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THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE.
FEBRUARY, 1860.

CONTENTS.

LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO.,
65, CORNHILL.

THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE.
FEBRUARY, 1860.

Nil Nisi Bonum.

Almost the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, “Be a good man, my dear!” and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them.

Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time. Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic’s pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works. This is no review, or history, or criticism: only a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labour the honour of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men. One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost with the republic; the pater patriæ had laid his hand on the child’s head. He bore Washington’s name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling goodwill. His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europeans. If Irving’s welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart? Who can calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this writer’s generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own? His books are read by millions[1] of his countrymen, whom he has taught to love England, and why to love her. It would have been easy to speak otherwise than he did: to inflame national rancours, which, at the time when he first became known as a public writer, war had just renewed: to cry down the old civilization at the expense of the new: to point out our faults, arrogance, shortcomings, and give the republic to infer how much she was the parent state’s superior. There are writers enough in the United States, honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of doctrine. But the good Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no place for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but kindness. Received in England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne witness to their liking for him), he was a messenger of goodwill and peace between his country and ours. “See, friends!” he seems to say, “these English are not so wicked, rapacious, callous, proud, as you have been taught to believe them. I went amongst them a humble man; won my way by my pen; and, when known, found every hand held out to me with kindliness and welcome. Scott is a great man, you acknowledge. Did not Scott’s king of England give a gold medal to him, and another to me, your countryman, and a stranger?”

Tradition in the United States still fondly retains the history of the feasts and rejoicings which awaited Irving on his return to his native country from Europe. He had a national welcome; he stammered in his speeches, hid himself in confusion, and the people loved him all the better. He had worthily represented America in Europe. In that young community a man who brings home with him abundant European testimonials is still treated with respect (I have found American writers of wide-world reputation, strangely solicitous about the opinions of quite obscure British critics, and elated or depressed by their judgments); and Irving went home medalled by the king, diplomatized by the university, crowned, and honoured and admired. He had not in any way intrigued for his honours, he had fairly won them; and, in Irving’s instance, as in others, the old country was glad and eager to pay them.

In America the love and regard for Irving was a national sentiment. Party wars are perpetually raging there, and are carried on by the press with a rancour and fierceness against individuals which exceed British, almost Irish, virulence. It seemed to me, during a year’s travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at Irving. All men held their hand from that harmless, friendly peacemaker. I had the good fortune to see him at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington,[2] and remarked how in every place he was honoured and welcome. Every large city has its “Irving House.” The country takes pride in the fame of its men of letters. The gate of his own charming little domain on the beautiful Hudson River was for ever swinging before visitors who came to him. He shut out no one.[3] I had seen many pictures of his house, and read descriptions of it, in both of which it was treated with a not unusual American exaggeration. It was but a pretty little cabin of a place; the gentleman of the press who took notes of the place, whilst his kind old host was sleeping, might have visited the whole house in a couple of minutes.

And how came it that this house was so small, when Mr. Irving’s books were sold by hundreds of thousands, nay, millions, when his profits were known to be large, and the habits of life of the good old bachelor were notoriously modest and simple? He had loved once in his life. The lady he loved died; and he, whom all the world loved, never sought to replace her. I can’t say how much the thought of that fidelity has touched me. Does not the very cheerfulness of his after life add to the pathos of that untold story? To grieve always was not in his nature; or, when he had his sorrow, to bring all the world in to condole with him and bemoan it. Deep and quiet he lays the love of his heart, and buries it; and grass and flowers grow over the scarred ground in due time.

Irving had such a small house and such narrow rooms, because there was a great number of people to occupy them. He could only afford to keep one old horse (which, lazy and aged as it was, managed once or twice to run away with that careless old horseman). He could only afford to give plain sherry to that amiable British paragraph-monger from New York, who saw the patriarch asleep over his modest, blameless cup, and fetched the public into his private chamber to look at him. Irving could only live very modestly, because the wifeless, childless man had a number of children to whom he was as a father. He had as many as nine nieces, I am told—I saw two of these ladies at his house—with all of whom the dear old man had shared the produce of his labour and genius.

“Be a good man, my dear.” One can’t but think of these last words of the veteran Chief of Letters, who had tasted and tested the value of worldly success, admiration, prosperity. Was Irving not good, and, of his works, was not his life the best part? In his family, gentle, generous, good-humoured, affectionate, self-denying: in society, a delightful example of complete gentlemanhood; quite unspoiled by prosperity; never obsequious to the great (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as some public men are forced to be in his and other countries); eager to acknowledge every contemporary’s merit; always kind and affable with the young members of his calling; in his professional bargains and mercantile dealings delicately honest and grateful; one of the most charming masters of our lighter language; the constant friend to us and our nation; to men of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, and pure life:—I don’t know what sort of testimonial will be raised to him in his own country, where generous and enthusiastic acknowledgment of American merit is never wanting: but Irving was in our service as well as theirs; and as they have placed a stone at Greenwich yonder in memory of that gallant young Bellot, who shared the perils and fate of some of our Arctic seamen, I would like to hear of some memorial raised by English writers and friends of letters in affectionate remembrance of the dear and good Washington Irving.

As for the other writer, whose departure many friends, some few most dearly-loved relatives, and multitudes of admiring readers deplore, our republic has already decreed his statue, and he must have known that he had earned this posthumous honour. He is not a poet and man of letters merely, but citizen, statesman, a great British worthy. Almost from the first moment when he appears, amongst boys, amongst college students, amongst men, he is marked, and takes rank as a great Englishman. All sorts of successes are easy to him: as a lad he goes down into the arena with others, and wins all the prizes to which he has a mind. A place in the senate is straightway offered to the young man. He takes his seat there; he speaks, when so minded, without party anger or intrigue, but not without party faith and a sort of heroic enthusiasm for his cause. Still he is poet and philosopher even more than orator. That he may have leisure and means to pursue his darling studies, he absents himself for a while, and accepts a richly-remunerated post in the East. As learned a man may live in a cottage or a college common-room; but it always seemed to me that ample means and recognized rank were Macaulay’s as of right. Years ago there was a wretched outcry raised because Mr. Macaulay dated a letter from Windsor Castle, where he was staying. Immortal gods! Was this man not a fit guest for any palace in the world? or a fit companion for any man or woman in it? I daresay, after Austerlitz, the old K. K. court officials and footmen sneered at Napoleon for dating from Schönbrunn. But that miserable “Windsor Castle” outcry is an echo out of fast-retreating old-world remembrances. The place of such a natural chief was amongst the first of the land; and that country is best, according to our British notion, at least, where the man of eminence has the best chance of investing his genius and intellect.

If a company of giants were got together, very likely one or two of the mere six-feet-six people might be angry at the incontestable superiority of the very tallest of the party: and so I have heard some London wits, rather peevish at Macaulay’s superiority, complain that he occupied too much of the talk, and so forth. Now that wonderful tongue is to speak no more, will not many a man grieve that he no longer has the chance to listen? To remember the talk is to wonder: to think not only of the treasures he had in his memory, but of the trifles he had stored there, and could produce with equal readiness. Almost on the last day I had the fortune to see him, a conversation happened suddenly to spring up about senior wranglers, and what they had done in after life. To the almost terror of the persons present, Macaulay began with the senior wrangler of 1801–2–3–4, and so on, giving the name of each, and relating his subsequent career and rise. Every man who has known him has his story regarding that astonishing memory. It may be he was not ill-pleased that you should recognize it; but to those prodigious intellectual feats, which were so easy to him, who would grudge his tribute of homage? His talk was, in a word, admirable, and we admired it.

Of the notices which have appeared regarding Lord Macaulay, up to the day when the present lines are written (the 9th of January), the reader should not deny himself the pleasure of looking especially at two. It is a good sign of the times when such articles as these (I mean the articles in The Times and Saturday Review) appear in our public prints about our public men. They educate us, as it were, to admire rightly. An uninstructed person in a museum or at a concert may pass by without recognizing a picture or a passage of music, which the connoisseur by his side may show him is a masterpiece of harmony, or a wonder of artistic skill. After reading these papers you like and respect more the person you have admired so much already. And so with regard to Macaulay’s style there may be faults of course—what critic can’t point them out? But for the nonce we are not talking about faults: we want to say nil nisi bonum. Well—take at hazard any three pages of the Essays or History;—and, glimmering below the stream of the narrative, as it were, you, an average reader, see one, two, three, a half-score of allusions to other historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, with which you are acquainted. Why is this epithet used? Whence is that simile drawn? How does he manage, in two or three words, to paint an individual, or to indicate a landscape? Your neighbour, who has his reading, and his little stock of literature stowed away in his mind, shall detect more points, allusions, happy touches, indicating not only the prodigious memory and vast learning of this master, but the wonderful industry, the honest, humble previous toil of this great scholar. He reads twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a hundred miles to make a line of description.

Many Londoners—not all—have seen the British Museum Library. I speak à cœur ouvert, and pray the kindly reader to bear with me. I have seen all sorts of domes of Peters and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon,—what not?—and have been struck by none of them so much as by that catholic dome in Bloomsbury, under which our million volumes are housed. What peace, what love, what truth, what beauty, what happiness for all, what generous kindness for you and me, are here spread out! It seems to me one cannot sit down in that place without a heart full of grateful reverence. I own to have said my grace at the table, and to have thanked heaven for this my English birthright, freely to partake of these bountiful books, and to speak the truth I find there. Under the dome which held Macaulay’s brain, and from which his solemn eyes looked out on the world but a fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, and wonderful store of learning was ranged! what strange lore would he not fetch for you at your bidding! A volume of law, or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by himself who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, and he had it at hand. I spoke to him once about Clarissa. “Not read Clarissa!” he cried out. “If you have once thoroughly entered on Clarissa, and are infected by it, you can’t leave it. When I was in India, I passed one hot season at the hills, and there were the governor-general, and the secretary of government, and the commander-in chief, and their wives. I had Clarissa with me: and, as soon as they began to read, the whole station was in a passion of excitement about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her scoundrelly Lovelace! The governor’s wife seized the book, and the secretary waited for it, and the chief justice could not read it for tears!” He acted the whole scene: he paced up and down the Athenæum library: I daresay he could have spoken pages of the book—of that book, and of what countless piles of others!

