The remainder of Chapter Twenty-nine reveals the identity of the visitor, whom the girls had thought ‘the unprincipled agent of their persecutors.’ Smith provides some of his own observations which bear upon our researches into points of nineteenth century law affecting women and marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (Continued)
To the astonishment of the cousins they saw their companion in misfortune spring into the arms of the man whom they looked upon as the unprincipled agent of their persecutors, and press her lips to his swarthy cheeks.
‘She must be mad,’ thought Miss Meredith, ‘or has Heaven listened to our prayers?’
Susan disengaged herself from the embrace of the jailer, and, running to the sofa where Clara and Kate were sitting, fell upon her knees, sobbing and laughing alternately. Taking a hand of each, she exclaimed:
‘God has not abandoned us! You are too good to be made a prey by such villains, and I shall be saved by being with you. It is a friend — a true, honest friend; but, alas! he is alone, and our persecutors are, many.’
‘Goliah?’ whispered the ladies.
‘No,’ replied Susan, sadly, ‘but next to him, the best protector Heaven could send us. It is the same who risked his life for Lady Kate in the Red Barn. Dear, good, generous Bunce! Hush,’ she added, ‘let not a look, a cry of joy escape you; recollect he is alone — our last hope. The wretches below might overhear it.’
Thus breathlessly, and not very coherently, did the speaker impress upon her fellow prisoners the necessity of suppressing all outward signs of joy at the faint prospect of deliverance dawning before them. It was but one friend, and their enemies were many.
It was true, every word that the speaker uttered. Nobly had the grateful friend of Willie performed the task Lawyer Whiston assigned him. Closely disguised, he had gone twice to Dinant, where he acted the part of a reckless adventurer so skilfully that he attracted first the attention and afterwards the confidence of Clarence Marsham and Burcham, whose fits of alternate trust and mistrust more than once placed his life in danger.
The conspirators against the honor and happiness of the cousins kept the place where they expected to find their victims a secret to themselves. It was not till the little vessel hired to convey them to the coast of England was about to start that Bunce knew, for a certainty, that it was the Bitterns’ Marsh, and wrote the first hasty words to his. employer which set the avengers upon the track.
‘We are saved!’ exclaimed Clara and Kate, hopefully.
Bunce — we shall drop the Smith — looked exceedingly grave.
‘Alas, not yet,’ he replied. ‘I am but one in this den of crime and misery. Speech and stay must both be brief. Soon as the shades of night begin to fall I leave the tower to guide the wretch who has consented to prostitute his sacred office by uniting you to your oppressors. For several, hours you will have no protector but Heaven and the purity of your own hearts.’
The lately formed hope failed as suddenly as it had risen.
‘Must you leave us?’ said Kate, despondingly.
‘I dare not refuse the task assigned me,’ answered the gallant fellow; ‘it would excite suspicion. Several times during the last two days my life has hung upon a thread.’
The voice of Clarence was heard at the foot of the stairs calling upon his supposed accomplice to descend. Those who heard it shuddered; the dark terror once more fell upon them.
‘I am coming!’ shouted Bunce, in reply to the summons. ‘You are too hasty. I am doing good work pointing out to the girls the hopelessness of their position, and doing a little courtship on my own account,’ he added, laughingly.
The summons was not renewed.
‘You may trust this woman,’ he whispered, ‘she was my nurse in childhood — a devoted friend, almost a mother to me. Eat anything she brings you, in confidence — perfect confidence. Without her assistance I should indeed despair.’
A step was heard ascending the stairs.
The speaker silently placed a pair of exquisitely mounted pistols in the hands of Miss Meredith. His keen perception of character told him he might place more reliance upon her presence of mind than on her cousin’s, and he hastened to intercept the intruder.
It proved to be Marsham.
‘Why did you remain so long in the chamber?’ he demanded, angrily.
‘Didn’t I tell you,’ answered Bunce, carelessly, ‘that I had been doing a little courtship on my own account? The girl I have taken a fancy to is not accustomed to your style of wooing. I think I shall win her,’ he added, ‘unless you spoil my chance with your ridiculous suspicious.’
‘Let him alone,’ said the squire, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and overhead every word that passed. ‘These alternate fits of doubt and confidence would weary the patience of a saint. I am satisfied with him.’
‘And so am I,’ observed Clarence, ‘but we cannot be too careful. Recollect how much depends on our success.’
Peace once more re-established between them, the speakers descended to the principal room in the building, where a last consultation was held before dispatching the messenger to conduct the Reverend Mr. Sly and his clerk from the hut in the Marsh to the tower to perform the unholy marriage — the seal of successful cupidity on one side, and misery and degradation upon the other. Some of our readers may probably ask if in religious, moral, critical England — so fond of detecting the mote in the eyes of their neighbours, so blind to the beam in their own — it is possible such a worthless character could be found?
We answer, unhesitatingly, yes.
Up to a late period in the reign of George the Third, notices might be seen hung out from the windows of taverns, and even more questionable places, that marriages were celebrated within by a clergyman of the Church of England. Even touters were employed to lure the unwary into the net.
Shame to the then existing laws, such unions were legal; and yet drivellers may be found who still prate of the good old times. With all their drawbacks, mad speculations, inordinate thirst for riches, tuft-hunting, æsthetics and other imbecilities, we prefer the modern ones.
“Moored Ships on the River” (1904), watercolour, William Williams Ball. Source: Invaluable.com
Rarely had a scheme been more artfully planned, or recklessly carried out. The vessel which brought the conspirators to the Bittern’s Marsh lay in a narrow creek, ready to start at a moment’s notice, with the unwilling brides, to France — the six or seven ruffians in the tower devoted to their employers; only one defender of innocence and virtue, and even that one was unarmed, for Bunce had parted with his weapons. The odds appeared terribly against him, and yet we do not quite despair.
Heaven is above all.
Clarence and the squire ran over every point of their programme with the man whom they once more believed was devoted to their interests. Every contingency seemed guarded against.
‘Failure,’ exclaimed the former, in a tone of exultation, ‘is impossible. In a few hours we shall be the husbands of the richest heiresses in England.’
‘And will, doubtless, reward those who have assisted you handsomely,’ observed Bunce.
‘Cormorant,’ said the former, half playfully, ‘more money? Well! well! you shall have no reason to complain. It is time to depart.’
‘I am quite ready,’ replied the messenger, ‘although I still adhere to my opinion that it would be wiser to send some one else, or at least give me a companion; for I am but imperfectly acquainted with the Marsh and may lose my way.’
‘And whom would you select?’
‘Benoni Blackmore. He knows the place better than any one else,’ replied Bunce.
His employers indulged in a hearty laugh. ‘Jealous of a boy!’ they observed, ‘but be it as you wish. Take him with you. The pretty Susan may not thank you.’
‘Some boys are dangerous,’ said the man. ‘Better not throw temptation in any woman’s way.’
The shades of night were already settling over the Bitterns’ Marsh when the speaker, accompanied by the schoolmaster’s son, started on their lonely errand.
Abducting two heiresses with a view to forcing them into marriage is not as unbelievable as it may appear. Though the Victorians may be said to have “pioneered the emancipation of women” in substantial ways (Perkin), the status of women’s rights in law per se remained debatable. The question raised is whether the letter of the law might have been manipulable to such an extent as to enable the travesty that Smith depicts. And I suspect it might.
In his pamphlet The Subjection of Women (1860), John Stuart Mill points to the historical roots of the issue:
By the old laws of England the husband was lord, and his murder by the wife was accounted petty treason, to be avenged by burning to death. And to this day the wife is the legal and actual bond-servant of her husband in all matter short of crime. She can acquire no property but for him; her inheritance becomes his. […]
Women may, in fact, be treated better than slaves; but hardly any slave is a slave at all hours, and in Christian countries a female had the right to refuse her master the last familiarity. Not so a wife. However brutal, her husband can claim from her the degradation of being made the instrument of an animal function contrary to her inclination.
Our two kidnappers clearly embody such an underlying contempt of their victims, and some understanding that ultimately their deeds will be vindicated in law — all they need to do, they believe, is become their husbands. (The idea of the sacred indissolubility of marriage had lurked around since the middle ages [Perkin].)
Hardwicke’s Marriage Act of 1753, intended as an impediment to “clandestine marriages,” strengthened the requirements of publication of banns or obtaining of licenses in formalizing marriages. The Act stipulated a requirement for minors to obtain the consent of parents or guardians — which includes Lady Kate, who is “scarcely fifteen” (Chapter Four; the age of majority being twenty-one). In the absence of such requirements, weddings could be declared null and void, and ministers who had celebrated them transported for fourteen years. Being in effect until 1823, the 1753 Act would cover Kate’s and Clara’s planned forced double-wedding.
One ostensive motivation behind Hardwicke’s “Clandestine Marriage Act” was to prevent “outrageously fraudulent or coercive marriages” (Lemmings, 346), mostly involving the entrapment of underage heirs and heiresses by predatory fortune hunters. The oft-quoted proponent of the Act, Attorney General Sir Dudley Ryder appealed for action
guarding against the many artful contrivances set on foot to seduce young gentlemen and ladies of fortune, and to draw them into improper, perhaps infamous marriages (Parliamentary History, xv, 1-2, 11; qtd. Lemmings)
This brings to mind Lady Montague’s obsession with the scandal that threatened to attach itself to Kate after her initial escape (e.g., Chapter 6; note the “infamous” in Sir Dudley’s quotation, above).
Fortune hunting was in vogue leading up to the era of our interest. A directory of rich “duchess dowagers” was published in 1742, containing a list of likely targets, with their names, addresses, ranks, and reputed fortunes in cash and stocks (Anon).
But some historians argue that the proponents’ hidden agenda behind the 1753 Act was, in fact, directed against the rise of “affective individualism” — a strengthening trend for upper-class matches in particular to be based upon personal selection (for example, romantic or sexual attraction) rather than in conformance with the economically and politically motivated plans of the parents (See Probert; Lemmings).
For this reason, elopement became a common occurrence during the Regency — even motivating the invention of a board game: “A Trip to Gretna Green. Designed & invented to enliven the winter evenings of 1820”.
“A Trip to Gretna Green” board game (1820). Source: Borrowed from NaomiClifford.com
The Las Vegas of its day, Gretna Green was a Scottish village not far across the border, where the 1753 Act could be dodged.
These concerns revolve around parental consent. Viscount Allworth’s consent may well have been forthcoming, had not the role of Kate’s guardian been transferred to Lady Montague (Chapter 8); Sir George Marsham’s certainly would not. But we can only wonder at what contrivance the villains have in mind for coercing the two girls’ own consent in this affair, some sham “elopement” of their devising.
Regarding heiresses abducted for their fortunes, some obscure instances do exist. (See, for example, some researched from the British Newspaper Archive by Naomi Clifford.)
One extremely famous case is worth mentioning for interest’s sake, particularly in respect of its grey issues of consent, elopement and the abduction and coercion of minors. Smith could not have been unaware of this, one of the most famous abduction cases “in the annals of British trials” (Harrop).
In 1816, nineteen year-old lawyer and diplomat Edward Gibbon Wakefield eloped with seventeen year-old Eliza Ann Pattle, a ward of Chancery and heiress with an inheritance of 50,000 pounds. Eliza died in 1820, having borne two children. Six years later he abducted a fifteen year-old heiress, Ellen Turner, from her school and fled with her to be married, against the wishes of her family. He was apprehended, tried, and imprisoned in Newgate. The marriage was annulled.
Elopement and abduction overlap significantly when the bride is underage. Wakefield’s own disturbing court testimony of how the elopement played out points to the powerful influence he wielded over her. Note that the two had never met prior to the day of the abduction. After Wakefield had well cased-out his target, he wrote to her schoolmistress that Ellen’s mother was ill and that Ellen’s father was sending him to collect her. The following is an excerpt of what transpired in his carriage on the way to Gretna Green:
She seemed gratified to learn that her mother was not ill, and neither expressed, nor showed, the slightest anxiety to know more. I then exerted every power of my mind to amuse and please her. My great object was to draw her out; to see what sort of a mind she had; to learn what had been her education, and what were her opinions, manners, habits. … A state of high excitement caused my spirits to overflow. She was almost equally elated. […]
Marriages, it is said, are made in Heaven. Ours was made by the first two hours of our conversation. No one can imagine the pains that I took to know my future wife; and, finding her, as I did, all that is delightful, how I strove to interest her, and to make her pleased with me. That I succeeded there can be no doubt; for when, having made up my mind to propose marriage to her, I asked her whether she knew where she was going. She said, “No, but I suppose you do? and I do not wish to be told. I rather enjoy the uncertainty.”
