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Tag: Victorian popular culture

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Thirteenth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Thirteenth Instalment

    Almost a century and a half has passed since Smith launched his penny blood, so it is natural that a mere aside by the narrator can set off a question mark that repays investigation. In considering the theory of literature, the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur describes how a text moves from the world of human experience, through a state of representation and back again. In defining this mimetic process, he places significance upon the role of the reader, because “It is by way of reading that literature returns to life, that is, to the practical and affective field of existence.”

    This is the same for any poem or fiction, but the idea seems to ring particularly true in a case like this, where Smith’s novel has lain dormant in a sense, like a sunken ship. The reader feels to some degree at sea, becomes aware of a lack of particular background schema here and there, due to their separation from the author’s life-world, such as was encoded in the text.

    George “Beau” Brummell, watercolor by Richard Dighton (1805)

    So, for example, Smith characterises the son of Benoni’s new employer as dressing appropriately for his drudging work in the legal office, but after hours transforming into a clothes-horse and butterfly, in attire of which “even Beau Brummell  — the D’Orsay of the day” might have approved. These are “beaux” or “dandies,” men extravagantly attentive to dress and fashion, a determining trait to which further characteristics tend to adhere, until the individual assumes proportions of influence, grandeur and, inevitably, caricature. Smith lends the moral taint of the dandy to Roland Brit, to contrast the upstanding firm into which William Whiston is to pass. The narrator’s digression into the meaning of Goliah Gob’s pet word “frimicating” echoes the theme.

    The “fop” is the historical predecessor to both, and epitomizes a perceived risible and foolish aspect of an excessive devotion to livery; originally and for some centuries, the word meant any kind of fool at all. Though the pejorative sense may adhere in one way or another, the beau and dandy can become a figure of influence, occupying the highest echelons — consider the dandy George IV, Prince of Wales and Prince Regent, far from the least.

    It was thanks to having attracted the attention of the prince that George ‘Beau’ Brummell rose to prominence, setting fashions, holding society in thrall as he strutted among the upper crust, about the salons, parks, clubs and gambling rooms. Some facility with wit is prerequisite to maintaining the position, in order to command fear. When someone offered Brummell a lift to Lady Jersey’s ball, he declined with

     But pray, how are you to go? You surely would not like to get up behind; no that would not be right, and yet it will scarcely do for me to be seen in the same carriage with you.

    Wharton and Wharton

    Fittingly, the Beau’s decline into misery was initiated by an ill-measured remark he made when dining with the Prince Regent and feeling like some more wine: “Wales, ring the bell!” The prince rang, but said to the servant who answered, “Order Mr. Brummell’s carriage.”

    The French amateur painter Alfred Count D’Orsay cannot strictly speaking be claimed to have inherited Brummell’s “descending mantle,” Grace and Philip Wharton consider (Wits and Beaux of Society, 1890) “for he had other and higher tastes than mere dress“. So perhaps that is a fine point of differentiation between beau and dandy.

    Alfred, Count D’Orsay, by Sir George Hayter (1839)

    With his winning tongue, his daring and skill at arms, the irresistably handsome lady-killer, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, witty, pretty good rider to hounds, irreproachably gotten-up, debonair Count D’Orsay shone in  the Park and dining room. Together with the ultra-glamorous Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington — his mother-in-law and recognised lover — the two ruled from her brilliant London salon, which attracted the likes of Disraeli, Dickens and Hans Christian Anderson. Even Lord Byron, whom the pair befriended, admired  D’Orsay’s writing.

    His imitators were so avid and so numerous that an antagonist was once dissuaded from issuing him a challenge to a duel when it was pointed out that if D’Orsay fought him, everyone else would be wanting to do likewise. D’Orsay commented:

    It’s lucky I’m a Frenchman and don’t suffer from the dumps. If I cut my throat, tomorrow there’d be three hundred suicides in London, and for a time at any rate the race of dandies would disappear.

    Shore

    In his heyday, tailors paid him to wear their creations, and even inserted banknotes into the pockets. On one occasion when the custom was overlooked, D’Orsay had his valet return the garment with his complaint that ‘the lining of the pockets had been forgotten’.

    D’Orsay like Brummell underwent an ignominious descent, fleeing London from creditors, whom to pay was beneath his dignity, to die bankrupt and broken in Paris a few years later.

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    Goliah Gob Arrives Safely in London — Visits to our Hero — The Letter — Benoni Enters the Office of Brit and Son — Whose Practice is in a Different Line from Richard Winston’s

    Lawyer Whiston had gone to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Bunce was now regularly employed, at a fair salary, as one of the regular clerks, Up to the present date the conduct of the poor tramp had proved exemplary. He not only wrote a good band, but showed himself quick and intelligent, but, what was better still, grateful. He had a fulcrum at last. His employer felt some thing more than satisfied with him.

    Law clerks in England are divided into two classes — articled and unarticled. The first are expected to become full-fledged attorneys in something less than three years, and must posses considerable means, for the process of hatching them is an expensive one. The stamp on their articles costs one hundred pounds; next, the premium to the firm, frequently amounting to a much larger sum. A few of the less fortunate scribes contrive to get admitted by hard work, attending closely to the interests of their employers, who, after years of service, make them a present of their indentures; rarely, however, before they have earned them. We have observed it as rather a singular fact, that men so admitted rarely rise to any great eminence in their profession; probably because the opportunity arrives too late. Whatever the motives of his generosity — and gratitude, we suspect, was not the only one — Richard Whiston, after a few weeks’ trial of his capabilities and conduct, gave Bunce his articles and paid all the expenses, taking his acknowledgement for the same. He also allowed him a moderate salary.

    Even his nephew felt surprised at this liberality, but he felt no jealousy; on the contrary, he rejoiced in the good, fortune of the friendless adventurer.

    ‘I suppose, nephew,’ observed the lawyer, as they sat conversing over the breakfast table, ‘you are somewhat puzzled by my conduct to your friend, Bunce.’

    ‘Exceedingly, sir,’ replied the youth; ‘but not more puzzled than glad. He will prove himself worthy of it.’

    ‘I hope so.’

    ‘And I feel certain of it.’

    ‘It is a speculation,’ observed his relative, thoughtfully. ‘I wish to attach him to me, and to know where to place my hand upon him at any moment.’

    ‘A speculation!’ replied our hero, more and more mystified.

    ‘Yes; but not a moneyed one. And now let us speak of your prospects. I have changed my mind respecting you — that is, if you agree to my proposal. Instead of giving you a stool in my office, I wish you to go to college. You possess fair abilities, and if I have read you rightly, are not without ambition. You shall have the chance I threw away.’

    ‘My dear, kind uncle!’ exclaimed William. ‘Could I have made a choice, it is the very one I would have selected; but the expense — the –‘

    ‘You need not trouble your head about that,’ interrupted Richard Whiston, with a smile. ‘Of course,’ he prudently added, ‘I shall expect you to make it as light as possible. You may. attain a scholarship.’

    ‘I will do my best,’ observed the nephew.

    ‘Not for the money value, but for the distinction,’ added the old gentleman. ‘The fact is I felt so confident you would accede to my views that I have already entered your name on the books of St. John’s College, Cambridge. No thanks; your conduct will be the best acknowledgement you can make me. I trust to that.’

    ‘And it shall not disappoint you,’ thought William Whiston, as the speaker left to go to his office. ‘Kind, generous man! I should be a wretch indeed to prove unworthy of his bounty.’

    Our hero was reflecting on the above conversation, and the unexpected change in his prospects when his friend, Goliah, came bouncing into the room. There was a red spot on his brow, and the youth saw that something had occurred to make him angry.

    ‘Dear old fellow!’ he exclaimed, shaking him warmly by the hand. ‘I was just wishing for some one to congratulate me. I feel so happy to see you.’

    ‘I believe that,’ answered the rustic, ‘for I knowed Lonnon could, not change ’ee; but that old fellow in the hall, when I told him I was come to see thee, said he would inquire if ’ee wor at ome, and threatened to ’noance me. Gorry, I would ha loiked to see ’m try it.’

    Our hero could scarcely repress a smile.

    ‘What be thee a grinning at?’ demanded Goliah.

    ‘Only at a slight mistake. Nothing of any consequence,’ replied his friend; ‘The footman meant to be civil. Of course, he knew that I would see you. By announcing you, he merely intended to say that he would let me know you were here. London ways,’ he added, ‘are not like our simple, homely ways in the country. So you must forgive him.’

    ‘No more they be, the frimicating fools.’

    “Frimicating” is an expressive word, and ought to be admitted into our best dictionaries. It means conceited, artificial. In the eastern counties of England it is in general use.

    After delivering his load of hay, Goliah had rushed off to Soho Square without waiting for breakfast. Of course he had to refresh the inner man. While doing so, William had ample time to read his cousin’s letter.

    ‘Kind, affectionate girl!’ he said as his visitor, whose appetite was satisfied at last, dropped his knife and fork by the side of his plate; ‘but I think she alarms herself unnecessarily. Benoni can do me no injury. Besides, why should he?’

    ‘Can’t tell; sartin he be no friend. I wish thee had seen the look he gave thee when thee turned thee back on him at Deerhurst.’

    ‘As to her mother’s meeting him at the back of the orchard, it must have been for the love of gossip.’

    ‘Aye! aye!’ observed Goliah. ‘Peggy Hurst be mortal curious, for sure. Still I beant quite satisfied in my mind. London be a queer sort of a place.’

    ‘There is no Bittern’s Marsh in it,’ remarked William.

    ‘Maybe there are worse things,’ replied his friend. ‘Come home wi’ me,’ he added, coaxingly; ‘thee needn’t go to thee uncle’s. Mother and I ha’ talked it all over. There be a hearty welcome for thee at the farm. Do come, Willie. It beant home without thee.’

    ‘Dear, true friend,’ said the youth, affected not only by the generous offer, but the touching simplicity of the words in which it was made. ‘I feel all your kindness, but let us talk the matter over calmly. I am not to remain in London.’

    ‘The Lord be praised for that!’ ejaculated his hearer. ‘I am going to Cambridge,’ continued the youth. ‘My uncle wishes it, and I most ardently desire it.’

    ‘And what be thee a goin’ there for?’

    ‘To complete my education.’

    ‘Edication!’ repeated the rustic. ‘Why, thee do know twice, or, for the matter of that, three times as much as I do. Thee wor allays first in school.’

    The speaker could not be accused justly of exaggerating his friend’s attainments.

    ‘You must not flatter me, Goliah,’ said his friend, with a slight touch of humour.

    ‘No. I won’t, Willie, I won’t.’

    ‘I cannot go against my uncle’s and my own interests. That would be folly as well as ingratitude.’

    ‘Are thee to be a parson, then?’

    ‘No. A barrister.’

