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NOVEMBER, 1872. 


Tue most brilliantly joyous of all 
comedies were brought out in a city 
vexed during the years that gave them 
birth by every kind of misery in turn ; 
by want and pestilence, by faction and 
the mutual distrust of citizens, by 
defeat on land and sea, by the sense of 
abasement and the presage of ruin. 
During more than twenty years of war 
Aristophanes was the best public teacher 
of Athens; but there were times when 
distraction was more needed than advice. 
One of the best of his plays belongs to 
the number of those which were meant 
simply to amuse the town at a time 
when it would have been useless to lash 
it. The comedy of the “Frogs” came out 
in a season of gloomy suspense—just 
after Athens had made a last effort in 
equipping a fleet, and was waiting for 
decisive news from the seat of war; in 
January of 405 B.c., eight months before 
Egospotami and about fifteen months 
before the taking of Athens by Lysander. 
A succession of disasters and seditions 
had worn out the political life of the 
city ; patriotic satire could no longer 
find scope in public affairs, for there 
were no longer any vital forces which 
it could either stimulate or combat. 
Nor could the jaded minds of men at 
such a time easily rise into a region of 
pure fancy, as when nine years before, 
on the eve of the last crisis in the war, 
Aristophanes had helped them to forget 

1 A Lecture delivered in Dublin before the 
Society for Afternoon Lectures on Literature 
and Art. 

No. 157.—vow. xxvii. 

scandals of impiety and misgovernment 
on a voyage to his city in the clouds. 
What remained was to seek comfort 
or amusement in the past ; and since 
the political past could give neither, 
then in the literary past—in the glories, 
fading now like other glories, of art and 

It was now just fifty years since the 
death of Aischylus. It was only a 
few months since news had come from 
Macedonia of the death of Euripides. 
More lately still, at the end of the year 
before, Sophocles had closed a life blessed 
from its beginning by the gods and now 
happy in its limit; for, as in his boyhood 
he had led the pzan after Salamis, so 
he died too soon to hear the dirge of 
Imperial Athens—the cry, raised in 
the Peireus and caught up from point 
to point through the line of the Long 
Walls, which carried up from the harbour 
to the town the news of the overthrow 
on the Hellespont. 

With the death of Euripides and the 
death of Sophocles so recent, and no 
man living who seemed able to replace 
them, it might well seem to an Athenian 
that the series of the tragic masters was 
closed. In the “Frogs” Aristophanes 
supposes Dionysus, the god of dramatic 
inspiration, going down to the shades, 
to bring back to Athens, bheggared of 
poets and unable to live without them, 
the best poet that could be found below. 
It is hard to imagine anything more 
pathetic than an Athenian audience 
listening, at just that time, to that 


2 The Genius of Sophocles. 

comedy in the theatre of Dionysus; in 
view of the sea over which their empire 
was even then on its last trial; sur- 
rounded by the monuments of an empire 
over art which had already declined— 
in the building, at once theatre and 
temple, which the imagination of the 
poets lately dead had long peopled with 
the divine or heroic shapes known to 
them and their fathers, but in which, 
they might well forebode, the living 
inspiration of the god would never be 
so shown forth again. 

The interest of the comedy does not 
depend, however, merely on its character 
of epilogue to a school of tragic drama 
so masterly, of so short an actual life, 
of so perpetual an influence; it takes 
another kind of interest from the just- 
ness of its implicit criticism; the 
criticism of a man whose wit would 
not have borne the test of centuries 
and the harder test of translation, if he 
had not joined to a quick fancy the 
qualities which make a first-rate critic. 

When Dionysus reaches the lower 
world, an uproar is being raised among 
the dead. It has been the custom that 
the throne of Tragedy, next to Pluto’s 
own, shall be held by a laureate for the 
time being, subject to removal on the 
coming of a better. For some time 
fEschylus has held the place of honour. 
Euripides, however, has just come down ; 
the newer graces of his style, which he 
lost no time in showing off, have taken 
the crowd; and their applause has 
moved him to claim the tragic throne. 
/Eschylus refuses to yield. As the only 
way of settling the dispute, scales are 
brought ; the weightiest things which 
the rivals can offer are compared ; and 
at last the balance inclines for A‘schylus, 
But where, in the meantime, is Sopho- 
cles? He, too, is in the world of the 
dead, having come down just after 
Euripides. “Did he” (asks Xanthias, 
the slave of Dionysus) “lay no claim 
to the chair?” “ No, indeed, not he,” 
answers J/Zacus: ‘“No—he kissed 
A’schylus as soon as he came down, and 
shook hands with him ; and A‘schylus 
yielded the throne to him. But just 
now he meant, Cleidemides said, to hold 
himself in reserve, and, if dischylus 

won, to stay quiet; if not, he said he 
would try a bout with Zuripides.” 

It is in this placing of Sophocles rela- 
tively to the disputants, even more 
than in the account of the contest, that 
Aristophanes has shown his appreciative- 
ness, While he seems to aim merely 
at marking by a passing touch the good- 
humoured courtesy of Sophocles, he 
has, with the happiness of a real critic, 
pointed out his place as a poet. The 
behaviour of Sophocles in the “ Frogs” 
just answers to his place in the literary 
history of his age. This place is fixed 
chiefly by the fact that Sophocles was a 
poet who did not seek to be a prophet ; 
who was before all things an artist ; 
and who, living in the quiet essence of 
art, represented the mind of his day 
less by bringing into relief any set 
tendencies than by seizing in its highest 
unity the total spirit of the world in 
which he lived and of the legendary 
world in which his fancy moved, and 
bringing the conflicts of this twofold 
world into obedience, as far as possible, 
to the first law of his own nature— 
harmony. The workings of this instinct 
of harmony will be best seen, first, by 
viewing Sophocles as a poet in two 
broad aspects—in regard to his treat- 
ment of the heroic legends and in his 
relation to the social ideas of the age 
of Pericles; next, by considering two 
of his special qualities—the quality 
which has been called his irony, and 
his art of drawing character. 

The national religion of Greece was 
based upon genealogy. It carried back 
the mind by an unbroken ascent from 
living men to heroes or half-gods who 
had been their forefathers in the flesh, 
and thence to gods from whom these 
heroes had sprung. The strength of a 
chain is the strength of its weakest 
part; enfeeblement of belief in the 
heroes implied enfeeblement of belief in 
the gods. The decreasing vividness of 
faith in the heroes is the index of 
failing life in the Greek national re- 

At the beginning of the fifth century 
before Christ this belief in the heroes 
was real and living. The Persian Wars 
were wars of race, the first general con- 

i Oe OP 0 ee ee om ok atk te Ge i aed 6 ce ts ce es ks, es ds 


en ae ae ee ee TL ee 

oP Rh 

The Genius 

flict of Hellene with barbarian ; and it 
was natural that in such a conflict the 
Greek mind should turn with longing 
and trust towards those kindred heroes 
of immortal blood who long ago had 
borne arms for Achaia against Asia. It 
was told how, on the day of Marathon, 
the Athenian ranks had been cheered 
by the sudden presence among them of 
Theseus ; while through the press of 
battle two other combatants had been 
seen to pass in more than earthly 
strength, the hero Echetlus and he who 
had given his name to the field. Just 
before the fight at Salamis a Greek ship 
was sent with offerings to the tombs of 
the Aacide in A®gina; and when the 
pean sounded and the fleets closed, the 
form of a colossal warrior was seen to 
move over the battle, and the Greeks 
knew that the greatest of the acid 
line, the Telamonian Ajax, was with 
them that day, as he had been with their 
fathers at Troy. 

But from the moment when the united 
Greek effort against Persia was over, the 
old belief which it had made to start up 
in a last glow began to die out. The 
causes of this decline were chiefly three. 
First, the division of once-united Greece 
into two camps—the Athenian and the 
Spartan,—a division which tended to 
weaken all sentiments based on the idea 
of a common blood ; and the belief in 
the heroes as an order was one of these 
sentiments. Secondly, the advance of 
democracy, which tended to create a 
jealous feeling and a sarcastic tone in 
regard to the claims of the old fami- 
lies; chief among which claims was 
that of kinship with the gods through 
the heroes. Thirdly, the birth of an 
historical sense. Before the Persian 
crisis history had been represented 
among the Greeks only by local or 
family traditions. The Wars of Libera- 
tion had given to Herodotus the first 
genuinely historical inspiration felt by a 
Greek. These wars showed him that 
there was a corporate life, higher than 
that of the city, of which the story 
might be told ; and they offered to him 
as a subject the drama of the collision 
between East and West. With him, 
the spirit of history was born into 

of Sophocles. 3 

Greece ; and his work, called after the 
nine Muses, was indeed the first utter- 
ance of Clio. The historical spirit was 
the form in which the general seepticism 
of the age acted on the belief in the 
heroic legends. For Herodotus himself, 
the heroes are still godlike. But for 
Thucydides, towards the end of the 
century, the genuine hero-ship of Aga- 
memnon and Pelops is no more; he 
criticises their probable resources and 
motives as he might have discussed the 
conduct or the income of a contemporary. 
They are real to him; but they are 
real as men ; and, for that very reason, 
unreal as claimants of a half-divine 

The great cycles of heroic legends 
furnished the principal subjects of Attic 
tragedy. Three distinct methods of 
treating these legends appear in AZschy- 
lus, Sophocles, and Euripides, 

The spirit of Aéschylus is in all things 
more Hellenic than Atheriian. The Pan- 
hellenic heroism of which in the struggle 
with Persia he had himself been a witness 
and a part is the very inspiration of his 
poetry. For him those heroes who were 
the common pride of the Greek race 
are true demigods. In his dramas they 
stand as close to the gods as in the 
Tliad; and more than in the Iliad do 
they tower above men. With him 
their distinctive attribute is majesty ; a 
majesty rather Titanic than in the proper 
Greek sense heroic. What, it may be 
asked, is the basis of this Titanic majesty ? 
It would be easy to say that the effect 
is wrought partly by pomp and weight 
of language, partly by vagueness of out- 
line. But the essential reason appears 
to be another. The central idea of 
Greek tragedy is the conflict between 
free-will and fate. In Aischylus this 
conflict takes its simplest and therefore 
grandest form. No subtle contrivance, 
no complexity of purposes, breaks the 
direct shock of the collision between 
man and destiny. Agamemnon before 
the Fury of his house is even as Pro- 
metheus facing Zeus. 

In thus imagining the heroes as dis- 
tinctly superhuman, and as claiming 
the sympathy of men rather by a bare 
grandeur of agony than by any closely- 

B 2 

4 The Genius of Sophocles. 

understood affinity of experience, Aschy- 
lus was striving to sustain a belief which 
had not gone out of his age, but which 
was dying. In his mid-career, about 
ten years before his Oresteia, the so- 
called relics of Theseus found at Scyros 
were brought to Athens by Cimon and 
laid in a shrine specially built for them. 
The distinctly religious enthusiasm then 
shown implies the old faith. It is hard 
to suppose that a like incident could 
have brought out a like public feeling 
even thirty years later. 

Euripides, towards the end of the 
century, stood in nearly the same rela- 
tion to his contemporaries as that of 
Eschylus to his at the beginning: that 
is, he was in general agreement with 
their beliefs, but held to some things 
from which they were going further and 
furtheraway. The national religion was 
now all but dead. By the side of 
philosophic scepticism had come up the 
spurious scepticism which teachers of 
rhetoric had made popular. The devo- 
tional need, so far as it was felt, was 
usually satisfied by rituals or mysteries 
brought in from abroad ; the old creed 
was not often attacked, but there was 
a tacit understanding among “able ” men 
that it was to be taken allegorically ; 
and a dim, silently spreading sense of 
this had further weakened its hold upon 
the people. What, then, was a tragic 
poet todo? The drama was an act of 
worship; the consecrated mythology 
must still supply the greatest number 
of its subjects. Euripides solved the 
problem partly by realism, partly by 
antiquarianism. He presented the hero 
as a man, reflecting the mind as well as 
speaking the dialect of the day ; and he 
made the legend, where he could, illus- 
trate local Attic tradition. The reason 
why this treatment failed, so far as it 
failed, has not always been accurately 
stated. Euripides has sometimes been 
judged as if his poetical fault had been 
in bringing down half-gods to the level 
of men and surrounding them with 
mean and ludicrous troubles. Probably 
this notion has been strengthened by 
the scene in the “Acharnians” (the really 
pointed criticisms of Aristophanes upon 
Euripides are to be found elsewhere), 

in which the needy citizen calls on 
Euripides and begs for some of the rags 
in which he has been wont to clothe 
his heroes ; and the tragic poet tells his 
servant to look for the rags of Telephus 
between those of Thyestes and those of 
Ino. But the very strength of Euri- 
pides lay in a deep and tender com- 
passion for human suffering: if he had 
done nothing worse to his heroes than 
to give them rags and crutches, his 
power could have kept for them at 
least the sympathy due to the sordid 
miseries of men ; he would only have 
substituted a severely human for an 
ideal pathos. His real fault lay in the 
admission of sophistic debate. A drama 
cannot be an artistic whole in which 
the powers supposed to control the issues 
of the action represent a given theory 
of moral government, while the agents 
are from time to time employing the 
resources of rhetorical logic to prove 
that this theory is either false or 

Between these two contrasted con- 
ceptions—the austere transcendentalism 
of Aischylus and the sophistic realism 
of Euripides—stands the conception of 
Sophocles. But Sophocles is far nearer 
to Aischylus than to Euripides ; since 
Sophocles and A®schylus have this 
affinity, that the art of both is ideal. 
The heroic form is in outline almost the 
same for Sophocles as for A®schylus ; 
but meanwhile there has passed over it 
such a change as came over the statue 
on which the sculptor gazed until the 
stone began to kindle with the glow 
of a responsive life, and what just now 
was a blank faultlessness of beauty 
became loveliness warmed by a human 
soul. Sophocles lived in the ancestral 
legends of Greece otherwise than 
“Eschylus lived in them. A’schylus 
felt the grandeur and the terror of their 
broadest aspects, their interpretation of 
the strongest human impulses, their 
commentary on problems of destiny : 
Sophocles dwelt on their details with 
the intent, calm joy of artistic medita- 
tion; believing their divineness ; finding 
in them a typical reconciliation of forces 
which in real life are never absolutely 
reconciled—a concord suchas the musical 

wn non - i e T 



te, Me i ld 

—™s iS lLlCUr 

instinct of his nature assured him must 
be the ultimate law; recognizing in 
them, too, scope for the free exercise of 
imagination in moral analysis, with- 
out breaking the bounds of reverence ; 
for, while these legends express the con- 
flict between necessity and free-will, 
they leave shadowy all that conflict 
within the man himself which may 
precede the determination of the 

The heroic persons of the Sophoclean 
drama are at once human and ideal. 
They are made human by the distinct 
and continuous portrayal of their chief 
feelings, impulses, and motives. Their 
ideality is preserved chiefly in two 
ways. First, the poet avoids too 
minute a moral analysis; and so each 
character, while its main tendencies are 
exhibited, still remains generic, a type 
rather than a portrait. Secondly—and 
this is of higher moment—the persons 
of the drama are ever under the directly 
manifested, immediately felt control of 
the gods and of fate. There is, indeed, 
no collision of forces so abrupt as in 
Aéschylus ; since the ampler unfolding 
of character serves to foreshow, and 
sometimes to delay, the catastrophe. 
On the other hand, there is no trace of 
that competition between free thought 
and the principle of authority which is 
often so jarring in the plots of Euripides. 
In the dramas of Sophocles there is 
perfect unity of moral government ; and 
the development of human motives, 
while it heightens the interest of the 
action, serves to illustrate the power of 
the gods. 

The method by which Sophocles thus 
combines humanity with idealism may 
be seen in the cases of Ajax, of (2dipus, 
and of Heracles, 

Ajax had been deprived of the arms 
of Achilles by the award of the Atreide. 
The goddess Athene, whom he had 
angered by arrogance, had seized the 
opportunity of his disappointment and 
rage to strike him with madness. In 
this frenzy he had fallen upon the flocks 
and herds of the Greek army on the 
plain of Troy, and had butchered or 
tortured them, thinking that he was 
wreaking vengeance on his enemies. 

The Genius of Sophocles. 5 

When he comes to his senses, he is 
overpowered by a sense of his disgrace, 
and destroys himself. 

The central person of this drama be- 
comes buman in the hands of Sophocles 
by the natural delineation of his anguish 
on the return to sanity. Ajax feels the 
new shame added to his repulse as any 
man of honour would feel it. At the 
same time he stands above men. An 
ideal or heroic character is lent to him, 
partly by the grandeur with which two 
feelings—remorse, and the sense that 
his dishonour must be effaced by death 
—absolutely predominate over all other 
emotions, as over pity for Tecmessa and 
his son ; chiefly by his terrible nearness 
to Athene, as one whom with her own 
voice she had once urged to battle, pro- 
mising her aid—when, face to face with 
her, he vaunted his independence of her, 
and provoked her anger ;—then, as the 
blinded victim whom she, his pretended 
ally, had stung into the senseless slaughter 
—lastly,as the conscious, broken-hearted 
sufferer of her chastisement. 

In the farewell of Ajax to Tecmessa 
and the seamen who had come with him 
from Salamis to Troy—a farewell really 
final, but disguised as temporary under 
a sustained (though possibly unconscious) 
irony—the human and the heroic ele- 
ments are thus blended :— 

“ All things the long and countless 
years first draw from darkness, then 
bury from light; and nothing is past 
hope, but there is confusion even for 
the dreadful oath and for the stubborn 
will. For even I, I once so wondrous 
firm, like iron in the dipping felt my 
keen edge dulled by yon woman’s words ; 
and I have ruth to leave her a widow 
with my foes, and the boy an orphan. 
But I will go to the sea-waters and the 
meadows by the shore, that in the purg- 
ing of my stains I may flee the heavy 
anger of the goddess. . . . Henceforth 
I shall know how to yield to the gods 
and learn to revere the Atreidz : they 
are rulers, so we must submit. Of 
course, dread things and things most 
potent bow to office. Thus it is that 
the snow-strewn winters give place to 
fruitful summer ; and thus Night’s weary 
round makes room for Day with her 

6 The Genius of Sophocles. 

white horses to kindle light ; and the 
breath of dreadful winds at last gives 
slumber to the groaning sea ; and, like 
the rest, almighty Sleep looses whom he 
has bound, nor holds with an eternal 
grasp. And we, shall we not learn dis- 
cretion? I chiefly, for I have newly 
learned that our enemy is to be hated 
but so far as one who will hereafter be 
a friend ; and towards a friend I would 
wish so far to show aid and service as 
knowing that he will not always abide. 
For to most men the haven of friend- 
ship is false. But all this will be well.— 
Woman, go thou within, and pray to 
the gods that in all fulness the desires of 
my heart may be fulfilled. And do ye, 
friends, honour my wishes even as she 
does, and bid Teucer, when he come, 
have care for me and good-will to you 
as well. For I will go whither I must 
pass,—but do ye what I bid; and per- 
chance, perchance, though now I suffer, 
ye will hear that I have found rest.” 

The story of (2dipus is more complex ; 
alternations of alarm and relief, of con- 
fidence and despair, attend the gradual 
unravelling of his history ; the miseries 
which crowd upon him at the last dis- 
covery seem to exhaust the possibilities 
of sorrow. A character so variously 
tried is necessarily laid open; and 
(Edipus is perhaps the best known to 
us of all the persons of Sophocles, 
Antigone, Electra, Philoctetes are not 
less human ; but no such glare of light- 
ning flashes in the depths of their 
natures. At the opening of the play 
how perfect an embodiment of assured 
greatness is (Edipus the King, bending 
with stately tenderness to the trouble of 
the Theban folk :— 

“QO my children, latest-born to Cad- 
mus who was of old, why bow ye 
to me thus beseeching knees, with the 
wreathed bough of the suppliant in your 
hands, while the city reeks with incense, 
rings with prayers for health and cries 
of woe? 1 deemed it unmeet, my chil- 
dren, to learn of these things from the 
mouth of others, and am come here my- 
self, I, whom all men call (Edipus the 

And how thoroughly answering to 
this is the tone in which the priest, the 

leader of the suppliants, tells the trouble 
and the faith of Thebes :— 

“A blight is on it in the fruit-guarding 
blossoms of the land, in the herds among 
the pastures, in the barren pangs of 
women ; and withal that fiery god, the 
dreadful Plague, has swooped on us, and 
ravages the town ; by whom the house 
of Cadmus is made waste, but dark 
Hades rich in groans and tears. 