(Harrop)
We witness a vast evolution in attitudes between that time and ours, such that Wakefield had no need to engage in the complicated evasions that rich and powerful sexual predators of the modern day must. During his time in prison, he became enthused with the study of emigration. After serving a three-year term, he was able to put his new formulations on colonization into practice, and became a “founding father” of both New Zealand and South Australia. He most recently popped up in the Australian media in 2018, when moves were afoot to rename the South Australian electorate of Wakefield on account of his stain.
Trust and Distrust — Shifting Points in the Compass — Arrival of Parson Sly in the Marsh — The Captives Discover a Friend
After the payment of the five hundred pounds to the man named Smith, all doubts disappeared from the minds of the confederate ruffians as to his fidelity. Without appearing too zealous, he had an eye for everything, and made several valuable suggestions. Amongst others, he pointed out the wisdom of seeing the tower well provisioned. As for water, there was no fear of that giving out; the well in the interior of the building afforded an unfailing supply.
‘The idea is not a bad one,’ observed Clarence Marsham, when it was first broached to him, ‘although scarcely, necessary, I think. In a few hours the clergyman will arrive, and then —’
‘A few hours!’ repeated the agent. ‘A kingdom, sir, has been lost in less time! If, as I presume, the ladies are of high family, and wealthy — for you would scarcely have incurred so much trouble and expense for two poor girls — their friends may move the government to interfere.’
‘It must discover our hiding-place first,’ suggested Burcham. ‘Once married all danger to ourselves personally will be at an end.’
‘I understand that, sir,’ said the man; ‘but how about your agents? They will have no high and wealthy connections to screen them.’
‘They must shift for themselves,’ answered Clarence, in a tone of indifference. ‘They have been well paid for their services. But act as you think best. If that infernal parson would only arrive,’ he added; ‘the rest would be easy. The men below are staunch.’
‘I doubt but one,’ observed his adviser thoughtfully; ‘the young fellow they call Benoni, who boasted last night that if you married the mistress he would marry the servant — Susan, I think he called the girl. Now, I have taken a fancy for the girl myself.’
‘Have you spoken with her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Pooh! Benoni is only a boy.’
‘But a very sly one,’ observed the fellow, dryly.
‘Sly or not,’ said the squire, ‘he is insolent. Deal with him as you think fit. Watch him.’
‘Pike and Bilk are doing that,’ replied the man. ‘They dog him like his shadow. You see, gentlemen, I know how to take my precautions.’
‘You are in earnest, then?’
‘Never more so. Perhaps I might do better — can’t tell. My plan has this advantage, once my wife, she will swear to anything I wish her.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed both the conspirators.
‘Yes, yes,’ exclaimed their confederate. ‘I know a thing or two.’
Evidently, he did. A long life of crime could scarcely have taught him more; and yet to all appearances, the speaker was not over forty.
Although he never displayed the slightest feeling of sympathy for the poor captives, whom he had secretly seen since they were brought to their prison-house, he unwittingly did them one piece of service. On two occasions when the unmanly persecutors would have forced themselves into their presence he prevented them — the first time by quietly asking if it was their way of winning the girls’ affection; the second, by observing it was more than likely to throw the youngest into a brain fever.’
Clarence brutally declared that he should not much care for that, provided she were once his wife.
‘Of course not,’ said the ruffian, whose cynicism exceeded the speaker’s; ‘that is perfectly understood. Still, I don’t think it would be wise. The girl has had a narrow escape — thanks to some beverage the old woman below brewed for her. It is my opinion,’ he added — ‘not that I care a rush whether you follow it or not — that is your affair, I am already paid — merely this: When the parson arrives, and everything is prepared for the ceremony, the brides will be more likely to yield to a sudden terror than one they are familiar with.’
This reasoning, dictated by common sense, prevailed, and the helpless girls were spared the presence of the two beings in the world whom they most feared and loathed.
‘A very sharp fellow,’ observed Burcham, as the speaker quitted the room. We were wrong to suspect him,’
‘Perfectly satisfied of that,’ replied Clarence. ‘And yet I do not blame myself. We are playing for high stakes, and it is our last throw, and it would be madness to give a chance away.’
‘Little fear of that,’ said his friend.
We begin to fear so too.
Suspicion is inseparable from crime — follows it like its shadow — rises with it in the morning, hovers round it during the day, rests with it at night, making its presence felt in fits and starts of broken sleep and horrid dreams. Where conscience finds no voice, suspicion becomes its avenger; and it is well it should be so. Unlike the shadows cast by the sun, it rarely falls in the right places, but seems to take delight in baffling and misleading.
The cunning rascals forgot in their calculations that such fidelity as they relied upon may be bought and sold over and over again. In fact, it is never out of the market, and never will be so long as there are fools and knaves ready to bid for it.
Satisfied that they had nothing to apprehend from the inmates of the tower, Clarence and the squire confined their attention to the approach of danger from the outside. Several times during the day they made their rounds, peering through the strongly-barred loopholes to ascertain if any doubtful persons were within sight.
Portrait of Mary Squires (19th c). Extracted from Wilkinson. Source: Wikimedia Commons.
On the last occasion they discovered a wretchedly clad, forlorn-looking female standing close to the huge boulder.
‘Who is she?’ inquired Burcham of the schoolmaster, who accompanied them.
‘One of old Nance’s patients, most probably,’ answered the old man. ‘I think that I have seen her face before. Yes, it must be so. That is the spot where they generally wait the coming of the woman, for I seldom allow them to set foot within the building.’
‘A wise precaution,’ said Clarence.
‘All precautions are wise,’ observed Theophilus Blackmore. Look! She sees us, and is holding up a letter. Shall I send Nance to fetch it?’
It was the very thing the conspirators would have suggested, but coming from the source it did, they hesitated.
‘No,’ said the squire, after consulting his companion by a glance. ‘Send Smith to us.’
The master walked quietly away, and in a few minutes the confidential agent was at their side.
‘What is it, gentlemen?’ he asked.
They pointed to the female.
‘Doubtless some beggar,’ said the speaker; ‘and yet I scarcely think she would expect to find charity in a place like this.’
‘I tell you no!’ exclaimed Marsham, impatiently. ‘It is a letter. See how earnestly she waves it. Doubtless for me.’
‘Then why the deuce don’t you go and receive it, sir?’
‘I shall not leave the tower for a single instant,’ answered the young ruffian, doggedly. ‘Neither will my friend. It would not be prudent at such a moment.’
Their accomplice smiled.
‘Curse the fellow!’ muttered the speaker to himself. ‘Does he think I am afraid? No,’ he added aloud, ‘you take it.’
‘Why the deuce did you not order me, sir, to do so at first?’ observed the man. ‘All this fuss about a letter —’
The rest of the speech was lost as he walked away to execute his instructions.
That fellow is a treasure,’ remarked the squire.
‘Rather an expensive one,’ added his companion, in whose mind the payment of the five hundred pounds still rankled.
After waiting several minutes they saw their messenger walk leisurely towards the boulder and enter into conversation with the woman, who, on receiving several pieces of money, gave him the paper, which he thrust into his pocket, but still continued to speak with her.
‘Why does he not come back? What can they have to chatter about? He has got the letter, and that is enough. I should like to overhear them.’
So, doubtless, would some of our readers.
At last the two speakers, without the slightest appearance of hurry or confusion, walked behind the Druid’s Stone, and were completely hidden from the sight of the watchers.
The eyes of Clarence flashed with re-awakened suspicions.
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I fear we have trusted him too soon. I must end or confirm my doubts at once.’
Burcham had taken alarm also, and accompanied him at once to the lower portion of the tower, from whence, after arming themselves, they started forth to seek the supposed traitor.
All this necessarily occupied some little time.
On approaching the boulder the excited watchers met the object of their suspicions walking tranquilly towards them on his way back.
‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you have ventured out of your shell.’
The taunt rendered them more furious than they were before. Whatever the speaker’s game, if he had one, he played it skillfully, exciting their doubts one instant, quieting them the next, and so keeping them in a state of continued uncertainty, rendering a cool judgment of his conduct, as well as motives, impossible.
He saw that his employers were armed — that their suspicions were once more aroused; but his coolness never for an instant deserted him. From the self-possessed air with which he met them, one would have thought he bore a charmed life.
‘Villain!’ shouted Clarence, ‘where is the woman?’
‘Did you speak to me, sir?’ answered the man in a tone of surprise.
‘To whom else? Where is she?’
‘Gone. But I have the letter.’
Burcham repeated the word ‘gone.’
‘And the man with her,’ added the messenger.
‘Man!’ exclaimed both the conspirators. ‘We saw no man.’
‘Strange if you had,’ was the reply, ‘unless your eyes could see through yonder boulder, where he had hid himself. The female could scarcely venture through the Marsh without protection and a guide of some kind. Having conducted her thus far, the fellow hid himself.’
‘And why should he hide himself?’
‘Prudence, I suppose,’ answered the messenger. ‘Surely, sir, you will not blame him for that.’
This was addressed to Clarence Marsham, who felt the sneer.
‘Gentlemen,’ added the speaker, ‘I am tired of these alternate fits of confidence and suspicion, which, like the attacks of an intermittent fever, blow hot one moment, and become cold the next. There is the letter. You had better dismiss me at once. I can find my way to the creek where the vessel which brought us from Dinant lies at anchor.’
Clarence snatched the letter from his hand, and perused it eagerly, whilst the squire covered the bearer of it with his pistol.
‘All right,’ said his friend, after he had read it. ‘It is from my mother.’
Turning to the object of his suspicion, he commenced what doubtless was intended as an apology for his mistrust.’
‘My good fellow —’
‘Bah!’ ejaculated the man. ‘I want no fine words. I know the exact value of them. Discovered that yon have made fools of yourselves? Say no more about it.’
‘You, are angry,’ observed Burcham. ‘I scarcely wonder at it.’
‘Certainly I am not pleased.’
‘Place yourself in our position,’ added Marsham — ‘fortune, reputation, possibly life, depending on the issue of our plans — and you will scarcely blame us. Not being a gentleman, of course you cannot estimate the feelings which agitate us, the fears which distract us. Our purpose once accomplished, you will find no further cause of complaint.’
‘It is your money that I look to. I care not for your suspicions.’
‘They are dissipated,’ continued Clarence. ‘Listen to me. The clergyman who is to perform the marriage ceremony is in the Marsh. I have sure information of that, and this sight must seal or mar my fortunes. Like most of his cloth, he is careful of his personal safety, and hesitates to advance further without a guide. From the few lines written on the back of the letter you have brought me I find he is at the cottage of a fellow named Tim Sawter. Do you understand me?’
‘Clearly, sir.’
‘You will find the place and bring him to the tavern.’
‘I, sir?’ exclaimed his hearer, in a tone of surprise and a glance which expressed anything but satisfaction. ‘Had you not better go yourself, or send your friend?’
‘No,’ replied the former. ‘We give no chance away.’
‘It is scarcely in the bond,’ replied the man after, a few moments’ deliberation; ‘but I will not disappoint you. Of course, you will consider the extra trouble and risk?’
‘Mercenary rascal!’ muttered his employer between his teeth. ‘All he cares for is money.’
The reproach was rather a singular one, coming as it did from one who had already bartered honour and manhood from the same vile motive; for the virtue and beauty of Lady Kate had failed to produce any feeling akin to love in the thing he called his heart.
The human wolves had held their council, and all three returned to their lair, where they passed the rest of the day in restless watchings.
So minute were their precautions that the squire and Marsham insisted that their now trusted agent should accompany old Nance when she brought refreshments to their prisoners, whose mental sufferings may be more easily understood than described.
Even the courage of Susan began to give way. Again and again she repeated to herself the old wish ‘O! that Goliah were here.’