    Had the speaker declared his intention of changing himself into a hippopotamus it would have conveyed the same amount of information to his rustic friend, who observed that anything was better than being a lawyer.

    The speakers passed the greater part of the day together. William bought a very pretty ring for his cousin, in answer to her letter, and quite won the heart of his companion, by encouraging him in his courtship of Susan.

    ‘You must speak boldly,’ he observed; — there was little fear of her admirer overdoing it. ‘You can’t expect a modest, sensible girl should throw herself into your arms unasked.’

    ‘Gorry! wouldn’t I catch her!’ ejaculated the rustic.

    To crown his satisfaction, William Whiston rode all the way through the city in Goliah’s waggon, and only parted from him when he had seen him safely on the high road to Deerhurst; and on that same evening Benoni arrived in London.

    The offices of Brit and Son, to whom, to use a mercantile phrase, he had been consigned, were situated in the Old Jury nearly two miles distant from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, so that for the present there appeared but little chance of the former friends meeting. Neither of them wished it.

    Our hero, because, it would recall painful recollections of former intimacy, and feelings which, reason as we may, will exert an influence over us; Benoni, from that lingering sense of shame which shows the heart not to be all corrupt.

    The Old Jury is a very different locality from the place where Richard Whiston’s offices were situated. It is a dull, gloomy street, almost in the heart of London, where every foot of ground is, figuratively speaking, worth its weight in gold; in other words, rents are enormously high, and the gains of those who occupy the offices or houses proportionately large to enable the tenant to pay them.

    The practice of Brit and Son was in some respects a peculiar one. They were solicitors to several religious societies, and treasurers to more than one wealthy charity. Criminal suits they rarely undertook, unless in the interests of their clients. The world considered them highly respectable, and so they were as far as outward appearances were concerned. What they really were will be seen as our tale progresses.

    Joshua Brit dressed to his reputation; in fact dress was a part of it; — a plain suit of black, cambric ruffles, white cravat, no collar, and powdered hair, which somewhat toned down the restless activity of his small dark eyes. His son copied his father pretty closely,  allowing for the difference in their age — copied him in the office, and in business hours; but once released from the drudgery of the office, the grub became a butterfly. Even Beau Brummel — the D’Orsay of the day — might have pronounced his attire passable. He had been named Roland, after one of the most popular preachers of the day.

    Such were the persons who received Benoni when the latter was introduced into their private room to present his credentials.

    ‘Well acquainted with London?’ inquired the old gentleman, after a few preliminary remarks.

    ‘The first time, sir, I have been here. My father advised me to be upon my guard; said it was a dangerous place for young men.’

    Brit junior gave a faint smile.

    ‘I trust,’ added the speaker, ‘I shall not be led astray.’

    ‘With the Lord’s help,’ piously ejaculated the head of the firm.

    ‘Certainly, sir — with the Lord’s help. We cannot stand alone.’

    This, in a youth of eighteen, was perhaps just a little overdone.

    Roland Brit looked at him a second time, but there was no smile upon his visage. On the contrary, he regarded the speaker curiously.’

    I am happy to find,’ observed his father, ‘that my old acquaintance, Blackmore, has instilled such excellent principles in his son. We shall get on very well, no doubt. We undertake no questionable cases. Good morning. The managing clerk has instructions to appoint you to a desk, and will set you to work at once.’

    Benoni bowed and withdrew.

    ‘What do you think of our new clerk?’ said Brit senior, turning to his son as soon as they were alone.

    ‘Humbug,’ replied the young man.

    The old gentleman looked rather surprised. The mild cant of the youth had produced rather a favourable impression upon him; and yet, having practised it so long himself, he ought to have judged it at its exact value.

    ‘Have you not condemned him too hastily?’ he asked.

    ‘Humbug,’ repeated Roland Brit, still more emphatically. ‘Can’t say at present whether dangerous or not. Possibly he may prove useful. But I shall keep an eye upon him.’

    Here the conversation ended, and here we must leave the Old Jury firm, principals and clerk, for some time, whilst we return to the country — to green trees and graceful hedge-rows, enameled flowers — nature’s gems upon earth’s bosom. She requires no other.

    Lady Montague, after presenting her niece at the first drawing-room, and giving one brilliant ball to introduce her to society, had quitted London to pay a long promised visit to Sir George Meredith and his daughter. The girls were cousins, and already inclined to like each other. In retiring thus early in the season from observation, the polite old maid had a double purpose in view. In the first place, she wished the rumours, which were growing fainter every day, to die entirely out — be buried in the tomb of a hundred other forgotten scandals. Next she desired to secure to Lady Kate, in the event of her own death, a trustworthy guardian and protector in the person of the baronet.

    In the course of a few weeks the liking had ripened into a warm attachment for each other. Unreserved confidence already existed between them. When we say unreserved, it is just possible there might be one little secret reserved on either side. If so, it was only natural. They had never yet acknowledged it even to themselves, and probably were unconscious of it.

    Sir George and his daughter, who at first had missed the society of Lord Bury more than they cared to confess, began to get reconciled to it. Lady Montague was an admirable hand at piquet — the only game the baronet really cared about; and they sat down to it every evening.

    As for the fair cousins, we might as well attempt to describe the grateful gyrations of the swallow, or count the vibrations on the painted wings of the butterfly, as give a list of their occupations, in which the claims of charity had no small share. They walked and rode together, amused themselves in the garden, for both dearly loved flowers; visited the schools, and once or twice, by Clara’s persuasion — much to Lady Montague’s dismay — Kate allowed herself to be tempted into the hunting field; but when the dear old maid found that most of the daughters of the country families did the same, she contented with herself with observing that things were different in her young days.

    In the evenings the cousins had music and singing. Of course they had their little innocent plots; they would scarcely have been girls had it been otherwise. Amongst others, the one, half formed by Clara, in the interests of Phœbe and Tom was not lost sight of.

    The time had almost arrived to commence the execution.

    ‘What a delightful thing it must be to have a father!’ observed Lady Kate Kepple, with a sigh, as she and her cousin stood watching the bees in their glass hives in the flower garden. ‘If I did not love you so much how I should envy you.’

    Clara silently kissed her.

    ‘Some one to watch and care for our happiness, who is ever preparing some little graceful surprise expressive of affection. How old are you, coz?’

    ‘I shall be nineteen in two months. Why do you ask?’

    ‘Nothing serious. A little curiosity, perhaps.’

    Clara Meredith regarded her for an instant, then broke into a merry laugh.

    ‘You dear little hypocrite!’ she exclaimed. ‘I see it all. Papa has been consulting you respecting a birthday present for me.’

    ‘I promised not to tell,’ observed her cousin, artlessly.

    ‘And kept your promise as papa, I suspect, intended it should be kept. How else could you advise both?’

    ‘Sir George has seen such a love of a bracelet at Rundel and Bridge’s,’ said Kate.

    ‘I have more than a dozen already, and rarely wear one of them,’ replied her friend.

    ‘And a diamond and opal cross,’ added the former. ‘I like opals.’

    ‘And I prefer pearls; but as I have two sets already, they would be useless,’ observed Clara. ‘What I wish for is a farm.’

    ‘A farm!’ repeated her cousin, greatly surprised.

    ‘Yes, a farm of three hundred acres of land, more or less, as I heard the steward say, to have and to hold, dispose of the rents as I please — buy feathers with them if it takes my fancy, or pug dogs.’

    ‘Your father will doubtless buy you one,’ said Lady Kate, looking very much puzzled, for she knew the speaker to be anything but mercenary.

    The laughing girl shook her head.

    ‘That would not answer,’ she exclaimed. ‘What I want is the Home Farm — the one,’ she added, seeing that Kate did not quite understand her — ‘that Farmer Randal is the tenant of. His lease expires, I know, in six months.’

    There was no further mystification possible. The purpose of the speaker became clear, and the girls laughed and chatted over their plot to promote the happiness of the rustic lovers.

    It would have been difficult to find an elderly gentleman more surprised than Sir George Meredith when Lady Kate Kepple informed him of his daughter’s wishes respecting the Home Farm. The suggestion might have puzzled a wiser head than his.

    ‘The Home Farm!’ he ejaculated. ‘What can she want the Home Farm for?’

    ‘Possibly for pin money,’ answered the fair girl, laughing.

    The baronet repeated the words mechanically.

    ‘You have no idea how expensive they are,’ continued the former. ‘No lady can make a presentable toilet without them. They serve so many purposes. Keep things in their place. Sometimes,’ she added, archly, ‘they serve to attach them together.’

    Still the gentleman looked mystified.

    ‘My dear uncle, how obtuse you are! Can’t you see that if the Home Farm were Clara’s, she could let it to whom she pleased — Farmer Randal, his son Tom, or the pretty Phœbe?’

    Sir George Meredith indulged in a hearty laugh. He comprehended the plot at once.

    ‘She shall have it !’ he exclaimed. ‘What a fool I was to suspect my child of a selfish thought! Let it to whom she pleases? Make ducks and drakes of the rent, if she likes. Spend it in white mice and pug dogs. So this is the birthday present Clara wished for?’

    Lady Kate nodded her head in the affirmative.

    ‘She shall have the bracelet, too,’ added the speaker. ‘Gad! I feel so delighted with the girl’s ingenuity that I could find it in my heart to purchase half Rundel and Bridge’s stock, if she desired it.’

    ‘My dear uncle, you must not be too extravagant. The bracelet and opal cross will be quite sufficient.’

    ‘That girl,’ thought the old gentleman, as his niece quitted the room, ‘has a clear head for business. The cross! Humph! I ought to have thought of that. Cost another thousand! Phsaw! what signifies money? The only use I can see in it is to make those around us happy. Rather expensive though.’

    Would that more possessors of the golden gifts of fortune shared the speaker’s opinion!

    The transfer of the farm had been duly made, and a few days afterwards, as the two cousins were taking their morning ride, they encountered old Randal, looking exceedingly dejected and miserable. The absence of his son had told upon him. The farmer had been up to London, taking a hundred pounds with him to purchase Tom’s discharge; but the colonel of the regiment had refused his consent. Lord Bury advised him, but who prompted his lordship we must leave our readers to guess.

    Tom also had declared that he would never quit the service unless to marry Phœbe.

    No wonder his father felt down-hearted and miserable. On seeing the young ladies approach, he doffed his hat, as usual, to them.

    ‘Good morning, Mr. Randal,’ said Clara. ‘Sorry to see you looking so unwell.’

    ‘Worry, Miss. It be all worry,’ replied the farmer. ‘That boy o’ mine is a killin’ on me. Would you believe it? He has gone and ’listed.’

    The young ladies expressed by their looks a proper amount of surprise.

    ‘Tried to buy him off,’ continued the speaker, ‘but Tom wouldn’t leave, and the officer refused to let him go. But I don’t wonder at that. They won’t catch a recruit like my Tom every day. Hard lines for me, beant it, my lady? I am in great trouble.’