In this little paper let us keep to the text of nil nisi bonum. One paper I have read regarding Lord Macaulay says “he had no heart.” Why, a man’s books may not always speak the truth, but they speak his mind in spite of himself: and it seems to me this man’s heart is beating through every page he penned. He is always in a storm of revolt and indignation against wrong, craft, tyranny. How he cheers heroic resistance; how he backs and applauds freedom struggling for its own; how he hates scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains possess it! The critic who says Macaulay had no heart, might say that Johnson had none: and two men more generous, and more loving, and more hating, and more partial, and more noble, do not live in our history.

The writer who said that Lord Macaulay had no heart could not know him. Press writers should read a man well, and all over, and again; and hesitate, at least, before they speak of those αἰδοἴα. Those who knew Lord Macaulay knew how admirably tender, and generous,[4] and affectionate he was. It was not his business to bring his family before the theatre footlights, and call for bouquets from the gallery as he wept over them.

If any young man of letters reads this little sermon—and to him, indeed, it is addressed—I would say to him, “Bear Scott’s words in your mind, and ‘be good, my dear.’” Here are two literary men gone to their account, and, laus Deo, as far as we know, it is fair, and open, and clean. Here is no need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices which would have been virtues but for unavoidable &c. Here are two examples of men most differently gifted: each pursuing his calling; each speaking his truth as God bade him; each honest in his life; just and irreproachable in his dealings; dear to his friends; honoured by his country; beloved at his fireside. It has been the fortunate lot of both to give uncountable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may not be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or rewarded with such fame. But the rewards of these men are rewards paid to our service. We may not win the baton or epaulettes; but God give us strength to guard the honour of the flag!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See his Life in the most remarkable Dictionary of Authors, published lately at Philadelphia, by Mr. Alibone.

[2] At Washington, Mr. Irving came to a lecture given by the writer, which Mr. Filmore and General Pierce, the president and president elect, were also kind enough to attend together. “Two Kings of Brentford smelling at one rose,” says Irving, looking up with his good-humoured smile.

[3] Mr. Irving described to me, with that humour and good humour which he always kept, how, amongst other visitors, a member of the British press who had carried his distinguished pen to America (where he employed it in vilifying his own country) came to Sunnyside, introduced himself to Irving, partook of his wine and luncheon, and in two days described Mr. Irving, his house, his nieces, his meal, and his manner of dozing afterwards, in a New York paper. On another occasion, Irving said, laughing: “Two persons came to me, and one held me in conversation whilst the other miscreant took my portrait!”

[4] Since the above was written, I have been informed that it has been found, on examining Lord Macaulay’s papers, that he was in the habit of giving away more than a fourth part of his annual income.

Invasion Panics.

When, about the year 1899, Field-marshal Dowbiggin, full of years and honours, shall edit, with copious notes, the Private Correspondence of his kinsman, Queen Victoria’s celebrated War Minister during England’s bloody struggle with Russia in 1854–5, the grandchildren of the present generation may probably learn a good deal more respecting the real causes of the failures and shortcomings of that “horrible and heartrending” period than we, their grandfathers, are likely to know on this side our graves.

And when some future Earl of Pembroke shall devote his splendid leisure, under the cedar groves of Wilton, to preparing for the information of the twentieth century the memoirs of his great ancestor, Mr. Secretary Herbert, posterity will then run some chance of discovering—what is kept a close secret from the public just now—whether any domestic causes exist to justify the invasion-panic under which the nation has recently been shivering.

The insular position of England, her lofty cliffs, her stormy seas, her winter fogs, fortify her with everlasting fortifications, as no other European power is fortified. She is rich, she is populous, she contains within herself an abundance of coal, iron, timber, and almost all other munitions of war; railways intersect and encircle her on all sides; in patriotism, in loyalty, in manliness, in intelligence, her sons yield to no other race of men. Blest with all these advantages, she ought, of all the nations of Europe, to be the last to fear, the readiest to repel invasion; yet, strange to say, of all the nations of Europe, England appears to apprehend invasion most!

There must be some good and sufficient reason for this extraordinary state of things. Many reasons are daily assigned for it, all differing from each other, all in turn disputed and denied by those who know the real reason best.

The statesman and the soldier declare that the fault lies with parliament and the people. They complain that parliament is niggardly in placing sufficient means at the disposal of the executive, and that the people are distrustful and over-inquisitive as to their application; ever too ready to attribute evil motives and incapacity to those set in authority over them. Parliament and the people, on the other hand, reply, that ample means are yearly allotted for the defence of the country, and that more would readily be forthcoming, had they reason to suppose that what has already been spent, has been well spent; their Humes and their Brights loudly and harshly denounce the nepotism, the incapacity, and the greed, which, according to them, disgrace the governing classes, and waste and weaken the resources of the land. And so the painful squabble ferments—no probable end to it being in view. Indeed, the public are permitted to know so little of the conduct of their most important affairs—silence is so strictly enjoined to the men at the helm—that the most carefully prepared indictment against an official delinquent is invariably evaded by the introduction of some new feature into his case, hitherto unknown to any but his brother officials, which at once casts upon the assailant the stigma of having arraigned a public servant on incomplete information, and puts him out of court.

But if, in this the year of our Lord 1860, we have no means of discovering why millions of strong, brave, well-armed Englishmen should be so moved at the prospect of a possible attack from twenty or thirty thousand French, we have recently been placed in possession of the means of ascertaining why, some sixty years ago, this powerful nation was afflicted with a similar fit of timidity.

The first American war had then just ended—not gloriously for the British arms. Lord Amherst, the commander-in-chief at home, had been compelled by his age and infirmities to retire from office, having, it was said, been indulgently permitted by his royal master to retain it longer than had been good for the credit and discipline of the service. The Duke of York, an enthusiastic and practical soldier, in the prime of life, fresh from an active command in Flanders, had succeeded him. In that day there were few open-mouthed and vulgar demagogues to carp at the public expenditure and to revile the privileged classes; and the few that there were had a very bad time of it. Public money was sown broadcast, both at home and abroad, with a reckless hand; regulars, militia, yeomanry, and volunteers, fearfully and wonderfully attired, bristled in thousands wherever a landing was conceived possible; and, best of all, that noble school of Great British seamen, which had reared us a Nelson, had reared us many other valiant guardians of our shores scarcely less worthy than he. But in spite of her Yorks and her Nelsons, England felt uneasy and unsafe. Confident in her navy, she had little confidence in her army, which at that time was entirely and absolutely in the hands and under the management of the court; parliament and the people being only permitted to pay for it.

Yet the royal commander-in-chief was declared by the general officers most in favour at court to know his business well, and to be carrying vigorously into effect the necessary reforms suggested by our American mishaps; his personal acquaintance with the officers of the army was said to have enabled him to form his military family of the most capable men in the service;[5] his exalted position, and his enormous income, were supposed to place him above the temptation of jobbing: in short, the Duke of York was universally held up to the nation by his military friends—and a royal commander-in-chief has many and warm military friends—as the regenerator of the British army, which just then happened to be sadly in need of regeneration.

A work has recently been published which tells us very plainly now many things which it would have been treasonable even to suspect sixty years ago. It is entitled The Cornwallis Correspondence, and contains the private papers and letters of the first Marquis Cornwallis, one of the foremost Englishmen of his time. Bred a soldier, he served with distinction in Germany and in America. He then proceeded to India in the double capacity of governor-general and commander-in-chief. On his return from that service he filled for some years the post of master-general of the Ordnance, refused a seat in the Cabinet, offered him by Mr. Pitt; and, although again named governor-general of India, on the breaking out of the Irish rebellion of 1798 was hurried to Dublin as lord-lieutenant and commander-in-chief. He was subsequently employed to negotiate the peace of Amiens, and, in 1805, died at Ghazeepore, in India, having been appointed its governor-general for the third time.

From the correspondence of this distinguished statesman and soldier, we may now ascertain whether, sixty years ago, the people of England had or had not good grounds for dreading invasion by the French, and whether the governing classes or the governed were most in fault on that occasion for the doubtful condition of their native land.

George the Third was verging upon insanity. So detested and despised was the Prince of Wales, his successor, that those who directed his Majesty’s councils, as well as the people at large, clung eagerly to the hopes of the king’s welfare; trusting that the evil days of a regency might be postponed. And it would seem from the Cornwallis Correspondence, that the English were just in their estimation of that bad man. H. R. H. having quarrelled shamefully with his parents, and with Pitt, had thrown himself into the hands of the Opposition, and appears to have corresponded occasionally with Cornwallis, who had two votes at his command in the Commons, during that nobleman’s first Indian administration. In 1790, Lord Cornwallis, writing to his brother, the Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, says: “You tell me that I am accused of being remiss in my correspondence with a certain great personage. Nothing can be more false, for I have answered every letter from him by the first ship that sailed from hence after I received it. The style of them, although personally kind to excess, has not been very agreeable to me, as they have always pressed upon me some infamous and unjustifiable job, which I have uniformly been obliged to refuse, and contained much gross and false abuse of Mr. Pitt, and improper charges against other and greater personages, about whom, to me at least, he ought to be silent.”[6]

The intimacy which had existed from boyhood between General Richard Grenville, military tutor to the Duke of York, and Lord Cornwallis, and the correspondence which took place between them, to which we have now access, afford ample means of judging of the real capacity of that royal soldier, to whose charge the military destinies of England, both at home and abroad, were intrusted by the king at such a critical moment.

At seventeen years of age the duke became, per saltum, as the usage is with royal personages, a colonel in the British army. After attending for two or three years the great Prussian reviews, by way of studying his profession, he was, on attaining his majority, raised to the rank of general, and appointed colonel of the Coldstream Guards. Various notices of H. R. H. are to be found in the numerous confidential letters which passed about that time between Cornwallis and Grenville. They were both warmly attached to him; both most anxious for his own sake, and for that of their profession, that he should turn out well.

