Give me them good ol’ days of guns, of snakes, an’ gapin’ jaws Of wolves an’ ragin’ catamounts, with blood upon their paws; W’en six-foot heroes courted girls that they had snatched away From out a bloody bandit’s clasp, an’ tramped him into clay.
I wish we had some writers now who understand the job, Some writers who can sling themselves like ol’ Sylvanus Cobb!
Sam Walter Foss, “Uncle Seth on the Modern Novel”
Outstanding popular novelist of nineteenth century America, Sylvanus Cobb Jr (1823-87) was famous for contributions to the New York Ledger. From 1856 until his death in 1887 the Ledger published his short stories and serialised novels, adding up to 89,544 pages of manuscript. During his whole career he produced 120 novels, over 800 short stories, and over 90,000manuscript pages of short pieces for weeklies.
Sylvanus Cobb Jr.
Cobb was a scrupulous researcher, and three years’ experience as a seafarer in the United States Navy provided him with plenty of material. But in addition to his own name, he found it advantageous to employ several pseudonyms. Under “Colonel Walter B. Dunlap,” he cultivated notoriety as an adventurer and expert on the East.
“Colonel Dunlap,” wrote his publisher:
has travelled through Asia and Africa, and has had considerable experience in fighting elephants, lions, tigers, boa constrictors, cannibals and other tough customers …
At the same time that Cobb’s own novels were appearing in the Ledger, so did seventy-two of the Colonel’s “Forest Adventures” and several “Sketches of Adventure.” His publisher spruiked one of the Colonel’s serialised novels, Lorinda the Princess; or, The Sultana’s Diadem as
a new story of Eastern life, with which Colonel Dunlap is so familiar. He has travelled a great deal, and, judging from his thrilling sketches in the Ledger, he has had more adventures than almost any other living man.
The Colonel grew into such a vivid figure that the Ledger received countless inquiries about him, and one man claimed to have met him out West.
Cobb’s brilliant writing reached Australian shores in the 1880s. The False Knight appeared serialized far and wide, creating a sensation from the Nepean, through Horsham, to out beyond the black stump. It is to this medieval story of love, mystery, and adventure set in the Black Forest of Germany that we now turn in our quest for gems of penny and dime novels that would otherwise remain buried. The serial begins next week.
Context and commentary by Oliver Raven will accompany each instalment. An acute observer and entertaining writer, Oliver is expert in German history, culture and language, and has trodden among some of the very scenes and castles where the adventure takes place.
Perhaps he will be able to keep Cobb honest. I doubt it.
We arrive at last at the denouement. The term is borrowed from the French dénouement, Aristotle’s Poetics first having made its way into English via André Dacier’s 1692 French translation, Poëtique d’Aristote Traduite en François avec des Remarques. In Aristotle’s Art of Poetry (1705) Theodore Goulston translates dénouement as “unravelling“:
From Goulston (1705), remarks on Aristotle’s Eighth Chapter
Over the next few decades, the English word “unravelling” — plainly descriptive as it is — was supplanted by the alluring, intellectual-sounding French term. “Denouement” does assume a sense of specificity as a technical term, which would have been clouded in the humble “unravelling.”
Moreover, the root of the French word, nouer, “to tie” or “to knot”, from the Latin nodus, “a knot” (Merriam-Webster) implies the untying of a knot that was in the first place deliberately tied. Thus it is apropos to narrative form, in which plots become increasingly complicated in their movement, until something disturbs the “upward” momentum, and there is a turning point and descent.
As a technical term in drama, denouement is considered a synonym for the Aristotelian “catastrophe,” which is derived fromkatá, “down, against” + stréphō, “I turn” (Wiktionary) — that is, a down-turning or unwinding of the story (once it has been wound up, so to speak). This aesthetic usage is distinguished from the everyday sense of a “terrible happening”; though it’s easy to deduce its derivation from classical tragedy.
Turning now to Smith’s denouement, we can only marvel at the masterly hand with which he effects the final unravelling of Mystery of the Marsh. His engaging light touch, his wit and refinement are in evidence throughout.
As ever, social currents bubble beneath, with all the qualities of splendour, subtlety, and crassness that characterize not only Regency society, perhaps, but all the human race. Legal strategies and points of moral principle are teased out and resolved. Character nuances are polished to a tasteful finish (note Bury’s absolute redemption from his conditioned class prejudice). The i’s are dotted and t’s elegantly crossed.
On the entrance of the villains, we feel we have to stop ourselves from hissing out loud. Just deserts are meted out in fine measure. Loose threads are tied, the abject truth and consequence of corrupt relationships revealed.
Vaguely remembered sub-plots are recalled. “Bet you’d forgotten about that one …” Smith seems to say with a chuckle at your expense — “Well, I hadn’t!” And his fine touch with the technique of reader-address, with which the reader has become quite familiar, seems now at once quaint and profound, evidencing an awareness of an intimate fellowship. He won’t tell a secret straight out, but “we suspect our readers have a shrewd guess at it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
An Unexpected Surprise, Followed by a Monster Law Suit — Conclusion — The Running Down of the Clock — Its Last Tick
The next morning the fashionable portion of London was greatly agitated by the various reports which appeared in the morning papers. Scarcely one gave a correct version of the affair. The names of the fair cousins were no longer masked by initials — transparent to all who recollected the previous reports — but were printed at full length.
Lady Montague had a fit of the horrors. Lord Bury looked serious, and Sir George Meredith felt so indignant at the outrage offered to his child that he threatened to go over at once to the Liberals unless the Home Office did prompt justice to his demands. Having fully made up his mind, and satisfied as to the conclusion, he did as many hasty, well-meaning persons do on similar occasions: he sent for his lawyer to draw up his memorial.