“It is not that we deem thee ranked 
with gods that I and these children are 
suppliants at thy hearth ; but as deem- 
ing thee first of men, not only in life’s 
common chances, but when men have to 
do with the immortals ; thou who camest 
to the town of Cadmus and didst rid 
us of the tax that we paid to the hard 
songstress,—and this, though thou 
knewest nothing from us that could help 
thee, nor hadst been schooled ; no, with 
a god’s aid, as we say and deem, didst 
thou uplift our life. 

“And now, (Edipus, name glorious 
in all eyes, we beseech thee, all we sup- 
pliants, to find for us some succour ; 
whether thou wottest of it by the whisper 
of a god, or knowest it in the power of 

Then comes the oracle, announcing 
that the land is thus plagued because 
it harbours the unknown murderer of 
Laius ; the pity of G.dipus is quickened 
into a fiery zeal for discovery and atone- 
ment; and he appeals to the prophet 
Teiresias :— 

“'Teiresias, whose soul grasps all 
things, the lore that may be told and 
the unspeakable, the secrets of heaven 
and the low things of the earth,—thou 
feelest, though thou canst not see, what 
a plague doth haunt our state,—from 
which, great prophet, we find in thee 
our protector and only saviour. Now, 
Pheebus—if perchance thou knowest 
it not from the messengers — sent 
answer to our question that the only 
riddance from this pest which could 
come to us was if we should learn aright 
the slayers of Laius, and slay them, or 
send them into exile from our land. Do 
thou, then, grudge neither voice of birds 
nor any other way of seer-lore that thou 
hast, but save thyself and the state and 
me, and take away all the taint of the 

lew leet ph et st sO hb 

ea a 

The Genius of Sophocles. 7 

dead. For in thee is our hope; anda 
man’s noblest task is to help others by 
his best means and powers.” 

Teiresias is silent: the taunts of 
(Edipus at last sting him into uttering 
his secret-—(@dipus is the murderer: and 
thenceforward, through indignation, 
scorn, agonized suspense, the human 
passion mounts until it bursts forth in 
the last storm. 

And now the human element of the 
history has been worked out. (£dipus 
has passed to the limit of earthly 
anguish ; and, asif with his self-inflicted 
blindness had come clearer spiritual 
sight, he begins to feel a presentiment 
of some further, peculiar doom. “Suffer 
me to dwell on the hills,” he asks of 
Creon, “that there I may die. And 
yet thus much I know, that neither 
sickness nor aught else shall destroy 
me ; for Ishould never have been saved 
on the verge of death except for some 
strange ill.” The second play of Sopho- 
cles—“ (Edipus at Colonus ”—has per- 
vading it the calm of an assurance into 
which this first troubled foreboding has 
settled down: (Edipus, already in spirit 
separate from men, has found at Colonus 
the destined haven of his wanderings, 
and only awaits the summons out of life. 
At last from the darkness of the sacred 
cavern the voice long-waited for is 
heard,—“ (Edipus, (dipus, why do 
we tarry?” And the eye-witness of his 
passing says, “ Not the fiery bolt of the 
god took him away, nor the tumult of 
sea-storm in that hour, but either asum- 
moner from heaven, or the deep place of 
the dead opened to him in love, without 
a pang. For the man was ushered forth, 
not with groans nor in sickness or pain, 

_but beyond all mortals, wondrously.” 

As (Edipus, first shown in the vivid- 
ness of a tortured humanity, is then 
raised above men by keen spiritual 
anguish, so it is earthly passion and 
bodily suffering which give a human 
interest to Heracles the very son of 
Zeus. He stands by the altar on Mount 
Cenzeum, doing sacrifice to his Olympian 
Father for the taking of (Echalia; clad 
in the robe which his messenger, Lichas, 
has just brought him as the gift of 
Deiancira; the robe which she has 

secretly anointed with the blood of the 
Centaur Nessus, believing this to be a 
charm which shall win back to her the 
love of Heracles. What follows is thus 
told :— 

“ At first, hapless one, he prayed with 
cheerful heart, rejoicing in his comely 
garb. But when the flame of sacrifice 
began to blaze from the holy offerings 
and from the resinous wood, sweat broke 
out upon his flesh, and the tunic clung 
to his sides, and at every joint, close- 
glued as if by workman’s hand; and 
there came a biting pain twitching at 
his bones ; and then the venom as of a 
deadly, cruel adder began to eat him. 

“Then it was that he cried out on 
the unhappy Lichas, in nowise guilty 
for thy crime, asking with what thoughts 
he brought this robe ; and he, knowing 
nothing, hapless man, said that he had 
only brought thy gift, as he was charged. 
Then Heracles, as he heard it, and as 
a piercing spasm clutched his lungs, 
caught him by the foot, where the ankle 
hinges in the socket, and flung him at a 
rock washed on both sides by the sea ; 
and Lichas has his white brain oozing 
through his hair, as the skull is cloven 
and the blood scattered therewith. 

“ But all the people lifted up a voice 
of anguish and of awe, since one was 
frenzied and the other siain; and no 
one dared to vome before the man. For 
he was twitched to the ground and into 
the air, howling, shrieking; and the 
rocks rang around,—the steep Locrian 
headlands and Eubcea’s capes. But 
when he was worn out with ofttimes 
throwing himself in his misery on the 
ground and often making loud lament, 
while he reviled his ill-starred wedlock 
with thee and his marriage into the 
house of (Eneus, saying how he had 
found in it the ruin of his life—then, 
out of the flame and smoke that beset 
him, he lifted his distorted eye and 
saw me in the great host, weeping ; and 
he looked at me, and called me, ‘Son, 
come here, do not flee my woe, even if 
thou must die with me—come, bear me 
out of the crowd, and set me, if thou 
canst, in a place where no man shall see 
me; or, if thou hast any pity, at least 
convey me with all speed out of this 

8 The Genius of Sophocles. 

land, and let me not die on this 

Presently Heracles himself is brought 
before the eyes of the spectators. In 
the lamentation wrung from him by his 
torment two strains are clear above the 
rest, aud each is a strain of thoroughly 
human anguish. He contrasts the 
strength in which, through life, he has 
been the champion of helpless men— 
“‘ofttimes on the sea and in all forests 
ridding them of plagues”—with his own 
helpless misery in this hour; and he 
contrasts the greatness of the work to 
which he had seemed called with the 
weakness of the agent who has arrested 
it — 

“ Ah me, whose hands and shoulders 
have borne full many a fiery trial and 
evil to tell! But never yet hath the 
wife of Zeus or the hated Eurystheus 
laid on me aught so dreadful as this 
woven snare of the Furies, which the 
daughter of (CEneus, falsely fair, hath 
fastened on my shoulders, and by 
which I perish. Glued to my sides, it 
has eaten away my flesh to the bone; it 
is ever with me, sucking the channels of 
my breath ; already it has drained my 
vigorous blood, and in all my body I 
am marred, the thrall of these unutter- 
able bonds. Not the warrior on the 
battle-field, not the giant’s earthborn 
host, nor the might of wild beasts, nor 
Hellas, nor the land of the alien, nor 
all the lands that I have visited and 
purged, have done unto me thus ; but a 
woman, a weak woman, born not to the 
strength of man, alone, alone has struck 
me down without a sword. 

“O King Hades, receive me !—Smite 
me, O flash of Zeus! O King, O 
Father, dash, hurl thy thunder-bolt 
upon me! Again the pest eats me— 
it has blazed up, it was started into 
fury! O hands, hands, O shoulders and 
breast and trusty arms, ye, ye in this 
plight, are they who once tamed by 
force the haunter of Nemea, the scourge 
of herdsmen, the lion whom no man 
might approach or face—who tamed the 
hydra of Lerna and the host of monsters 
of double form, man joined to horse, 
with whom none might mingle, fierce, 
lawless of surpassing might—tamed 

the Erymanthian beast and the three- 
headed dog of Hades underground, an 
appalling foe, offspring of the dread 
Echidna,—tamed the serpent who 
guards the golden apples in earth’s 
utmost clime. And of other toils ten 
thousand I had taste, and no man got 
a trophy from my hands. But now 
with joint thus wrenched from joint, 
with frame torn to shreds, I have been 
wrecked by this blind curse—I, who 
am named son of noblest mother—lI, 
who was called the offspring of starry 

Anon he learns that the venom which 
is devouring him is the poisoned blood 
of his old enemy, the Centaur Nessus. 
That knowledge gives him at once the 
calm certainty of death ; and now, in 
the nearness of the passage to his 
Father, there arises, triumphant over 
bodily torment, the innate, tranquil 
strength of his immortal origin. He 
sees in this last chapter of his earthly 
ordeal the foreordained purpose of 
Zeus :— 

“Tt was foreshown to me by my 
Father of old that I should die by no 
creature that had the breath of life, but 
by one who was dead and a dweller in 
Hades. So this monster, the Centaur, 
even as the god’s will had been fore- 
shown, slew me, a living man, when he 
was dead.” 

He directs that he shall be carried to 
the top of Mount (Eta, above Trachis, 
sacred to Zeus; that a funeral pyre 
shall there be raised, and he, while yet 
living, laid upon it; that so the flame 
which frees his spirit from the flesh may 
in the same moment bear it up to Zeus. 
No one of the sacred places of Greece 
was connected with a legend of such 
large meaning, with one which was so 
much a world-legend, as this mountain- 
summit looking over the waters of the 
Malian Gulf. As generation after 
generation came to the struggle with 
plagues against which there arose no 
new deliverer, weary eyes must often 
have been turned to the height on which 
the first champion of men had won his 
late release from the steadfast malignity 
of fate; where, in the words of the 
Chorus foreboding the return of Philoc- 

5 ; 
\ The Genius of Sophocles. 

tetes to Trachis, “the great warrior, 
wrapt in heavenly fire, drew near to 
all the gods.” It is Sophocles in the 
“ Trachiniz ” who has given the noblest 
and the most complete expression to 
this legend ; showing Heracles, first, as 
the son of Zeus suffering for men and 
sharing their pain; then, towards the 
end of his torments, as already god- 
like in the clear knowledge of his 
Father's will and of his own coming 
change to perfect godhead. 

One aspect of the poetry of Sophocles 
has now been noticed ; the character of 
the treatment applied by him to those 
legends which supplied the chief ma- 
terial of Greek tragedy. It has been 
pointed out that the heroes of A®schylus 
are essentially superhuman; that the 
heroes of Euripides are essentially 
human, and often of a low human 
type ; that the heroes of Sophocles are 
at once human and superhuman: human 
generically, by the expression of certain 
general human qualities ; superhuman, 
partly by the very strength in which 
these qualities are portrayed, partly by 
the direct relation of the persons with 
supernatural powers. It has been seen 
further that these three styles of hand- 
ling correspond with successive phases 
of contemporary belief; the tendency 
of Greek thought in the fifth century 
B.C. having been gradually to lower 
the ideal stature of the ancestral demi- 

But this change of feeling towards 
the myths is not the only change of 
which account has to be taken. The 
spirit of dramatic poetry was influenced, 
less directly, yet broadly, by the cur- 
rent of political change. 

At the beginning of the fifth century 
B.c. Athens was a limited democracy ; 
at the close of the century it was an 
absolute democracy. Three periods may 
be marked in the transition. The first 
includes the new growth of democracy 
at Athens, springing from the common 
effort against Persia—the reform of 
Aristeides and the reform of Pericles. 
Its net result was the formal maturing 
of the democracy by the removal of a 
few old limitations. The second period 
is one of rest. It covers those thirty 

years during which the recent abolition 
of conservative checks was compensated 
by the controlling power of Pericles, 
and there was “in name a democracy, 
but in fact government by the leading 
man.”! The third period, beginning at 
the death of Pericles, at last shows the 
mature democracy in its normal work- 
ing. The platform for a leader of the 
people which Pericles had first set up 
remains ; it is held by a series of men 
subservient to the people; and the 
result is the sovereignty of the ecclesia. 
4Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides 
represent respectively the first, second, 
and third of these periods. 

Z€schylus, whose mind was heated to 
its highest glow by the common Greek 
effort against Persia and thenceforth 
kept the impress of that time, was 
through life democratic just so far as 
Athens was democratic at the end of 
the Persian Wars. On the one hand, 
he shared the sense of civic equality 
created by common labours and perils. 
On the other hand, he held to the old 
religion of Greece and Athens, to the 
family traditions bound up with it and 
to the constitutional forms consecrated 
by both. His greatest trilogy, the 
Oresteia, marks the end of the first 
period just defined ; and its third play, 
the “ Eumenides,” is a symbol of his 
political creed. On the one hand, it 
exalts Theseus, peculiarly the hero of 
the democracy ; on the other, it protests 
against the withdrawal of a moral censor- 
ship from the Areiopagus. 

Euripides, in the last third of the 
century, is a democrat living under a 
democracy which disappointed his 
theory. His constant praise of the 
farmer-class is meaning; he liked them 
because they were the citizens who had 
least to do with the violence of the 
ecclesia. It was the sense of this vio- 
lence—the hopeless bane, as he thought 
it, of the democracy—which hindered 
him from having a thorough interest in 
the public affairs of the city and from 
drawing any vigorous or continuous life 
for his poetry from that source. It was 
natural that he should have been one 
of the literary men who towards the 

2 Thucyd. ii. 65. 

10 The Genius of Sophocles. 

end of the war emigrated from Athens 
to Macedonia. The strain of social 
criticism, often rather querulous, which 
runs through his plays gives them, in 
one respect, a tone strange to Attic 
tragedy. An Athenian dramatist at 
the festivals was a citizen addressing 
fellow-citizens ; not only a religious but a 
certain political sympathy was supposed 
to exist between them. Aischylus and 
Sophocles, in their different ways, both 
make this political sympathy felt as part 
of their inspiration ; Euripides has little 
or nothing of it. He shares the pride 
of his fellow-citizens in the historical or 
legendary glories of the city ; as for the 
present, he is a critic standing apart. 
More thoroughly than Alschylus in 
the first period or Euripides in the 
third, is Sophocles a representative poet 
in the second period of the century. 
The years from about 460 to about 
430 B.c. have been called the Age of 
Pericles. The chief external character- 
istic of the time so called is plain 
enough. It was the age of the best 
Athenian culture ; a moment for Greece 
such as the Florentine renaissance was 
for Europe ; the age especially of sculp- 
ture, of architecture, and of the most 
perfect dramatic poetry. But is there 
any general intellectual characteristic, 
any distinctive idea, which can be re- 
cognized as common to all the various 
efforts of that age? The distinctive 
idea of the Periclean age seems to have 
been that of Pericles himself; the 
desire to reconcile progress with tradi- 
tion. Pericles looked forward and 
backward: forward, to the development 
of knowledge and art ; backward, to the 
past from which Athens had derived an 
inheritance of moral and religious law. 
He had the force both to make his own 
idea the ruling idea in all the intel- 
lectual activity of his age, and to give 
to his age the political rest demanded 
for this task of harmonizing the spiritual 
past and future of a people. Thucy- 
dides—a trustworthy witness for the 
leading thoughts if not for the words of 
Pericles—makes him dwell on the way 
in which two contrasted elements had 
come to be tempered in the life of 
Athens. After describing the intel- 

lectual tolerance, the flexibility and 
gladness of Athenian social life, Pericles 
goes on: “Thus genial in our private 
intercourse, in public things we are 
kept from lawlessness mainly by fear, 
obedient to the magistrates of the time 
and to the laws—especially to those 
laws which are set for the help of the 
wronged, and to those unwritten laws of 
which the sanction is a tacit shame.” + 

It is by this twofold characteristie— 
on the one hand, sympathy with pro- 
gressive culture, on the other hand, 
reverence for immemorial, unwritten 
law—that Sophocles is the poet of the 
Periclean Age. There are two passages 
which, above all others in his plays, are 
expressive of these two feelings. One 
is a chorus in the “ Antigone ;” the other 
is a chorus in the “ (Edipus Tyrannus.” 
One celebrates the inventiveness of man ; 
the other insists upon his need for 

In the “Antigone” the Chorus exalts 
the might of the gods by measuring 
against it those human faculties which 
it alone can overcome :— 

“Wonders are many, but nothing is 
more wonderful than Man ; that power 
which walks the whitening sea before 
the stormy south, making a path amid 
engulfing surges ; and Earth, the eldest 
of the gods, the immortal, the unwearied, 
doth it wear, turning the soil with the 
race of horses as the ploughs go to and 
fro from year to year. 

“ And the careless tribe of birds, the 
nations of the angry beasts, the deep 
sea’s ocean-brood he snares in the meshes 
of his woven wiles, he leads captive, 
man excellent in wit. He conquers by 
his arts the beast that walks in the 
wilds of the hills, he tames the horse 
with shaggy mane, he puts its yoke on 
its neck, he tames the stubborn moun- 

*‘ And speech, and wind-swift thought, 
and all the moods that mould a state 
hath he taught himself; and how to 
flee the shafts of frost beneath the clear, 
unsheltering sky, and the arrows of the 
stormy rain. 

“ All-providing is he ; unprovided he 
meets nothing that must come. Only 

1 Thucyd. ii. 37. 

The Genius 

from death shall he not win deliverance ; 
yet from hard sicknesses hath he de- 
vised escapes. 

“Cunning beyond fancy’s dreams is 
that resourceful skill which brings him 
now to evil, anon to good. When he 
honours the laws of the land, proudly 
stands his city: no city hath he who in 
his rashness harbours sin. Never may 
he share my hearth, never think my 
thoughts, who doth these things !” 

In the “C£dipus Tyrannus” the Chorus 
is indirectly commenting on the scorn 
for oracles just expressed by Iocasté :— 

“‘ Mine be the lot to win a reverent 
purity in all words and deeds sanctioned 
by those laws of sublime range, brought 
forth in the wide, clear sky, whose birth 
is of Olympus alone; which no brood 
of mortal men begat; which forgetful- 
ness shall never lay to sleep. Strong 
in these is the god, and grows not old. 

“Insolence breeds the tyrant; Inso- 
lence, once blindly gorged with plenty, 
with things which are fit or good, when 
it hath scaled the crowning height leaps 
on the abyss of doom, where it is served 
not by the service of the foot. But that 
rivalry which is good for the state I pray 
that the god may never quell: the god 
ever will 1 hold my champion. 

“But whoso walks haughtily in deed 
or word, unterrified by Justice, revering 
not the shrines of gods, may an evil 
doom take him for his miserable pride, 
if he will not gain his gains fairly, if he 
will not keep himself from impieties, 
but must lay wanton hands on things 

“Tn such case, what man can boast 
any more that he shall ward the arrows 
of anger from his life? Nay, if such 
deeds are honoured, what have I more 
to do with dance and song ? 

“No more will I go, a worshipper, to 
the awful altar at Earth’s centre, no 
more to Abw’s shrine or to Olympia, 
if these oracles fit not the issue so that 
all men shall point at them with the 
finger. Nay, King—if thou art rightly 
called—Zeus, all-ruling, let it not escape 
thee and thy deathless power !” 

We have now looked at a second 
general aspect of the poetry of Sophocles. 
As in his treatment of the heroic legends 

of Sophocles. 11 
he interprets, but is above, the religious 
spirit of his age, so in his reconciliation 
of enterprise and reverence he gives an 
ideal embodiment to the social spirit of 
his age. 

Eschylus is a democratic conserva- 
tive ; Euripides is the critic of a demo- 
cracy which he found good in theory 
but practically vicious ; Sophocles sets 
upon his work no properly political 
stamp, but rather the mark of a time 
of political rest and of manifold intellec- 
tual activity; an activity which took 
its special character from the idea of 
an elastic development reconciled with 
a restraining moral tradition. 

As the general spirit of Sophocles is 
perhaps best seen in these two phases, 
so among the special qualities of his 
work there are two which may be taken 
as the most distinctive—his “irony,” to 
give it the name which Bishop Thirl- 
wall’s Essay has made familiar ; and his 
delineation of character. 

