witli a fortune of 
 nearly a tjuartcr of a niillioii wIkm he was forty, and 
 when he (Hed the otlier day at fifty he liad nothin*^ — 
 nothini^ at all. Had he hved six months lon<;er he 
 would have been a bankrupt. He has lost everything. 
 Tlie wav of it is all shown in a bundle of })aj)ers. Per- 
 haps sonic day I shall be curious enough to read them.' 
 
 ' Oh, George ! nothing left ? Why, it is inipossil)le !' 
 
 ' I'nfortunately, it is (juite possible. I am a pauper. 
 Frances, exce})t for a few scraps and crumbs.' 
 
 'My ])oor George!' I' ranees held out both her 
 hands. ' I am so sorry — so very sorry. But peoj)le 
 like us don't become absolute paupers. There is always 
 a something left after the most terrible catastrophe. 
 Vou spoke of scraps and crumbs.' 
 
 'The fragments that remain amount to about three 
 thousand pounds, I understand — an income of ninety 
 pounds a year. That is what I meant by the scraps 
 and crumbs.' 
 
 ' It does not seem much, does it .'' But, then, money 
 is the most elastic thing in the world. My sovereigns 
 are all sixpences. I know .some })eople whose sixpences 
 are all sovereigns. Of course, you have not begun to 
 make any plans for the future .^' 
 
 ' Not yet.'
 
 ' TRY POLITICS ' M) 
 
 *Now, George, it is the strangest thing — you will 
 never believe it ; I have no fancy for ghostliness — but 
 yesterday evening I cei-tainly had a presentiment. I 
 was sitting alone, and the thought suddenly flashed 
 across my brain : Suppose that George, by any accident, 
 was to find himself without any money at all ! And, 
 behold, you come this morning and tell me that your 
 fortune is gone !** 
 
 ' A strange presentiment, Frances !^ 
 
 ' Then I thought it over. I could not an-ive at any 
 conclusion, because, you see, there is always the un- 
 certainty of what a man will do. With a woman it 
 would be easy. The problem divided itself into three 
 (Questions : AVhat effect would povertv produce on 
 George ? How would George bear it ? and, ^\^at would 
 George do with poverty ? I could find no satisfactor\ 
 answer to any of these questions. And now you will 
 actually answer them yourself.' 
 
 * As for the first question, I don''t know what the 
 effect will be — I may become a sandwich-man. We 
 shall see. As for the second, I mean to bear it as 
 philosophically as I can. For the moment that is 
 tolerably easy. The important question, however, is, 
 '* How will he bear it in a twelvemonth or so, when the 
 pressure is really felt T "* 
 
 ' No, that is part of the third (juestion " What will 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 THK MASTER (KAFrsMAN 
 
 he do with his poverty ?" \'oii sec, Geor<ije, poverty is 
 a possession, just liki* wealth. It has its respoiisihihties 
 am! its duties. In a better world than this we should 
 have the nobler spirits all working- their hardest, and 
 striving with each other to assume poverty, even with 
 its resjjonsibilities. Benedict antl Bernard and Francis 
 of Assisi all understood what po\erty nii^ht mean, and 
 the question is, Wliat will you do with it, George P' 
 
 ' It is only an hour or two since tlie truth was sprung 
 upon me, I am trying to think it over. I shall sell 
 my horses and furniture, to begin with. I shall then 
 move into a garret somewhere. Once in my gaiTet, I 
 shall begin to think away, like another Darwin.' 
 
 ' Sit down, George, in my chair.' It u as the lowest, 
 longest, and most luxurious chair in the room. Sitting 
 or lying in it, one looked completely under the control 
 of anyone standing over the chair. Frances got up to 
 make room for me. ' So, obedient boy I Now^ let me 
 talk.' 
 
 ' I listen, Frances. I still have ears." 
 
 'The first duty of poverty — call it rather resjjonsi- 
 bility — the lower kind call it the j)rivilege of poverty — 
 is to accept the — the — sympathy and friendly advice — 
 and ' 
 
 'The sympathy and the advice, Frances, by all means.' 
 
 She became very grave. 'George, we have known
 
 'TRY POLITICS^ 51 
 
 each other .so long that I can talk to you freely and 
 openly. How long have we been friends P' 
 
 ' About Iw enty-two years. Ever since we w ere able 
 to run about.' 
 
 ' That is a long time, is it not ? And always friends." 
 
 ' Always friends — always the best of friends.' 
 
 ' And we have always talked to each other freely, 
 have we not ?^ 
 
 ' Quite freely and openly. You have been the greatest 
 happiness of my life, Frances.' 
 
 'And you of mine. So that we owe each other a 
 quantity of things : gratitude, friendshi]), even — even, 
 if necessary, a little sacrifice of — not principle or self- 
 i*espect — say of pride.' 
 
 I knew verv well what was coming. Anybody might 
 have guessed. 
 
 ' The greatest happiness of poverty — that which ought 
 to make it the most coveted of all possessions — is that 
 it constantly commands proof of the affection and in- 
 terest felt towards one. That is a great thing, is it not .^' 
 
 ' I feel it already, Frances, and I am nuich touched 
 by it.' 
 
 ' Very well. So that poverty is already working for 
 good in your heart.' 
 
 'Nay. Even when I was disgustingly rich I never 
 doubted your interest in me.' 
 
 Lli.KAKY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 68 TTIK MASTi:i{ CRAITSMAN 
 
 'The next thing about poverty is tlmt it nuist make 
 men work, and may develop all that is best in them. 
 Some men never find themselves — their own })ower — 
 their lives are mined — because they are never forced to 
 work. That has been, so far, your ca,se.' 
 
 ' No, Frances. I should have done no good if I had 
 worked like the busy bee.' 
 
 * All my life, George, much as I regard you, I have 
 been thinking how nuich better you might have been. 
 Oh I I don't mind telling you. You have never done 
 any work at all. You went to school, and you idled 
 away your time there ; you went to Cambridge, and, of 
 course, you idled away your time there. Tliere has 
 been no necessity. You have never worked because you 
 must. Oh ! I wonder that rich men ever achieve any- 
 thing, seeing that no one teaches them the duty of 
 work. I wish I had a school of rich boys. I would 
 make them work harder than the poor boys. They 
 should leaiTi to work because they ought.' 
 
 ' I am not clever, Frances. Work of the kind you 
 mean is impossible for me. I was designed by nature 
 for nothing better than a cabinet-maker. I believe I 
 shall turn cabinet-maker, and so develop my higher 
 nature and make you proud of me at last.' 
 
 ' Not clever ! Nonsense ! You have never found out 
 your own abilities ; you are so ignorant in consequence
 
 *TRY POLITICS^ 53 
 
 of your abominable laziness that you do not know even 
 what you can do/ 
 
 * I can turn boxes. They come out, sometimes, quite 
 pretty boxes.' 
 
 * All the time, George, I have been growing up side by 
 side with you — the incomplete or undeveloped George — 
 and with the complete George, a nobler creature ; work- 
 ing when you remain idle ; filled with ambition while 
 you are content with obscurity. He is such a splendid 
 man, George — and so like you, only better-looking.' 
 
 ' That may very well be. If I were to find myself as 
 you call it, I should find a very dull and plodding 
 fellow not half so pleasant as the incomplete other — 
 the undeveloped fellow who had not found him- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Not dull at all. You have never done even connnon 
 justice to yourself. Few men have such good natural 
 abilities as yourself. Why, you show it in everything 
 vou do. If vou have to make a speech it is full of wit ; 
 if you write a letter, it is running over with observation 
 and humour ; whether you ride, or shoot, or play games, 
 or work at your lathe, you do it better than anybody 
 else. Believe me, George, I know you better than you 
 know yourself, better than anyone else knows you, be- 
 cause we have been friends so long."* 
 
 'Well, Frances, if it please you — antl if it goes no
 
 54 THE MASTKR ('llAFPSMAN 
 
 farther; for this is not a thin^ to he Ignited a})road — I 
 will accept all the attrihutcs of genius." 
 
 * Then we come hack to the (lucstion. wliat will von 
 do with your poverty ?' 
 
 'And apiin I reply that I cannot yet, for the life of 
 me, imagine. My lawver has hei'ii advising nie to go 
 into the City as a Guinea-pig — that is, to lend my 
 name to hogus companies at a guinea a sitting. It 
 seems that if a man with a title will sell his name, 
 people can he swindled with nuich greater ease. That 
 does not look a promising line, does it .''' 
 
 Frances shuddered. ' George, you are a gentleman !"* 
 
 ' Or I might use my small capital to qualify for a 
 profession — there is my grandfather's line ; hut even 
 allowing for those great ahilities with which you credit 
 me, I really could not read law.' 
 
 ' Anything else ?^ 
 
 'Oh yes. Some men, it appears, huv a partnei*ship 
 in the City ; some hecome stockbrokers." 
 
 ' I don't think that would suit you." 
 
 ' And some go out to California, fruit-farming. And 
 that, P'rances, seems the most hopei'ul line, so far." 
 
 * Is that all that you can think of.^ Very well. 
 Now let me suggest something for vou — a much better 
 line than any of these. Vou know what has always 
 been my hope for you."
 
 *TRY POLITICS' 55 
 
 ' I know that you liave sometimes dreamed of the 
 impossible.' 
 
 * Yes — and — now — now that you will have no other 
 distractions, now that you can begin and keep before 
 you the goal — now, George, is the time for you to 
 realize this dream of mine. Make yourself a career in 
 politics."* 
 
 ' My dear Frances, I could more easily make myself a 
 career in mathematics.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! You have the capacity ; you want 
 nothing but the will — the ambition. George, cannot 
 I make vou ambitious ? Think — ask yourself — can 
 there be anything nobler, more worthy of ambition, 
 than to guide the destinies of a nation ? — to make the 
 history that will have to be written T 
 
 ' Put in that way, it certainly sounds very well.' 
 
 ' Oh ! They talk about poets and Avriters. What 
 are the men who write about things compared with the 
 men who do things ? For my own part, I would rather 
 be Bismarck than Shakespeare : no poet can render 
 service to his country that can compare with the states- 
 man who makes it great and powerful. There is no 
 honour to com})are with the honour, the gratitude, the 
 immortality, which we confer upon such a man. No 
 poet is to be named in the same breath with such a 
 man.'
 
 r>f) THE MASTKK ( UAFl'SAIAN 
 
 *I have loiii»' since inadi- up inv iiiiml, IVaiices, that I 
 will not heroine a ])oet. Wlictlier, in lonsiMjueiu'e, I 
 shall heconie a Hismairk — I douht." 
 
 She paid no attention to this ninark. 
 
 'I have tli(»Ui;lil it all out. Tlir lllin^ is perfet^tly 
 easy — tor a man like- vourselt". \'()u must helon;^- to a 
 party: vou let them know that vou want to enter the 
 House on theii* side; vou are a likelv man and a 
 proniisin*;- man; thev will find vou a l)orou<^h ; you 
 will contest that l)orou<>h ; vou will win. Once in the 
 House, you will woik your wav ((uicklv or slowi\, and 
 command the attention and respect of the House and 
 the recognition of your part\ , and so, hy gradual steps, 
 achieve a place even in the Cahinet. Wliv, my dear 
 George, it is the experience of every day,' 
 
 I got out of the low and luxurious chair with some 
 difficulty. One cannot he serious King on one's hack. 
 And now I felt very serious. ' Vou see your statesman 
 at the end of his career,' I said, ' distinguished if not 
 res})ected. You tlo not understand how he lias worked 
 his way upwards, hy what a tortuous path he has 
 climhed. Moreover, you only see the greatest man, the 
 leader. Now, my child, the kind of statesman I think 
 of is the ordinary pei-son w ho hecomes towards the end 
 of his career a Cahinet Minister. That person does not 
 strike me as a nohle character at all. Indeed, there
 
 'TRY POLITICS^ 57 
 
 cannot be much nobility left in a man, so far ixs I can 
 see, after twenty years' service of party. Think of tlie 
 slavery of it ; think of the dirt he has had to eat ; 
 think of the lies he has had to tell ; think of the coat 
 he has had to turn ; think of the tricks he has had to 
 practise ; all to get votes — all to get votes !' 
 
 ' You exaggerate, George.' 
 
 ' No, I do not. However, it matters nothing what I 
 think. The House is quite out of the question. I 
 cannot afford it. You forget, Frances, that I have no 
 money.' 
 
 She blushed crimson, she dropped her eyes, she 
 trembled. ' George,' she said, with hesitation and em- 
 barrassment, ' again — do not be proud. It is the 
 privilege of friendship — it is your privilege to let me 
 find that — the means — you must accept of me.' 
 
 This was the great temptation. All that I hatl to 
 do at that moment — I knew it would come — I was wait- 
 ing for it — I was prepared for it — all that was wanted — 
 of course I could not take the money she was offering — 
 all that was wanted was to speak vaguely about ambi- 
 tion, to fall in with her hopes and dreams — one can 
 always accept a dream or offer a dream — and the woman 
 and her fortune and everything would be mine, lie- 
 cause I knew very well — a thousand indications had 
 told me — that she loved that nobler and more complete
 
 58 THE MAsri.K ( KAFrsMAN 
 
 George of hvv iina«^iimti()n — not mvMlf' .it all. I had 
 onlv to juitcnd to he that nobler piMson, ms fnll of 
 ambition, as loojiiti' toi' (bstinctioii. As for being in 
 love, why, if you arc alwav.s from iliildhood in the 
 conipaiiy of a giil, llic passion called Iom*, if it is 
 awakened at all, is weak and piiiiv lompared with that 
 which deals with tlie mystery of the unknown and strange. 
 Still, there was the beautiful woman, mv old friend, who 
 only wanted to btlicvt' that I was strong and ambitious, 
 and I only had to pivteud. It was like the temptation 
 of the Cln-istiaii martyr — oidv a little pineh of incense 
 — ^^just one — and life and freedom, the enjoyment of the 
 sunshine, were gi-anted to me. 
 
 I took her hand and raised it to my lips. 'Twas the 
 refusal of the Christian martyr. ' Not that way, 
 Frances,' I said. ' Any way but that. I an) going out 
 of the world — up or down, I know not wliich. But, up 
 or down, it cannot be by any such help as that.'
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE COUSIN. 
 
 Ix these clavs of self- restraint we neither weep nor rage ; 
 we pour out neither lamentations nor curses. People 
 used formerly to accept evil fortune with all the 
 outward indications that the bolt of fortune had 
 gone liome. 
 
 \A^hen a young man of the old days lost his fortune, 
 or his mistress, or both, I believe that he thought no 
 sconi to let his wailings or his curses be heard by all the 
 world. In these days the young man walks to his club 
 — perhaps it will be his last appearance there — dines as 
 usual with his everyday face and his smile for a friend, 
 and presently goes home. 
 
 I am but a child of my generation ; therefore I 
 did this, and at ten o'clock or so I returned to my 
 chambei-s. 
 
 Outside the door I found, to my astonishment, waiting 
 for me, a man whose appearance was not familiar to me.
 
 60 Tin: MAsriji ( kaitsman 
 
 Perhaps a man uitli a littlr bill; hiil, then, I owed no 
 man anythin*,^ to .speak of. Besides, ten o'eloek is late 
 for the man with tlie little l)ill. IVrliaps someone from 
 the stiihles ; but, then, it was late for a messenger from 
 the stables. The man was young, tall, and well .set up ; 
 dressed well enough, but baixlly with the stamjj of 
 to-day's Pieeadillv. 
 
 *Are you Sir (ieorgc Burnikel .^' the man asked 
 bluntly, without taking off' his liat or touching the brim 
 in the way eonunon with servitors and mes.sengers. 
 
 ' I believe 1 am. But 1 do not seem to know 
 vou."" 
 
 Mav I have ten minute.s' conversation ^^ itli vou .'*' 
 
 * Certainly not, unless I know who you are anil what 
 you want. So, my friend, as ten o'clock at night is not 
 the most usual time for a call, perhaj)s you will go away 
 and write your business." 
 
 * I have come a good stej)," he pei*sisted, * and I liave 
 waited for two hours. If you could see me to-night, 
 JSir George, I should be very nmch obliged.' 
 
 * \Vho are you, then r' 
 
 * My name is Robert Burnikel. I am a cousin of 
 yours." 
 
 ' Never heard that I had any cousin of that name, I 
 assure you.' 
 
 ' 1 am a distant cousin. I do not want to beg or to
 
 THE COITSIN 61 
 
 borrow money of you, I assure you. I came in the hope 
 that you would listen to me, and perhaps give me some 
 advice in a matter of the greatest importance to mvsi If. 
 By trade I am a boat-builder ; I carry on the same 
 business, in the same place, that your great-grandfixther 
 did before he quarrelled with his partner and left 
 VVapping.' 
 
 After such an introduction I had no more hesitation, 
 but I turned the key and threw open the door. ' Come 
 in,' I said ; ' I am sure it's all right. The hereditary call- 
 ing of our family is boat-building. The head of the 
 family should always be a boat-builder. Come in.' I led 
 the way into the study, and touched the switch of the 
 light. ' Now,' I said, ' if you like to sit down ;^)id talk 
 I will listen. There are soda-water bottles and the usual 
 accessories on the table, with cigarettes.' 
 
 My visitor declined the proffered hospitality. Now 
 that he had taken off his hat and was sitting under the 
 bright electric light, the cousin appeared at fii-st to be 
 merely a good-looking young man with a certain rough- 
 ness of manner as of dress. But as I looked at him, I 
 became gradually aware that this young man was most 
 curiously like myself. I have broad shoulders, but his 
 were broader; I am tolerably tall, but he was taller; 
 my head is pretty large, but his was larger ; my forehead 
 is square, but his was squarer ; my nose is straight, but
 
 6X THK .MAsrKK ( UAFrSMAN 
 
 his was .strHit;hter. Mvcn \u^ hair was the same, and 
 t!mt «^*ew ill short, stioii*; hrown niils all over his head 
 — the kind of hair that is never found decorating the 
 skull of an ordinarv weak-kneed Christian. The liair 
 of Mr. Feehkniiud and Mr. lieadv-to-halt is invaiiahly 
 strait^ht ; therefore I have always heen j)lease(l to have 
 stubbly, eurlv hair. His voice, too, was like my own, 
 only stron<;er and fuller. To complete tlie reseMd)lance, 
 I had the short, broad lingers of a workman. These 
 iingers force a man to buy a lathe; they never gave me 
 any peace until I had got the lathe. My visitor had 
 exactly the same hand, but it was larger. Strange, that 
 upon so many generations a resemblance between two 
 cousins should be so strong. 
 
 Mr. Robert Binnikel took a chair and cleared his 
 throat. 'It is a j)ersonal matter,' he said, 'and it is 
 somewhat difficult to begin." 
 
 'Looks like boiTOwing money, after all," I thought. 
 ' If I may suggest," I said, ' tell me something of the 
 family history. It is ninety years since the connection 
 of my branch with yours was broken off. I am, I 
 regi'et to say, shamefully ignorant of my ow n peo[)le." 
 
 ' Well, Sir George, there was a boat-builder at 
 Wapping died about the year 1780. He wasn't the 
 first of the boat-builders by a hundred yeai-s and more; 
 you will find his tomb — one of the fine scjuare tond)s —
 
 THE COUSIN 68 
 
 on the south side of W'apping Church. This show.^ tlial 
 he was a man of substance and responsibility. TIk' 
 churchyard is full of Burnikels. If you think it worth 
 while to be proud of such a thing, you belong to the 
 oldest and most respectable family of A\'apping.' 
 
 ' Of course one likes to feel that one has resjjectable 
 ancestors.' 
 
 'That old man, who dietl at the age of eightv-Hve, 
 was great-great-grandfather to both of us." 
 
 ' I see. Our cousinship starts a hundred years ago. 
 It hath a venerable aspect.' 
 
 ' He left two sojis at least. Those two sons carried 
 on the business in partnership until they died or retired. 
 Tlien two of their sons — I don't know anything about 
 the rest — took it over as partners. They (juarrelled ; I 
 daresay you have heard why' — lie looked up cjuickly 
 and paused — ' and they dissolved partnership. One 
 came to this end of the town, and became a builder ; the 
 other stayed at Wapping, and his son, and his grandson, 
 and his gi'eat -grand son — that's myself — ha\ e conducted 
 that business ever since. I am now the sole owner of 
 the concern.' 
 
 ' It is rather bewildering at first. One would like it 
 in black and white, though I never understood genea- 
 logical tables. However, the point is, that your branch 
 of our family has remained at AVapping, carrying on the
 
 64 TIIK MASTKU CRAFrSMAX 
 
 old business, all these years. 1 tear there liii> been 
 no intercourse between the two main currents of the 
 stock/ 
 
 ' None, I believi . Hut we wtiv able to follow the 
 fortunes of your branch.' 
 
 * There wcix' other offshoots, 1 suppose — tributary 
 stivams, cadet branches — with you as witli us .^' 
 
 ' Yes ; some of us are in Australia ; some ai*e in 
 Canathi; sonic are in New Zealand; some are boat- 
 builders; some of us are farmei*s ; some of us are 
 sailors ; we are scattered all over the world/ 
 
 * And none of vou rich .'''' 
 
 ' None of us are rich. Your great-grandfather, 
 though he called himself a builder, of coui-sc had no 
 necessity to work.' 
 
 ' No necessity to w ork ? Why not r' 
 ' Why, on account of his innnense wealth/ 
 'Wealth.'' lie had very little. Although,* as to 
 work, he was a most industrious person. He stamped 
 his stucco image all over Kensington ; he has become a 
 name ; he points architectural epigrams ; lie is the hero 
 of the Burnikel tige in this suburb. But he made very 
 little money. Where did you get your notion of his 
 enormous wealth .''' 
 
 * Well ' The cousin looked doubtful, but for 
 
 the moment he evaded the i)oint. 'Then one of his
 
 THE COUSIN 65 
 
 sons became a lawyer ; aiul so, of course, liis father being 
 «o rich "■ 
 
 * Again you are misinformed. My great-grandfather 
 left a moderate fortune, and my grandfather had liis 
 share of it, and no more." 
 
 'We always understood, to be sure, that your grand- 
 father, being so rich, was able to buy his place as Judge 
 and his title/ 
 
 At this amazing theory, I jumped in my chair and 
 sat upright. ' Good Lord, man !' I cried, ' where 
 were you — where could you be — brought up ? A\^here 
 do they still preserve prejudices pre — pre — ])re- 
 medijeval ?' 
 
 ' I was born and brought up in Wapping."* 
 
 * Can remote \Va})j)ing be such a God-foi-saken country 
 as to believe that Judges buy their seats ? Are you so 
 incredibly ignorant as to believe that ?' 
 
 ' I don't know.' He coloured. ' Perhaps we wei-e 
 wrong. They said so. I never questioned it ; I never 
 really thought about it. My gi*andmother used to tell 
 us so."" 
 
 ' Your grandmother ! Permit me to say, newly-fountl 
 cousin, that my respect for the AVapping grandmother 
 begins to totter. My grandfather was made Judge for 
 the usual reason — that he was a very great lawyei'."' 
 
 ' He died worth a quarter of a million."' 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 TIIK MASTKlt ( UAFISMAN 
 
 * Wt'll, and \y\\\ the (Iciicc should 1m' not? If vou 
 niakf tVoiii five to ten thousiuid a year by your practice, 
 and oidy s|)end one, and ^o on doin^^ that for thirty 
 yeai-s, and f^vt five j)cr cent, all the time for your money, 
 you will find youi-self worth all that at the end of the 
 tinje. But whv are voii tellin«:^ me all this stuff about 
 mv own people? Have you i^^ot somethiuf,^ up your 
 sleeve? Have it out, man/ 
 
 * Well, Sir George, the story of that l)a<^^ of diamonds 
 and things has never been forgotten. It rankled 
 down to mv own time. My father used to grow 
 gloomv when business was bad and lie thought of 
 the diamonds." 
 
 ' What had that to do with my gi*andfather ?' 
 
 ' And the fortune that the Judge was reported to 
 have left behind him — a quarter of a million — was 
 exactly the value that old John Burnikel set upon the 
 diamonds that your great-grandfather took."* 
 
 'My great-grandfather took ? Man, you've got a bee 
 in your bonnet. It was not that much-injured old man, 
 but your great-grandfather — yours — who, I always 
 understood, took the jewels.' 
 
 '^I'he cousin laughed gently, but sliook his head. 
 
 'That was the story they told you, of coui-se. AVhy, 
 it is nearly a hundred years ago, and we have always 
 been ([uite naiTow in our means, working hard, living
 
 THE COUSIN 67 
 
 carefully, and spending little — never a rich man among 
 us. Those of us who were not in the business went to 
 sea ; not a single man died rich.' 
 
 * Then," I said, ' you nuist have buried the precious 
 diamonds. ^Iv great-grandfather left no more than a 
 fev» thousands to his children, and my gi-andfather hjul 
 great difficulty in keeping himself until his practice began 
 and increased.' 
 
 ' Well, they always told me ' 
 
 ' If you come to that, they always told me ** 
 
 ' If the bag was not taken by youi* great-grandfather, 
 who could have taken it ?' 
 
 * Yours, my dear sir — yours."* 
 
 ' For no one knew of its existence except those two 
 and the old man John Bumikel. And they found him 
 dying and the bag gone. Not dead, or the bag might 
 have been stolen by someone else ; but sick and dying, 
 and it was gone."* 
 
 'Well, Mr. Bumikel, you are a stranger to me, and I 
 think I will not discuss any farther the delicate question 
 as to who stole a bag ninety yeai^s ago. My ancestor 
 certainly did not, and I do not wish to accuse your 
 ancestor. Perhaps the bag was stowed away some- 
 where : in a bank ; in a merchant's strong-room ' 
 
 ' He was only a simple sailor. He knew nothing 
 about banks or strong-rooms.'
 
 68 Till: .M.\s'n:ii ( u.\i is.man 
 
 ''V\\v j)ii>()n who took it — not ncfcssarily your 
 aiKH^lor, and itrtainly not mini' — j)ut it soniewhei^, 
 antl (lii'il without rcvcahni; tlie socrt't. If you come to 
 think of it, a ba*^ of diamonds into wliich you dipped 
 whenever vou wanted to mII one was rather a 
 (ian<j;erous kind ot thin^- to keep. li()at-l)uil(iers, as 
 a rule, do not keep ba«;^ of (hainon(U lyin<r loose. 
 It is somewhere hidden awav in youi- l)aek-^arden, 
 perhaps/ 
 ' Not ours/ 
 
 'Or perhaps there never was any bag ot thamonds 
 at all; 
 
 'Oh ves, there was. We've «;-ot the old sailor's 
 bed at home with the secret hiding-})lace at the head, 
 
 and his chest brass-bound ' 
 
 ' Tlie empty chest proves the existence of the treiisure, 
 I su})})ose. However, that's enough about the bag of 
 diamonds, \'ou have not told me why you came here 
 to-night. Not, I take it, to talk over tlie Legenil of 
 the Lost Treasure/ 
 
 'Well, Sir George, I tliought to myself, we've always 
 talked .so nuich about that bag of diamond.s, that if I 
 mentioned tlu' thing, there would be, jR'rhaps, a feeling 
 — a kind of sympathy— you to ha\i' all and me to have 
 nothing. ^Vs it is, I ean"t understand what \t)U sav, 
 I >uppo>e we ha\i' been all ^^rong."
 