Mr. Whiston expected the summons, and was speedily in attendance. He listened to his statements with exemplary patience, as he did to all his clients when they were angry, and then pronounced emphatically against the step.
‘You must apply to the chancellor,’ he said.
‘For once you are wrong,’ exclaimed the baronet. ‘Clara is not a ward in chancery.’
‘But Lady Kate is,’ observed the man of law. ‘The cases are the same; both lie in a nutshell; you cannot separate them.’
‘Still I do not see how his lordship’s power hears upon the point.’
The lawyer gave him a pitying smile.
‘His power bears upon every point that comes before his court,’ he said; ‘practically it is illimitable — has never been defined. What he cannot do I have not the slightest idea; but I will tell you what he will do — issue an order to the Home Office to dispatch a body of well-armed officers to the Bittern’s Marsh, with powers to arrest every living actor in the outrage they may discover, and bring back the bodies of the dead ones.’
‘Why, then there will be an inquest!’
‘I trust so.’
‘Trust so?’ repeated Sir George. ‘Would you kill my child?’
Mr. Whiston appeared slightly moved.
‘I am not a father,’ he observed; ‘but I can feel for your embarrassment. Would you have the reputation of two pure, innocent girls exposed to the sneers of slander — the covert doubts, the half-veiled suspicion, whose stings are worse than death? No; their purity must be established by the light of judicial inquiry; by legal evidence, without a flaw for malice to hang a rumor on. It will be a hard trial for them; but it must be endured. I see no other way.’
Sir George Meredith paced the room for some time in silence. Much as he disliked publicity, his better judgment at last prevailed.
‘You are right,’ he said; ‘a hundred times right. I must prepare my daughter for the ordeal; but who shall prepare my niece?’
The lawyer smiled.
‘Girls,’ he observed, ‘are stronger than we deem. Their own virtue and the dawning prospect of future happiness will sustain them. Leave the rest to me. I will instantly prepare a memorial to his lordship, and feel no doubt as to the result.’
On his return home, whilst still relating the conversation to his nephew, Lord Bury was announced. Without noticing the lawyer, the young nobleman walked directly up to our hero and extended his hand. It was the first time he had ever done so.
‘Mr. William Whiston,’ he said, ‘I have heard of the noble sacrifice you have made to affection and true manhood. I, for one, am prepared to welcome most cordially your alliance with my cousin. At the request of my aunt, I add that she will be most happy to receive you at Montague House as the acknowledged suitor of her niece.’
Our hero grasped the hand extended to him most cordially.
‘My dear lord —’ he said.
‘Had we not better call each other by our Christian names now, since we are likely to become so nearly related? Let it be henceforth William and Egbert between us.’
‘If you really wish it.’
‘I do wish it,’ replied the visitor, energetically. ‘The last few weeks have taught me more than one lesson — that man’s true nobility is in himself, not in the accident of birth. My greatest desire is to prove worthy of your esteem.’
On that day the speaker made two fast friends — the nephew and his uncle. The latter proved a most important one. He divined, if he did not exactly know, the exact position his father’s conduct had placed him in, and mentally resolved to exert all his skill and experience to extricate him.
The legal step turned out exactly as Lawyer Whiston predicted. The chancellor issued his rescript to the Home Office, and in three days the officers returned, not with any living prisoners, but the bodies of Clarence Marsham and Burcham.
On the morning of the inquest the coroner’s court appeared unusually crowded. Fabulous sums were offered for seats long after there ceased to be standing room. Public curiosity was on the alert, and peeresses and ladies of fashion hastened to the scene as to the opera or some other exciting spectacle.
Expectation was at its height, when Lady Montague, looking wonderfully calm and collected, entered the courtroom, with Clara and Kate, and all three took their seats upon the bench reserved for them. The jury, having already been empaneled, had viewed the bodies in a room apart.
An array of men eminent at the bar appeared on both sides. The arch-plotter had taken care of her own interests; not even the death of her son could blind her to them.
We have neither time nor space to give the examinations of the witnesses. Lawyer Whiston had prepared the evidence on his side — the letters of Lady Allworth were read, which covered her with infamy, and every point in the part of the dark transaction she had planned was most clearly proved. The narrative of the two cousins, which was clearly although faintly given, began to excite a deep sympathy; but when Susan, in her artless, simple way, related the death of the old domestic, the frantic entreaties of Kate to her cousin to kill her rather than suffer her to be forced into a marriage she abhorred, the feeling became positive enthusiasm. The jury declared they were ready to give their verdict. This, however, the counsel Lawyer Whiston had employed, acting under his instructions, by no means would permit; they insisted that every witness should be heard. Bunce, Willie, and Goliah gave their testimony, described the siege, the ruse by which the conspirators had been defeated, down to the arrival of Sir George Meredith and Lord Bury. Lastly the correspondence of Viscountess Allworth with the schoolmaster was read. The opposing barristers threw up their briefs in disgust, and the last fangs of the serpent, slander, on which her ladyship relied, were effectually drawn. Then, and then only, was the verdict of justifiable homicide received. Hosts of friends thronged around the cruelly persecuted girls to congratulate them on their escape.
Then, and then only, was the wisdom of the old lawyer’s advice fully understood.
When fashionable society in England does take a fit of virtuous indignation it generally proves an exceedingly strong one. The following day the elite of London called to inscribe their names in the visiting book at Montague House, whilst not one single note of condolence was left at that of the woman who had lost her son, whose name was already stamped with the indelible brand of infamy. Still, the arch plotter bore a bold front. When her husband, disgusted at the exposure — not on account of its immorality, but failure — hinted at the propriety of retiring to the country, she haughtily refused.
Title and fortune still remained to her. She could still defy the world.