The practical irony of drama depends 
on the principle that the dramatic poet 
stands aloof from the world which he 
creates. It is not for him to be an 
advocate or a partisan. He describes a 
contest of forces, and decides the issue 
as he conceives that it would be decided 
by the powers which control human lite. 
The position of a judge in reference to 
two litigants, neither of whom has abso- 
lute right on his side, is analogous to 
the position of a dramatic poet in refer- 
ence to his characters. Every dramatic 
poet is necessarily in some degree ironi- 
cal. In speaking, then, of the dramatic 
irony of Sophocles it is not meant that 
this quality is peculiar to him. It is 
only meant that in him this quality is 
especially noticeable and especially 

Irony depends on a contrast; the 
irony of tragedy depends mainly on a 
contrast between the beliefs or purposes 
of men and those issues to which their 
actions are overruled by higher powers. 
Sophocles has the art of making this 
contrast, throughout the whole course 
of a drama, peculiarly suggestive and 
forcible. In his six extant plays, the 
contrasts thus worked out have different 
degrees of complexity. The “Trachiniw” 

12 The Genius of Sophocles. 

and “Electra” may be taken as those in 
which the dramatic irony is simplest. 
In the “Trachiniz” there is a twofold 
contrast of a direct kind: first, between 
the love of Deianeira for Heracles and 
the mortal agony into which she un- 
wittingly throws him; then, between 
the meaning of the oracle (promising 
rest to Heracles), as understood by him 
and Deianeira, and its real import. In 
the “ Electra” there is a particular and 
a general contrast, both direct; the 
sister is mourning the supposed death 
of her brother at the very moment when 
he is about to enter the house as an 
avenger ; and the situation with which 
the play ends is the exact reversal of 
that with which it opened. 

The “Ajax” and the two (idipus 
plays, again, might be classed together 
in respect of dramatic irony; in each 
ease suffering is inflicted by the gods, 
but through this the sufferer passes to 
a higher state. Athene, the pretended 
ally of Ajax, humbles him even to 
death; but this death is a complete 
atonement, and his immortal fame as a 
canonized hero begins from the burial 
with which the drama closes. In the 
“(Edipus Tyrannus” the primary con- 
trast is between the seeming prosperity 
and the really miserable situation of the 
king. A secondary contrast runs through 
the whole process of inquiry which 
leads up to the final discovery. The 
truth is gradually evolved from those 
very incidents which display or even 
exalt the confidence of (Edipus. In 
the “ (Edipus at Colonus” this contrast 
is reversed. The Theban king is old, 
blind, poor, an outcast, a wanderer. 
But he has the inward sense of a 
strength which can no more be broken ; 
of a vision clearer than that of the 
bodily eye; of a spiritual change which 
has made a sorrow a possession ; of 
approach to final rest. 

It is, however, in the two remaining 
plays, the “ Antigone ” and the “Philoc- 
tetes,” that this irony of drama takes 
its most subtle and most artistic form. 
Antigone buries Polyneices against the 
law of the land; Creon dooms her to 
death, and thereby drives his own son 
to suicide. But the issue is not a 

simple conflict between state-law and 
religious duty. It is a conflict be- 
tween state-law too harshly enforced 
and natural affection set above the laws. 
Creon is right in the letter and wrong 
in the spirit ; Antigone is right in the 
spirit and wrong in the letter. Creon 
carries his point, but his victory be- 
comes his misery; Antigone incurs 
death, but dies with her work done. 
In the “ Philoctetes,” again, there is an 
antithesis of a like kind. Philoctetes 
is injured and noble ; Odysseus is dis- 
honest but patriotic. Odysseus wishes 
to capture Philoctetes in the public 
interest of the army at Troy. He 
urges on Neoptolemus that the end 
sanctifies the means. Neoptolemus at 
first recoils; then consents; finally 
deserts the plot in a passion of generous 
pity for Philoctetes. The result is that 
Philoctetes is brought back to Troy, 
but by fair means. He eventually 
agrees to do that of which he had 
loathed the thought, and goes back to 
his hated enemies under circumstances 
which make that return the happiest 
event of his life. Odysseus, on the other 
hand, gains his end; but not by the 
means which he had proposed to him- 
self. He carries Philoctetes back to 
Troy; but only after his stratagems 
have been foiled. Neoptolemus, mean- 
while—true, after his first lapse, to 
honour—conquers without a change of 

It is that same instinct of harmony 
which has already been seen to rule the 
work of Sophocles in its largest phases, 
which gives its motive and its delicate 
precision to his management of dramatic 
irony. He works out the contrasts of 
drama so clearly and with such fineness 
because he aims at showing how a bene- 
ficent power at last solves them ; not, 
as in Aischylus, by victory over a super- 
natural evil power, nor, as in Euripides, 
by abrupt intervention; but through 
those natural workings of human cha- 
racter and action over which the gods 

The accurate delineation of human 
character has therefore a special impor- 
tance for Sophocles. It has already 
been said that in the primary or heroic 

The Genius 

persons of the Sophoclean drama human 
character is delineated only broadly, 
with a deliberate avoidance of fine 
shading. It is therefore in the secon- 
dary or subordinate persons of the drama 
that we must look for the more delicate 
touches of ethical portraiture. 

Sophocles shows his psychological 
skill especially in two ways: in follow- 
ing the process by which a sensitive 
and generous nature passes from one 
phase of feeling to another; and in 
tracing the action upon each other of 
dissimilar or opposite natures. Philoc- 
tetes, first rejoiced by the arrival of 
the Greeks on his island,—then sus- 
picious,—then reassured,—then fren- 
zied with anger,—then finally concili- 
ated ; Tecmessa, agitated successively 
by fear, by hope, by despair concerning 
Ajax ; Electra, at first heroically patient 
in the hope that her brother will return 
as an avenger, then broken-hearted at 
the news of his death, at last filled 
with rapture by his sudden living pre- 
sence; Deianeira, by turns anxious, 
elated, jealous, horror-stricken—these 
are examples of the power with which 
Sophocles could trace a chapter of spi- 
ritual history. 

A closer examination of the character 
of Deianeira will help to set this power 
in a clearer light. When the herald 
Lichas arrives at Trachis with the 
prisoners taken by Heracles at (Echalia, 
Iolé, beautiful and dejected, at once 
arouses the interest of Deianeira; but 
it is the interest of compassion merely, 
with a touch of condescension in its 
kindness. ‘Ah, unhappy girl, who art 
thou among women... .?” “ Lichas, 
from whom is this stranger sprung?” 
Lichas does not know; Iolé will not 
speak ;—nor has she spoken, adds the 
herald, since they left Euboea. So 
Deianeira says: “ Then let her be left 
at peace and go into the house as best it 
pleases her, and not find a new pain at 
my hands beside her present ills ; they 
are enough. And now let us all move 
towards the house.” 

Presently Deianeira is told by a man 
of Trachis, who had heard it from 
Lichas himself in the market-place, that 
Tolé is the daughter of Eurytus, King 

of Sophocles, 13 

of CEchalia; and that it was to win 
Iolé that Heracles had stormed and 
sacked that town. ‘Ah me unhappy,” 
she cries, “in what a plight do I stand! 
What hidden bane have I taken under 
my roof?” Her informant and Lichas 
are confronted with each other; Lichas 
is put to confusion ; and then Deianeira 
turns to him with this appeal :— 

“Do not, I pray thee by Zeus who 
sends forth his lightnings over the high 
(Etean glen, do not use deceitful speech. 
For thou wilt tell thy news not to a base 
woman, nor to one who knows not the 
estate of men, and how it is not in their 
nature always to take joy in the same 
things. Now whosoever stands up 
against Love, as a boxer to change 
buffets, is not wise. For Love rules the 
gods as he will, and me also—why should 
he not !—yes, and many another such as 
I. So that Iam quite mad if I blame 
my husband for being taken with this 
malady, or blame this woman, who has 
had part in a thing nowise shameful, 
and not in any wrong to me. . . . Come, 
tell the whole truth ; it is a foul blight 
on a free man to be called a liar.” 

Lichas confesses all, and ends with 
this advice—* For both your sakes, for 
his and for thine own as well, bear with 
the woman ;” and Deianeira pretends 
to have adopted his counsel : “ Nay,” 
she says, “‘even thus am I minded to 
do. Believe me, I will not bring on 
myself a self-sought bane by waging 
fruitless war with the gods.” 

3ut how different is the feeling which 
she presently avows to the chorus of 
Trachinian maidens: “Of anger against 
the man I have no thought ; but to live 
in the same house with this girl—what 
woman could bear it?” Then she re- 
members the love-charm given her long 
ago by Nessus. There is a moment of 
feverish hope while she is preparing and 
despatching the robe for Heracles. But 
hardly has it gone when an accident 
reveals to her that she has anointed the 
robe with some poison of fearful viru- 
lence. In a moment, her thoughts rush 
forward to the worst; and her own 
words, in telling the story to the Chorus, 
foreshow the death to which she pre- 
sently gives herself on hearing the 

14 The Genius 

tidings from Eubcea—“ Life with a bad 
name must not be borne by her who 
glories to have been born not base.” 

The second special form in which 
Sophocles shows his power of drawing 
character consists in exhibiting the 
action upon each other of natures broadly 
or at least distinctly different. He loved 
to display this mutual action in an in- 
terview at which the two speakers ex- 
change arguments. The sisters Electra 
and Chrysothemis, the sisters Antigone 
and Ismene, hold conversations of this 
kind. It might be objected that in these 
cases the influence can scarcely be called 
mutual ; and that, while Electra makes 
Chrysothemis angry and Antigone makes 
Ismene feel ashamed, Chrysothemis pro- 
duces no impression upon Electra nor 
Ismene upon Antigone. But it should 
be observed that in each case the weak 
sister had this important influence upon 
the strong sister ;—she made her feel 
alone. The selfishness of Chrysothemis 
isolates Electra in the task of avenging 
their father, as the feminine timidity of 
Ismene isolates Antigone in the task of 
burying their brother. In each case, 
the heroine agitates the less courageous 
sister, and on the other hand the de- 
fection of a natural ally braces the 

jut the finest examples of such juxta- 
position are to be found in the “ Philoc- 
tetes:” a tragedy which for artistic 
finish has often, and perhaps justly, 
been ranked as its author’s masterpiece ; 
and in which the absence of much inci- 
dent permitted or exacted the utmost 
exercise of skill in delineating character, 
From many good passages in the play 
one may be chosen as a specimen— 
the opening scene between Odysseus 
and Neoptolemus. Odysseus, holding 
that the public interest of the army at 
Troy justifies recourse to fraud, proposes 
to take Philoctetes by a stratagem. 
Neoptolemus, a young and generous 
man, is at first shocked; but Odysseus 
succeeds in making ambition conquer 
the sense of honour. The dialogue itself 
alone can give aa idea of the fineness 
with which this is managed :— 
“ Neoptolemus, What wouldst thou ? 
Odysseus. The mind of Philoctetes 

of Sophocles. 

must be snared by thee with a well-told 
tale. When he asks thee who and whence 
thou art, say—‘ The son of Achilles,’ 
—that must not be garbled; but thou 
art homeward bound, having quitted 
the Greek armada, and conceived for 
them a deadly hatred. . . . The thing 
to be plotted is just this—how thou 
mayest compass to steal the unconquer- 
able arms. I well know, my son, that 
by nature thou art unapt to utter or to 
frame such wiles. Yet victory, we 
know, is a sweet prize to win. Take 
heart: our honesty shall be proved 
another time. But now lend thyself to 
me for one little roguish day ; and then, 
for all the rest of thy days, be called 
the most virtuous of men. 

NV. Son of Laertes, whatever counsels 
pain my ear, to the same I abhor to 
lend my hand. It is not in my nature 
to compass aught by knavery—neither 
in mine nor, as they say, in my father’s. 
I am ready to take the man by force, 
not by fraud ; with the use of only one 
foot he will never worst all of us in 
open fight. And yet, having been sent 
to aid thee, I am loth to be called 
traitor. But I wish, Prince, to miss 
my mark by doing right rather than 
to win by baseness. 

O. Son of a gallant sire, time was 
when I, too, in my youth had a slow 
tongue and an active hand. But now, 
when I come out to the proof, I see 
that words, not deeds, always come to 
the front with men. 

N. In short, what dost thou bid me 
but to lie ? 

O. I bid thee take Philoctetes by 

N. And why by guile more than by 
persuasion ? 

O. He will never be persuaded ; and 
by force thou art not likely to take him. 

NV. Hath he a strength so defiant, so 
dreadful ? 

O. Arrows inevitable and winging 

N. One cannot dare, then, even to 
go near him ? 

O. No, unless thou snare him, as I 

NY. So thou thinkest it no shame to 

O. None, if the lie is fraught with 

J. And how shall a man have the 
face to utter it ? 

O. When thou dost aught for gain, it 
is unmeet to shrink. 

N. And what gain for me is his 
coming to Troy ? 

O. Troy can be taken by these arrows 

N. Then J am not, as ye said, to be 
the captor ? 

O. Not thou apart from these, nor 
these from thee. 

NV. It seems, then, they must be won, 
if so it stands? 

O. I tell thee by this deed thou shalt 
gain two gifts. 

NV. What are they? If I knew, I 
would not shrink. 

O. Thou wilt be known as wise and 

NV. Enough ; I'll do it, and put away 
all shame.” 

I have attempted to show what is 
distinctive of the genius of Sophocles in 
a fourfold manifestation: in his blend- 
ing of a divine with a human character 
in the heroes ; in his expression of the 
effort to reconcile progress with tra- 
dition ; in his dramatic irony—that is, 
in the precision with which he brings 
out contrasts, especially between the 
purposes of men and of the gods, in 
order that the final solution may be 
more impressive; lastly, in his por- 
trayal of character—not in a series of 
situations, but continuously through 
chapters of spiritual history. It has 
been seen that the instinct which rules 
his work under each of these aspects is 
what may be called in the largest sense 
the instinct of harmony. His imagi- 
nation has a tranquil mastery of the 
twofold realm of Tragedy—the natural 
and the supernatural—and tempers the 
conflicting elements of each or both 
with a sure sense of fitness and just 

It is for this reason—because of 
all the Greek poets he is the most per- 

The Genius of Sophocles. 15 

fectly an artist—that his poetry has 
a closer significance than any other 
for that form of plastic art which stands 
nearest to drama. It is the best inter- 
preter of those pieces of Greek sculp- 
ture, such as the groups of Niobe and 
Laocoon, which express a moment of 
conflict between human and super- 
human force. It has been said that for 
the Greeks beauty was the index on 
the balance of expression—that is, a 
central control governing the equipoise 
between terror and pity. The terror 
inspired by Niobe and by Laocoon, 
accusing with upturned eyes the de- 
stroying power; the pity inspired by 
their children, clinging to the shelter 
which cannot protect them: these are 
harmonized by the beauty, at once 
terrible and tender, of the whole. Just 
such is the harmony between the human 
and superhuman elements in the agony 
of (Edipus and of Heracles. 

Again, it is chiefly because Sophocles 
had supremely this most Greek of in- 
stincts, the instinct of just proportion, 
that his mind was so perfectly attem- 
pered to the genius of Greek polytheism 
—a religion of which the piety was a re- 
verent sense of beauty and of measure. 
He lived just when this religion had shed 
upon it the greatest strength of intellec- 
tual light which it could bear without 
fading; he is, perhaps, the highest 
type of its votary—the man for whom, 
more than for any other who could be 
named, the old national religion of 
Greece was a self-sufficing, thoughtful, 
and ennobling faith. Sophocles was, 
indeed, the perfect Greek ideal of a man 
who loved the gods and was loved by 
them—one, the work of whose life was 
their service under their direct inspira- 
tion ; to whom they gave victory not 
followed by insolence, long years and 
opportuneness of death ; and whom the 
most imaginative of satirists could not 
imagine, even among the boundless 
rivalries of the dead, less good-humoured 
than he had been upon earth. 

R. C. Jess, 




* Ah, nappy Lycius !—for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid, 
Or sighed, or blushed, or on spring-flowered 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy ; 
A virgin purest-lipped, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learned to the red heart's core.” 

Tue very first object that we saw, on 
this the first morning of our waking in 
Scotland, was a small boy of seven or 
eight, brown-faced, yellow-haired, bare- 
footed, who was marching along in the 
sunlight with a bag of school-books on 
his back about as big as himself. 

“Oh, the brave little fellow!” cries 
Tita, regarding him from the door of 
the inn with a great softuess in her 
brown eyes. “ Don’t you think he will 
be Lord Chancellor some day ?” 

The future Lord Chancellor went 
steadily on, his small brown feet taking 
no heed of the stones in the white 

“T think,” says Tita, suddenly plung- 
ing her hand into her pocket, “I think 
I should like to give him a shilling.” 

“No, Madam,” says one of us to her, 
sternly, “ you shall not bring into this 
free land the corrupting influences of 
the south. It is enough that you have 
debased the district around your own 
home. If you offered that young patriot 
a shilling, he would turn again and rend 
vou. But if you offered him a half- 
penny, now, to buy bools———” 

At this moment, somehow or other, 
Bell and our Lieutenant appear together ; 
aud before we know where we are, the 
girl has darted across the street in 
pursuit of the boy. 

“What are bools?” asks the Lieu- 
tenant, gravely. 

“Objects of interest to the youthful 

Then we see, in the white glare of 
the sun, a wistful, small, fair and sun- 
burned face turned towards that young 
lady with the voluminous light brown 
hair. She is apparently talking to him, 
but in a different tongue from his own, 
and he looks frightened. Then the sun- 
light glitters on two white coins, and Bell 
pats him kindly on the shoulder; and 
doubtless the little fellow proceeds on 
his way to school in a sort of wild and 
wonderful dream, having an awful sense 
that he has been spoken to by a fair and 
gracious princess. 

“ As I live,” says my Lady, with a 
great surprise, “she has given him two 
half-crowns !” 

Queen Titania looks at me. There is 
a meaning in her look—partly interro- 
gation, partly conviction, and wholly 
kind and pleasant. It has dawned upon 
her that girls who are not blessed with 
abundant pocket-money do not give away 
five shillings to a passing schoolboy with- 
out some profound emotional cause. 
Bell comes across the way, looking vastly 
pleased and proud, but somehow avoid- 
ing our eyes. She would have gone into 
the inn, but that my Lady’s majestic 
presence (you could have fanned her 
out of the way with a buttertly’s wing !) 
barred the entrance. 

“Viave you been for a walk this 
morning, Bell?” she says, with a fine 
air of indifference. 

“ Yes, Madame,” replies our Uhlan— 
as if he had any business to answer for 
our Bell. 

“Where did you go?” 

“Oh,” says the girl, with some con- 
fusion, “ we went—we went away from 
the town a little way—I don’t exactly 
know a 

And with that she escaped into the 

“ Madame,” says the Lieutenant, with 
a great apparent effort, while he keeps his 
eyes looking towards the pavement, and 
there is a brief touch of extra colour in 
his brown face, “ Madame—I—I am 
asked—indeed, Mademoiselle she was 
good enough—she is to be my wife— 
and she did ask me if I would tell 
you x 

And somehow he put out his hand— 
just as a German boy shakes hands with 
you, in a timid fashion, after you have 
tipped him at school—and took Tita’s 
hand in his, as if to thank her for a 
great gift. And the little woman was 
so touched, and so mightily pleased, 
that I thought she would have kissed 
him before my very face, in the open 
streets of Lockerbie. All this scene, 
you must remember, took place on the 
doorstep of an odd little inn in a small 
Scotch country town. There were few 
spectators. The sun was shining down 
on the white fronts of the cottages, and 
blinking on the windows. A cart of 
hay stood opposite to us, with the horse 
slowly munching inside his nose-bag. 
We ourselves were engaged in peacefully 
waiting for breakfast when the astound- 
ing news burst upon us. 

“Oh, Iam very glad indeed, Count 
von Rosen,” says Tita ; and, sure enough, 
there was gladness written all over her 
face and in her eyes. And then in a 
minute she had sneaked away from us, 
and I knew she had gone away to seek 
Bell, and stroke her hair and put her 
arms round her neck, and say, “ Oh, my 
dear,” with a little sob of delight. 

Well, I turn to the Lieutenant. Young 
men, when they have been accepted, 
wear a most annoying air of self-satis- 

“Touching those settlements,” I say 
to him; “have you any. remark to 
make ?” 

The young man begins to laugh. 

“Tt is no laughing matter. I am 

No. 157.—vob. xxvn. 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 17 

Bell’s guardian. You have not got my 
consent yet.” 