    ‘I am not surprised.at that,’ observed Clara Meredith. ‘I thought something quite dreadful would occur. Some persons are so very obstinate.’

    ‘Ain’t they?’ replied old Randal, not suspecting for an instant that the word obstinate had been intended to apply to himself.

    ‘I be goin’, to the Hall,’ he added, ‘to see Sir George about a new lease of the Home Farm, and ask him to speak a good word for me to some of his great friends in London. I must have Tom back.’

    The cousins continued their ride.

    Great was the astonishment of the farmer when, on his arrival at the Hall, Sir George Meredith informed him that he had given the Home Farm to his daughter, Clara, and that any application for a new lease must be made to her.

    ‘You will find her very reasonable, I expect,’ he added. ‘I have no longer any control over it.’

    ‘Well,’ said the old man, upon whose obtuse mind a faint glimmering of light was beginning to dawn. ‘I and mine have been upon the land more nor a hundred years. The land is good land. Can’t deny that. But, then, I allays paid my rent regularly — voted on the right side. I think you ought to have renewed my lease while it was in your power.’

    The baronet winced. It went rather against the grain to plot against his old tenant.

    ‘My daughter, no doubt, will consider these claims,’ he observed.

    ‘Maybe she will, and maybe she wont,’ remarked the farmer.

    ‘Anything else I can do for you?’

    ‘Thank ’ee, Sir George. My boy, Tom, is ’listed.’

    ‘So I have heard.’

    ‘If your honour would only speak a good word to the big guns in London, maybe they might let him off.’

    ‘I will write this very day,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘do everything in my power. But don’t you think,’ he added, ‘it would be wiser, to let your son have his own way?’

    ‘And marry the organist’s daughter?’ exclaimed the visitor, greatly exasperated. ‘Never! Never! I see it all. Thee be agi’n me too. But I won’t give way. Let the farm go. My young lady may lease it to Phœbe, if she likes. I shall have land enough of my own left to live upon.’

    ‘Very glad to hear it, Mr. Randal,’ remarked the gentleman. ‘I always thought you were a prudent person. I will not forget the letter I promised. Good morning.’

    His visitor caught up his hat and quitted the room, muttering as he did so:

    ‘Gentle and simple, they be all ag’in me; but I beant beaten yet.’ We fear not.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes, References, Further Reading

    Frimicating: has an entry in Joseph Wright’s English dialect dictionary, being the complete vocabulary of all dialect words still in use, or known to have been in use during the last two hundred years (1900):

    Old Jury: Alternate form of “Old Jewry, a street running from the north side of the POULTRY to GRESHAM STREET, so called as being in the Middle Ages the Jews’ quarter of the city” Wheatley, London Past and Present (1891).

    William Jesse, The Life of George Brummell, commonly called Beau Brummell (1884). Available free at Google Books.

    Grace and Philip Wharton, The Wits and Beaux of Society, 2 vols. (1890). Available free at Project Gutenberg.

    William Teignmouth Shore, D’Orsay; or, The complete dandy (1911). Available free at Project Gutenbeg.

    Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, Vol. 3 (1988).

     

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Twelfth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Twelfth Instalment

    Margaret Oliphant’s essay ‘The Byways of Literature: Reading for the Million’ (1858) is something of a seminal study in literature and popular culture. Her elegant piece is by turns endearing — particularly in her approval of our man Smith — and a worry for its tone of condescension towards ‘the Million,’ meaning the multitude, the ‘lower classes’.

    Let us give the masses all credit for their gift of reading; but before we glorify ourselves over the march of intelligence, let us pause first to look into their books.

    There is an irony, which is to some extent to be borne out:

    These unfortunate masses! When first the schoolmaster began to be abroad, how tenderly we took care of the improvement of their minds, and how zealously exerted ourselves to make literature a universal dominie, graciously enlightening the neophyte on every subject under heaven!

    Edinburgh-born ‘Mrs Oliphant’ (née Wilson, 1828–97) did not herself hail from an aristocratic background but a more bourgeois family. Her father was employed as a clerk in the customs and excise service, and she was afforded an education solid enough for her subsequently to produce more than ninety novels, among more than one hundred books. She was well received by critics and was Queen Victoria’s favourite novelist.

    Margaret Oliphant (1828–97)

    She fell out of currency until the late twentieth century, when some of her works returned into print, in an atmosphere of renewed interest in women’s writing. Merryn Williams compares her to Jane Austen and George Eliot and considers her ‘indispensible reading for anyone interested in women in the nineteenth century‘ (Women in the English Novel, 1800–1900).

    Bear in mind that the occasional tone of condescension I mentioned is characteristic of the era, in which a revolution in industry — including the attachment of a steam engine to a rotary printing press capable of printing on both sides of a sheet of paper — made possible the production of millions of copies of a single page in a day, and thus the birth of a mass media. Political, moral and financial imperatives came into play: on the one hand, considerations of the education, edification, ‘betterment’ and socializing of the masses; on the other, anxieties about the breakdown of social order.

    Questions arose such as, What kind of reading is appropriate for the working class (obviously, something useful)? And even fears about the ‘contamination’ of one class by another — more than a metaphor when it came down to instituting public libraries.

    In her essay, Oliphant writes of a summer afternoon in a cathedral town. She has charge of a restless child, whom she takes to a grassy patch by the cathedral, beyond the ‘verdant turf of the cathedral close’, having spent sixpence on some miscellaneous literature to amuse her with. The child is more fascinated with the ‘living daisies outside better than the dead effigies within’, and Oliphant spreads the papers out on the grass.

    Grave literature and learning, decorum and dignity, the authorities of society, stood represented in those grave old houses, from which no careless human eye looked out; and scattered over the daisies, with the wind among their leaves, lay the unauthoritative, undignified, unlearned broadsheets, which represent literature to a great portion of our country people, despite of all the better provision made for their pleasure.

    There could not possibly be a more marked or total contrast than between the object of our immediate attention and the scene.

    Thus is revealed an epiphany, which is not too far from the reader-response and reception theories of nowadays, to the effect that, ‘the multitude’, the reading public — those girls in the mills — will freely take what it pleases and do as it likes with the literature that is put in front of it. And so it ought.

    But here’s the good part. Whom should she uncover from her little trove of cheap writings among the daisies? Of course:

    Here is one personage, for instance, whom rival publications vie for the possession of, and whom the happy successful competitor advertises with all the glow and effusion of conscious triumph,—J. F.; nay, let us be particular,— John Frederick Smith, Esq. This gentleman is a great author, though nobody (who is anybody) ever was aware of it […]

    [Y]et we protest we never read a word of his writings, nor heard a whisper of his existence, until we spread out our sixpenny budget of light literature upon the June daisies. What matter? His portrait, from a photograph by Mayall, may be had in those regions where his sway is acknowledged; and the everybody, who is nobody, bestows upon him that deep-rolling subterraneous universal applause which is fame.

    CHAPTER TWELVE

    Goliah Gob’s Watch — Great Excitement in the Village of Deerhurst — Two Fathers and Two Sons — Viscount Allworth and Lord Bury — The Schoolmaster and Benoni

    Our readers, we flatter ourself, will step back with pleasure to see what some of their old acquaintances have been doing all this time.

    There was great excitement in the village of Deerhurst when it was known that Goliah Gob had received a splendid gold watch from one of the girls he assisted to rescue, and the interest was still further increased by the mysterious manner in which it had been conveyed to him — left at his mother’s farm by an itinerant preacher who had slept at the house overnight, and found on the table in his room, addressed to the honest rustic.

    It was a great puzzle to him, no doubt. But the London lawyer knew how to choose his agents.

    Peggy Hurst spitefully declared, without ever seeing it, that the watch would prove brass. Even Susan doubted, but it might be otherwise.

    We wonder if she had an eye to future contingencies. At any rate, she gave her mother, who watched her with the stealthiness of a lynx, no reasonable cause of complaint. She quitted her home, which had become intolerably dull since the departure of William, only on Sundays, to accompany her father to church. Not even his wife’s influence could prevent the old man from attending it. He had done naught to disgrace himself, he said, and would not give his neighbours cause to blame him.

    Mrs. Hurst prudently abstained. She had not forgotten the scene in the justice room at Squire Tyrell’s, the insults of the crowd, and above all, the triumphant, jeering glances of the Widow Gob.

    Absenting herself from church was the one weak spot in the programme she had traced for keeping Goliah and her daughter apart. There might be nothing between them at present; she admitted that, and determined within herself there never should be if she could prevent it.

    The last few days had greatly intensified her hatred of the Gob dynasty.

    ‘Mind and return as soon as the service is over,’ she said, after carefully tying her husband’s cravat.

    ‘I don’t expect anyone will invite us to stay,’ observed her husband, dryly.

    ‘And look closely after Susan,’ added his wife.

    ‘Aye, aye. I’ll take care on her.’

    ‘And watch if she exchanges looks or words with any of the singers in the organ galleries.’

    ‘I can’t,’ said the farmer.

    ‘Nonsense, Peter.’

    ‘I won’t,’ he added, firmly. ‘Susan be a good girl. Why should I play the spy upon her and feel ashamed to look my own child in the face? And it is my opinion there be naught to spy out. Now you know my meaning.’

    Mrs. Hurst looked thunderstruck. It was the first symptom of rebellion against domestic government that had occurred since they had been married. No wonder it startled, if it did not greatly alarm her.

    As for her daughter, she appeared rather amused than otherwise at her mother’s astonishment. Possibly she also did not place much confidence in her father’s resolution.

    ‘Peter,’ gasped his wife, in a tragic tone, ‘answer me one question.’

    ‘I will if I can.’

    ‘Are you in your right senses?’

    ‘No.’ The admission seemed to afford Peggy considerable relief.

    ‘I thought not,’ she muttered.

    ‘But I am coming to them,’ added her husband.

    Catching up his hat with an air of determination, the speaker quitted the kitchen, and, accompanied by Susan, started on his way to church; and Peggy, disconcerted by forebodings of the approaching end of her reign, sank into her easy chair to meditate.

    The truth was, she had stretched her authority too far. She muttered to herself: ‘He misses Willie, and the loss has made him mad.’

    This conclusion appeared to afford her considerable relief.

    ‘It can’t last, and it sha’n’t last,’ she resumed. ‘Why, Peter never ventured to cry snip unless I first said snap! and now — We shall see, we shall see. I’d rather die than give in to him. What would Mrs. Gob say?’

    Many wives have made similar resolutions before, and yet been obliged eventually to yield. Patience, gentle reader; the domestic battle is only just commenced. A shot from the outposts; nothing more.

    Up to our present writing we have barely alluded to the village schoolmaster, and yet he is destined to play an important part in our tale, as well as his treacherous son, Benoni.