In the midst of the dispute, a letter from her lawyer, Brit, was brought to her. As she read it her cheek became pale for an instant, not longer, and then her courage returned.
‘You must accompany me,’ she said. Our agent, Blackmore, has been arrested in London, and will be examined before noon at the police office.’
‘Our agent?’ repeated his lordship.
‘Well, my agent, and your tenant, if you prefer the distinction. The old idiot has been caught, wandering amongst the old book-stalls near Drury Lane. I thought he had escaped.’
The viscount began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. He remembered the lease of the Bittern’s Marsh.
‘You must bail him,’ added his wife.
This proved a little too much even for his lordship’s philosophy to bear.
‘Absurd!’ he ejaculated.
‘I tell you that you must,’ continued the lady. ‘My reputation is at stake.’
‘Bah! It is lost already.’
‘And your life!’ This rather startled her hearer.
‘Think you I am such a weak fool as to have trusted you without precaution?’ continued the speaker. ‘Your forgeries upon your son are in my hands. I deposited them in the Bank of England. Bury was quite willing enough to pay them, but I refused to accept the money. He will never lay perjury upon his soul to save a father he must despise.’
‘The monster!’ ejaculated the now thoroughly terrified man.
Whether he meant his wife or his son we cannot undertake to decide.
‘You know me at last,’ said her ladyship, coolly. ‘Take your choice.’
‘Certainly, my love,’ was the submissive reply. ‘I am quite willing to go with you.’
‘The degradation proved unavailing. On their arrival at the police office the formal gentleman in black was there before them. When bail was offered he objected to bail, produced the chancellor’s warrant committing the prisoner for contempt of court, and bore him triumphantly off to the King’s Bench Prison, There we must leave him for a while.
During the day Bury received a most piteous appeal from his parent, and rushed with it to the office of Mr. Whiston, who read it carefully, smiling as he did so.
‘Is it possible that you can find a source of mirth in my distress?’
‘Not so, my dear lord,’ answered the lawyer, kindly. ‘If I smiled, it was because I begin to see my way out of this sad difficulty.’
‘Is it possible? How?’
‘That is my secret. Lady Allworth is playing a very close game, but I think I hold the winning card in my hand. In five days the forgeries shall be in your hands.’
‘May I believe this happiness?’
‘If I live, yes. Nothing but death can cancel my promise. Now leave me. I have the work of twenty younger men to do.’
The old man did not miscalculate his task.
As a matter of observation, one enormous scandal is generally succeeded by another equally notorious. Society was again startled by the report that a suit had been commenced by a certain person styling himself Charles Marsham, against Lady Allworth, for the recovery of the estates bequeathed to her by her first husband, and that the chancellor had placed a distringas upon all the property. The rumour proved to be correct; but what struck those watching the affair was the singular fact that, although the most eminent council had been employed by the plaintiff, his solicitor was an obscure but rising young man, who had never been previously engaged on any important case. Curiosity, especially among the legal profession, was greatly excited. More than once Mr. Whiston was questioned by his friends and acquaintances in the law, but he professed the most profound ignorance of the affair — professional ignorance of course. Outsiders, as well as lawyers, understand what that means.
Trembling at the possibility of losing her ill-acquired wealth, of which she had made so vile a use, her ladyship rushed to consult her advisers, Brit and Son, who received her rather coolly. They could do nothing, they declared, without money, the account against their client being already so much larger than they could afford to lose.
‘Why, you do not believe in this absurd claim?’
The elder Brit replied that the absurdity had very little to do with it, and the law was painfully uncertain. The firm had met with losses lately.
His son re-echoed the opinion.
‘After all the money you have made of me?’
The gentlemen smiled. Hitherto they had looked upon their client as a shrewd woman. The simplicity of the remark surprised them.
Still they adhered to their resolution. The junior partner suggested an appeal to her husband.
Her ladyship shook her head. He was almost as much pushed for money as herself.
‘Your ladyship still holds the securities lodged in the bank,’ observed the senior partner, ‘and the money is there to redeem them. With twenty thousand pounds it would be easy to defeat this conspiracy.’
‘You believe it one, then ?’
‘No doubt of it,’ replied the firm.
‘And you could see the treacherous old hypocrite, Blackmore?’
‘Money will do anything.’
The love of greed prevailed over the thirst for revenge, and the guilty woman finally consented to follow their advice. The money was recovered, the notes stamped as paid, and, an hour afterwards delivered to Lawyer Whiston, who claimed them as Lord Bury’s agent, to whose irrepressible satisfaction that same day they were destroyed.
Sundown, Laura Knight
As soon as the cousins were sufficiently recovered to bear the journey the united family left London for Sir George Meredith’s seat in the eastern counties, near Chellston, soon to become the property, we suspect, of Lord Bury, who, with our hero, accompanied them. The party would have still been larger, but Lawyer Whiston declared it impossible for himself, Bunce, and Old Nance to quit town. They did not ask his reasons. Already they had divined a part of his secret, and we suspect our readers have a shrewd guess at it.
As for the Sawter boys and their mother, they were already provided for.
‘Fear not,’ added the old, man; ‘we shall be in time.’
‘In time for what?’ innocently demanded Kate.
An arch look from the uncle of Willie brought a blush into her cheek. She asked no further questions.
We are not going to inflict upon our readers a technical account of the great trial, which soon afterwards took place, but merely relate a few of the incidents.
Lady Allworth, a former pupil of Theophilus Blackmore, had created interest with her instructor by her intelligence and aptitude. By his influence she obtained a situation in the family of Mr. Marsham, whose wife dying shortly afterwards, first awakened her ambition. Her plans were artfully laid.