It was some slight consolation to the captives that their persecutors had not separated them. They were still together in the same vaulted chamber — wretched, disconsolate, and hopeless. Hitherto they had refused to partake of food, unless in the shape of milk. Clara thought she would be able to detect anything like a drug in that. Even bread had been rejected on account of the nameless fear that haunted them.
The cousins were greatly changed. Twenty-four hours’ suffering, both mental and physical, had traced dark circles round the blue eyes of Kate. Her features were colourless as marble. Those of Miss Meredith were equally pale; but the expression of resolute will had not yet deserted them.
The captives spoke but little. Hope seemed to have abandoned them, and so they sat, each gazing in the countenance of the other in mute despair. Now and then a tear stole down the cheeks of Kate, but she seemed perfectly unconscious of its presence. Such tears offered no relief.
The door opened, and the woman Nance appeared, followed by Smith, bearing a tray laden with refreshments, which he placed upon the table, then folded his arms, and stood silently contemplating them.
‘You need not leave it,’ observed Clara. ‘We shall not eat.’
‘You must,’ said the female. ‘Nature cannot sustain itself unassisted. You doubt me? I scarcely wonder at it. There are times when I almost mistrust myself; but I am not so wicked as you think me. Have you forgotten the draught which arrested the fever already burning in the veins of your friend? It saved her life.’
‘In the interest of your wretched employers,’ answered Miss Meredith. ‘Yes, I can understand that. Your pretended pity cannot deceive me.’
Nance turned to her companion, and whispered: ‘What am I to do or say?’
The man hesitated for an instant, and then pronounced the name of Susan.
The startled girl regarded him with surprise.
‘Come to me,’ he added, in an altered voice.
To the astonishment of the cousins their humble friend obeyed, walking slowly and hesitatingly towards the speaker as if under the influence of some spell.
‘Look well into my face,’ he continued, ‘and see if, despite my beard, stained skin and dyed hair, you cannot recognise the features of a true friend. Have you forgotten how frequently I came down to Deerhurst and watched and waited lest your mother should surprise your meeting with Goliah at the end of the garden? Or how you cheated me out of the kiss you promised me under the white lilac bush for keeping your secret?’
‘You may take it now!’ exclaimed the excited girl. Never was friend so welcome!
“Chrisopher Pyne wants seat name honouring child abductor and coloniser changed”. ABC News. Jump to page.
Anon (1742). A master-key to the rich ladies treasury. Or, The widower and batchelor’s directory, containing an exact alphabetical list of the duchess dowagers [&c.] by a younger brother [signing himself B. M-n]. Freely available at Google Books. Jump to file.
Harrop, A.J. (1928). The Amazing Career of Edward Gibbon Wakefield (London: Allen and Unwin). Available to borrow from Internet Archive. Jump to file.
Lemmings, D. (1996). “Marriage and the Law in the Eighteenth Century: Hardwicke’s Marriage Act of 1753”. The Historical Journal, 39.2, 339-360.
Mill, John Stuart (1860). “The Subjection of Women.” Longmans, Green and Co. Internet Archive. Jump to file.
Perkin, J. (1989) Women and Marriage in Nineteenth-Century England (London: Routledge).
Probert, R. (2009). “Control over Marriage in England and Wales, 1753-1823): The Clandestine Marriages Act of 1753 in Context.” Law and History Review, 27.2 (Summer), 413-450.
Wilkinson, G.T. (18–). Newgate Calendar Improved. Internet Archive. Jump to page.
The unflappable Clara rebukes her “gentleman” kidnapper, Marsham:
‘You forget,’ she added, ironically, ‘the law against bigamy.’
Her quip anticipates Morticia Addams’, who, bitten by the green-eyed monster, tests a barb on her unwitting husband:
‘Gomez, do you know the penalty for bigamy?’ ‘… Two wives?’
It must be the narrator’s tone that provokes our flippant response. He adopts a certain ironical distance himself, with his “We must not forget the ladies …”, his “As our readers may suppose …”, and the variants — sometimes quite teasing ones. In clear and simple prose, Smith exercises a virtuosic ability to combine seriousness and playfulness in artistic equipoise.
We tend to become glib in the face of high drama and, especially, melodrama. Smith anticipates such a reaction with his playful self-reflexive ironies. In the current chapter, making a second appearance is the characterSmith, whom the villains hired and brought back with them from Dinant to the Bitterns’ Marsh. (Can it be Bunce in disguise?)
Being such a common name, ‘Smith’ is almost a byword for ‘pseudonym’. How tempting might it be for this author Smith, the mischief-maker, to use his actual name, the archetypal pseudonym, as a pseudonym for himself? It would be an audacious gesture indeed, to ‘stride the boards’, as it were, of his own novel; to make a cheeky cameo performance after the fashion (or rather, before the fashion) of a Hitchcock or a Tarantino.
Before you scoff, notice the several throwaway quips on the name, Smith, which commence with the very chapter outline, and turn up a few times in the narrative and dialogue. Marsham is given the subtlest to say:
‘The fellow appears infernally indifferent to everything; walks about the old tower as if he owned the place ….
which is to say, in the manner of an author-god (as one mask).
Effects such as these gesture to a metafictional dimension, which characterizes writers such as Borges, Eco, Calvino, Pirandello, etc., who are held by many to herald or exemplify postmodernist fiction. This is, broadly speaking, a genre that draws attention to its own artifice; that parodies, pastiches and deconstructs traditional conventions, often implicitly incorporating the figures of the author and reader in the aesthetic action.
At the same time, we should bear in mind that many writers as “dated” as Sterne (18th c.) and Cervantes (15th c.) demonstrate similar if not identical characteristics.
So it is not particularly radical to observe metafictional effects here, though we hardly consider them as defining. The form of serialization lends itself well to such features. Consider the current instalment of the meercat ad, which ends with the two Russian protagonists clutching to the edge of a cliff:
Aleksandr: Is this the end, Sergei? Sergei: No, it’s only a cliffhanger …
Unlike a finished work, in one aspect the serialized novel unfolds itself in the same temporal frame as the reader’s own. Devices such as the cliffhanger, and the author’s address to the “gentle reader” convey a tacit wink, an acknowledgement of secretly inhabiting an identical world.
Sydney Punch, title page (Jan 20 1866), cropped
Apart from our own, the only extant instance of reader-reception of Mystery of the Marsh is an article in Sydney Punch (Saturday June 9, 1883), which appeared at precisely our stage of the narrative, as published in the Evening News (Sydney, Wednesday June 13, 1883), in a column called “Family Jars.” The piece is a good measure of the popularity of Smith’s work among the Sydney readership. The author succumbs to one of the lower forms of wit, though we presume he is paid to do so.
Night after night do we frantically devour the thrilling tale which adorns the last sheet of the Even Ooze, and which bears the Fisher’s Ghost-like title of the “Mystery of the Marsh.” It is now in its thirtieth chapter, and seems to have wind enough left to run thirty more, so that each gentle reader pays 5 shillings by instalments for a tale that can probably be bought at Paddy’s market for 5 pence. Of late we have been deeply grieved to find the fair heroine occasionally “sot down very hard,” but things are evidently on the mend, and the conspirators sing —
“Farewell! farewell! I would not fling
Around thy brow the veil of sorrow.”
Quite right, too; for the man who would raise his hand to a woman (except in self-defence) is worthy of the name of a Pitt-street hero. It’s always safest to stand well away, and pelt the furniture after her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Martello Tower and the Prisoners — A Smith who is neither a White or a Black Smith — A Hut in the Bitterns’ Marsh
We must not forget the ladies, whom, at the close of our last number, we left prisoners in the martello tower. The plot had succeeded. Money and brain-work, badly applied, carried out the daring scheme of the unprincipled Lady Allworth, whose insane desire to enrich her son without materially lessening her own means, knew no let nor hindrance. Scruples she had none. As for conscience — that was a myth with her, or, at least, a thing of the past.
It was some time before the terrified girls recovered sufficient self-possession to look around them. A calm consideration of their position was equally out of the question; their senses were in a whirl of confusion; one moment it seemed to them as if they were in a hideous dream; it needed the sound of each other’s voice to convince them that they were not sleeping.
Susan was the first to recover her presence of mind. There was a considerable amount of commonsense, as well as courage, in the girl. Whilst Clara and Kate sat helplessly, hopelessly locked in each other’s arms, she commenced taking a practical view of the situation — not a very encouraging one, certainly; neither did it appear to her utterly hopeless.
After a glance at the strongly-barred windows, her eyes fell upon a pile of books; some in parchment covers, others in quaint old binding, mixed with a few Elzivers and several manuscripts piled confusedly in one of the corners of the room. In the first one she opened she read the name of Theophilus Blackmore, the ex-schoolmaster of Deerhurst, and a sigh of relief escaped her. Having learnt both writing and arithmetic under his care, of course she was well acquainted with the man — had never heard anything very bad of him. As for his son, Benoni, whom she had several times rejected, she smiled with contempt at the idea of any danger from that quarter.
‘Why, Goliah would brain him!’ she muttered to herself.
And so, no doubt, he would, if ever he discovered that his rival had a hand in carrying her off.
‘Dear, kind ladies,’ she said, addressing her companions in captivity, ‘things look quite bad and ugly enough, still we must not despair. I do not believe that the owner of this place would lend himself to any very wicked act. He is old, and lives more amongst books than his fellow creatures. I could almost answer for him.’
‘But not for the wretches who have employed him,’ observed Miss Meredith. This was a view of the situation Susan had not taken.
The noise made by someone unlocking the door of their prison chamber startled them. Poor Lady Kate clung to the side of her cousin, imploring her not to leave her. She recollected but too well the horrors of the night at the Red Barn.
‘Kill me first!’ she exclaimed. ‘Kill me!’
The door opened. Clarence Marsham, accompanied by his confederate, Burcham, entered the room, leaving the taciturn fellow named Smith, whose services they had engaged at Dinant, to guard the entrance. With the cunning peculiar to great criminals they had concealed from the man, not the purpose, but names of their victims — also the locality in which they expected to find them. To all appearance this new agent in their schemes was not over-troubled with scruples, expressed little curiosity, and seemed to trouble himself only for the reward — half of which had been paid down before he consented to start with them.
On recognising the suitor she had so contemptuously rejected, Miss Meredith saw that the same danger threatened both her cousin and herself. Her heart beat probably as violently as her cousin’s; but she possessed more self-command. Drawing herself up to her full height she fixed her eyes upon Clarence, affecting to ignore all knowledge of his companion.
‘Perhaps you will explain, Mr. Marsham, the meaning of this double outrage. Your designs on the hand and fortune of Lady Kate Kepple I have long been acquainted with, and the disgraceful means by which, on a former occasion, you attempted to accomplish them. But why am I here? Is it a part of your scheme — perhaps I ought to say your mother’s — to marry both the cousins, and so secure a double inheritance? You forget,’ she added, ironically, ‘the law against bigamy.’
‘No, Clara. Nothing of that kind. I —’
‘You are familiar, sir,’ interrupted the insulted girl, calmly. ‘Since I am compelled to exchange words with so contemptible a person, he will address me only as Miss Meredith.’
‘Hang it, Clara — well, then, Miss Meredith, since you will have it so — you know well enough what we intend — to make you our wives. The clergyman will not arrive till to-morrow night, so you and Kate have plenty of time to think it over. We can play the lovers afterwards. It will be your own fault if we use any but the gentlest persuasion.’
‘And are you weak enough to suppose, Mr. Marsham, that such a marriage would be binding?’
‘As for that, we will take the risk,’ replied the young ruffian, beginning to feel nettled at the determined tone of the speaker. ‘Once married, I don’t suppose you and Kate will be very anxious to create a scandal. Hang it, Burcham, why the devil don’t you speak? She is your affair — not mine. All I have to do is with her cousin Kate.’
‘Back, sir!’ exclaimed Clara, as the squire approached the spot where she was standing. ‘I cannot descend to exchange words with two felons in one day!’
‘Felons?’
‘Murderers!’ shrieked Kate. ‘They will kill us as they have killed poor old Willis!’
‘Killed?’ repeated Clarence. ‘We have killed no one. Not such fools as that.’
Susan was about to speak, when a warning glance from Clara restrained her. Had the faithful girl declared herself a witness of the crime it might have cost her her life. Miss Meredith had no such fears upon her own account. Her danger was of a different nature.