“ We can do without it—it is not an 
opera,” he says, with some more of that 
insolent coolness. “ But you would be 
pleased to prevent the marriage, yes? 
For I have seen it often—that you are 
more jealous of Mademoiselle than of 
anyone—and it is a wonder to me that 
you did not interfere before. Dut as for 
Madame, now—yes, she is my very 
good friend, and has helped me very 

Such is the gratitude of those con- 
ceited young fellows, and their pene- 
tration, too! If he had but known 
that only a few days before Tita had 
taken a solemn vow to help Arthur by 
every means in her power, so as to atone 
for any injustice she might have done 
him! But all at once he says, with 
quite a burst of eloquence (for him)— 

“ My dear friend, how am I to thank 
you for allthis? I did not know when 
I proposed to come to England that this 
holiday tour would bring to me so much 
happiness, It does appear to me I am 
grown very rich—so rich I should like 
to give something to everybody this 
morning—and make everyone happy as 
mysel x 

“Just as Bell gave the boy five 
shillings. All right. When you get 
to Edinburgh you can buy Tita a Scotch 
collie—she is determined to have a 
collie, because Mrs. Quinet got a prize 
for one at the Crystal Palace. Come in 
to breakfast.” 

Bell was sitting there with her face 
in shadow, and Tita, laughing in a very 
affectionate way, standing beside her 
with her hands on the girl’s shoulder. 
Bell did not look up ; nothing was said. 
A very friendly waiter put breakfast on 
the table. The landlord dropped in to 
bid us good morning, and see that we 
were comfortable. Even the ostler, the 
Lieutenant told us afterwards, of this 
Scotch inn had conversed with him in 
a shrewd, homely, and sensible fashion, 
treating him as a young man who would 
naturally like to have the advice of his 

The young people were vastly de- 


18 Tie Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

lighted with the homely ways of this 
Scotch inn; and began to indulge in 
vague theories about parochial education, 
independence of character, and the 
hardihood of northern races—all tending 
to the honour and glory of Scotland. 
You would have thought, to hear them 
go on in this fashion, that all the good 
of the world, and all its beauty and 
kindliness, were concentrated in the 
Scotch town of Lockerbie, and that in 
Lockerbie no place was so much the 
pet of fortune as the Blue Bell Inn. 

“And to think,” says Bell, with a 
gentle regret, ‘that to-morrow is the 
last day of our driving.” 

“But not the last of our holiday, 
Mademoiselle,” says the Lieutenant. 
“Ts it necessary that any of us goes 
back to England for a week or two, or 
a month, or two months?” 

Of course the pair of them would 
have liked very well to start off 
on another month’s excursion, just as 
this one was finished. But parents and 
guardians have their duties. Very soon 
they would be in a position to control 
their own actions ; and then they would 
be welcome to start for Kamschatka. 

All that could be said in praise of 
Scotland had been said in the inn; and 
new, as Castor and Pollux took us away 
from Lockerbie into the hillier regions 
of Dumfries-shire, our young people 
were wholly at a loss for words to de- 
scribe their delight. It was a glorious 
day, to begin with: a light breeze tem- 
pering the hot sunlight, and blowing 
about the perfume of sweet-briar from 
the fronts of the stone cottages, and 
bringing us warm and resinous odours 
from the woods of larch and spruce. 
We crossed deep glens, along the bottom 
of which ran clear brown streams over 
beds of pebbles. The warm light fell 
on the sides of those rocky clefts and 
lit up the masses of young rowan-trees 
and the luxuriant ferns along the moist 
banks. There was a richly cultivated 
and undulating country lying all around ; 
but few houses, and those chiefly farm- 
houses. Far beyond, the rounded hills 
of Moffat rose soft and blue into the 
white sky. Then, in the stillness of 

the bright day, we came upon a way- 
side school ; and as it happened to be 
dinner-time we stopped to see the 
stream of little ones come out. It was 
a pretty sight, under the shadow of 
the trees, to see that troop of children 
come into the country road—most of 
them being girls in extremely white 
pinafores, and nearly all of them, boys 
and girls, being yellow-haired, clear- 
eyed, healthy children, who kept very 
silent and stared shyly at the horses 
and the phaeton. Allthe younger ones 
had bare feet, stained with the sun, and 
their yellow hair—which looked almost 
white by the side of their berry-brown 
cheeks—was free from cap or bonnet. 
They did not say, “ Chuck us a ’apenny.” 
They did not raise a cheer as we drove 
off. They stood by the side of the 
road, close by the hawthorn hedge, look- 
ing timidly after us ; and the last that 
we saw of them was that they had got 
into the middle of the path and were 
slowly going off home—a small, bright, 
and various-coloured group under the 
soft green twilight of an avenue of trees. 

As we drove on through the clear, 
warm day, careless and content, the two 
women had all the talking to themselves ; 
and a strange use they made of their 
opportunities. If the guardian angels 
of those two creatures happen to have 
any sense of humour, they must have 
laughed as they looked down and over- 
heard. You may remember that when it 
was first proposed to take this Prussian 
Lieutenant with us on our summer tour, 
both Bell and my Lady professed the 
most deadly hatred of the German na- 
tion, and were nearly weeping tears 
over the desolate condition of France. 
That was about six months before. 
Now, thirty millions of people, either in 
the south or north of Europe, don’t 
change their collective character—if 
such a thing exists—within the space 
of six months; but on this bright 
morning you would have fancied that 
the women were vying with each other 
to prove that all the domestic virtues, 
and all the science and learning of civi- 
lization, and all the arts that beautify 
life, were the exclusive property of the 

— er 

a itd wet |e TM SS +> Me 



— e., Se , , 

= eee SS hULe.h)6lUhe 

Teutons. Now, my Lady was a later 
convert—had she not made merry only 
the other day over Bell’s naive con- 
fession that she thought the German 
nation as good as the French nation? 
—but now that she had gone over to 
the enemy, she altogether distanced 
Bell in the production of theories, facts, 
quotations, and downright personal 
opinion. She had lived a little longer, 
you see, and knew more ; and perhaps 
she had a trifle more audacity in sup- 
pressing awkward facts. At all events 
the Lieutenant was partly abashed and 
partly amused by her warm advocacy of 
German character, literature, music, and 
a thousand other things; and by her 
endeavours to prove—out of the his- 
torical lessons she had taught her two 
boys—that there had always prevailed 
in this country a strong antipathy to the 
French and all their ways. 

‘Their language too,” I remark, to 
keep the ball rolling. “Observe the dif- 
ference between the polished, fluent, and 
delicate German, and the barbaric dis- 
sonance and jumble of the French! 
How elegant the one, how harsh the 
other! If you were to take Bossuet, 
now ‘ 

“Tt is not fair,” says Bell. “We 
were talking quite seriously, and you 
come in to make a jest of it.” 

“T don’t. Are you aware that, ata 
lecture Coleridge gave in the Royal In- 
stitution in 1808, he solemnly thanked 
his Maker that he did not know a word 
of that frightful jargon, the French 
language ?” 

The women were much impressed. 
They would not have dared, themselves, 
to say a word against the French 
language ; nevertheless, Coleridge was 
a person of authority. Bell looked as 
if she would like to have some further 
opinions of this sort; but Mr. Freeman 
had not at that time uttered his epi- 
gram about the general resemblance of 
a Norman farmer to “a man of York- 
shire or Lincolnshire who has somehow 
picked up a bad habit of talking French,” 
nor that other about a Norman being a 
Dane who, “ in his sojourn in Gaul, had 
put on a slight French varnish, and who 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 19 

came into England to be washed clean 

“Now,” I say to Bell, “if you had 
only civilly asked me to join in the 
argument, I could have given you all 
sorts of testimony to the worth of the 
Germans and the despicable nature of 
the French.” 

“Yes, to make the whole thing 
absurd,” says Bell, somewhat hurt. 
“T don’t think you believe anything 

“ Not in national characteristics even ? 
If not in them, what are we to believe ? 
But I will help you all the same, Bell. 
Now did you ever hear of a sonnet in 
which Wordsworth, after recalling some 
of the great names of the Commonwealth 
time, goes on to say— 

* France, ’tis stran 
Hath brought no such souls as we had then. 
Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 

No single volume paramount, no code, 
But equally a want of books and men !’ 

—does that please you?” 
“ Yes,” says Bell, contentedly. 
“Well, did you ever read a poem 

called ‘ Hands all Round ’?” 

“ No.” 

“You never heard of a writer in the 
Examiner called ‘ Merlin,’ whom people 
to this day maintain was the Poet 
Laureate of England?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, listen :— 

* What health to France, if France be she 

Whom martial progress only charms ? 

Yet tell her—better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city’s flashing heats 
But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 

Why change the titles of your streets / 

You fools, you’ll want them all again. 
Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound ! 

To France, the wiser France, we drink, my 


And the great name of England, round and 

round !’” 

At that time, Miss Bell, thousands of 

people in this country were disquieted 

about the possible projects of the new 

French Government; and as it was 

considered that the Second Napoleon 

would seek to establish his power by 
foreign conquest——” 
c 2 


20 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

“This is quite an historical lecture,” 
says Queen Tita, in an under-tone. 

” and as the Napoleonic legend 
included the humiliation of England, 
many thoughtful men began to cast 
about for a possible ally with whom we 
could take the field. To which country 
did they turn, do you think?” 

“To Germany, of course,” says Bell, 
in the most natural way in the world. 

“ Listen again :— 

* Gigantic daughter of the West, 
We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee, and we love thee best, 
For art thou not of British blood ? 
Should war’s mad blast again be blown, 
Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 
But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 
Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, 
And the great name of England, round and 
round !” 

Bell seemed a little disappointed that 
America and not Germany had been 
singled out by the poet; but of course 
nations don’t choose allies merely to 
please a girl who happens to have en- 
gaged herself to marry a Prussian 

“ Now,” I say to her, “ you see what 
aid I might have given you, if you only 
had asked me prettily. But suppose 
we give Germany & éurn now—suppose 
we search about for all the unpleasant 
things <4 

“Oh no, please don’t,” says Bell, sub- 

This piece of unfairness was so 
obvious and extreme that Von Rosen 
himself was at last goaded into taking up 
the cause of France, and even went the 
length of suggesting that peradventure 
ten righteous men might be found 
within the city of Paris. "Twas a 
notable concession. I had begun to 
despair of France. But no sooner had 
the Lieutenant turned the tide in her 
favour than my Lady and Bell seemed 
graciously disposed to be generous. 
Chiiteaubriand was not Goethe, but he 
was a pleasing writer. Alfred de 
Musset was not Heine, but he had the 
merit of resembling him. If Auber 

did not exactly reach the position of a 
Beethoven or a Mozart, one had lis- 
tened to worse operas than the “ Crown 
Diamonds.” The women did not know 
much about philosophy; but while 
they were sure that all the learning and 
the wisdom of the world had come from 
Germany, they allowed that France had 
produced a few epigrams. In this ami- 
able frame of mind we drove along the 
white road on this summer day; and 
after having passed the great gap in the 
Moffat Hills which leads through to St. 
Mary’s Loch and all the wonders of the 
Ettrick and the Yarrow, we drove into 
Moffat itself, and found ourselves in a 
large hotel fronting a great sunlit and 
empty square. 

Our young people had really con- 
ducted themselves very discreetly. All 
that forenoon you would scarcely have 
imagined that they had just made a 
solemn promise to marry each other; 
but then they had been pretty much 
occupied with ancient and modern his- 
tory. Now, as we entered a room in 
the hotel, the Lieutenant espied a num- 
ber of flowers in a big glass vase ; and 
without any pretence of concealment 
whatever, he walked up to it, selected a 
white rose, and brought it back to Bell. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, in a low 
voice—but who could help hearing 
him ?—“‘ you did give to me, the other 
day, a forget-me-not; will you take this 
rose ?” 

Mademoiselle looked rather shy for a 
moment: but she took the rose, and— 
with an affectation of unconcern which 
did not conceal an extra touch of colour 
in her pretty face—she said, “ Oh, thank 
you very much,” and proceeded to put 
it into the bosom of her dress. 

“Madame,” said the Lieutenant, just 
as if nothing had occurred, “I suppose 
Moffat is a sort of Scotch Baden- 
Baden ?” 

Madame, in turn, smiled sedately, 
and looked out of the window, and 
said that she thought it was. 

When we went out for a lounge after 
luncheon, we discovered that if Moffat 
is to be likened to Baden-Baden, it 
forms an exceedingly Scotch and re- 


a i ee ed ee he 

spectable Baden-Baden. The building 
in which the mineral waters are drunk! 
looks somewhat like an educational 
institution, painted white, and with 
prim white iron railings. Inside, instead 
of that splendid saloon of the Conver- 
sationshaus in which, amid a glare of gas, 
various characters, doubtful and other- 
wise, walk up and down and chat while 
their friends are losing five-franc pieces 
and napoleons in the adjoining cham- 
bers, we found a long and sober-looking 
reading-room. Moffat itself is a white, 
clean, wide-streeted place, and the hills 
around it are smooth and green ; but it 
is very far removed from Baden-Baden. 
It is a good deal more proper, and a 
great deal more dull. Perhaps we did 
not visit it in the height of the season, 
if it has got a season; but we were at 
all events not very sorry to get away 
from it again, and out into the hilly 
country beyond. 

That was a pretty drive up through 
Annandale. As you leave Moffat the 
road gradually ascends into the region 
of the hills ; and down below you lies 
a great valley, with the river Annan 
running through it, and the town of 
Moffat itself getting smaller in the 
distance. You catch a glimmer of the 
blue peaks of Westmoreland lying far 
away in the south, half hid amid silver 
haze. The hills around you increase in 
size, and yet you would not recognize 
the bulk of the great round slopes but 
for those minute dots that you can 
make out to be sheep, and for an occa- 
sional wasp-like creature that you 
suppose to be a horse. The evening 
draws on. The yellow light on the 
slopes of green becomes warmer. You 
arrive at a great circular chasm which is 
called by the country-folks the Devil’s 
Beef-tub—a mighty hollow, the western 

1“ Bien entendu, dailleurs,que le but du voyage 
Est de prendre les eaux ; c'est un compte réglé. 
Deaux, je n'en ai point vu lorsque j'y suis 

allé ; 
Mais qwon ou puisse voir, je wen mets rien 
en gage ; 
Je crois méme, en honneur, que Veau de 
A, quand on Pexamine, un petit godt salé.” 
A, DE MusseET. 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 21 

sides of which are steeped in a soft 
purple shadow, while the eastern slopes 
burn yellow in the sunlight. Far away 
down in that misty purple you can see 
tints of grey, and these are masses of 
slate uncovered by grass. The descent 
seems too abrupt for cattle, and yet 
there are faint specks which may be 
sheep. There is no house, not even a 
farm-house, near; and all traces of 
Moffat and its neighbourhood have long 
been left out of sight. 

But what is the solitude of this place 
to that of the wild and lofty region you 
enter when you reach the summits of the 
hills? Far away on every side of you 
stretch miles of lonely moorland, with 
the shoulders of more distant hills 
reaching down in endless succession 
into the western sky. There is no sign 
of life in this wild place. The stony 
road over which you drive was once a 
mail-coach road: now it is overgrown 
with grass. A few old stakes, rotten 
and tumbling, show where it was 
necessary at one time to place a protec- 

tion against the sudden descents on the * 

side of the road; but now the road 
itself seems lapsing back into moorland. 
It is up in this wilderness of heather 
and wet moss that the Tweed takes its 
rise ; but we could hear no trickling of 
any stream to break the profound and 
melancholy stillness. There was not 
even a shepherd’s hut visible ; and we 
drove on in silence, scarcely daring to 
break the charm of the utter loneliness 
of the place, 

The road twists round to the right. 
Before us a long valley is seen, and we 
guess that it receives the waters of the 
Tweed. Almost immediately afterwards 
we come upon a tiny rivulet some two 
feet in width—either the young Tweed 
itself or one of its various sources ; and 
as we drive on in the gathering twilight 
towards the valley, it seems as though 
we were accompanied by innumerable 
streamlets trickling down to the river. 
The fire of the sunset goes out in the 
west, but over there in the clear green- 
white of the east a range of hills still 
glows with a strange roseate purple. 
We hear the low murmuring of the 

i Dol 

22 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

Tweed in the silence of the valley. 
We get down among the lower-lying 
hills, and the neighbourhood of the 
river seems to have drawn to it thou- 
sands of wild creatures. There are 
plover calling and whirling over the 
marshy levels. There are black cock 
and grey hen dusting themselves in the 
road before us, and waiting until we are 
quite near to them before they wing 
their straight flight up to the heaths 
above. Far over us, in the clear green 
of the sky, a brace of wild duck go 
swiftly past. A weasel glides out and 
over the grey stones by the roadside ; 
and further along the bank there are 
young rabbits watching, and trotting, 
and watching again, as the phaeton gets 
nearer tothem. And then, as the deep 
rose-purple of the eastern hills fades 
away, and all the dark green valley of 
the Tweed lies under the cold silver- 
grey of the twilight, we reach a small 
and solitary inn, and are almost sur- 
prised to hear once more the sound of 
a human voice. 


** Nor much it gr ves 
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 

Why, T have been a butt rfly, a lord 
Of flowers, garlands, lowe -knots, silly posit 8, 
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour-roses : 

My kingdom's at its death.” 

Wuen you have dined on ham and 
eggs and whisky the evening before, to 
breakfast on ham and eggs and tea is a 
great relief the morning after. We 
gathered round the table in this remote 
little inn with much thankfulness of 
heart. We were to have aglorious day 
for the close of our journey. All round 
the Crook Inn there was a glare of sun- 
shine on the rowan-trees. The soft 
greys and greens of the hills on the 
other side of the river rose into a pale- 
blue sky, where there was not a single 
cloud. And then, to complete the pic- 
ture of the moorland hostelry, appeared 
a keeper who had just set free from their 

kennel a lot of handsome setters, and 
the dogs were flying hither and thither 
along the white road and over the grass 
and weeds by the tall hedges, 

“Do you know,” said Bell, “that 
this used to be a posting-house that had 
thirty horses in its own stables; and 
now it is only used by a few sportsmen 
who come here for the fishing and later 
on for the shooting ?” 

So she, too, had taken to getting up 
in the morning and acquiring informa- 

“Yes,” she said, “but it has been 
taken by a new landlord, who hopes to 
have gentlemen come and lodge here by 
the month in the autumn.” 

She was beginning to show a great 
interest in the affairs of strangers : 
hitherto she had cared for none of these 
things, except where one of our Surrey 
pensioners was concerned. 

“ And the ostler is such an intelligent 
and independent old man, who lets you 
know that he understands horses a great 
deal better than you.” 

I could see that my Lady was mentally 
tracking out Bell’s wanderings of the 
morning. Under whose tuition had 
she discovered all that about the land- 
lord? Under whose guidance had she 
found herself talking to an ostler in the 
neighbourhood of the stables? Butshe 
had not devoted the whole morning to 
such inquiries. We remarked that 
the Lieutenant wore in his button-hole 
a small bouquet of tiny wild-flowers, 
the faint colours of which were most 
skilfully combined and shown up by a 
bit of fern placed behind them. You 
may be sure that it was not the clumsy 
fingers of the young Uhlan that had 
achieved that work of art. 

“And now, my dear children,” I 
observe, from the head of the table, 
‘* we have arrived at the last stage of our 
travels. We have done nothing that 
we ought to have done ; we have done 
everything that we ought not to have 
done. As one of you has already 
pointed out, we have never visited a 
museum, or explored a ruin, or sought 
out an historical scene. Our very course 
has been inconsistent, abnormal, unrea- 

Oe - ee ol 

Somwd tts 

oe eae fo Ke fb Oo 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 23 

sonable—indeed, if one were to imagine 
a sheet of lightning getting tipsy and 
wandering over the country in a helpless 
fashion for several days, that might 
describe our route. We have had no 
adventures that could be called adven- 
tures, no experiences to turn our hair 
grey in a dozen hours; only a general 
sense of light, and fresh air, and motion, 
and laughter. We have seen green 
fields, and blue skies, and silver lakes ; 
we have seen bright mornings and 
breezy days, and spent comfortable 
evenings in comfortable inns. Shall we 
not look back upon this month in our 
lives, and call it the month of sunshine 
and green leaves ?” 

Here a tapping all round the table 
greeted the orator, and somewhat dis- 
concerted him; but presently he pro- 
ceeded :— 

“Tf, at times, one member of our 
party, in the reckless exercise of a gift 
of repartee which heaven, for some 
inscrutable reason, has granted her, has 
put a needle or two into our couch of 
eider-down F 

“T pronounce this meeting dissolved,” 
says Bell quickly, and with a resolute 

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” put in the 
Lieutenant. “It is dissolved. But as 
it breaks up—it is a solemn occasion— 
might we not drink one glass of 

Here a shout of laughter overwhelmed 
the young man. Champagne up in 
these wild moorlands of Peebles, where 
the youthful Tweed and its tributaries 
wander through an absolute solitude ! 
The motion was negatived without a 
division ; and then we went out to look 
after Castor and Pollux. 