 THE COUSIN 69 
 
 * Let us ackno\vlcd<:;e this bond — the connnon l)on(i 
 of a long ago connnon loss. And next T 
 
 'The reason why I came here this evening is this: 
 You know the world, and I do not. I want your 
 advice. It is this way. I mean to rise in the world. 
 Wapping is all very wtH — what there is of it. But, 
 after all, it is not everything.' 
 
 ' Not everything, I suppose." 
 
 ' It is, in fact, only a corner of the world. I mean 
 to get out of it.' 
 
 ' Very good. Why not ? 
 
 ' I see everywhere men no better than myself — not 
 so good — working men, getting distinction on the School 
 Board and on the County Council, and even ' — he gasped 
 — ' even Elsewhere,' he said, with a kind of awe. ' And 
 I don't see why I should not get on too.' 
 
 'Why not? — why not? If you like the kind of 
 work.' 
 
 * In shoi-t, Sir George — you will not laugh at me — I 
 mean to go into the House.' 
 
 ' AVhy should I laugh at you ? And why should you 
 not go into the House if you want to, and if a con- 
 stituency will send vou there ?' 
 
 ' I will show vou afterwards, if you like, on another 
 occasion, my chances and my fitness.' 
 
 * To-night you will explain to me where I come in —
 
 70 THE MASTER C'KAITSMAN 
 
 wlw vou i'ouw to inc. I am llu' worst person in the 
 world to advise/ 
 
 ' I do not iisk advice about my own intentions,' said 
 the pohtienl candidate stifHy. ' I advise myself. I am 
 iiohm into the House. What I want you to tell me 
 is this — I have no means at Wapj)in«r of finding out 
 how one sets to work in tlie first instance, how ycm let 
 people know that vou are ^oin«r to stand, how you find 
 a borough, what it costs, and all the rest of it. If you 
 can give or get for me this information, Sir George, it 
 is all that I shall ask you, and I shall be extremely 
 obliged to you.' 
 
 ' I can't give it, but I can get it for you, I dare say. 
 At all events, I will try.' 
 
 ' That is very kind of you. Let me once get it ' — 
 the man's eyes flashed — ' and I will succeed. I am an 
 able man. Sir George — I am not boasting ; I am stating 
 a plain fact — I am a very able man, and I shall get 
 on. Vou shall see. Vou shall not be ashamed to own 
 your cousin. I shall rise.' 
 
 He did rise, perhaps to illustrate his prophecy. He 
 got up and took his liat. 
 
 'I know exactly what I want,' said this confident 
 young man — yet the arrogance of his words was 
 tempered bv a certain modesty of utterance — 'and I 
 know how to get it. IJut I must get into the House
 
 THE COUSIN 71 
 
 first. Fve planned it all out. It takes time to make 
 one's way. In five years' time — I only ask five years — 
 I shall be Home Secretary Z 
 
 'What.^' 
 
 ' Home Secretary,' he repeated calmly. ' Nothing 
 less than that to begin with.' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing less than that !' 
 
 ' After that I don't say, nor do I even think. "\Miy, 
 there are a dozen men now in the House who have gone 
 in like me in order to get distinction. I read the 
 debates, and I see how these men get on. And I 
 understand their secret, which is open to all. I'm not 
 going to join any party. I shall be an Independent 
 member, and I shall rise by my own exei-tions and my 
 own abilities.' 
 
 I remembered that afternoon's dream about myself. 
 Good heavens ! And here was this man — of my own 
 name, of my own age, so much like myself, this cousin 
 — coming to me with exactly the ambition desired for 
 me by Lady Frances ! AVas this man who called himself 
 a boat-builder — perhaps in some allegorical sense — really 
 mvself ? The builder of a boat might be the builder 
 of a man. ^^^as this cousin my own nobler self, the 
 complete and fully-developed George ? 
 
 * I should like,' my visitor continued, ' to show you 
 that I am not an em})ty boaster. Let me call again.
 
 72 TIIK MASTKU CR A ITSMAN 
 
 Or |K'ilia|)s vou would wisli to see tlic place tliat you 
 fame from. Conic to \\'aj)|)ini:: <<> ^^'<^' >i^<-'- l'^^<-' v«ii'ti 
 is not a bit cliangcd. It is just what it was two 
 hundred years iv^o when the first l^uiiikel eanie to the 
 place. Come at any time ; I am always there.' 
 
 ' 'I'hank vou. I will call upon vou to-morrow after- 
 noon. (T()od-nin;ht ; and, I say, when you have nothing 
 better to do, (Hi;* up the back-i^arden, and find that 
 precious ])a^. It may help to pay your election 
 expenses." 
 
 lie departed. I remained strangely disturbed. After 
 all the events of the day — the loss of foHune, the fatal 
 absence of ambition — to meet this man — arroi^ant, 
 j)resumptuous, ignorant. Home Secretaiy to begin 
 w ith ! A tradesman of the East End ! And yet — yet 
 there was something in the c<\hn confidence of the man, 
 and in the look of strength. But — Home Secretary to 
 beiiin with !
 
 CHAPITER IV. 
 
 WAPPIXCi. 
 
 How does one get to Wappiiig ? It is not, I believe, 
 generally known that there are trains which take the 
 explorer to this secluded hamlet. They are the same 
 trains which go under the Thames Tunnel. Before 
 entering upon that half-mile of danger, the engine 
 stops at a station, dark and uncertain, deep down in 
 the bowels of the eai-th, and unprovided with a lift. It 
 is a fearful climb to the top of those stairs, but when 
 you do arrive, you find yourself in the very heart of the 
 quarter — in fact, in Wapping High Street itself. This 
 is one way of getting to Wapping. Another, and a 
 much better way, is to walk there from Tower Hill, 
 past St. Katherine's Docks, where you may drop a tear 
 over the wanton destruction of what should have been 
 Eastminster, the Cathedral of East London, the House 
 and Church of St. Katherine by the Tower, with its 
 Deanery, its Close, its gardens all ready for promotion,
 
 74 Tin: .ma>'1'i;k ck.m "isman 
 
 and I'vcn, liko \\'i'>tininstor, its adjacrnt slums. The 
 travt'lk'i- tlu'ii enters Nit;htin«^alL' I>iinu, woiHlcrinj^^ wlicn 
 the ni«;litin«;ale was last lieanl here, and presently finds 
 himself in a lon^ rivei*side street. Tall warehouses and 
 wharves arc on the soutli side ; on the north side, ofHccs. 
 North of the ofllees ai-e llu- Docks. IJitwccn the ware- 
 houses are stairs. Here are Hermita<;e Stairs, and sinet; 
 there is a Hermitage Street, there was prohahlv at one 
 time or other a liermit established on this spot. A most 
 desirable spot it must have been for a hermit of a gloomy 
 turn, being then a moist, swampv, oozy, maishv, tidal 
 kind of ])lac-e, most eligible for any hermit who desireil 
 all the discomforts of his profession. 
 
 In those days the })lace was AVaj)ping-in-the-()use : 
 afterwards it became AVaj)j^ing-on-the-\Vall, and a dry 
 place, without even a frog or an evvet, or a single shake 
 of ague. Anil then the liermit Hed in disgust to Canvey 
 Island, and oidy the memory of him now remains. Then 
 one comes Lo \\'apj)ing Old Stairs; a iiaiiic for ever for 
 the sake of the Faithful One; and Execution Stairs, 
 where they drowned })eople, tying them to a stake up 
 which the rising tide gradually crept — oh ! how gradu- 
 ally, how slowly ! — till it came to the chin and the lips. 
 Then the bargee, going up with the Hood, siiw above the 
 surface of the lapping wave, half a face, white, with 
 staring eyes that took their last look of the sunshine
 
 WAPPING 75 
 
 and the ships and the broatl river, while the water rose 
 a half-inch more, and hfe indignant Hed ! 
 
 Then one saw a black, brown or red lump above the 
 water, with floating hair — for sailors wore it long; then 
 this too disappearetl, and there was nothing left but the 
 top of the stake and the ijuiet whisper of the water as 
 it Howeil past. For three times, ebb and flow, that 
 criminal remained upon his stake; the first for the 
 doing unto death ; the next two for an example unto 
 the young and a teiTor unto evil-doers. After that they 
 took him uj) and buried him, or hung him in chains, 
 tarred but not feathered. Gruesome are the memories 
 of Execution Dock ; many arc the ghosts who haunt, 
 all unseen — because there is nobody in wharf or ware- 
 house after business hours to see them — the spot where 
 they were done to death. It was, however, lower down 
 the river, round the Isle of Dogs, that they hung uj) the 
 black body in creaking chains until it dropped to pieces. 
 
 If you want to see the river — the view of the river 
 was the pride of Wap})ing until the warehouses replaced 
 the old gabled timber-houses — go down one of the lanes 
 which lead to the Stairs. Then you will obtain a pano- 
 ramic view set in a frame — a tall, narrow picture, a 
 section of the busy river, across which pass all day long- 
 up or down tlie great ocean steamer, I'le little river 
 steamer, the noisy tug, the sailing-ship, tiie barge laden
 
 76 THK AIASTKU (KAFrSMAN 
 
 with hay, or iioii, oi- task>, down to [\\v water's ('<l<i;c*, 
 the wherries, with which thi> part of \hr Thames is 
 ahvayj> erowdcd. What thrv (h) ; wliat makes them so 
 full of hiisiiu'ss and zeal — no one ean (hseover. 
 
 Ueyond the river are the mills and granaries and 
 warehouses of Uotherhithe, wjtli the white steeple of 
 the chni-ch. The lane in which vou stand is, in fact, a 
 much finci- kinetosiopc tlian Mi'. I'idison has invented ; 
 it presents you witli a picture of ceaseless, changeful 
 motion ; of restless activity ; of ordered purpose. 
 
 'riun i^o hack and resume your walk along the street. 
 It is, like the river itself, a busy highway of trade ; the 
 tall w.u\'h()uses were built for trade ; the cranes are out 
 on tlie topmost floor, conducting the trade; men are 
 swinging out heavy bales of goods and lowering them 
 into waggons, which will distribute the trade among 
 other hands. 'I'he street, indeed, is full of waggons 
 loaded and waggons unloaded ; waggons sbmding under 
 the cranes, waggons going away loaded and coming back 
 empty. You would not believe theie were so many 
 waggons in London. Except for the diivers of the 
 waggons and the men in the u})})er stories tossing 
 about the bales, tliere are no people to be seen in the 
 street. Passengers there are none. Nobody walks in 
 Wapj)ing High Street except to and from his warehouse 
 or his wharf. He goes there on business. Of shops
 
 WAPPING 7T 
 
 there are but two or three, aiul those not of the best. 
 And this is Waj)pin<>-, It seems at first to be nothin<r 
 but a narrow sUp between the river aiitl the docks. This 
 is not (|uite tiiie, however, as we shall jwesently see. 
 
 I entered the cradle of my race, fortunatelv, bv the 
 best way, the Tower Hill way. It seems a cradle to be 
 proud of; all ancient crafts are honourable, but some 
 are more honourable than others ; surely boat-buildin<» 
 is a very honourable craft. Consider: Xoah was an 
 eminent boat-builder; the finest examj;)le of his work 
 has never been surpassed ; we are all descended from 
 Noah, therefore we ought all to have boat-building 
 instincts. As to the antiquity of boats, it goes back 
 beyond the time of Noah. The first boat, if vou think 
 of it — the only way to get at prehistoric history is to 
 think of it — was a cradle, a wicker basket cradle, lined 
 with soft fur ; there was a baby in it — an antediluvian 
 Patriarch baby. The cradle — I am giving away quite a 
 new Archaeological discovery — was placed by the child's 
 mother by the riverside, and left, but only for a few 
 minutes ; then the waters suddenly rose and swept the 
 cradle away ; the agonized mother saw it in the midst of 
 the fiood, ]mrsued by a hungry crocodile. She looked 
 to see the cradle sink ; it did not, it (|uietlv drifteil 
 into a bank or haven of refuge, the babv unhuii, 
 and the bafHed crocodile sullenlv sank l«» tlie bottom.
 
 78 TIIK MAST1:H C'UAFrSMAN 
 
 Hena' arose the huildini^ of* tlic fii-st hoat, tlic shape of 
 wliich, and of all l)oats to follow, was copied fnnn the 
 cradle. The first hoat-hiiildei", I heheve, was iiaiDed 
 Burnikel, whose fTnind-dau;;hter married Noah's father. 
 However, it was not so imieli out of pride in the boat- 
 yard that I eanie to Wapping as from the desire to see 
 more of this stranp;e, strong, resokite, ambitious cousin 
 of mine. 
 
 Of course, I liad never been here before. Men of mv 
 upbringing know notliing, hear nothing, and under- 
 stand nothing, of tlie busy life, the productions, the ex- 
 ports, the imports, the enterpnse, the risks, the fluctua- 
 tions, the skill, tlie courage, wliicli belong to the trade 
 of our great })oii:s. The merchant adventurer is un- 
 known to us. We ignore, or we despise, the men by 
 whose enterjirise we actually live. Not that we under- 
 stand this ; yet it is a hard fact that the gilded youth 
 <lepends upon the trade of the country as much as the 
 merchant wlio directs, the shopkeej)er who distributes, 
 the very waggoner and the bargee, and the man wlio 
 slings the bales upon the crane. Money, vou see, can 
 no longer be carried about in sticks of gold. It must 
 be invested : and every investment, whether gas, or 
 water, or railways, or mines, or trading companies, or 
 numieipal bonds, or even consols, dej)ends uj)on the 
 success of a venture. And since agriculture is dead
 
 WAPPING 79 
 
 or dying, there is nothing left except these ventures. 
 Should they fail, should discoster suddenly overtake the 
 Ih'itish industries, then the whole wealth of the country 
 would vanish at once, and the youth of Piccadilly would 
 be as penniless as the j)oor fellows of the warehouses, 
 throwu out of work. But this the youth of Piccadilly 
 knows not. I know these things because I have been 
 made to learn them. 
 
 For the first time, therefore, I found myself in the 
 midst of trade, actual, visible, tangible — fragrant, even. 
 It was a kind of discovery to me. I walked along 
 slowly revolving the thing. Exports and imports one 
 reads about : they are words which to me had then 
 little or no meaning. Here were people actually ex- 
 porting and importing with tremendous zeal. The 
 street was a hive of industry. Not one face but was 
 full of business ; not one but was set, absorbed, serious, 
 observing nothinfj because it was so full of thou^jht. 
 No one lit cigarettes ; no one lounged ; no one talked 
 or laughed with his neighbour. All were occupied, all 
 wrapt in thought. All walked with a purpose : no less 
 a purpose, indeed, than the winning of the daily bread, 
 or the creation of a j)ile on which the children — which 
 would be the very greatest misfortune for them — could 
 live in idleness. 
 
 Presently I came to the mouth of the London Dock,
 
 80 THi: MAs'ri:i( ( i{.\i 'i>.m.\n 
 
 wlu'iv a swiiii^-hridi^v crossis tlir narrow L-ntraiicc, ami 
 is rolled hack on liin<;i> to lot [\w ships j);lss in and out. 
 It was ojK'ii when I reached tlie place, and a shij) was 
 sh)wlv passintr thn)ii<;h : a three-masted sailin«<;-shij), of 
 whieh there are still some left. I watched the l)eauti- 
 iul thinii,- Nvith the tall masts and shrouds — man never 
 made aiivlhini;- more heautiful than a sailing - sliip. 
 Lookini;- to the htt, I saw the crowded masts in tlie 
 dock ; looking- to the ri<;ht, I .saw the shi})s ^i)in»^ down 
 the river, and lieard the chdcet note of the Siren. All 
 this meant, I ])erceived dimly, buyinir and sellinLC. 
 The ships hrini;- innnense car<>()es to he sold in London 
 and distributed everywhere. All tlie selliiii;- must l)e 
 at a profit, otherwise these waggons would not be 
 eni})loved, and these wareliouses would ])e clo.sed, and 
 ^^'ap})in^•-on-the-^^'all would be as silent and as solitary 
 as Tadmor-in-the-Desert. All this buying and selling 
 meant the employmiiit and ♦ he maintenance of million.s. 
 Trade, I began to understand, is a \vv\ l)ig thing in- 
 deed — a tiling which demands enter})rise and courage ; 
 which re([uires also knowledge and skill ; which abounds 
 with chances and changes and perils and hopes. 
 
 The ship passed through : the bridge swung round : 
 I passed over it and continued mv wav. At this point 
 \\'ap|)ing widens and becomes a right-angled triangle, 
 whose hvpothenuse is the river and whose altitude is
 
 WAPPING 81 
 
 the East London Dock. This triangle, with the river- 
 side street, is all that the docks have left of okl Wrap- 
 ping village. On this occasion, however, I did not 
 discover the triangle; I walked on, the street continu- 
 ing with its warehouses and its wharves and its river 
 stairs. 
 
 A little hevond the bridge I came to a house which 
 would have arrested my attention by its appearance 
 alone, apart from the name upon its door-plate. For it 
 was a solid red brick, eighteenth-century liouse. The 
 bricks were of the kind which grow more beautiful with 
 yeai*s. The door, with a shell decoration above it, was 
 in the middle, and there was one window on each side 
 of it. In the two stories above there were three 
 windows in each : the roof was of warm retl tiles. 
 There were green shutters to the lower windows : a 
 solid, comfortable old house. It was well kept up : the 
 ))aint \N as fresh ; the windows were clean ; the steps 
 were white; the brass door-plate, which was small, was 
 burnished bright, and on it, in letters half effaced, I 
 read the name of Burnikel. 
 
 'The cradle!' I thought. 'Here was born the 
 ancestral builder of boats. But where is the yard ?' 
 
 On the other side of the street stood a huge rambling 
 shed — two sheds side by side, built of wood and painted 
 black. Through the wide-open tloor I saw the stout 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Till', :\iAS'ri:i( ( rai'ivman 
 
 ribs of a lialf-hiiilt \)t\v'^c stickinic i!p in readiness to 
 receive tlu- plankimj; of" lur sidrs. And there was tlie 
 sound of haininers. And, to make (jiiite Mire, tliere was 
 ])ainted across the slied in white letters the name 
 * liunukel and Hurnikel, Hoat and Hari^e Buihlei-s/ 
 
 I stepped in and looked round. There were one or 
 two unfinished boats beside the; bi<^ ]>ari^e; wood was 
 Iviui^ a])out everywhere, staeki-d on the low rafters of 
 the roof, in liea})s, thick wood and thin wood ; there 
 were tools and a})pliances — some I undei-stood, some 
 were new to me. Men were workin<;. At the sight of 
 all this carpentry work, my sj)irits rose. This was the 
 kind of work I loved. A beautiful place, such a place, 
 I thought, as I would like to work in mvself. Even in 
 those early days, you see, I had a soul above a lathe in 
 a study. A lathe is a toy ; this yard was for serious 
 work. And j)icturesque, too, with its high roof and its 
 black rafters, and its front oj^en to the river, connnand- 
 ing a noble ])an()rama, wider than is afforded bv anv of 
 the stairs in those narrow lanes. 
 
 Nobody took any notice of me. The men just looked 
 up and went on hannnering. A well-ordered vard, 
 ap])arently. 
 
 At that moment the master came out of a little 
 enclosed 1)()X in the corner, called ' Ollice,' which was big 
 enough, at least, for a high desk and some books.
 
 WAPPING 83 
 
 At the outset, in tlie evenin<i^, I had remarked the 
 curious resemblance of my cousin to myself. By day- 
 li<^ht the resemblance was not so marked, j)ai'tly because 
 the man was so much bigger. He was one of those 
 men with whom a simple six-foot in height makes them 
 tower over all other men. He looked tall and broad, 
 and strong above any of his fellows. So looked Saul. 
 He looked around him quickly as he came out, as if to 
 see that his men were all working with zeal and know- 
 ledge. Then he stepped across the yard and greeted 
 his visitor gravely. 
 
 * I saw you come in,' he said. ' I only half expected 
 you, because, I thought, why should you want to see the 
 old place ?' 
 
 * Well, I did want to see the old place. And I 
 wanted to see you again." 
 
 ' Here it is, then, and here I am. Not much of a 
 place, after all, but there's a tidy business done here, 
 and always has been, and no change in the place since 
 it was first put up, and that's two hundred yeai*s ago. 
 Just the same ; the yard is the same, the beams of the 
 roof are the same, if the tiles have been removed, and 
 the work is the same. If your ancestor was to look in 
 here, he'd see nothing changed but the workmen's 
 clothes. They've left off aprons, and they've left off 
 stockings, "^riiat's all.'
 
 84 'I'lli: MASriJl ( KAITSMAN 
 
 '(t()(k1. \\'f an- thus in the In.sl cent iir\ .' 
 
 * Vc's. '1'Ir' rivers changed, thoii«rli. The Port of 
 London wiis a niuch finer place formerly, when tliere 
 were no docks, and the ships were ran<;ed in double line 
 all down the Tool, and all the laiulini;- was done by 
 barires — BurniktTs l)ar«^t's — and Die river was covered 
 with boats — liurnikers boats — cruisin<^ about anionic 
 the ships. We'll go for a cruise if you like, anv day, in 
 my boat. It is the old boat ; here she is/ The boat 
 was lying in the river, made fast to the quay pile. 
 ' ^Ve used to board the shi})s as they came in for the 
 ivpair of their boats. Now there's no need. Tiiey all go 
 into dock. There are some pictures over the way of the 
 river in the last century. Vou shall see tliem })i*esently.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 ' We can't make better boats now than they made a 
 hundred and fifty years ago; we can't put in better 
 work nor better material. They knew good work. 
 K very tiling except steam things they knew how to 
 make, then, far better tlian we do now. JUmiikel's 
 barges are built after the old |)attern. This barge, for 
 instance' — he laid his hand on a rib of the unfinislied 
 craft — 'she is built on eighteenth-century lines.' 
 
 'She looks substantial I'nough.' 
 
 ' Slie is. Well. Look aiound you. Sir Cieorge. 'I'his 
 is where your iireat-i^randtather worked, and vour ijreat-
 
 WAPPING 85 
 
 great-grandfather, and so on, ever so far back. This is 
 where you came from.' 
 
 He took his visitor over the little yard, pointing out 
 something of the craft and mystery of boat-building, 
 
 'All this," I said, 'interests me enormously. You 
 know Fve got a lathe, and I know a little how to make 
 things — useless things. It is all I can do — my one 
 accomplishment.' 
 
 ' There's not many of your sort who can do so much. 
 \Vell, there's not nuich here to make a show, but there's 
 a good deal to learn in boat-building, let me tell you.' 
 
 ' I ought to have boat-building in the blood,' I 
 observed. ' The mystery seems familiar to me. Don't 
 you think that so many generations of boat-building — 
 with this little break of just two lives, one a Judge, and 
 one a — nothinf:: — oufj^ht to make me take to the trade 
 naturally, as a duck to water ?' 
 
 llobert Burnikel answered seriously. He was a very 
 serious young man. Besides, light conversation is un- 
 known at Wa})ping. 
 
 ' Why not ?' he said. ' Natural aptitude nuist come 
 with generations of work. There is a kind of caste in 
 every trade. I know a succession of carpenters, from 
 father to son ; and a succession of watchmakers ; and a 
 succession of blacksmiths. These men of mine are all 
 the sons of boat-builders ; they grew up in the trade.
 
 86 I'lIK MASTER (IIAITSMAN 
 
 I tlt)irt think thcv could liavc done any thing else so 
 well. As for you — well, your grand hit hur was a Judge/ 
 
 ' For tlie fii-st time in my lih*, I am ashamed to say 
 that he wjus." 
 
 'Not that you need ])e ashamed, I suppose, hut, still, 
 he broke the succession. All the rest of us have always 
 been boat-builders or sailors/ 
 
 ' For tlie moment I feel an enthusiasm of boat-build- 
 ing. The only ])ractical wt)rk worth considering is this. 
 I am convinced it is the hereditary instinct.' 
 
 ' Well, vou can't know aiiytliing about it, instinct or 
 not.' 
 
 ' I suppose, now, that you could make a boat your- 
 self, with your own hands, from keel to gunwale, from 
 stem to stern .'''' 
 
 ' He would be a j)oor kind of master who couldn't do 
 anything better than his men. I used to work, hannner, 
 and saw, and plane, with the men when I was a 
 prentice.' 
 
 We talked about boats and boat-building till the 
 subject was exhausted. The Master Craftsman looked 
 at liis watch. 
 
 'Four o'clock,' he said. ' Now come over the way. 
 I live in the old house built by the iirst of them who 
 came here. We can talk for an hour or so before tea. 
 I toltl them you might be coming to tea.'
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE. 
 
 The old house proved to be even older than it looked. 
 ' It was built,' said the present owner, ' by the first of 
 the Wapping Burnikels. I don't know where he came 
 from ; but he was already a man of substance when he 
 built iiii'i house. That was in the time of James the 
 Second. It was close by here — at a low riverside taveni 
 — that Judge Jeffreys hid himself, and it was our ancestor 
 who discovered him and gave him up to justice. At 
 least, so they say."* 
 
 Within, it was the house of a solid and substantial 
 merchant, who understood the arts of comfort. The 
 Hall was wainscoted with a dark polished oak relieved 
 by a line of gold along the top, and lit by a broad 
 window on the stairs ; it contained no other furniture 
 than a tall old clock ticking gravely, and the large 
 model of a boat under a glass case. The staircase was 
 broad and stately : such a staircase as is impossible in a
 
 88 TIIK MASTKK CKAn^lMAN 
 
 imiTow London liousc, where ilic imliappv tenants have 
 to elinih up and down a ladder. l{ol)ert Hiirnikcl 
 opi-ned the door ot" the looni on the left. 'Come in 
 here/ he said. Mill tea is ready. We ean talk at our 
 ease in Ikmv. This is my own room.' lie looked around 
 with some pride, not so miieh in the old-world beauty 
 ot" tlie room, in whieh anvone mii;ht liave taken pride, 
 as in the thinu,s which helon^-ed to, and proclaimed, his 
 own studies. It would be {liffieult indeed to lind any- 
 where a more beautiful room. The walls were of 
 panelled ecchu*, dark and polished ; over the mantel was 
 a mass of carved wood, <rrapes in bunches, vine-leaves, 
 scrolls, branches, lieads of Cupids, all apparently thrown 
 totrether upon the wall, but there was method in the 
 mass ; the fruit and the leaves formed a frame round a 
 shield on which were blazoned — or and p^ules and azure, 
 in proper heraldic coloui-s, a coat-of-arms. 
 
 ' \N hy,' I cried, ' those arc my arms ! I thou<^ht 
 they were granted to the Jud«i^e as the first " .Vrmiger ''' 
 of the family. He had them already, tlien. Tliis is 
 very curious. We were a family of gentlefolk.' 
 