‘Brutally murdered,’ she repeated, ‘by the ruffians you employed to decoy us here. Although prisoners in the cabin of the barge, we recognised his voice, heard his cries for assistance, the oaths of the assassins as they plunged the body of the old man into the river.’
At this intelligence Clarence Marsham and his companion looked exceedingly blank. Much as money, rank, and political influence could do in England, they knew them to be powerless to condone crime where life had been taken. It was the first hint they had received of the death of the aged servant. The perpetrators had kept their own secret.
Another source of embarrassment: They did not feel perfectly assured of the fidelity of the man they had engaged in Dinant, and who, from his position in the passage, must have heard every word of the accusation. The fellow had made a hard bargain with them, played off and on, haggled over the price of his services — in short, acted his part so well that doubt balanced confidence. One moment the conspirators felt disposed to trust him implicitly; the next to rid themselves of him — no very difficult thing to accomplish whilst they were in the Bittern’s Marsh.
Clarence and Burcham withdrew from the room as abruptly as they had entered it. If conscience had not taken the alarm, fear had. They felt it necessary to consult together.
As soon as she saw them depart Lady Kate Kepple commenced laughing hysterically. The dread of the present and recollections of the past were pressing upon her sensitive nature. She was already in the first stage of a brain fever.
‘Oh! my dear, kind lady!’ sobbed Susan, kneeling by the side of the old lounge on which the victim was seated. ‘Where will this all end?’
‘In death, perhaps,’ answered Miss Meredith, firmly; ‘but never in dishonour!’
‘Oh! that Goliah were here!’ said the humble friend.
More than one heart re-echoed the wish.
‘Things are beginning to look infernally ugly,’ observed Squire Burcham, when he and Clarence were seated in what the latter styled their own den — namely, a room on the lower floor of the martello tower.
‘Who could have thought that they would have been such fools. Murder is a very different affair from running off with two girls and persuading them into marriage! Once our wives, they could give no evidence against us.’
‘That,’ said his confederate, ‘is our chance of safety — the last plank circumstances throw out to us. We must cling to it or sink. I know Clara,’ he continued. ‘She is a true Meredith, and would feel as little remorse in hanging us as I should in bagging a snipe.’
‘Unless she bore one of our names,’ observed his friend.
‘Exactly so,’ said Clarence. ‘We must carry out our plans by any means — fair ones, if possible; if not, the girls will only have themselves to blame.’
His hearer nodded approval.
‘What troubles me now,’ continued the speaker, ‘is the fellow we picked up in Dinant. He must have heard every word of Clara’s accusation. Will he prove faithful to the end?’
‘Had we not better see him?’ asked Burcham.
‘Perhaps we had,’ answered Marsham, thoughtfully. ‘Were I convinced that he had the slightest idea of playing us falsely, some of the Marsh boys should soon settle the difficulty. It is the doubt that haunts me. The fellow appears infernally indifferent to everything; walks about the old tower as if he owned the place, and —’
The rest of the conversation was cut short by the subject of their conversation walking into the room and coolly taking a seat at the table. He was a man of middle height, strongly but not coarsely built, about forty years of age, with nothing very remarkable in his appearance, except the keen grey eyes, which expressed great resolution.
The two rich rascals drew themselves slightly up as if offended at the familiarity of the poor one.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you have not acted fairly by me.’
‘Why, we paid you!’ exclaimed Clarence.
‘Of course you did,’ replied the seaman; ‘such services are rarely given.’
‘What, then, do you complain of?’
‘Paid me for assisting you to carry off two young ladies who asked, as you assured me, nothing better than to fall into your hands; but not for murder — a very different affair. Do you suppose I am going to risk my neck within the compass of a halter, at such a price? Ridiculous! ‘
His hearers breathed freely. After all, it was merely a question of money, and they were well provided.
‘Name your terms,’ said Burcham.
‘I must have five hundred pounds more.’
‘Is that reasonable?’ demanded Clarence. ‘You have received two hundred pounds already.’
‘For coming with you from Dinant to the Bittern’s Marsh. You see I have learnt the name of the place, despite your cunning attempts to conceal it. Handsome pay, I acknowledge, for assisting you to bring two young ladies on shore. I have committed no other act for which the law can touch me. Take my offer, or reject it as you think fit.’
‘Why, what would you do?’
The question was put with a view of testing his intentions yet further.
‘Wash my hands of the whole affair,’ was the reply.
‘Rascal! would you betray us?’
The man laughed heartily.
‘And to whom should I betray you?’ he demanded: ‘Will you direct me where to find a magistrate in the Bittern’s Marsh, or officers to arrest you when I have obtained a warrant? You are neither of you very wise,’ he continued. ‘Still I give you credit for more judgment than that, I might try London, you will say. Tell me the names of the girls, give me the address of their family, and possibly I may think of it. Not that it would be of any great use, for if you are the fellows I take you for, it would be too late. The game will be played out.’
The reasoning of the speaker was boldly put, nor did it detract from its value that it was insolent as well as convincing.
‘You are completely in our power. The boys of the Marsh are devoted to me.’
‘Not so completely as you suppose,’ answered the fellow, carelessly. ‘There are three or four gallows birds below anxious to fly to America. Probably they were on board the barge when — you understand. Now I wish to cross the ocean, too. We have had some talk over the affair. I don’t think, even at your bidding, they would commit a second murder.’
The two gentleman rascals consulted together in a whisper.
‘Not so dangerous as I expected,’ said Clarence. ‘A mere petty larceny rogue. His object, to obtain more money.’
‘Yes, pay him; pay him,’ replied Burcham. It is hard, though I shall feel more at ease when I know they are on the other side of the Atlantic.’
The last suggestion prevailed.
‘Hark you, my man,’ said the former, ‘when we engaged your services neither my friend nor myself anticipated the contingency you have alluded to, and perhaps it is only fair that your recompense should be increased. Pity you urged it so offensively. You might have trusted to our liberality.’
‘And been cast aside like a soiled glove when you had no further use for me,’ replied the mutineer, scornfully.
‘Well, well,’ chimed in the squire, who began to feel a little nervous, ‘we will overlook your insolence. All we require is to be assured of your fidelity. That is the important point.’
‘And yet you huckster over it like petty traders,’ observed Smith, lowering his tone, for he saw that the money would be forthcoming. ‘I will deal more frankly by you than you have dealt by me. In three weeks time I must be in America, far beyond reach of English law and English lawyers. The whole country will soon be ringing with my name.’
‘Rather a common one, I believe,’ observed Marsham with a sneer.
‘Perhaps it is,’ replied the former in a tone of indifference, ‘but some rather uncommon men have borne it. I am not ashamed of it. Enough of name,’ he continued. ‘Accept my offer; or reject it; the choice lies with you. I can be staunch as a bloodhound to my promise, but then I must have my price.’
Walking back to the table, the speaker assisted himself to a second glass of liquor, and stood quietly awaiting the decision.
The money was paid, and confidence, to all appearance, restored.
‘The Crofter’s Cottage’, Edwin Ellis (1842-95)
As our readers may suppose, the motley inhabitants of the Bittern’s Marsh were not very particular in the choice of materials for their habitations, most of which, apart from the martello tower, were constructed of the trunks of trees dragged from the pools of stagnant waters, or, where these were scanty, of rough, unhewn stones, fragments of boulders, patched out with broken planks, and the interstices filled with mud or clay. Around these wretched abodes a plot of cultivated ground might occasionally be seen, with a few sickly-looking vegetables striving to pierce through the mass of weeds stifling their growth.
The owner of one of these wretched huts was Sarah Sawter, the former servant of the widow Gob. We call her the owner from the fact that her worthless husband owned nothing but his worthless self. She was a tall, masculine-looking woman, strongly built, sharp of tongue, and capable ot thrashing both Tim and his sons, although, to do her justice, it was only in extreme cases that she exercised her strength.
Soon after the arrival of Sarah in the Marsh a hard contest commenced between herself and the man with whom she had united her fortune for life, for the mastery. Pluck and resolution finally prevailed. In little more than a year Tom Sawter gave in, and the supremacy of his wife was sullenly acknowledged. Occasionally some outbreak might occur, but it was sternly suppressed, and she brought up her children as she pleased.
As her sons grew up towards manhood they became deeply attached to her; to
them her words were like oracles, which, if not always believed in, were rarely disputed. If Burk and Ben — the names of the boys — drank with their father, they always sided with their mother in all home disputes.
One trait will give the key to Sarah Sawter’s character better, perhaps, than a page of description. On one occasion, as hostilities were about to commence between her husband and herself, the lads gave unmistakable indications of siding with the latter.
‘Stand aside!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you forgotten he is your father?’
It was the last serious contest with her drunken husband that Sarah Sawter had occasion to engage in. Tim was not only whipped but subdued in spirit when his sons turned against, him — he, to use a sporting phrase, ‘threw up the sponge.’ Grumblings might, perhaps, have occurred occasionally at intervals afterwards, and threats of what he would do; but the grumblings died away harmless as the echoes of distant thunder, and the threats were disregarded.
The whole family were seated around the clean but rough deal table, on which stood a lamp filled with fish oil and a mesh made of dried bullrush. The supper, by no means a plenteous one, had long been concluded. The hour was getting late, yet still the inmates of the hut lingered at the table. Some project of interest was evidently under discussion.
‘I don’t like the looks on it,’ observed the mistress of the place. ‘What can they want wi’ a parson at the tower? Never heard of sich a thing afore. The master ain’t agoin to get married agin. I spose he haint sich an old fool as that.’
In the Marsh they always spoke of Theophilis Blackmore as the master.
Her sons grinned at the idea.
‘What is it to us what he wants un for,’ demanded the husband, in as loud a tone as he thought it prudent to assume, ‘since he pays well?’
‘And we are out of bread, mother,’ observed the oldest son.
‘The last bone of the old goat has been picked,’ added the youngest.
‘There are wuss things than hard fare,’ replied the woman, sadly, ‘though it be bad enough — the gaol and the law.’
‘It shall be as you say, mother,’ said the young men.
‘If it were only to guide the parson and his clerk from Deerhurst through the swamp to the tower, I should not so much mind; it’s what they may tempt ʼee to afterward. Still if —’
The rest of her speech was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. In an instant all was silent in the lonely abode.
The signal was repeated, but no one offered to stir.
‘Marcy on us!’ whispered Sarah, who can it be? So near on mornin’ too.’
‘Tramps — marsh birds like oursels,’ replied her husband; ‘but we ha’ naught for ’em. We be half clammed oursels. I’ll start ʼem.’
Walking to the door he drew aside the bar, when two men, evidently greatly fatigued, clad in rags almost as wretched as the speaker’s, made their way into the room. The youngest one sank exhausted upon the settle.
‘Don’t you know me, Sarah?’ asked the elder of the two wayfarers.
Mrs. Sawter caught up the lamp and held it close to his face, whilst Burk and Ben, her sons, stood quietly prepared for anything that might occur.
‘Marcy on us!’ exclaimed their mother. ‘Master Goliah, be it really you?’
The name explained something to the boys; but not everything. They could not understand why the well.-dressed, good-looking young farmer, whom they had frequently seen, and been taught to respect, should come to their miserable dwelling in such a plight, and at so late an hour.
No wonder they gazed upon him with surprise; but it was without any feeling of hostility. The grateful woman threw an additional armful of wood upon the hearth, and produced another bottle of spirits upon the table.
Her husband began to eye it eagerly.
‘O! Master Goliah,’ she said, ‘if your dear good mother could see you in these rags it would break her poor heart. Where did yer get ʼem?’
‘Out of her garret,’ replied her visitor with a grin. ‘Mother gied ʼem to I.’
As Sarah did not quite believe this statement she made no reply.
‘I tell ʼee she did,’ added the speaker; ‘and look, I hev fayther’s pistols as well, an’ you know the store she set on ʼem. She told I to come here.’
‘Here! to the Marsh? Here, amongst thieves, and worse?’ exclaimed the mistress of the house, who had recognised the weapons. ‘O! what have yer done?’
‘Nothink, as I knows on.’
Sarah shook her head.
Goliah knew that he might trust her, but doubted the prudence of doing so before her husband and her sons. Looking her earnestly in the face, he remarked that he would tell her all by-and-by. The woman understood him.