They describe H. R. H. as brave, good-humoured, and weak; utterly destitute of military talent, incapable of attending to business, much given to drink, and more to dice, hopelessly insolvent, and steeped in debauchery and extravagance of all kinds. In 1790, Grenville writes to Cornwallis in India: “The conduct of a certain great personage, who has so cruelly disappointed both you and myself, still continues to give me great uneasiness; more especially as I see no hopes of amendment.” The duke was at that date twenty-seven years of age.

In 1791, the Duke of York married, and but two years afterwards Lord Cornwallis, on his return from India, actually found his friend Grenville’s unpromising pupil in Flanders, at the head of a considerable English force, acting in conjunction with the Austrians, Russians, and Dutch, against the French. His utter want of military talent, his inexperience, his idleness, and his vices had not prevented his being intrusted by his royal parent with the lives of a large body of brave men, and with the honour of England. Great difficulties soon arose in this allied army, its chiefs mutually accusing each other, possibly not without good reason, of incapacity. At last, a person, whose name is not even now divulged, but who possessed the entire confidence of both Pitt and Cornwallis, wrote as follows, from the British head-quarters at Arnheim, on the 11th Nov. 1794:—

“We are really come to such a critical situation, that unless some decided, determined, and immediate steps are taken, God knows what may happen. Despised by our enemies, without discipline, confidence, or exertion among ourselves, hated and more dreaded than the enemy, even by the well-disposed inhabitants of the country, every disgrace and misfortune is to be expected. You must thoroughly feel how painful it must be to acknowledge this even to your lordship, but no honest man who has any regard for his country can avoid seeing it. Whatever measures are adopted at home, either removing us from the continent or remaining, something must be done to restore discipline, and the confidence that always attends it. The sortie from Nimeguen, on the 4th, was made entirely by the British, and executed with their usual spirit; they ran into the French without firing a single shot, and, consequently, lost very few men,—their loss was when they afterwards were ordered to retire. Yet from what I have mentioned in the first part of my letter, I assure you I dread the thought of these troops being attacked or harassed in retreat.”[7]

Upon the receipt of this grave intelligence, Mr. Pitt at once communicated to the king the absolute necessity of the duke’s immediate recall. His Majesty had no choice but to consent, which he reluctantly did; and H. R. H. returned home, was immediately created a field-marshal, and placed in command of all the forces of the United Kingdom!

Lord Cornwallis’s bitter remark upon this astounding appointment is—“Whether we shall get any good by this, God only knows; but I think things cannot change for the worse at the Horse Guards. If the French land, and that they will land I am certain, I should not like to trust the new field-marshal with the defence of Culford.”[8]

Having thus practically ascertained, at an enormous cost of blood and treasure, that the best-tempered and bravest general cannot command with success a British army in the field, if he happens, as was the case with the Duke of York, to be a weak man of high social position, destitute of military talent and habits of business, and much addicted to pleasure, an examination of Lord Cornwallis’s correspondence during the next few years will show how it fared with the British army when it was directed by such an officer at home.

In expressing his conviction that the French were determined to invade us, Lord Cornwallis proved a true prophet. Late in 1796, a fleet, commanded by Admiral De Galle, sailed from Brest for Ireland, carrying General Hoche and 15,000 men. Furious December gales dispersed the French ships,—only a portion of the expedition reached Bantry Bay; the vessel in which De Galle and Hoche were, was missing. Admiral Boivet, the second in command, hesitated to disembark the troops without the orders of his superiors. The United Irishmen, who had promised instant co-operation, made no sign; the weather rendered even Bantry Bay insecure; and, finally, such of the ships as escaped wreck or capture, straggled back to France, where Hoche and De Galle, after cruising about for many days in fog and storm on the banks of Newfoundland, had had the good luck to arrive before them. On that occasion, our natural defences may indeed be said to have stood us in good stead. But it was not consolatory to those who feared invasion to reflect that such a large force should have succeeded in reaching our shores unperceived and unmolested by the British cruisers; and that, had the weather been tolerable, 15,000 French bayonets would have landed without opposition on Irish ground.

The next year passed over in constant alarms; our information respecting the local preparations of the French being unfortunately very vague. The military defence of England appears to have been at that time mainly intrusted to Sir David Dundas, an unlucky pedant of the German school of tactics, of whom the king and court had the highest opinion, so tightly had he dressed and so accurately had he drilled the Guards. Lord Cornwallis, writing early in 1798 to the Hon. Col. Wesley,[9] says:—“We are brought to the state to which I have long since looked forward, deserted by all our allies, and in daily expectation of invasion, for which the French are making the most serious preparations. I have no doubt of the courage and fidelity of our militia; but the system of David Dundas, and the total want of light infantry, sit heavy on my mind, and point out the advantages which the activity of the French will have in a country which is for the most part enclosed.”

At this juncture, the rebellion of 1798 broke out in Ireland, and at the urgent request of Ministers, who appear to have considered Lord Cornwallis the man for every difficulty, his lordship consented to undertake the joint duties of lord-lieutenant and commander-in-chief in that unhappy country, then as disturbed and disloyal as conflicting races and religions, and the most savage misgovernment, could make it.

His lordship’s letters to the Duke of Portland and others, from Dublin, evince far more apprehension at the violence, cruelty, and insubordination of the army under his command, than at the rebels who were up in arms against him. His words are:—“The violence of our friends, and their folly in endeavouring to make this a religious war, added to the ferocity of our troops, who delight in murder, most powerfully counteract all plans of conciliation.” Nevertheless his judgment, firmness, and temper soon prevailed; by midsummer the insurrection was suppressed with far less bloodshed than was pleasing to the supporters of the government; and Lord Cornwallis was endeavouring to concentrate his attention on the reorganization of the military mob, which then, under the name of soldiers, garrisoned Ireland against foreign and domestic foes, when the invader actually arrived.[10]

On the 22nd of August, three frigates under English colours anchored in Killala Bay, co. Mayo, carrying a force of about 1,100 French troops, commanded by General Humbert. They were the vanguard of a larger force under General Hardy, which was to have sailed at the same time, but which had been detained by unforeseen difficulties at Brest.

There being no sufficient force to oppose them, the French easily took possession of Killala, and established their head-quarters in the palace of the bishop, Dr. Stock, who has left a most interesting journal of what occurred whilst the French occupied the town.

Humbert had brought with him a large supply of arms, ammunition, and uniforms, to be distributed amongst the United Irishmen, who he had been led to suppose would instantly rally round his standard. But he soon discovered that he had been deceived, that he had landed in the wrong place, and that he had arrived too late. The peasantry of Mayo, a simple and uncivilized race, ignorant of the use of fire-arms, crowded round the invaders as long as they had anything to give, and as long as there was no enemy to fight; but, at the first shot, they invariably ran away. Besides, the neck of the rebellion had been already dislocated by the judicious vigour of Cornwallis. Had the landing been effected earlier, and farther north, the result might have been different; as it was, the French general found that he had a losing game to play—and most manfully and creditably did he play it.

Professing to wage no war against the Irish, he assured the bishop that neither pillage nor violence should be permitted, and that his troops should only take what was absolutely necessary for their subsistence; and on these points, the bishop tells us, the Frenchman “religiously kept his word;” not only controlling his own soldiers, but actually protecting the bishop and his little Protestant flock from the rapacity of the Irish rebels who for a time joined the invaders.

The bishop’s account of the French soldiery is notable; they appear to have been an under-sized and mean-looking set of men, whom Sir David Dundas would have held in no account on parade; yet they did the work they had to do, hopeless and fatal as it was, as well as the Duke of York’s own gigantic regiment of guards could have done it.

“The French,” says the bishop, “are a nation apt enough to consider themselves as superior to any people in the world; but here, indeed, it would have been ridiculous not to prefer the Gallic troops in every respect before their Irish allies. Intelligence, activity, temperance, patience to a surprising degree, appeared to be combined in the soldiery that came over with Humbert, together with the exactest obedience to discipline. Yet, if you except their grenadiers, they had nothing to catch the eye: their stature for the most part was low, their complexions pale and sallow, their clothes much the worse for wear; to a superficial observer they would have appeared incapable of enduring almost any hardship. These were the men, however, of whom it was presently observed that they could be well content to live on bread and potatoes, to drink water, to make the stones of the street their bed, and to sleep in their clothes, with no covering but the canopy of heaven. One half of their number had served in Italy under Buonaparte, the rest were from the army of the Rhine, where they had suffered distresses that well accounted for thin persons and wan looks.”

Humbert himself, who had accompanied the Bantry Bay expedition in 1796, had risen from the ranks, and had brought himself into notice by his brilliant conduct in La Vendée.

The day after landing, the French advanced towards Ballina, leaving at Killala six officers and two hundred men to guard a quantity of ammunition which they had no means of carrying with them. The English garrison of Ballina fled on their approach, and Humbert, stationing there one hundred more of his men, pushed on to Castlebar, where General Lake was prepared to meet him. The latter had previously ascertained, by means of a flag of truce, the exact number of the French, and had sent a message privily to the bishop, telling him to be of good cheer, inasmuch as the great superiority of his own numbers would speedily enable him to give a good account of the invading force. What did occur when the French and English met is, perhaps, best told in the words of General Hutchinson, Lake’s second in command during the affair. Contemporary authorities, however, prove that Hutchinson has very much understated the numbers of the English force:—

“On Monday morning, 27th August, about an hour before sunrise, a report was received from the outposts, distant about six miles, that the enemy was advancing. The troops were immediately assembled, having the night before received orders to be under arms two hours before day-break. The troops and cannon were then posted on a position previously taken, where they remained until seven o’clock. They were 1,600 or 1,700 cavalry and infantry, ten pieces of cannon and a howitzer. The ground was very strong by nature; the French were about 700, having left 100 at Ballina and 200 at Killala. They did not land above 1,000 rank and file. They had with them about 500 rebels, a great proportion of whom fled after the first discharge of cannon. The French had only two 4-pounders and from thirty to forty mounted men.

“Nothing could exceed the misconduct of the troops, with the exception of the artillery, which was admirably served, and of Lord Roden’s Fencibles, who appeared at all times ready to do their duty. There is too much reason to imagine that two of the regiments had been previously tampered with; the hope of which disaffection induced the French to make the attack, which was certainly one of the most hazardous and desperate ever thought of against a very superior body of troops, as their retreat both on Killala and Ballina was cut off by Sir Thomas Chapman and General Taylor.