By the connivance of the Bath woman it was given out that his infant son was drowned, and universally believed. Such, however, was not the case. It was secretly conveyed to the martello tower, where the schoolmaster, reduced to poverty, had taken up his abode. His servant, Nance, nursed the boy. The mysterious way in which he had been brought there first excited her suspicions, and induced her to gather up the fragments of half-burnt letters which first excited the curiosity of the astute lawyer. The cynical confession of Theophilus Blackmore, that of the Bath woman and French maid, who were all in the plot, not only proved the identity of the boy, but established the facts which the correspondence of the viscountess, discovered in the old tower, still further confirmed.
After days of wrangling arguing by council on either side a decree was at last pronounced by which Charles Marsham — so long known as Bunce the tramp — was declared heir to his late lather’s landed estate.
Poor fellow! the change in fortune appeared to afford him but slight pleasure As he feelingly observed, when his benefactor congratulated him, he was alone in the world.
‘Not so,’ replied his friend. You have an uncle and an aunt — Walter Marsham and his sister Pen — who are anxious to claim you. It was their money that enabled me to search out the evidence and carry on the suit successfully.’
The speaker did not say how much of his own he had expended.
On learning the result of the trial Lady Allworth retired to her own room. Everything had failed — scheming, lying, and even perjury proved useless. They had left her a pauper as far as wealth was concerned. An empty title alone remained, and even that now appeared valueless.
‘The way of transgressors is hard.’
The next morning she was found dead in her bed.
Thanks to obliging doctors and a complaisant jury, a verdict of apoplexy was given, and the body buried by her husband in an obscure churchyard in the city — no one to mourn her, no herald’s pomp, no stone to mark the spot, which was soon forgotten.
The brief space that remains to us must be devoted to happier themes — to self-sacrifice rewarded by faithful love, to prejudice rooted from a nature naturally good.
But ere the final act which was to crown the day-dreams of the lovers was fixed by the fair cousins the reconciliation of Tom Randal with his father was brought about. The rough old farmer, who had known but little peace since the quarrel, sought the cottage of the pretty Phœbe, made the amende honorable, and ask her to become the wife of his soldier boy. The happy girl consented, and proved no dowerless bride; the gift of the Home Farm from Clara accompanied her to the altar.
Goliah and Susan were married at the same time, and started for Deerhurst.
Here we are but slightly anticipating. A respectable peace, or rather an armed neutrality, was patched up between the widows. Mrs. Hurst, according to her husband’s will, retired to her own cottage, whilst Goliah’s mother remained in her own homestead.
Poor Goliah felt so boisterously happy that there exists a tradition even to the present day that on one occasion he was known to have kissed his mother-in-law.
When Lawyer Whiston, accompanied by Bunce — we must call him so, if only for the last time — visited Chellston, both were warmly welcomed. If Lady Kate and Clara looked a little shy, it was, as Lady Montague observed, exceedingly proper. They knew what the visit portended.
The great day dawned at last. Our hero and Lord Bury became the happy husbands of the girls they had so honestly won — the best reward mankind can claim or love bestow.
In less than a year’s time the same party were assembled at the same place. Health, sweet peace of mind, and calm content beamed on the features of all. And as they sat beneath the trees in the park many an innocent jest went round and tale of the past was related.
Bunce caught the infection of the hour, and was soon seen walking at evening shade by the side of Martha.
It proved afterwards a match.
Our task is over. The weights of the clock are run down and the final tick is heard.
THE END.
Notes and References
draw up his memorial: memorial = “A petition or representation made by one or more individuals to a legislative or other body. When such instrument is addressed to a court, it is called a petition.” thefreedictionary.com (legal section).
rescript: official edict, decree or announcement.
distringas: a writ commanding the sheriff to distrain a person by that person’s goods or chattels (Merriam-Webster).
Laura Knight,Sundown (1947): Entirely out of period, but looking towards the future.
Goulston, Theodore. (1705). Aristotle’s Art of Poetry (London: Browne and Turner). Available at Internet Archive. Jump to document.
Did anyone notice, ages ago, the noble Bunce occasionally nip over to Hearst’s farm at Deerhurst to court the farmer’s pretty daughter Susan — even trying to steal a kiss one time — before coming onside and making himself useful as an occasional lookout for her and Goliah while they canoodled in Mrs Hearst’s garden? This was the kiss Susan rewarded him with when he revealed his true identity in the martello tower last instalment (Ch. 29.1).
Bunce disappears from the reader’s view after rescuing the two girls in the red barn (Chs 2 and 3), and Susan doesn’t mention him until the scene in which Willie and Goliah have to appear in court, accused of stealing the mare (Chs 6 and 7). Bunce’s must certainly have been that “sure hand” to which Susan entrusted a letter to Lawyer Whiston, who consequently arrived in time to save the day for the two young men.
This is the letter to which Lawyer Whiston refers in Chapter 7, complimenting the presence of mind and courage Susan displayed sending it to him via a certain “ragged messenger” — Bunce. Thanks to his meeting with Bunce, the lawyer recognizes his quality, takes him under his wing, and sends him on his surveillance mission to Dinant and Bitterns’ Marsh. (Muddying the waters, Susan writes a further letter to William in London, warning him that Benoni has gone there as well, intending, she believes, some treachery or other. This one she hands to Goliah to deliver, during the wedding at Deerhurst in Chapter 12.)
My point is that none of Bunce’s acts in the interest of Susan’s affairs — and indeed out of an interest in Susan herself — are unfolded ‘onstage’, but rather, in a narrative shadow or blind-spot, only to be explained at the crucial instant in Chapter 29. I wonder whether the reader may have a right to feel to some extent gypped by such tricks of authorial deception? Others may, to the contrary, find themselves quite enjoying Smith’s chicanery and unconventional plotting. The counterfeit Smith/Bunce’s declared attraction to Susan, via faintly lascivious double entendres, makes complete sense as a form of “reverse foreshadowing” that points us back to those shady events — to an entire rivalry between Bunce and Goliah for Susan’s affections that never actually happened in the text!