    Theophilus Blackmore — or old Theo, as his pupils called him — seemed to have been born without any strong moral perceptions; and yet he was neither dissipated in his habits, vindictive in temper, nor naturally inclined to cruelty. He had no sympathies, no hates, but looked upon life as a mathematical problem, which, once solved, could have no further interest for him.

    His one solitary passion was for books; provided that were gratified, the world with its petty rivalries, jealousies, ambitions and crimes, might jog on as it pleased. They were the one necessity of his existence; he hungered for them.

    Reading had made him a ripe scholar. Science rendered him familiar with the latest discoveries; and yet he had never applied his knowledge to any practical or useful purposes.

    The Village Schoolmaster (1881), Charles West Cope. Source: Leicester Arts and Museums. Public Domain.

    When we say the old man had no sympathies, we ought to have admitted one exception. He felt a sort of dreamy kind of regard for his son Benoni. He had educated, but failed to make a man of him. All the higher qualities of manhood were lacking — honor, truthfulness, courage, fidelity in friendship.

    The fatal influences of his childhood clung to the young hypocrite still.

    How the old schoolmaster ever thought of marrying was a wonder to most persons who knew him. Possibly he wanted a cook or housekeeper. Certain it is that love had small, if any, share in his resolution. Since the death of his wife he had never been known to allude to her. In short, there appeared to be a mystery about the man which no one had ever been able to fathom.

    For several days the continued presence of Benoni in the house failed to excite his attention. When he did notice it he attributed it to the absence of his companion, Willie. As weeks passed, and the youth still avoided going to the village, or event attending church service on Sundays, the curiosity of Theophilus Blackmore became excited; not that he thought of questioning him. He knew his soon too well for that. Truthfulness was not one of Benoni’s characteristics. He took a surer way, and speedily learnt from his pupils the story of the boy’s treachery.

    Some parents would have felt grieved — would have remonstrated, corrected; not so the old bookworm. He regarded it as a thing that was to be — a mere incident in the drama of existence.

    The state of quietude was broken by a very unusual circumstance — the arrival of a visitor, who drove directly to their solitary abode, and remained nearly two hours in close conversation with the owner. Vainly did Benoni try to catch the subject — he was not above listening — but the door of the room was kept locked till the departure of the stranger.

    The following day his father delighted his pupils by informing them that for three days they might take a holiday — business of importance obliging him to pass that period in London. In short, he at once dismissed them, and as they quitted the school-room, settled himself down to one of his favourite authors. The curiosity of his son was excited to the highest pitch.

    ‘Did you say you were going to London?’ he demanded, alter a pause, trusting that his father might impart something more.

    ‘Did you not hear me?’

    ‘Am I to accompany you?’

    ‘No.’

    The querist looked terribly disappointed.

    ‘I have never been in London,’ he observed.

    ‘And what would you do there?’ inquired Mr. Blackmore, sharply. ‘You have not a single friend or acquaintance there that I am aware of. You might have had one, but foolishly lost him by your treachery.’

    The youth colored deeply.

    ‘To preserve a friend,’ added the speaker, ‘we must observe the laws which govern friendship — truth, honor, sincerity.’

    ‘Do you reproach me?’ exclaimed Benoni, getting excited.

    ‘I never indulge in reproaches,’ observed his father, for the first time raising his eyes from the volume before him. ‘They do no good. Besides, you would not feel them.’

    ‘And whose the fault?’ retorted the young man. ‘Yours! You trained me to distrust the natural feelings of the heart, calling them weakness; taught me to be as cold and artificial as yourself; and now find fault with your own work.

    ‘I tried to make you a philosopher,’ said the schoolmaster.

    ‘And trained a hypocrite,’ replied his son.

    ‘We will not dispute on terms,’ remarked the book-worm. ‘They are convertible, as mathematics teaches. What folly induced you to release the two ruffians in the Red Barn?’

    ‘They were from the Bittern’s Marsh,’ answered the youth, sullenly.

    ‘Ah!’ ejaculated his hearer.

    ‘And recognised me.’

    ‘That gave the act some show of reason,’ observed Mr. Blackmore after a pause. ‘An excuse, but not a necessity,’ he added. ‘You should have consulted me.’

    ‘There was no time for consultation. I had to decide,’ replied his son. ‘Consult, indeed! Father,’ he continued, ‘has there ever existed the least confidence between us? I know as little of your past life as of the future. That you are a cold selfish hypocrite, I have long since discovered; but there my knowledge ends. It would be better for us to part.’

    ‘What!’ said the old man sarcastically. ‘The tiger cub would break its chain?’

    ‘You should have forged it stronger,’ was the muttered reply.

    His parent closed the book he had been reading, and commenced pacing up and down the room for several minutes, muttering to himself, ‘Kismet! Kismet!’ the Arabic word for fate. Suddenly he paused in his peregrination, and fixed his glaring blue eyes upon the inflamed countenance of the speaker.

    ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘It is time that we should part. Cold as you think me, I will not suffer you to cast yourself upon the world without some chance of escaping shipwreck. But you must leave the means to me. This visit to London is most opportune. Yes, yes,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I will insist upon it. You must await my return. My absence will not exceed three days. Promise me.’

    Benoni pledged his word to remain. Nor that the speaker placed much reliance upon it; he trusted more to the fact that, with the exception of a few shillings, he knew him to be penniless. That same evening he started upon his journey, and at the time appointed returned to Deerhurst.

    Vainly did his son try to read in his face the success or disappointment of his hopes. The countenance of the Sphinx could not have been more impassive. Unable to endure the suspense of doubt, he boldly questioned him.

    ‘Have you succeeded?’ he demanded.

    ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘In a week or two you will enter the office of Brit and Son, London.’

    ‘What are they?’

    ‘Lawyers.’

    ‘Only lawyers!’ remarked Benoni, in a tone of disappointment.

    ‘Did you expect to be articled to a cabinet minister?’ asked his father, sarcastically. ‘Such personages do not generally take apprentices.’

    ‘No. But I –‘

    ‘Shall I tell you what a lawyer really is?’ continued, the former, interrupting him. ‘He is the depository of secrets affecting the honor, and sometimes the fortune, and sometimes the lives, of his clients; an agent to baffle the ends of justice more frequently than to assist them. The fortunes of the fools who trust them pass through their hands, which are birdlimed, and some of the feathers of the golden geese are sure to stick to them. Only lawyers!’ he repeated. ‘You are unworthy to be my pupil if you fail to find your advantage in this.’

    ‘But all lawyers are not alike,’ suggested the young man.

    ‘Perhaps not,’ was the reply. ‘I only state the rule, and waste no time or thought upon the exceptions, I know what is best for you.’

    His son thought so, too, and began to feel pleased with the idea, although it was not the profession he would have chosen. But, then, it promised change — change from the dreary, dull, unloving home to the busy realities of life; activity, success, and possibly revenge upon his former friend, Willie, whose honest scorn of his treachery had deeply stung him.

    Two weeks before the departure of Benoni for London there was to be a wedding at Deerhurst church, which Susan naturally felt desirous of attending. All girls like to be present at weddings; at least we never knew one that did not.

    Peggy Hurst made but a faint attempt to prevent her daughter from going. The wish was so natural. Then her father spoke out, and somehow his wife felt less inclined to oppose him than formerly. It did not appear quite so safe. She was a tactician in her way, and husbanded her forces for serious occasions.

    The church was crowded, as is usual on such occasions. The farmer met several old friends and acquaintances, who appeared something less inclined than lately to censure him very strongly. The fact was, they knew where the shoe pinched. They were mostly married men, and had worn it themselves, Opinions, like the weathercock, were veering round in the old man’s favour.

    Whilst he was chatting with some and shaking hands with others Susan contrived to slip from his side, and made her way to the organ-gallery. Behind the instrument she found Goliah. Of course she appeared very much surprised.

    ‘Dear me, Mr. Gob,’ she exclaimed. ‘You here!’

    ‘Ees,’ answered the rustic; ‘beant this the place?’

    She had forgotten, for the instant, a message she had sent him. There was no time for coquetting. She felt that, and came at once to her purpose.

    ‘I am uneasy in my mind’ she began. ‘Benoni is about leaving for London, and I have written a letter to put my cousin on his guard, for I feel certain some treachery is intended. He has twice held long talks with mother at the bottom of the orchard. I dare not post it in the village. Mother and post-mistress are too intimate. Can’t you take it?’

    ‘You may swear to that,’ replied her admirer — ‘not that I ever heard of thee swearing. I be goin’ wi’ a load of hay in the mornin’. Dear! Dear!’ he added. ‘I do feel mortal bad.’

    ‘What can be the matter with you?’ inquired Susan, archly .

    ‘I think it be love. And now the murder’s out!’

    ‘Nonsense!’ said the village beauty, as she disappeared down the gallery staircase. ‘Mrs. Gob’s dumplings were too heavy! It can only be indigestion!’

    The honest fellow looked after her wistfully.

    ‘It beant dumplings,’ he muttered. ‘Mother’s dumplings are allays light. What will I do?’ he added. ‘Sartin it be love!’

    We think so, too.

    Viscount Allworth would have made an excellent stage manager of a vaudeville theatre. Neither was he without some talent for tragedy. His mise en scene, too, was admirable. He could set his face to any expression he pleased, for, like the Roman actor who of old had worn the mask so long, his features took the impress of bronze.

    For several days his lordship had been expecting a visit from his son, and remained at home, watching with calm confidence his arrival. No sooner did he perceive the brougham enter the square than he walked deliberately to the mirror in the dressing-room, to arrange his countenance for the occasion. Satisfied of his artistic success, he seated himself at a table. The bell had rung for the performance. He was ready.

    ‘Welcome, my dear boy!’ he exclaimed, as the young man entered the apartment. ‘I am glad you are come. I have been anxiously expecting you.’

    ‘Doubtless, my lord,’ was the reply, ‘for the honour of our name is dear to me.’

    ‘The honour of our name is untouched.’

    ‘Hear me, father –‘

    ‘You must first hear me,’ interrupted the aged hypocrite, with well-affected dignity. ‘Unjust accusations are always regretted; forbearance rarely is so. You have heard the rumours?’

    Lord Bury bowed in the affirmative. I have done everything in my power to stifle them — not without success, I flatter myself. Something also I have exacted by way of atonement. Clarence Marsham has quitted the army.’

    ‘His debts compelled him.’

    ‘Not so,’ observed his parent. ‘Lady Allworth was quite prepared to pay them but I refused to listen to any compromise.’

    ‘And where is the scoundrel now?’ demanded the visitor, the, frown upon his brow slightly relaxing.

    ‘In France.’

    ‘Paris?’

    ‘I presume so.’

    At the very moment he uttered the equivocating lie the speaker had a letter dated from Dinent, in Brittany, written by his step-son, in his pocket.