“When the troops fell into confusion without the possibility of rallying them, there was scarcely any danger; very few men had at that time fallen on our part: the French, on the contrary, had suffered considerably. They lost six officers and from 70 to 80 men, which was great, considering how short a time the action lasted and the smallness of their numbers. I am convinced that had our troops continued firm for ten minutes longer, the affair must have been over to our entire advantage, but they fired volleys without any orders at a few men before they were within musket-shot. It was impossible to stop them, and they abandoned their ground immediately afterwards.”

Although the French did not attempt to pursue, the defeated army of Lake never halted till they reached Tuam, nearly forty English miles from the field of battle. On the evening of the same day they renewed their flight, and retired still farther towards Athlone, where an officer of Carabineers, with sixty of his men, arrived at one o’clock on Tuesday, the 29th August, having achieved a retreat of above seventy English miles in twenty-seven hours! All Lake’s artillery fell into the hands of the French. As soon as Lord Cornwallis heard of the invasion, conscious of the uncertain temper of the troops upon whom he had to rely, he determined to march in person to the west, collecting, as he came, such a force as must at once overwhelm the enemy.

Meantime the victorious French were met on the 5th of September at Colooney by Colonel Vereker, of the Limerick Regiment, an energetic officer, who had hastened from Sligo to attack them with 200 infantry, 30 dragoons, and two guns. After a gallant struggle he was compelled to retire with the loss of his guns, and the French advanced into Leitrim, hoping to find elsewhere stouter and more helpful allies than they had hitherto found amongst the half-starved cottiers of Mayo.

Crawford, afterwards the celebrated leader of the light division in Spain, rashly attacked them on the 7th of September with an inferior force near Ballynamore, and was very roughly handled by them; but on the 8th, Humbert, closely followed by Lake and Crawford, found himself confronted at Ballynamuck by Cornwallis and the main army. In this desperate situation, surrounded by upwards of 25,000 men, Humbert coolly drew up his little force, with no other object, it must be presumed, than to maintain the honour of the French flag. His rearguard, again attacked by Crawford, surrendered, but the remainder of the French continued to defend themselves for about half-an-hour longer, and contrived to take prisoner Lord Roden and some of his dragoons. They then, on the appearance of the main body of General Lake’s army, laid down their arms—746 privates and 96 officers; having lost about 200 men since their landing at Killala, on the 22nd of August.

The loss of the British at the battle of Ballynamuck was officially stated at three killed, and thirteen wounded. Their losses at Castlebar and elsewhere were never communicated to the public.

Plowden, who gives a detailed account of Humbert’s invasion in his Historical Review of the State of Ireland, published but five years after the event, observes:—“It must ever remain a humiliating reflection upon the power and lustre of the British arms that so pitiful a detachment as that of 1,100 French infantry should, in a kingdom in which there was an armed force of above 150,000 men, have not only put to rout a select army of 6,000 men prepared to receive the invaders, but also provided themselves with ordnance and ammunition from our stores, taken several of our towns, marched 122 Irish (above 150 English) miles through the country, and kept arms in their victorious hands for seventeen days in the heart of an armed kingdom. But it was this English army which the gallant and uncompromising Abercromby had, on the 26th of the preceding February, found ‘in such a state of licentiousness as must render it formidable to every one but the enemy.’”

Although the private letters of Lord Cornwallis, General Lake and Captain Herbert Taylor, which are now submitted to us, breathe nothing but indignation and disgust at the misconduct, insubordination, and cruelty of their panic-stricken troops, the public despatches, as the custom is, contain unalloyed praise.

A lengthy despatch penned by General Lake, on the evening of the surrender of Humbert’s little band, is worded almost as emphatically as Wellington’s despatch after Waterloo; about thirty officers are especially mentioned in it by name, and the conduct of the cavalry is sub-sarcastically described as having been “highly conspicuous.” Lord Cornwallis’s general order, too, dated on the following day, declares “that he cannot too much applaud the zeal and spirit which has been manifested by the army from the commencement of the operations against the invading enemy until the surrender of the French forces.” Such is too often the real value of official praise.

Notwithstanding this public testimony to the worth of the large army which surrounded and captured the handful of French invaders of 1798, the information which we now glean from The Cornwallis Correspondence serves but little to establish the Duke of York’s character as a successful military administrator, if a commander-in-chief is to be judged of by the effective state of the officers and troops under his direction.

Tired of the parade-ground and the desk, or, possibly, feeling that he did not shine at them, H. R. H. again tried his hand at active campaigning in 1799, and again failed. On the 9th of September of that year he once more sailed for Holland, and was actually permitted to assume the direction of the most considerable expedition that ever left the British shores. In conjunction with Russia, its object was to expel the French from Holland. After several bloody battles, fought with doubtful success, the duke found himself, in less than five weeks, so situated as to render it advisable for him to treat with the enemy. He proposed that the French should allow the allied army under his command to re-embark, threatening to destroy the dykes and ruin the surrounding country if his proposal was not entertained. After some discussion the French agreed to the re-embarkation of the allies, provided they departed before the 1st of November, left behind them all the artillery they had taken, and restored 8,000 French and Batavian prisoners who had been captured on former occasions. On these terms “a British king’s son, commanding 41,000 men, capitulated to a French general who had only 30,000,”[11] and the duke, fortunately for England, sheathed his sword, to draw it no more on the field of battle.

Lord Cornwallis writes on the 24th October: “By private letters which I have seen from Holland, our troops in general seem to have been in the greatest confusion, and on many occasions to have behaved exceedingly ill. There may be some exception in the corps belonging to Abercromby’s division. Considering the hasty manner in which they were thrown together, and the officers by whom they were commanded, I am not surprised at this. Would to God they were all on board! I dread the retreat and embarkation. David Dundas will never be like Cæsar, the favourite of fortune; hitherto, at least, that fickle goddess has set her face very steadily against him.” “I see no prospect of any essential improvement in our military system, for I am afraid that a buttoned coat, a heavy hat and feather, and a cursed sash tied round our waist will not lead the way to victory.”

The abortive expeditions against Ostend and Ferrol, which had terminated in the capture and disgrace of the troops employed in them, appear to have induced Lord Cornwallis to draw up a memorandum on the subject, and to submit it to the duke. The following is an extract from it:—

“I admit that while we are at war, and have the means of acting, we should not remain entirely on the defensive, but at the same time I would not go lightly in quest of adventures, with regiments raised with extreme difficulty, without means of recruiting, and commanded principally by officers without experience or knowledge of their profession. The expense, likewise, of expeditions is enormous, and the disgrace attending upon ill success is not likely to promote that most desirable object—a good peace.”

After the re-embarkation of the Ferrol expedition, he writes: “The prospect of public affairs is most gloomy. What a disgraceful and what an expensive campaign have we made! Twenty-two thousand men, a large proportion not soldiers, floating round the greater part of Europe the scorn and laughing-stock of friends and foes.”

In the spring of 1801, Lord Cornwallis, replaced in Ireland by Lord Hardwicke and Sir W. Medows, assumed the command of the eastern district in England—invasion appearing imminent. His letters to his friend Ross at this period are most desponding. Our best troops were abroad upon expeditions. One barren success in Egypt, with which ministers attempted to gild half-a-dozen failures, had cost us the gallant Abercromby. The defence of the country was intrusted to the militia. The Duke of York had actually proposed to introduce a Russian force to coerce and civilize Ireland, and would have done so had not the better sense and feeling of Cornwallis prevailed. “My disgrace must be certain,” writes he to Ross, “should the enemy land. What could I hope, with eight weak regiments of militia, making about 2,800 firelocks, and two regiments of dragoons?”... “In our wooden walls alone must we place our trust; we should make a sad business of it on shore.”... “If it is really intended that —— should defend Kent and Sussex, it is of very little consequence what army you place under his command.”... “God send that we may have no occasion to decide the matter on shore, where I have too much reason to apprehend that the contest must terminate in the disgrace of the general and the destruction of the country.”... “I confess that I see no prospect of peace, or of anything good. We shall prepare for the land defence of England by much wild and capricious expenditure of money, and if the enemy should ever elude the vigilance of our wooden walls, we shall after all make a bad figure.”[12]

Bad as matters had been at the time of Humbert’s invasion, it is clear that Lord Cornwallis believed our military affairs to be in a much worse condition in 1801.

In Ireland, in 1798, he had under him a few officers on whom he could depend, and although his army, thanks to Lord Amherst and the Duke of York, was in a deplorable state of discipline, he, a good and practised general, was at its head, to make the best of it.

The Duke of Wellington has since taught us, on more than one occasion, that there are some extraordinary workmen who can do good work with any tools, and who can even make their own tools as they require them.—But in England, in 1801, the military workmen in court employ were all so execrably bad, that it mattered little what was the quality of the tools supplied to them. The Duke of York, David Dundas, and Lord Chatham had everything their own way: the most important posts, the most costly expeditions, were intrusted, not to the officers most formidable to the enemy, but to the friends and protégés of the military courtiers who stood best at Windsor and St. James’s. It is no small proof of Cornwallis’s tact in judging of men, that whilst we find him deprecating the employment in independent commands of such generals as the Dukes of Gloucester and Cumberland, Dundas, Burrard (of Cintra), Coote (of Ostend), Pulteney (of Ferrol), Whitelock (of Buenos Ayres), and Lord Chatham (of Walcheren), he had always a word of approval for Lake and Abercromby, and in an introductory letter to Sir John Shore, speaks of the lieutenant-colonel of his own regiment, the Hon. Arthur Wesley, as a “sensible man and a good officer.”