 'As if that matters!' said the representative of the 
 rac-c. 'There's always been that Thing belonging to us."* 
 
 ' The man who built this house may have been a 
 pretender, but I doubt it. IV-opIe did not assume arms 
 so readily in those days. It was a kind of robbery.'
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 89 
 
 ' Oh ! the arms are ours fast enouo^h, if we want 
 them. I've got an old seal upstairs with the first boat- 
 builder's arms on it.' 
 
 ' ^^^here did he come from ? Do you know ? 
 
 ' I don't know. That's his portrait, perhaps. And 
 perhaps it isn't. Why inquire about the dead .? We 
 are only concerned with the living.'' 
 
 On one side of the mantel hung a portrait in oils of a 
 dead and gone Burnikel. He wore white lace ruffles, a 
 white lace neckcloth, a colossal wig, and he had the 
 smooth, fat cheek and double chin of his generation, 
 which was a bibulous, armchair-loving generation. 
 
 ' I believe,' Robert repeated, ' that this is the man 
 Avho came here first, but it is not certain. It may be 
 his son or his grandson. Did you think really that 
 your family began with the Judge, Sir George T 
 
 * Well, I never heard much about his predecessors, 
 except that story of the lost diamonds.' 
 
 ' Now you see. The first man of whom we know any- 
 thing builds this fine house, lines it with cedar and 
 rosewood, and oak wainscoting ; adorns it with wood- 
 
 'That overmantel work might belong to a later time,' 
 I interrupted. ' It looks like Grinling Gibbons, though. 
 He may have done it — or perhaj)s one of his scholars.' 
 
 'And had a coat-of-arms. He was a gentleman, I
 
 90 Tin: MASIER C'RAITSMAN 
 
 sup})Ose, if vou cu-L' .11)0111 that tart. I (loiTt. Gentle- 
 m.in or not, lu- did not dcspisi- thi- rraft of hoat- 
 biiilder/ 
 
 ' Ves, I do care about that fact. Gentility is a real 
 thintr, wliatcver you may tliiuk. I am vcrv i^dad indeed 
 to recover this lon<;-lost ancestor.* 
 
 On tlie other side of the mantel was a lari^e oval 
 mirror. Its duty, which it discharged faithfully, was to 
 catch the li,i;ht, and so to relieve the room of some of 
 the shadows wlucli lay aoout in the corners, shifting 
 from place to ])lace us the day went on, until the 
 evening fell, when the candles were reflected in the 
 polished walls, and the room was ghostly to those wlio 
 ever thought upon tlie dead and gone. One side of the 
 room, however, was com})letely spoiled as regards the 
 original intention of him who clothed it ^^ ith cedar by 
 the introduction of a bookca.se covering the whole wall, 
 and fitted with books. There was a central table littered 
 Avith pa})^^^, and a smaller table with a row of books. 
 And there were only two chairs, both of them wooden 
 chairs with arms — the students' chair. The books, one 
 might observe, had the external a})j)earance of having 
 been read and well used ; the bindinijs beinu: cracked or 
 crea.sed and robbed of tlieir pristine .shinine.ss. I looked 
 at them. Heavens ! AVhat a serious library of solid 
 reading! Herbert Sj)encer, Mill, llallam, Freeman,
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 91 
 
 Stubbs, Hamilton, Spinoza, Banehot, Seeley, Lecky, 
 and a crowd of others for liistorv ; Darwin, Huxley, 
 Tyndall, Wallace, and more for science ; rows of books 
 on the institutions of the country and on the (questions 
 of the day. 
 
 ' These are my books.** Robert pointed to them with 
 undisguised pride. ' I don't belieye there's a better 
 collection this side of the Tower. I collected them all 
 myself. You see, my peoj^le were neyer giyen nmch to 
 books. My father in the evening smoked his pipe. 
 His father smoked his pipe in the evening. The girls 
 of the family did their sewing all the time. They didn't 
 want to read. All the books we had stood in two 
 shelves in a cupboard. They were chieHy devotional 
 ])ooks. " Meditations among the Tombs,'' " Sermons," 
 " lleHcctions for the Serious," " Pilgi'im's Progi-ess," and 
 such-like — mighty useful to me. So I had to collect 
 my own books. And, mind you, no rubbish among 
 them all — no silly novels and })oetry and stuff — all good 
 and useful books. And, what's more, I've read them 
 every one, and I know them all.' 
 
 I now began to understand how he had been training 
 for the post of Home Secretary. 
 
 'I wish I had read half as many,' I said. 'I assure 
 you that I seldom feel any curiosity iis lo what may be 
 inside a book.'
 
 92 'I'm: MASTKK ( KAFi'SMAN 
 
 'Well, if voii oiiK read what most of \'iii do vou are 
 (|iiit(.* as well out of it. Novels ! Sickiniii^ love-stones 
 — V\v tried thai kind. And poetrv! l*ah I Now, 
 here on these shelxes is sonietliin;^- worth roiuling. 
 'Hiese hooks have made me the man I am.' 
 
 ' I suppose/ I ventured, ' that you arc not married .''"' 
 
 ' No, I am not. No, sir. ]MaiTia<^e holds a man 
 down just wheie it finds him. If I were married I 
 should be wheelini;- the perambulator, fidi;etin<^ about 
 the ehildien, insurin<;- my life for the children, saving 
 monev for the ehildren, rumiini:; for the doctor. No. 
 I shall marry sonic day — when I have succeeded. Not 
 before' 
 
 'Then, you have a mother or a sister living with 
 vou ?^ 
 
 ' No. Father died five yeai*s a<i;o, and there were left 
 niv mother with myself, two brothers and a sister. The 
 business isn't good enough for more than one. So my 
 two brothei-s went off to Tasmania, and they've started 
 a vard of their own, and they tell me it's going to ])ay. 
 Mv mother went out to sec them, and I think she'll 
 stay. Vou see, mother is a determined kind of a 
 woman ; she'd alwavs been master here, father being an 
 easy kind of man, and she wanted to go on being master. 
 Now, there can't be two masters in this house. So, 
 when she came to understand that, she concluded
 
 THE FAMILY IK )rSK 93 
 
 to <»o. My sister Kate went with her. Kate wanted 
 to be master too. So ifs just as well, for faniilv j)eace 
 and (juietness, that they (hd go away. Fni all for peace, 
 and always shall be, but I mean to be master in my own 
 house.' 
 
 The sj)eech revealed things volcanic ; tlie son of the 
 mother, the mother of the son ; the sister of the brotlier, 
 the brother of tlie sister — all masterful, and all striving 
 for the mastery. xVnd the son getting the best of it. 
 So he made a solitude, and he called it {)eace. 
 ' And you are left all alone in this great house ?'' 
 ' No. Some cousins of mine — not your cousins — 
 mother^s cousins, live here and keep the house for me. 
 They are a retired skipper and his daughter. The 
 daughter does the housekeeping. She is also mv 
 secretary, and keeps the accounts of the place over the 
 way. She's a clever girl in her way, always right to a 
 farthing with the accounts ; and she copies things for 
 me when I want passages copied. Can't follo^\• an 
 argument, of course. No woman can.' This is to have 
 lived all vour life at Wap])ing. ' You'll see her pre- 
 sently. I've told her, by the way, if that mattei-s — 
 only I want you to understand how I stand, and wJial 
 sort of a man I am — that I shall iiiany \\vv one of 
 these days, when I have got on. Not hclbre. You 
 see, I want a wife who won't be thinking all the timt-
 
 04 THE MASTER CUAITSMAN 
 
 al)()iit ht'i- ilotlu's and c()inj)any and .stufl'. I train my 
 own wife in niv own way. It may be ten years, or 
 twelve years, or forty, that shell have to wait. Of 
 course,^ he snorted, ' she doesn't ex})eet any fondhng 
 and kissin;; and fooHshness.' 
 
 ' Poor ^irl !' I did not say this. I only murmured, 
 ' Yes, I see, of eourse,' in tlie usual way w hen one is sur- 
 prised, and a colierent re})ly is difficult. 
 
 'I onlv tell you this because I am consulting you 
 about myself, and you ought to know everything. 
 Otherwise, if s a perfectly unimportant affair.' 
 
 ' Only a woman."' 
 
 'That's all. One nuist marry, some time, and it's as 
 well to know what you are about. Not that Tm afraid 
 of any woman. Still, it saves trouble to get your wife 
 into proper order before you begin. ^ 
 
 ' My own opinion, quite. Whether it will be my 
 wife's opinion or not I cannot say."* 
 
 Here was a gallant lover for you ! Here was an 
 ardent lover! Here, in the language of the last cen- 
 tury, ^vere flames and darts, and ]mins and madness of 
 love ! He was going to wait for ten or twelve or forty 
 vears, until he had achieved the object of his ambition ; 
 and there was to be no fondling, and the future wife 
 was to be reduced to j)ro])er order ! 
 
 ' And now,' said the man of ambition abruptly,
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 95 
 
 ' about that information that you promised to get for 
 me. That's what we came here to talk about, not 
 coats-of-arms and girls. Have you got it ?' 
 
 ' I have been to see a man whom I know. He is a 
 poHtician ; lie lives in politics ; he thinks about nothing 
 else. And I spent this morning with him discussing 
 your case — nmch as you told me last night. I can 
 only tell you ' — I felt a little embarrassed, for obvious 
 reasons — ' what he told me." 
 
 ' Go on. What did he say ? That a boat-builder 
 from Wa})ping mustn't dare to think of the House ?'' 
 
 ' Not at all. They don't mind nuich what a man is 
 by calling. AMiat I understood last night is this : You 
 wish to go into the House and to make your \'. ay up- 
 wards by yom* own abilities, alone. You will force the 
 House to recognise you.' 
 
 ' Yes. My model is John Bright. I've got his 
 speeches, and I know his history.' 
 
 ' But John Bright became in the long-run a Partv 
 man.' 
 
 ' John Bright was a power in the country as an in- 
 dependent member long before he went into the Cabinet. 
 I want to be a power in the country.' 
 
 ' Well, my friend says that the time of the Independent 
 Member is gone. The only way to get on, nowadays, 
 is to bc'loiio; to a I^uiv from the outset. Do vou know
 
 96 THK MASli:U CUAITSMAN 
 
 what that means ? Vou have to fall in and ohvy ordei-s ; 
 voii must not advamc opinions of your own unliss they 
 haj>|Hii to !)»• tliosc of llu- I'aily ; yon nnist vote as you 
 are tohi ; vou nuist ailvoeate whatever tlie leadei-s do. 
 ^^'hen you have proved yourself a «^ood servant — trust- 
 worthy, unscrupulous, and loyal — then, and not till then, 
 if you fit in other respects, and if there is nobody in 
 the way, and if you are personally liked by tlie Cabinet, 
 and if there is any vacancy into which you could be 
 pushed, then, and not till then, you might get promoted, 
 and so rise." 
 
 ' Oh," he snarled again defiantly, ' we shall see. \\'hat 
 next ?^ 
 
 ' Vou will, of ccmrse, belong to the Liberal side. All 
 the men wlio want to get on enter on that side, because 
 the others have got young men of their own. If you do 
 not know a constituency where you think you would have 
 a chance, the Party, supposing they aj)prove of you n.s 
 a can(Hdate, will perhaps find you one. They've always 
 got a list of ])oroughs where they want a good candidate, 
 Then vou must set yourself to become agreeable to the 
 electors ; you nuist stay there, lecture them, humour them, 
 coax and cajole and flatter and fawn to them — my man 
 didn't say all this, but he meant it — above all, you must 
 ])romise them everything they want. It is perfectly 
 etisy, thoutrh it does seem rather dirty work. But it
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 97 
 
 has to be done, and by yourself, because it can^t be done 
 by deputy/ 
 
 *I shall not do if 
 
 'As you please. You know that there is a Party 
 Committee in cyery borough. You will have to study 
 that Committee, and all the members. Lastly, you will 
 have to undergo the process of heckling, which a man 
 of your temj^er will, I imagine, find extremely disagree- 
 able.^ 
 
 ' I shall get in. Sir George, without any of these 
 tricks ; and I shall get in as an Independent Member. 
 I will neither fawn to my people nor flatter them. I 
 shall say : " Here am I, your candidate ; elect me.*" 
 And I shall go in })ledge(l to neither side.' 
 
 'Then, my cousin, between the two you will fall to 
 the gi'ound.** 
 
 ' Xo ; I shall succeed. You do not understand yet. 
 Sir George, that you have to do with a very able man 
 indeed.' 
 
 This kind of talk may be aiTogant and offensive ; but 
 Robert Burnikel was neither. He made an arrogant 
 assertion with a calmness which was modesty. He 
 advanced it as one who states a scientific fact. Belief 
 in himself was a part of the man's nature. More than 
 this, as vou will see : he succeeded in convincing those 
 who heard him. 
 
 V<.L. .. 7
 
 98 THK MASTi:U CllAlTSMAN 
 
 ' Nou for luv litiu'ss/ lu' went on. ' Listi'ii to this. 
 First of all, there's noluxlv like me in the House nt .ill. 
 I am a Mattel- CraftMiiaii. I'ormtilv there wen- hniulrcds 
 of crafts all earried on in London. Thev iiiatle every- 
 thiuiT. There were in every erafl the mastei-s and tlie 
 men. The master knew the eraft as well as the men. 
 I make what I sell. I am not a shopkeeper; I make. 
 That is a «;reat dilferenee, l)eeause it helps me to nnder- 
 stand the Labour (Question — woik, wa<^es, hours, and all 
 the rest of it. There are work in «»• men in the House: 
 sli()})keepei's, manufacturers, lawyers, eountry •gentle- 
 men; but the Master Craftsman the House hasn't got, 
 and it wants him badly/ 
 
 ' Well r 
 
 ' lliat is not all. This place, .so secluded and cut off* 
 bv the docks and its river, is a little world in itself. 
 Vou can study everything in Wapping. I know the 
 working of the whole system — parish, vestry. County 
 Council, School Board, everything. I undei-stand the 
 e<hication business, because T know mv own men and 
 their families, and what they want, and the foolishness 
 of what thev gi't. I undei-stand the Poor Law business. 
 I know all about the CInirch, the parish, the school, the 
 workhou.se, the parish lates. 'i'hat's practical know- 
 ledge. Hut that is not enough. One must undeiMtand 
 princij)les. All institutions are based on princi|)les. So
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 99 
 
 I have read Herbert Spencer and Mill, aiul all the books 
 that treat of practical things and what they mean. 
 There is an ideal standard in every institution — the 
 thing aimed at — and there is a practical level which is 
 as near as we can get. They are sometimes very wide 
 apart ; they are ke})t apart by the selfishness of the men 
 for whom the system has been devised. We must never 
 lose sight of the ideal, and we must work steadily to 
 bring the attainable nearer to the ideal.' 
 
 ' Go on.' I grew more and more interested in this 
 man — this strong man. 
 
 ' AVell, I read the debates every day. Nothing 
 interests me in the paper so much as the debates. Day 
 after day I say to myself, when I read the rubbish that 
 is talked there : " This is wrong ; this is ignorant ; 
 this is foolish ; this is mischievous ; this man doesn't 
 undei'stand the first facts of the case.'' And so on. 
 Because, you see, when a man has got the workings of 
 one single parish like this firmly fixed in his mind, with 
 the history and the meaning of every institution in it — 
 and they are all in it — from a coroner's jury uj) to a 
 General Election, he's got an amount of practical know- 
 ledge that covers nearly the whole field of home 
 politics.' 
 
 ' Well, but you are as yet untried in oratory antl in 
 debate.'
 
 100 THE MASTKK ( UAFIS.MAN 
 
 * Not at all. I went into the lilackwall Parliament 
 at sixteen ; at twenty I led the House. I can speak ; 
 not to pour out floods of slushy talk. I tell you I can 
 speak. I have studied the art of oratory ; I have read 
 all I could find on the subject. I have also read many 
 great speeches — Bright's, above all. I told you just 
 now, Sir George, that I am an able man. I now tell 
 you that I am an elocjuent man. I know that the 
 House doesn't want claptrap. I s})oke at Poplar la.st 
 winter, and I made 'em laugh and made 'em cry just as 
 I chose, and because I wanted to try what I could do 
 with them. That was only claptrap. I can speak 
 better than that. And as for my voice, listen : Do, 
 
 Re, Mi ' He ran uj) and down the scales not only 
 
 with correctness and ease, but with a flexible, rich, antl 
 musical baritone. ' That's good enough for anything, 
 isn't it.'' Why, as soon as I found I had a voice, I 
 rejoiced, because I knew that for such work as I resolved, 
 even then, to go in for, a voice is most useful. I went 
 into the church choir in ortler to learn the use of it. I 
 sing there every Sunday for j)ractice. I didn't want to 
 sinir in the choir ; it wastes <^ood time ; but there is the 
 practice. Nothing like singing for keeping the voice 
 flexible.' 
 
 ' Very good — very good indeed.' 
 
 ' Well, I have told you everything. What do you
 
 THE FAMILY HOUSE 101 
 
 think about my fitness to go into the House to-morrow, 
 and to rise in it ?' 
 
 The question was meek. The manner was aggressive. 
 It said plainly, ' Deny, if you dare, my fitness." 
 
 At that moment the door was opened, and a girPs 
 head appeared. ' Tea is ready," she said, and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 * Let us go in to tea,' I said ; ' and then I will answer 
 your question."
 
 CHAinER M. 
 
 TKA IS KKADY. 
 
 Tea wiis served in the room on tlie other side of the 
 Hall. Like the study, this room was a lovely old room 
 also, ('()m])letelv wainscoted witli cedar. Thei-e were the 
 same carvings over tlie mantel — frnit, Howers, p^-apes, 
 leaves and branches, and the shield with the family coat- 
 of-arms. Tlie room was, however, li«rliter than the 
 study, partly because it contained in each of the upper 
 panels family portraits, and on the panels below oil- 
 paintinfjs representing the river as seen from tlie boat- 
 yard, with its shij)s, barges, hoys, lighters, boats, and all 
 tlu' life and motion and business of the river in the last 
 century. So little regard for art was there in the family 
 that no one knew who had painted these panels. Yet 
 it was no mean hand which had designed and executeil 
 them. i\Ianv indications pointed to the daily occupancy 
 of the room bv the household. In the window, for 
 instance, stood a small table, with a work-basket placed
 
 'TEA IS READY ^ 103 
 
 there out of the way. There was a sideboard — pc riod, 
 the second Georo;e — of mahogany, black with a«;e. It 
 was one of the kind consisting of two square towers, 
 each with a locked door and two compartments within, 
 and a broad, Hat connecting-piece with a drawer. In 
 the middle portion stood a noble old punch-bowl, 
 surrounded by glasses — lovely old glasses : the con\ivial 
 rummer, the useful tumbler, the tall champagne glass, 
 the old-fashioned little port glass, the tiny liqueur glass 
 — a beautiful assortment such as a mere modem cannot 
 understand. On one side of the towers stood a glass 
 filled with spring flowei*s ; and on the other, as if belong- 
 ing to the masculine sex, a case for spirits. On the 
 panels above the pictures was a row of plates ; they hax\ 
 stood there for a hundred vears, only taken down from 
 time to time to be dusted. On the other side of the room, 
 opposite to the door, was a cottage piano, open, with 
 nuisie piled on the top. In one corner, near the fire- 
 place, was a little stack of churchwarden pipes ; and in 
 the other comer was a door, half open, which revealed a 
 suqirising cupboard. The eighteenth-century housewife 
 demanded so many store-rooms for all her jams, jellies, 
 pickles, wines, cordials, and strong waters ; so many 
 still-rooms, linen-rooms, and pantries for the immense 
 collections which her family wanted for the successful 
 rondutt of a household, that it became necessary to have
 
 104. TIIK MASTER ( UAITSMAN 
 
 ft cuphoanl in tlic parlour, or «^(.'nfral living-room, as 
 well. This cu})boani l)elong('<i to the Hiiniikels of tlie 
 last centurv ; but its use was continued by the j)rcscnt 
 ocTupants. Here were kept the cups and saucei-s, old 
 and new ; liere was the plate-basket, containing the 
 forks and spoons in daily use — silver, not plated, and 
 thin with age; here were certain books of devotion 
 which once formed the family library — they were those 
 referi-ed to by Ko])ert ; here were tea-caddy, coff'ee- 
 catldy, and sugar-basin ; here were the decanters which 
 l>elonged to the Sunday dinner; here were houseliold 
 account books ; here was tlie corkscrew ; here were 
 mysterious phials ; here were kept the marking ink, 
 the writing ink, the pens and pa})er ; here was the 
 current pot of jam ; here were the lemons ; here, in 
 short, the thousand and one things likely to be wantetl 
 every day by the liouseliold. For this room was the 
 family kee})ing or living room ; it was not the dining- 
 room or the breakfast-room : it was the parlour. 
 Robert's room had ])een the best parlour until he 
 changed it into the study. 
 
 One did not take in all these details al once; but I 
 had abundant opportunities afterwanis of noting every- 
 thing. Meantimi', what I observed first of all was that 
 ' tea ' meant sitting down to a table covered with a white 
 cloth, spread with a magnilicent display of good things.
 
 'TEA IS READY ^ 105 
 
 I i-emeinbered my cousin's ominous words : ' I told them 
 that you mi<;ht come in to tea.' ' They ' liad provided 
 this square meal in hospitality for me. 
 
 The girl who sat behind the tea-tray, ready to serve, 
 was doubtless the housekeeper, accountant, secretary, 
 clerk, whom my cousin was some day going to many. 
 A slight, delicate-looking girl she appeared to be ; and 
 she seemed shy, her head drooping. Beside her stood, 
 supported by a stick, an elderly man. 
 
 ' This is Captain Bering," said my cousin, introducing 
 his friend, ' and this is Isabel Dering.' 
 
 The girl bowed stiffly. The Ca})tain extended a 
 friendly hand. 
 
 ' Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,' he said 
 heartily. * There was a time when I made new friends 
 every voyage, but those times are over. The sight of 
 a stranger at Wapj)ing is a rare event, I assure you.' 
 
 ' Especially,' I said, ' a stranger who comes in search 
 of a long-lost cousin.' 
 
 The face and dress and general appearance of 
 this old gentleman indicated his profession. It was 
 nautical. 
 
 'My tough old figure-head,' they all cried aloud to- 
 gether, 'tells you that I am a sailor, though retired. 
 My clear, hcmest eyes tell vou that I am a sailor. My 
 red and weather-beaten check ; my blue cloth ; the sha])e
 
 106 TIIK MASTKU CUAITSMAN 
 
 of iny jacket — all pnulaiiii that I am a sailor — and 
 |)i*oii(l of it, sir, proiul of it.' 
 
 '1'Ir'ii Ilohcrt IJiirnikc'l, to inv coiifusioii, hecaiise I 
 thou<^ht the custom, over a eiip of tea, low^ exploded, 
 pronounced a ^raee. It was an old family ^ace, dating 
 from the time when all nspcelahle families of the middle 
 class were extremely reli<;i()us, and the Church of Kngland 
 was eyangelicnl, and when ladies conversed and wrote 
 lettei*s to each other, almost entirely on the condition 
 of their souls. Quite a l()n<^ collect, this <rrace was. 
 Yet the utterance was as purely formal as that of ;i;race 
 in a College Hall, or <;race in a workliousc, which is the 
 most formal thing I know. Ilohert ])r()n()unce(l that 
 grace mechanically. 
 
 This form of prayer concluded, we all sat clown. A 
 tronendous tea was on tlie ta])le : ham in slices, boiled 
 eggs, potted tongue, })rawns, bread-and-butter, cakes of 
 many kinds, including plum-cake, seed-cake, Madeira- 
 cake, tea-cake (which is a buttered or bilious variety), 
 shoi-t-cake, biscuits, jam, marmalade, and honey. A 
 hospitable tea. A scpiare tea, in fact. A tea, like 
 liobert Burnikel himself, at once serious and earnest 
 and heavy. 
 
 As a rule, I repeat, I take notliing with mv afternoon 
 tea. lint one must not be churlish. My cousin glanced 
 at me before the j)rayer, as if to siiy, ' You shall see for
 
 'TEA IS READY' 107 
 
 yourself how Wapping can do it.' .Vnd I was expected 
 to do justice to all these good things provided in my 
 honour. Why, if this splendid spread was put on the 
 table every day, the Captain's clear eye would become 
 yellow, and the Master would find it no longer possible 
 to follow out an argument, for the black spots, lines, 
 and circles which would be bobbing about between his 
 nose and the ])rinted page. It must have been an ex- 
 ceptional spread. No one could live through a month 
 of such teas. I avoided the ham, and escaped the eggs, 
 and declined the shrimps. But I went in for the cakes, 
 and on the whole acxjuitted myself, I believe, creditably. 
 The Captain and the giver of the feast, on their parts, 
 ploughed their way resolutely through the whole ari'ay 
 of dishes. When the first pangs were appeased, the 
 Captain spoke. 
 
 'Sir George Burnikel,' he said, with solemnity, 'I 
 commanded the Maul of Athens; which ran between 
 Calicut and Ceylon, for many yeai-s. As the captain 
 of that noble vessel I've taken passengers abroad of the 
 highest rank — the very highest — not to speak of coffee- 
 planters. Not that their rank made them better sailors. 
 I acknowledge so much. But it made me a resj)ecter of 
 the British aristocracy. Sir George Burnikel, of which 
 you are a worthy member. Jlobert here is all lor pulling 
 down. Why P I ask vou humblv, Sir (ieorge — why.'''
 
 108 rili: MAS'IKU CKAFl'SMAN 
 
 Uol)ert grunted. 
 
 ' Wliv ? I ask. ^^■hen you break up an old ship she's 
 gone. Dunl break her uj). IjcI her \xi. I Ait her go 
 on till she's wrecked or cast away. No, sir, when you've 
 carried noblemen upon the Indian Ocean, and found out 
 that they are exactly like other people — must be stroked 
 the right way ; want the most comfoi-table l)erths ; drink 
 the same grog, and talk the same language — then you 
 get to respect the aristocracy. Because, you see, with 
 their chances, they might have been so very diirerent. 
 And then you ask, AMiv pull down ? Wliv swi't'p away ?** 
 He adthx'ssed the question to Robert, wlio oidv grunted. 
 It was obviously an old subject of dispute. 
 
 Then the Captain turned to the table again, and pro- 
 ceeded to work through the festive spread in silence. 
 
 The lagging of conversation enabled me to look about 
 and observe. To ()l)serve in a strange house is to make 
 discoveries. First, I regarded the girl at the tea-tray. 
 Slie was lather j)retty, I thought ; too pale, as if she 
 took too little exercise, or worked too hard, or was 
 underfed ; slie had curiously sotl and limpid eyes — of 
 the kind wliich seem to liold witliin them unknown 
 deptlis of something — wisdom, perhaps; love, perhaps; 
 prophecy, perhaps — according to the lover's interpre- 
 tation. Her features wlmc regular, but not of classical 
 outline ; her cheek looked soft as velvet ; her lips were
 
 *TEA IS READY' 109 
 
 mobile. But she was too gi'ave ; she looked s.ul, even. 
 I ivMuenibered what my cousin said : ' No fondliiif; and 
 nonsense.' At twenty-four one has not a large ex- 
 perience, but I certainly could not help tliinking that 
 she was a girl designed and intended by Nature to live 
 upon love, and the fondlings and caresses and outward 
 signs of love, which her fiance thought so ridiculous. 
 To have none ! To wait for ten, twelve, fifteen years, 
 and to lack that consolation and comfort ! Poor child ! 
 Poor Isabel ! 
 