‘You. might trust in my boys,’ she whispered, ‘but not in their father. I have kept them honest. Tim will soon be drunk; it was partly for that I placed the bottle of liquor on the table.’
In less than an hour the prediction was verified, and a series of explanations ensued, and some schemes suggested, in which Burk and Ben pledged their assistance.
So satisfied were the two wanderers with the result that they consented to accept the only bed the wretched place afforded. Goliah did so on William’s account more than his own; for, as he said, he could sleep anywhere.
When Tim Sawter awoke from his debauch in the morning he called loudly for his boots and his coat, which had disappeared.
‘Useless to search for them,’ observed his wife. ‘The boys have taken ʼem.’
‘Taken ʼem?’
‘Yes; they started at daybreak for Deerhurst to find the parson and guide him through the Marsh to the old tower.’
Tim cursed loudly; swore that he would break every bone in their skin when they returned. Did they mean to rob him of his perkesites?
Sarah smiled contemptuously. She had no fears for her sons. As for their father, he was effectually a prisoner in the Bittern’s Marsh; to go out barefoot was an impossibility, and he had not even a pair of slippers to attempt it in. Such luxuries were unknown in the miserable den he called home.
Metafiction: See for example, David Henry Lowenkron, “The Metanovel,” College English 38.4, Dec. 1976 (343-355).
Sydney Punch image reprinted in Shattock, J (ed.) Journalism and the Periodical Press in Nineteenth-Century Britain (CUP, 2017).
Elzivers [sic]: Must refer to the House of Elzevir, Dutch publisher of the 18th and 19th centuries: “The duodecimo series of ‘Elzevirs’ became very famous and very desirable among bibliophiles, who sought to obtain the tallest and freshest copies of these tiny books” (Wikipedia).
Willie will need to prove his mettle. He is well in the running to become Cambridge University’s Senior Wrangler for the year: referring to the highest scoring third year first-class honours student in the Mathematical Tripos. An amazing feat for a farm lad, but Willie is worn out with study, his brain over-taxed, and the Tripos commences today!
The Mathematical Tripos was a formidable examination taken by students after three years and one term at the University […] For example, in 1854, the Tripos consisted of 16 papers, 2 papers each day for 8 days — a total of 44.5 hours in the examination room. The total number of questions set was 211. (Forfar)
That’s the least of it. What will he do if he discovers that his betrothed, his beloved Lady Kate Kepple, has been abducted by murderous thugs on her way home from the opera? His uncle, Lawyer Whiston, seems reluctant to pass on the news. It would be sure to distract the boy! Undoubtedly receptive to Smith’s reveries on the transcendent power of Love, the reader has a reasonable idea that Willie is more likely to send the Tripos to the devil, for the sake of his Kate.
Since 1910, the rankings have not been made public (within the general scheme: Wranglers, first-class honours; Senior Optimes, second-class; Junior Optimes, third-class). For the hundred and fifty-odd years prior, results were proclaimed far and wide, and supreme prestige afforded to the Senior Wrangler. Indeed, to become Senior Wrangler in the Mathematical Tripos was considered the highest intellectual achievement in the country.
He’d be assured of a place among the highest ranks, such as in the church, legal, actuarian, medical or political professions. Lawyer Whiston already regards Willie as the stuff “of which lord chancellors, statesmen, and prime ministers are made” (Chapter 23).
Admission of the Senior Wrangler in 1842. Richard Bankes Harraden (1778–1862). Source: Wikimedia Commons.
The situations of plot, along with the romantic themes, dovetail with seemingly more bookish political issues. What do you have to do to get the wheels of the Home Office turning, even in such a dire emergency as ours?
Sir George has it right in one. The country is going to the dogs. The system is weighed down, clogged up with indolent “Tory place-men” — let alone the stultifying effects that descend from an idiotic, indulgent regent. It’s like a fish rotting from the head down.
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
(from “England in 1819” by Percy Bysshe Shelley)
Thus the narrator’s description of Beacham’s yacht comments on the condition of the metaphorical “ship of state”:
Everything appeared in confusion; rigging incomplete; cabin windows out of place; paint half dry; the decks encumbered with canvas, tools and litter.
The British system (of decades earlier than the writing of the novel) cries out to be rectified: in need of upright, honest, rational, selfless action. Youth holds the ultimate key: youth such as Willie’s, who points the way to a society governed by ethics, intelligence and merit.
Hence Smith’s heavy irony in alluding to the “irreligious, revolutionary, insane” new call for reform. Writing from several decades in the future, Smith has the benefit of 20/20 historical hindsight. Here we are yet six or so years prior to the Peterloo Massacre of 1819, a deadly cavalry charge upon a crowd of up to 80,000 peaceful protesters demanding reform of parliamentary representation.
The event fuelled a radical movement leading to the Reform Acts of 1832, 1867 and 1884, by which the right to vote gradually expanded, descending the class ladder.
Smith’s story is not so politically charged in itself. Rather, his strategy is to reaffirm democratic values to a readership in whom they are already entrenched. His historico-political allusions may be understood as an ingenious method of reeling in the reader, by subtly invoking a sympathetic ideology of the status quo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Great Surprise both in London and Cambridge — Honours Rejected — Flight of a Senior Wrangler — Preparations to Explore the Bitterns’ Marsh
As may well be supposed, there was a great commotion in London when the abduction of the fair cousins became known. Many persons refused to believe it. ‘Absurd! Impossible!’ they said. ‘Two young ladies carried off in the heart of the most civilised, best governed city in the world! Ridiculous!’ Others shook their heads, looked exceedingly knowing, and whispered something about a double elopement. What seemed to give a shadow of probability to the last surmise was that no trace of the lost ones had been discovered, although Sir George Meredith and Lord Bury had set the Home Office magistrates and detectives on the alert. Hand-bills, offering a very large reward, had been placarded, not only throughout Westminster, but the business parts of the city. Many a hungry wretch, on keen scent for a breakfast or a dinner, possibly for both meals in one, scratched his ears and wondered if he could not make something out of them. Detectives looked grave, perfectly speechless mysteries; not even that enterprising race, the reporters, could extract a word from them.
The truth was, they had nothing to tell.
Lady Montague, not knowing what better to do, had sent for her solicitor — a proceeding quite as sensible, if not a little more so, than the others.
The old lawyer listened to her tale with such evident dismay that it increased the terror of his client. His countenance, usually so impassible, became deadly pale, and as he clasped his hands together he murmured:
‘My boy! my poor boy! it will kill him! And this is examination day! Such hopes as his tutors wrote me.’
In all the difficulties of life, from which neither rank, wealth, nor virtue are exempt, her ladyship had eventually found consolation in the ready suggestions and sound common sense with which her legal adviser encountered them; but now he sat speechless; not a word of consolation or counsel to offer. All he did was to repeat the words, ‘My poor boy!’
‘What are we to do?’ exclaimed the aunt, looking in his face with almost childish confidence. ‘My nieces must be found, and the wretches punished.’
‘They will be found — no fear of that,’ replied Mr. Whiston, who began slowly to recover his self-possession, ‘and the authors of the outrage punished. The question is,’ he added, and the tone in which he uttered the words imparted a fearful meaning to them, ‘What shall we have to punish?’
Lady Montague hid her face with her hands and sobbed hysterically.
The lawyer returned to his office, where he remained for several hours buried in deep reflection. His plans at last were laid; and when he issued forth, he appeared cool and collected as ever — astonished his old coachman, and no doubt the horses, by the rapidity with which he drove from public office to office. His last visit was to Westminster Hall, where he had a long interview with the lord chancellor.
When he quitted the presence of that important functionary, an officer of his court accompanied him.
On reaching his offices he found Sir George Meredith and Lord Bury impatiently awaiting his return.
‘No time for words!’ he exclaimed; ‘every instant must be employed in action.’
‘Ought we not,’ demanded the distracted lover of Clara, ‘to dispatch officers to all the nearest seaports?’
‘Done three hours since, my lord,’ was the reply.
‘Increase the reward,’ suggested the father.
‘Loss of time, Sir George.’
‘Apply again at the Home Office?’
‘The Home Office be ——’ As the speaker was unquestionably a moral man, we trust he only said ‘hanged.’ At any rate the word sounded very like it. ‘Been there myself. Saw the minister. An empty-pated idiot told me to prepare a statement on oath! Statements and oaths in such a case! High time we had reform. Shall vote for it next election. Heaven knows we want it!’
Under less exciting circumstances his hearers would have been inexpressibly shocked by this favourable allusion to the irreligious, revolutionary, insane cry for reform just beginning to make itself heard and shaking the ranks of Tory place-men. A few plain, sensible men were just beginning to suspect the hollow tinsel they had so long taken for pure gold, and, what was worse, to analyse it. They had discovered a vast amount of base metal already.
The door of the private office was opened very gently, and the managing clerk made his appearance with a half-hesitating air as if he did not feel quite certain what kind of a reception he would meet with. In his hand he held a scrap of dirty paper, folded in the shape of a letter. With the rapidity of a hawk darting on a sparrow his employer pounced upon it, and tore open the wafer, which contained but three words: ‘Bittern’s Marsh. Bunce.’
‘Thank God!’ ejaculated Mr. Whiston, as he sank back in his chair, letting the paper drop from his hand.
It was no time for ceremony. Lord Bury picked it up, and read them aloud.
‘Still, I do not understand,’ he said. ‘Where is the Bittern’s Marsh?’
‘A tract of land upon the Essex coast, inhabited by the worst of characters,’ replied the lawyer. ‘It belongs to your father, Viscount Allworth. Lady Kate and her cousin have been conveyed there.’
The marked emphasis which the speaker placed upon the word father brought a blush of indignation to the face of the son.
‘Can you rely upon the information?’ demanded the baronet.
‘Implicitly.’
‘The integrity of the writer?’
‘As on my own; more so,’ replied Mr. Whiston, ‘for he has resisted temptations to which, thank Heaven, I have never been exposed.’
Lord Bury said something about seeing his father.
‘Do nothing of the kind,’ continued the former. ‘This scrap of paper has given the only clue that was wanted; changed surmise to certainty. It would put the plotters upon their guard. The girls, I can answer for it, have one devoted friend hovering near them. O! If I had but a yacht at my disposal!’
The baronet suggested an application to the admiralty; but the lawyer at once pooh-poohed it. He had quite experience enough of public officers and red tape officials. Egbert proposed something more practical. His friend Beacham’s yacht, he said, was lying at St. Catherine’s Dock for repairs; it must be ready by this time, and was at his disposal.
‘Still more delay!’ groaned the baronet.
‘It is the best we can do,’ observed the nephew, mournfully.
‘We must see to it at once,’ exclaimed the lawyer; ‘better trust to that than to official interference. Talk of the law’s delay! Nothing, compared with it. It should be well manned.’
‘Leave that to me,’ replied his lordship. ‘Eight or ten men of my own troop are stationed at Whitehall, recruiting; not one of them but will follow me. Tom Randal, just named cadet at the Veterinary College, came to town with me this morning.’
‘God bless you, my dear boy!’ said the father of Clara, wringing his hand. ‘You know what we are struggling for.’
He could say no more.
His nephew not only knew, but felt it. An extraordinary change had taken place in him; he began to see the world — all that is worthless, all that is estimable in it — as it really is; not as false education, pride of birth, as the prejudices of society had painted it. The indifference, languid apathy which, in fashionable parlance, nothing less than an earthquake ought to have shaken, suddenly disappeared. The man had replaced the club-lounger; he was all life and energy. The soil must originally have been good; but the weeds had hitherto choked it.
Never again rail against true, honest love, no matter what the conditions or inequalities; it is the surest test of the true metal. Gold is as frequently mistake for pinchbeck by the unthinking as pinchbeck is for gold.
On their arrival at St. Catherine’s Dock the rescuers hastened on board the Leander — the name of Beacham’s yacht — where a cruel disappointment awaited them. Everything appeared in confusion; rigging incomplete; cabin windows out of place; paint half dry; the decks encumbered with canvas, tools and litter.
Sir George Meredith and his lordship began to remonstrate, explain, argue, and propose all kinds of practicable and impracticable schemes. Here it was that the practical common sense of Richard Whiston came to their assistance. Calling the master-shipwright to the front, he said:
‘The Leander must leave the dock in twenty-four hours.’