Throughout the whole of The Cornwallis Correspondence, there is no single hint of stinted means for the defence of the country, there is no single doubt cast upon the personal bravery of our officers and our men; but there are many out-spoken complaints of utter incompetence and reckless extravagance on the part of those who had the chief conduct of our military affairs. From 1795 to 1805—that time of fear—we have now incontrovertible testimony that both England and Ireland were in an indefensible condition, had an invader landed with a very moderate body of such soldiers as Humbert led; and that that condition was owing in no degree to any want of manliness or liberality on the part of the British nation, but solely and entirely to the want of capacity of the men whom it pleased the court, in spite of repeated disgrace and defeat, perversely to maintain in the management and command of the army.[13]

Mr. Pitt survived Lord Cornwallis but a few months, dying early in 1806, and Lord Grenville, when invited by George III. to succeed him, positively declined to do so, unless the army was placed under ministerial control. To this innovation the poor crazy king demurred. It had been an amusement and an occupation to him in his lucid intervals, “to transact military business with Frederick,” with what deplorable results to the resources and credit of the nation we now know.[14] His Majesty objected, that ever since the time of the first Duke of Cumberland, the army had been considered as under the exclusive control of the sovereign, without any right of interference on the part of his ministers, save in matters relating to levying, clothing, feeding, and paying it; and he expressed a strong disinclination to make any concession which should fetter himself, and the Duke of York, in doing as they pleased with their own.

Lord Grenville, however, remained firm; for, in the opinion of himself and his friends, the safety of the kingdom required that he should be so, and, ultimately, the king gave way, on condition that no changes should be carried into effect at the Horse Guards without his knowledge and approval.

But other and more complaisant advisers soon replaced Lord Grenville, and circumstances, entirely corroborative of the estimate which Grenville and Cornwallis had formed of his character, rendered it advisable that the Duke of York should retire from public life.[15] Sir David Dundas, notoriously one of the most incapable and unfit general officers in the service, was selected by the court as H. R. H.’s successor; and, about two years afterwards, George III. finally disappeared from the scene, and the Regency commenced.[16] Then the duke, in spite of all that had transpired, was instantly recalled by his royal brother to Whitehall, where he remained until his death. The Regent was not the man to waive one iota of what he held to be his prerogative. During his reign, the right of the Crown to the irresponsible direction of the British army was fully asserted; and, in spite of five years of almost unvaried success in the Peninsula, and of the crowning glory of Waterloo, a fantastically dressed, luxurious, and unpopular body it became under the royal auspices. To the present day, regimental officers, fond of their glass, bless his Majesty for what is called “the Prince Regent’s allowance,” a boon which daily ensures to them a cheap after-dinner bottle of wine, at a cost to their more abstemious brother officers, and to taxpayers in general, of 27,000l. a year.

Happily for the present generation, matters have changed since those corrupt times, in many—many respects for the better. The British army is no longer looked upon by the people as a costly and not very useful toy, chiefly maintained for the diversion of royalty; we now recognize and respect in it an important national engine, for the proper condition and conduct of which—as for that of the navy—a Secretary of State is directly responsible to Parliament. But a change of such magnitude has not been carried out without much peevish remonstrance and factious opposition on the part of the many whose patronage it has diminished, and whose power it has curtailed; and there are still not a few who offer what opposition they dare to its harmonious consummation.

It is to be feared that a slight leaven of the same spirit which, sixty years ago, wasted the resources and paralyzed the energies of this powerful nation, may, perchance, still linger around the precincts of Whitehall and St. James’s,—and it is not impossible that when the Smith and Elder of the twentieth century present to the public their first editions of the Panmure Papers and the Herbert Memoirs, facts, bearing on the disasters of the Crimean war, and on the invasion panic of 1859–60, may for the first time be made known—not entirely different from those with which we have recently become acquainted through The Cornwallis Correspondence.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] “The duke has very unwisely taken over three or four boys of the Guards as his aides-de-camp: which will be of great disservice to him, and can be of no use to them.”—Lord Cornwallis to Lt.-Col. Ross, 1784.

[6] Three or four of the Prince of Wales’s letters are given at length. They all prove “the first gentleman and scholar of his day” to have been a very illiterate and unscrupulous jobber. In one of them he proposed to the Governor-General to displace “a black, named Alii Cann,” who was chief criminal judge of Benares, in order that a youth, named Pellegrine Treves, the son of a notorious London money-lender, might be appointed to that office.

Lord Cornwallis replied, that Ali Ibrahim Khan, though a native, was one of the most able and respected public servants in India, and that it would be a most difficult and unpopular step to remove him; and that even if his post were vacant, the youth and inexperience of the money-lender’s son rendered him utterly ineligible for such an important trust. One of the causes of complaint which H. R. H. urged against his royal parent was, that he, also, was not intrusted with high military command.

[7] The sufferings of the British soldiers in Holland, in 1794–5, from the incompetence and negligence of their superior officers, and the waste of public money from the same causes, have scarcely been exceeded during the Crimean war. In Lord Malmesbury’s Diary we find the following entry on the 7th Dec. 1793: “Lord Herbert came to see me. Complained much of the insubordination of the army; that it was greater than could be believed, and that the Guards were so beyond measure. Condemned the conduct of Gage, who had resigned on being refused leave of absence.” On the 16th of Feb. 1794, the Duke of Portland writes to Lord Malmesbury: “The Duke of York will return to the army the latter end of next week. But I cannot help saying that unless the licentious, not to say mutinous, spirit which prevails among our troops, and which originated in, I am sorry to say, and is cultivated by the Guards, is not subdued and extinguished, there is an end of the army.”

[8] His lordship’s country seat.

[9] The Duke.

[10] The following letter, addressed by a subaltern to his commanding officer, is given by the editor of the Cornwallis Papers, as a specimen of the habits, education and discipline of the British army about the year 1800:—

“To Lieut.-Col. ——, — Foot.

“Sir,—I believe (I am a member of the —— mess), if so, I will take the liberty to submit the following argument, viz., every gentleman under the immediate propensity of liquor has different propensities; to prove which, I have only to mention the present instance with respect to myself and Lieut. ——. My propensity is noise and riot—his sleep.

“I ever conceived that in a public mess-room, three things were certain: first, that it was open to every officer who chose to pay the subscription; second, that he might indulge himself with liquor as much as he pleased; and third, that if a gentleman and a member of the mess chose to get intoxicated in the mess-room, that no other officer (however high his rank in the regiment) had a right, or dare order to restrain (not being president) his momentary propensity in the mess-room.

“As such, and this being the case, I must inform you that you have acted in a most unprecedented and unknown (not to say ungentlemanlike) way, in presuming to enter the mess-room as a commanding officer, and to bring a sentry at your back (which you asserted you had) to turn out the amusement (a hand organ) of the company (a stranger being present), and thereby prevent the harmony which it is supposed ought to exist in a mess-room.

“I appeal to you as a gentleman, and if you will answer this letter as such, you at all times know how to direct to

“—— ——,
“Lieut. ——, — Foot.”

[11] Mr. Tierney’s speech in the House of Commons.

[12] Lieut.-Col. Gordon (Sir Willoughby), Military Secretary to the Duke of York, speaks of Lord Cornwallis as “an officer whose estimation in the army could not be exceeded.”—Lieut.-Col. Gordon to Sir A. Wellesley, 1807.

[13] “The staff in Kent seems to be calculated solely for the purpose of placing the defence of the country in the hands of Sir D. Dundas. However he may succeed with other people, I think he cannot persuade Mr. Pitt and Lord Melville that he is a clever fellow; and surely they must have too much sense to believe that it is possible that a man without talents, and who can neither write nor talk intelligibly, can be a good general.”—Lord C. to Lt.-Gen. Ross.

[14] “April 12, 1800. The king much improved. Saw the Duke of York for two hours yesterday, on military matters.

“April 13. The king not so well. Over-excited himself yesterday.”—Diary of the Right Hon. Sir George Rose.

[15] “The Duke of York is certainly in a bad way. All that we can do will be to acquit him of corruption; and indeed I doubt whether we shall be able to carry him so far as to acquit him of suspecting Mrs. Clarke’s practices and allowing them to go on. If we should succeed in both these objects, the question will then turn upon the point whether it is proper that a prince of the blood, who has manifested so much weakness as he has, and has led such a life (for that is material in these days), is a proper person to be intrusted with the duties of a responsible office.

“We shall be beat upon this question, I think. If we should carry it by a small majority, the duke will equally be obliged to resign his office, and most probably the consequence of such a victory must be that the government will be broken up.”—Sir A. Wellesley to the Duke of Richmond, 1809.

[16] “General Dundas is, I understand, appointed commander-in-chief, I should imagine much against the inclination of the king’s ministers; but I understand that it is expected that the Duke of York will be able to resume his situation by the time Sir David is quite superannuated, and it might not be so easy to get a younger or a better man out of office at so early a period.”—Sir A. W. to the Duke of R., 1809.

To Goldenhair.
(FROM HORACE.)

Ah, Pyrrha—tell me, whose the happy lot

To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses—

Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses

Thee, in some happy grot?

For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair

Dost thou entwine in cunning carelessnesses?

Alas, poor boy! Who thee, in fond belief, caresses

Deeming thee wholly fair!

How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan,

When fair to foul shall change—and he, unskilful

In pilotage, beholds—with tempests wildly wilful—

The happy calm o’erthrown!

He, who now hopes that thou wilt ever prove

All void of care, and full of fond endearing,

Knows not that varies more, than Zephyrs ever-veering,

The fickle breath of Love.

Ah, hapless he, to whom, like seas untried,

Thou seemest fair! That my sea-going’s ended

My votive tablet proves, to those dark Gods suspended,

Who o’er the waves preside.

Thomas Hood.

Framley Parsonage.

CHAPTER IV.
A Matter of Conscience.

It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But nevertheless we all do so. One may say that hankering after naughty things is the very essence of the evil into which we have been precipitated by Adam’s fall. When we confess that we are all sinners, we confess that we all long after naughty things.

And ambition is a great vice—as Mark Antony told us a long time ago—a great vice, no doubt, if the ambition of the man be with reference to his own advancement, and not to the advancement of others. But then, how many of us are there who are not ambitious in this vicious manner?

And there is nothing viler than the desire to know great people—people of great rank I should say; nothing worse than the hunting of titles and worshipping of wealth. We all know this, and say it every day of our lives. But presuming that a way into the society of Park Lane was open to us, and a way also into that of Bedford Row, how many of us are there who would prefer Bedford Row because it is so vile to worship wealth and title?