A further theme, bubbling beneath the surface, becomes explicit in this chapter and warrants some context in our digital age. Who would have picked Smith as a condoner of biblioclasm? — yet we witness a flagrant, cathartic demonstration to this effect here in Chapter 30. Twice Smith’s narrator has referred to the schoolmaster, Theophilus Blackmore, this “one loved by God” (see commentary at the beginning of Chapter 21), as “the old bookworm” (Ch. 12) and “the aged bookworm” (Ch. 21). He is characterized as a bibliomaniac, an obsessive lover of precious books, but of nothing or nobody else. Life for him is “a mathematical problem, which, once solved, could have no further interest for him” (Ch. 12). Of course, he becomes an instrument in Lady Allworth’s dastardly plot to ensnare Lady Kate.
Smith’s scheme of compound binary oppositions would seem to counterpose “old Theo” (Ch. 12) against young William in the question of the moral worth of books. William’s pursuits at university are depicted as healthy and upright; indeed, as a means to reform a decadent society, the way to a better national future. On the other hand, Theo’s love for books is a love for the things-in-themselves, his opusculum on his “beloved Horace” (Ch. 19) a mere manic derivative.
Bookworms are generally considered unhealthy types: immersing themselves in books at the expense of the reality, the fresh air and roses under their very noses (in this they have been replaced by mobile phone users, perhaps). Libraries, unhealthy dark, dank and musty places, give rise to parasitic lifeforms. Not lightly did Gustave Flaubert (1821-80) define literature as the “occupation of idlers” (well, actually, it was lightly). However, the biblioclasts par excellence are surely the bookworms themselves; that is, the vehicle of the metaphorical bookworm: the bugs-in-themselves.
What of the actual creature, the bookworm; have any among us ever seen one? For centuries the organism has lurked in the dark, snugly insulated in the pages of a closed book, invisible to prying eyes. Many people have given little credit to the possibility of their real existence.
If we turn to our Aristotle, however, we will find reference to what he considered must be one of the tiniest creatures in existence, called the acarus, which is small and white. “In books,” the philosopher writes, “there are others … and they are like scorpions without a tail.” Subsequently, many books of Aristotle have been found perforated.
Acarus cheyletus, order acaridae
A hundred years earlier, in the 5th-century BC, Evenus composed an epigram:
Pest of the Muses, devourer of pages, in crannies that lurkest,
Fruits of the muses to taint, labor of learnings to spoil;
Wherefore, oh, black-fleshed worm!
Wert thou born for the evil thou workest?
Wherefore thine own foul form shapest thou, with envious toil?
(Qtd. in O’Conor)
Notice that, unlike Aristotle’s, Evenus’ mite is black. Research reveals several forms and varieties, classified and unclassified.
One day hard at work, the German doctor, botanist and sinologist Christianus Mentzelius (1622-1701) heard a loud screeching, crowing noise. Looking around, bewildered, thinking that it was a neighbour’s rooster, he noticed on his writing paper:
a little insect that ceased not to carol like very chanticleer until, taking a magnifying glass, I assiduously observed him. He is about the bigness of a mite and carries a gray crest, and the head low-bowed over the bosom; as to his crowing noise it comes of his clashing his wings against each other with an incessant din.
(Qtd. in O’Conor)
The insect is much less tedious than its human counterpart is popularly considered, and no wonder it is thought by some to be a myth. Among seven terrifying varieties researched in his Facts about Bookworms: Their History in Literature and Work in Libraries, O’Conor describes the Attagenus Pellio larva as “Long, slender, salmon-colored” and the shape of a graceful miniature whale. The Lepisma saccharina is small, brown, and cone-shaped, with “three thick tails,” and as rapid as “a flash of light.” The Dermestes lardarius is similar to a “microscopic hedgehog, bristling all over with rough black hairs.”
Lepisma saccharina
In 1665 Robert Hook, inventor of the microscope, described the first bookworm observed scientifically as “a small, white, silver shining worm or moth […] found much conversant among books and papers […] which corrodes and eats holes thro’ the leaves and covers. Its head appears big and blunt and its body tapers from it toward the tail smaller and smaller, being shaped almost like a carrot,” with three tails and two horns growing from its head; and it makes small round holes in books and covers.
In his Enemies of Books (1888), Blades discusses the Bestia audax, which was like a chamelion, in seeming to offer a different size and shape to however many observers beheld it. It was microscopic and “wriggling on the learned page,” but when discovered it instantaneously “stiffened out into the resemblance of a streak of dirt.”
As O’Conor writes:
A strange truth it is, that the same material that supplies food for the spiritual intellect of man should also supply food for one of the tiniest creatures in God’s creation.
They may be found, he asserts, in any quality or era of book, generally without respect to genre, from black-letter legal texts, through the classics, leather-bound folios of Plutarch and Dante, to Hauy’s ponderous Treatise on Mineralogy. Novels, however, are safest, being opened more frequently than scholarly tomes.
Their damage is manifold as the form of the creatures themselves:
I have five volumes of Hauy’s Mineralogy, Paris, 1801, before me now, and scarcely a page of the five volumes is intact. Very often there are deep channels cut into the book, irregular in outline, and these channels will be longer or shorter, and across the width or length of the book. Some pages will be slightly perforated; on others there will be several furrows separated by spaces untouched.