‘Impossible,’ was the reply.
‘Don’t understand the word; it is only a crutch for lame fools to hobble upon. Whose men are these?’ added the speaker, pointing to the shipwrights.
‘Searle’s, sir.’
‘The word, then, was doubly absurd,’ continued the lawyer. ‘Searles’s men can do anything.’
This last touch flattered their pride, and the carpenters began to grin.
The speaker drew forth his watch. It was just four o’clock.
‘Hear me,’ added the speaker.’ If by this hour to-morrow the Leander is in the river in navigable order —never mind the painting, gilding, and fine work — Lord Bury, Sir George Meredith, and myself will distribute the sum of one thousand pounds amongst the honest fellows who execute our wishes.’
The men gave a hearty cheer.
‘Never mind that,’ said Mr. Whiston. ‘It is a hard task I have set you; but the recompense is a noble one, remember. One thousand pounds. To work at once. Strong hands and willing hearts can accomplish everything. You have lost five minutes already.’
‘Is this offer really a serious one?’ inquired the master-carpenter.
‘Serious as the Bank of England, and payable as its notes for value received,’ remarked the lawyer.
‘Then,’ exclaimed several of the men, ‘it shall be done if muscle and good will can do it. To work, lads, to work.’
As Lawyer Whiston remarked, somewhat bitterly, when he heard of the abduction of the cousins, it was examination day at Cambridge — the first of the three which annually decide who are to be the winners of the great prizes which the university holds out to the ambition of aspiring youth — the senior wranglership and the head of the classical tripos. Should intelligence of the outrage reach William he trembled for the result, the reaction upon his over-taxed brain’ for his studies had been severe.
The senior wranglership opens the door to fame, fortune, and distinctions of every kind, but only a little way. The holder has still years of toil before him ere the mitre of the bishop, the ermined mantle of the judge, and the influence of the statesman fall within his reach. Still it clears the way. He is already a marked man. His future career is curiously watched. The public mind has taken hold of him; he is a possibility of the future and rarely forgotten.
The head of the tripos enjoys similar advantages, but in a less eminent degree.
The first day’s examination had closed, and our hero retired to his rooms in glorious old Trinity. Poor fellow, he looked pale, worn by hard brainwork and excitement. It was the future that stared him in the face. No wonder the vision startled him.
His papers, written under the eyes of the examiners, had proved most brilliant. College Dons had smiled upon him, the vice-chancellor given him a friendly nod as he quitted the senate-house, and advised him to take care of himself. No wonder his rooms were crowded. Friends anticipated his triumph — rivals feared it. It was seven in the evening before he found himself alone, alone with proud and happy thoughts, the prospect of success honestly won.
‘Should it be so,’ he murmured to himself, ‘dear Kate may be pardoned for her choice, although it still leaves me unworthy of such a blessing.’
His gyp — college servant — now made his appearance and informed his master that his dinner would be ready in a few minutes. The poor fellow had an air of unusual respect and importance. He, too, had heard of the general impression, and the shadow of Willie’s future greatness had fallen upon him. He was not very ambitious; his dreams extended no further than bearing the train of some future chief justice, or possibly lord chancellor, in the house of peers.
‘Eat it yourself, Gibby,’ said. the tired student. ‘All I require is a cup of strong tea and a biscuit.’
‘Certainly, my lord!’
Our hero smiled; he read the speaker’s thoughts.
‘What is that you have in your hand?’ he asked.
‘The London paper, my — h’m, sir, I meant to say. Third edition. Great sensation. I have only just glanced at it. But nothing ‘like one,’ he added slyly, ‘that will appear in a day or two.’
The gyp alluded to the result of the examinations.
‘Leave it with me,’ said William. Anything to cool my heated brain and change the current of my thoughts.’
The speaker had been engaged in the columns but a few minutes when, with a cry that must have come from his heart, he sprang from the chair. In the pages of the Post he had read an account of the abduction of Lady Kate and her cousin. The names were not given in full, but his love divined them. In an instant his mind was made up, his course decided upon. What were the honours which awaited him, the triumph over his competitors, several of whom had affected to look down upon the farmer’s boy, as they insolently termed him, or the gratification of his own legitimate ambition! All vanished at the call of manhood, the claims of true affection. He would have been unworthy the love of a true woman had he hesitated. Within an hour he left the university, its honours, pledges of future fame behind him; left them without one sigh of regret. A nobler and far more imperious call decided him — love, the beacon light, the polar star of man’s existence, guiding him to happiness or misery as virtue or vice inspire him. Love! How often, in our more youthful days, have we tried to analyse the passion. Reason cannot grasp it, nor retort or alembic hold it for one instant. It is more subtle than the subtlest essence. In short, so incomprehensible that he who bestowed the God-like faculties upon the beings he created alone can comprehend it.
The grey-eyed moon was faintly gilding the roofs and quaint gables of the old-fashioned farmhouses scattered round Deerhurst, and the Widow Gob, despite her sixty years, was busily engaged in preparing breakfast for her son, herself, and the labourers. She was, as might be expected in the mother of a young giant like Goliah, a strong and rather muscular-looking woman. Honest labour had made her so. She made excellent butter and cheese, saw to the work with her own eyes, helped it with her own hands. A rude but cleanly abundance reigned throughout her house. Mrs. Gob did not understand makeshifts. If she kept rather a tight hand upon worldly gear, it was not through avarice. She loved her big boy very dearly, and it was for him that she saved.
Photo by L.Tyrer, Farmer & Stockbreeder (1889 – 1984). Courtesy of The Museum of English Rural Life, University of Reading
‘God bless us!’ exclaimed the widow, as a post-chaise, the horses flecked with foam, drove up to the door. ‘Who can this be? Company? Only brown bread, bacon and eggs for breakfast, too.’
Our hero — we still persist in calling him so — alighted, so haggard, broken down, and careworn in appearance that at first she scarcely recognised him.
‘Why, Willie,’ she said, at last, after taking a good stare at him, ‘be that really you?’
‘Where is Goliah?’ asked the exhausted traveller.
‘In the home croft.’
The worn-out student attempted to rise from the oaken settle on which he had sank.
‘Sit thee still,’ added the speaker. ‘I can tell him.’
Going to the door, she placed her hand to her mouth and sent up a shout that might have been heard at — but as we pride ourselves on our veracity, we will not name the distance. It proved one thing better even than the stethoscope could have done, that the widow’s lungs were in a remarkably healthy condition.
In a few minutes her son came rushing into the kitchen.
‘God save us, mother!’ he exclaimed. ‘Be the chimbly afire?’
Mrs. Gob pointed to their visitor.
The eyes of friendship, like those of love, are exceedingly keen. Goliah knew him in an instant, and taking the thin, white hands of our hero in his own, gazed on the piteous features with the piteous look of patient fidelity so noticeable in the hound when the master is ill.
‘Willie! dear Willie!’ he said, and his voice became wondrously gentle, ‘what be the matter on thee? What ha’ they done to thee? That cussed varsity and them books be akillin’ on thee.’
‘It is not that — not that,’ replied his friend, with a faint smile.
‘What be it then?’
‘The world will think I have acted very foolishly,’ added the former, ‘but I shall never regret it, for my heart tells me I am right.’
‘And I’ll swear to it!’ exclaimed the honest rustic, slapping his thigh — a way he had when excited. ‘Swear to it,’ her repeated, ‘on any book, and afore all the lawyers and justices in England. So let us hear all about it.’
Perceiving, or fancying that he did so, a slight degree of hesitation on the part of William Whiston to explain matters in the presence of his mother, the speaker turned to that excellent personage and asked if she could not broil them a chicken.
‘Two, my boys,’ said the widow, as she walked from the kitchen, ‘if you and Willie can eat them.’
Did Mrs. Gob listen to the conversation that ensued? We almost fear she did — mind, we do not assert it. Mothers have strange privileges, and singular modes of exercising them. When she returned in something less than an hour’s time, bearing the savoury dish in her hands, her countenance appeared hard set — not with anger, but resolution — like that of a person prepared to meet a stern necessity.
‘I cannot eat,’ said our hero, turning from the table, after swallowing one or two mouthfuls. ‘My heart revolts at the thought of food.’
‘An’ I beant hungry,’ observed his friend, who had already devoured at least half of one of the fowls. ‘My heart, too, do feel uncommon heavy.’
Poor fellow! He was thinking of Susan.
‘You must eat, both of you,’ observed the widow, firmly. ‘How else will you find strength to encounter the dangers and fatigues of the Bittern’s Marsh?’
The young men exchanged a glance of surprise.
Decidedly the speaker must have listened. Goliah did not seem so much astonished as his friend; but, then, he was her son.
‘Why, what put that in your head?’ he began.
‘No frimicating’ — which in the dialect of the eastern counties means affectation, or pretence — interrupted the widow. ‘Yer can’t deceive me; no reason why yer should. Ain’t I yer mother? Did yer think l’d sit still and patiently see my own boy, to say nothing of poor Willie, robbed of the girls they love? Not if I know it! Yer must eat, I tell yer, and take some rest, too, for it would be foolhardy to venture into the Marsh before nightfall, where you will need all your strength and courage.’
Our hero groaned with impatience.
‘She is right,’ whispered his friend. Turning to the widow, he added: ‘Do yer really mean what yer say?’
‘Bring back Susan safe to Deerhurst,’ said his mother, with a faint smile, ‘and I will answer that question.’
Goliah started from his seat, threw his arms round the speaker’s neck, and imprinted a kiss upon her still comely cheek — a kiss such as no doubt would have greatly shocked the Misses Prue and Prim of the present day.
‘She be a good girl,’ added the widow, after settling her cap; old women wore caps in those days. ‘I’ve had my eyes on her and on you, too. Yer thought I was blind, I suppose. Lord! Lord! how simple these boys and gals all be!’
The kind-hearted woman had her own way. Convinced at last of the folly — we might say madness — of attempting to penetrate the Bittern’s Marsh in broad daylight, William Whiston reluctantly consented to take a few hours’ repose.
‘Be it so,’ he said. ‘Rest for the body, not for the mind.’
He was mistaken. Mrs. Gob was not only a good housekeeper, but, like most farmers’ wives, possessed some skill in the use of simples. Preparing a draught with her own hands of herbs gathered on the farm, she prevailed on the youth to take it. He slept so long and soundly that the shades of evening were gathering around Deerhurst when he awoke.
Meanwhile, everything, had been prepared for the departure of the friends — garrets ransacked for old clothes to disguise them in, money in separate purses, lest they should be separated. The widow had thought of everything, even to the name of an old servant of hers who had been wheedled into marrying a handsome, good looking scamp, and finally settled in the marsh with him.
Her mistress had frequently assisted her in her distresses.
The last thing Mrs. Gob placed in the hands of her son were his father’s pistols. She had cleaned and loaded them herself, and looked exceedingly pale as she gave them.
‘Only in self-defence,’ she whispered. ‘And, O! Goliah, remember you have a mother! But do your duty,’ she added. ‘Don’t forget that you are a man!’
The Spartan matron’s words to her soldier boy, when she gave him his shield on the eve of battle, ‘With it, or on it,’ were much more poetical perhaps, but not so true to nature.
It was not till ‘the boys,’ as she called them, had quitted the farm, and the last echo of their footsteps died away, that the widow found her courage fail her.
And then she cried bitterly. Her tears were for the safety of her son.
The Spartan mother would have smiled upon his corpse. But, then, Mrs. Gob was not a Spartan.
Image: Admission of the Senior Wrangler in 1842: Scanned from H P Stokes, Ceremonies of the University of Cambridge, CUP 1927.
Here is a question of the sort for which Willie is preparing himself:
placeman: “chiefly British, often disparaging: a political appointee to a public office especially in 18th century Britain.” Merriam-Webster.
alembic: “An alembic (الإنبيق, al-inbīq); Ancient Greek: ἄμβιξ (ambix, ‘cup, beaker’): an alchemical still consisting of two vessels connected by a tube, used for distilling.” Wikipedia
frimicating: Goliah’s favourite F-word. E.g., Chapters 1, 3, etc. See external definition in Chapter 13 (n).
simples: Interesting connection with Nance, the wise woman of the Bitterns’ Marsh. See Chapter 19 (n) for definition.