I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of putting forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in which the Rev. Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his arrival at Chaldicotes. And I trust that the fact of his being a clergyman will not be allowed to press against him unfairly. Clergymen are subject to the same passions as other men; and, as far as I can see, give way to them, in one line or in another, almost as frequently. Every clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a personal disinclination to a bishopric; but yet we do not believe that such personal disinclination is generally very strong.

Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that morning flew back to Mr. Fothergill’s invitation. The duke had sent a special message to say how peculiarly glad he, the duke, would be to make acquaintance with him, the parson! How much of this message had been of Mr. Fothergill’s own manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider.

He had obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a living as middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a possible Paradise for their old years. Of course he thought that all these good things had been the results of his own peculiar merits. Of course he felt that he was different from other parsons,—more fitted by nature for intimacy with great persons, more urbane, more polished, and more richly endowed with modern clerical well-to-do aptitudes. He was grateful to Lady Lufton for what she had done for him; but perhaps not so grateful as he should have been.

At any rate he was not Lady Lufton’s servant, nor even her dependant. So much he had repeated to himself on many occasions, and had gone so far as to hint the same idea to his wife. In his career as parish priest he must in most things be the judge of his own actions—and in many also it was his duty to be the judge of those of his patroness. The fact of Lady Lufton having placed him in the living, could by no means make her the proper judge of his actions. This he often said to himself; and he said as often that Lady Lufton certainly had a hankering after such a judgment-seat.

Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs think it expedient to make bishops and deans? Was it not, as a rule, of those clergymen who had shown themselves able to perform their clerical duties efficiently, and able also to take their place with ease in high society? He was very well off certainly at Framley; but he could never hope for anything beyond Framley, if he allowed himself to regard Lady Lufton as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton and her prejudices out of the question, was there any reason why he ought not to accept the duke’s invitation? He could not see that there was any such reason. If any one could be a better judge on such a subject than himself, it must be his bishop. And it was clear that the bishop wished him to go to Gatherum Castle.

The matter was still left open to him. Mr. Fothergill had especially explained that; and therefore his ultimate decision was as yet within his own power. Such a visit would cost him some money, for he knew that a man does not stay at great houses without expense; and then, in spite of his good income, he was not very flush of money. He had been down this year with Lord Lufton in Scotland. Perhaps it might be more prudent for him to return home.

But then an idea came to him that it behoved him as a man and a priest to break through that Framley thraldom under which he felt that he did to a certain extent exist. Was it not the fact that he was about to decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton? and if so, was that a motive by which he ought to be actuated? It was incumbent on him to rid himself of that feeling. And in this spirit he got up and dressed.

There was hunting again on that day; and as the hounds were to meet near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts lying on the verge of the chase, the ladies were to go in carriages through the drives of the forest, and Mr. Robarts was to escort them on horseback. Indeed it was one of those hunting-days got up rather for the ladies than for the sport. Great nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged hunting men; but the young fellows like them because they have thereby an opportunity of showing off their sporting finery, and of doing a little flirtation on horseback. The bishop, also, had been minded to be of the party; so, at least, he had said on the previous evening; and a place in one of the carriages had been set apart for him: but since that, he and Mrs. Proudie had discussed the matter in private, and at breakfast his lordship declared that he had changed his mind.

Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be very poor—as poor as debt can make a man—but who, nevertheless, enjoy all the luxuries which money can give. It was believed that he could not live in England out of jail but for his protection as a member of Parliament; and yet it seemed that there was no end to his horses and carriages, his servants and retinue. He had been at this work for a great many years, and practice, they say, makes perfect. Such companions are very dangerous. There is no cholera, no yellow-fever, no small-pox more contagious than debt. If one lives habitually among embarrassed men, one catches it to a certainty. No one had injured the community in this way more fatally than Mr. Sowerby. But still he carried on the game himself; and now on this morning carriages and horses thronged at his gate, as though he were as substantially rich as his friend the Duke of Omnium.

“Robarts, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they were well under way down one of the glades of the forest,—for the place where the hounds met was some four or five miles from the house of Chaldicotes,—“ride on with me a moment. I want to speak to you; and if I stay behind we shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who had come expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside of Mr. Sowerby in his pink coat.

“My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some hesitation about going to Gatherum Castle.”

“Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a man of pleasure, as you are. I have some duties to attend to.”

“Gammon!” said Mr. Sowerby; and as he said it he looked with a kind of derisive smile into the clergyman’s face.

“It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby; and perhaps I have no right to expect that you should understand me.”

“Ah, but I do understand you; and I say it is gammon. I would be the last man in the world to ridicule your scruples about duty, if this hesitation on your part arose from any such scruple. But answer me honestly, do you not know that such is not the case?”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“Ah, but I think you do. If you persist in refusing this invitation will it not be because you are afraid of making Lady Lufton angry? I do not know what there can be in that woman that she is able to hold both you and Lufton in leading-strings.”

Robarts, of course, denied the charge and protested that he was not to be taken back to his own parsonage by any fear of Lady Lufton. But though he made such protest with warmth, he knew that he did so ineffectually. Sowerby only smiled and said that the proof of the pudding was in the eating.

“What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to save him from that sort of drudgery?” he asked.

“Drudgery! If I were a drudge how could I be here to-day?”

“Well, Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps, with more of the energy of an old friend than circumstances fully warrant; but I am an older man than you, and as I have a regard for you I do not like to see you throw up a good game when it is in your hands.”

“Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you that I appreciate your kindness.”

“If you are content,” continued the man of the world, “to live at Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sunshine of the dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps be useless for you to extend the circle of your friends; but if you have higher ideas than these, I think you will be very wrong to omit the present opportunity of going to the duke’s. I never knew the duke go so much out of his way to be civil to a clergyman as he has done in this instance.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to him.”

“The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself popular in the county; but you cannot do it by obeying all Lady Lufton’s behests. She is a dear old woman, I am sure.”

“She is, Sowerby; and you would say so, if you knew her.”

“I don’t doubt it; but it would not do for you or me to live exactly according to her ideas. Now, here, in this case, the bishop of the diocese is to be one of the party, and he has, I believe, already expressed a wish that you should be another.”

“He asked me if I were going.”

“Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantley will be there.”

“Will he?” asked Mark. Now, that would be a great point gained, for Archdeacon Grantley was a close friend of Lady Lufton.

“So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be very wrong of you not to go, and I tell you so plainly; and what is more, when you talk about your duty—you having a curate as you have—why, it is gammon.” These last words he spoke looking back over his shoulder as he stood up in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye of the huntsman who was surrounded by his hounds, and was now trotting on to join him.

During a great portion of the day, Mark found himself riding by the side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned back in her carriage. And Mrs. Proudie smiled on him graciously though her daughter would not do so. Mrs. Proudie was fond of having an attendant clergyman; and as it was evident that Mr. Robarts lived among nice people—titled dowagers, members of parliament, and people of that sort—she was quite willing to instal him as a sort of honorary chaplain pro tem.

“I’ll tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith and I,” said Mrs. Proudie to him. “This lecture at Barchester will be so late on Saturday evening, that you had all better come and dine with us.”

Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he should be very happy to make one of such a party. Even Lady Lufton could not object to this, although she was not especially fond of Mrs. Proudie.

“And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really be too late for ladies to think of going back so far at this time of the year. I told Mrs. Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable too, that we could manage to make room at any rate for them. But they will not leave the other ladies; so they go to the hotel for that night. But, Mr. Robarts, the bishop will never allow you to stay at the inn, so of course you will take a bed at the palace.”

It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to be given on Saturday evening, the next morning would be Sunday; and, on that Sunday, he would have to preach at Chaldicotes. “I thought they were all going to return the same night,” said he.

“Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs. Smith is afraid.”

“I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning, Mrs. Proudie.”

“Ah, yes, that is bad—very bad, indeed. No one dislikes any interference with the Sabbath more than I do. Indeed, if I am particular about anything it is about that. But some works are works of necessity, Mr. Robarts; are they not? Now you must necessarily be back at Chaldicotes on Sunday morning!” and so the matter was settled. Mrs. Proudie was very firm in general in the matter of Sabbath-day observances; but when she had to deal with such persons as Mrs. Harold Smith, it was expedient that she should give way a little. “You can start as soon as it’s daylight, you know, if you like it, Mr. Robarts,” said Mrs. Proudie.

There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it was a very pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up and down the grass roads through the chase, sometimes in the greatest possible hurry as though they never could go quick enough; and then the coachmen would drive very fast also though they did not know why, for a fast pace of movement is another of those contagious diseases. And then again the sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s pace, when the fox had traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know which was the hunt and which was the heel; and then the carriage also would go slowly, and the ladies would stand up and talk. And then the time for lunch came; and altogether the day went by pleasantly enough.

“And so that’s hunting, is it?” said Miss Dunstable.

“Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. Sowerby.

“I did not see any gentleman do anything that I could not do myself, except there was one young man slipped off into the mud; and I shouldn’t like that.”

“But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear?” said Mrs. Harold Smith.

“And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable. “The fact is, Mrs. Smith, that I don’t think much more of their sport than I do of their business. I shall take to hunting a pack of hounds myself after this.”

“Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder whether Mrs. Proudie would join us.”

“I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Fothergill to Mark, as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together. “You will let me tell his grace that you will accept his invitation—will you not?”

“Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark.

“He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” said Fothergill.

What could a young flattered fool of a parson do, but say that he would go? Mark did say that he would go; and, in the course of the evening his friend Mr. Sowerby congratulated him, and the bishop joked with him and said that he knew that he would not give up good company so soon; and Miss Dunstable said she would make him her chaplain as soon as parliament would allow quack doctors to have such articles—an allusion which Mark did not understand, till he learned that Miss Dunstable was herself the proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon, invented by her late respected father, and patented by him with such wonderful results in the way of accumulated fortune; and Mrs. Proudie made him quite one of their party, talking to him about all manner of church subjects; and then at last, even Miss Proudie smiled on him, when she learned that he had been thought worthy of a bed at a duke’s castle. And all the world seemed to be open to him.