Bookworm found crushed in the Mineralogy of Hauy
Blades relates Peignot’s well-known account of a bookworm that pierced a continuous straight line through twenty-seven standing volumes. Such a prodigy, we might imagine, would be entirely at home alongside Blades’s worm of infinite chameleonic form, and the one that moves at the speed of light, in a library replete with Borges, Calvino, or even Castaneda.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Suspense — Things Not Quite so Dark as They Were, but Still Very Gloomy — Friends — A Brave Girl’s Resolution
There are few things more trying to the human nerve than the pause which precedes action — the torturing suspense which sometimes appals more than actual danger. The first feeling of the prisoners, on discovering that a friend was near them, undoubtedly was that of hope. On his departure the cold fear, the sickening despondency, returned with redoubled force, gradually creeping over them, till the interview with Bunce seemed almost a dream. Yet there were the pistols in the hands of Clara Meredith, the food he assured them they might partake of, and old Nance ready to wait upon them.
Clara was the first to recover something like self-command. She carefully examined the weapons, placed, as it were, by Providence in her grasp, and once satisfied they were charged, pressed them gratefully to her lips.
She knew that her fate was in her own hands.
‘Aye,’ said Nance, who was still in the chamber and stood watching her movements closely, ‘you may well kiss them, lady; they were the gift of as true a friend as ever a woman in her hour of peril might wish; for in parting with them my poor boy left himself defenceless.’
‘I recollect. He told us you were his nurse — his second mother — that we might trust you,’ answered Miss Meredith. ‘We can only pray for him. I will not despair,’ she added, with a flash of returning spirit. ‘God is too just, too merciful, to permit a noble heart to perish in protecting two helpless girls from misery and shame.’
‘I have no time to pray,’ observed Nance, ‘and if I had, I have almost forgotten how. My prayer must be in action. Hark! they are calling for me. You may partake of the food in perfect confidence,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I prepared it with my own hands. Again; they are getting impatient. I must descend. Heaven watch over and assist us.’
With these words she quitted the room.
Clara walked with an air of self-deliberation to the rude bench on which sat her cousin, whom terror rendered little more than a passive spectator of what had taken place, and seated herself beside her. Throwing her arms around her, she kissed her fondly, and uttered many endearing, soothing expressions.
‘Kate, darling,’ she whispered, ‘we must be firm — the crisis is at hand. I have a hope, almost a conviction, that we shall be saved. Hush, dearest—no cry of joy; the hope may fail us — the conviction prove a delusion; but, at the worst, we are armed against dishonour.’
The speaker showed the weapons so unexpectedly obtained.
‘And yet,’ she added, ‘it is hard to die so young and so beloved.’
‘No,’ exclaimed Kate, who caught the meaning of her words, ‘a thousand times No! Better death than —’
The shudder that shook her delicate frame — the look of agony in her soft blue eyes — explained what words were wanting to express.
Again her cousin kissed her.
‘You would forgive me, then?’ she whispered.
‘Forgive, and bless you,’ answered the excited girl. ‘Dear, good noble Clara! you promise me, by the sisterly love between us, our sweet companionship — the ties of blood which bind us — you will kill me? Promise me? Let not that wretch triumph over my girlish weakness. Promise me — promise me ‘ she added, imploringly, ‘or give me the weapon!’
‘I dare not trust you with it,’ answered her cousin. ‘You are too impressionable, too easily excited. At the last moment only, should I feel justified in using it. Should it arrive — which I trust and pray it never may — rest assured of this, that villain, Clarence, shall clasp no living victim.’
Kate repaid her for the promise by a fond embrace.
‘O, that Goliah were here!’ sobbed Susan. It was about the twentieth time she had, since their imprisonment, uttered the wish. ‘But it is like the men,’ she added, ‘out of the way when they are really wanted, and never in the way when they might be useful.’
Under ordinary circumstances the observation might, perhaps, have had some truth in it, but our readers are already aware, in the present instance, how little it was merited. Her faithful lover was nearer to her than she suspected.
For a considerable time the speakers remained listening, with strained attention, for any sound that indicated the approach of their oppressors. They presented a sad picture— three pale, frightened girls, upon whose haggard features the light of the lamp suspended from the ceiling streamed with a weird glare. Suddenly Susan quitted the side of her companions, and walking to the table, on which the still untasted food remained, secured a sharp-pointed knife, which she concealed beneath the folds of her dress.
‘I, too, am armed,’ she whispered to Clara Meredith, as she rejoined them.
A voice was heard below, followed by a laugh, words of congratulation, and the closing of a door. The hearts of the listeners beat violently. Bunce had returned with the clergyman and his clerk. The former proved to be a tall, thin man, swarthy almost as a Moor, dressed in a suit of professional black, wearing a wig known as a Brown George at the time, and a huge, white cravat, tied in an ostentatious bow; the latter, a powerful, broad-shouldered man in horn-rimmed spectacles. He, too, wore a wig, like his superior.
‘The Reverend Joseph Sly, and Mr. Fustian, his clerk,’ said their guide, who introduced them formally to his employers.’
Clarence and the squire shook them warmly by the hand.
‘And who are these?’ demanded the former, pointing to two young men who had followed the anxiously looked-for visitors to the tower.
‘The sons of the woman at whose house I discovered the reverend gentleman, who fancies he has been tracked through the Marsh,’ answered Bunce. ‘He insisted on their coming. I scarcely knew what to do; at last I concluded to bring them with me — not that I believe in any danger.’
‘I can answer for them,’ said Theophilus Blackmore. ‘Their father is the most staunch man engaged m the enterprise. I can always rely upon Tim Sawter.’
This, of course, proved so highly satisfactory that not only were the boys welcomed, but Bunce was commended for his prudence and forethought.
‘And where is Benoni?’ inquired the schoolmaster.
‘I left him at Sawter’s hut,’ answered the messenger, ‘ready to bring us warning if at any time strangers should be seen endeavouring to penetrate the mazes of the Bitterns’ Marsh.’
‘Got over your jealousy?’ observed the squire.