All that forenoon we were chased by 
a cloud as we drove down the valley 
of the Tweed. Around us there was 
abundant sunlight—falling on the grey 
bed of the river, the brown water, the 
green banks and hills beyond; but down 
in the south-west was a great mass of 
cloud which came slowly advancing 
with its gloom. Here we were still in 
the brightness of the yellow glare, with 
a cool breeze stirring the rowan-trees 

and the tall weeds by the side of the 
river. Then, as we got further down 
the valley, the bed of the stream grew 
broader. There were great banks of 
grey pebbles visible, and the brown 
water running in shallow channels 
between, where the stones fretted its 
surface, and caused a murmur that 
seemed to fill the silence of the smooth 
hills around. Here and there a solitary 
fisherman was visible, standing in the 
riverand persistently whipping thestream 
with his supple fly-rod. A few cottages 
began to appear, at considerable inter- 
vals, But we came to no village ; and 
as for an inn, we never expected to see 
one. We drove leisurely along the now 
level road, through a country rich with 
waving fields of grain, and dotted here 
and there with comfortable - looking 
Then Bell sang to us :— 

** Upon a time I chanced 
To walk along the green, 
Where pretty lasses danced 
In strife, to choose a queen ; 
Some homely dressed, some handsome, 
Some pretty and some gay, 
But who excelled in dancing 
Must be the Queen of May.” 
3ut when she had sung the last 
** Then all the rest in sorrow, 
And she in sweet content, 
Gave over till the morrow, 
And homewards straight they went. 
But she, of all the rest, 
Was hindered by the way, 
For every youth that met her 
Must kiss the Queen of May,”— 

my Lady said it was very pretty, only 
why did Bell sing an English song after 
she had been trying to persuade us that 
she held the English and their music in 
contempt ? 

“ Now, did I ever say anything like 
that?” said Bell, turning in an injured 
way to the Lieutenant. 

“No,” says he, boldly. If she had 
asked him to swear that two and two 
were seven, he would have said that 
the man was a paralysed imbecile who 
did not know it already. 

“ But I will sing you a Scotch song, 
if you please,” says Bell, shrewdly sus- 

24 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

pecting that that was the object of Tita’s 

** Will ye gang to the Hielands, Leezie Lind- 
say * 

—this was what Bell sang now— 

“* Will ye gang to the Hielands wi’ me? 
Will ye gang to the Hielands, Leezie Lind- 

Say, e 

My pride and my darling to be ?”’ 
** To gang to the Hielands wi’ you, sir, 

I dinna ken how that may be, 

For I ken nae the land that you live in 

Nor ken I the lad I’m gaun wi’.” 
And so forth to the end, where the 
young lady “kilts up her coats o’ green 
satin,” and is off with Lord Ronald 
Macdonald. Probably the Lieutenant 
meant only to show that he knew the 
meaning of the word “ Hielands ;” but 
when he said— 

“And we do go to the Highlands, 
yes?” the girl was greatly taken aback. 
It seemed as though he were coolly 
placing himself and her in the position 
of the hero and iieroine of the song ; 
and my Lady smiled, and Bell got con- 
fused, and the Lieutenant, not knowing 
what was the matter, stared, and then 
turned to me to repeat the question. 
By this time Bell had recovered herself, 
and she answered hastily— 

“Oh yes, we shall go to the High- 
lands, shall we not ?—to the Trossachs, 
and Ben Nevis, and Auchenasheen ng 

“And Orkney too, Bell? Do you 
know the wild proposal you are making 
in laying out plans for another month’s 
holiday ?”’ 

“ And why not ?” says the Lieutenant. 
“It is only a pretence, this talk of much 
work, You shall send the horses and 
the phaeton back by the rail from Edin- 
burgh ; then you are free to go away 
anywhere for another month. Is it not 
so, Madame ?” 

Madame is silent. She knows that 
she has only to say “yes” to have the 
thing settled; but thoughts of home 
and the cares of that pauperized parish 
crowd in upon her mind. 

“*T suppose we shall get letters from 
the boys to-night, when we reach Edin- 
burgh. There will be letters from home, 
too, saying whether everything is right 

down there. There may be no reason 
for going back at onee——” 

She was evidently yielding. Was it 
that she wanted to give those young 
people the chance of a summer ramble 
which they would remember for the 
rest of their life? The prospect lent a 
kindly look to her face ; and, indeed, 
the whole of them looked so exceedingly 
happy, and so dangerously forgetful of 
the graver aspects of life, that it was 
thought desirable to ask them whether 
there might not be a message from 
Arthur among the batch of letters await- 
ing us in Edinburgh. 

’*Twas a random stroke, but it struck 
home. The conscience of these careless 
people was touched. They knew in 
their inmost hearts that they had wholly 
forgotten that unhappy young man whom 
they had sent back to Twickenham with 
all his faith in human nature destroyed 
for ever. But was it pity for him that 
now filled their faces, or a vague dread 
that Arthur might, in the last extremity 
of his madness, have gone up to Edin- 
burgh by rail to meet us there ? 

“‘He promised us an important com- 
munication,” says my Lady. 

She would not say that it was under- 
stood to refer to his marriage; but that 
was the impression he had left. Very 
probably, too, she was haunted by specu- 
lations as to how such a marriage, if it 
took place, would turn out ; and whether 
little Katty Tatham would be able to 
reconcile Arthur to his lot, and convince 
him that he was very fortunate in not 
having married that faithless Bell. 

“* Madame,” said the Lieutenant, sud- 
denly—he did not care to have that 
pitiful fellow Arthur receive so much 
consideration—“ this is a very sober 
country. Shall we never come to an 
inn? The champagne I spoke of, that 
has gone away as a dream; but on this 
warm day a little lemonade and a little 
whisky—that would do to drink the 
health of our last drive, yes? But 
there is no inn—nothing but those fields 
of corn, and farmhouses.” 

At last, however, we came to a village. 
The Lieutenant proposed to pull up and 
give Castor and Pollux a mouthful of 

water and oatmeal—it was always Castor 
and Pollux that were supposed to be 
thirsty. But what was his amazement 
to find that in the village there was no 
inn of any kind ! 

“T wish there were some villages of 
this sort down in our part of the 
country,” says Queen Tita, with a sigh. 
“With us, they build the public-house 
first, and that draws other houses.” 

And with that Bell began to relate to 
the Lieutenant how my Lady was once 
vexed beyond measure to find—just as 
she was coming out of an obscure public- 
house on a Sunday morning, after having 
compelled the tipsy and quarrelling land- 
lord thereof to beg forgiveness of his 
wife—a whole group of visitors at the 
Squire’s house coming along the road 
from church, and staring at her as if she 
had gone into the public for refreshment. 
It was a vastly interesting story, perhaps; 
but the sulky young man paid little heed 
to it. He wore an injured look. He 
kept looking far ahead along the road ; 
and, although it was a very pretty road, 
he did not seem satisfied. At length he 
pulled the horses up, and hailed a far- 
mer who, in his white shirt-sleeves, was 
working in a field close by, along with 
a domestic group of fellow-labourers. 

“T say,” called out the Lieutenant, 
‘isn’t there an inn on this road ?” 

“Ay, that there is,” said the man, 
with a grim smile, as he rose up and 
drew his sleeve across his forehead. 

“ How far yet ?” 

“Twa miles. It’s a temperance hoose!” 

“‘ A temperance hoose,” said the Lieu- 
tenant to Bell; “what is a temperance 
hoose ?” 

“They don’t sell any spirits there, 
or beer, or wine.” 

“ And is that what is called temper- 
ance ?” said the Lieutenant, in a peevish 
way; and then he called out again, 
“Look here, my good friend, when do 
we come to a proper kind of inn ?” 

“There is an inn at Ledburn—that’s 
eight miles on.” 

“Eight miles? And where was the 
last one we passed ?” 

“Well, that maun be about seven 
miles back.” 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 25 

“Thank you. It is healthy for you, 
perhaps, but how you can live in a 
place where there is no public-house not 
for fifteen miles—well, it is a wonder. 
Good day to you!” 

“Gude day, sir!” said the farmer, 
with a broad, good-humoured laugh on 
his face ; the Lieutenant was obviously 
not the first thirsty soul who had com- 
plained of the scarcity of inns in these 

“These poor horses,” growled the 
Lieutenant as we drove on. “It is the 
hottest day we have had. The clouds 
have gone away, and we have beaten in 
the race. And other eight miles in 
this heat a 

He would probably have gone on 
compassionating the horses, but that he 
caught a glimpse of Bell demurely 
smiling, and then he said— 

“Ha, you think I speak for myself, 
Mademoiselle ? That also, for when you 
give your horses water, you should 
drink yourself always, for the good of 
the inn. But now that we can get 
nothing, Madame, shall we imagine it, 
yes? What we shall drink at the Led- 
burn inn? Have you tried, on a hot 
day, this !—one glass of sparkling hock 
poured into a tumbler, then a boitle 
of seltzer-water, then three drops of 
Angostura bitters, and a lump of ice. 
That is very good; and this too—you 
put a glass of pale sherry in the tumbler, 
then a bottle of soda-water, then a little 
lemon-juice n 

“Please, Count von Rosen, may I 
put it down in my note-book?” says 
Tita, hurriedly. “You know I have 
your recipe for a luncheon, Wouldn't 
these do for it?” 

“Yes, and for you!” says a third 
voice. ‘ What madness has seized you, 
to talk of ice and hock in connection 
with Ledburn? If you get decent 
Scotch whisky and ham and eggs for 
luncheon, you.may consider yourselves 
well off.” 

“T am a little tired of that sort of 
banquet,” says my Lady, with a gentle 
look of resignation. “ Couldn’t we drive 
on to Edinburgh ?” 

But for the sake of the horses, we 

26 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

should all have been glad to do that; 
for the appearance of this Ledburn 
inn, when we got to it, impressed us 
with awe and terror. ‘Tis a cutthroat- 
looking place. The dingy, dilapidated 
building stands at the parting of two 
roads ; the doors were shut as we drove 
up to it; there was no one about of 
whom we could ask a question. It 
looked the sort of place for travellers to 
reach at dead of night, and become the 
subject of one or other of the sombre 
adventures which are associated with 
remote and gloomy inns in the annals 
of romance. When we did get hold 
of the landlord, his appearance was not 
prepossessing. He was a taciturn and 
surly person. There was apparently no 
ostler, and he helped Von Rosen to take 
the horses out of the phaeton, but he 
did so in a fashion which awoke the ire 
of the Lieutenant to a serious degree, 
and some sharp words were being ban- 
died about when I drove the women 
into the inn. 

“That is a dreadful person,” said my 

“Why? He has become morose in 
this solitary inn, that is all. If you 
were shut up here for a few years, what 
would you become ?” 

We had ham and eggs and whisky 
in a dingy little chamber upstairs. The 
women would touch nothing—notwith- 
standing that the Lieutenant came in to 
announce that the shoe of one of the 
horses had got loose, and that a smith 
would have to be sent for from some 
distance off. Moreover, when the smith 
did come, it was found that our inge- 
nious landlord had not informed him 
what was required of him, and conse- 
quently he had brought no tools. Should 
we send the horse back with him, or 
would he despatch a boy for his tools ? 

“How many miles is it to Edinburgh?” 
says my Lady. 

* About a dozen, I should think.” 

“We couldn’t walk that, do you 
think?” she says to Bell, with a doubt- 
ful air. 

Bell could walk it very well, I know ; 
but she regards her companion for a 
moment, and says— 

“We must not try.” 

Looking at this fix, and at the annoy- 
ance the women experienced in being 
detained in this inhospitable hostelry, 
that young Prussian got dreadfully 
enraged. He was all the more wroth 
that there was no one on whom he 
could reasonably vent his anger ; and, 
in fact, it was a most fortunate thing 
for our host that he had at last con- 
descended to be a little more civil. The 
Lieutenant came up into the room, and 
proposed that we should play bézique. 
Impossible. Or would Mademoiselle 
care to have the guitar taken out? 
Mademoiselle would prefer to have it 
remain where it was. And at length 
we went outside and sat in the yard, or 
prowled along the uninteresting road, 
until the smith arrived, and then we 
had the horses put in and set out upon 
the last stage of our journey. 

We drove on in the deepening sunset. 
The ranges of the Pentland Hills on our 
left were growing darker, and the wild 
moorland country around was getting 
to be of a deeper and deeper purple. 
Sometimes, from the higher portions 
of the road, we caught a glimpse of 
Arthur’s Seat, and in the whiter sky of 
the north-east it lay there like a pale- 
blue cloud. We passed through Penny- 
cuick, picturesquely placed along the 
wooded banks of the North Esk. But 
we were driving leisurely enough along 
the level road, for the horses had done 
a good day’s work, and there still re- 
mained a few miles before they had 
earned their rest. 

Was it because we were driving near 
a great city that Von Rosen somewhat 
abruptly asked my Lady what was the 
best part of London to live in? The 
question was an odd one for a young 
man. Bell pretended not to hear—she 
was busy with the reins. Whereupon 
Tita began to converse with her com- 
panion on the troubles of taking a 
house, and how your friends would 
inevitably wonder how you could have 
chosen such a neighbourhood instead of 
their neighbourhood, and assure you, 
with much compassion, that you had 
paid far too much for it. 

a a. ae Oe ek. ee 

“ And as for Pimlico,” I say to him, 
“vou can’t live there ; the sight of its 
stucco would kill you in a month. And 
as for Brompton, you can’t live there ; 
it lies a hundred feet below the level of 
the Thames. And as for South Ken- 
sington, you can’t live there; it is a 
huddled mass of mews. And as for 
Belgravia or Mayfair, you can’t live 
there ; for you could not pay the rent 
of a good house, and the bad houses are 
in slums. Paddington?—a thousand 
miles from a theatre. Hampstead 1— 
good-bye to your friends. Bloomsbury ? 
—the dulness of it will send you to an 
early grave. Islington }—you will ac- 
quire a Scotch accent in a fortnight. 
Clapham !—you will become a Dissenter. 
Denmark Hill?—they will exclude you 
from all the fashionable directories, 
Brixton !—the ‘endless meal of brick’ 
will drive you mad. But then it is true 
that Pimlico is the best-drained part of 
London. And Brompton has the most 
beautiful old gardens, And South Ken- 
sington brings you close to all sorts of 
artistic treasures. And Hampstead has 
a healthy situation. And Mayfair is 
close to the Park. And Clapham is 
close to several commons, and offers you 
excellent drives. And Denmark Hill is 
buried in trees, and you descend from it 
into meadows and country lanes, And 
Islington is celebrated for possessing 
the prettiest girls in the world. And 
Brixton has a gravelly soil—so that you 
see, looking at all these considerations, 
you will have no difficulty whatever in 
deciding where you ought to live.” 

“T think,” said the young man, 
gravely, “the easiest way of choosing a 
house in London is to take one in the 

“Oh, do live in the country!” ex- 
claims Tita, with much anxiety. “ You 
can go so easily up to London and take 
rooms about Bond Street or in Half- 
moon Street, if you wish to see pictures 
or theatres. And what part of the 
country near Lundon could you get 
prettier than down by Leatherhead ?” 

Bell is not appealed to. She will 
not hear. She pretends to be des- 
perately concerned about the horses. 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 


And so the discussion is postponed, 
sine die, until the evening ; and in the 
gathering darkness we approach Edin- 

How long the way seemed on this 
the last night of our driving! The 
clear twilight faded away; and the 
skies overhead began to show faint 
throbbings of the stars. A pale yellow 
glow on the horizon told us where the 
lights of Edinburgh were afire. The 
road grew almost indistinguishable ; but 
overhead the great worlds became more 
visible in the deep vault of blue. Ina 
perfect silence we drove along the still 
highway, between the dark hedges ; and 
clearer and more clear became the 
white constellations, trembling in the 
dark. What was my Lady thinking of— 
of Arthur, or her boys at Twickenham, 
or of long-forgotten days at Eastbourne 
—as she looked up at all the wonders 
of the night? There lay King Charles’s 
Wain as we had often regarded it from 
a boat at sea, as we lay idly on the 
lapping waves. The jewels on Cas- 
siopeia’s chair glimmered faint and 
pale ; and all the brilliant stars of the 
Dragon’s hide trembled in the dark. 
The one bright star of the Swan re- 
called many an evening in the olden 
times; and here, nearer at hand, 
Capella shone, and there Cepheus looked 
over to the Pole-star as from the dis- 
tance of another universe. Somehow 
it seemed to us that under the great 
and throbbing vault the sea ought to be 
lying clear and dark; but these were 
other masses we saw before us, where 
the crags of Arthur's Seat rose sharp 
and black into the sky. We ran 
in almost under the shadow of that 
silent mass of hill. We drew nearer to 
the town ; and then we saw before us 
long and waving lines of red fire—the 
gas-lamps of a mighty street. We left 
the majesty of the night outside, and 
were soon in the heart of the great city. 
Our journey was at an end. 

But when the horses had been con- 
signed to their stables, and all arrange- 
ments made for their transference next 
day to London, we sat down at the 
window of a Princes Street Hotel. 

28 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

The tables behind were inviting enough. 
Our evening meal had been ordered, and 
at length the Lieutenant had the wish 
of his heart in procuring the Schaumwein 
with which to drink to the good health 
of our good horses that had brought us 
so far. But what in all the journey 
was there to equal the magic sight that 
lay before us as we turned to these big 
panes? Beyond a gulf of blackness, 
the old town of Edinburgh rose with a 
thousand points of fire into the clear 
sky of a summer night. The tall 
houses, with their eight or nine stories, 
had their innumerable windows ablaze ; 
and the points of orange light shone in 
the still blue shadow until they seemed 
to form part of some splendid and en- 
chanted palace built on the slopes of a 
lofty hill. And then beyond that we 
could see the great crags of the Castle 
looming dark in the starlight, and we 
knew, rather than saw, that there were 
walls and turrets up there, cold and 

distant, looking down on the yellow 
glare of the city beneath. What was 
Cologne and the coloured lamps of its 
steamers—as you see them cross the 
yellow waters of the Rhine when a full 
moon shines over the houses of Deutz 
—or what was Prague with its countless 
spires piercing the starlight and its great 
bridge crossing over to the wooded 
heights of the Hradschin—compared to 
this magnificent spectacle in the noblest 
city of the world? The lights of the 
distant houses went out one by one. 
The streets became silent. Even the 
stars grew paler; but why was that? 
A faint light, golden and soft, began to 
steal along the Castle-hill; and the 
slow, mild radiance touched the sharp 
slopes, the trees, and the great grey 
walls above, which were under the stars. 

“Oh, my dear,” says Tita, quite 
gently, to Bell, “we have seen nothing 
like that, not even in your own country 
of the Lakes!” 