But he could not make himself happy that evening. On the next morning he must write to his wife; and he could already see the look of painful sorrow which would fall upon his Fanny’s brow when she learned that her husband was going to be a guest at the Duke of Omnium’s. And he must tell her to send him money, and money was scarce. And then, as to Lady Lufton, should he send her some message, or should he not? In either case he must declare war against her. And then did he not owe everything to Lady Lufton? And thus in spite of all his triumphs he could not get himself to bed in a happy frame of mind.

On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the disagreeable task of writing. Saturday would do as well; and on Saturday morning, before they all started for Barchester, he did write. And his letter ran as follows:—

“Chaldicotes,—November, 185—.

“Dearest Love,—You will be astonished when I tell you how gay we all are here, and what further dissipations are in store for us. The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our party; but the Proudies are,—as you supposed also. Your suppositions are always right. And what will you think when I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace on Saturday? You know that there is to be a lecture in Barchester on that day. Well; we must all go, of course, as Harold Smith, one of our set here, is to give it. And now it turns out that we cannot get back the same night because there is no moon; and Mrs. Bishop would not allow that my cloth should be contaminated by an hotel;—very kind and considerate, is it not?

“But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than this. There is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle next week, and they have talked me over into accepting an invitation which the duke sent expressly to me. I refused at first; but everybody here said that my doing so would be so strange; and then they all wanted to know my reason. When I came to render it, I did not know what reason I had to give. The bishop is going, and he thought it very odd that I should not go also, seeing that I was asked.

“I know what my own darling will think, and I know that she will not be pleased, and I must put off my defence till I return to her from this ogre-land,—if ever I do get back alive. But joking apart, Fanny, I think that I should have been wrong to stand out, when so much was said about it. I should have been seeming to take upon myself to sit in judgment upon the duke. I doubt if there be a single clergyman in the diocese, under fifty years of age, who would have refused the invitation under such circumstances,—unless it be Crawley, who is so mad on the subject that he thinks it almost wrong to take a walk out of his own parish.

“I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week—indeed, we only go there on Friday. I have written to Jones about the duties. I can make it up to him, as I know he wishes to go into Wales at Christmas. My wanderings will all be over then, and he may go for a couple of months if he pleases. I suppose you will take my classes in the school on Sunday, as well as your own; but pray make them have a good fire. If this is too much for you, make Mrs. Podgens take the boys. Indeed I think that will be better.

“Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts. Tell her from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as regarding another great personage, the colour has been laid on perhaps a little too thickly. Not that Lady Lufton would ever like him. Make her understand that my going to the duke’s has almost become a matter of conscience with me. I have not known how to make it appear that it would be right for me to refuse, without absolutely making a party matter of it. I saw that it would be said, that I, coming from Lady Lufton’s parish, could not go to the Duke of Omnium’s. This I did not choose.

“I find that I shall want a little more money before I leave here, five or ten pounds—say ten pounds. If you cannot spare it, get it from Davis. He owes me more than that, a good deal.

“And now, God bless and preserve you, my own love. Kiss my darling bairns for papa, and give them my blessing.

“Always and ever your own,
“M. R.”

And then there was written, on an outside scrap which was folded round the full-written sheet of paper, “Make it as smooth at Framley Court as possible.”

However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable the body of Mark’s letter may have been, all his hesitation, weakness, doubt, and fear, were expressed in this short postscript.

CHAPTER V.
Amantium Iræ Amoris Integratio.

And now, with my reader’s consent, I will follow the postman with that letter to Framley; not by its own circuitous route indeed, or by the same mode of conveyance; for that letter went into Barchester by the Courcy night mail-cart, which, on its road, passes through the villages of Uffley and Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for the up mail-train to London. By that train, the letter was sent towards the metropolis as far as the junction of the Barset branch line, but there it was turned in its course, and came down again by the main line as far as Silverbridge; at which place, between six and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by the Framley footpost messenger, and in due course delivered at the Framley Parsonage exactly as Mrs. Robarts had finished reading prayers to the four servants. Or, I should say rather, that such would in its usual course have been that letter’s destiny. As it was, however, it reached Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till the Monday, as the Framley people have declined their Sunday post. And then again, when the letter was delivered at the parsonage, on that wet Monday morning, Mrs. Robarts was not at home. As we are all aware, she was staying with her ladyship at Framley Court.

“Oh, but it’s mortial wet,” said the shivering postman as he handed in that and the vicar’s newspaper. The vicar was a man of the world, and took the Jupiter.

“Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile,” said Jemima the cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still well in front of the big kitchen fire.

“Well, I dudna jist know how it’ll be. The wery ’edges ’as eyes and tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as stops to pick a blackberry.”

“There bain’t no hedges here, mon, nor yet no blackberries; so sit thee down and warm theeself. That’s better nor blackberries I’m thinking,” and she handed him a bowl of tea with a slice of buttered toast.

Robin postman took the proffered tea, put his dripping hat on the ground, and thanked Jemima cook. “But I dudna jist know how it’ll be,” said he; “only it do pour so tarnation heavy.” Which among us, O my readers, could have withstood that temptation?

Such was the circuitous course of Mark’s letter; but as it left Chaldicotes on Saturday evening, and reached Mrs. Robarts on the following morning, or would have done, but for that intervening Sunday, doing all its peregrinations during the night, it may be held that its course of transport was not inconveniently arranged. We, however, will travel by a much shorter route.

Robin, in the course of his daily travels, passed, first the post-office at Framley, then the Framley Court back entrance, and then the vicar’s house, so that on this wet morning Jemima cook was not able to make use of his services in transporting this letter back to her mistress; for Robin had got another village before him, expectant of its letters.

“Why didn’t thee leave it, mon, with Mr. Applejohn at the Court?” Mr. Applejohn was the butler who took the letter-bag. “Thee know’st as how missus was there.”

And then Robin, mindful of the tea and toast, explained to her courteously how the law made it imperative on him to bring the letter to the very house that was indicated, let the owner of the letter be where she might; and he laid down the law very satisfactorily with sundry long-worded quotations. Not to much effect, however, for the housemaid called him an oaf; and Robin would decidedly have had the worst of it had not the gardener come in and taken his part. “They women knows nothin’, and understands nothin’,” said the gardener. “Give us hold of the letter. I’ll take it up to the house. It’s the master’s fist.” And then Robin postman went on one way, and the gardener, he went the other. The gardener never disliked an excuse for going up to the Court gardens, even on so wet a day as this.

Mrs. Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire with Lady Meredith, when her husband’s letter was brought to her. The Framley Court letter-bag had been discussed at breakfast; but that was now nearly an hour since, and Lady Lufton, as was her wont, was away in her own room writing her own letters, and looking after her own matters; for Lady Lufton was a person who dealt in figures herself, and understood business almost as well as Harold Smith. And on that morning she also had received a letter which had displeased her not a little. Whence arose this displeasure neither Mrs. Robarts nor Lady Meredith knew; but her ladyship’s brow had grown black at breakfast time; she had bundled up an ominous-looking epistle into her bag without speaking of it, and had left the room immediately that breakfast was over.

“There’s something wrong,” said Sir George.

“Mamma does fret herself so much about Ludovic’s money matters,” said Lady Meredith. Ludovic was Lord Lufton,—Ludovic Lufton, Baron Lufton of Lufton, in the county of Oxfordshire.

“And yet I don’t think Lufton gets much astray,” said Sir George, as he sauntered out of the room. “Well, Justy; we’ll put off going then till to-morrow; but remember, it must be the first train.” Lady Meredith said she would remember, and then they went into the drawing-room, and there Mrs. Robarts received her letter.

Fanny, when she read it, hardly at first realized to herself the idea that her husband, the clergyman of Framley, the family clerical friend of Lady Lufton’s establishment, was going to stay with the Duke of Omnium. It was so thoroughly understood at Framley Court that the duke and all belonging to him was noxious and damnable. He was a Whig, he was a bachelor, he was a gambler, he was immoral in every way, he was a man of no church principle, a corrupter of youth, a sworn foe of young wives, a swallower up of small men’s patrimonies; a man whom mothers feared for their sons, and sisters for their brothers; and worse again, whom fathers had cause to fear for their daughters, and brothers for their sisters;—a man who, with his belongings, dwelt, and must dwell, poles asunder from Lady Lufton and her belongings!

And it must be remembered that all these evil things were fully believed by Mrs. Robarts. Could it really be that her husband was going to dwell in the halls of Apollyon, to shelter himself beneath the wings of this very Lucifer? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her face, and then she read the letter again very slowly, not omitting the tell-tale postscript.

“Oh, Justinia!” at last she said.

“What, have you got bad news, too?”

“I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred. There; I suppose you had better read it;” and she handed her husband’s epistle to Lady Meredith,—keeping back, however, the postscript.

“What on earth will her ladyship say now?” said Lady Meredith, as she folded the paper, and replaced it in the envelope.

“What had I better do, Justinia? how had I better tell her?” And then the two ladies put their heads together, bethinking themselves how they might best deprecate the wrath of Lady Lufton. It had been arranged that Mrs. Robarts should go back to the parsonage after lunch, and she had persisted in her intention after it had been settled that the Merediths were to stay over that evening. Lady Meredith now advised her friend to carry out this determination without saying anything about her husband’s terrible iniquities, and then to send the letter up to Lady Lufton as soon as she reached the parsonage. “Mamma will never know that you received it here,” said Lady Meredith.

But Mrs. Robarts would not consent to this. Such a course seemed to her to be cowardly. She knew that her husband was doing wrong; she felt that he knew it himself; but still it was necessary that she should defend him. However terrible might be the storm, it must break upon her own head. So she at once went up and tapped at Lady Lufton’s private door; and as she did so Lady Meredith followed her.

“Come in,” said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not sound soft and pleasant. When they entered, they found her sitting at her little writing table, with her head resting on her arm, and that letter which she had received that morning was lying open on the table before her. Indeed there were two letters now there, one from a London lawyer to herself, and the other from her son to that London lawyer. It needs only be explained that the subject of those letters was the immediate sale of that outlying portion of the Lufton property in Oxfordshire, as to which Mr. Sowerby once spoke. Lord Lufton had told the lawyer that the thing must be done at once, adding that his friend Robarts would have explained the whole affair to his mother. And then the lawyer had written to Lady Lufton, as indeed was necessary; but unfortunately Lady Lufton had not hitherto heard a word of the matter.