 And then I made another discovery. The girl was 
 afraid of her cousin — the blaster — the man who would 
 not permit his own mother to entertain any illusions 
 about the mastery. She was afraid of her own fiance ; 
 she watched him anxiously ; she anticipated his wants 
 in silence ; he received her attentions without ac- 
 knowledgment. Why was she afraid of him ? Did he 
 scold and abuse his secretary ? 
 
 My host, I perceived, conducted his eating with the 
 resolution and the rapidity that becomes habitual when 
 one sits down to eat and not to talk. As I learned 
 afterwards, there was little conversation at the table in 
 this house, because the master was always full of his own 
 thoughts, and despised the conmion to|)ics of the day 
 and the season. Perceiving, when he had himself 
 finished a very su])stantial stop-gap between dimier and
 
 no Tin: mastku cuaitsmax 
 
 ()- 
 
 siipjK'i*, tliat his i;iu'>t had aUo cfasi-d taking in j)i 
 visions, he rose abruptly, |)usliin^ batk liis chair and his 
 phite. One niav i*eniark this thin<r (h)ne daily in the 
 cotta<;e and in tlie vilhi^i^e. It is an action wlncli seenLs 
 to heh)n<>: to a level lower than that of a master boat- 
 builder. One nii«;ht have expected more attention to 
 style ; ])ut, as I learned afterwards, in a house wliere 
 one man rules absolute, like Nero of Rome, and nobody 
 dares to expostulate, some deterioration of mannei*s is 
 apt to cree]) in. 
 
 ' Now,^ lie said, ' if vou won't take any more tea-cake .^ 
 a few shrimps.'' an 00;^? Nor Then, we'll «;o and 
 have anotlier talk. Isabel, you needn't come in.' 
 
 The Ca])tain took no notice of our depai*ture. I 
 bowed to the girl, who looked a little surprised at this 
 act of courtesy, and rather stitHy inclined her head. 
 
 Outside the door Robert Buniikel stopped. * Up- 
 stairs,' he said, 'I think there is somethiiii;- to interest 
 vou. Come along.' On the second-Hoor he threw open 
 the door of a room. 'This,' he said, M.s called the 
 s})are-r()om. Hut I never i-emember that it was occu- 
 pied. \\ I' could do without it, I suppose ; and we 
 never had any visitoi-s to stay the night. So, you see, 
 it is onlv half furnished.' The room contained a wooden 
 bed with mattresses, but no feathei-bed, or spring-bed, 
 or curtains — onlv the frame; thei^e were three or four
 
 'TEA IS ]{KA1)V^ 111 
 
 odd chairs staiuling about, and there was a great sailors 
 chest. 'This,' he explained, 'is the bed of old John 
 Burnikel, the man who had the bag of diamonds/ 
 
 ' Oh, it is a pity we haven't got the bag as well, isn't 
 it ? Did your great-grandfather buy it ?' 
 
 ' I sus})ect there was no buying. He was on the 
 spot and he took it — bed and sea-chest and all. I 
 suppose he thought that perhaps, in spite of tlieir 
 failures to find it, the bag might be somewhere about 
 the bed.' 
 
 ' And he searched, of course ?' 
 
 ' I believe this bed must have been taken to pieces a 
 hundred times. My brother and I once took it to 
 j)ieces and tapped every piece all over with a hammer 
 to see if it was hollow. Look ! Here is the secret 
 cupboard in which people used to hide their things.' 
 It was at the head of the bed. He pressed a certain 
 spot in the woodwork and a door flew open, disclosing a 
 small recess. ' Everybody knew the secret, but every- 
 body pretended not to know. Of course, when the old 
 man was gone, the first thing they did was to look into 
 this secret cupboard. But there was nothing there. 
 Then they turned the house inside out. Then they 
 quan-elled and fought. Then they dissolved partner- 
 ship.** 
 
 ' And then,' I added, ' they accused each other, for
 
 112 Tin: MASTKU CKAITSMAN 
 
 three generations after, of steal in«^ that btig. It's a 
 wonderful family story. I^'t me try/ 
 
 I |mt in niv hand and felt round tlie little eu})hoard. 
 There was nothin<^. 
 
 ' And this," my cousin went on, * is the old man's 
 sea-chest. That, too, was l)rouiz;ht here at tlie same 
 time as the bed. 'I'he two thinp^s, except for a table 
 and a chair and a fryin<j^-pan, were all the furniture the 
 okl man possessed. It's a most marvellous ih'mcr to 
 think of. What became of that bag.^ A hundred 
 times and more that old bed has been pulled to pieces, 
 and that old chest has been turned out, to see if there 
 was any hiding-place still undiscovered.' 
 
 A large, iron-bound sea-chest. I threw open 
 the lid. It seemed to contain a queer lot of useless 
 rubbish. 
 
 ' The sight of this box,' said Robei-t, * makes one 
 believe that thei*e really must have been a bag of 
 diamonds, after all.' 
 
 ' Of course there was. The only thing is — wliat 
 became of it P Nobody knew anything about it. No- 
 body was in the house from the time that the old man 
 was taken ill until his nej)hews came ; no outsider stole 
 that bag. What became of it, then ? Of course, it is 
 no goo<l asking now. Still, it is mysterious!' 
 
 *■ Yes. And about ninety yeai*s ago the two cousins
 
 'TExV IS READY ^ 113 
 
 were standing over the dead man's bed, just as we are 
 doing now. I feel as if it was yesterday/ 
 
 ' Don't accuse nie,' I said, ' of stealing the thing, or 
 there will be another fight/ 
 
 Robert smiletl grimly. Were there to be another 
 fight, he was perfectly assured about the event. A very 
 superior young man in every direction. I noted the 
 smile and understood it. Rut it was all part of the 
 very singular and masterful personality to which I was 
 thus singularly introduced. 
 
 By this time I was fully impressed with the fact that 
 I had to deal with a very remarkable, resolute, and 
 ambitious young man, who cared about nothing in the 
 world but his own advancement ; strong and able, 
 masterful, self-confident even to the very rare degree of 
 communicating his secret ambitions. Most men, again, 
 limit their ambitions by the circumstances and the con- 
 ditions of their lives; they do not look much beyond. 
 The ambition of the average working man is to get 
 continuous work ; sometimes to become a master ; the 
 ambition of the average young shopkeeper is to extend 
 his business ; the young solicitor hopes for a steady 
 practice ; the young author hopes for acceptance by 
 the editor — only acceptance, only a chance ; he has 
 no thought at first of great world-wide success ; his 
 ambition increases as he gets on. In Robert's citse the 
 vol.. I. 8
 
 114 T\U: MASTKIl CHAITSMAN 
 
 ambition was iVom the outset rull-^rowii. *I will ^o 
 into tlie House,' he sjiid, being only a boat-builder 
 with a small >7ir(l and a moderate business, *an(l I 
 will become a Cabinet Minister/ Sueli ambition was 
 immense, presumptuous, audacious, considering his 
 position. And yet, considering the man, apart from his 
 position, I recognised almost from the outset that it was 
 not ridiculous.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A BARGAIN. 
 
 Robert shut the study door carefully, as if to exckide 
 any chance of being overheard. The room was growing 
 dark now, save for the gas-lamp on the opposite side of 
 the street. He pulled down the blind, lit a reading- 
 lamp, wliich threw a little circle of bright light on the 
 papers of the writing-table, and awakened reflections on 
 the polished walls of cedar, luminous breadths which in- 
 tensified the shadows between and below. The room felt 
 ghostly. I took a chair outside the circle of light ; my 
 cousin took his own chair in his own place within tliC 
 circle. Then an odd thing hap})ened. Someone in the 
 other room — of course it was Isabel — began to play. 
 She played some soft nuisic, a reverie, a song without 
 words, a romance, a gentle, suggestive kind of nuisic ; 
 it acted on me as a mesmeric influence ; it is a weakness 
 whiili always falls upon me when I hear soft nuisic. It 
 falls upon my brain, and I seem to see visions and dream
 
 116 Till-: MASTKK ( KAirSMAN 
 
 dreams. So while Isaher.s finders r,inil)K(l onc r the notes, 
 aiitl her nuisie fell soft and sweet upon the soul, it seemed 
 as if I was only sittint^ attain where I usctl to sit a l()n<^ 
 time a^o, and that I had just been talkinir of the recent 
 loss of those jewels with my cousin, whom I suspected 
 of the theft. And I remembered the bedside watchini'- 
 and the death of old dohn liurnikel, and the M-aich after 
 those diamonds, and the dej)loral)le (piarrel with mv 
 cousin and the fight that followed. I say that I re- 
 membered all this as if I myself was present at these 
 events. Then thin<;s <;ot mixed. I had stolen these 
 diamonds myself. 15y these, and as Jud«re, second 
 liaronet and third Baronet, I succeeded in ffaininj*- 
 more wealth and distinction. But — a very important 
 thing — time was up. My cousin's turn was now to 
 come. 
 
 A curious fancy — a whimsical dream. \'et it sei/ed 
 uie an(i it held me. And it kept recurring. Time was 
 up. We had had our turn. Now was the cousin's turn. 
 My money was all gone ; my position was gone. His 
 was just about to begin. 
 
 'Well,' said the boat-buildii-, ' I have told vou everv- 
 thing — all my ambitions — (piite openly and freelv. I 
 liave trusted you.' 
 
 *■ Vou have.' 
 
 '1 tru>t a man, or 1 do not, bv hi^ face. That is
 
 A BARGAIN 117 
 
 how I engage my men. A fellow comes to me. " Oh," 
 I say, " you're one of a discontented lot ; you are a 
 Socialist Anarchist — divide -and -do -nothing soii.'' I 
 know their faces. Or else I say : " You are a steady 
 workman. You'll do for me.'' I'm never wrong. I'd 
 take you on to-morrow over the way, with pleasure. 
 That's why I trusted you."* 
 
 ' All that you have said is in confidence, of course.' 
 ' Isabel doesn't know, except that I mean to go ahead. 
 Well, what you told me before tea is disturbing. All 
 the same, I mean to go into the House as an Independent 
 member. And I know the borough I shall choose. I 
 shall stand for Shad well, where they know me. As for 
 the money that the election will cost — well, I can't very 
 well afford it, that's certain, but I nuist plank it down. 
 It will be an investment."* 
 
 * Very good.' 
 
 ' Then tell me, is there anything I have forgotten ? 
 I want to stand at the next General Election. I want 
 to begin nursing the borough at once.' 
 
 ' Perhaps — there may be — one thing,' I replied, with 
 hesibition. 
 
 * What thing? I have thought it all out. I can 
 speak. I am not afraid. I can give and take. I know 
 the institutions of the country and their history. I 
 know the (|uestions of the day and the actual facts
 
 118 THE MASTER ( RAFFSMAN 
 
 about tlu'iii. Tvu i^ot n nicmorv likr n well-ordered 
 cupboard. W'bat liave I f()r<;()tten ?' 
 
 * Vou an' not tbc man I take vou for if you are 
 offended/ 
 
 ' Nonsense, man I ^'ou can't offend me." There are 
 two or tinve ways of |)i()n()uncin<; the last four wortls. 
 Thev may l)e so emj)hasi/ed as to eonyey the hi«^hest 
 compliment or the greatest contempt. Rolxirt's way 
 inclined to the latter. He expressed moderate contenipt 
 and self-siitisfied superiority. A touchy man would haye 
 l)een offended. I am not a toucliy man ; and I took the 
 reply — eom})liment or contempt — with a cheerful smile, 
 wasted l)ecause unseen in the gloom of the room. I 
 might as well have scowled. 
 
 ' Well, then, you haye forgotten one thing. That is 
 — manners.' 
 
 ' Manuel's !' In the brifjht liijrht of his circle I saw his 
 eyes ff;isli and his cheek flame. It was as if the limit of 
 patience had been reached. ' Manners y he rej)eated. 
 ' Vou mean that I don't know how to behaye. Fd have 
 you learn, then, that we behave as well at \\'apping 
 as Picciulilly.' 
 
 I have since learned that there is no social leyel where 
 the chai'ge of bad mamiei-s would not bi* resented. It 
 is a beautiful thing to refiect that, however low (h)wn 
 one may penetrate, always there is a codi? of mannei*s,
 
 A BARGAIN 119 
 
 an ideal, a standard, and resentment of the deej)est if 
 one is charged with shortcomings in respect to that code. 
 Robert snorted with indignation. For a moment I 
 feared that I had mortally offended him. So I hastened 
 to bring along what the Persian poet calls the Watering- 
 pot of Conciliation. 
 
 * One moment. I mean this : You have set before 
 yourself a definite end. Your design is to become a 
 power in the House. You cannot afford, therefore, as 
 you very well undei-stand, to neglect any means of 
 attaining this end. Now, a power in the House must 
 mean in some sense or other a man of Society. Not 
 to know the ways and usages of Societv would be the 
 greatest possible hindrance to you. I know of one 
 man now in the House who will never rise, simply 
 because he is a rank social outsider; he can neither 
 dress, nor talk, nor carry himself, like a gentleman. 
 Tell me, for instance, do you possess that sim})le article, 
 indispensable for society — the common dress-coat ?' 
 
 ' No ; IVe got an office coat and a house coat and 
 a Sunday coat. A\Tiat the Dkvil more docs a man 
 want .''' 
 
 * Nothing more, really. Hut we are artificial. Have 
 you, next, ever been to an evening dinner-party .''' 
 
 ' We dine at one o'clock every day — the good old 
 time. There are no evcninir tliniier-parties here.'
 
 1^>0 'IIIK MAS'l'i:i{ ( KAK1>^MAN 
 
 'It is the «^()()(1 old time, no doubt. Still we arc, as 
 I said, artificial, and Society dines in the evening. Now, 
 as to a reception or a ball, or anythin«^of that sort ' 
 
 M)h!^ Robert orojuicd. 'What has this kind of 
 thiniT iTot to do with nie ?"* 
 
 ' And as to the coinnion languai^e of Society, and as 
 to such simple matters as the Art and Literature and 
 Drama of tlie social world ' 
 
 * What has all this ^ot to do with the business r' 
 
 *A threat deal. Mv ambitious cousin, knowledge of 
 all vour subjects will not advance you by yourself. 
 Kven oratorv will not advance you by itself. Vou 
 nuist make yourself a pcrsmin f^'rafd ,• you nuist become 
 one of the world ; you must dress, talk, act, behave in 
 their way, not in yours. Mind, you must/ 
 
 My cousin groaned again. 
 
 ' For instance, part of mannei-s is the art of suppress- 
 ing yourself. Vou nuist learn how to conceal your 
 aims, or, at lea.st, not to put them forward at the 
 wron^r time. You nuist learn to sliow a less serious 
 front.' 
 
 * lA'arn to pretend — that's what your fine manners 
 mean/ 
 
 'T>earn to assume a side of smiles and light talk — 
 and, perhaps, of lighter epigram. You nuist be able 
 to lauirh at things. Do you know tliat a man who can
 
 A BARGAIN 121 
 
 laugh has ten times greater chance than a man who is 
 ahvays in earnest ? You will cultivate, my cousin, if 
 you are wise, the manners, talk, ways, customs, and 
 usages of society, before, not after, you go into the 
 House. Believe me, if you are to rise, as seems likely, 
 you will have to learn these things somehow, and you 
 had better learn them (|uictly and at leisure before you 
 go in; 
 
 ]\Iy cousin banged the table with his fist. ' Good 
 Lord !' he cried. ' First you tell me that I must join 
 a party and make myself a slave, and lie, and wriggle, 
 and cringe, and fetch, and carry, and say, and do what 
 I am told. Do you think I would enter the House on 
 such conditions ? Never !"* 
 
 * As you please." 
 
 ' And now you tell me, in addition, that I must learn 
 the niminy-piminy, trumpery pretences that you call 
 manners. Well, I won t. You may have your mannei-s, 
 and I will keep mine." 
 
 ' Then you will fail, l^nderstand me, cousin. This 
 is not a (juestion of Piccadilly ways. It is one of taking 
 your ])lace with the members as their equal, from the 
 outset. This is of the greatest im})ortance to you. 
 ITiere are many men of your station originally, that is, 
 who have sprung from the trading class, in the House. 
 Some of them entered it with the same ambitions which
 
 W2 Tin: MASTKll ("KAl'lSMAN 
 
 ouide you. Those of them who have got on liuve all 
 managecl to accjuire, at the University or elsewhei-e, the 
 niannei-s of gentlemen. So nuist vou. At present, — I 
 sjjeak freely — your manners are only those of a su|)erior 
 working man. \'on have lived alone in this eorner, and 
 you have forgotten the need of manners. I say that you 
 7nfi.s't learn our nmnnei*s. Vou nmst ! Vou nurst !' 
 
 You will observe tliat I was at this time greatly 
 struck with the man's ability as well as his courage. A 
 smaller man one would have sufi'ered to make his way 
 as he could, sink or swim, probablv the former, from 
 sheer ignorance of manners. Ikit this man concjuered 
 me. I had never before met with any man who knew 
 so nuich and spoke so well, and at the same time liad 
 such an excellent opinion of liimself. Conceit and 
 vanity we have with us always ; they are given by 
 kindly Providence to make up for iiic()m})etence. But 
 that an able man sliouid be so avowedly self-reliant is 
 rare. I thought that the man himsi'If justified my plain 
 s})eaking. 
 
 He was staggered. ' Vou can't make me a lardy-dardy 
 fine gentleman,' he objected weakly. 
 
 * There is no such thing nowadays. The young 
 fellows are all athletes. I don't want to make you a 
 man of fashion or a man about town. Nothing of the 
 sort. I want to make you a well-bred, (juiet man, able
 
 A BARGAIN 12^3 
 
 to hold your own. You are built for the part ; you 
 look the part ; I want to put you on a glove of velvet 
 to hide your \viMst of iron. Do you understand that .'*' 
 
 The prospect of hiding his wrist of iron pleased the 
 man who desired strength above all things. The use of 
 the velvet, and how this choice fabric lends itself to 
 ambitious purposes, he did not, as yet, understand. 
 
 'Well,' he said unwillingly. 'You may be right. 
 Perhaps there is something in it. But if there is, I am 
 too old to learn. Manners can't be taught. There 
 was no school for manners.' 
 
 I got up. ' Before I go. Cousin Robert, I have some- 
 thing to tell you. All the confidences shall not be 
 youi-s."' 
 
 'Something to tell me?' Robert looked up, but 
 there was a discouraging want of interest in his eye, 
 and an intimation, conveyed by his manner, that he was 
 thinking about himself, and was not at all interested in 
 my confidences. 
 
 ' It is not a very long confidence. Not a tenth })art 
 so long as youi*s.' 
 
 ' That's good,' said my cousin. ' Cut along.' 
 
 'Well, it is only this. You called upon me, you 
 have talked to me, in the belief that I am rich.' 
 
 'A quarter of a million of money the Judge left 
 behind him.'
 
 124 'I HI-: MAS'i'KU ( UAFFSMAN 
 
 'IK' (lid. Hut it is all <^onv. Mv father was un- 
 fortiinati' in irrtain traiisartions. lie lost it all. I 
 only found it out — found out, that is, the whole truth 
 — yesterday, the day you tailed upon nie.' 
 
 ' What ! Lost your fortune? ^Vhat are you ^oin^ 
 to do now ?' 
 
 'That I don't know yet. Perhaps you maybe able 
 to help me. On the other hand, I may be able to help 
 you.** 
 
 ' Have vou m)t notluu'r.''' 
 
 ' Two or three thousand onlv.' 
 
 'Oh, he eails three thousand nothin*^ ! If I had as 
 much ! Well, wliat would you like to do best ':'' 
 
 ' Frankly, I don't know. I have learned nothing 
 except the use of a lathe and car])entering tools." 
 
 'You ought to be a boat-builder by riglits.' 
 
 ' I ])elieve I ou^ht. AVell, Robert — I may call you 
 by your Christian name — you shall })ut me on to some- 
 thing or other. And as for me, I can introduce you at 
 least to some pleasant })eople.' 
 
 ' I want useful people." 
 
 'They may be useful as well. Vou shall helj) me, 
 and I will help you. Is that a bargain ^ 
 
 llobeii: hesitated. l\very business man looks upon a 
 bargain fVom all points of view, and especially to see 
 how it will benefit himself. He made up his mind,
 
 A BARGAIN I05 
 
 apparently, that the bargain was in his fovour, for lie 
 stretched out his arm. ' Hands upon it, cousin.' 
 
 At that moment — it was a ha})pv omen — Isabel's 
 music burst into a ghul triumphal marcli. 
 
 Then I wished him good-niglit. ' \Ve will talk 
 further upon the point of manners,' I said ; ' perha})s 
 something may be done ; meantime, tion't take any 
 steps yourself.' 
 
 ' If I was to buy " The Eticpiette of the Ballroom " 
 now .^' he suggested anxiously ; ' there's one in a shop 
 window at Poplar.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, you want no guide but your own 
 experience, and that you nuist get somehow. Let me 
 think a bit.' 
 
 So we parted, and I went home, thinking of nothing 
 but this most remarkable person. Surely it would not 
 be difficult to give him just that little knowledge of 
 society which would prevent him from being gauche 
 and ill at ease. Could I not myself take him in 
 hand ? I had all the time there is, and one cannot be 
 thinking about one's own future aiTangements all dav 
 long. Suppose — suppose — suppose. And at this 
 moment — I remember well the exact moment ; it was 
 striking nine o'clock in the club smoking-rooni — an 
 inspiration fell upon me. Other people, including 
 Frances, have calletl it a moment of madness, demoniac
 
 V26 TIIK MASTKll (UAFrsMAN 
 
 possession, the extremity of folly ; but for my own 
 part I eall it an ins})iration. Every sueh siip^^restion, 
 just as every dream, may be traeed to some external 
 event. This su ingestion, I am sure, was due to my 
 havin<r seen the old wooden })e{l and the sailor's ehest. 
 That made me realize the boat-buildintr ancestors ; that 
 gave me the stran<::e feelin<; of liavini^ enjoyed the 
 diamonds for lon^^ enough, so that it was now my 
 cousin's turn, and this sn<r(rested what I call an inspira- 
 tion. It fell in with the new necessity for making a 
 livehhood, with the (hsgust which I entertained for all 
 the methods already proposed. I gave the thing con- 
 sideration ; went to bed with it ; wrestled with it ; got 
 up with it ; got into the bath with it ; (h*essed with it ; 
 breakfasted with it. After breakfast I sat down for 
 what they call calm reflection. This was the inspira- 
 tion. Why should I not become a boat-builder.^ An 
 honest craft is better tlian the tricks and wrigglings 
 necessary in any other line of life that appeared open 
 to me. You have seen what they were. If you think 
 of it, the oidy possible way for a j)enniless man without 
 a profession to get on and make money or keep himself 
 must be a way of wriggling. I should in this wa\ 
 learn a trade and make myself a craftsman — a Master 
 Craftsman, like my cousin. As for any indignity in 
 learning a trade, I never felt any, and I ajn not going to
 
 A BARGAIN 127 
 
 allow at this time of day that there is any. Quite the 
 contrary. If every lad learned a trade, a good many 
 would be saved from going into the wi'ong line. I re- 
 volved the thing in my mind all that morning. Then 
 I took paper and pen, and, like Robinson Crusoe, set 
 things out plainly, pro and con. As, for instance, only 
 to put down a few of the pros and cons. 
 
 Pro : I had lost my fortune and must change my 
 mode of living altogether. 
 
 Con : But there was no need for me to give up my 
 social position. 
 
 Pro : I had still enough left to start life in some 
 trade or craft. 
 
 Con : But I knew no trade. 
 
 Pro : I had a special aptitude for cutting, and carving, 
 and shaping, and making. 
 
 Con : But I should lose caste by going into trade. 
 
 Pro : But what if I did ? You cannot keep caste 
 without money. 
 
 And so on, with a special leaning to the pros, 
 because my mind was already made up. I would be a 
 boat-builder. 
 
 So at last I sat down and wrote two letters — the 
 first to my cousin Robert, and the second to Frances. 
 
 This was the first — the important epoch - ma kino- 
 letter :
 
 U28 'riii-: .M.\s'n:i{ ( kai^isman 
 
 ' Mv DKAIt ('()ISI\, 
 
 ' I haw Ihh'Ii tmniiii:; over in niv niiiul the 
 (iiHicultv in wliicli wc wvw sliuk uhcii I li-t't voii 
 vestei'dav, and I liJive a curious projjosal to make to 
 vou. It is tliis : \'()ii sliull take lue into voiir yartl and 
 teach me tlie trade or craft of" hoat-huiKhni;- — ail al)out 
 it : makin«^, sellinLj, wa^es, prices, materials, everythini«:. 
 Perha})s in twelve moidhs or so I mav he master of 
 the subject. Vou will do this for nothing-. 
 
 ' I, for niv part, after the day's work, will take you 
 home with me — to my chand)ers. And for five ni<r]its 
 out of the week I will arrange somethini;' or other that 
 will oivf vou that kind of ex])erience of which we spoke. 
 
 ' If this arrangement ])leases you, send me a tele- 
 oram/ 
 
 I des})atched this missive by postal messenger, and 
 before noon received there})ly : ' Ves; come to-morrow/ 
 
 My other note wtvs to I'^rances — a di})lomatic note. 
 I thought it better for the time to avoid her. rerha|)s 
 one knew l)efore]ian(l the views — somewhat narrow and 
 even })rejudice{l — whicli she would take about the craft 
 of ])nil(iing boats. 
 
 'Mv DKAU Fkan( r.s,' I said, 
 
 ' Vou will be interested in hearing that I have 
 decided on mv future career. It will lack public
 
 A BARGxUN 129 
 
 splendour, and it will be wholly without distinction. 
 So far you will not approve of it. Since, however, you 
 know how deplorably free from ambition I am, you 
 will not be disappointed. As soon as I have settled 
 down in my new work I will call upon you and report 
 progress; that is, if you will receive a man who will not 
 any longer call himself a gentleman, but a craftsman. 
 ' Always, my dear Frances, 
 
 ' Yours affectionately, 
 
 ' G. B.^ 
 
 vol..
 
 CHAFfER VIII. 
 
 IX THK YARD. 
 
 That was how it began. We entered upon this ex- 
 change without understanding what was to follow — who 
 ever undei-stands what is to follow ? If we were to 
 understand what is to follow, nobody would do any- 
 thing, because whatever follows is sure to contain the 
 drop of bitterness, or incompleteness, or the unlooked- 
 for evil that goes with everything. We were, in fact, 
 without knowing it, prejiaring for an exchange. As 
 you shall see, the bargain meant that Robert was to 
 take mv })lace, and I was to take his. But as yet, I 
 say, we suspected nothing of this. 
 
 In the morning I presented myself in the guise of a 
 working man ; that is to say, I put on a fishing costume 
 of tweeds. Perhaps, as a working man, I ought not to 
 have taken a hansom ; but, of course, one is not coiTect 
 all at once in every detail. 
 