Photo of rural woman at pump: “The costume of country women lagged behind that of town dwellers until the middle of the nineteenth century when simplified versions of more fashionable clothes were increasingly adopted. For the poor, new clothes were often hand-made at home with cloth bought from both local shops and travelling salesmen. A large trade in second hand, and even third and fourth hand, clothes existed during this period. The wives and daughters of prosperous farmers however, sought as fashionable clothes as they could find. From the turn of the twentieth century the distinction between rural and town costume had virtually disappeared and country women dressed to suit their personal taste and what their pockets could afford. The country woman pictured is wearing a waist apron and a sun bonnet. Such bonnets were particularly popular between 1840 and 1914” (Museum of English Rural Life, University of Reading).
*Forfar, D.O. “What became of the Senior Wranglers?” Amended version of article first published in Mathematical Spectrum Vol. 29 No. 1, 1996. Jump to PDF.
*Galton, F. “Hereditary Genius: an inquiry into its laws and consequences” (1869). Fascinating research based on Cambridge Wranglers. Jump to PDF.
*Mandler, P. (ed.) Liberty and Authority in Victorian Britain. Oxford: OUP, 2006.
This evening the girls are off to the opera, as Lady Montague announced the other day (Chapter 25). Sir George Meredith won’t be dragged — says he feels sleepy. Men. The sparkle and glitter of a brilliant Friday evening play upon the rippling Thames, as the London bon ton arrive in a magnificent array of carriages and barges to congregate at the opera house. Due to the oppressive warmth, the storm clouds gather.
It is Catalini’s farewell … make that Madame Angelica Catalani (1779 – 1849), the world’s — the century’s — most famous, most fabulous soprano. We won’t be meeting her in person, hardly seeing her on stage, except to learn that during the performance the prince regent bowed to her from the royal box. Smith is at it again: the diva transcends beyond measure the regent George’s paltry, self-aggrandizing gesture — his laughable setting of his seal upon her triumph.
‘Madame Catalani in Seriramide’ (1806). Hand-coloured etching, Robert Dighton. Source: British Museum
Catalani’s inclusion reinforces a backdrop of high culture as only a stellar diva is able. She was the Cécilia Bartoli, the Montserrat Caballé, the Maria Callas of the day; like such towering figures, seemingly endowed with a richer essence of human soul, by their excellence in that highest of high art.
I wonder if we might take a few minutes to establish a mood. Let us view a short video clip of the incomparable Bartoli, the greatest coloratura mezzo of all time (such a talent demands superlatives). It is “Ombra mai fu,” the opening aria, originally intended for soprano castrato, from Handel’s opera Serse (1738).
Catalani’s sublime voice belied her humble origins. Born in Senigallia, Italy, she is said to have been a match girl. She was rescued from an obscure life by her possession of a phenomenal voice. Despite having little knowledge of music, she made her operatic debut in Rome at fifteen, and her fame soon spread throughout Europe.
In Lisbon, her vocal gifts were cultivated to sublimity. To the deep regret of the Portugese, from there she went to Madrid, where she was feted by the Spanish court; thence to Paris, to be showered in the applause and adulation not only of the French public, but of the Emperor himself.
Napoleon was so enraptured that he offered her 100,000 francs to stay in France. When she declined, he refused her a visa to leave, so she disguised herself as a nun in order to escape to London, performing at the King’s Theatre in Haymarket. She reigned for seven years in England as unrivalled prima donna — for she would brook no rival — winning the affections of the public and those at the highest levels of society.
“Her voice,” wrote Lord Mount-Edgcumbe,
… is of a most uncommon quality, and capable of exertions almost supernatural. Her throat seems endued (as has been remarked by medical men) with a power of expansion and muscular motion by no means usual, and when she throws out all her voice to the utmost, it has a volume and strength that are quite surprising; while its agility in divisions, running up and down the scale in semi-tones, and its compass in jumping over two octaves at once, are equally astonishing.
“Place her at the top of St. Paul’s,” it was popularly held, “and she will be heard at the Opera House.”
She is the subject of some nice anecdotes.
Once, at a dinner party in Weimar, she was sat next to Goethe, about whom she knew absolutely nothing. Taken by his fine appearance, she enquired who he was, and was told, “The celebrated Goethe, madam.”
“On what instrument does he play?”
“He is not a performer, madame; he is the renowned author of Werther“ — The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774), Goethe’s first novel, a tragic, angst-ridden, semi-biographical story of love and suicide.
Whereupon, turning to the poet, she gushed: “I am such an admirer of Werther!” — to which he bowed deeply.
“I never read anything half so laughable in my life,” she continued, laughing. “What a capital farce! Never was there anything so exquisitely ridiculous.”
She knew the great work only by way of a parodic farce she had seen performed at a minor Parisian theatre.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Opera Night in London, Followed by a Voyage down the River Thames — Trapped at Last — Three Birds Instead of Two
Most of our readers, in all probability, have witnessed a review, with its clouds of dust, confusion, the hurrying to and fro of aides-de-camp; occasional clubbing of a whole company, to the intense mortification of its officers, although as a matter of etiquette the blame never falls upon them. The poor, over-taxed sergeants and men have to bear it all. To the Pekins — non-military spectators — it is a perfect mystery, and sometimes to those who wear the epaulette.
The inspection of a single regiment is a different and far more business-like affair.
The men of the —- (we purposely omit the number of the regiment) were drawn up on the parade ground of the barracks at Knightsbridge, when Lord Sturton, accompanied by the lieutenant-colonel, his aide-de-camp and several field officers, made his appearance on the ground. The day was a warm one; neither officers nor men looked particularly cheerful — for, as Egbert told his cousins, his lordship was something of a martinet; added to which, it was his own regiment he was about to inspect.
Here a few words of explanation are absolutely necessary. In the British service cavalry regiments are almost invariably commanded by their lieutenant colonel, on whom rests all the responsibility. The head colonelship is held by a general, to whom it has been given as a reward for meritorious service, sometimes we fear for other reasons. Of course they draw the pay
A single troop escaped the irascible comments of the old general — the one commanded by Lord Bury. The horses were in splendid condition, and as for the accoutrements, not a strap or buckle out of place.
‘On my word, Bury,’ said the old soldier, when the wearisome task at last was ended, ‘your company does you great credit. Horses splendid; no better mounted men in the service.’
Although much gratified by the compliment, the young guardsman was too generous to appropriate it entirely to himself.
‘I am fortunate, General, in my sergeant,’ he replied.
‘Ah! Some old campaigner, no doubt.’
‘On the contrary, about my own age, certainly not a year older,’ added Lord Bury. ‘The son of a rich farmer, one of my uncle Sir George Meredith’s tenants. His father has repeatedly offered to buy his discharge — but Tom Randal refuses to leave the service.’
‘Fine fellow!’ ejaculated the general. ‘Wish we had more such men. What is his general character?’
‘Excellent; not a single black mark against him.’
‘And understands horses?’
‘Your lordship has seen the condition of those of my troop. All owing to Randal’s care. He never suffers a man to shirk his duty, particularly the hand-rubbing.’
This was touching the inspector-general of cavalry on one of his weak points, perhaps the very weakest. The system of hand-rubbing had only lately been introduced into the service. Lord Sturton highly approved of it. The privates detested it, and we do not wonder at it. The duty was performed in the stable; each man had to kneel down and for half an hour rub the fetlocks of his horse. The regulation has since been abolished, or fallen into disuse. Too many painful and even fatal accidents occurred.
‘Bury,’ said Lord Sturton, ‘I have a great mind to send him to the Veterinary College.’
‘He would do credit, General, to your recommendation.’
‘We will see about it. Rare chance for him; sure of a commission.’
Here one or two words of explanation are necessary. The officers of the household troops — the most privileged regiments in the service — are invariably selected from the members of the aristocracy. No commoner, unless nobly connected; or backed by great political interest, can hope to obtain a commission in them, and when he does he is looked down upon as a parvenu. To this rule, as to many others, there are some exceptions. The paymaster, veterinary surgeons and adjutant either rise from the ranks or are taken from other regiments. They must have commissions; but rarely rise above the rank of cornet.
Young fellows, with more money than brains, proud of their Norman blood and ancestral acres, cannot be expected to take such mechanical, tiresome duties upon their delicate shoulders. They consider that they have quite sufficient to do in attending parades, drawing-rooms, court balls, or once a year guarding the person of the sovereign on his or her way to Parliament. To do them justice, these feather-bed soldiers have rarely shown any want of pluck in-the field. Waterloo, the Peninsula, and Crimea have proved it.
Lord Sturton kept the promise he had hinted at; that very same day Tom Randal received his nomination to the newly-established college for veterinary surgeons, which gave him the somewhat hybrid rank of cadet.
We trust our readers have not forgotten Tom Randal, the lover of Phœbe, the May Queen, who had so handsomely thrashed Squire Burcham for insulting her. Press of matter, as the newspapers say, compelled us to drop them for awhile; but they were sure to appear upon the scene again.
Lord Bury rejoiced in the advancement of his humble friend, which he knew would please both Clara and her father. The only drawback to his satisfaction was the prospect of thee mess-dinner to which the inspecting general had been, as a matter of course, invited. No avoiding that, Lady Montague and her niece would have to visit the opera unattended. There was no coaxing Sir George Meredith to accompany them. He vowed that the music made him sleepy.
We have known it produce that effect sometimes; but not with Catalini, Pasta, Grisi, or the divine Malibran upon the scene.
London has been pronounced the most magnificent city in the world. It is undoubtedly the largest. It has magnificent buildings, noble institutions, richly endowed hospitals, and offers educational advantages of which Englishmen naturally feel proud; and yet we cannot call it magnificent. The contrasts between wealth and poverty, which strike the eye at every turn, are too great. Velvet and calico, ermine and rags, jostle together in the same streets.
Like most great cities, London may be studied best in its undercurrents of good and evil; it is there the true keys to the enigma will be found. Large benevolence, in which ostentation does sometimes contrive to show its face; great domestic virtues, especially in the middle classes; a tolerably fair amount of honesty, though still far from, what might be desired, contrast with crime and vice in almost every direction.
In London almost everything may be bought for money — from the smile of beauty, trained by speculating mothers to accept the richest offers, up to that priceless gem, the human soul, provided you are able to bid high enough for it. Vice never need lack either a pander, an instrument, nor a victim, provided the yellow dross is ready to be counted down in payment for them.
London should be seen at night to understand half its glory and its shame; throngs of carriages, filled with, lovely women hastening to the opera, ball-room, or routs, their dazzling toilets and sparkling gems exciting glances of admiration or envy from their poorer sisters in the streets, who little dream how sad a heart too frequently beats beneath the load of wealth and finery — links in the chains which bind all but the affections.
Few women better understood the terrible facilities which the possession of wealth can lend to crime, or felt less scruple in using it, than Lady All worth. Born of poor and very humble parentage, she had acquired, first gold — then rank; but the crowning object of her ambitious scheming — the marriage of her worthless son with Lady Kate Kepple — had yet to be achieved. She had been checkmated once, and the defeat galled her. The great fortune of the fair girl whose happiness she laboured to destroy, although it excited fierce cupidity, was not the end in view. She wanted to see the reputation of Clarence sufficiently whitewashed to enable him to show his face in society again.
London Bridge Night, John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-93)
The plans of Lady Allworth had been cautiously and cunningly laid, the details carefully studied, and contingencies guarded against — in short, all that brain-work and money could accomplish had been done patiently, earnestly; and the day at last arrived which was to test the strength of the nets so persistently woven. Day! We should have written night; for, honest, open-faced day, with its broad sunlight streaming around, penetrating every nook and cranny, curious eyes peering around, hands ready to resist evil, renders the execution of such projects as the one we are about to describe all but impossible; or, if not impossible, ten times more hazardous.
The day had been exceedingly sultry; one of those scorching, metallic ones on which summer presses its bronze kiss upon the brow of rustic labour, and lazy poverty languidly stretches itself in the shade, trusting to accident for the bread which patient industry is toilsomely earning. Lady Montague had decided to proceed to London in her barge. There is always a chance of catching a breeze upon tbe Thames, and the opera could not be missed. Her ladyship and her nieces arrived in safety. Poor Clara missed the arm of Egbert sadly, and once or twice murmured to herself: ‘That odious inspection!’ Her cousin, Kate, who read what was passing in her mind, smiled gaily as she whispered in her ear: ‘Don’t fret, darling. He will be here in time to see us back to Belmont.’