‘It was never very strong.’ said the pretended lover of the pretty Susan, laughingly. ‘I flatter myself, however, she will be glad to see me. As you observed, he is but a boy.’
The rest of the band were now called in. They numbered eleven in all, including their employers. The table had been previously spread with food and spirits in abundance; the last was rarely wanting at the repast of the smugglers.
Clarence Marsham looked at his watch.
‘Now, boys,’ he said, ‘enjoy yourselves; but mind, no excess. We have just one hour before proceeding to business. As soon as our reverend friend here has tied the knot — made myself and friend here happy husbands — all you will have to do is to escort us to the vessel in the creek. Once on board, you shall all of you receive additional proofs of my liberality.’
At this there was a general cheer.
‘Aye, aye,’ averred Bilk, ‘we can always tell a true gentleman cove.’
‘When he behaves as sich,’ added Pike. ‘I thinks we ought to drink the health of the ʼappy bridegrooms.’
‘Not bridegrooms yet,’ suggested Burcham.
‘But very soon will be,’ replied the proposer of the toast, with a knowing wink.
The health was drunk amid the clattering of glasses and cheers of the men, who called for more liquor to do honour to it a second time.
Clarence Marsham began to feel a little uneasy.
‘These fellows will soon be drunk,’ he whispered in the ear of Bunce, ‘at the rate they are going on. What is to be done?’
The former reflected for a few instants, then answered, in the same undertone:
‘Give them coffee.’
‘Will they drink it?’
‘With brandy in it,’ replied the trusted counsellor. ‘Yes, I can answer for that. The Frenchmen, who bring their goods to the north, have taught them how to brew a gloria, as they call it. They like it.’
‘Go and order it, then.’
Bunce quitted the room. Returning in a few minutes, he nodded to Clarence, to intimate that all was right, and resumed his seat beside him.
Once more the brutal revelry ran high, jests were passed, which we will not sully our pages by repeating. In this saturnalia another half hour passed. The gentlemen rascals began to feel impatient of the degrading associations. Not that their morals were offended. It was their taste.
They both rose at the same instant.
‘Keep your seats, boys,’ said Burcham; ‘the ceremony above will not detain us long. We shall soon be back.’
‘Cut it short!’ shouted one half-muddled wretch.
‘Bring the gals with you!’ suggested a second. ‘We want to get a peep at ʼem!’
As the conspirators quitted the room they encountered Nance with the coffee.
When Marsham and the squire entered the chamber of the prisoners, followed by Bunce, the clergyman and his clerk, they found Clara and Lady Kate far more composed than they expected. They saw that their protector was with them. The last few hours had given them hope, and hope is the nurse of courage as well as of life.
‘I have kept my word,’ observed Clarence, addressing his victim. ‘All that the most scrupulous delicacy can ask has been complied with. I bring an ordained clergyman of the Church of England with me to celebrate our union. Consent, I implore you. A life of devotion and tenderness shall prove the depth of my love. Your slightest wish shall be a law to me. Offer no useless resistance,’ he added; ‘our fates are irrevocably doomed to be one.
‘In the grave, perhaps,’ replied Kate, with more firmness than might have been anticipated after the agitation she had undergone; ‘but even there my corpse would shrink in horror from your side. Villain! assassin! man without manhood! never shall my lips pronounce the words that would unite us!’
The ruffian was about to advance, when the Reverend Mr. Joseph Sly placed his hand upon his arm.
‘Allow me,’ he whispered, hoarsely, ‘to reason with the lady.’
‘Be brief. I know it will be useless.’
‘As to your threats.’ exclaimed the pretended clergyman, tearing off the hideous brown wig and huge cravat that disfigured him, ‘advance one step, touch her but with a look, and I will rend your false heart from its foul hiding-place! Wretch!’ he continued, ‘your plans have been deeply laid — wealth freely spent to compass the destruction of this pure and innocent victim, not of your passion — unless interest may be termed one — but of your avarice. Fool as well as wretch! God never sleeps. The humble instruments of His justice have found you!’
Kate looked bewildered. The swarthy features of the speaker brought no recollection; but the voice did. ‘With, a cry resembling that of the scared bird torn by the fierce vulture from its nest, she threw herself upon his manly breast, and clung there as to her home — to safety.
The dastardly conspirators saw that, for the moment, their scheme was defeated. With an expression of rage they rushed to the door of the chamber, dashed madly down the stairs, calling on their accomplices below to assist them.
No sooner had they disappeared than Bunce commenced barricading the door, dragging the heavy furniture against it, the clerk — who proved to be no other than our readers old acquaintance, Goliah — the three girls, and the two Sawter lads, lending their assistance.
It was but a frail barrier. Still it afforded time.
The brave fellow who had so skilfully conducted the enterprise had still another hope. When all that human forethought could accomplish had been done, he pressed his ear to the door to listen.
‘Alas! I am unarmed,’ observed our hero, sadly.
Clara Meredith placed the pistols silently in his hands. He offered one to his companion.
‘Keep one, Willie,’ said the honest fellow. ‘I beant much used to such things, but I can hit unmarcifully hard.’
Susan, who, since the recognition of her lover, had been laughing and crying hysterically, showed him her knife.
‘Keep it,’ he repeated; ‘keep it. A kiss would do I more good nor a dozen knives.’
The favour thus modestly hinted at was complied with.
The expression of doubt, hope, fear, in the face of Bunce became intense. One moment oaths, execrations, bitter threats, fell upon his ear. Gradually a faint smile stole over his features. Addressing his companions, he said:
‘I think we are saved — for the present.’
Again he applied his ear to the door.
‘Yes, I feel certain of it. She never failed me yet. It has been a terrible risk, though.’
The voice of Nance was heard demanding admittance.
‘Has it succeeded?’ asked her foster son.