 Robert came out of the box he called an ofTice.
 
 IN THE YARD 131 
 
 * Humph !' he said doubtfully, ' didn't expect you ; 
 thought you'd think better of it.' 
 
 * I have thoujrht better of it — much better of it.' 
 
 He considered a little. * If you really mean business,'' 
 he said. ' Of course you can't learn the thing in twelve 
 months. I was apprenticed for seven years. Still, if 
 you are sharp and handy, and have got the courage to 
 stick at it, vou can learn a good bit in that time. Well, 
 and about that — that other proposal.' He looked 
 round, as if afraid that his men would hear. Why, if 
 anybody knew that he — he, the Master — was going to 
 the West End to learn manners, the laughter and the 
 scorn of it would be inextinguishable. 
 
 ' That stands, too,' I replied. 
 
 He laughed and called his foreman, and we had a 
 little serious conversation. 
 
 The amateur who stands at a lathe can knock off 
 when he likes ; if his fingers get tired he rests ; he takes 
 a cigarette ; he sits down for a bit ; he goes on again 
 when he feels like going on again. The working man, 
 on the other hand, cannot knock off; he must go on ; 
 he learns very early the lesson that he nuist not get 
 tired — or if he docs get tired that he nmst work on all 
 the same ; if he gets hot he nmst go on getting hotter. 
 All this he learns as a boy, and I should think it nmst 
 take half his apprenticeship to learn it.
 
 Vi2 TMK MAS'l'i:i{ CKAITSM AN 
 
 'How do vou like it r" Kohert askctl «i;rinil\ an lioiir 
 afterwards. 
 
 I cont'ess that I was ciulunn<; acute pains in the 
 ri^ht arm, heavy |)aiiis in the left arm, chdl pains in 
 l)oth le<^, and ti^rievous pains in the back ; that my 
 l)r()\v was like that of tlie villatru blai'ksmilh at his ])est, 
 and that I went on dofi-i^edlv onlv l)ecaiise the other 
 feUows, my companions, my brother chips, were going- 
 on steadily, as if there was no such thing as bodily 
 suft'ering. 
 
 ' It isn't (juite like a fancy lathe, is it P' 
 I straightened myself painfully, and laid down the 
 tool. 
 
 ' You'll get tired of it in a day/ 
 
 ' I shall not allow myself to get tired of it. Ixit me 
 learn how to build a boat.' 
 
 ' Have your own way. If you do stick to the work, 
 I shall think all tlie better of you. No one knows how 
 to take you, with your light touch-and-go talk, as if all 
 the world was made to l)e laughed at.' 
 
 ' I now undei-stand that only a very small })ro})orticm 
 of the world is permitted to laugh. Henceforth I am 
 as serious as' — I looked round the yard — ' as senous as 
 your workmen.' They did look serious, perhaps on 
 account of the artistic responsibility of tluii- ciaft. ' In 
 plain woi'ds, mv c-ousin, don't let us talk of any lack of
 
 IN THE YARD 1JJ3 
 
 seriousness. I am next door to a pauper, and I am 
 going to be a builder of boats — Burnikel boats — like 
 my great-grandfather.'' 
 
 ' You shall try, then. I will teach you all I can. 
 But sit down a bit; there's no need to break your 
 back over the job. There's other things in the trade 
 besides the actual work. This isn't a bad trade as 
 things go ; but no trade is altogether what the parsons 
 call Christian, and that's what you will have to learn.' 
 
 ' Must there be tricks in everything .?"* 
 
 ' Well, money-making means besting your neighbour. 
 Of course you know nothing about the way in which 
 money is made. You think it just gi*ows.' 
 
 ' So it does, if you let it alone. It grows luxuriantly. 
 If you spend it, of course it can't gi'ow.' 
 
 ' But you've got to make it first. There's a great 
 fight — a deadly fight — always going on between us all. 
 The masters want to starve the men ; the men want to 
 choke the masters ; the buyers and the sellers cheat and 
 lie, and coax and wheedle, all the time. You'll have to 
 join in that struggle, and, mind, it goes on for ever. 
 There never will be any end to this fight ; it's the ever- 
 lasting stniggle for existence. There are five millions 
 in this big ])lace — one million of grown men. All but 
 a mere handful are in the fight. Not that many are of 
 much account.'
 
 134 TIIK MASTER CRAFFSMAN 
 
 ' I believe I can fi;:;lit as well ius most. At all events, 
 I shall ivy: 
 
 ' It's a kind of fii;l»t that yoifve never learned ; that's 
 what I mean, and you won't like it. First of all, you've 
 got to put your })ride in your pocket. Do you under- 
 stand what that means ? You've got to \ye civil to 
 men that you\l like to kick. What do you think of 
 that ?' 
 
 * That's nothing at all — common politeness. I am 
 every day civil to men whom I ardently desire to kick.' 
 
 ' You think that all you have to do is to make good 
 boats. Man, you've got to use your shouldei*s and to 
 push and shove in order even to keep your connection 
 together. How will you like that ?' 
 
 ' It's much the same higher up. No one can escape 
 the common lot. I shall try to push forward. My 
 shouldei-s, you may observe, are nearly as broad as 
 your own.' 
 
 ' Then vou've got to fight for vour prices, to seem yield- 
 ing, and to fight hard, and to be hail-fellow-well-met 
 with every man that mav want to buy a boat ; vermin, 
 some of them — vermin and creeping and crawling 
 things. Friendly with them. How will you like 
 that r' 
 
 ' One is bound evervwhcrc to politeness with the man 
 of the moment. \\'c all do it.'
 
 IN THE YARD 135 
 
 ' YouVe got to best your man, or he'll best you. 
 How will you like that ?' 
 
 * Besting your neighbour may be conducted so as to 
 become an intellectual game/ 
 
 * And you must call it good business, not over-reach- 
 ing, when you succeed/ 
 
 ' My cousin, you fill me with enthusiasm. Let us 
 go on.' 
 
 ' Go on, then, and good luck to you !' 
 
 Thus was the apprentice placed in the hands of the 
 foreman, and practical instruction was commenced. 
 Like Czar Peter at Deptford, which was just across the 
 river, I began to work with my own hands. Well, I had 
 in me, to begin with, the makings of a good workman : 
 hand and eye, and the connnand of tools, which go with 
 the good workman. 
 
 At half-past twelve we knocked off for dinner. 
 Quite ready I was to knock off. I walked across 
 the street with my cousin and joined in the early 
 dinner, which was served at one. We had, I re- 
 member, stalled ox and humming ale, and a ginger 
 padding. 
 
 ' Going to learn how to build a boat, are you ?' saiil 
 the Captain. ' Ha ! you couldn't learn a more useful 
 thing nor a prettier thing. A boat's about the loveliest 
 thing a man can make. Every kind of boat — a maii-o'-
 
 136 Tin: MASTIJI CRAl-rSMAN 
 
 war's laiiiu'h or a littK' iip-iivi'i- it-dar and putty skifF — 
 the loveliest thin«j^ it is. And what in the world is 
 there more useful ? As for you, sir, a Ikmiikel, even 
 if he is a nohlcniau, ought to tnki- to boat-huilding by 
 nature.' 
 
 ' I am taking to it 1)V nature, C'a})tiun. I feci as if I 
 have already learned half the business. I shall be 
 I^urnikel the Great, or Ihniiikei the Ineoniparable, 
 Prince of Uoat-buildcrs.' 
 
 Robert took his dinner, as he had taken liis tea — in 
 silence. It was the custom, I perceived. Isabel carved, 
 at which one marvelled. I observed that she cai'ved 
 well. When she was not carving, she sat at the table, 
 pale and silent, watching Robert, her task-master and 
 her ice-cold lover. She took very little dinner — nmch 
 less than a girl of her age ought to take. She looked a.s 
 if she had no other interest in life than just to satisfy 
 her master. As for vouth and lite and iheerfulness, 
 these things did not appear to exist in the house. Yet 
 Robert was only twenty-six — two years older than 
 myself — and Isabel was not yet twenty-two. 
 
 Dinner over, the C'aj)tain returned to his own den 
 at the back, whence presently pioceeded the smell of 
 tobacco. I believe that he also solaced himself after 
 dinner with a glass of something \Narm with a slice of 
 lemon in it. liobert, observing that he always went
 
 IN THE YARD 1S7 
 
 over the way at two, retired into his study. He was 
 one of those unfortunate men who never waste their 
 time. We all know the kind ; they use uj) every odd 
 ten minutes. Kohert worked from dinner, which was 
 over ahout twenty minutes ])ast one, till two every 
 day. Most men waste the hour after dinner. To 
 Robert it meant simply two hundred hours, or about 
 twenty-five days, at eight hours a day, every year. 
 Such industry is too much for the average man. 
 For my own part, I like to think of stealing twenty- 
 five days for }:)leasure and laziness, rather than of 
 adding twenty-five to the tale of working days — already 
 too many. 
 
 Isabel, as soon as the cloth was cleared, spread out 
 her account-books and began to work. 
 
 ' Is it good," I said, ' to work directly after dinner .^' 
 
 ' I do not know. Robei-t always works after dinner." 
 I observed that she had a very sweet voice, soft and 
 musical. 
 
 ' Robert is a strong man. You are not a strong man. 
 May I use the privilege of a cousin — you are to be my 
 cousin some time — to point out to you that many things 
 which Robert may do with impunity you must not even 
 attempt to do ?^ 
 
 ' The work has got to be done, and I cannot ask 
 whether this time or that time is best."*
 
 138 TUK MASTKll C'llAlTSMAN 
 
 * Wliv nol |)Iuv a little uflcr dinner. ? Vou play verv 
 well; 
 
 ' I never play diirini^ \v()rkin<r hours. Ilobert would 
 not like it/ 
 
 ' Then " 
 
 ' Please, Sir George, allow nie to fro on with my 
 work/ 
 
 I said no more, but stood at tlie window and watched 
 her. She had a heatl of comely shape, and her features 
 were good ; but why so sad ? why so pale ? why so 
 silent ? 
 
 Presently I went back to more achini^ sliouldei-s and 
 tired wrists, envying the workmen, who never wanted to 
 straighten their backs, and whose wrists seemed matle 
 of iron. That is the way with all manual work, llie 
 artist works away with his colours ; all day long his 
 hand is in his work — his wonderful work. IJut his fingers 
 and his wrist never get tired. The navvy goes on 
 diiririnir awav, with rounded back and unwearied arms, 
 as if there was no exertion retpiireil for his work, and no 
 weiirht in a shovel full of clav. Our men worked on as 
 if there was no weariness possible with a plane or a 
 hannner. But the amateur leaves off and sits down, 
 and has a whiflT of tobacco, and a drink, and a talk for 
 half an hour or so before he goes on again. And 
 this is the real reason whv amateur work is never so
 
 IN THE YARD 139 
 
 good as professional work is, that the amateur can Jeave 
 off when he feels fatigued, while the professional must 
 keep on. 
 
 The foreman stood over me. ' YouVe handy with the 
 10018,' he said. 
 
 In fact, he had nothing to teach me in that way. 
 What I had to leani was not the execution of the work, 
 but the design of the work ; that first, and the other 
 part — the trading part — afterwards. 
 
 I worked like the rest — without a coat and with 
 sleeves turned up ; but I deny the apron. In the last 
 century every working man wore an apron, and every 
 serving-man in a shop wore an apron. Now we have 
 left off that badge of trade or servitude. On the whole, 
 I think that I am glad that I never wore an a})ron. I 
 kept my working clothes in the house, and changed them 
 in the morning and for dinner ; and I declare that, as I 
 grew to understand how a boat was built, how her lines 
 were laid down, how her skeleton was put together, how 
 her ribs were clothed, and how she was finished and 
 fitted, a noble enthusiasm — the family enthusiasm — 
 seized upon me, and I felt that true happiness lay not 
 in ambition, which in Robert's case I regarded with 
 pity ; not in wealth, taking my own case as .in example ; 
 but in the building of boats.
 
 CIIAriEK IX. 
 
 IN I'MK kvi:ni\(;. 
 
 Ik the cvcniii"; the other j);irt of tlie bar<j^{iin bcfran. 
 
 * My turn now," I said. ' If I can only get this aching 
 out of my shouldci-s. I am now going to be your coach 
 — a judicious coach. The first })oint I am told that a 
 judicious coach observes is never to teacli more than is 
 wanted. And the next thing is to rub in what he does 
 teach — to rub it in by incessant repetition." 
 
 ' It will be labour thrown away/ he giinnbled. ' You 
 will nc'viT make a fine gentleman of me." 
 
 ' Mv dear cousin, I am not ,LC<>iiig to try. I am, how- 
 ever, going to make of you a man accjuainted with, and 
 accustomed to, the usages of society. Vou are to belong 
 to the world of society, not of fashion. The House of 
 C'onnnons has still a large majority of men who belong 
 to tliat world. A knowledge of these habits, I have 
 already told you, is absolutely indispensable.'' 
 
 ' Oh ! \'erv good, then, I am re.idy.' But he wa8
 
 IN THE KVENINC; 141 
 
 not eaoer ; he was rather "luni about the wt)rk in 
 hand. 
 
 ' Yes, but vou must be more than reatly. You nuist 
 be as eager to learn this brancli of knowledge as any 
 other. Don't grumble over it — like an unwilling school- 
 boy.' 
 
 ' Look here, Sir George ' 
 
 ' Don't call me Sir George, to begin with. You are 
 my cousin. Call me George, and I shall call you 
 Robert.' 
 
 ' Very well. I confess I don't like it. How would 
 you like to be told that you don't know manners ? 
 Hang it ! the thing sticks ' 
 
 ' Let us say, then, the manners of the West End. 
 Don't let it stick, old man. Now listen. First of all 
 you must have dress clothes, and you must put them on 
 every evening.' 
 
 ' What the devil does a man want with dress 
 clothes ?' 
 
 ' I will tell you when I have time. Meanwhile, you 
 must have them. The next thing is that, from the 
 moment you leave Wapping till you get home again, 
 you are not to speak one word concerning your ])roiccts, 
 or your ambitions, or your o})ini()ns/ 
 
 ' I don't mind that condition. No one but yourself 
 does know mv ambitions.'
 
 14£ THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 * Very well, then, tlmfs settletl so far. Now let us 
 sit down and consider my scheme." We had reached 
 my chambers, and we were in the study where the lathe 
 >va.s. ' I have l>een making (mt a little skeleton scheme 
 — in my liead.' 
 
 *Let us hear it.' We sat down solemnly opposite 
 each othrr to discuss tliis (iiicstion seriously. 
 
 ' What do we want ? To make you a man of the 
 world. Some tilings you won't want to leani — whist, 
 billiards, lawn tennis, dancing ' 
 
 ' No," he grinned, ' not billiards or dancing — or 
 l)etting or gambling.' 
 
 ' The first tiling, the most important thing, is to get 
 the dinner arrangements right. With this view we 
 will beirin with a course of restaurants. I don't say 
 that one meets with the very finest manners possible at 
 a restaurant, but, still, the people who go there have at 
 lea.st got a veneer; they understand the elements. I 
 need not tell you much. You will look about you 
 and observe things, and comjiare and teach your- 
 .self.' 
 
 ' WvW f We are to waste time and money over a 
 needless and expensive late dinner, are we.^ And all 
 because there's a wav of holding a fork.' 
 
 ' It is part of the j)rogramme. After a while I shall 
 take you to the theatre, which is sometimes a very good
 
 IN THE EVENING UJ3 
 
 school of manners, and there you will see on and off' the 
 statue ladies in their evening splendour/ 
 
 * Jezebels — painted Jezebels/ 
 
 * Not all of them. A few, perhaps, here and there. 
 Later on you will be able to distinguish Jezebel. But 
 it is best not to think about this lady. Remember 
 that a well-dressed woman has never come within your 
 experience, and it is time for you to make her accjuaint- 
 ance. After a week or two of restaurants I will take 
 you to a club, and introduce you to some of our fellows. 
 You can sit quiet at first and listen. Their talk is not 
 exactly intellectual, but it shows a way of looking at 
 things."" 
 
 ' I know. Like vou talk. Just as if nothiniJ: 
 mattered, and everything was all right and as it 
 should be," 
 
 ' Not dogmatic nor downright. Not as if we were 
 going to fight to the death for our opinions.** 
 
 * If the opinion is worth having, it is worth defending. 
 Vou ought to fight for it." 
 
 * My dear cousin, formerly opinions were distinct and 
 clearly outlined. Nowadays there is so much to be 
 said on the other side that all o})inions have grown 
 hfizy and blurred. For instance, you want, perhaps, to 
 pull down the House of Lords.** 
 
 ' No, I don't. I want to reform the House.''
 
 U4 THE MASTKH CKAIMNMAN 
 
 * W'rll, if vou (lid voii Nsoiild he ;i>>i(Hiislu'(l to K-niM 
 what a lot t-aii \)v said for I la- rcirs, and how extrrmcly 
 dant^erous it woidd hv to pull down their House, beeuuse 
 the House of Coinmons leans a;;ainst it, and all the 
 houses in the country lean upon the House of (onuiions. 
 When vou have <T^rasped that fact, where is the clearness 
 of vour opinion r (ione, sir — •rone/ 
 
 * Vou think that you will clian<^e me completely, 
 then/ 
 
 'Not ijuite comj)letely. Only in certain j)oints. I 
 shall try to graft uj)on vou the manner of a tinished 
 gentleman. No one could possi])ly look the j)art better. 
 Vou might be an Karl to look at. Of coui-se, the garb 
 will have to be reconsidered — those boots, for instance.' 
 Robert looked cjuickly at mine as compared with his 
 own, and blushed. He blushed at his own boots. This 
 was a note of progress. ' liut all in good time. Vou 
 shall not present youi'self in a drawing-room until you 
 can enter it, and stand in it, and talk in it, as if you 
 belonged to the world of drawing-rooms.' 
 
 llobert entered upon his part of his education with 
 nuich the same enthusiasm as is shown by a dog of 
 intelligence going off to be washed. It has to be done; 
 he knows that; and he goes, but unwillingly. Nobody 
 has any conception of the numberless little points in 
 which Wapping may differ from Piccadilly. Wapping,
 
 I\ THE EVENING 145 
 
 you see, has so lono- been cut off from external inHuences. 
 The influence of the cler<ry, ])(.'neficent in other respects, 
 is not felt at the Wa})pintJ- (Hinier-table. Antl the 
 Burnikels, by tlie retirement of the other old families, 
 the aristocracy of the (juarter, have remained almost the 
 only substantial j)eople of the place. Therefore, for a 
 great many years they lived alone ; and their mannei-s, 
 as a natural consecjuence, continued to be much tlie 
 same as the manners of their forefathers. 
 
 Take, for instance, the ordinary dinner-na})kin. It 
 is astonishing to note how many mistakes may he made 
 \\'ith a simj)le dinner-na})kin, when a man takes one in 
 liand for the first time. There were no dinner-napkins 
 at '\\'ap})ing. There had been, many years ago, but 
 thev went out when forks came in. Tliat is to say, so 
 far as the children were concerned, just about two 
 hundred years ago. The right handling of the dinner- 
 napkin can only be ac(|uired by custom. So also with 
 wine and wineglasses. If you are })erfectly ignorant of 
 wine, except that the black kind is j)ort, and the straw 
 colour means sheny, and that either kind, but es])ecially 
 the former, may be exhibited on Sunday, you become 
 bewildered with the amount of wine lore that one is 
 supposed to know. 
 
 ' You are getting on,' I remarked, after six weeks of 
 almost heart-breaking work, Incause — I repeat that one 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 TIIK MAS'lKll ( KAITSMAN 
 
 would never lielieve that isolation lo.ild make such a 
 difference — everything had to he learnetl. This y<)un<; 
 man was steeped in the things he had learned from 
 books — political economy, history, sociology, philosophy, 
 trmie (juestions, practical (jiU'stions — he was a most 
 learned pel-son, hut of the things of which men talk, 
 or men and women talk, he knew nothing — absolutely 
 nothing. Art, poetry, fiction, the theatre, sport, games, 
 things pei-sonal — which take up so large a share in the 
 daily talk — on all these things he wa.s mute. He came 
 to the clul) Nvith me, and sat perfectly silent ; disdainful 
 at first, but presently angry with himself for not being 
 able to take a part, and with the fellows for talking on 
 subjects so trifling. 
 
 ' Tm a rank outsider,' he said. * I heard one of 
 them call me a rank outsider. Thought I couldn't 
 hear him. If lieM said it in the street, I'd have 
 laid him in the gutter. A rank outsider. Do you 
 think, George, that you will ever make me anything 
 else .^' 
 
 'What does it matter if you are a rank outsider in 
 some things ? Patience, and let us go on.' 
 
 At first he grumbled ; he could see no use in trifles, 
 such lis ceremonials of society. We have simplified 
 these of late years ; still, some forms remain. 
 
 * Vou will want to be received,' I told him, ' as a man
 
 IN THE EVENING 147 
 
 of culture. These are the outward and visible forms of 
 culture." 
 
 He listened and reflected. Presently I observed that 
 he took gi'eater interest in things — he was realizing what 
 things meant. Finally, the recognition of things an-ived 
 quite suddenly. Then he gTinnbled no longer. He 
 looked about him, interested and amused. He sat out 
 plays, and talked about the life pictured — a very queer 
 sort of life it is, for the most part. As for the acting, 
 he accepted the finest acting as part of the play, without 
 connnent. He was like an intelligent traveller — he 
 wanted to know what it all meant, the complex civiliza- 
 tion of this realm ; where the Court comes in ; what 
 part is played in the daily life by the noble Lords, whose 
 House he was so anxious to improve for them, feeling 
 quite capable of adjusting reforms and bringing the 
 Peers up-to-date by himself alone and unaitled ; how 
 the Church affects society ; what are the powers and the 
 limitiitions of money ; what is the real influence of the 
 Press ; what is the position of the professions. He 
 wanted to know everything. As for me, I had never 
 before asked myself any of these cjuestions, being (piite 
 satisfied with the little narrow world that surrounded 
 me. 
 
 I tried to interest him in Art. It was impossible. 
 He said that he would rather look at a tree than the
 
 148 Tni: .MA>ri:H cu. mi-man 
 
 pirtuii' ot" a Ircr. I hied hiiii willi fiction. lie said 
 tlmt tlu' Nsorld of ivniitv nvji.> a «^n*at deal iiioiv in- 
 tercstiii*^ than tlu' world ot" iniai^ination. I trii'd him 
 with poetrv. He siiid that, it" a thin«r liad to be said, it 
 was l)est siiid plainly, in proso. 
 
 He wanted to survcv tlu' wholr world, and to under- 
 >tand tlu' whoK' world. When one assumes the attitude 
 ot" an impartial incjuirer, and learns what ran he said on 
 the other side, the Jladieal disappears and the Reformer 
 succeeds. There is, of coui-se, the dan<^er, if one in- 
 (piires too lon<^, and with more than a certain amount 
 of sympathy, that the Reformer himself may yanish, 
 leaying the Philosopher behintl. Or, perhaps, lladical, 
 lleformer and l*hiloso})her may all liye to<;ether in the 
 same brain. 
 
 Robert wiis passing into the second stage. He snorteti 
 at things no longer; he rather walked round them, ex- 
 amined them, and inquired how they came. 
 
 'I confess,"' he said, ' that I was ignorant when I came 
 liere. My knowledge was of books. Men and women 
 I did not take into account. It is worth all the trouble 
 of learning your confoundetl mannei-s only to haye found 
 out the men and women.' 
 
 This was the Refoiiner. 
 
 * The people at this end of the town/ he continued, 
 'are ititeresting, partly becau>e they haye got the best
 
 IN THE EVENING 149 
 
 of everything, and partly because they think tlieniselves 
 so inijwrtant. They are not really important. The 
 people who do nothino- can never be important. The 
 only important person is the man who makes and 
 produces." 
 
 Here was the Radical. 
 
 'You live in a little corner of the world; you are 
 all living on the labour of others ; you are beautifully 
 behaved ; you are, generally, I think, amiable ; you look 
 so fine and talk so well that we forget that you've no 
 business to exist. It is a pleasure only to watch you. 
 And you take all the luxuries, just as if they naturally 
 belono-ed to you. I like it, George. I am a rank out- 
 sider, but I like it.' 
 
 This was tlie Philosopher. 
 
 * And what about the House ?"" 
 
 * Oh ! Fve begun to nurse my borough. I address the 
 men every Sunday evening in a music-hall. You may 
 come and hear me, if you like." 
 
 ' \Vliat is your borough ?"" 
 
 *Shadwell, close by, where they know me and the 
 boat-yard. 'l"lie men come in crowds. Man ! There 
 is no doubt ! They come, I say, in crowds. They fill 
 the place ; and mind you, I can move the })eople.' 
 
 *Goo<l. If you can only move the House as well !' 
 
 'ITiese fellows will carry me through. Tin >nre of
 
 ir,() TIIK MAS'l'KH CKAFl'SMAN 
 
 it. Tlicv aiv thf pick of thu w(>ikin<; nuxn — S<Kiali.st.s, 
 half of them — thaps, niiiul von, with a sense of justice/ 
 
 Here we ii.ul thr llndical .still. 
 
 'That nuans getting a larger share for tlieniselves, 
 doesn't it r' 
 
 'Sometimes. Motives are mixed. Well, Tm going 
 to he Meml)er for Shad well — Iiule])en(ient MemlK'r. A 
 General Election mav at anv moment be sprung upon 
 us. And Lord ! Lord I if I had goni' into the House 
 as I was six weeks ago !^ 
 
 ' Patience, my cousin ; we liave not quite finished yet. 
 There^s one inHuence wanting vet before you are turnetl 
 out, rounded oft*, and finished up. Only one thing 
 wanting, but a big thing. No, I will tell you, later on, 
 what that is.'
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CnniCHYARD. 
 
 I PASS over as iiTelevant, or at least superfluous, the 
 very disagreeable interview in which I revealed my plans 
 to Frances. She had found a new opening for me — I 
 was to be appointed Connnissioner for Tobago, or 
 President of Turk's Island, or Lieutenant-Governor of 
 the Gold Coast ; she could obtain the post for me ; it 
 was an excellent opening ; I was to spend two or three 
 years in the endeavour to escape fever, and five or six 
 years of sick-leave at intervals. I should then have a 
 clear claim to the gratitude of the Colonial Office, and 
 should be appointed Governor of some colony with a 
 salary of many thousands. What more could any man 
 desire .^ 
 
 Nothing, truly. And, as Frances observed, no creep- 
 ing ; no wriggling; no backstairs; also there is no 
 examination for these appointments. .\nil they are 
 obtained in the good old way, bv interest alone.
 
 152 'iMii: MA>ri:K ckai'isman 
 
 Whv not, tiicii, .ucipt ? liccaiisc, mifbrtiinatcl v, I 
 WHS now a nattMiian, and I jcallv doiicd no otiier kind 
 of lifo. 
 