[Note by Queen Titania.—* It seems they have put upon me the responsibility of saying the 
last word, which is not quite fair. In the old comedies it was always, the heroine of the piece 
who came forward to the footlights, and in her prettiest way spoke the epilogue ; and of course 
the heroine was always young and nice-looking. If Bell would only do that, now, I am 
sure you would be pleased; but she is afraid to appear in public. As for myself, I don’t 
know what to say. Count von Rosen suggests that I should copy some of the ancient 
authors and merely say ‘Farewell, and clap your hands ;’ but very likely that is a joke— 
for who can tell when gentlemen intend to be amusing?—and perhaps they never said any- 
thing so foolish. But, as you are not to be addressed by the heroine of the piece, perhaps, 
considering my age—which I am seldom allowed to forget—perhaps a word of advice may be 
permitted. And that is to the ladies and gentlemen who always go abroad and spend a great 
deal of time and money in hiring carriages to drive them in foreign parts. Of course everyone 
ought to go abroad ; but why every year? Iam sure I am not prejudiced, and I never enjoyed 
any tour abroad so much as this one through England. I do consider England (and of course 
you must include Scotland and Ireland) the most beautiful country in the world. 1 have never 

een to America ; but that does not matter. It cannot be more beautiful than England. If it 
is, so much the better, but I for one am quite satisfied with England ; and as for the old-fashioned 
and quaint places you meet on a driving-tour such as this, I am sure the American ladies and 
gentlemen whom | have met have always admitted to me that they were delightful. Well, that 
is all. I shall say nothing about our young friends, for I think sufficient revelations have been 
made in the foregoing pages. Arthur has only been to see us once since our return, and of 
course we could not ask him the reason of his getting married so unexpectedly, for Katty was 
with him, and very pleased and happy she looked. Arthur was very civil to our Bell ; which 
shows that his marriage has improved him in one respect ; but he was a little cold and distant 
at the same time. The poor girl was dreadfully frightened ; but she made herself very friendly 
to him, and kissed little Katty in the iost affectionate manner when they were going away. 
Luckily, perhaps, Lieutenant von Rosen was up in London ; but when he came down next 
day, Bell had a great deal to tell him in private ; and the result of the conversation—of which 
we elderly folks, of course, are not permitted to know anything—seemed to be very pleasing to 
them both. Then there was a talk between my husband and him in the evening about a loose- 
box in certain stables. Bell came and put her arm round my waist, and besought me very 
prettily to tell her what were the nicest colours for a drawing-room. It seems there is some 
house, about a couple of miles from here, which they have visited; but I am not going to tell 
= any more. As our Bell is too shy to come forward, I suppose I must say Good-bye for 

er, and thank you very much indecd for coming with us so far on such a long and roundabout 
journey. "] : 


A cuapter of English history in which 
it needs a certain effort of thought to 
see a chapter of English history is 
written in the Roman remains on the 
right bank of the Rhine. The talk about 
natural boundaries and the frontier of 
the Rhine has done somewhat to over- 
shadow the fact that the great German 
river never has been a lasting frontier 
of anything. Cesar found the German 
settled, as he still is, on both sides of it. 
The successors of Cesar established their 
power, so far as they were able, on both 
sides of it also. The elder Empire 
ruled so much as it could hold of its 
eastern bank, from Milan or from Ra- 
venna, from York or from Trier. The 
younger Empire ruled so much as it 
could hold of its western bank, from the 
island palace of Gelnhausen or from the 
home of the conquered Saracen at 
Palermo. Since modern France first 
reached the Rhine at the Peace of 
Westphalia, the natural boundary has 
been overleaped whenever there has 
been a chance. One aggressor thought 
it enough to keep his hold on Breisach ; 
another was not satisfied unless Liibeck 
formed part of a French department as 
well as Strassburg. The most palpable 
result of the great vengeance of our own 
day is that the boasted natural frontier 
is a frontier no longer. A generation or 
two hence the temporary French occupa- 
tion of Strassburg will seem as strange 
an accident as the shorter French oc- 
cupation of Hamburg: it will seem as 
strange an accident as the longer English 
occupation of Calais. Go back as far 
as recorded history will take us, and we 
shall find Germans dwelling on the left 
bank of the Rhine no less than on the 
right. But we shall also find the Latin- 
speaking enemy, whether he takes the 
form of an ancient Roman or a modern 
Frenchman, striving to establish his 

dominion on the right bank no less than 
on the left. 

It must always be remembered on 
the one hand, that the Roman pro- 
vince of Gaul, looked on as a land which 
has the Rhine for its eastern frontier, 
was a land which contained Teutonic as 
well as Celtic and Iberian inhabitants. 
And it must no less be remembered that 
the Rhine did not form any fixed or 
impassable boundary of the Gaulish 
province, but that it was overpassed 
whenever the Roman masters of Gaul 
found it possible, and thought it ex- 
pedient, to overleap it. Gaul, we must 
bear in mind, is a purely geographical 
term, marking out a certain territory on 
the map, but a territory occupied by 
various nations and languages, a territory 
so far from being purely Celtic that it was 
not even purely Aryan. Of the Gaulish 
province the Rhine formed the boundary 
in a rough sense ; but it was only in a 
rough sense that it formed it, and during 
the greater part of its course, so far as it 
formed a boundary at all, it formed a 
boundary, not between the Celt and the 
Teuton, but between the independent 
Teuton and the Teuton under Roman 
dominion. But existing remains show 
that it was only in a very rough sense 
that it was a boundary at all. The 
Rhine no doubt became for several 
centuries the boundary of the lands 
which were thoroughly Romanized, those 
within which Roman culture and the 
Latin language became thoroughly do- 
minant. But it was far from being the 
limit of Roman military occupation. A 

toman frontier province was commonly 
bordered by a sort of debateable land, 
which had been brought more or less 
under Roman dominion or Roman influ- 
ence, but which had not been thoroughly 
welded into the great system of the 
Roman world. It was indeed a matter 

30 Saalburg and Saarbriicken, 

of policy to have everywhere a frontier 
district of this kind, a district which 
might bear the brunt of a never-ending 
border warfare, and might keep the 
struggle with the Barbarian as far off 
as might be from the lands which re- 
posed in the full enjoyment of the 
Roman Peace. Such a border district 
we find in the lands beyond the Rhine, 
just as we find it in the lands beyond 
the Danube. The great cities on the 
Rhine and the Mosel, Colonia, Mo- 
guntia, and their fellows, were doubtless 
thoroughly Roman from an early stage 
of the Roman dominion in those regions. 
Augusta Trevirorum became in the later 
days of the elder Empire a seat of Im- 
perial rule, another Rome as it were, 
like Milan and Ravenna, like Nikomé- 
deia and Byzantium, transplanted to the 
Rhenish border of the Empire. The 
land immediately west of the Rhine 
was most likely never so thoroughly 
Roman as in the days just before the 
time when it ceased to be Roman at all; 
for the presence of Emperors at Trier 
was simply a sign that the Roman pos- 
session of Gaul was in serious danger. 
Beyond these thoroughly Romanized 
lands, beyond the great river which in 
some sort guarded them, lay a half sub- 
dued district, where Roman soldiers 
pitched their camps, where they have 
left ample traces of their presence be- 
hind them, but where we cannot believe 
that the culture and the speech of 
Rome ever made a thorough conquest 
of the whole land. On the left bank 
of the Rhine we are perhaps some- 
what surprised to find that the Roman 
has left so few traces of himself, 
whether in nomenclature or in his 
actual works. Trier stands alone in this 
region, as it stands alone in Northern 
Europe generally, in the possession of 
great surviving Roman works, works 
truly worthy of an Imperial city. But 
that surviving Roman works are rare in 
this region really proves but little ; they 
are just as rare in large districts of Gaul 
which beyond doubt were thoroughly 
tomanized, and whose Roman popula- 
tion must have been far less disturbed 
at the time of the Teutonic conquests. 

The argument from nomenclature proves 
much more; Teutonic names, names 
plainly newer than the Teutonic re- 
conquest, are decidedly the rule along 
the left bank of the river, only less 
universally than along the right bank. 
But when we cross to the right bank, 
into that part of old Francia which 
forms the modern Nassau and Hom- 
burg, we are surprised at finding how 
much the Roman has left behind him. 
A glance at the Museum at Wies- 
baden is enough to bring strongly home 
to the mind that, though we may fairly 
call the Rhine the boundary of the 
Roman civilization, it certainly was not 
the boundary of the Roman power. 
Aquz Mattiace and its neighbourhood 
are rich in Roman remains; the hot 
springs were early known to Roman 
naturalists, and there seems reason to 
think that they did not fail to draw 
thither Roman visitors! A not very 
long walk from the modern town brings 
us to a still more distinct witness of 
Roman occupation in the distinctly 
marked ruins of the Roman fortress 
of Rambach. Some food for thought 
is provided when we see the site of the 
stronghold of the heathen conquerors 
turned to the peaceful uses of God’s 
acre, and the church, a building of no 
value or interest in itself, standing erect 
among the relics of a state of things 
which has so wholly passed away. 
But there is nothing at Rambach to 
give much detailed instruction to any 
but professed students of Roman anti- 
quities. But Wiesbaden and Rambach 
together supply enough to set any one 
thinking, to make any one who feels an 
interest in the great struggle of tongues 
and races which has gone on for so many 
ages along the line of the great river, 

1 The elder Pliny (xxxi. 17) speaks of the 
**Mattiaci Fontes” as if from a vague report, 
and certainly does not imply that there was 
any settlement there in his time. ‘‘ Sunt et 

Mattiaci in Germania fontes calidi trans 
Rhenum, quorum haustus triduo fervet. Circa 
margines vero pumicem faciunt aque.” Am- 
mianus (xxix. 4) speaks familiarly of “ Aqua 
Mattiace,” as if by his time it had grown, 

if not into a town, at least into a military 

feel specially eager to learn something 
more of any traces which the earlier 
stages of that great struggle may have 
left behind them. 

On one spot at least in that region 
the seeker after traces of the great 
struggle between Roman and German 
will not be disappointed. The first 
thoughts suggested by the name of Hom- 
burg are certainly not thoughts of his- 
tory or antiquities in any shape. But, 
at no great distance to the north-west, 
the road which, passing from Homburg, 
climbs the heights forking off in two 
directions towards Obernhain and Usin- 
gen, leads straight to aspot than which 
none speaks with a clearer voice of the 
presence and of the retreat of the Roman 
invader. This is the great Roman station 
of Saalburg, the chief of all the Roman 
military posts along the line of the 
Taunus. And close beyond it we reach 
the real limit of the Roman power in 
these regions. The Pfahlgraben, the 
dyke drawn in an irregular shape from 
the Lahn to the Main, answers to the 
successive walls made by the Romans 
in our own island to defend the fully 
subdued and organized province against 
the incursions of the unsubdued natives. 
But as a mere structure of earth, a vallum 
and not a murus, it is not an object to 
be compared with the stately bulwark of 
stone with which—according to Dr. 
Merivale, in the latest days of their 
power—the Imperial people fenced in 
the smaller extent of their dominion 
in Britain. In the immediate neighbour- 
hood of Saalburg—and I cannot profess 
to have traced it elsewhere—the P/fahl- 
graben itself is not a very striking ob- 
ject. Of no great height and almost 
covered with brush-wood, it might easily 
be passed over by any one who was not 
specially looking for it. Save for its lying 
so near to works the nature of which 
cannot be mistaken, it might easily 
escape notice altogether, or it might be 
taken for some fence of a far less ancient 
and dignified kind. But about the 
fortress whose remains rise above it, 
about the Saalburg itself, there can be 
no mistake whatever. The walls no- 
where rise much above the foundations ; 

Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 31 

there is nothing standing up, like the 
vast Roman buildings at Trier, like the 
mighty walls of Anderida, or even like 
the smaller fragments at York, Lincoln, 
and Leicester. Yet no one can raise any 
question as to what the building was or 
who the people were who reared it. 
The Saalburg is the camp of the con- 
queror, pitched there to guard the furthest 
outposts of his dominion. It was the 
chief of the Roman stations along 
the Taunus range, looking backward 
on the land which Rome had brought 
more or less thoroughly under her 
dominion, and looking forward on the 
land which she did not venture to claim 
as her own, but which still remained the 
undisputed heritage of the free German. 
Between him and herself she had drawn 
a line to be at once a boundary and a 
bulwark, and the spot to which we have 
carried ourselves in fact or in thought is 
the greatest and strongest of the posts 
by which that bulwark was to be guarded. 
The look-out from the Saalburg over the 
Pfahlgraben which lies beneath it is 
still a look-out on a wild and free land 
which shows but few signs of man’s 
works or dwellings. As we trace out the 
length and breadth of the fortress, its 
walls, its gates, the hall of its pre- 
torium, the places within and without 
its walls set apart for the various pur- 
poses of Roman military life, it needs 
no great flight of imagination again to 
people them with those who, seventeen 
or eighteen hundred years back, guarded 
that fortress against the assaults of men 
of our own blood and speech who were 
striving to win back the land which the 
stranger had rent from them. We see the 
site of the altars where, on the soil whence 
the worshipper of Thunder and Woden 
had been driven, prayers and incense 
went up to the Jupiter of the Roman 
Capitol, to Mars the father of Rome, and 
to Venus the mother of her Ceesars. We 
trace out the ground once covered by the 
tents of the legionaries gathered around 
the central dwelling of their Imperator. 
We look forth from thence on the wide 
expanse beyond the boundary wall, and 
we think with what feelings our kins- 
folk on the yet unconquered soil may 

32 Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 

have now and then heard an echo of 
the sounds, or caught a distant glimpse 
of the scenes, which went on daily 
within the bulwark which told that the 
whole land of their forefathers was no 
longer theirs. They saw, spreading its 
wings in theirnativesky, the proud badge 
of Rome’s dominion, the eagle of Marius 
and Cwsar, and they looked not forward 
to the day when they themselves should 
be the heirs of Rome’s titles and Rome’s 
dominion, when the Roman eagle should 
become the badge of German rule, and 
when the Tiber should welcome as Roman 

Cesar whatever King might be chosen 

on the banks of the liberated Rhine.! 

Our thoughts may well pass on from our 

kinsfolk to ourselves. The fortress on 

the Taunus marked indeed how far 
the power of Rome had reached, but it 
marked no less how far the hopes of 

Rome had fallen back. Rome had in- 

deed spread her power beyond the 

Rhine and the Danube; but there had 

been a day when she had looked on 

the Rhine and the Danube as rivers 
whose course should flow within her 
home domain, when she had reared 
her trophies by the Lippe and had 
pitched her camps by the Weser, and 
had deemed that no stream nearer than 
the mighty Elbe itself should mark the 
spot where the Roman Terminus had 
deigned to fix his halting-place. When 
it was needful to fence in the ridge of 

Taunus with artificial bulwarks, and to 

guard them with all the skill of Roman 

discipline and all the strength of Roman 
fortification, it showed that the dreams 
of those days had passed away, that 

Terminus had been driven to content 

himself with a halting-place nearer to 

his old shrine on the Capitoline, that 

Rome had found that she might indeed 

plant her outposts on German soil, but 
1 Gunther, Ligurinus de Gestis Frederici, 

lib. i.:— 

** Et quo Romanum nostra virtute redemptum 
Hostibus expulsis ad nos justissimus ordo 
Transtulit imperium, Romani gloria regni 
Nos penes est ; quemcumque sibi Germania 

Preficit, hune dives submisso vertice Roma 
Suscipit, et verso Tiberim regit ordine 

that the whole length and breadth of 
the German land was not doomed to 
become a Roman province. And the 
day on which that doom was fixed ruled 
the destinies, not only of the Teutonic 
mainland but of the Teutonic island ; 
it fixed the fate of Britain as well as the 
fate of Germany. When bulwarks were 
needed to fence in the land wrested from 
our kinsmen between the Lahn and the 
Main, it showed that our own land by 
the Elbe and the Weser was free without 
fear of bondage or invasion. What if 
it had been otherwise? What if the earlier 
hopes of Drusus, the later hopes of his 
son, had been carried out in all their 
fulness? What if the tongue and laws 
and habits of Rome had been firmly 
established as far as the Elbe or the 
Trave, while her military outposts had 
stretched to the Oder or the Vistula? 
Such an extension of the Roman power 
would have carried with it the bondage 
of our own fathers. We must not forget 
that, in the days of which we are now 
speaking, our nation and its name were 
already in being, though the obscure 
name of the English is found only, with- 
out remark or description, among a list 
of dimly seen Teutonic tribes who were 
hidden from Roman sight by their 
guardian streams and forests, and were 
known only as common worshippers of 
the mother Earth on whichthey dwelled.! 
Had the schemes of Drusus been carried 
out, our fathers must have shared the 
fate of their kinsmen. There is no reason 
to think that a German province, if 
once fully conquered, would have had 
a different history from the Gaulish pro- 
vince. If the Germans were threatening, 

the Gauls had once been more threatening 

still. And yet Gaul became thoroughly 

incorporated with the Roman dominion ; 

1 Tacitus, Germanie, 40. ‘* Reudigni de- 

inde et Aviones et Angli et Varini et Eu- 

doses et Suardones et Nuithones fluminibus 

aut silvis muniuntur. Nec quidquam notabile 

in singulis, nisi quod in commune Hertham, 

id est, Terram matrem, colunt, eamyue inter- 

venire rebus hominum, invehi populis, arbi- 

trantur.” Tacitus, who has thus much to 

say about the Angles, does not speak of the 

Saxons. Ptolemy twice (ii. 11, 11; 31) men- 

tions the Saxon name, but has nothing to say 

about the Angles. 



Saalburg and Saarbriicken, 33 

its inhabitants—as far as we can see, 
its Teutonic as well as its Celtic inhabi- 
tants—had thoroughly put on the habits 
and feelings of Romansand had learned to 
glory inthe Roman name. Our Batavian 
kinsfolk became loyal subjects of the 
Empire, and our own fathers, the Angles 
and Saxons whose name Rome barely 
knew, could hardly have failed to do the 
like. The Teutonic speech, High and 
Low—if indeed it is not too early to talk 
of any difference between High and Low 
—could hardly have stood its ground 
against the encroaching Latin any better 
than the Gaulish tongue had done. Teu- 
tonic dialects might possibly havelingered 
on, as Basque and Breton have lingered 
on, in some out-of-the-way corners, per- 
haps to be a subject of curious study 
for Slavonic or even for Turanian philo- 
jogers. For the lot which did fall to the 
Teutonic nations could, in such a case, 
hardly have failed to fall to the Slaves. 
As they did settle in and influence so 
many of the provinces of the Eastern 
Empire, they could hardly have failed 
to do the like by the Western. But it 
is plain that the influence of the Slaves 
in the East, though strictly analogous 
to that of the Teutons in the West, was 
at once far less extensive in degree and 
far less wholesome in kind. Had Ger- 
many been conquered, Europe could 
hardly have been saved from either re- 
maining attached to the Byzantine Em- 
pire, or being split up into two or more 
Empires of the Byzantine type. The 
‘Teutonic awakening of mankind, if it 
ever happened at all, must have waited 
for the turn of the Scandinavian branch 
of our race, when their day of greatness 
began in the eighth century. 

In such a state of things as this, 
an English conquest of Britain, and all 
that in every quarter of the world has 
followed on the English conquest of 
Britain, could never have happened or 
been dreamed of. Instead of the 
healthy and vigorous barbarians who 
crossed over to found a new Teutonic 
world in the Celtic island, the Angles 
and Saxons of the fifth century would 
have been Roman provincials speaking 
a Roman tongue. The Elbe, perhaps 

No. 157.—vow. xxvii. 

the Eider, would have been set as thick 
with Roman colonies and settlements as 
the Rhine and the Mosel. The Low- 
German speech, which one set of con- 
quests made the tongue of Britain, 
which another set of conquests made 
the tongue of the southern shore of the 
Baltic, might perhaps have had about 
as much influence on the Romance 
of Northern Germany as the old Celtic 
speech has had on theRomance of Central 
Gaul. Instead of speaking a ‘l'eutonic 
tongue in a Teutonic island, we might 
still be in our old home on the main- 
land, speaking a Romance tongue with 
possibly a Slavonic infusion. England 
could never have been ; the name might 
indeed have lived on as the name of 
a petty corner of land among the fiords 
and islands of the Western Baltic ; but 
the new England beyond the sea and the 
newer England beyond the Ocean could 
never have been heard of. The history 
of the English, no less than the history 
of the German, people begins in the 
Teutoburg forest. The future destiny of 
our race became possible when Armi- 
nius smote down the legions of Varus. 
The Roman historian himself honours 
him as beyond doubt the liberator of 
Germany ;' but in being the liberator 
of Germany he made it possible that 
Hengest and Cerdic should one day be 
the founders of England. 