    ‘What more can I do?’ continued his father. ‘I cannot divorce my wife because her son has acted like a fool. Is it not better to let the rumors quietly die out than to create any further scandal? My own conduct has been perfectly clear in the affair, but I leave the decision with you.’

    ‘Possibly you are right,’ observed Lord Bury, after reflecting on the circumstances. ‘At least, I shall not oppose it; but this acquiescence, forced upon me by consideration for my cousin, Kate, will not prevent me from proceeding immediately to Paris and calling Clarence to account.’

    ‘I have no opinion to offer on that point,’ observed the viscount, gravely. ‘And now, Egbert,’ he continued, ‘weigh all that has taken place calmly; question me on any point of my conduct you please, I am ready to answer you.’

    ‘Father,’ replied the young guardsman, ‘I would fain believe, and dare not question you, lest some painful doubts should be re-awakened. God forgive you if you have deceived me!’

    It is a hard thing to force upon a son the terrible conviction that his father is a villain. Lord Bury took his leave, hoping and trusting probably against his better reason. A few minutes after his departure Lady Allworth entered the dressing-room. She had overheard every word that passed.

    ‘Admirable!’ she said. ‘Yes; I think I have pretty well mystified him. We have now a clear field before us. ‘But the bonds?’ he added, eagerly.

    ‘Shall be paid the instant you have signed the lease of the Bittern’s Marsh.’

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes, References, Further Reading

    dominie: Scottish English term for a schoolmaster.

    [Margaret Oliphant], The Byways of Literature: Reading for the Million’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 84 (August 1858) 200-16. Available at Internet Archive. [Author’s name not given on the text.]

    John Sutherland, ed., Longman Companion to Victorian Fiction, 2d ed. (Routledge, 1988).

    Victorian Fiction Research Guides, ‘Margaret Oliphant‘.

    Lewis C. Roberts, ‘Disciplining and Disinfecting Working-Class Readers in the Victorian Public Library’, Victorian Literature and Culture, Vol. 26, No. 1 (1998),105-132.

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Eleventh Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Eleventh Instalment

    This chapter presents insights into the motivations and machinations in play at the ‘higher end’ of society. A far cry from Mrs. Hurst’s scheme to have William and Goliah banged up for the ‘theft’ of the horse and wagon, motivated partially by her rivalry with Mrs. Gob over her excellent butter.

    Nevertheless, the differences appear to be more in terms of their degrees of subtlety and complexity rather than in essence. Smith presents the moral attributes of the characters in a system of defined binary oppositions, which work at times to undercut each other in the same character. Someone who wears a ‘black hat’ in the first instance may be shown subsequently to have redeeming qualities to some extent. (Cinema quite commonly applies similar techniques.)

    It seems on cue to turn, as we do in the present chapter, to a deeper context of meaning for his play of morality and human nobility. The scene in the regimental headquarters of the Royal Life Guards and Horse Guards (also known as The Blues) serves to diminish the importance of the social hierarchy per se, with this proximity to royalty and empire.

    These are the two most senior regiments of the Royal Household Cavalry, dating to the restoration of Charles II in 1660. They boasted an illustrious record of service at home and abroad in any number of theatres of war over the subsequent centuries, including Waterloo.

    In the Victorian era, the British Empire had become one upon which ‘the sun never set’. A certain mode of history — ‘Whig historiography’ — assumed popularity, one that viewed this position of world leadership as a logical and inevitable development, a march towards global enlightenment based on the principles enshrined in British governance.

    Lord Macaulay’s (1800–1859) five-volume History of England (1848) is considered the archetype of Whig history. But guess in whose history we can discern shades? Correct: in John Frederick Smith’s own volume of the nine-volume Cassell’s lIlustrated History of England (1874):

    The slow building of a constitution which finds no parallel in the world is the most distinctive, as it is the largest feature in English history … If we do not profit in heart and head by the experience which the ages have gathered for us — if we do not grow, as they would have us, not only in wisdom but in humility, in moderation, in humanity — we have to blame, not these unerring teachers, but ourselves.

    Preface to Volume 1

    The Celtic queen Boadicea leading the British revolt against the Romans, 60/61 CE. Frontispiece to Cassell’s Illustrated History of England Vol. 1 (cropped).

    CHAPTER ELEVEN

    Clara Meredith Does not Feel Quite Satisfied with Herself — The Sketch — Return of her Cousin to London

    Clara was seated in the library, thinking over the events of the last few days, and taking herself to task for her conduct to her cousin. To be sure, his neglecting to make her acquaintance in London — her first season, too — was unkind, to say the least of it; but had she the right to resent it, and turn him into ridicule on his arrival in the country? After turning the circumstances over in her mind she came to the conclusion that she had not. It was undignified, to say the least of it; and she felt dissatisfied with herself, and all the more so that he had endured her sarcasm with such polished good humour.

    That her cousin was ultra-fashionable, and not a little fastidious, she did not doubt; but that he merited the title some of her dear friends in London had given him of a “cynical, heartless man,” she could not believe. Had he not danced with the May Queen at her request; defended her from the insulting familiarity of Burcham? Shaken hands with Tom Randal as he reluctantly yielded to his right to protect his rustic sweetheart?

    What better proofs of manhood could he have given?

    ‘Clara,’ said his lordship, as he entered the library, ‘I am come to fulfil my promise. I told you when I made it that I was not much of an artist; but I have done my best.’

    He placed the sketch in her hand.

    The young lady coloured slightly as she received it. She had secretly hoped he had forgotten it; but Bury was a man of his word. Despite the seriousness of her late thoughts she could not help laughing gaily as she contemplated the drawing. It was really exceedingly well done for an amateur, and he had carried out her description to the letter. There stood the old mansion in the distance; Clara, in a short frock and blue sash, screaming on the bank of the pond; his lordship floundering in the water. One of the famous red morocco shoes floating on the surface, and a goose swimming after it.

    The last, by-the-by, was an introduction of the artist’s own, intended, probably, as a slight epigram on the playful malice which had recalled the incidents.

    ‘I am glad,’ observed Clara, recovering her seriousness, ‘that you have recollected your promise, and yet it scarcely amounted to one. But why represent me twice?’

    ‘I scarcely understand you, cousin.’

    His cousin pointed to the goose sailing after the shoe. His lordship smiled.

    ‘I am ever so much obliged to you,’ resumed the fair girl, after a pause. Is it really mine?’

    ‘Undoubtedly, since you have honored me by accepting it. Shall the drawing find a place in your album, or be sent as a contribution to the next fancy fair?’

    ‘Neither one nor the other,’ answered his cousin, with a show of feeling at which she felt provoked with herself. ‘I can dispose of it in a far more fitting way. And yet it is a almost a pity,’ she added, as she crushed the sketch in her little hand, dropped it into the fire, stood watching it until it was consumed, and then, with a quiet courtesy, quitted the room.

    Lord Bury stood for some little time gazing after her in silence. Possibly the problem was becoming interesting to him.

    ‘Pshaw!’ he muttered, as he took up a newspaper to while away the time till luncheon. ‘Why should I feel surprised? Good blood will tell.’

    Had he said good principles, the observation, we suspect, would have been more germane to the matter, as our friend, Shakespeare, says.

    Three days after the interview in the library, which neither of the cousins thought fit to allude to again, Lord Bury, who had just received his letters, informed Sir George that he was obliged to start the following morning, on particular business, for London.

    ‘Nothing unpleasant, I trust. Can I be of any use?’

    ‘Exceedingly unpleasant, uncle, for it concerns the honor of one who ought to be very dear to me. Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘you cannot be of the slightest assistance to me.’

    ‘That scamp of a father, I suppose,’ thought his host, who had noticed the word “ought.” ‘He is always getting himself into some infernal scrape or another. Older, too, than I am.’

    Of course he kept these reflections to himself.

    ‘Possibly I may be able to renew my visit,’ said his lordship, ‘in the shooting season. That is, if I have not worn out my welcome.’

    ‘We are homespun, Egbert,’ observed his relative, ‘and can stand a vast amount of wear and tear. Come when you will, always glad to see you, Make it a promise, and I will keep the home cover for you. Make it your home if you like.

    ‘That is,’ he added, noticing the blush upon his daughter’s cheek, ‘as long as I live, Of course I cannot answer for my successor.’

    ‘That would be unreasonable, Sir George,’ observed the nephew, who had noticed the blush and the correction of the speaker’s offer. ‘Thanks, I will not abuse your hospitality.’

    The next day Lord Bury started for London.

    ‘Well, Sparks,’ said his lordship, when the sergeant-major entered the room the morning after his arrival at headquarters, to report on the condition of his company, ‘anything important?’

    ‘Not very,’ answered the old soldier. ‘There has been a fine young fellow here from the country, who wants to enlist, but won’t engage in any company but yours. Such a chest! Stands six feet two; straight as a pike-staff. Knows the points of a horse as well as the regimental vet, himself. Hope we shan’t lose him.’

    ‘But why in my company?’ demanded Lord Bury.

    ‘Heard that you were a kind officer, most likely.’

    ‘No flattery, Sparks. Did the young fellow you were speaking of give his name?’

    ‘Tom Randal, my lord.’

    ‘Find him; bring him to me instantly,’ exclaimed the officer, greatly interested. ‘You said truly, he is a fine fellow — a man every inch of him.’

    In a few minutes the lover of the pretty Phœbe entered the luxuriously-furnished room of the officer, who frankly held out his hand to him.

    Although the countenance of the new recruit flushed with a momentary satisfaction, he did not accept it.

    ‘You forget,’ he observed, ‘that I am about to become a private soldier.’

    ‘No, I do not,’ replied his lordship; ’till you are enlisted, you are a free man, and a prince might shake hands with you. Once in the ranks,’ he added, ‘it would be different; but that will be neither your fault nor mine.’

    The hand was again extended, and this time cordially shaken. The sergeant discreetly withdrew. He thought it best to leave the officer and his rustic friend together.

    Tom Randal, after the quarrel with his father, had made the best of his way to London on foot; for he had very little money, and proceeded at once to the barracks of the Guards. Our readers know the rest. Vainly did his aristocratic friend try to argue him out of his intention to enlist, pointing out the difficulty of obtaining his discharge when once he had taken the fatal shilling.

    ‘The colonel,’ he added, is a good man — a kind man — but will never consent to let a fine young fellow like you leave the regiment when once engaged in it,’ and advised him to take a few days to consider of it.

    ‘Not an hour, my lord,’ replied the lover of Phœbe. ‘I have lost the only girl I can ever love, and all through my father’s prejudice, pride, and obstinacy. It has cost him his son,’ he added. ‘He shall find I can be as resolute as he is. My mind is made up.’

    Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards, 1828. (Created 1847) Public Domain. Source: Wikipedia

    Lord Bury sent for Sergeant Sparks, and Tom Randal quitted the room, duly enlisted into his majesty’s first regiment of Life Guards.