‘Perfectly,’ was the reply. And instantly he commenced to unbar the door.
‘All but the master and his employers are helpless as the infant at its mother’s breast,’ said the woman. ‘I drugged the coffee as I promised. Heaven grant I did not place too much in it. Bad as they are, I would not have their deaths upon my soul.’
‘I would,’ observed Goliah; ‘and think no more on it than killing so many rats or any other varmint.’
Cautiously the speakers made their way to the room below, ready to retreat in case of an attack, but no attack was made. The wretched hirelings lay perfectly senseless, motionless, as if the final sleep had fallen upon them. Clarence, the squire and schoolmaster had quitted the tower.
‘Their hearts still beat,’ observed Bunce, after placing his hand upon the breast of each.
‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Nance.
Goliah did not seem to feel quite so well satisfied.
‘They must be removed,’ observed the speaker; ‘in a few hours, like torpid vipers, they will recover both their venom and their strength, and we are too few to master them. The danger, alas, is not over yet. The master will cause the desperate inhabitants of the Marsh to attack the place. They will obey him. You do not know how much energy he is capable of.’
This suggestion was too prudent not to be complied with. With the exception of Pike and Bilk, the sleepers were carried out of the tower and placed close to the Druid’s Stone. The former were reserved for a different fate.
In searching the vaults for a secure place to confine them in, Bunce and Goliah discovered an old iron culverin which the government of the day had not thought it worthwhile to remove. With no inconsiderable: amount of labor they dragged it from its hiding-place, and, finally got it in position so as to command the approach from the Marsh.
The first difficulty vanquished, a second, presented itself. They had plenty of ammunition to charge it with, but not a single ball.
‘Everything seems against us,’ murmured the former.
The Bookworm (c.1850), Carl Spitzweg (1808–1885). Source: Wiki Commons
‘I don’t know that,’ said Goliah, who, since he had found the pretty Susan, appeared to be endowed with an increase of intelligence. ‘Wait you just here. I’ll find summat.’
He proved as good as his word. In a very short time the honest fellow returned laden with the heavy brass clasps which he had ruthlessly torn from the antique bindings of Theophilus Blackmore’s fondly cherished volumes — Elzevirs, Aldines, and tomes that might have been the pride of any biblomaniac. Worse than all, he had discovered the old man’s manuscript notes on Horace, the labor of a life, cherished as the apple of his eye — the opusculum which was to hand down his name to admiring posterity.
‘If these aint enough,’ he observed, as he poured out the contents of his pockets before his companion, ‘ I can get plenty more. The old fellow left a mort o’ books behind him.’
Bunce smiled. He saw that the vandalism of Goliah had been made a work of retribution.
‘There,’ said the latter, ramming the precious commentaries on Horace into the culverin, by way of wadding, ‘ I don’t think they will swallow that easy, and if they does it won’t agree with ʼem. My eyes ached to look on it.’
‘I believe,’ replied his friend, ‘they may find it difficult of digestion.’
As the last arrangement was completed our hero joined the speakers. The Sawter boys were with him.
‘Can I not assist you?’ he asked. ‘I have some strength left — would that it were equal to my will!’
‘I wish it were,’ observed Bunce; ‘But as it is not, you must be content to remain with the ladies. Leave the rougher work to us. I should feel much more confident,’ he added, ‘if I were certain the piece was in correct position.’
‘And I have not the strength to raise it,’ observed Willie, ‘or I might aid you.’
‘It be all that cussed varsity,’ muttered Gohiah. ‘What is the use of sich places?’
The culverin was drawn back to enable the pale strident to run his eye along the sight. He at once discovered that the charge must pass over the heads of their enemies if they ventured to approach. The position was soon rectified.
‘I am satisfied,’ he said, ‘it will sweep their lines like a hailstorm.’
‘And wi’ mighty hard drops, too,’ observed Goliah. ‘There be all the fixin’s of old master’s books in the gun.’
The Sawter boys, Burk and Beni, now joined them, and the five men formed the only garrison of the lone tower. Not an eye was closed. All watched. Not only their own lives, but, what was far more precious, the honour of the beings they loved was at stake.
Everything passed quietly till the first faint rays of light began to gild the horizon. Slowly and with difficulty they appeared to disperse the mist which, like a dense fog, hung over the Bittern’s Marsh.
William Whiston was the first to perceive a dark figure creeping in front of the Druid’s Stone. For an instant he thought his vision had deceived him, but soon a second one appeared, and together they stood reconnoitering the martello tower.
Noiselessly he imparted the warning to his companions.
‘They think we are sleeping,’ whispered Bunce.
‘Clarence knows better than that,’ replied our hero, in the same undertone. ‘Hate never sleeps. I read it in his eyes, and he in mine. Mark my words,’ he added, ‘the meeting will be fatal to one or both of us.’
‘Will it?’ thought Goliah. ‘Not if I can help it.’
Flaubert: In his Dictionary of Received Ideas (1911-13); compiled from notes he made in the 1870s.
chanticleer: domestic rooster.
culverin: ‘[…] a medieval cannon, adapted for use by the French as the “couleuvrine” (from couleuvre “grass snake”) in the 15th century, and later adapted for naval use by the English in the late 16th century.’ Wikipedia.
biblomaniac [sic]: bibliomaniac.
opusculum: opuscule; a minor literary or musical work.
mort: A great quantity or number. Webster.
Blades, W. (1888). The Enemies of Books, 2nd ed (London: Eliot Stock). Available free at Gutenberg.org. Jump to file.
*O’Conor, J.F.X (John Francis Xavier, 1852-1920) (1898). Facts about Bookworms: Their History in Literature and Work in Libraries (NY: Harper). Available free at Internet Archive. Jump to file.
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).
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