 It was (lull that I'Vanccs .spoke with coiivictioii of 
 (It'inoniac- possession — I ni'vcr before tlioiii^ht slie iK'licved 
 in it — and of tlie extreme madness whieli sometimes 
 seizes on men; of the folhes unspeakable whieli they 
 connnit. She was very an«;ry — very an<rrv indeed. She 
 also dechircd her dis<i^ustful surprise at the ])ad, low, 
 grovelHnii^ taste wliieli made it possible for me to leave 
 the ranks of gentlehood, and to ;^() down — ^<l()wn — down 
 — to live amon<r heerv. tohaeeo-smokin^-, ill-bred, un- 
 cultivated boors and bourgeois. She displayed on this 
 subject (piite an unexpected How of lan^ua^e and com- 
 mand of adjectives. To be sure, I bad never seen her 
 in a real ra<;e before. And sbe looked verv liandsonie 
 indeed, marchin*;- about the room with flushed cheeks 
 and an^ry eyes, while she declaimed and denounced and 
 lamented. I never admired her so nuieh. She became 
 so entirely unexpi'cted that I verv nearly fell in love 
 with her. 
 
 AVlien she had (piite finished by throwini;- such words 
 as ' insensate,^ ' clod,' and ' stock and stone,' at my 
 head, and by saying that she had now done with me 
 for ever; and when she had thrown herself into a cliair, 
 and had held her handkerchief to her eves — I had never
 
 THE CHURCHYARD 153 
 
 seen her cry before, and, indeed, it was so unexpected 
 that I very nearly, as I said before — and when I had 
 said a few brotherly words, and uttered a few assur- 
 ances — and when we had shaken hands again — I kissed 
 her hand if I remember ariglit — we sat down o})j)osite 
 to each other, and close together, and had a pleasant 
 talk (juite in the old style, though it was understood 
 that I was hencefoi"th only a })lain boat-builder. 
 
 It wa,s then that I told her first about my cousin. 
 She listened without nuich interest. The man was a 
 mere tradesman. 
 
 'You want a recruit, Frances, for the Party .f* Of 
 course you do. ^Vell, then, I tell you that you could 
 not do ])etter than look after this man."' 
 
 * A man's a man, of course ; otherwise, George, the 
 \Norking men members do not always turn out worth 
 nuich. Still, there are one or two — and — well, tell me 
 more about this man.^ 
 
 ' He is not exactly a working man. He is, like my- 
 self, a Maiiter Craftsman.' 
 
 'Oh!' She shrugged her shoulders im])atiently. 
 Such distinctions she knew not. And then I told her 
 about his attainments, and his boundless ambitions, 
 and everything, till at last I succeeded in making her 
 believe that here really was a man who might be worth 
 considering — the only fault which Frances possessed
 
 154 Till] MASTKIl CUALTSMAN 
 
 was Hull slit' undt'iratcii \hv powers of everybody out- 
 side a certain circle. I told her ahout Robert at lii-st, 
 I believi', in order to divert her mind from the tlistress- 
 ing spectacle of my decline and fall, and next in order 
 to show her that we were not all beery boors and 
 bourgeois at Wapping-on-the-\\'all, and, lastly, it came 
 into my head, that if she should peradventure take an 
 interest in his Tarliamentary career it might be very 
 useful to him. 
 
 After a bit she began to understand a little. Her 
 imagination w<us at last fired by the ])icture of this 
 young man resolving, while yet a boy, on entering the 
 House of Connnons, and learning to speak at a sham 
 Parliament ; working at home on liistory, politics, social 
 economy, all the (questions of the day ; reading Mill, 
 Herbert Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, Lecky, Froude, 
 Freeman, Green, and Seeley, and all the rest of them ; 
 becomin": a learned man ; denvin"; himself the joys of 
 youth — all for the sake of his ambition ; and all the 
 time remaining strong and masterful as one born to 
 connnaiid. Because I am a dull person in narrative, or 
 l)ecause she was prejudiced generally against trade, it 
 was a long time before 1 succeedeil in awakening her 
 interest in the nian. ' Do you know,' she said at last, 
 ' that you seem to have got a very remarkable creature 
 down there! Of course I cannot reallv believe that he
 
 THE CHURCHYARD 155 
 
 will ever come to anything. A man living all by him- 
 self, and ignorant of all the world outside his trade, 
 cannot come to any good. In the House one must 
 know men, not books only.' 
 
 ' I wonder if you Mould like to hear him speak. He 
 speaks every Sunday evening. If you like we will go." 
 
 So it was arranged. Frances would like to see the 
 kind of people who formed that constituency ; she 
 would like to hear the kind of speech that pleased 
 them ; she would go, subject to one condition, that she 
 was not to see the Boat- Yard. ' I could not^ George,'' 
 she said. ' It is bad enough that you should descend 
 into that homd place — when you might become a 
 Colonial Governor. I could not actually see the chips 
 and shavings. Oh, George ! you are very wilful — but 
 I nmst always forgive you. Yes, I will go with you to 
 see this wonderful person of Wapping. You only try 
 to excuse your abominable alacrity in sinking by pre- 
 tending that you have got a prophet down there.' 
 
 So I came away forgiven and reconciled, but for ever 
 fallen in her esteem, and I returned to my riverside 
 work with gi-eater heart now that the worst was over. 
 
 It was natural that one should take an interest in the 
 people of the place — especially in those of the house. 
 I spent every day an hour — the dinner-hour — with 
 Robert's household. Sometimes, too, another half-hour
 
 166 TiiK masti:k ( KAF1>SMAN 
 
 over a nij) of li;i. 'I'luict'oic, of coiirx', oiif thou«^ht a 
 ^rood (leal about tlic pcopK-. 'IMic ( 'aptaiii I found an 
 honest, lieartv old fellow, who lilxcd his meals, took a 
 cheerful «;lii.ss after iiis dinner and siij)j)er, and slept 
 away most of tlie ieniaiiiin«i: time. lie had a room at 
 the hack called the (aj)tain\ cahin, where there was a 
 narrow bed and an easv-ehair ; a hoi) uith a kettle; a 
 tat)le with a tobacco-jar and other conveniences. There 
 I sometimes visited him and heard experiences. 
 
 But the pei-son of real interest was Isabel. T t]ioui>ht 
 her, at first, inanimate, and ])erhaps stupid. I (hs- 
 covered, first, that she had a very beautiful heml — the 
 })oets do not seem to understand tlie charm of a well- 
 shaped head — but it w as nearly always drooping. Then 
 I ol)served that her hair was (piite wonderful — there 
 was such a lot of it, and it was of such a lovely lit^ht 
 colour, lookin<r as if it held the sunshine even in that 
 dark ' parlour.' It was, however, oidy lolled up with- 
 out anv c-o(juettish display — was the <j:irl (piite i/^norant 
 of her charms ? Her eves were ii;enerally (lown-droo})ed 
 as in shvness or humility — once she lifted them with 
 some strange wonder because I made some frivolous 
 remark — there was never any frivolity about this house 
 before I went into it. They were large and limpid 
 eyes, of a dee)) blue, like the dark blue of a })ansy. 
 And then I discovered that her features were straight
 
 THK CIirUCHVAJiD 157 
 
 and regular, and that, tliougli lier cheek was ])ale, and 
 her manner was Hstless and (h-ooping, tlie girl was full 
 of beauty in face, and head, and figure. And Kobert, 
 like a thing of wood, had no eyes for the loveliness that 
 was his by engagement ! AVonderful ! 
 
 I could never get the girl to talk to me. She sat at 
 table, carving in silence, or pouring out the tea in 
 silence. AVhen it was over, she sj)read out her books 
 and began to work again. And week after week passed 
 by. I was an old shipmate with the Ca})tain ; I was 
 on the most confidential terms, as you have seen, with 
 Robert ; but Isabel remained a stranger. 
 
 Then the opportunity came. 
 
 It was a Saturday afternoon. I had been spending 
 an hour after dinner talking with the Captain in his 
 den. Then, as he showed signs of going to sleep, I left 
 him and bent my steps westward. It was a bright, 
 sunny afternoon in May. The street was deserted ; the 
 warehouses were shut uj) ; the sunshine increased, but 
 set off, the dreariness of the tall places on eitlier side. 
 
 I came to the mouth of the Dock. As once before, 
 the gates were open for the passing of a ship, and I had 
 to wait. I leaned against the rail and watched. On 
 the right was the Dock, with the masts of the ships; on 
 the left was the river. I looked at the river and looked 
 at the Dock. Then I became aware of a most un-
 
 168 THi: MASfKH CRAFrSMAN 
 
 expected fait : on tlic lii^lit liaiul, bi'sidcs tlic Dm-k, 
 there were trees — i^vvvn trees. * Aiiytliiii^ ^een in 
 AVappinfT r' I asked, * 'J'rees and <rrein leaves ! Do 
 thev grow out oi' the water r' 
 
 I then ])ereeived that there was a street leading 
 nortli ; I thought that there was nothing north of 
 the High Street exeejit the Doek. I was mistaken. 
 At the eorner was a substantial modem house — the 
 vestry house of the ])arish — with its bnuss plate and 
 clean winilows. Next I observed a lovely eighteenth- 
 century house — sober, s(|uare, built of red brick, having 
 an ample portal, and in the wall effigies of hov and girl. 
 
 This was the parish school. The figures looked more 
 demure than one could believe possible in human boy 
 and human girl. And then I came to the church, a 
 plain and unaffected preaching-house of brick, with 
 pillars and portico of stone. Beside it, on the south 
 side, was a narrow churchyard, adornetl with old tomb- 
 stones, head-stones, and altar-stones — the sepulchi*es of 
 bygone captains, past ownei-s, sailoi-s, and boat-builders. 
 I observed with some })ride the name of Burnikel on one 
 of them, the nearest to the street — my ancestor. Per- 
 haps all the important tond)s belonged to Burnikels, if 
 I could only clind) over the rails to see. The church 
 was shut, vet it might have been more useful in the 
 week, when Wrapping is full, than on Sunday, when
 
 THE CHURCHYARD 159 
 
 Wapping is empty. Had it been open, I could have 
 gratified my family pride still more by observing the 
 tablets and reading of the incomparable virtues of other 
 Burnikels belonging to this fine old stock. There was 
 part of the churchyard on the north side. Its houses 
 had been recently cleared away, and the space turned 
 into a recreation -gi'ound. So liberal is the County 
 Council that they have swept away half the renuiant of 
 Wapping that had been spared by the Docks, and now 
 there are not enough people left in the town to j)opulate 
 the recreation-gi'ound. Children were recreating in it, 
 however, and there was a gynniasium for them in one 
 corner, and a stand for the sunnner band in another 
 corner. A highly picturestjue row of ' backs ' revealed 
 the character of the streets that had been cleared 
 away. 
 
 I noted these thin"s. I observed also that there were 
 
 o 
 
 still remaining beyond the recreation-ground other streets 
 of small houses — not beautiful, not clean, perhaps 
 squalid, if one were inclined to harshness — and beyond 
 these streets tall masts, which told of another Dock. 
 Wapping, then, did not, as I had fondly imagined 
 consist of one street only, with a river on one side 
 and docks on the other, and no living pei-son in it at 
 night except the Burnikels. Waj)ping is a collection of 
 human beings ; it is a handet, a townshi}), a town com-
 
 l()0 Tin: MASTKK ( K.\F1>MAN 
 
 pk'lf. Here was llu- ^a^i•^ll (liiirch; licrc wciv the 
 ciulowi'd scliools ; hvvv was tlu' NCstrv Ilall; lici'i' was 
 tin- plavLiioiiiuI. I turned l)ac-k, and tlu-ii, \\liich I had 
 passed over hel'ore, I ])eicei\e(l hetoic me, fenced loiiiid, 
 ii peaceful, beautiful hurviii'^-^rouiid, lyin^ opposite the 
 ]*arish Church on the other side of the road. A more 
 peaceful spot one wouhl not expect in tlie most sechided 
 villaoe. It was filled with tombs and head-stones; it 
 was planted with a tliick coppice of limes, lih\cs, 
 laburnums, and all kinds of Howering trees and shrubs 
 tJ^rowinii* amoui*- the t()m])s. I looked throu<rh the bai*s. 
 ^Vappin«>;, then, had tliis one garden left ; and since the 
 greater part of Waj)})ing was dead and gone, burie<I 
 deep below tlie docks, a churchvard seemed the fittest 
 place in wliich to possess a garden. Wherever industries 
 spread, and trade increases, we ought to find the past 
 always beside the present. In the midst of the noise 
 and hurry of Manchester there stantls the ancient 
 college ; in the midst of Hull rises the ancient church ; 
 in the midst of the smoke anil grime of Newcastle there 
 is its ancient fortress ; and beside the modern docks of 
 \Vapping stanils the old church, with its burying-ground 
 and its schools. Let us never live where there is 
 nothing ancient, nothing to connect us with our fore- 
 fathers, nothing to remind us of death, nothing to 
 preach to us on the ct)ntinuous life in which the
 
 THE CHURCHY ARD 161 
 
 livin«»- arc but links, and the past is neither lost nor 
 forgotten. 
 
 The gate was unlocked. I gently pushed it open and 
 stepped within, reverently, yet with the sense of owner- 
 ship. Why not ? Before me stood a head-stone — the 
 name had been recently cleaned and restored — ' Sacred 
 to the ]\Iemory of John Burnikel, Master Mariner, died 
 March 16, 1808, aged ninety-two years." That must 
 be the man with the diamonds. I stooped down and 
 pushed aside the grass to read the text with which his 
 pious cousins had decorated the tomb. * Of whom the 
 world was not worthy,' I read. Astonishing ! ' Of whom 
 the world was not worthy.' This must have been written 
 while they still expected to find the diamonds. Then 
 I plunged, so to speak, into the recesses of this coppice. 
 And there I found, to my amazement, sitting on a tomb 
 with folded hands and hanging head, in an attitude of 
 the most profound dejection, the girl Isabel. 
 
 She lifted her head when she heard my step. She had 
 been crying ; the tears, like dewdrops, lay still upon her 
 cheeks. 
 
 * You here, Isabel ?'' I cried. ' ^Miat are you doing in 
 the place of tombs ?' 
 
 ' I am sitting here.'' But she rose as if she wius tired 
 of sitting there, and should now go home. 
 
 ' Yes, I see. But ' 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 THE MASTER CRAFl^MAN 
 
 ' It is u pretty place. There are not too many pretty 
 places in Wapping/ 
 
 ' No. Do you often come here ?' 
 
 ' In spring and summer sometimes, when I can get 
 away — on Saturday afternoons. It is (juiet. Nobody 
 else ever comes. I have it all to myself.' 
 
 ' Why are vou crying, Isabel ? Don't cry. It makes 
 me miserable to see a girl crying. Are you unhappy ?"" 
 
 She turned away her head, and made no reply. 
 
 ' Sit down again where you were, Isabel. It is a 
 pretty place. The lilacs are bursting into blossom, 
 and the laburnums are beginning. It is a very 
 pretty place. The dead sleep well, and the living 
 you do not see. Can you tell me, Isabel, why you 
 are unhappy ?' 
 
 She shook her head, but she obeyed in sitting down 
 again. 
 
 ' Of course I have seen all along that you are not 
 happy. You work too hard, for one thing. Is it the 
 work ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no, no. I nmst do what Robert tells me to do."* 
 
 ' You are too much confined to the house. Is it the 
 want of change ?' 
 
 ' No, no ; I want no change. I do what I have 
 to do.' 
 
 * You will not tell me .^''
 
 THE CHURCHYARD 163 
 
 * I cannot/ 
 
 ' Of course, I have no right to ask. Still, I am 
 Robert's cousin, and I see you every day, and you can't 
 wonder if I take an interest in you. Will you be 
 offended if I speak just a little of my mind ? 
 
 ' I offended ? Does that matter ?' A strange thing 
 for a girl to say, as if she was of no importance 
 at all — as if surprised that anyone should regard 
 her at all. 
 
 * Well, Isabel, in that part of the world where I have 
 chiefly lived the girls are treated with consideration. 
 They are princesses ; they are filled with the conscious- 
 ness of their own power ; their words are received with 
 respect, and their wishes are studied. It matters very 
 nmch indeed whether one offends them or not. So I 
 hope not to offend your ladyship.' 
 
 * You will not offend me.' 
 
 * Well, then, you work too hard ; you get no society ; 
 you have no change ; you take too little exercise ; you 
 are growing nervous and shy ; you shrink from seeing 
 people.' 
 
 ' I live the life that is assigned to me.' 
 
 * You are so young, Isabel, that you ought to sing in 
 the house ; you ought to walk as if you had wings ; you 
 ought to laugh all day ; you ought to rebel, and revolt, 
 and mutiny '
 
 164 TUK MASTKIl CllAFJKMAN 
 
 She did hiu^h, l)iit not with m» riiiin'iit. 
 
 ' All these thin«rs Ixiloii;; to your a^e, and your sex, 
 and — your l)cautv.' 
 
 'My beauty!' she re])ealecl, with a kiml oi" wonder 
 — ' my beauty ! Oh no ; you must not talk nonsense."" 
 
 ' Your ])eauty. ^'ou should be a very beautiful girl 
 if the cloud would lift. Come, now ; may I lift that 
 cloud for you ? May I try, at least ?' 
 
 I held out my hand. She hesitated a moment. Then 
 she gave me her own timidly. 
 
 I did not suspeet the real cause of her unhappiness. 
 I did, however, feel a most profound pity for a young 
 girl who could find no better amusement than to sit 
 among the tombs on a fine afternoon in spring. Even 
 those who are nearing the time when they will be })ut 
 to lie there do not generally like to sit among them. 
 
 ' You will tell me some other time,' I said, ' why you 
 are so sad. Meantime, let me ])e your friend ; and look 
 here, Isabel : I am a great physician . You must believe 
 that I have cured countless cases of Languishing Lady 
 and Doleful Damsel. I am thousands of years old, 
 although I am apparently only tive-and- twenty ; that is 
 Injcause I am such a great physician.' Well, at this 
 nonsense she actually smiled. ' And now I will prescrilx; 
 for you : Not so much work ; not so much house ; not 
 so much monotony.'
 
 THE CHURCHYARD 165 
 
 ' The work has to be done/ 
 
 ' Robert is so busy himself that he does not observe. 
 I shall speak to him."* 
 
 ' Oh, but what he says ' 
 
 * Yes, yes, I know. I will speak to him. Now come 
 with me. I will take you out upon the river. ITiat 
 will do you more good than sitting among the tombs — 
 even the tombs of the Burnikels." 
 
 There are still boats and ' first oars ^ at Wapping Old 
 Stairs. In five minutes I was sitting beside her in the 
 stern of a wherry — Burnikel-built — with a couple of 
 stout fellows pulling us down-stream. And I brought 
 her back with colour in her cheeks and brightness in her 
 eyes. ' My medicine works alreatly,' I said. ' Robert 
 will say that I have done wonders." 
 
 Alas ! Robert observed no change at all ; and during 
 the half-hour of tea the poor girl sat as usual w4th 
 hanging head and down-dropped eyes. But it was a 
 betrinnino^.
 
 CHAPITER XL 
 
 AN' ADDRESS. 
 
 Os Saturday evening I called for Frances. We were 
 going to hear the man she would call the Wonderful 
 Person of Wapping. 
 
 'AVe shall have to drive right through London/ I 
 told her. 'You will see first the trade end of the 
 West ; then the lane of the country visitors, called 
 the Strand ; then the lane of the printers ; then the 
 merchants' (juai-ters, silent and deserted ; and then the 
 place where the people live who do all the work ; the 
 city of the thousand industries. And then you will see 
 these people you are going forth to see.** 
 
 ' So long as you don't take me to see the places with 
 associations, I don't mind. I was looking over a hook 
 about London the other day ; it was full of associations. 
 Dear me ! What does it matter to me where Milton 
 lived ? And why should I want to see the place where 
 Shakspere had a theati-e .^'
 
 AN ADDRESS 167 
 
 ' You are curiously impatient about the past, Fi-ances.' 
 
 'I like the world just exactly as it is, George; the 
 order of it and the ways of it ; and the flow of the 
 stream — I like to feel that I am in the swim. And if 
 ever I marry again, I shall be a gi-eat deal more in the 
 swim.'' 
 
 ' The man you will hear to-night likes the world as it 
 ought to be."* 
 
 ' Well, why not ? So long as we don't change any- 
 thing. Now, Master Craftsman, my gloves are on.' 
 
 ' You look very fine to-night, Frances. It will please 
 our friends at Shadwell, seeing a lady among them, that 
 she is a real lady. They resemble your friends in one 
 respect — these men of the gutter, as you kindly called 
 them on a recent occasion — they like to see a woman 
 well dressed.' 
 
 It is a long drive from Piccadilly to High Street, 
 Shadwell, which, as everybody knows, is a continuation 
 of Ratcliffe Highway. The whole journey was as un- 
 known to Lady Frances as China or Peru. For the City 
 she cared nothing ; memories of Gresham and Whitting- 
 ton moved her not ; this evening, of course, the offices 
 and warehouses were closed, and the streets deserted ; 
 she only began to take interest when we came out on 
 Tower Hill, and drove past the gray old fortress into 
 the highway sacred to the memory of sailoix and to
 
 168 TIIK MASTEll CllAFrSMAN 
 
 riverside thieves and to crimps, and to Moll and Poll 
 aiid Doll. Indeed, <;host,s of the departed sinners are 
 still allowed ie«;ietfully to hover around the swinging 
 dooi-s of these old taverns, and to linger about the 
 pavement where they were wont to roll and sing and 
 dance and liglit. Oh, the l)rave old days! And they 
 acknowledge that the game is still kept uj), and with 
 spirit, though, perhaps, with less heart in it than of old. 
 Tlie fighting has gone ofi' sadly ; the singing is still good, 
 but that, too, shows signs of deterioration ; the dancing, 
 however, shows the old spirit — legs are loose, heel and 
 toe are true to time ; and the drinking is still free and 
 generous. As for Moll and her friends, they continue to 
 lend the charm of woman^s society to Mercantile Jack. 
 
 ' Men and women !' said Liidy Frances, ' .Vnd by 
 their appearance not among the strictest moralists. 
 Show me men and women, George, and not tall black 
 warehouses, where something once stood, or grimy 
 churches, where something once happened. Give me 
 men and women. Give me the |)resent. Ouf! what a 
 reek from that door !' 
 
 The carriage sto})})ed for a moment ; a little crowd 
 assembled, seeing that most unaccustomed appeai-ance, 
 a carriage and pair with a coachman and a footman in 
 liveries. The o})en door belonged to a tavern full of 
 sailoi's drinking ami smoking, so that the air which came
 
 AN ADDRESS 169 
 
 forth in waves wan charged with the fragi-ance of rum, 
 gin, beer and tobacco. The carriage moved on slowly. 
 There came another kind of fragrance. The first 
 knocked one down like a club, the second cut one like 
 a knife. 
 
 * It is fried fish," I explained. * This is the staple food 
 of the women and work -girls. There are differences in 
 the matter of food. For my own part I should never 
 
 get over a prejudice against this fonn of Do get 
 
 on a little faster, if you can,' I called to the coach- 
 man. 
 
 We passed into another street, really the same, but 
 called by a different name, where there were no sailors 
 and no sailors' friends. It was, however, filled with 
 people walking about ; among them were lads smoking 
 cigarettes, girls with immense yellow feathers in their 
 hats and bright blue blouses, -vvalking arm-in-arm, 
 laughing loudly ; working men leaning about with 
 pipes, women with children in arms, children every- 
 where tumbling about the road and the gutter. 
 
 ' Behold the people !' I said. ' Concentrated people. 
 Pure extract of people.' 
 
 ' I recognise them,' said Frances, ' though I ilo not 
 seem to have seen them before. On the whole they 
 look harmless.' 
 
 * As for their power of harm, I have my own opinion.
 
 170 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 But it is quite certain that at present they don''t want 
 to do any harm."* 
 
 'It is curious to think that all of us have come out 
 of this mass. Here and there, I suppose, one disengages 
 himself and leaves his friends, and gets up a bit over 
 their heads, and prepares the way for founding a family. 
 That is the way we all began, perhaps. The Earls and 
 Barons of the future have got their fathers and mothers 
 in this crowd. But no one, except you, George, ever 
 wanted to jjo back again. Oh ! most remarkable of 
 men ! Unique Man ! You wanted to go back again.' 
 
 The carriage stopped at the entrance of a hall ; gas- 
 lights flamed over the open doors ; people, nearly all 
 men, were streaming in, and in the lobby men were 
 standing about disputing and arguing in earnest tones ; 
 everyone looked as if he came on private business — 
 which was the first thing remarkable. 
 
 I spoke to an attendant doorkeeper, who conducted 
 us upstairs and along the back of the gallery to a 
 private box overlooking the stage. Lady Frances 
 looked round. By the decorations, the footlights, the 
 stage, the place for the orchestra, the gallery which ran 
 all round the room, the large room itself, and the close 
 atmosphere, it was evident that the place was habitually 
 used for entertainments. 
 
 ' This is the Siren Music-hall,' I explained. * It is
 
 AN ADDRESS 171 
 
 named, not after the Sisters Three, of whom the pro- 
 prietor and baptizer never heard, but after the new- 
 fashioned steam-whistle which you may hear all day 
 long upon the river. And it is hired for these meet- 
 ings/ 
 
 ' They are not going to have, I hope, a music-hall 
 entertainment ?' 
 
 ' Not quite. You are going to hear a political speech. 
 Meantime, look round and watch the people. You say 
 you want men and women. Very well. There are your 
 men and women all gathered together, especially the 
 men." 
 
 They were nearly all men — working men. Frances 
 looked down upon the crowded hall ; the faces she 
 gazed upon shone white and shiny in the glare of the 
 gas ; they were serious faces, they were hard faces ; the 
 impression produced by the collective face wgis one of 
 honesty and slow powers of perception, but with deter- 
 mination. Most of them sat in silence, leaning back 
 contentedly, and in no hmiy. The men who work 
 actively with the bodily limbs all day for their wage 
 are never in a hun-y so long as they can wait sitting. 
 AATien they talked it was seriously and with earnest- 
 ness, conducting their argument on the approved lines, 
 in which one man advances an array of alleged facts 
 which he cannot prove, and the other contradicts the
 
 172 THE MASTER CIIAITSMAN 
 
 allegations, though he cannot disprove them. This is 
 the argument of the taproom, the bar-parlour, and the 
 smoking-room. The more carefully we adhere to the 
 old-fiishioned, well-tried method, the more animated, 
 spirited, and convincing is the conversation. Imperfect 
 knowledge is most clearly indicated by frequent inter- 
 ruptions and noisy denials. Now, these men were 
 arguing on the constitution of the countiy, being- 
 ignorant of what it is, how it has grown, whence it 
 came, or what it means. And they wanted to change 
 it, being ignorant of what these changes would mean, 
 or how they were to be effected, and how other mem- 
 bers of the community would receive them. There 
 were Socialists among them, men who look forward to 
 the time when every man, for the sake of every other 
 man, and not for himself at all, will gladly do a hard 
 day^s work and get no payment or profit but only the 
 equal ration, the same garb, the same warmth, and the 
 same roof; and they think that the levelling up or 
 down to the same unbroken plane will create, for the 
 firet time in history, happiness complete. 'When 
 Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentle- 
 man T Alas ! it is the same old, old story. There 
 w{is then no gentleman, but in the third or fourth 
 generation after Adam there was founded the first 
 family of gentlefolk — they were, I believe, Welsh.
 