    The poor fellow, we suspect, had inherited some of the old farmer’s temper; if so, the army was, perhaps, the best school to work it out of him.

    The expiration of his leave of absence was not the only motive which brought his lordship to London. He could easily have obtained a prolongation of it. He had received a letter from one of his most intimate friends, informing him of certain ugly rumours that were whispered in society of an attempt to force his cousin, Lady Kate Kepple, into an unequal marriage with Clarence Marsham, and that Lord Allworth’s name was unpleasantly mixed up with the transaction. ‘Of course,’ added the writer, ‘I do not vouch for the correctness of these reports; but as they are levelled at the honor of your family, I felt it my duty to inform you of them. All I really know is that the chancellor has deprived your father of the guardianship of Lady Kate’s person, and that his step-son has sold out of the army. The last two facts I affirm on my knowledge. There the duty of friendship ends. It is for you to act as you think best.’

    On his way to town, the young guardsman had perused the letter at least a dozen times, and each reading added to his mortification. As we before observed, he was both proud and honorable, weak in some things and extremely sensitive; but, then, we are not drawing a perfect character; absolute perfection, we fear, would be just a little insipid.

    His first visit was to Montague House. There, at least, he expected to learn the truth. Its owner, with whom he was a favorite, received him nervously. Our readers have not forgotten her intense dread of scandal, and the feeling increased tenfold when he had explained the object of his visit.

    ‘It it possible!’ she exclaimed, ‘that, despite my precautions, the unfortunate story has leaked out?’

    ‘It is true, then?’

    ‘I cannot deny it.’

    Lord Bury rose to take his leave.’

    ‘Egbert! Egbert! cannot the affair be hushed up?’

    ‘Impossible!’ was the reply. ‘At present it is only whispered; in a week’s time it will be a common topic of conversation in half the drawing-rooms in London. It is my duty,’ he added, firmly, ‘to see that your conduct and Kate’s should be unquestioned.’

    Again he moved towards the door.

    ‘Stay,’ said her ladyship, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘You do not know all.’

    ‘For Heaven’s sake, let me hear it, aunt!’

    ‘Kate escaped from Allworth Park in boy’s clothes; walked all one night in them, and slept the next in a barn.’

    ‘Is that the worst?’

    ‘What could be worse?’ replied the aristocratic old maid, blushing deeply as the veiled meaning of his question dawned upon her mind. ‘Is not Kate living — slowly recovering her health and spirits?’

    A terrible suspicion passed from the heart of Lord Bury. He knew the speaker too well to doubt her word for an instant. A third time he was about to depart.

    ‘Stay,’ said Lady Montague, ‘Do tell me where you are going.’

    ‘To see my father,’ answered her visitor, gloomily. ‘I have a hard task before me, but will not shrink from it.’

    This time he succeeded in quitting the room.

    ‘Poor Egbert!’ sighed Lady Montague, as he disappeared. ‘He is very much to be pitied. Why did my sister marry Allworth? I told her he was a roue, repeated all the evil reports I ever heard of him, warned her every way; but it was of no use — seemed to increase her infatuation. If she had accepted some plain country gentleman, or even a bishop’s son I should not so much have minded, although, of course, it would have been a misalliance. But no, she would have a peer. Poor girl; she paid dearly enough for her folly. And yet,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘I do not think it was all ambition. At the worst,’ continued her ladyship, ‘Kate and I can return to Montague Castle, live like nuns, and when we die, leave our fortunes to found a hospital for old maids.’

    However improbable, the project certainly was not an impossible one, although somehow we have an idea that Lady Kate will feel but little disposed to join in it.

    Viscount Allworth never believed it would be possible to keep the disgraceful escapade of his stepson from the knowledge of society — he knew the world too well for that — so he prudently resolved to make his own share in the transaction appear as harmless as possible. What he most feared was the indignation of his own son, who had lately shown a spirit which startled him.

    ‘Bury behaved exceedingly well in the Chellston affair,’ he muttered to himself, as he turned the incidents over in his scheming brain. ‘Must keep friends with him if possible.’

    Having traced a line of conduct for himself, Lord Allworth was not the man to be easily moved to depart from it; and the less so, that for the first time for years he found himself — thanks to the Chellston trickery — tolerably at ease in his pecuniary affairs; hence the firmness with which he insisted on Clarence Marcham’s retirement from the army.

    ‘Absurd!’ exclaimed his wife, when he informed her of his determination. ‘A mere boyish folly; the world soon forgets such things.’

    ‘In some persons, perhaps, but not in others,’ remarked the husband, gravely. ‘You made no objection when I stated my intention to Lady Montague.’

    ‘Because I did not believe you to be serious. In fact I never know when you. are serious. I considered it merely a sop thrown to the old Cerberus.’

    His lordship appeared greatly shocked.

    ‘I wish, Lady Allworth,’ he observed, but without losing his temper, ‘that you would be a little more refined in your expressions. I am aware that the defects of early education and associations are hard to overcome. Still it may be done. You will oblige greatly by striving to recollect this the next time you speak of my first wife’s sister, a woman of high birth, large fortune, and spotless reputation.’

    There was a momentary lull in the stormy conversation. The viscountess bit her lips to avoid giving expression to her rage at his provoking coolness.

    The husband — and we feel there are but too many like him in the world — enjoyed his wife’s mortification exceedingly.

    ‘I perceive what you are driving at,’ observed the angry woman. ‘You require money?’

    ‘No.’

    The lady gazed at him with astonishment. It was the first time in her married life she had received such an answer to a similar question.

    ‘Money,’ continued the speaker, ‘is an excellent thing in its way. I can’t imagine how some people contrive to exist without it; but it is not everything. Listen to me — my conduct is not so unkind as you suspect. You are far from being a fool, Lady Allworth. I know that you can control your temper on some occasions, and act with prudence.’

    The wife could scarcely repress a smile; she recollected how cleverly she had contrived to outwit him in the settlement of her fortune.

    ‘I have seen the commander-in-chief,’ added the speaker; ‘the affair has got wind through the rascally lawyers. I suspect Clarence is in bad odor at the Horse Guards — very bad. His royal highness is decidedly of opinion that he ought to sell out; and you know what such an opinion from such a quarter means. The price of his commission I am told, will barely pay his debts.’

    ‘Debts!’ gasped the astonished mother; ‘why, his allowance has been most liberal!’

    ‘Not feeling the slightest interest in the subject,’ said his lordship, ‘I made no inquiry as to their amount. You perceive the step is inevitable. Clarence had better return to France; living is cheap there; great resort for half-pay people. But he must decide quickly; in three days he will be arrested.’

    It is quite true that Viscountess Allworth loved her son, but, then, she loved herself a great deal more, and did not care to impoverish herself to pay off his liabilities. He must do that, she thought, by a wealthy marriage. So far from having abandoned the project, she clung to it more tenaciously than ever. Two days afterwards the unmanly scapegrace landed in France.

    We scarcely need to remind our readers that these last arrangements were made during Lord Bury’s visit to the country.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes and References

    ‘as our friend, Shakespeare, says’: ‘The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides’ (Hamlet, V, 2).

    ‘[to take] the fatal shilling’: sign up as a soldier, ‘from the former practice of giving a shilling to a recruit when he enlisted’, wordhistories.net

    Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Baron, 1800-1859, History of England from the Accession of James the Second (1901). Digital facsimile available at the Internet Archive. Link opens Vol. 1.

    Smith, John Frederick, Cassell’s Illustrated History of England (1874). Beautifully illustrated digital facsimile available at the Internet Archive. Link opens Vol. 1.

    While all nine volumes of Cassell’s Illustrated History are sometimes attributed to Smith, Andrew King and John Plunkett reveal that he actually only wrote the first. Subsequently Cassell ‘realized that Smith was less concerned with facts than narrative drive’ and handed the rest of the work over to William Howitt (1792–1879) (King and Plunkett, Victorian Print Media, OUP, 2005, p. 415).

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Tenth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Tenth Instalment

    Smith lingers over May Day while introducing a new source of conflict. The early twenty-first century reader may wince at the themes of gender and morality so firmly foregrounded. In our era we have the advent of LGBT rights, and concurrent with them, the destabilization, at least, of traditional gender identifications; such that perhaps the only truly defining characteristic remains the (optional) ability of a woman to bear offspring.

    Women’s rights and equality, moreover, have been hard fought for and to an extent achieved, and we have come to expect the equivalent participation of women across the gamut of human endeavour, from politics and world leadership to sport. At the same time, the advance of a particular set of human rights collides with others and frictions arise with traditional religious ideas.

    From the modern perspective, the Victorian ethos is beheld as the epitome of repression against which the progressive West measures its freedom of thought and existential identity. Though John Ruskin himself has been the butt of many jokes, there are few better spokespeople for the ideology of a culture that fundamentally prefigures our own.

    His lecture ‘Of Queens’ Gardens’, published as one half of Sesame and Lilies (1865), outlines his ideals of femininity, defining the woman’s sphere as passive in relation to the man’s, and in the private domain of the home. At the same time, he ‘urges women to abandon trivial feminine pursuits in order to act as a moral force in countering the ills of society’ (Norton Anthology of English Literature).

    Here are some quotations from Ruskin’s lecture, referring to the ‘place’ (the home) and ‘power’ of women, which echo in the instalment to follow:

    We are foolish … in speaking of the ‘superiority’ of one sex to the other, as if they could be compared in similar things. Each has what the other has not: each completes the other and is completed by the other: they are nothing alike, and the happiness and perfection of both depends on each asking and receiving from the other what the other only can give …

    The man’s power is active, progressive, defensive. He is eminently the doer, the creator, the discoverer, the defender …

    But the woman’s power is for rule, not for battle, — and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement, and decision. She sees the qualities of things, their claims and their places …

    This is the true nature of home — it is the place of Peace; the shelter, not only from all injury, but from all terror, doubt, and division … And wherever a true wife comes, this home is always round her.

    Of Queens’ Gardens (p. 20 ff.)

    CHAPTER TEN

    The May Day Sports Interrupted — The Bully and the Gentleman — A Manly Lover — A Poor Girl’s Resolution

    ‘What is the meaning of this disgraceful scene?’ demanded the baronet, walking in the midst of the crowd, composed mostly of his old and new tenants. ‘Nephew, will you explain?’

    ‘Better, ask some one else, uncle,’ replied the guardsman, laughingly. ‘You forget that I am a particeps criminis in the affair.’

    This was the first intimation of the relation between their landlord and the unknown gentleman.

    The bully began to feel cowed.

    ‘I need not ask,’ added Sir George, ‘since I see Mr. Burcham present. It is time these public outrages were put a stop to.’

    ‘High time,’ said the rector.

    ‘Leave him to me,’ exclaimed the lover of the pretty May Queen, ‘and I will answer for it he will not be in a hurry to recommence.’