In her eyes, the sale of family property was horrible; the fact that a young man with some fifteen or twenty thousand a year should require subsidiary money was horrible; that her own son should have not written to her himself was horrible; and it was also horrible that her own pet, the clergyman whom she had brought there to be her son’s friend, should be mixed up in the matter,—should be cognizant of it while she was not cognizant,—should be employed in it as a go-between and agent in her son’s bad courses. It was all horrible, and Lady Lufton was sitting there with a black brow and an uneasy heart. As regarded our poor parson, we may say that in this matter he was blameless, except that he had hitherto lacked the courage to execute his friend’s commission.

“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton as soon as the door was opened; “I should have been down in half-an-hour, if you wanted me, Justinia.”

“Fanny has received a letter which makes her wish to speak to you at once,” said Lady Meredith.

“What letter, Fanny?”

Poor Fanny’s heart was in her mouth; she held it in her hand, but had not yet quite made up her mind whether she would show it bodily to Lady Lufton.

“From Mr. Robarts,” she said.

“Well; I suppose he is going to stay another week at Chaldicotes. For my part I should be as well pleased;” and Lady Lufton’s voice was not friendly, for she was thinking of that farm in Oxfordshire. The imprudence of the young is very sore to the prudence of their elders. No woman could be less covetous, less grasping than Lady Lufton; but the sale of a portion of the old family property was to her as the loss of her own heart’s blood.

“Here is the letter, Lady Lufton; perhaps you had better read it;” and Fanny handed it to her, again keeping back the postscript. She had read and re-read the letter downstairs, but could not make out whether her husband had intended her to show it. From the line of the argument she thought that he must have done so. At any rate he said for himself more than she could say for him, and so, probably, it was best that her ladyship should see it.

Lady Lufton took it, and read it, and her face grew blacker and blacker. Her mind was set against the writer before she began it, and every word in it tended to make her feel more estranged from him. “Oh, he is going to the palace, is he—well; he must choose his own friends. Harold Smith one of his party! It’s a pity, my dear, he did not see Miss Proudie before he met you, he might have lived to be the bishop’s chaplain. Gatherum Castle! You don’t mean to tell me that he is going there? Then I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done with him.”

“Oh, Lady Lufton, don’t say that,” said Mrs. Robarts, with tears in her eyes.

“Mamma, mamma, don’t speak in that way,” said Lady Meredith.

“But my dear, what am I to say? I must speak in that way. You would not wish me to speak falsehoods, would you? A man must choose for himself, but he can’t live with two different sets of people; at least, not if I belong to one and the Duke of Omnium to the other. The bishop going indeed! If there be anything that I hate it is hypocrisy.”

“There is no hypocrisy in that, Lady Lufton.”

“But I say there is, Fanny. Very strange, indeed! ‘Put off his defence!’ Why should a man need any defence to his wife if he acts in a straightforward way. His own language condemns him: ‘Wrong to stand out!’ Now, will either of you tell me that Mr. Robarts would really have thought it wrong to refuse that invitation? I say that that is hypocrisy. There is no other word for it.”

By this time the poor wife, who had been in tears, was wiping them away and preparing for action. Lady Lufton’s extreme severity gave her courage. She knew that it behoved her to fight for her husband when he was thus attacked. Had Lady Lufton been moderate in her remarks Mrs. Robarts would not have had a word to say.

“My husband may have been ill-judged,” she said, “but he is no hypocrite.”

“Very well, my dear, I dare say you know better than I; but to me it looks extremely like hypocrisy: eh, Justinia?”

“Oh, mamma, do be moderate.”

“Moderate! That’s all very well. How is one to moderate one’s feelings when one has been betrayed?”

“You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?” said the wife.

“Oh, no; of course not.” And then she went on reading the letter: “‘Seem to have been standing in judgment upon the duke.’ Might he not use the same argument as to going into any house in the kingdom, however infamous? We must all stand in judgment one upon another in that sense. ‘Crawley!’ Yes; if he were a little more like Mr. Crawley it would be a good thing for me, and for the parish, and for you too, my dear. God forgive me for bringing him here; that’s all.”

“Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon him—very hard. I did not expect it from such a friend.”

“My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure that I shall speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones’—yes; it is easy enough to write to poor Jones. He had better write to Jones, and bid him do the whole duty. Then he can go and be the duke’s domestic chaplain.”

“I believe my husband does as much of his own duty as any clergyman in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robarts, now again in tears.

“And you are to take his work in the school; you and Mrs. Podgens. What with his curate and his wife and Mrs. Podgens, I don’t see why he should come back at all.”

“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don’t be so harsh to her.”

“Let me finish it, my dear,—oh, here I come. ‘Tell her ladyship my whereabouts.’ He little thought you’d show me this letter.”

“Didn’t he?” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand to get it back, but in vain. “I thought it was for the best; I did indeed.”

“I had better finish it now, if you please. What is this? How does he dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a matter? No, I do not suppose I ever shall like Dr. Proudie; I have never expected it. A matter of conscience with him! Well—well, well. Had I not read it myself, I could not have believed it of him; I would not positively have believed it. ‘Coming from my parish he could not go to the Duke of Omnium!’ And it is what I would wish to have said. People fit for this parish should not be fit for the Duke of Omnium’s house. And I had trusted that he would have this feeling more strongly than any one else in it. I have been deceived—that’s all.”

“He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.”

“I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘More money;’ yes, it is probable that he will want more money. There is your letter, Fanny. I am very sorry for it. I can say nothing more.” And she folded up the letter and gave it back to Mrs. Robarts.

“I thought it right to show it you,” said Mrs. Robarts.

“It did not much matter whether you did or no; of course I must have been told.”

“He especially begs me to tell you.”

“Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark in such a matter. He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing it.”

And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full, full to the overflowing. When she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband,—that he was her husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving husband;—and that other fact also she remembered, that she was his wife.

“Lady Lufton,” she said, “you forget yourself in speaking in that way of my husband.”

“What!” said her ladyship; “you are to show me such a letter as that, and I am not to tell you what I think?”

“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you are not justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.”

“Heighty-tighty,” said her ladyship.

“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium’s, I will not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his own actions, and neither you nor I.”

“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid and no money to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?”

“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever come—and neither you nor I have a right to expect them—I will not come to you in my troubles; not after this.”

“Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that suits you better.”

“Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “Why should you try to anger my mother?”

“I don’t want to anger her; but I won’t hear him abused in that way without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him, who will? Lady Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.”

“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia.

“Very well, very well!” said Lady Lufton. “This is the sort of return that one gets.”

“I don’t know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton: but would you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things said of my husband? He does not live with such people as you have named. He does not neglect his duties. If every clergyman were as much in his parish, it would be well for some of them. And in going to such a house as the Duke of Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there in company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know that it does.”

“Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil, as Mr. Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton; “he can join the duke with them and then they’ll stand for the three Graces, won’t they, Justinia?” And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit.

“I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”

“I am sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not allow any one to speak against Mr. Robarts without answering them. You have been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I must say so.”

“Come, Fanny; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You have been scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate you on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are going to begin it all over again. That is more than I can stand. If you have nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave me.” And Lady Lufton’s face as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh.

Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her old friend; indeed she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly knew how to bear herself.

“Very well, Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before left Framley Court to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she was to do so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to this, that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them,—a quarrel for ever?

“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith. “She will be home before you are down again.”

“I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases. I am not to be the judge of her actions. She has just told me so.”

Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too proud to point this out. So with a gentle step she retreated through the door, and then Lady Meredith, having tried what a conciliatory whisper with her mother would do, followed her. Alas, the conciliatory whisper was altogether ineffectual!

The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when they had regained the drawing-room they looked with blank horror into each other’s faces. What were they to do now? Of such a tragedy as this they had had no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the case that Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as a declared enemy,—she who, before her marriage as well as since, had been almost treated as an adopted daughter of the family?

“Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way?” said Lady Meredith. “You saw that she was vexed. She had other things to vex her besides this about Mr. Robarts.”

“And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir George?”

“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she pleased, and leave Sir George to fight his own battles.”

“Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter, and Sir George——she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George’s doings.”

“Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you go up to her.”

“It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are her thoughts about Mr. Roberts, it is quite as well that we should know them. Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to you, I will not come to this house if I am to hear my husband abused;—not into any house.”

“My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry people get together.”

“I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.”

“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, Fanny?”

“I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. “I will go and put my things up, and then I will send James for them.”

“Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother before you leave us.”

“No, Justinia; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts by this post, and I must think what I have to say to him. I could not write that letter here, and the post goes at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair, preparatory to her final departure.

“I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith; “and if I can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here with me. It is out of the question that I should go away from Framley leaving you and my mother at enmity with each other.”

To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and teaching the elder one to say something about papa. But, even as she taught him, the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that everything was not right.

And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and ends of things for the children, and allowing that occupation to stand as an excuse to her for not commencing her letter. But then there remained only two hours to her, and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the writing—would require thought and changes, and must needs be copied, perhaps more than once. As to the money, that she had in the house—as much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the sending of it would leave her nearly penniless. She could, however, in case of personal need, resort to Davis as desired by him.

So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down and wrote her letter. It was difficult, though she found that it hardly took so long as she expected. It was difficult, for she felt bound to tell him the truth; and yet she was anxious not to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. She told him, however, that Lady Lufton was very angry, “unreasonably angry I must say,” she put in, in order to show that she had not sided against him. “And indeed we have quite quarrelled, and this has made me unhappy, as it will you, dearest; I know that. But we both know how good she is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other things to trouble her; and I hope it will all be made up before you come home; only, dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in your last letter.” And then there were three or four paragraphs about the babies and two about the schools, which I may as well omit.

She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep on the gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the front door. The path ran near the drawing-room window, and she was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold of a passing cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; and her heart became disturbed at the idea of again discussing the morning’s adventure. “What am I to do,” she had said to herself before, “if she wants me to beg her pardon? I will not own before her that he is in the wrong.”