 AN ADDRESS 173 
 
 There were also in the crowd Anarchists — a kindly race 
 who want to sweep away all laws, with the police and 
 the lawyers, and the judges and the prisons, and to leave 
 everybody to work out his own redemption for himself. 
 And there was among them the connnon Radical who 
 desires nothing more than the abolition of the Crown, 
 the Church, and the Lords, after which no one certainly 
 can expect or desire anything more. And there were 
 many of that numerous class, the Wobblers, who incline 
 this way and that, being unable to balance the advan- 
 tages of any one plan against any other. Mostly, how- 
 ever, being poor and dependent, they desire change. 
 Some of the women came with their husbands and 
 brought their work with them, the business of the 
 evening being quite below their own attention. The 
 British matron, who is a practical and keen-eyed person, 
 is seldom able to understand that the abolition of the 
 House of Lords will give her husband better pay, or 
 hei-self more housekeeping money. Here and there one 
 saw a white woman's face, with set lips and furrowed 
 brow. She was that rare woman who can see the 
 wickedness of things, and the imperfection of things, 
 and the injustice and cruelty and uncertainty of things ; 
 and she ceases to believe in the powers that be, or in 
 the doctrines of Church, of teacher, and of preacher, 
 and longs to shuffle the cards and try a new deal, if
 
 174 THE MASTER CRAFl^MAN 
 
 lia})ly that may bring a remedy to the evils of the 
 
 time. 
 
 Lady Frances looked down upon this crowd watching 
 
 and wondering, interested merely by the sight of the 
 
 lines of faces below her, line behind line, row behind 
 
 row ; while I told her the things that are written down 
 
 above. 
 
 ' I am glad I came," she murmured. ' Oh ! I am 
 
 very glad I came. George, I like to see them. Give 
 
 me, I said, men and women. I say it again — men and 
 
 women.' 
 
 ' And the thoughts of men and women — what they 
 
 think about the world and themselves and your class, 
 Frances. It is useful knowledge, even if it does not 
 
 help you to play the game.' 
 
 * So long as I am not compelled to associate with them 
 I have no objection to looking at them, or to reading 
 about them. It would be as a branch of natural history, 
 except for the fact that these people may interfere with 
 us. Tlieir thoughts, I suppose, are mostly discontented ; 
 and their intentions, if they had any, would be revolu- 
 tionary. But they are interesting, and I am glad I came."* 
 By this time the Hall was full to overflowing : the 
 people were crammed in the galleries; they stood on the 
 back -benches; they filled up the gangways; they climbed 
 over the orchestra partition and stood, a mass of young
 
 AN ADDRESS 175 
 
 men, in that capacious pew ; they crowded the dooi*s ; 
 they were packed tight on the stairs : there was no more 
 room left to put in an umbrella. 
 
 ' It is seven o'clock,' I said. ' Time's up. The man 
 you are going to hear to-night, Frances — the strong- 
 man — the man who has ambitions such as you would 
 like me to have ' 
 
 * I never thought you ought to be a local demagogue, 
 George.' 
 
 ' He is coming out immediately. He knows the 
 people pretty well, and they know him. This evening 
 he will pronounce one of a series of orations he has 
 delivered on the questions of the day. The Captain 
 tells me that he has set the people thinking and talking 
 in a very surprising way. You see how they are dis- 
 cussing things. All these discussions are on the text of 
 his last address.' 
 
 * The Wonderful Person of Wapping. I await him 
 with interest.' 
 
 Then the orator appeared, stepping out from the 
 wings, and walked quietly to his place beside a small 
 table, which, with a decanter and tumbler, formed the 
 only furniture of the stage. The background, repre- 
 senting a rural scene, with woods, and a lake and a 
 bridge, did not, somehow, seem incongruous with an 
 address bristling with hard facts and practical con-
 
 176 THE MASTER CllAFrSMAN 
 
 elusions. A bright country landscape, sunny and 
 beautiful, is really far more appropriate to an address 
 which uplifts the heart than a picture of a mean street, 
 or of men and women toiling over mean and ill -paid 
 labour. 
 
 There was no chairman. At the outset one had been 
 proposed, but the lecturer scoffed at the suggestion, 
 said that he could very well introduce himself, and 
 propose for himself a vote of thanks. He therefore 
 stood alone. In his hand he bore a bundle of papere, 
 which he carefully placed in order on the table for 
 reference. 
 
 Then he stood upright, facing his audience, and 
 bowed slightly to the round of applause which gi*eeted 
 him. 
 
 Lady Frances saw a tall, broad-shouldered, and 
 singularly handsome young man, with a broad square 
 forehead — the light fell full upon it — clear eyes, hair 
 in very short brown curls — such curls as denote strength 
 — a serious face — too serious for his time of life ; but, 
 then, it is only your light comedian, your touch-and-go 
 comic man, who can face an audience with a grin, and 
 it is only a ballet-girl who can appear with a smile. 
 There was not, however, the slightest touch of emban-ass- 
 ment or stage fright about him. He stood easily, in an 
 assured attitude, standing well apart from the table, so
 
 AN ADDRESS 177 
 
 that his figure was practically the only thing to be 
 seen upon the stage. He was dressed in faultless evening 
 clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole. This 
 was the man who, a few weeks before, scoffed at the 
 observance of evening dress, and sneered at the niminy- 
 piminy ways of the fine gentleman. 
 
 ' Why,"* whispered Lady Frances, ' the man is dressed 
 like a gentleman. \\Tiat does he do that for ? He is 
 only talking to workpeople. Look at his face, George ; 
 it says as plain as if he were speaking, " I am not afraid 
 — I am a better man than anybody here."" ** 
 
 The orator held up his hand. Everybody settled in 
 his place ; everybody adjusted his feet — mostly under 
 the benches ; every other person cleared his throat ; the 
 women who had come with their husbands looked up 
 at the orator and round the room ; then they took up 
 their knitting again, and abstracted their thoughts into 
 some useful line, such as boots and the acquisition of 
 boots. The people on the stairs loudly besought those 
 within to make room for them ; one might as well 
 implore the sardines to lie a little closer in their box. 
 So they wailed aloud, like the foolish virgins, because 
 they could not enter. And then the orator began. 
 
 I am profoundly sorry that I cannot, in this place, 
 give you even the heads of this discourse ; because his 
 words and his facts were forcible and convincing, and I 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 THE MASTER CllAFrSMAN 
 
 am sure, dear reader, you would like to be hammered 
 with facts and convinced with reasons. I cannot, how- 
 ever, do so, for the simple reason that the laws of copy- 
 right forbid. The orations are now published, and 
 everybody can get them and read them. 
 
 He began, however, with a personal point. 
 
 ' I told you,' he said, ' at the outset, that I am here 
 because I propose to represent this borough at the next 
 General Election. The reason why I have taken the 
 trouble to address you is that you will be my con- 
 stituents, and it is always best when a man has got 
 opinions of his own that he should instruct his con- 
 stituents upon them. Mine are not opinions : they are 
 convictions ; and my convictions, as I have shown you 
 so far, are simple truths. You are all the better, I am 
 quite sure, for having learned those truths ; you will 
 talk much less nonsense, and you will advocate much 
 more sensible measures. So much, of course, you will 
 acknowledge. Now, the next General Election is said 
 to be close upon us. No one can possibly know for 
 certain how close it is, but we may expect it any day. 
 Therefore it is well that I have educated you to support 
 my candidature. 
 
 ' I also told you at the outset that I mean to entei* 
 the House as an Independent Member. I am informed 
 that no Independent Member is of any importance in
 
 AN ADDRESS 179 
 
 the House ; that he cannot influence votes that belong 
 to this party or that party ; that the House is divided 
 into this flock of sheep and that flock of sheep, which 
 follow their leaders when the bell rings. Very good. 
 My friend, I don't want to influence votes in the House. 
 I want to influence you — you — you — not the House at 
 all. I care nothing about the House. It is through 
 the House that one speaks to the country, nay, to the 
 world, if one is strong enough. I desire to speak the 
 tinith about things that I know, the exact plain truth, 
 which they do not hear in the House — the forces which 
 drive us ; the way w^e are driven ; the thing that has 
 to be done. I want to speak out to the whole world by 
 speaking in the House. Oh, I am not afraid ! Men will 
 laugh at such a confession. It is a worthy and noble 
 ambition, and, my constituents, I mean to prove myself, 
 yes, myself, worthy of that noble ambition. Very weW. 
 Now, remember that when I am elected I am not going 
 to call myself yom- servant, nor shall I have the hypocrisy 
 to pretend that I am sent to the House with a mandate 
 from you. AVhy, you don't think I am going to accept 
 any instructions from anybody here, do you ? You to 
 give me — me — instructions ? My dear people, understand 
 that your collective wisdom is no more than the wisdom 
 of the best man among you, and your best man isn't a 
 tenth part of the man that I am in knowledge, or in
 
 180 Tin: MASli:il CUAFiSMAN 
 
 nbility either. Do not make any mistake. You may 
 he mv servants if vou please; it is tlie ])est thing in 
 the world for vou to learn of me, to (juestion me, to 
 elect me, hut I sliall never he your senant. Vou can 
 teach me nothin«^, hut I can teach you a great deal. 
 Understand, then, I shall he an Independent Member in 
 every sense — free of interference of party, free of inter- 
 ference of constituents. So vou had better make up 
 your mind at once to turn out one of your present 
 members — I do not in the least care whicli — and to put 
 me in his place. But, by the Lord, I tell vou, I })romise 
 you, I will make you proud of voiu' member!' 
 
 He sto})})ed. This was only the prologue — the fore- 
 words, lie drank a little water and took up his 
 papers. 
 
 The people, so far from resenting this plainness of 
 speech, clap})ed and applauded mightily. 
 
 * His assurance becomes him,' said Lady PVances. ' A 
 more aiTOgant s])eech I never heard. After that, they 
 are bound to elect him.' 
 
 And then he turned to liis subject. He had at least 
 the gift of oratory, and the first and the most im])ortant 
 part of this gift is the power of clear and orderly arrange- 
 ment ; he knew how to select his points, and to present 
 them so that a child might understand ; he knew how 
 to i-epeat them ; to ))resent them again in another form.
 
 AN ADDRESS 181 
 
 yet still so as to be intelligible to all ; he knew how to 
 present them a third time, so that there should be no 
 chance of forgetting them. He had a flexible, rich, and 
 musical voice, which rolled in thunder in the roof, or 
 di'opped to the soft strains of a silver flute. He knew 
 when to stir the people's hearts, and when to make them 
 follow to a cold chain of reason ; when to make them 
 laugh, and when to make them cry. The man played 
 with his audience ; and if you watched him, as Lady 
 Frances did, you would observe that he rejoiced in his 
 power ; there were moments when he used this power 
 wantonly — for his own pleasure when it Mas not wanted. 
 Now and then, when he trampled upon some pet pre- 
 judice and exposed some cherished illusion, there were 
 soimds of disagi'eement, but faintly expressed and quickly 
 hushed. Thus he spoke of Socialism : 
 
 ' Do not,' he said, ' be led away by theories of what 
 may be or might be. A\^e are concerned with what is, 
 not with what may be. jMan is born alone — absoluteh 
 alone in the world ; he grows up alone ; he learns alone ; 
 he works alone ; he has his diseases alone ; he thinks 
 alone ; he lives alone ; he dies alone. The only thing 
 that seems to take away his loneliness is his marriage. 
 Then, because he has another person always in the 
 house with him, he feels perhaps that he is not quite 
 so lonely as he thought. It is illusion, but it cheers
 
 182 THE MASTKU CIIAFTSMAN 
 
 liini u|). Every man is (piitc alone. Jlcmcml)cr that. 
 Evervthin<r that lie ha.s is his alone ; he cannot ^ive it 
 away if he wishes. His face helongs to himself alone — 
 therc is no other face like his in the whole world, and 
 there never ha.s been. In the Resurrection of the 
 millions and millions of tlie lonij-foriiottcn dead there 
 will he no face like any other face — no man like any 
 other man. Quite alone. He camiot part with his 
 li^fts, his hereditary powers and weaknesses, his learning, 
 his skill of hand and eye ; his thouglits, his memory, 
 his history, his doings, his follies — nothing that he has 
 can he impart to any other living creatui*e. It all 
 belongs to him. He is alone in the world. 
 
 ' Quite alone — he and his property. Rememlxjr this, 
 and when you hear men talk of things equal and things 
 equally divided, ask how the most important proj)ei'ty 
 of all is to be divided — a man's strength and skill and 
 iibilitv. For you are not ecpial ; there is no equality. 
 Nature — the Order of Creation — screams it loudly to 
 you; she proclaims it from the mountain -tops, she 
 whispei-s it in the rustling of the leaves, in the flow of 
 the water, and in the breath of the spring. You are 
 not equal. Nothing that was ever made is the equal of 
 ;tny other thing. Vou are all une(|ual ; vou have diver- 
 sities of gifts ; one is a giant and one is a dwarf; one 
 can make and one can only destroy ; you are all unequal.
 
 AN ADDRESS 188 
 
 That is the voice of Nature. AVhat follows ? We who 
 are individual and unequal have to provide for ourselves. 
 Man is still a creature who hunts and lives In' the chase. 
 The rest shapes itself; the strong man tramples down 
 the weak ; we associate ourselves together so that the 
 strong man may not too much oppress the weak ; 
 wages, hours, work, holidays, prices — all rest upon the 
 will of the strong man, and he is ruled by the will of 
 one stronger than himself. You who are strong, pre- 
 serve your strength, learn to use it. You will form 
 combinations for your protection against the stronger 
 man. Good : if youi' strength is greater than his, you 
 will get what you want ; if his is greater than yours, 
 you will lose. Above all things, be strong. All the 
 systems, all the experiments, that the world has ever 
 seen, terminate in the victory of the strong man, to 
 whom belongs, and ever will belong, the round world 
 and all that therein is.' 
 
 This was only a bit out of the middle of the oration. 
 You will find plenty of pages in the printed book as 
 strong as this passage. 
 
 He concluded at last, amid a storm of cheers and 
 shouting. 
 
 At the door, as we went out, we met Captain Dcring. 
 I introduced him briefly. 
 
 'I saw you in the private box,' siiid the Captain,
 
 184 THE MASTER CRAFl^MAN 
 
 taking oft' his liat to Ijidy Frances. * What did I tell 
 you ? He winds 'em about like a bit o' string ; he does 
 what he likes with 'em. They're afraid of him, and yet 
 they can't help coming to liear him. They'll go away 
 — a whole lot of the cha|)s are rank Socialist scum ' — 
 the old sailor called them ' scum ' : did one ever know a 
 Socialist sailor.^ — 'they'll go away and curse him. But 
 they'll come again, all the same.' 
 
 ' And will they vote for him .^' asked Lady Frances. 
 
 'Tliey will. To a man. Because he isn't afraid to 
 have a mind of his own, and to speak it out, and to let 
 'em know what he thinks about their collective wisdom. 
 Lord ! their wisdom ! Look here, now. Witli permission. 
 Madam.' The Captain was courtesy itself with a lady 
 passenger. ' It's the same all the world over. And if 
 you want to see what all the world wants, go and look 
 for it aboard ship, because a ship is a world by itself. 
 Very good. What do the sailors want ? A man who 
 palavers and pretends to take their advice ? Not a bit 
 of it. A man who talks about their wisdom ? Not a 
 bit of it. They know they've got no wisdom. They 
 can't even pretend to navigate a shij). They want a 
 man to take the command; a skipper who will say, 
 
 " Go there ; do this, you !" begging your paixlon, 
 
 Madam. Ask their advice ! I'd like to see a sailor's 
 face if his captain asked his advice.'
 
 AN ADDRESS 185 
 
 ' You like a strong man everywhere, Captain Dering/ 
 said Lady Frances. ' So do I." 
 
 * It's the same everywhere. They talk about this and 
 that. They ask questions and pretend to know. And 
 the candidate, he just pretends to ask their advice 
 humble -like, and promises to take their advice when 
 he's got it, and goes to the House with his tongue in his 
 cheek. What all the world wants, Madam, is a captain 
 to give the word of command and to navigate the vessel.' 
 
 * Then, you do think he will get in ? I hope he will. 
 He should have a thousand votes if I had them.' 
 
 'If he doesn't, he'll just take and knock their silly 
 heads together.' 
 
 ' George,' said Lady Frances, as we drove away, * I 
 have had a most delightful evening. Thank you, ever so 
 much, for bringing me here. Your orator is a very strong 
 man indeed. He speaks like a gentleman, yet he called 
 himself a Master Craftsman — I suppose from some proud 
 humility. " AVe are all working men," I heard the Arch- 
 bishop say once. I thought it was rather humbug.' 
 
 ' This man is indeed a Master Craftsman. He 
 understands honest work with his hands as well as any 
 working man present. In fact, better.' 
 
 ' He appeared in evening dress. Do Master Crafts- 
 men habitually wear evening dress ?' 
 
 ' The garb proclaimed the difference between his
 
 18fi THE MAST]«:R CUAia^jMAN 
 
 audience and himself. He does not appear before them 
 as a workman, but as their master in every sense. The 
 evenin^ij clothes are an allef^ory, you see. He told them 
 pretty plainly that he is their master.' 
 
 ' He did indeed."* 
 
 'Seeking election, not in order to caiTy out any views 
 of theirs, vou see, but to advance his own views. I 
 think he was quite ri^ht to put on the dress-coat.' 
 
 * He certainly speaks like a man who knows thinops.'' 
 
 ' The things that man knows, Frances, would sink a 
 three-decker. And the things he does not know 
 couldn't float a canoe.' 
 
 ' Your metaphors arc mixed, George ; but you mean 
 well; 
 
 ' You perceived, of course, that he is not a scholar. 
 These self-taught men never are. He lacks the literary 
 phi'ase, except, perhaps, when he comes to personal 
 appeal. But the literary phrase may come. He ac- 
 quires everything with amazing ease the moment he 
 learns that it is necessaiy.' 
 
 ' Necessary ? For what ?' 
 
 'For liis personal ambition. Frances, you have seen 
 to-night the chrvsalis. Very soon, I believe, you will 
 see the — the other creature — which comes out of the 
 chrysalis. This man — vou have heard what he says — 
 means to become a power in the House — that is the
 
 AN ADDRESS 187 
 
 ambition wliich most pleases you. He will, he calmly 
 prophesies, be invited in a few years to become a 
 Cabinet Minister ; after that, Prime ^Minister ; then — 
 perhaps — Protector of the Realm. He is as deter- 
 mined as Cromwell ; as clear-headed and as able — as 
 ruthless, perhaps ; and perhaps, also, as selfish." 
 
 ' If he can debate as well as he can speak he ought to 
 get on. A man like that always begins as a Radical. He 
 wants to pull down the Church and the Lords, of course.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, he would })ull down neither Church 
 nor Lords. He would, I believe, enlarge the borders of 
 both. You heard him say that he was going to be an 
 Independent Member ?'' 
 
 ' Then, George, speaking as the daughter of a Prime 
 Minister, I say that he will dig his own grave. Tell 
 him that he nmst belong to a Party, if he would get on. 
 He must — tell him he must ! If he does not, he would 
 do far better to remain outside.' 
 
 ' I have told him so over and over again. But he is 
 as obstinate as a Western mule.' 
 
 ' And he is — your cousin ! I had forgotten that. 
 AVliv, it accounts for the stranjje resemblance. I was 
 haunted all the time by his likeness. I could not think 
 what likeness. It is vou, George ; he is strangely like 
 you. Only bigger, I think.' 
 
 ' Yes ; bigger all over, and more ambitious, Frances."
 
 188 THE MASTER C RAFISMAN 
 
 * Oh ! and he is teaching you his trade. And what 
 liave you taught him, George ?' 
 
 •• Nothing worth speaking of. You sec, a man 
 brought up at Wapping, which is only a little isolated 
 slip of ground between dock and river — a kind of island 
 — has very few chances of accjuiring the air of society."' 
 
 * George, you have taught your cousin manners — I 
 know you have. And you are going to introduce him 
 about. Do you think that he will not betray himself .''" 
 
 ' I hope he will, because there will be no pretence. 
 But in all essentials he will be fit for presentation in 
 your own draw ing-room, Frances, where I hope to bring 
 him with your permission.' 
 
 ' Bring him, by all means. It is always a happiness 
 to meet a strong and clever man. I think your cousin, 
 to look at him and to listen to him, must be as clever 
 as he is strong. George, give him, if you can, a lighter 
 style. It is all very well to be intensely earnest at 
 certain points — especially the weakest in an address — 
 but he must not be intensely earnest all through. 
 Make him cultivate repartee and epigi'am. Teach him 
 to laugh a little, and to smile a little. A man nowa- 
 days, even a man who is going to pull down the House 
 of Commons by the two pillars, should laugh and smile 
 a little beforehand. But he is a strong man, George, 
 and a very interesting man.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN. 
 
 When we assembled for early dinner on Monday I 
 looked to see some effect of our little afternoon voyage 
 and talk on Isabel. Alas ! the cloud huno: aerain 
 over her head — a visible, dark cloud. She sat timidly 
 glancing at her lover, who was also her liege and lord ; 
 more timidly, perhaps, because Robert had now begun 
 to put off his silent habit and to talk at dinner — one 
 result of his West End experience. This astonished 
 and rather terrified her, because words from Robert 
 were generally words of admonition ; and more uneasily, 
 perhaps, because he was talking about persons of whom 
 she understood nothing. I say persons : so great was 
 the change already that Robert talked of persons as 
 well as principles ; and he, who was formerly as chary 
 of his laughter as Saturn or as a Scottish divine, had 
 now begun to laugh readily and cheerfully.
 
 190 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 For my own part, tlic talk of Saturday afternoon mid 
 the revelation of the girl's unhap})incss so mightily 
 impressed me — one can never bear to see a girl in 
 son'ow — that I had been thinking ever since how Isiibel's 
 life might be bettered for her. I could only think of 
 two ways : first, to lighten her work ; secondly, to in- 
 troduce a little change. As for the former, she was 
 housekeeper, and kept the household accounts, which 
 was enough for one girl to attempt ; also, she was 
 accountant to ' Burnikel and Rurnikel,' and kept the 
 books of the house and paid the men. Keeping the 
 books meant a laborious and old-fashioned system of 
 double book-keeping, which took a great deal of her 
 time. This alone was enough for one girl to attempt. 
 She was, further, private secretary ; she hunted up 
 passages, copied passages, made notes, and wrote all 
 Robert's letters. This alone was cjuite enough for one 
 girl to attem})t ; and, lastly, she had to look after her 
 own dress, and I am sure that this is, by itself, quite 
 enough to occupy all the time of a conscientious girl. 
 As regards getting some change of scene, the only way 
 was to bring the change to her, and that, I saw clearly, 
 must be my task. 
 
 It is a delicate thing to interfere between a man and 
 his mistress, even when the mistress is not the object 
 of any fondling and nonsense — even when she is also
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 191 
 
 accountant, secretary, and housekeeper. I therefore 
 approached the subject diplomatically. 
 
 ' Boat-building," I said, working round to it by an 
 unexpected path, ' is a business of selling as well as of 
 making, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Go on,' he replied cheerfully ; ' what are you 
 driving at ?' 
 
 'This, first: I am getting on very well with the 
 craft, but I don't know much about the trade.' 
 
 'You know very little about the trade, and I fear 
 you never will ; because, George, though you may make 
 me a gentleman — to look at — no one will ever make 
 you a tradesman.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' Because you've been brought up different. You 
 haven't our feeling for money. Every coin with us 
 means money saved, or money won. A sovereign means 
 victory in a pitched battle. With you it comes out of 
 an inexhaustible bag. See now. If you want to go 
 anywhere, you take a cab. It comes natural to you. 
 Lord ! I laugh when I see you calling a cab. We take 
 a penny 'bus. If we must take a cab, we give him a 
 shilling, reckoning up the fare and measuring the dis- 
 tance ; we grudge that shilling. You toss him half a 
 crown, and think nothing of it. You tip waiters and 
 porters with sixpences and shillings; we never tip any-
 
 IM THE MASTER CIlAFrSMAN 
 
 body at ull if we cun liclp it. AVlieii voii want to have 
 anything, you order it without asking the j)rice ; we 
 cast about to get it chca]), or we do without it. ^Vhen 
 you do ask the price you ])ay at once whatever tliey tell 
 you, or you have it put down. We know better ; we 
 know that a price means what they can get, not what 
 they please to ask : we beat them down. Then you go 
 to the dearest people to buy things. We know that 
 the dear people are no better than the cheap, because 
 the same workmen make for both. A\'e study the 
 pence ; you throw away the pounds.' 
 
 ' My dear cousin, the period approaches when I shall 
 have nothing but pence to study. However, what I 
 wanted to say was this : The time seems to have come 
 when I ought to learn something of the trade side."* 
 
 ' Well, I will tell you what you please.' 
 
 ' There are the prices of materials, the cost of labour, 
 rent, taxes, selling prices — all these things. The best 
 way for me to learn is not to worry you, but to read 
 and examine your books. Everything is there, of 
 course."* 
 
 Robert did not reply for a few moments. It is the 
 instinct of a man of business to wish his affaire to loom 
 large in the imagination of humanity. His books alone 
 conceal the real ti-uth. 
 
 'If it was any other man," he said, * or for any other
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 193 
 
 purpose — but as it's you, take the books and examine 
 them. They are in the safe over the way. Isabel has 
 the key."* 
 
 ' Thank you. With her help I will not only look at 
 them, but, for a term, keep them for you.' 
 
 ' You can't keep them. You don't know book-keep- 
 ing by double entry.' 
 
 ' Isabel shall teach me, and your books cannot be very 
 complicated.' 
 
 ' Very well. Have it your own way.' 
 
 So that was done. I could thus take a great load off 
 the girl's frail shoulders. Then I went on to the other 
 points. 
 
 ' Isabel,' I said, ' is not looking well.' 
 
 ' She looks exactly the same to-day as she did six 
 months ago.' 
 
 'No; she is not looking at all well. She is not 
 naturally, I should say, a strong girl. If I were you, 
 Robert, I would speak to someone about her.' 
 
 ' WTiy ?' he answered impatiently. ' She hasn't told 
 me she was ill. What is the matter with her ?' 
 
 ' Too much confinement ; too little change.' 
 
 ' I've noticed nothing wrong.' 
 
 ' No, you see her every day ; you would hardly notice 
 a gradual change. Can't you see, however, that she is 
 pale and nervous ?' 
 
 VOL. 1. 13
 
 194 THE MASni:R CRAFrSMAN 
 
 ' Slie is alw.'ivs pale mul nervous. Is she moi*e pale 
 aiid nervous than usual T 
 
 ' There is a furrow in her forehead ; there arc hlack 
 lines under her eyes ; and her cheek is thin/ 
 
 ' This,' said the fond but injured lover, ' comes of 
 liaving women about one. Why can't she tell me if 
 she is not well ? 
 
 ' You must have noticed how silent she is — and how 
 she droops her head." 
 