    ‘And what have you to do with it?’ inquired the baronet mildly, for the speaker was rather a favorite with the old gentleman from his sporting accomplishments.

    ‘That is what I should like to know,’ muttered Farmer Randal.

    ‘Sir George,’ replied the young man, respectfully, ‘Phœbe is my betrothed wife. I love her very dearly, and she loves me. It is my right to defend her. Don’t cry, Phœbe,’ he added, ‘there is nothing to be ashamed of in an honest affection, although it is rather tough to be forced to speak of such things. When that thing, who calls himself a gentleman, tried to force her to dance with him — no modest girl could do so — your nephew stood forward like a man to protect her. God bless him! If ever he wants a true heart and a tolerably strong arm to defend him, he knows where to find them.’

    The glowing countenance of the speaker, his untaught natural eloquence, and manly avowal of his love produced a favorable effect upon his hearers.

    ‘I was at a distant part of the green,’ continued Tom Randal, ‘when the row commenced. Burcham — Squire, as he calls himself — had already received some punishment. I claimed the right to finish him, which my lord here — I recollect him now — reluctantly consented to. It was my right to defend her, and I would have pounded the rascal to a jelly, if your honour and your friends had not interfered; but I only put off paying my debts: the first time we meet I intend to take a receipt in full.’

    ‘Very proper,’ said the baronet. ‘How very natural, I meant to say,’ he added, correcting himself; ‘but unfortunately, it would be illegal. Mr. Burcham you had better retire.’

    ‘I shall do nothing of the kind,’ replied the cowardly ruffian, sullenly. Conscious that in the presence of so many magistrates, no further contest would be permitted, he resolved to brave it out. ‘This is May Day, and though you are lord of the manor, the green is free to all.’

    ‘Who conduct themselves respectably,’ observed Sir George; ‘but vagrants, disorderly characters, and disturbers of the peace, I am fully authorised to remove. I shall commit you.’

    ‘I can give bail,’ observed Burcham with a sneer.

    ‘Or place you in the stocks,’ added Sir George, thoroughly roused.

    At this there was a general shout of laughter.

    ‘And any magistrate present, I feel certain, will sign the warrant. Call the constables.’

    As the bully said, he could easily have found bail, and lawyers to defend him, for he had plenty of money; but the stocks! Nothing could ever efface the ridicule of such an exposition. With an oath of future vengeance he broke through the crowd, and ran with the fleetness of a hound till he had cleared the village green. There was a general hiss on his flight.

    During the rest of the day the sports were languidly carried out. Tom Randal never for an instant quitted the side of Phœbe. Vainly did his father call to him, his mother and sisters beckoned to him; summons and signs were alike unheeded. He knew his place, and stuck to it.

    For several years the young farmer, who with Lord Bury had fairly divided the honours of the day, had been an object of speculation amongst those of his own class, who had daughters to dispose of in marriage. Mothers, of course, condoled with Mrs. Randal on her son’s having been so easily entrapped; the girls pouted and tossed their heads indignantly.

    ‘Phœbe Burr indeed!’ observed one.

    ‘Hasn’t an acre of land in the parish!’

    ‘Nor in any other parish,’ added a third. ‘The old organist can’t have saved much.’

    The last observation, unfortunately, was strictly true, the old man’s salary being only forty pounds a year, and for that he had to train the choir, as well as attend two weekly services.

    ‘Tom was always a soft-hearted fool,’ said one of his sisters, spitefully. She was not only jealous of her brother, but detested the object of his choice.

    ‘Hold thee tongue, Bess!’ exclaimed her father, angrily. Not that he did not feel quite as much displeased at his son’s choice as the rest of the family, or had not come to a conclusion to break it off; but the old man was quite shrewd enough to perceive that abusing Phœbe was not the way to do it. ‘Thee was always envious of the gal because she has a prettier face than thine. It be only calf-love,’ he added, ‘and will die off of itself, if let alone.’

    We question if the speaker felt much confidence in his own prediction. Still he was resolved to give the boy a chance. If Tom listened to reason, well and good; if not, then he would see.

    If it were possible to tempt us to bet, we rather think we should feel inclined to back the son. How frequently have we seen prudent resolutions made, and fail from lack of temper in carrying them out. We suspect it will prove so with the farmer.

    How frequently can one coarse mind destroy the enjoyment of many. To the May Day Queen her ephemeral dignity had proved anything but a source of pleasure; her name had been made the theme of village gossip, the sport of every tongue — and we know how charitable they are, especially in rustic communities. As soon as Sir George and his guests returned to the Hall, poor Phœbe retired to her father’s cottage. Her lover accompanied her. It had been by her own repeated requests that Tom had abstained from paying her any marked attentions, and kept at a distance from her mimic court. Not that he felt ashamed of his choice; on the contrary, he felt proud of it, and proved the depth as well as manlinesss of his attachment by proclaiming it openly to the world.

    Queen of the May, 1875. Julia Margaret Cameron (British, 1815-1879). Albumen print from wet collodion negative. Public Domain. Source: Internet Archive (Cleveland Museum of Art)

    With tender, truthful words, such as dwell on memory’s page long after they are uttered, he sought to soothe her delicacy and wounded pride, till he had the satisfaction of seeing something like a smile on her pale face. The shades of evening had fallen when he rose to depart. At the request of her lover, Phœbe consented to accompany him as far as the garden gate. Perhaps he thought to steal a kiss; if so, who shall blame him?

    On reaching the limit of the enclosure the lovers paused; neither of them liked to say the word ‘good-night,’ and yet each felt that it was time to speak it.

    ‘I fear, Tom,’ said the fair girl, breaking their mutual silence, ‘that I can never be your wife.’

    ‘You will! You must!’ exclaimed the young farmer, impetuously.’What would life be without you?’

    ‘You forget that you have a father,’ the maiden hesitatingly replied; ‘and that without his consent I never will be yours.’

    ‘Phœbe! Phœbe!’ ejaculated her lover, imploringly.

    ‘I will bring discord into no family,’ continued the former; ‘happiness would fail to follow it. Remember how angry your father looked; how repeatedly he called you when you proclaimed the right to protect me.’

    ‘You do not know how well he loves me,’ replied her suitor, trustfully. ‘ He will fret and fume and rage at first — for I cannot conceal from myself that he has other views respecting me — but when he finds my happiness is really at stake, he will yield at last.’

    ‘Never!’ exclaimed a harsh voice near them.

    The next instant Farmer Randal broke through the hedge, where he had been a concealed listener to their conversation.

    ‘I did not think, father,’ observed Tom, greatly hurt, ‘that you would play the spy upon me.’

    ‘Aye, thee father; and thee will find that his heart baint half so soft as thee do think. Leave that artful minx, and come home with me.’

    The countenance of his son flushed, and then became pale. He had never disobeyed a command of his parent yet.

    ‘I will follow you in a few minutes,’ he replied. ‘I cannot accompany you now.’

    ‘Come home, I say,’ repeated the angry man.

    ‘For Heaven’s sake! go with him,’ whispered the terrified girl.

    ‘I will not!’ said her lover, firmly. ‘I am glad the discovery has been made, although it has not occurred in the manner I could have wished. I love her, father. You must have some memories in your heart to tell you what a first love means. You know that I am industrious. I will work harder than ever to please you. We are both young — willing to wait, if you exact the sacrifice; but one thing is certain: if Phœbe consents, she shall be my wife.’

    ‘Wife?’ repeated the old man, scornfully. ‘Why she hasn’t a penny! Knowing what a soft-hearted fool thee art, her mother has trained the artful hussy to catch thee.’

    In his wrath the speaker would have struck his son a blow; but Tom caught his wrist in an iron grasp, and held it firmly till his father’s eyes quailed beneath his reproachful gaze.

    ‘Do not disgrace my manhood by an outrage it would be sacrilege to resent by a blow that must separate us for ever,’ replied his son, disengaging his wrist.

    ‘Thee has driven me half mad!’ was the reply.

    Phœbe felt that it was time to interfere. The slanderous accusation against the mother she so dearly loved had aroused her indignation, and she confronted the speaker with eyes lit up by scorn at the outrage.

    ‘Mr. Randal,’ she said, ‘it is quite true that Tom and I love each other dearly — very dearly; equally true that I am poor. I do not deny it, Poorer, perhaps, than you suspect. But it is a wicked falsehood to accuse my mother of plotting to entrap your son.’

    ‘Maybe I was wrong there,’ growled the farmer.

    ‘You have a right to object to our marriage. I also have the right, to respect myself. Never will I consent to become the wife of your son till his father asks me.’

    The old man gave a low, chuckling laugh.

    ‘Phœbe!’ exclaimed her lover, greatly agitated.

    ‘I have said it, and you know that I can keep my word, And now, Tom,’ she added, blushingly, ‘take the kiss you asked for — in this world probably the last; for rest assured of this, the lips you have once pressed shall never be pressed by another.’

    The kiss was given and received. The lovers lingered over that parting embrace as if their heartstrings were twined together. Phœbe was the first to recover from the conflicting emotions which agitated both, and tearing herself from the arms of the young farmer, tottered rather than walked into her father’s humble cottage.

    The poor fellow stood gazing after her, the image of mute despair.

    ‘Come home, Tom,’ said the old man, mildly, for he, too, felt touched by the sorrow of his son. ‘She be a good gal, after all,’ he added.

    ‘God forgive you, father; you have broken my heart,’ murmured the poor fellow.

    The next instant he bounded over the hedge and disappeared. The farmer tried to follow him, thinking to soothe him with soft promises of future indulgence, but soon gave up the chase for want of breath.

    ‘Ah, well,’ he muttered, as he sank panting on one of the benches prepared for the May Day visitors — ‘I beant as spry as I once wor. Ugh! Tom can outrun me. Then what a grip he has! I am glad I didn’t strike him — not that he would have hit back again; too manly for that.

    ‘It be all calf love,’ he continued, ‘felt it once myself. Father wouldn’t hear of it, so I sulked for three days; refused my food; but, then, I milked the cows in the barn, and that kept me up like. I wonder if the boy will think of that. He will be back in three days, or four at the furthermost, and then I’ll buy him the colt that he took a fancy to. That will make it all right.’

    Here we must anticipate the progress of events and inform our readers that not only did the four days but as many weeks, nay, months, elapse before Farmer Randal received the least intelligence of his son.

    Although Sir George Meredith, on hospitable cares intent, did his best to entertain his guests, the dinner somehow passed heavily. He told his best stories, and scarcely elicited a smile. His daughter too, appeared dull and dispirited; her cousin calm as usual, as might have been expected, for his lordship rarely indulged in sentiment. Being in the Guards, of course he had a horror of gushing.

    The rector and his lady were the first to move; the worthy man had his sermon to write.

    ‘Hang the sermon!’ exclaimed his host. Struck by the impropriety of the expression, he instantly added: ‘I don’t mean that; excellent things in their way. I thought to make a night of it. Preach one of your old ones; that about the Pelagians. Like to hear it again; never understood it.’