A train of thought like this can 
hardly fail to come into the mind of 
any one to whom history is a whole, as 
he. stands on the heights of Saalburg 
and looks out from the Roman fortress, 
over the Roman wall, into that free 
German land which that fortress and 
that wall stand as the confession of 
Rome that she could never conquer. 
But the same train of thought might 
come into the mind at any point along 
the whole line of the Roman defences. 
But associations less vague and more 
local cleave to the Saalburg itself. Next 
to the scene of the great deliverance 
itself among the hills between the Ems 
and the Weser, no spot, there seems 
every reason to believe, played a greater 

1 Tacitus, Annals, ii. 88. “ Liberator haud 
dubie Germaniz.” 


34 Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 

part in the struggle than that on which 
we are now standing. There is little 
reason to doubt that the height of Saal- 
burg has been trodden both by the 
earliest champion of our race and by 
the noblest invaders that the lands of 
Latin speech ever sent against us. 
Drusus, in his conquering march into 
the heart of Germany, had established 
a post on Taunus. With the recovery 
of freedom under Arminius the badge 
of foreign rule was swept away; but 
when Germanicus came to restore the 
work of his father, the fortress which 
his father had reared was set up again.! 
That Saalburg was the actual point of 
Taunus where the fort of Drusus was 
placed can of course not be proved to 
demonstration. But the conjecture has 
every probability on its side. The 
fortress which was thought worthy of 
special care by the Roman generals and 
of special notice by the Roman historian 
can hardly fai] to have been that which 
clearly was the strongest and most im- 
portant point along the line of the 
Pfahlgraben. And this beyond doubt 
is Saalburg. We may therefore safely 
set down Saalburg as being the place 
which Drusus and Germanicus chose as 
the main stronghold of Rome in these 
regions. Nor does there seem to be 
any reasonable doubt that it is the Ar- 
taunon of Ptolemy.? But, further than 
this, there seems to be no distinct 
notice of the place in history. That so 
it should be is not wonderful. We 
must not look for much geographical 
precision during that long time of the 
Imperial history when we are driven to 
get most of our facts from the epito- 
mators, Greek and Latin. And when 
Rome has again a historian in Ammianus, 
we have got to times when Saalburg was 
doubtless almost as thorough a wreck 
as we see it now. We may be sure 
that the Roman occupation of the 
Taunus had come to an end long before 

1 Tacitus, Annals, i. 56. ‘*Germanicus.. . 
posito castello super vestigia paterni presidii 
in monte Tauno, expeditum exercitum in 
Cattos rapit.” In the Annals, xii. 28, there 

is another reference to the Taunus as a point 
occupied by the Remans, 
3 II. 11, 29. 

the times when independent Germans 
sacked the great Roman cities on the 
left bank of the Rhine. It was enough 
for Julian again to establish the Rhenish 
boundary by his victory at Strassburg. 
The first prince who ever set forth from 
Paris on a German campaign deemed it 
a great matter to keep up, how he best 
might, a single fortress—an Imperial 
Breisach—at some unknown point on 
the independent side of the stream.’ 
Valentinian again crossed the Rhine and 
established another outpost of the same 
kind on the heights above the Neckar. 
But an outpost on the Neckar is of 
itself a sign that the dominion of Rome 
on the Lahn and the Main had passed 
away. And Valentinian showed no 
less how far and no further he carried 
his real hopes of lasting dominion, when 
he deemed it needful to line the Rhine 
itself with strong defences from the 
Retian mountains to the Ocean.” 

To one who really grasps history as a 
whole, who really takes in the full bear- 
ing of those wonderful times when it is 
equally true to say that the German con- 
quered Rome and that Rome conquered 
the German, the charm of association is 
perhaps even greater in tracking out the 
steps of Valentinian, and yet more the 
steps of Julian, than in tracking out the 
steps of Drusus and Germanicus. The 
true historic interest of the works of the 

1 Ammianus, xvii. 2. ‘‘Dum nullus ob- 
sisteret, munimentum quod in Alamannorum 
solo conditum Trajanus suo nomine voluit 
appellari, dudum violentius oppugnatum tu- 
multuario studio reparatum est; locatisque 
ibi pro tempore defensoribus, ex barbarorum 
visceribus alimenta congesta sunt.” 

2 Ammianus, xxvii. 10; xxviii. 2. “Valentini- 
anusmagna animo concipiens et utilia, Rhenum 
omnem a Retiarum exordio adusque fretalem 
Oceanum magnis molibus communiebat, castra 
extollens altius et castella turresque assiduas 
per habiles locos et opportunos, qua Galliarum 
extenditur longitudo: nonnunquam etiam 
ultra flumen edificiis positis subradens bar- 
baros fines.”’ The historian goes on to tell howa 
fortress by the Neckar (‘‘ munimentum celsum 
et tutum, quod ipse a primis fundirat aus- 
piciis, preterlabente Nicro nomine fluvio”) 
was in danger from its position ; he both turned 
the course of the river and raised another 
fortress on a neighbouring height (‘* trans 
Rhenum in monte Piri, qui barbaricus locus 
est, munimentum exstruere disposuit raptim”). 

men ° 
of Ro 
least : 
the w 
up as 
is no 
That i 
and v 
lead » 
in a \ 
the fr 
they « 
the th 
later { 
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in a) 
1 A 
by Dr 
Pp. 5- 

Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 35 

men who had to defend the dominion 
of Rome against German invasion is at 
least as great as any that can belong to 
the works of men who strove to make 
Germany subject to Rome. A work of 
Julian repaired by Valentinian would call 
up as long a train of thought as a work of 
Drusus repaired by his son. But, as we 
have seen, the few historical notices 
which we can with any approach to 
certainty connect with the Saalburg 
belong to the earlier period. And there 
is no antiquarian evidence which at all 
leads us to fix any of the works at Saal- 
burg to the days after Constantine. 
Such evidence as we have, that of the 
coins and inscriptions which have been 
found there, certainly suggests the belief 
that the Saalburg was forsaken at a 
much earlier time. There seem to be 
none later than the time of the Gor- 
dians, while most of them belong to 
what we may call the Antonine period. 
That is, if we may extend that name to the 
reigns of the princes who were or pro- 
fessed to be of the House of Severus, 
and who thought good to adorn them- 
selves with the name which had been 
borne by Pius and Marcus. So far as 
these facts prove anything, they might 
lead us to doubt whether the fortress 
belongs to the earliest days of the 
Empire, and whether we should not see 
in a work of Trajan or his age, one of 
the fruits perhaps of the diligent wan- 
derings of the restless Hadrian. But 
they certainly lead us to think that the 
Saalburg did not remain a Roman 
stronghold much after the middle of 
the third century. One thing is certain, 
that, whoever was the founder of the 
fortress, its arrangements were at some 
later time wholly changed, and changed 
in several points into forms differing 
from the arrangements commonly fol- 
lowed in Roman encampments. The 
details have been carefully worked out 
in a pamphlet by a local antiquary to 
which I have referred in a note. The 
position of the Via Principalis, the 

1 A list of them is given in a pamphlet 
by Dr. K. Rossel, ‘Das Pfahigraben-Castell 
Saalburg bei Homburg. Wiesbaden, 1871.” 
Pp. 5—9. Dr. Rossel describes the existing 
remains at length. 

great transverse street which crossed the 
camp, has been changed, and changed 
to a less usual place. And it is a detail 
well worthy of notice, that one of the 
usual gates of the Pretorium, namely 
that nearest to the Pfahlgraben, that, in 
short, which faced the enemy, is left 
out. Into the technical details of the 
remains I will not presume to enter ; I 
have not enough knowledge of the 
minuter points of Roman military archi- 
tecture to risk an opinion as to any 
theories which may be formed from 
these appearances as to the date or 
object of the changes which have plainly 
taken place. The history of Saalburg, 
as we can make it out from either docu- 
mentary or archeological evidence, seems 
to come to this. The Roman fortress of 
Artaunum was founded by Drusus, was 
destroyed by Arminius, and restored by 
Germanicus. At some time in its his- 
tory great and remarkable changes were 
made in its internal arrangements. It 
was in full and uninterrupted Roman 
occupation during the latter half of the 
second century and the first half of the 
third. After the time of the Gordians 
(238-244) there is no direct evidence 
of either kind to tell us anything as to 
the fate of the fortress. But this very 
lack of evidence, combined with what 
we know of the course of warfare in. 
Germany in the fourth century, makes it 
almost certain that Artaunum was lost 
to Rome at some time in the century 
between the Gordians and Julian, and 
was never won back again. 

Such is the history of the Saalburg, 
a history meagre enough, but still one 
which makes it a living and speaking 
witness of the long struggle of the Latin- 
speaking powers—of Rome, or more truly 
of Gaul under Roman dominion—to 
bring the free tribes of Germany under 
their yoke. But the history of the past 
is always clothed with a further interest 
when we can closely connect it with 
the present. I at least never felt more 
truly that history is one thing, that the 
struggle of Dutch and Welsh! from the 

1 | of course use these words in the old and 
wide sense, like the German Deutsch and 
pd 2 

36 Saalburg and Saarbriicken, 

first Cesar onwards is one thing, than 
when I saw the spot where Arminius 
had overthrown the fortress of Drusus 
trodden by men who had themselves 
played their part in that mighty act of 
the great drama which has just been 
wrought beneath our own eyes. I had 
the good luck to see Saalburg on a day 
which seemed to bring both ends of the 
story near together. A party of German 
soldiers, men who, like Arminius, had 
helped to drive back the invader from 
the soil of Germany, men who, like 
him, in freeing Germany, had helped to 
free England and mankind, were ga- 
thered, as they might have been in the 
days of Arminius, among the ruins of 
the fortress which was reared to hold 
Germany in bondage to men of Latin 
speech. Like the soldiers of Rome 
herself, they could wield spade and 
pickaxe as well as more deadly weapons. 
Spade and pickaxe had been plied that 
day in bringing the remains of the 
ancient fortress more thoroughly to 
light. Nor were those who wielded them 
dealt with as mere machines, as mere 
hands, pretty much on a level with the 
tools which they wielded. The German 
soldiers who were set to dig for the 
traces of past times within the walls of 
the Saalburg were set to do it as a 
reasonable service. When their work 
was done, one of the officers of the party 
got up, and in a clear voice and style 
which could be followed even by those 
who were not very familiar with spoken 
German, explained to his men what the 
place was where they had been work- 
ing, what was its history, and what was 
the meaning of the different parts of 
the building and of the remains which 
they had been working to bring to 
light. _ It was something to hear the 
deeds of Arminius told in his own 
tongue on a spot which had beheld 
them by men who had had their own 
share in the same work as his after 
eighteen hundred and sixty years. I 
could not help saying to myself, “ This 

Wilsch. We have lost much in point of 

clearness by confining the names to the Dutch 
of Holland and the Welsh of Britain. 

is Geist. If these men are ever called 
on to beat Frenchmen again, they 
will beat them all the better for hear- 
ing this.” I fancy some shallow 
lounger, glad to cover his own igno- 
rance of history and incapacity of 
thought, crying out ‘“ Antiquarian rub- 
bish.” For antiquarian rubbish I have 
as thorough a contempt as any man. 
The whole doings of both Buonapartes, 
their Consulates, their Empires, their 
Senates, their Plebiscites, their babble 
about Cesar and Clovis and Charle- 
magne, and, grandest of all, the carrying 
of the Bayeux Tapestry to Paris to make 
Frenchmen with a Corsican at their 
head fancy that they had some share in 
the man who smote them at Varaville 
—all this is antiquarian rubbish of a 
truth. But when the same great 
struggle has been going on for ages, 
when the Latin-speaking lords of Gaul, 
whether the seat of their power has 
been at Rome or at Paris, have from 
the very beginning, whenever they 
have had the means, carried on one 
long warfare against independent Ger- 
many, it is no antiquarian rubbish to 
compare the latest stages of the struggle 
with the earliest. The Buonapartes 
of course represent the Caesars, so far as 
they are all members of the same order, 
that order of which the Dionysii in one 
age of the world and the Visconti in 
another were members ‘hardly less emi- 
nent. But they represent the Cesars in 
any direct and special way only so far as 
they have played their part in carrying 
on that long warfare of Latin-speaking 
Gaul against Germany, of which the 
Roman occupation of Saalburg marks 
one stage and the German recovery of 
Strassburg marks a stage the other way. 
In this point of view, and in this point 
of view only, we may give the Buona- 
partes, as well as to the Valois and the 
Bourbons, the credit, such as it may 
be, of representing Drusus and Ger- 
manicus as aggressors on the freedom 
of Germany. 

Another train of thought may be sug- 
gested by the scene which I saw on the 
Saalburg. An army is an evil in what- 
ever land it is found, but in some 


. re BS OVE IS Qe st le OD 

~- lUcrrmUC OT lCU|]ShCOtllC(iC rw 


Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 37 

lands an army is a necessary evil. Till 
the Ethiopian shall change his skin and 
the leopard his spots, armies cannot be 
got rid of on the mainland of Europe. 
As long as France still keeps any trace 
either of the will or of the power to 
play the part which she has gone on 
playing for so many ages, so long Ger- 
many must stand ready for her own 
defence. In our own island the need 
of an army is less clear. A strong navy 
and a well-trained militia may well be 
thought to be force enough for a land 
which has no frontier but the Ocean. 
But if we are to have an army, we may 
surely learn something as to the way of 
dealing with it from what I saw and 
heard at Saalburg. A German soldier 
is dealt with as a reasonable being. He 
is held to be capable of understanding 
the past history of his country, capable 
of giving willing and intelligent help in 
exploring and preserving the existing 
traces of that history. Every German 
soldier who used his spade within the 
old fortress and listened to the explana- 
tion of what that fortress was, must 
have felt himself raised as a man and a 
citizen by so doing. Why should not 
English soldiers, if there are to be any, 
be raised in the same way? We have 
sites enough to explore of no less im- 
portance to the history of our land than 
Saalburg is to the history of Germany. 
We have officers in our army—I could 
name more than one of my own know- 
ledge—as well able to explain those 
antiquities to those under their com- 
mand as the German officer whom I 
heard at Saalburg. But I should much 
like to know whether the idea of so 
doing ever came into their heads or into 
the heads of those higher in command 
than themselves. It would be a gain 
in more ways than one if those an- 
cient monuments of the land which 
we, alone among civilized nations, 
leave to private caprice to destroy, to 
preserve, or explore at pleasure, could 
be thoroughly examined, and their 
minutest details brought to light, by 
the labour of those whom the nation 
pays, and from whom it ought to receive 
so me service even in time of peace. A 

German soldier is surely a better Ger- 
man for giving his help in exploring 
the stronghold of the Roman conqueror 
of his forefathers. An English soldier 
would surely be the better Englishman 
if he were set to work in the like sort 
within the walls of Anderida, the scene 
of the crowning victory of the South- 
Saxon and of the landing of the Norman, 
where the Roman city and the Norman 
castle} stand alike empty and desolate, 
but where the homes and churches of 
Englishmen, near but not within the 
Roman fortress, have outlived the me- 
mory alike of the Briton whom they 
conquered and of the Norman who con- 
quered them. 

From Saalburg, the speaking witness 
of the long struggle which reaches from 
Cesar and Ariovistus to the events of two 
years past, it was not unfitting to pass 
to the one spot on all which two years 
ago was German soil which was a wit- 
ness of the latest scene of that struggle. 
It was not wholly of set purpose that 
the next place after Saalburg which I 
stopped to examine was Saarbriicken. 
But I was not sorry to pass thus, as it 
were at a single stage, from the beginning 
of the long story to what is as yet its 
ending. A long and roundabout journey 
leads from the heights of Taunus to the 
banks of the Saar, as a long tale of ups 
and downs on either side leads from the 
days of the Claudii to the days of the 
Buonapartes. But it is well to see 
the two ends of the struggle as it were 
at a glance. I set out from a spot 
which showed how the German race, in 
the very beginning of its history, was 
already able to hold its own against the 
might of Rome in the days of her 
greatest power. I went thence to a 
spot which showed how the German 
race now can do more than hold its own 
against invaders of Roman speech who 

1 I do not remember that there is in Peven- 
sey Castle any work technically of Norman 
date, but, whether there is or not, the castle 
represents the presence of the Normans, just as 
the walls represent the presence of the Romans, 
and the two villages and their churches that 
of the English. The Briton alone has left no 


38 Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 

come on the old Roman errand. The 
only weak point of the comparison is 
the intense grotesqueness of the modern 
side of it, which makes it hard to bring 
the two together without a laugh. 
There is some difference between an 
invasion which presses on by land and 
sea from the Rhine to the Elbe and an 
invasion which proclaims itself about to 
do wonders on the Spree and ends in a 
few days’ visit to the Saar. There is 
some difference between the toils and 
dangers which the old legions faced 
among the hills and woods and marshes 
of uncleared Germany ! and the easy ex- 
ploit of crossing an undefended frontier 
and firing on an unfortified town. In 
each case Germany was attacked by a 
father and a son. But there is some 
difference between the Drusus to whom 
men looked for the restoration of Roman 
freedom and the Buonaparte by whom 
the freedom of France had been over- 
thrown. And there is a wider differ- 
ence still between Germanicus in all his 
glory and the trembling schoolboy who 
was dragged to receive his baptism of 
fire at Saarbriicken and its confirmation 
on the heights of Speicheren. Drusus 
left his trophy by the Weser ; the only 
trophy which a Buonaparte has left be- 
hind him by the Saar is the stone reared 
by German hands to preserve the me- 
mory of “Lulu’s erste debut.” No 
antiquary of times to come will find at 
Saarbriicken such rich relics and speak- 
ing witnesses of the last inroad of the 
Latin race as Saalburg pours forth with 
such abundance to commemorate the 
first. We stand on the heights which 
two years back were crowned by the 
cannon of the invader. We look down 
on the river, on the peaceful streets, on 
the houses and churches among which 
we have to peer curiously for any sign 
that an enemy has been among them. 
We look back to the opposite heights, 
now once more German soil, and we see 
the spot where the German nation, 

1 Dion. ly. 1. és re ry rSv Xdrrww eséBare[v 
0 Apovcos| Kal mponrAOe wéxpe Tis SovnBlas, 
thy te tv moolvy ok atadaitdpws Xeipovmevos 
wal ots, mposuryvivtas of odk dvamwrt) 

arising in all the might of its righteous 
cause, drove back the invaders from the 
few roods of German ground which 
were all that he could hold even fora 
moment. And in the dale between the 
two hills we look down on the one sad 
memorial which the last visit of the 
Latin race has left in Germany. We 
see the graves where the vanquished in- 
vaders and the triumphant deliverers lie 
side by side, and we think of the guilt 
of the man on whose head the blood of 
invaders and deliverers alike rests. Per- 
haps our thoughts run on further. At 
Saarbriicken, fresh from Saalburg, the 
mind may well pass swiftly over the 
long ages which have come and gone 
between Germanicus and Buonaparte. 
We may think perhaps, not only of 
deeds of wrong or harm done on either 
side, but of the moment when all 
wrongs on both sides were forgotten, 
in the face of a more fearful scourge. 
We may think of the moment when 
all men of Aryan race and Christian 
faith felt themselves brethren in the 
presence of a heathen and Turanian 
invader; when Roman and Goth and 
Frank marched forth together to stem 
the wasting course of Attila, in the 
crowning merey of the Catalaunian 
fields. And with the happy brother- 
hood of Aétius and Theodoric in that 
day’s struggle we may contrast the 
later deeds of Most Christian Kings, 
who brought the pirates of Barbary 
into the havens of Genoa and Nizza, 
and leagued with the Turk to point 
his cannon against the ramparts of Bel- 
grade and Vienna. And we may con- 
trast too the doings of later Eldest Sons 
of the Church, who have brought their 
Zouaves and Turcos to harry Christian 
and civilized lands. We may think of 
the long age of endless aggression, 
of the men who stole Metz in one cen- 
tury and Strassburg in the next, of 
those who sent the Protestants of 
France to the stake, while they stirred 
up wars to protect the rights of the 
Protestants of Germany. We may see 
the burning ruins of Speier and Worms 
and Heidelberg ; we may see the bones 
of the Czsars cast out of their graves in 


Coro ff Po 



Saalburg and Saarbriicken, 39 

the plundered and desecrated minster, 
to glut the spite of the pious King for 
whom such exploits as these so worthily 
won the title of the Great. We may 
look on to days nearer to our own, to 
days when, not only Mainz and Worms 
and Speier, not only Trier and Kéln 
and Aachen, but Bremen, Hamburg, and 
Liibeck had passed under the domi- 
nion of the enemy, and when, by a yet 
deeper fall, German princes stooped to 
accept crowns from the invader of their 
country, and to hail him as their Pro- 
tector against the still lawful King of 
Germany. And we may look also on 
the days of vengeance past and pre- 
sent. We may look back to the old 
times, when the barriers of Julian and 
Valentinian were swept away, when 
Gaul was parcelled out among German 
masters, when Rheims beheld the bap- 
tism of a German conqueror, and 
Paris became for a moment the seat 
of a German dominion. And we may 
think too of the days before Gaul had 
again parted herself from the German 
rule! when Rome and Germany were 
one, and when the Lord of Rome and 
Aachen stooped once or twice in his 
reign to show his face in such lowly 
cities as Rouen, Tours, and Paris. We 
may see the first prince of the new 
nation and the new speech, the first 
French King that ever reigned in Paris, 
Odo himself, the champion alike of 
Paris and of Christendom, receive his 
new-made crown as a gift from the 
German Arnulf, while not yet a Roman 
Emperor, but a simple German King. 
We may see one Otto encamping alike 
beneath the walls of Paris and the walls 
of Rouen, and the host of another Otto 
startling the Duke of the French and 
his Frenchmen by the mighty echo of 
the Hallelujah of Montmartre. And 
our thoughts may thence pass on to 
days nearer to our own, when, after 
the darkest hour of bondage, the Ger- 
man people arose as one man, how they 
drove the stranger from their soil, how 
they bore their part in the great ven- 
1 Gunther, Ligurinus, lib. i. 
** Et simul a nostro secessit Gallia regno, 
Nos-priscum regni morem servamus.” 

geance, and marched into conquered 
Paris with the united hosts of libe- 
rated Europe. And one thought still 
is left to fill up the whole cycle. 
Three years before I stood on the hill 
of Saarbriicken I had stood in the 
stately palace of Rheims, among the 
goodly chambers with their goodly 
furniture, which for more than forty 
years had been waiting for a King to 
dwell in them. I could not deem then 
that, before a year had passed, a King 
should dwell in them indeed. The 
wheel had indeed come round again 
when German William dwelled in the 
home of German Hlodwig, and when 
Remigius might look down from the 
walls of his own minster! to greet a 
conqueror who needed not his convert- 
ing hand. We pass on to one scene 
more, to that great day in the annals of 
the world when the throne of Henry of 
Saxony and Rudolf of Habsburg was 
again set up, when German princes 
and. people hailed the chief of united 
Germany within the very hall of the 
man who had given German cities to 
the flames and had cast out the dust of 
German Cesars from their graves. 