The last strains of the opera of the night had been heard, encores graciously complied with — Catalini was ever liberal in that respect — wreaths flung and gracefully acknowledged. The regent had set the seal upon the great singer’s success by bowing to her from the royal box. This last act of condescension raised the enthusiasm of the aristocratic audience to its height.
The English Sardanapalus was certainly the glass of fashion; but how about the ‘mould of form,’ as his flatterers styled him? He weighed at least twenty stones at the period we are writing of him. Still, young men dressed by him, wasted hours before the glass trying to copy his bow, which really was inimitable, and arranging the almost historic love-lock of his curly wig carefully over the left temple, gumming it there; Beau Brummel christened it, ‘his royal highness’s persuader.’
Poor, obstinate George III was a man in comparison with his son. His bigotry was at least sincere, his obstinacy constitutional, his prejudices the result of a bad education. Of the two, we prefer the blind old king to the elderly Adonis of sixty who succeeded him.
Leaning on the arm of a nobleman who, if tradition is to be believed, had been one of her early admirers. Lady Montague made her way to the crush room, where the tired audience huddled together till their carriages were called, fully believing that her nieces were following. Alas! it was not so. Looking around, she perceived their absence, and, although not greatly alarmed, commenced a series of inquiries amongst her acquaintances.
At this instant a gentleman, quietly but irreproachably dressed, approached her.
‘Be under no alarm, Lady Montague,’ he said. ‘Lady Kate and her cousin are perfectly safe. Sir George Meredith is escorting them.’
The speaker was no other than Roland Brit, the son of Lady Allworth’s agent and solicitor. He had, in a theatrical phrase, got himself up exceedingly well for the occasion. It was a deep-laid plot. Who could have suspected such duplicity?
His dupe, greatly relieved, bowed graciously.
‘Who is that gentleman?’ she inquired of her companion.
‘Which?’
‘The one who spoke to me just now.’
By this time Brit, junior, having played his part, had prudently withdrawn amongst the crowd.
‘Can’t say,’ replied her ladyship’s escort, ‘Seen his face somewhere — not in my set. How terribly warm! Must end in a storm.’
His lordship was right. The rain already had commenced falling— splash ! splash! — the large round drops hissing as they reached the hot pavement.
An instant later the voice of one of the Bow-street officers announced Lady Montague’s carriage.
‘I am really too fatigued to return to Belmont to-night,’ observed its owner, as she sank upon its cushioned seat. Run and tell the bargemen to put op at Searle’s. And you, Willis,’ this was to the second footman, ‘remain to assist Sir George and my nieces.’
These orders were punctually obeyed, and a few minutes later the speaker found herself comfortably seated in her own luxuriously furnished boudoir at Montague House, where we most leave her for a while and hasten back to the opera.
Say what foreigners will, Englishmen are naturally gallant. They may not excel in compliments — in fact, they are rather awkward at them; but in right-down manly gallantry, readiness to assist the weaker sex in any little embarrassment, they are not to he surpassed. Frenchmen are just as willing, no doubt, but, then, they would expect a pretty speech or glance of admiration is return. The bow or simple smile of acknowledgment which is all an Englishman expects, would scarcely satisfy them.
In the really arduous attempt to make their way to the crush room, the half-terrified cousins received the benefit of this characteristic of their fellow-countrymen. The young ones hastily made way for the two high-bred, beautiful girls, who had evidently lost their chaperon, Even the ladies under their charge— usually so tenacious of their privilege — smiled approval. The ‘If you please,’ ‘Pray let us pass,’ so plaintively uttered, acted like a charm.
By great good fortune — they never clearly comprehended how it was done — Clara and Lady Kate not only succeeded in reaching the crush room, but penetrated as far as the grand vestibule of the opera house, where, to their great delight, they discovered Susan and the old footman, Willis. The grateful, affectionate girl, foreseeing the terrible storm about to break over the metropolis, had returned with the barge when she quitted Belmont a second time, to bring back Lady Montague and her nieces. She brought veils, cloaks, and all kinds of feminine wraps to guard her young ladies against the driving rain, and with nimble fingers proceeded to wrap them in them.
Again the cry of ‘Lady Montague’s carriage stops the way,’ was shouted out. Willis hurried his young ladies into it, Susan followed, and in a few minutes they were driving rapidly down Parliament-street, then newly lighted with gas.
Our readers will please recollect that the aunt of the two unsuspicious victims of this diabolical plot, when she decided on remaining in London for the night, had directed one of the footmen to hasten to Westminster Stairs, with orders to the rowers to put up at Searle’s. The prospect of a row of ten or twelve miles in such a storm was not particularly enticing, and the men obeyed with alacrity. Unstrapping their oars, which they left upon the benches facing the door of the cabin, they hastened to more comfortable quarters, leaving the barge moored to the bank of the river.
As the rowers disappeared over the bridge an equal number of men, wearing the same livery, emerged from under one of the dry arches, where they had been patiently watching, and silently taking the vacant seats, awaited the arrival of the expected victims.
They came at last. The old footman carefully conducted the cousins and Susan to the cabin, and closed the door, taking his seat on the outside near to it.
Every detail of the diabolical scheme had been studied by its clever contriver, even to the plank they had to walk across to reach the boat.
The first thing that struck Clara and Lady Kate was the form of their venerable relative sleeping, as they thought, upon one of the sofas, the rich velvet mantle she always wore on quitting the heated opera or the ball-room thrown carelessly over her.
By this time the barge was fairly afloat in the centre of the stream, and rapidly approaching London Bridge, beneath whose arches the current, swollen by the rain, flowed with unusual swiftness.
‘Poor dear!’ observed Clara Meredith, regarding the recumbent figure. ‘She must be terribly fatigued. I almost wonder she can sleep, so fearful as she is of lightning. There was a flash! It almost blinded me. Fortunately the shutters are nearly all of them closed.’
‘Fortunately, indeed,’ answered Kate. ‘Thank Heaven, we shall soon be at Belmont. The tide is in our favour. I am not so much frightened as I appear to be, although I never but once witnessed a storm like this.’
The still unsuspecting girl alluded to the memorable night at the Red Barn at Deerhurst, and an involuntary shudder thrilled through her frame as she recollected it.
‘There again!’ half-shrieked the speaker, as a still louder peal startled the inmates of the cabin. ‘I wonder aunt did not decide on remaining for the night in town — and such a night as it is, too.’
Once, and once only, did a possibility of rescue present itself. Just below Rotherhite the barge passed a large boat manned by the Thames police. A cry might have brought assistance, but it was not uttered, for no one suspected any danger. The disguised rowers perceived it; they recognised the police boat by the lantern at the bow, and instantly commenced singing a boisterous rude chorus, peculiar to the inhabitants of the Bittern’s Marsh, in order to drown any alarm that might be given.
Susan listened to it in astonishment. She had heard it more than once as the half-drunken smugglers staggered along the straggling streets at Deerhurst. She could not comprehend it. An instant’s reflection, however, convinced her that something must be wrong, and opening the door of the cabin, she called loudly for Willis.
‘Ladies,’ said the old man, who looked as if he had been startled from sleep, ‘I can’t make it out. We must have passed Belmont. The servants are either drunk or crazy.’
‘See what it is,’ said Clara Meredith. ‘Tell them they will disturb my aunt. Insist on their keeping silence. This conduct is intolerable.’
As the faithful domestic disappeared, the supposed sleeper began to stir, and something very like a chuckle was heard from beneath the velvet mantle.
The two cousins stood riveted with surprise.
Suddenly loud cries for assistance, mingled with oaths, curses, and a shuffling of feet upon the deck overhead. Susan, who had followed Willis to the door of the cabin, staggered back.
‘They are murdering him! They are murdering the old man!’ she exclaimed.
A pause of fearful suspense ensued, broken at last by the splash, as of a body falling into the water; then a second pause, and again the barge resumed its way.
Kate rushed towards the sofa, calling upon her aunt to assume her authority to quell the disturbance. Snatching aside the mantle, she recognised, not the features of her venerable relative, but those of the ruffian who years before had tried to drag her into the swamp. No wonder the girl stood spell-bound with disgust and horror. Not for an instant did she indulge the hope of a mistake, but knew him instantly as he drew himself up, and sat leering insolently upon her.
There are countenances both of love and hate, which, once seen, remain photographed upon the heart and brain forever.
The tramp Pike’s was one of them.
Clara Meredith, fully awake at last to the peril of herself and her cousin, began to utter loud shrieks, in which the equally terrified Susan joined her.
‘Stash it,’ said the tramp. ‘Yer aint got no young feller — Bunce I think he calls hisself — to stand up for yer now; nor any farmer boys. It’s no use a skreeching. I ha’ caught yer again, and don’t mean to let yer go.’
The terrified girl clung to the side of her cousin, who scarcely yet realized the full horror of their position. Clara Meredith considered, as far as she felt capable of considering, the circumstance that the outrage was aimed at Kate alone. A thought of Burcham never struck her. Being naturally of a firm spirit, she somewhat recovered her self-possession.
‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ she demanded. ‘To extort money? or have you been set on by wretches viler than yourself? Are you such a fool as to imagine that two ladies of our rank and fortune can be carried off with impunity? If we are helpless,’ she added, ‘our relatives are rich and powerful.’
‘Ours aint poor,’ observed Pike, with a grin.
‘Probably not,’ continued the fair girl; ‘but there is something beyond money to be considered — that is, if you are wise. My father, Sir George Meredith, has great influence with the government. Every engine will be set to work to trace our whereabouts. Reflect, then. Is it not wiser to restore us to our friends, and receive in return twice the sum your base employers have promised you?’
‘What be they?’ said the tramp. ‘Them shiny things in your ears and on your fingers? Don’t understand the vally on ’em; and, if I did, I dare not listen to you.’
‘Dare not?’ repeated Clara. ‘Why?’
‘You know of suthin’ that happened on deck.’
He alluded to the brutal murder of the faithful Willis.
The three unhappy girls crowded together as if to find protection. Susan kept murmuring to herself:
‘Oh! if Goliah were only here!’
Shortly after dawn the barge neared the Essex coast, and despite their faint attempts at resistance, the well-paid ruffians landed their prisoners, and a rough conveyance took them to the martello tower prepared for their reception months beforehand.
We need not tell our readers they were in the Bitterns’ Marsh.
occasional clubbing …: Wasn’t able to track down this expression. Might it mean unacceptable insouciance or talkativeness of soldiers on review?
Sardanapalus: Ctesias’ portrayal of the decadent last king of Assyria (actually Ashur-uballit II [612–605 BC]), who “spends his life in self-indulgence and dies in an orgy of destruction” (Wikipedia). Another cruel jibe at the regent.
Catalini / Catalani: Almost always the latter, with occasional exceptions.
* Catalani’s farewell: According to Grove, Catalani departed the London theatre at the end of the 1811 season (though the Wikisource extract from Grove has 1813) . She returned to London for a while in 1824 to perform for a few nights without a regular engagement; however, this was post-Regency (1811 – 1820), so the regent could not have bowed to her qua regent. Therefore, for working purposes we can assume that the action occurs in 1811/1813.
Pasta, Grisi, Malibran: Giuditta Angiola Maria Costanza Pasta (1797 – 1865), Italian soprano, has been compared to Callas; Carlotta Grisi (1819 – 99), Italian ballet dancer; Maria Felicia Malibran (1808 – 36), famous Spanish opera star, legendary after her death at 28 years.
Grove, George, ed. Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1900), Vol 1. Available at Internet Archive. Jump to page.
‘Review of The Music of Nature; or an Attempt to prove that what is passionate and pleasing in the art of Singing, Speaking, and Performing upon Musical Instruments, is derived from the Sounds of the Animated World; with Curious and Interesting Illustrations’, by William Gardner (Boston 1837)’. N.A., The New Monthly Magazine and Journal, Vol. 12, no. 60, Dec. 1823 (London). Available on Google Play. Jump to journal.
Ganzi, Kurt. Victorian Vocalists (London: Routledge, 2018). Available Google Books. Jump to file.
Furin Chime Press™ 