    ‘Nor any one else,’ the speaker might have added.

    The suggestion was artfully made, but failed in its intended effect, although the subject was a favorite one with the learned churchman, who looked upon the denial of original sin with orthodox horror. Possibly the last observation of the baronet — that he never understood, the sermon — had something to do with the reverend gentleman’s refusal to remain.

    The Nevilles went next — that is to say, all but Rose. She and Clara Meredith had long been intimate friends. They compared observations, criticised men creatures together, and had no secrets from each other. Girls are something like boys in one respect — they must have a confidant till they win a lover, and then their confessions become more guarded; not that friendship has grown cold — it has only become discreet.

    Older readers can easily understand why Rose Neville remained at the Hall for a few days.

    Captain Waterpark and Lord Wiltshire and the rest of the guests soon followed. And the owner of the Hall began to feel in an irritable humor.

    ‘Well, Bury,’ he observed, ‘I suppose you find yourself considerably bored by your visit. Had you written to inform me of’ your intention, I would have asked some of your set down to meet you.’

    ‘Not at all necessary, my dear uncle,’ replied his lordship. ‘So far from feeling bored, I have been highly amused. Fond of studying character.’

    ‘Pretty specimen, that fellow Burcham,’ said the baronet. ‘Glad you thrashed him. Would have done it myself had I been ten years younger. Believe I can do it now. Great mind to try it.’

    ‘Oh, papa! papa!’ exclaimed Clara.

    ‘Don’t look frightened, pet,’ said her father. ‘I am not going to make myself so ridiculous as that.

    His nephew felt delighted to hear there is a limit; if rather a wide one, to the eccentricities of his relative.

    ‘Mr. Burcham in society?’ he asked.

    ‘No,’ answered Sir George pettishly; ‘admitted to the hunt; a mere outsider. Can’t avoid that; he owns the best cover in the country.’

    ‘But not to the county balls,’ observed Rose Neville.

    ‘Or at any house where there are ladies in the family,’ added Clara.

    ‘I see; a native of the debatable land,’ said her cousin.

    The ladies retired; they had their own little confidences to make and compare notes on the events of the day.

    Albert Anker (1831 — 1910). Still Life with two glasses of red wine, a bottle of wine, a corkscrew and a plate of biscuits on a tray. Public Domain. Source: Wikimedia Commons

    ‘You have made out anything but a pleasant time,’ observed the uncle to his nephew; ‘do better, I trust, tomorrow. Touch the bell — thank you.’

    The summons was answered by the butler, whom his master ordered to bring up a bottle of choice Burgundy.

    ‘No such wine to be had in the market now,’ observed the old gentleman, complacently eyeing the sparkling nectar. ‘Don’t often produce it. Stock getting low. We will finish it together.’

    ‘One glass, with pleasure,’ replied Lord Bury, ‘and then good night. I have a drawing to make for my cousin in the morning.’

    ‘O, nonsense! Put it off.’

    ‘Impossible; I have given a promise.’

    The glass was taken, and his lordship withdrew to his own room.

    ‘Milksop!’ growled his relative, distastefully. ‘Not a headache in a hogshead of the wine. No, he is not,’ he added, as kindlier thoughts and recollections stole over him; ‘and hang me if I don’t call out the first man who utters a word against him; could not have done it better myself in my best days; perhaps not quite so well.’

    This was rather a remarkable admission for the speaker to make, who, like most old men, prided himself on what he had been.

    ‘How well he has behaved,’ he continued, pursuing his reflections, ‘to that old scamp, his father. It was a cruel trick he played him. The loss of Chellston must have galled him. Wish I had not bought it now. Not that I suspected foul play till the lawyer told me all about it in confidence. If the boy is not a fool, the estate may be his again. But mum — must not breathe that thought, even to myself. Clara would never forgive me. I wonder if she likes the fellow.’

    The baronet pursued his reflections till the Burgundy was exhausted, and then, with the assistance of his valet and the butler, retired to bed, to awake in the morning with all the premonitory symptoms of a violent attack of gout.

    The fit proved an unusually severe one. Whilst it lasted Clara and Rose were his constant attendants. At the end of ten days the violence of the attack had considerably abated, and the patient, who had been anything but patient, insisted, on the twelfth, that his daughter and her friend should take a canter to recover the roses they had lost.

    Their first visit was to the cottage of the old organist. They found poor Phœbe greatly changed. Her eyes had lost their lustre; the innocent mirth which once sparkled in them was gone; and the two dark circles which grief had drawn around them showed too plainly the effects of sorrow. As they noticed the change the indignation of her visitors at the cruelty of Farmer Randal became roused, and the heiress then and there made a vow not to rest till she had brought the old man to his senses.

    ‘You are very kind,’ said the ex-May Queen, ‘and I feel so grateful. I am sure Tom would. I am quite hopeless. When his father told me that I had ensnared his son by arts and wiles, I bore it patiently; but when he accused my dear, good mother of plotting with me to entrap him, I felt so angry and unforgiving that I declared I would never be his son’s wife unless his father came to our cottage to ask me.’

    ‘Very proper,’ exclaimed Rose Neville.

    ‘The farmer is a slandering, wicked, unreasonable monster. I see I must take him into my own hands. Entrap, indeed! As if any modest girl would lay herself out to entrap any man. How little does he know our sex,’ she added.

    Hem! We are not quite certain that we can honestly endorse the last observation, but we believe the speaker was sincere in making it.

    ‘Have you heard from Tom?’ asked the young lady.

    ‘No,’ replied the poor girl, yielding to her tears. ‘I know that everything is at an end between us; still he might have written or sent a message that he was safe, just in a friendly way. Dear, dear, I shall never see him again.’

    ‘You shall!’ exclaimed Clara Meredith, pained by the sorrow of her former playmate. ‘More, you shall be his wife, and I will give you your wedding dress. I have not the slightest idea how I shall bring it about. You know I never yet set my mind on anything that I did not, accomplish. Don’t fret; make haste to recover your good looks; that is a duty every girl owes herself. Tom must not find you changed when he comes back.’

    The two visitors quitted the cottage to resume their ride, leaving hope and consolation behind them.

    ‘O, if he should soon return. I only want to know that he is safe.’

    Probably she thought so. The heart dissembles even to itself.

    It was not without design, or rather the hope of meeting the old man, that the fair equestrians returned to the Hall by way of the Randal farm. They were not disappointed, but came upon the occupant walking moodily along the shady land connecting it with the high road.

    The ladies checked their horses.

    Some are born with tact, others never can acquire it. The first lead gently and almost imperceptibly to the point they seek; the latter jump at it, and frequently miss it.

    ‘Well, farmer,’ said the heiress, as her father’s richest tenant stood bareheaded before her, ‘how is the good dame?’

    ‘Not very well, my lady; trouble has come upon us. Tom has run away.’

    ‘Sorry to hear it. I thought he was such a good son.’

    ‘He beant a bad one,’ replied the father, quickly; ‘he be only a fool; gone off because I would not listen to his marrying Burr the organist’s daughter. I ha’ been to Ipswich, Yarmouth, and even as far as Norwich, to find him, but can’t hear naught of him. I fear he’s gone and listed.’

    ‘I regret to hear it,’ repeated Clara, with difficulty repressing her satisfaction, for she began to read the speaker rightly; ‘but you have some consolation.’

    ‘Have I, my lady?’

    ‘Two excellent daughters.’

    ‘Yes, to be sure; the gals are well enough!’

    ‘Bess, I hear, is to marry young Watson.’

    ‘Some talk on it, my lady.’

    ‘So that if Tom should get shot, drowned at sea, or never come back, there will be no danger of the farm going out of the family. To be sure,’ she added, carelessly, ‘it will not be a Randal. Good-day.’

    ‘I fear, Clara,’ observed her friend, after they had resumed their ride, ‘that our sex are naturally inclined to be a little cruel. Did you notice how the old man winced when you alluded to the possibility of his son’s being shot or drowned?’

    ‘I did notice it replied the heiress; ‘but I thought of Phœbe, and conscience told me I was right. The farmer has a hard nature. It is only by constantly hammering one can produce the least impression.’

    I must be cruel only to be kind.

    ‘I have resolved,’ added the speaker, ‘to see my old playmate happy with her lover, who really deserves her, and begin to think I perceive the way.’

    ‘It will not be a Randal,’ repeated the farmer, several times to himself. The words had stung him deeply. ‘It shan’t be a Watson, anyway. I’ll shut my gals up fust — make nuns of ’em. I ha’ heard that nuns don’t marry. Tom be a bad boy, though I wouldn’t own to it, to cross his old father. Why, I always let him have his own way.’

    The speaker should have added, when it happened to be his own as well. Clara Meredith was right. Some men have hard natures and require a deal of hammering.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes and Further Reading

    I’ll keep good the promise made by one of my 1883 newspaper sources:

    In tomorrow’s issue a synopsis will be given of that portion of The Mystery of the Marsh which has already been published, in order that new readers may be enabled to take up the following chapters with a knowledge of what has preceded.

    Perhaps not tomorrow as such, but before the next instalment, anyway.

    ‘on hospitable cares intent’: Generic misquotation from Milton’s Paradise Lost, ‘on hospitable thoughts intent’ (5.332). Sir Walter Scott (Redgauntlet, Ch. 11, 1824) and Anthony Trollope’s brother Tom Trollope (A Summer in Brittany, 1840) also use the misquoted phrase.

    ‘the Pelagians’: Followers of Pelagius (c. 354 — post-418), a monk and theologian, probably born in Britain, who espoused a belief in the freedom of human will, especially concerning the question of spiritual salvation, as opposed to inherent dependency upon Adam’s original sin.

    ‘native of the debatable land’: Originally a specific politico-geographical reference, as in Walter Scott’s Introduction to Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802 — 03): “At this time [mid-16th C], also, the Debateable Land, a tract of country, situated betwixt the Esk and Sarke, claimed by both kingdoms, was divided by royal commissioners, appointed by the two crowns.” By the nineteenth century, the term had been extended to apply to other, comparable regions. (See Claire Lamont and Michael Rossington, Romanticism’s Debatable Lands [Macmillan, 2007]).

    Hence Burcham, while considered persona non grata and not invited to respectable affairs, has no problem posting bail, and though ‘a mere outsider’, owns ‘the best cover in the country’ and must therefore be admitted to the hunt.

    ‘I must be cruel only to be kind‘: Italics added to the quotation from Hamlet, Act 3, scene 4, 173-9, which is differentiated typographically in the newspaper copies.

    Holly Furneaux, ‘Victorian Sexualities’, online at the British Library website.

    John Ruskin, ‘Of Queens’ Gardens‘, Ballantyne Press (1902). Beautiful digital facsimile available free online at Internet Archive (see above link).