 ' She is always silent. She knows that I don't like 
 chatter. As for drooping her head, I suppose she 
 can'ies her head as she likes.' 
 
 ' No doubt. At the same time, Robert, she is in a 
 bad way. I am cei-tain of it.' 
 
 ' Well ' — he hesitated — ' what am I to do 't Look 
 here, George, you know more than I do about women. 
 It's no use talking to the Captain, and there's only the 
 cook besides : what am I to do ?' 
 
 'I should say, give her, first, more fresh air, less work, 
 more amusement, change of scene.' 
 
 ' Good Lord, man ! how am I to give her change of 
 scene .? You don't mean that I am to give up my 
 work just now, when the Election may be sprung upon 
 us at any moment, in order to go dawdling and dang- 
 ling about with a woman ?' 
 
 ' Well, I'll help a bit, if you agree.'
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 195 
 
 ' Agree ? I should think I would agree ! Go on.' 
 ' I have taken over the books of the Firm. That 
 will be a great relief to her. As for you, don't give 
 her, just now, things to copy ; wi'ite your own letters. 
 Then she will have nothing left but the housekeeping, 
 which is a simple matter.' 
 
 ' Well, and what about the change of scene ?"" 
 ' I was thinking — if you don't mind — that I could 
 take her out occasionally — on Saturdays or Sundays — 
 and perhaps in the long evenings.' 
 
 ' If you would, and if it would do her any good. I 
 don't want to be hard on the girl, George. You know 
 how busy I am, and what a lot I have to think about. 
 She's a good and obedient girl on the whole. I can't, 
 you see, be worrying myself continually about the day 
 by day looks of my clerks and people.' 
 
 ' Isabel is hardly a " clerk and people," is 
 
 she r 
 
 ' Of course not. But you know what I mean.' 
 
 ' I believe I know what you mean. Your thoughts 
 are always concerned with things that seem to you of 
 far more importance than a woman's health.' 
 
 ' That is so,' he replied, impervious to the shaft of 
 satire. 
 
 ' Well, Robert, I will do what I can. "Wliile we are 
 talking about Isabel, there is another thing on my
 
 196 THE MASTER CRAFl^MAN 
 
 iiiiiul. W'c may iussuine, I suppose, tluit you arc going 
 to su treed."' 
 
 'You may certainly assume so much. AVhy, else, do 
 I take all this trouble ?' 
 
 ' Well, when you are a great man — a man of society 
 — it will be a matter of some importance that your 
 wife should hold her own in society/ 
 
 Robert coloured. ' Why shouldn't Isabel hold her 
 own ? A woman has jjot nothin<T to do but to sit down 
 and take what comes.' 
 
 ' There are many ways of sitting down." 
 
 * You mean, I suppose, that her case is — like my own. 
 Do vou want to send Isabel into Piccadilly to leani 
 manners .''' 
 
 ' Her case is not so bad as yours," I told him plainly. 
 * liut it is a case of the same kind.' 
 
 'I always thought she was a quiet, modest kind of 
 girl, else I could never have promised to maiTy her ; 
 but I dare say you are right. After mv own experi- 
 ences — I am a good bit wiser than I was — I suppose 
 tliat there are ways and customs that a woman should 
 know — that can't be learned in this corner of the 
 world.' 
 
 'She wants manner — that is the only thing she 
 wants, except happiness, perhaps. I cannot impart 
 manner to her, but I can show her women who have it.
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 197 
 
 Remember, Robert, it may be of the utmost import- 
 ance to you, at some future time, that your wife should 
 show by her manner that she is accustomed to society/ 
 
 I knew, of course, while I spoke, that such a thing is 
 absolutely impossible. A girl brought up as Isabel had 
 been could never acquire the real air and manner which 
 belongs to the gentlewoman born and bred. All kinds 
 of virtues, graces, charms, attractions, allurements, arts, 
 and accomplishments, may be acquired by a woman, 
 but this one quality she inherits or develops from 
 infancy. Not that it is a charm above all others, as 
 some women fondly believe. By no means. For my 
 own part, I have learned that a woman may lack this 
 charm as she may lack other things, and yet be above 
 and beyond all other women in the world in the eyes of 
 her lover. 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Robert, ' that you are right.' 
 
 ' Very good. Then I will sometimes take her where 
 she will see well-dressed women. You shall see, after a 
 bit, how her pale cheeks will put on roses, and her 
 listless manner will become cheerful. Oh ! and there is 
 something else. She must practise her music more — 
 she is starved for want of music. She must j)ractisc in 
 the day-time. Perhaps she might sing a little. It 
 won't disturb you." 
 
 * All right,' he said. ' Oh ! it's all right. Have it
 
 198 TIIK :MAST1:11 CUAITSMAN 
 
 vour own wav. IV'iliaps vouM like tlu* workmen over 
 the way to sing a chonis while she stnnns the piano? 
 Perhaps you'd like to do a breakdown in the road ? 
 Only make her get well, George, without troubling 
 me. And don't look as if it's my fault that she's a bit 
 pale.' 
 
 That day, after dinner, Robert went his way as usual. 
 The Captain went another way. Isabel, the cloth being 
 removed, spread out her books upon the table and sat 
 down with a little sigh. 
 
 I sat down on the other side, leaning my elbows on 
 the table. 
 
 ' Isabel,' I said, ' you've got to be obedient to your 
 Physician.' 
 
 ^I must go on with my master's work, please, 
 Physician. When that is done I will be obedient.' 
 
 I took the books from her, shut them up, and put my 
 hand U})on them. ' There !' I said ; * now vou are not 
 going to trouble yourself about these books any more. 
 Thus saith the Healer."* 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 * I have spoken to the Commander-in-Chief. He 
 graciously consents that I shall take over these books 
 for the future. All you have to do is to show me how 
 you book-keep by double entry. He further consents to 
 write his own letters with his own hand — letters about
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 199 
 
 his borough and all. He will give no more extracts, 
 arguments, and illustrations to copy out for his speeches. 
 You are released. He thinks further that, if you house- 
 keep with diligence, and look after your dress with zeal, 
 and make yourself look pretty and desirable, you will 
 have quite enough to do."' 
 
 She blushed a rosy red. ' Robert didn't say that ! 
 Oh, impossible !' 
 
 * He didn't exactly say so, in so many words ' — in 
 fact, it was impossible — * but I have no doubt that he 
 really meant it.' 
 
 *It was you who said it, and meant it, too," she 
 murmured. 
 
 ' The Commander-in-Chief further expresses his desire 
 that you should practise your playing all day long, if 
 you like, and your singing too, if you can sing. Nothing 
 is better for the chest than singing." 
 
 ' I have never learned. I only sing in church,' 
 
 'I will get you some songs and some new music. 
 Plenty of music, that is my first prescription ; plenty of 
 singing, that is the second prescription ; laughing, if 
 you can find anything to laugh at. You can laugh at 
 me if you like ; I wish you would. You don't know the 
 good it would do you. Dancing, if there is anyone to 
 dance with ; you can dance with me if you like ; I wish 
 you would. Flowers for the windows, antl to brighten
 
 «00 THE MASTER ( KAITSMAN 
 
 up thisold lioiist'. ('han«;(M)fair Jiiul of scene, ^'()ll shall 
 go with nic somewhere next Saturday.' 
 
 She stared in aniazenient. ' What does all this mean ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 ' It means, Isal)el, that Robert is seriously concerned 
 about your looks, and it means that we have considered 
 to«i^ether what to do with you, and that these are the 
 measures we have adoj^ted.' 
 
 * Robert seriously concerned about me ? Rol)ert 
 anxious about my looks ?' 
 
 She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears 
 that arose. ' It would matter nothing to Robert if I 
 were dying. He would notice nothing, and he would 
 care nothing. I belong to him, that is all ; so does his 
 chair. Oh, it is you — you who have done this. It is 
 all your kindness — yours — and I am almost a stranger 
 to you. And Robert, who is to be my husband, luis 
 never all the time said one word of kindness — not one 
 
 word of kindness. And as to ' She stopped, with 
 
 sobbing. 
 
 ' Nay, Isabel ; take all this as an act of kindness. It 
 is not his way to say words of affection.' 
 
 She shook her head. 'Not one word of kindness. 
 Robert cares nothing for me — nothing.' 
 
 ' And vou ?" 
 
 ^ Oh, I tremble day and night to think that I nuist
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 201 
 
 marry him. George, you asked me for my secret ; that 
 is my secret. If I could go away anywhere — to be 
 housemaid even — I would go. But I cannot — I cannot ; 
 
 and he will never give me up unless Oh, I pray 
 
 night and morning that he may find another woman 
 and fall in love with her. But he will not — oh, he 
 cannot ; he does not know what love means ; his heart 
 is as hard as a stone, and he thinks of nothing but 
 himself."* 
 
 ' I will keep your secret, Isabel,' I replied gravely. 
 Let us never speak of it again ; and perhaps, when he 
 gets on in the world, he will soften."* 
 
 She shook her head again. 
 
 ' Play me something, my child, and soothe your own 
 soul while you play.'
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I\ THK FIKLDS. 
 
 I (;avk her new music, some books of songs, some books 
 of poetry, and some novels of a kind that I thought she 
 would like. I filled the windows with flowers, insomuch 
 that Robert groaned ; I gave her flowers for the table. 
 In the evening I took her on the river for an hour of the 
 fresh strong air which sweeps up with the flow and down 
 with the ebb ; and on Saturday I took her for a little 
 journey into the country. 
 
 I wanted real country, not cockney country, though 
 that is not to be despised, Isabel was clad, I well 
 remember, in a summer dress of some soft and light 
 material. Perhaps it was not trinnncd exactly as a 
 ]Umd Strtet dressmaker would approve. She wore a 
 liat wliicli had been bought in the neighbourhood of 
 Aldgate, vet it was a ])retty hat ; and with a touch of 
 colour round her neck, and a flower at her throat, she 
 looked a very dainty damsel indeed. And, oh, the
 
 Ix\ THE FIELDS 203 
 
 blindness, and the coldness, and the stony-heartedness 
 of her Jia?ice, who would have no kissing, and fondling, 
 and foolishness. In this respect, though we were sprung 
 from the same stock, I am not ashamed to confess that 
 in my principles, not to speak of practice, we were hope- 
 lessly at variance. 
 
 * Permit me to observe, Isabel,^ I remarked judicially, 
 ' that you look very nice, and that your dress becomes 
 you."* 
 
 ' Oh r She coloured with pleasure ; she was so 
 unused to compliments, you see. 'I am so glad you 
 like it. If you had not made Robert give up all that 
 work I should not have found time to make it.' 
 
 ' Well, I thought of taking you by rather a long 
 journey, if you don't mind that — to Rickmanswoi-th. 
 Then you shall walk through a lovely park that I 
 know of, and then we shall be picked up by a trap 
 and drive to Chenies, there to dine, and go home in 
 the cool of the evening. Will that suit you, Isabel ?' 
 
 * Anything suits me that suits you, George ; only 
 I am afraid "* 
 
 ' What are you afraid of ?' 
 
 * I am afraid of you. Oh, not that way " — she did 
 not explain what way — ' only you belong to another 
 world almost. I am afraid that I shall be such a stupid 
 companion. I don't even talk your language ; and you
 
 «a4 Till-: mastj:k c jiaitsman 
 
 alw.iys look ^o haj)})V. I am a.shanud to In* scon witli 
 Jinvoiie who looks so liappv." 
 
 I Ijiiifi^ht'd. Afniiil of me I As if any woman in the 
 world could ever be afraitl of me ! ' Wliv,' I told hei', 
 'I j^o in perpetual awe and adoration of all women. 
 1 look happy because you condixc-nd to walk witli 
 
 me. Women are all "oddesses. I worehip in fear ' 
 
 So she smiled, and resifrncd hei-self to fate, and we set off. 
 
 From Wappin<^ to llickmansworth is a 1 on <i^ journey : 
 it takes an hour and a half. In the underground Isabel 
 began to talk again about Uobert. 
 
 ' I am ashamed,' she said, ' of liaving told vou u hat I 
 did last Monday ; I am asliamed of feehng so — afraid of 
 Robert. You will think me the most unworthy j^erson 
 in the world when I tell you that it is gratitude — the 
 deepest gratitude — that ought to bind us to llobeii:. 
 Did he ever tell you how we came to liis house 'i No ? 
 Well, I will tell you, and then you will undei-stand what 
 I mean. It is five years since we came to liim, I Wius 
 sixteen then. We are his cousins. He could not get 
 on with his mother. She was a very grand lady — I 
 remember her — who dressed in black silk, and worc a 
 large gold chain, and wanted to rule evervhodv. \\\A 
 Ilobi-rt was the master, and he intended to be master, in 
 which he Wiis quite right. So they couldn't agree, and 
 his mother went out to her other sons in Tasmania.
 
 IN THE FIELDS i205 
 
 Then Robert remembered us. Just tlien it was, oli, a 
 terrible time witli us. I used to lie awake crying and 
 praying for help. And Robert brought the help." 
 
 * What was the trouble ?' 
 
 ' Father had a stroke — you see how lame he is — and 
 he couldn't go to sea any more, and there was no 
 money at all.' 
 
 ' Oh, but that was terrible/ 
 
 * Yes. They were trying to get father into the 
 Trinity Almshouse, and I w^as to go and do something 
 — become a barmaid, perhaps. Then Robert found us 
 out. " Come and live with me,'' he said. And so we 
 came. I was to be his secretary, and to keep the books 
 and the house.' 
 
 ' And that you have continued ever since. Yes. 
 And you have never been outside Wapping once all 
 that time ?' 
 
 ^ Oh yes ; now and then I go as far as ^Vldgate.' 
 
 * Have you been into any kind of society ? Have you 
 had any kind of change .^' 
 
 * No ; we have no visitors here, and I have been too 
 busy to think of change.' 
 
 *That is just it; you have been too busy. Don't 
 talk to me of gratitude, Isabel. liobert luis taken 
 from you more than he has given. Not that he is to 
 be blamed. Robert, vou see, is such a stron^j sort that
 
 206 'i HE MASTER CUAITSMAN 
 
 he never waiitN aiiv cIijiiil;!', and he lliinks that nolxxly 
 else does. ^Vhy, you've lost what ou;::lit to have been 
 your happiest (hivs. Whv, voii oii^ht to liavu been a 
 princess/ 
 
 ' Please, George ' She sto])pecl nie, turning red. 
 
 * lleineniber that, whatever I have lost, I have never 
 heard foolish coni})linients."' 
 
 * If you call that foolish Ikit I refrain. So, 
 
 little one, you entered upon the boat-building business; 
 and you saw Hobeii:, naturally, every day.' 
 
 * Ves; all day long." 
 
 * And he — he — 1 mean you — presently accepted 
 liini/ 
 
 She blushed again. ' Yes ; he said he must have a 
 wife some time or other, and he would marry me. But 
 he had a gi*eat deal to ilo first, and I nuist not expect 
 him to — to ' 
 
 * 1 know. The most singular limitation of an engage- 
 ment on record.' 
 
 'If I could make him happy, how could I refuse? 
 Besitles, I wtis afraid to refuse. And we owed every- 
 thing to him. But it won't have to l)e for a great while 
 yet — not for years.' 
 
 The train arrived at the sUition. I ordered a con- 
 veyance to meet us at Chorley C'onunon, and I took 
 Isabel by a wav that 1 knew througli the Pai'k.
 
 IN THE FIELDS 207 
 
 There is nothing in the world, I believe, lovelier than 
 an English park in early summer. Wild places — lofty 
 mountains, tall peaks, dark ravines, broad glaciers, black 
 forests, cliffs white, cliffs red, cliffs black — touch another 
 note. The tranquillity, the quiet beautv of the Park, 
 fills the soul with rest and calm. The Alps do not call 
 forth the same kind of emotion as a stately park. 
 
 I do not know how long it was since Isabel had been 
 in the country. She looked about her with a kind of 
 stupor. There were tall trees, not in lines, but single ; 
 all with their lower branches at the same height above 
 the sward — the height, that is, to which the deer can 
 reach ; the foliage was at its best ; the turf was gi*een 
 and soft and elastic ; a skylark was singing up above ; 
 a blackbird was repeating his pretty, tuneful lay close 
 beside us ; there was a confused chatter from the brid<re ; 
 the buttercups covered the low-lying part ; beyond us 
 ran the river, the little river Chess, winding among the 
 meadows. The air that fanned the soft cheeks of the 
 girl breathed refreshment. We were quite alone save 
 for the birds and the trees, and afar off a herd of deer. 
 
 ' What do you think of it, Isabel ^ 
 
 She made answer with the simple interjection which 
 is used for everything beyond the power of speech. 
 There is no other word in any language half so useful 
 or half so expressive, because, you see, it expresses every
 
 208 THE MASTER C'UAITSMAN 
 
 possible ibnn of emotion — love, pain, pleiusure, hope, 
 fear, mlniiration, joy, (kspair. 
 
 'Come,' I said ; ' we must not .stay too lon^/ 
 
 * Oh ! But not to hurry. It is wonderful ; to think 
 that these lovely places are all around us and we never 
 see them ! George, to live all the time in that corner 
 and never to see these things ! Oh, is it life ?" 
 
 'No, Isabel, it is not life : it is prison. Hut courage, 
 we have broken prison. The doors are oj)en. We shall 
 see lots of thin<::s rare and beautiful now. 'Iliis is onlv 
 a befjinnin*;.' 
 
 So we walked on more slowly, because this part of 
 the Park is not very big. In order to show oft* my 
 country lore, I caiTied on a little running commentary. 
 ' That whistle is the blackbird's ; that is the thrush ; 
 did you hear the cuckoo 't You must run for luck. 
 That is the blackcap ; that is the complaint of tlie 
 willow warbler.' 
 
 'You know them all,' she said jealously, 'and I know 
 not a single oni*. Oh, how ignorant I am of everything 
 — everything !' 
 
 ' I will teach you. I am sure you will Ik? an apt 
 scholar. You shall learn the flowers, too — the names 
 of all the flowers ; I have got some good by being born 
 in the country. I can teach you I lie birds, and their 
 song and their flight ; and the flowers, and their seasons
 
 IN THE FIELDS 209 
 
 and their history ; and the trees and the leaves. We 
 had a country house once ; there was another one near 
 us, with a huge park, where I used to wander with 
 Frances/ 
 
 ' Who was Frances ?"* 
 
 * Lady Frances was the daughter of the Earl of 
 Clovelly, formerly Prime Minister. Her mother was a 
 great political lady who had a salon.'' 
 
 ' What is a salon T 
 
 * She received in her house the men of the party ; 
 encouraged the deserving, rebuked the lazy, and 
 strengthened those who wobbled. You still do not 
 understand ? I will explain further, not now. Briefly 
 this, Frances and I were great friends always, and we 
 learned those things when we were children together," 
 
 * Are you engaged to Lady Frances.^' she asked sharply. 
 ' Oh dear no ! There is no question of engagement 
 
 between us. We are like brother and sister. Frances 
 is a young widow ; if she were to maiTy again, it would 
 be to a strong man, full of ambition, who would advance 
 himself and enable her to become what her mother was.^ 
 
 * She should marry Robert, if she wants a strong man/ 
 ' Indeed, she might do worse. Now, Isabel, this is 
 
 the wildest place anywhere round London ; you are 
 quite in the country ; there are no houses to be seen, 
 no roatls, no railways, nothing but trees, and gi^ass, and 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 sky, jiiul flowiii*; nver. Sit down on this trunk and rest, 
 and don't try to tell nic how imuli vou like it.' 
 
 We sat down on a fallen tree : tlie sunshine lay on 
 the ri])plin(ij waters where the li«rht ])reeze here and there 
 lifted the surface into a little crest of wave, or where it 
 was broken by the leapin*^ of a fish ; there were wild 
 ducks overhead flying in two straight lines that joined 
 at a single duck, to make an angle of thirty degi'ees — 
 not that Isabel asked what angle they made — and higher 
 up was flving a pair of herons, their long legs stretched 
 out behind them. 
 
 No one, I say, was in the Park ; nor was there any 
 sian or sound of any human creature : the leaves of 
 spring wTre at their earliest and their loveliest ; the 
 chestnuts were in bloom ; and the girl sat with hands 
 folded in her lap, carried away by the s])ectacle of the 
 abounding joy of spring. Perhaps for the fii*st time in 
 all her cribbed and cabined youth, she felt the full joy 
 of life. It fell upon her in waves ; it made her faint ; 
 it filled her with a new emotion. Shall we ever become 
 too okl to remember the joy of life in adolescence — the 
 yearning after we know not what — the hapjnness of the 
 sunshine, the air, the water, the green trees, the birds — 
 the fulness and the sweetness and the innocence of it — 
 the consciousness of understanding for the fii-st time 
 what life means — how happy it may be — if the gods
 
 IN THE FIELDS 211 
 
 permit — how glorious and how abundant are Nature's 
 gifts to bless the living? We cannot thus clothe the 
 thoughts of the young with words ; youth is hardly 
 conscious of them. I am sure that Isabel could not 
 describe the emotions that filled her soul. Words are 
 only possible long after the thing itself is over and done 
 with, and possible no longer. We who are old can never 
 again feel that overwhelming, supreme, passionate joy of 
 life ; but we can remember — sometimes. When did it 
 fli-st fall upon you, dear reader ? Like the Wesleyans, 
 let us exchange experiences. Were you alone? Was 
 there a companion to share your passions ? Was it on 
 some bright day in early summer among woods and 
 streams and the song of birds that this sense of an all- 
 abundant nature and a life capable of feeling all, em- 
 bracing all, receiving all, fell upon you, and carried you 
 for a brief space — a space all too brief — beyond your- 
 self? 
 
 ' I have never seen this place before,' she murmured, 
 as if the place alone was the cause of this strange and 
 unknown feeling, and as if she could not choose but say 
 something. 
 
 * We will come here again,"* I said. 
 
 For her face was flushed, and her eyes were brighter 
 than was their wont, her hands were tightly clutched, 
 and her lips were parted. She was in a highly-nervous
 
 212 THE MASTER CKAITSMAN 
 
 condition when we staiied. Now she looked like one 
 trying to repress some over-mastering emotion. 
 
 ' I have never dreamed ; I have never thought/ she 
 continued. 
 
 'You have lived too long in a dull house, Isabel.' 
 
 The words came from afar off ; she heard nothing. 
 
 She sprang to her feet. ' Oh !' she tried, ' I must 
 run ; I cannot sit still.' She threw out her arms, she 
 was carried away ; she was drunk with the new-boni joy 
 of life. * I nuist sing." She lifted U}) her voice, her 
 clear, full voice, and sang ; and — wonderful to relate I — 
 she sang the words of a hymn : 
 
 ' Oh, God of Hosts, the mighty Lord, 
 How lovely is the place 
 "Where Thou, enthroned in glory, show'st 
 The brightness of Thy face !' 
 
 * Isabel !' I cried, ' you are transformed !' 
 She was: not the finest actress in the whole world 
 could so change herself in a moment of time ; not the 
 gi-eatest Queen of Tragedy could so stand with out- 
 stretched arms, with flaming cheek and parted lips — as 
 if to welcome and to drink in all — all — all that Nature 
 had wherewith to bless the living. In that moment I 
 discovered the ideal Isabel, the possible Isabel, the 
 dream of the sculptor — a lovely dream, a divine ideal ! 
 For a moment I thought of the old worships — the
 
 IN THE FIELDS 213 
 
 worship of Nature ; the worship of the Sun ; the pro- 
 cession of the seasons — the pageant of the year ; the 
 votaress who was seized with the celestial rapture and 
 sang words unintelligible and danced unearthly steps, 
 and fell at the feet of the god; what was that old 
 ecstasy but this strange extravagance, suddenly awakened 
 in a girl rendered hysterical by long dulness and stupid 
 work, and confinement and the repression of all that is 
 natui'al in youth ? 
 
 It lasted a moment only. Then her arms dropped 
 and the colour went out of her cheek, and I caught her 
 as she fell, and laid her gently on the grass. I ran down 
 to the river and brought back a hat full of water, and 
 touched her forehead with a few drops. She quicklv 
 recovered and sat up. 
 
 ' Where am I ? What has happened ?' she cried. 
 ' Oh ! what has happened ?' 
 
 'Nothing serious, Isabel. Keep quite quiet. The 
 heat, or the sun, or the strangeness, was too much foi- 
 you. Perhaps you had better lie back for a little.' 
 
 ' No — no ' She got up. ' I must have fainted. 
 
 Why did I faint ? Oh, I am so ashamed of myself ! 
 I cannot understand why I fainted.' 
 
 ' Well, Isabel, when an ancient Greek met the gi-eat 
 god Pan in the forest, he instantly fell dead. So that 
 you ought not to be surprised that you merely fainted
 
 214 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN 
 
 when you fii*st saw gi-eat Pan^s dominion. \\\\\ you rest 
 a little longer?' 
 
 * No ; I am (juite recovered. Let us go on, for fear I 
 should faint again/ 
 
 So we walked on, through the rest of the Park and 
 came out close to the common called Chorley. Here 
 the carriage was waiting for us, and we drove the rest 
 of the way. 
 
 Isabel was very silent. She lay back in the carriage, 
 looking into the woods as we drove along the road. 
 She was in a mood when the soul needs silence. Had I 
 kno\vTi that she would be so deeply moved, I think I 
 should have hesitated to bring her to such a place. 
 The mind of a maiden is too delicate an instrument for 
 the rough hand of man. He cannot touch the strings, 
 without fear of something snapping. But her cheek was 
 touched with colour and her eyes with light. 
 
 We anived at Chenies. There is a church here with 
 tombs of the Russells. Isabel took no interest in them. 
 There is an old manor-house, the most beautiful manor- 
 house in England — a gem of a house, built of red brick, 
 with creepers all over it, and a stately garden ; a house 
 to dream of. But Isabel cared nothing at all about the 
 house, and showed no intei-est or curiosity in the noble 
 House of Russell. ITiere were the luins of a small 
 Religious House at the back. Isabel took no interest
 
 IN THE FIELDS 215 
 
 in the monks or nuns who once lived in this House, 
 nor in the ruins, nor in the httle reconstructions of the 
 House which I attempted. But beside the mins at the 
 back there is a wood, and here we walked in the shade, 
 looking out between the trees at the breadths of sun- 
 shine beyond, and up into the branches above at the 
 gleaming sunlight, and between the leaves. She wanted 
 nothing more than just the peace of the wood and the 
 glory of the sunshine. 
 
 I tore her away at last. For the hour was seven, and 
 there were lamb cutlets at the little Inn. And it was 
 time for Masterful Man to assert himself. 
 
 It is a long way back, as it is a long way to come, and 
 all the way back Isabel sat as one in a dream. I could 
 not wake her out of the dream. 
 
 I left her at last at her own door. 
 
 ' We are home again," she said. ' Thank you, oh ! so 
 much. It has come with me all the way home. I hope 
 it will stay with me. Good-night, George." 
 
 What had come with her ? I believe she meant the 
 new-bom feeling of the beauty and the joy of the world. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BIIXINO AND SONS, PRINTKRS, OUILDVORO.
 
 Mi