Such is the long train of thought 
which is called up by the sight of two 
spots so memorable in ages far away 
from each other as Saalburg and Saar- 
briicken. And one thought more cannot 
be kept down. In the great deliverance 
of the days of our fathers we had our 
share with our brethren. The men of 
the Teutonic mainland and the men of 
the Teutonic island fought side by side 
in the righteous struggle. It was not by 
England alone, nor by Germany alone, 
but by England and Germany joined 
together in the bonds of brotherhood, 
that the first Buonaparte was at last 
beaten to the earth. In the great 
deliverance of our own day we have 
had no share; the second Buonaparte 
has been overthrown by the single arm 
of Germany. We had no share in the 

1 [ do not meanthe Abbey of St. Remigius 
dedicated to him after his death, but the 
metropolitan church, the successor of his own 
church when in the flesh. 


work, but at least we need not look 
askance at those who have worked for 
us as well as for themselves. But for the 
deeds of Arminius, England had never 
been ; but for the deeds of later Germans, 
England would have had to do battle 
singly with the common disturber of the 
world. But for the great salvation of 
two years past, the man who had smitten 
Russia and Austria and Germany would 
assuredly have before long stretched 
forth his hands to smite England also. 
The man who had told the world that 
he had Waterloo to avenge would never 
have been content with avenging it 
on the countrymen of Biliicher only. 
If the light-hearted ones had marched 
in triuniph to Berlin, the turn of Lon- 
don would have come next. From 
this our brethren of the mainland have 
saved us. They have laboured, and we 
have entered into their labours. Why 
then do we hang back, and refuse to 
share in their joy and thankfulness for 
their righteous victories? I know of 
nothing stranger than the way in which 
English feeling turned about in the 
course of the great struggle in which Ger- 
many stood forth as the common cham- 
pion of mankind. At first the heart of 
England beat for the righteous cause. 
Then, all at once, simply, as it would 
seem, because for once might and right 
were found to go together, Englishmen 
turned round and proclaimed their 
sympathy for the aggressors who were 
receiving the due reward of their deeds. 
Men strangely seemed to see danger 
to ourselves in the victories which freed 
us from the greatest of dangers. They 
began, without cause, without reason, 
to suspect some evil purpose in the 
men who were fighting the battles 
of mankind, who were crushing the 
power which had for so many ages 
been the disturbing element in Europe. 
By the way in which so many English 
speakers and writers allow themselves to 

Saalburg and Saarbriicken. 

speak of everything German, we are fast 
making enemies of a nation which, two 
years ago, valued our friendship and re- 
joiced in our sympathy. To minds of 
this kind the appeal to kindred blood 
and speech, to a friendship a thousand 
years old and more, to all that binds 
nations together which have shared in the 
overthrow of Bouvines and in the victory 
of Waterloo, might seem only “ anti- 
quarian rubbish.” Yet it would be hard 
for any man to show any point in which 
English and German interests clash, any 
point in which Germany, her union and 
her victories, are in any way dangerous 
to England. Germany will be our 
friend, if we will only let her; if she 
becomes our enemy, it will be wholly 
our own doing. Deep indeed is the 
sin of the men who stir up causeless 
strife, of the men above all who stir 
up strife between two nations whose 
hearts ought to be as one. Deep is the 
sin of the men who can seek by pestilent 
buffoonery to set brethren at variance 
and to jeopard the hardly won peace 
of the world. Next to the guilt of the 
men who madly rushed into an un- 
righteous war comes the guilt of the men 
who can trifle away the peace and good 
will of nations by jests like the Battle 
of Dorking and Dame Europa’s Schoo). 
Next to the crime of the man who 
hides a real danger comes the crime 
of the man who proclaims a false one. 
The real danger passed away when the 
work which began at Speicheren was 
brought to its happy end at Paris. The 
men who overthrew Varus and the men 
who overthrew the Buonapartes were 
men fighting in one cause, and that cause 
was the cause of England as well as of 
Germany. Alike within the Pfaklgra- 
ben of Saalburg and on the undefended 
heights of Saarbriicken, it is not only 
German but English history that has 
been wrought out. 
Epwarp A. Freeman. 


ee a a a a, 



Being an adaptation of Arndt’s Poem: “ Was ist des Deutschen 

Vaterland ?” 

Wuere is the Christian’s Fatherland ? 
Is it the Holy Hebrew Land? 

In Nazareth’s vale, on Zion’s steep, 

Or by the Galilean deep ? 

Where pilgrim hosts have rush’d to lave 
Their stains of sin in Jordan’s wave, 

Or sought to win by brand and blade 
The tomb wherein their Lord was laid? 

Where is the Christian’s Fatherland ? 

Is it the haunted Grecian strand, 
Where Apostolic wanderers first 

The yoke of Jewish bondage burst ? 

Or where, on many a mystic page, 
Byzantine prelate, Coptic sage, 

Fondly essay’d to intertwine 

Earth’s shadows with the Light Divine? 

Or is the Christian’s Fatherland 

Where, with crown’d head and crozier’d hand, 
The Ghost of Empire proudly flits, 

And on the grave of Cesar sits ? 

O by those world-embracing walls, 

O in those vast and pictur'd hails, ' 

O underneath that soaring dome, 

Shall this not be the Christian’s home? 

Where is the Christian’s Fatherland _— 
Tie still looks on from land to land— 

Is it where German conscience woke, 
When Luther’s lips of thunder spoke ? 
Or where by Zurich’s shore was heard 
The calm Helvetian’s earnest word? 

Or where, beside the rushing Rhone, 
Stern Calvin rear’d his unseen throne ? 
Or where from Sweden’s snows came forth 
The stainless hero of the North? 

The Traveller's Hymn for All Saints’ Day. 

Or is there yet a closer band— 

Our own, our native Fatherland ? 

Where Law and Freedom side by side 

In Heaven’s behalf have gladly vied ? 
Where prayer and praise for years have rung 
In Shakespeare’s accents, Milton’s tongue, 
Blessing with cadence sweet and grave 

The fireside nook, the ocean wave, ~ 

And o’er the broad Atlantic hurl’d, 
Wakening to life another world ? 

No, Christian! no !—not even here, 

By Christmas hearth or churchyard dear ; 
Nor yet on distant shores brought nigh ) 
By martyr’s blood or prophet’s cry— 
Nor Western pontiff’s lordly name, , 
Nor Eastern Patriarch’s hoary fame— 

Nor e’en where shone sweet Bethlehem’s star : 
Thy Fatherland is wider far. 

Thy native home is wheresoe’er 

Christ’s Spirit breathes a holier air ; 

Where Christ-like Faith is keen to seek 

What Truth or Conscience freely speak— 

Where Christ-like Love delights to span 

The rents that sever man from man— 

Where round God’s throne His just ones stand— 
There, Christian, is thy FarHeRLanp. 

A. P.S. 

CoLOGNE, Sept, 20, 1872. 






I wap not intended to carry on any 
further a history which is chiefly about 
myself ; but events are always occurring 
which change one’s mind from day to 
day, and alter one’s most fixed resolu- 
tions. Ido not pretend to understand 
people who make unchangeable decisions, 
and certainly I am not one of them. Be- 
sides, common fairness requires that I 
should allow Mrs, Peveril to have the 
same privilege as myself, and tell things 
_ herown way. I could not have imagined, 
had I not seen it, the difference there 
was between the aspect of things to her 
and to me. I suppose it is true after all 
that everybody has his or her own point 
of view, which is different from all 
others. Of course we realize this fact 
quite clearly in a great poem like ‘“‘ The 
Ring and the Book ;” but to recognize it 
in one’s own small affairs has somehow 
a much stranger, more surprising effect. 
What an odd difference it would make 
in the world if we could all see our- 
selves now and then with other people’s 
eyes! I confess that the girl in her 
story, who was Mr. Peveril’s daughter, 
is very much unlike the girl in mine— 
and yet the same somehow, as may be 
traced out with a little trouble. This 
is humbling, but it is for one’s good, 
I suppose. When you look at yourself 
in a mirror, you have so much interest 
in yourself that your defects don’t strike 
you—you can’t help being the first figure 
—the most important; but to feel that 
all along you are not important at all— 
anything but the first figure, a mere 
shadow, scarcely noticed! it has a very 
odd effect—sometimes laughable, some- 

times rather the reverse; but this was 
what now happened to me. 

I must add, however, that a long time 
passed over before I could even think that 
Mrs. Peveril might have something to 
say on her side. It was not because of 
the rupture between Mr. Durham and 
myself, and the sudden conclusion of 
that dream and all that it seemed likely 
to bring with it. No doubt these things 
embittered all my feelings about her ; but 
yet I was reasonable enough to come to 
see that it was not her fault—that she 
had kept out of the way with all her 
might—and that after all she could not 
foresee that another complication might 
arise between him and me. She could 
not of course foresee this ; and even if she 
had foreseen it, what could she have 
done? I think it shows I was not un- 
fair in my judgment, for a girl of seven- 
teen, to say that I soon came to see that. 
But though I did not blame her, of 
course I was embittered against her, 
and took refuge in being very angry with 
her on other grounds. That she should 
have said our living together was a mis- 
take was the chief of these. Why was 
it a mistake? Did she mean to say it 
was my fault? If it was simply her 
fault, as I felt sure it was, why did she 
call it a mistake? Why not say plainly 
out, “I was wrong, and so we got into 
trouble”? How easy it seems to be 
for people to acknowledge themselves 
in the wrong! but not so easy for 
oneself, somehow. I never met any- 
body who liked it, though I have met 
with so many who ought to have done 
it, and to whom it would have been 
so simple—so easy, I thought; but 
that never seemed to be their opinion. 




44 The Two Marys. 

Mrs. Tufnell, who is in some things 
a very odd old lady, says it never 
is anybody’s fault. ‘There was never 
any quarrel yet,” she will say, “ but 
there were two in it—there was 
never any misunderstanding but two 
were in it. There is no such thing as 
absolute blame on the one side and 
innocence on the other. Even in your 
affairs, Mary, my dear ” But this I 
never can see nor allow. How could I 
be to blame? Only seventeen, and know- 
ing so little of the world, and expecting 
everybody to be good and true, and say 
just what they thought. When a man 
said he was fond of me, how was I to 
put up with his having been fond of 
somebody else? And when a woman 
professed to be thinking of me, was it 
natural that I could be pleased to know 
she had been thinking of herself? I 
could not help behaving just as I 
did. It was the only natural, the only 
possible way; but for them, they 
ought to have known better, they ought 
to have thought of me. On the whole 
that is the thing that hurts one—that 
goes to one’s heart. People think of 
themselves first—when they ought to be 
thinking of you, they think of themselves 
first. I suppose it is the same all over 
the world. 

The way in which I first heard Mary’s 
story was simple enough. After years 
of a dull sort of quiet life at Mrs. Tuf- 
nell’s—who was very good to me, and 
very kind, but who, of course, could 
give to me, a girl, only what she, an old 
woman, had to give—the quietest life, 
without excitement or change of any 
kind—she had a bad illness. It was not 
an illness of the violent kind, but of 
what, I suppose, is more dangerous to an 
old woman, a languishing, slow sickness, 
which looked like decay more than 
disease. The doctors said “ breaking up 
of the constitution,” or at least the 
servants said so, who are less particular 
than the doctors, and shook their heads 
and looked very serious. I was less 
easily alarmed than anyone else, for it 
seemed to me a naturai thing that an 
old lady should be gently ill like that, 
one day a little better and the next a 

little worse, without any suffering to 
speak of. It was not until after she 
was better that I knew there had been 
real danger, but she must have felt it 
herself. The way in which her sense 
of her precarious condition showed itself 
was anxiety. for me. I remember one 
evening sitting in her room by the fire 
with a book; she was in bed, and I 
had been reading to her, and now-she 
was dozing, or at least I thought so. 
Things appear (it is evident) very dif- 
ferently to different people. I was 
extremely comfortable in that nice low 
easy-chair by the fire. It was a pretty 
room, full of pictures and portraits of 
her friends, so full that there was scarcely 
an inch of the wall uncovered. The 
atmosphere was warm and soft, and the 
tranquil repose and ease of the old lady 
in the bed somehow seemed to increase 
the warmth and softness and kindly 
feeling. She was an additional luxury 
to me sitting there by the fire with my 
novel. If any fairy had proposed to 
place her by my side as young and as 
strong as myself, I should have rejected 
the proposal with scorn. I liked her a 
great deal best so—old, a little sick, kind, 
comfortable, dozing in her bed. The 
very illness—which I thought quite 
slight, rather an excuse for staying in 
this cosy room and being nursed than 
anything else—heightened my sense of 
luxury. She was not dozing, as it hap- 
pened, but lying very still, thinking of 
dying—wondering how it would feel, 
and planning for those she should leave 
behind her. I knew nothing of these 
thoughts, no more than if I had been a 
thousand miles away, and fortunately 
neither did she of mine. I was roused 
from my comfortable condition by the 
sound of her voice calling me. I rose 
up half reluctantly from the bright fire, 
and the little table with the lamp and 
my book, and went and sat by her in 
the shade where I could not see the fire ; 
but still the sentiment of comfort was 
predominant in me. I gave my old 
lady her mixture, which it was time for 
her to take, and advised her to go to 

“You must not doze this time,” I 


sae Veins. a aoe fe ae ee ee 

The Two Marys. 45 

said ; “you must go right off to sleep, 
and never wake till morning. Every- 
thing is put right for the night, and I 
shall not go till you are asleep.” 

“T was not dozing,” she said, with 
that natural resentment which every- 
body feels to be so accused ; and then 
after a moment, “ Mary, I was thinking 
of you. If I were to die, what would 
you do?” 

I was very much shocked, and rather 
frightened ; and when I looked at her, 
and saw by the dim light that she did 
not look any worse, I felt rather angry. 
“How unkind of you!” I said, “to 
speak so! You frightened me at first. 
What would it matter what became of 

“Tt would matter a great deal,” she 
said. “It would make everything so 
much worse. I don’t want to die, Mary, 
though I daresay I should be a great deal 
better, and get rid of all my troubles—” 

“Oh, it is wicked to talk so!” 

“Why should it be wicked? I can’t 
help thinking of it,” she said, lying in 
her warm cosy bed. It made me shiver 
to hear her. I began to cry, rather 
with a chill, wretched sense of discom- 
fort in the midst of all the warmth than 
anything else ; upon which she put her 
hand on my shoulder and gave me alittle 
shake, and laughed at me softly. “ Silly 
child !” she said—but she was not angry. 
There was a very grave look on her face 
behind the smile. Dying was strange 
to her as well as to me, though she was 
very old. 

“ But, Mary,” she went on, “I want 
to read you something. I want you to 
think again about some one you once 
were very fond of. I have some news 
of Mrs. Peveril * 

“Oh!” I said; and then I went on 
stiffly, “I hope she is well.” 

“She is quite well—and—your little 
brother. I wish you would see them. 
All that happened was so long ago; I 
think you might see them, Mary.” 

“T never made any objection to seeing 
them,” I said, more and more stiffly, 
though my heart began to leap and 
thump against my breast. ‘ You forget 
IT had nothing to do with it. It was she 

who went away. She said it was a 

* You are an unforgiving child. You 
did not try to enter into her feelings, 

“ How could I?” I said. “ Did she 
wish me to enter into her feelings ? Did 
she ever give me a chance? She said 
it was a mistake. What was there left 
for me to say ?” 

“ Well, well,” said the old lady, “I 
don’t defend her. I always said she 
was wrong ; but still I have been hearing 
from her lately, Mary. I have three 
or four letters which I should like you 
to read——” 

“You have been hearing from her 
without ever telling me!” 

“Bless the child! must I not even 
get a letter without consulting her? 
But, Mary, I am a free agent still, and 
I can’t be kept in such order,” she said, 
half laughing. “Give me that blotting- 
book, and my keys, and my spectacles, 
and bring the lamp a little closer.” 

Indignant as I was, I was comforted 
by all these preparations. And when 
she had put on her spectacles and opened 
the blotting-book, sitting up in bed, my 
mind was so much relieved that my in- 
dignation floated away. “It is a pretty 
thing for you to talk of dying, and 
frighten people,” I said, giving her a 
kiss, “ with your cheeks like two nice 
old roses.” She shook her head, but 
she smiled too : she felt better, and got 
better gradually from that hour. 

But in the meantime I had to listen 
to these letters. Perhaps if it had not 
been that my old lady was ill, I would 
have been offended to find that she had 
deceived me, and had known about 
Mary all along. It was a deception, 
though she did not mean any harm. 
“She had thought it best,” she said, 
“to let time soften all our feelings, 
before she told me anything about it.” 
However, I must not enter into all the 
discussions we had on this subject. It 
is only fair that Mary should have her 
turn, and tell her story as I have told 
mine. It is not a connected story like 
mine, but you will see from it what 

kind of a life hers had been, and what 





46 The Two Marys. 

sort of a woman she was. She is different 
from the Mary I thought—and yet not 
different either—just as I am different 
from the girl I thought I was, and yet 
very like too, if you look into it. I 
cannot tell what my feelings were as I 
read first one bit and then another, and 
a great deal more which I do not think it 
necessary to quote here. One moment 
I was furious with her—the next I 
could have kissed her feet. These people 
who send you from one extreme of 
feeling to another, who do wrong things 
and right things all in a jumble, take a 
greater hold upon you, somehow, than 
better people do, who are placid and 
always on the same level—at least I 
think so. I started by calling her Mrs. 
Peveril—and here I am already saying 
Mary, as of old, without knowing! And 
Mrs. Tufnell wishes me to go and see 
her. She has even made me promise 
as a kind of reward to herself for getting 
better. Since she takes it in this way, 
I shall have to go—and sometimes I fear 
it, and sometimes I wish for it. Will 
it make any difference to me? Will the 
old love come back, or the still older 
feeling that was not love? Shall I think 
of that “Mary” that sounded always so 
much sweeter to her than to me? Or 
shall I remember only the time when 
she was everything to me—when she 
charmed me out of my grief and loneli- 
ness, and told me her secret, and made 
me her companion, and was all mine? 
I do not know. I begin to tremble, and 
my heart beats when I think of this 
meeting; but in the meantime Mary 
has a right to her turn, and to tell the 
story her own way. It is all in little 
bits taken from Mrs. Tufnell’s letters, 
and sometimes may appear a little frag- 
mentary ; but I can only give it as it 
came to me. 


Wuen I went to be governess at Mrs. 
Durham’s I was quite young. I had 
been “out” before, but only as nursery 
governess. Mine was not a very regular 

or, perhaps, a very good kind of educa- 
tion. My mother had been a governess 
before me, and not one of very high pre- 
tensions, as governesses are nowadays. 
I don’t think she ever knew anything 
herself, except a little music and a little 
French, which she had forgotten before 
my. time. How my father and she met, 
and, still more wonderful, how they took 
to each other, is a thing I never could 
make out. Perhaps I was most fond of 
her, but certainly I was most proud of 
him, and liked to copy his ways, and 
to believe what my mother often said— 
that I was a Martindale every inch of 
me. This, poor soul, she meant as a 
reproach, but to me it sounded like a 
compliment. I was very silly and rather 
cruel, as young people are so often. My 
father had a great deal of contempt for 
her, and not much affection ; and though 
I had a great deal of affection, I borrowed 
unconsciously his contempt, and thought 
myself justified in treating her as he 
did. She was wordy and weak in argu- 
ment, and never knew when to stop. 
But he—when he had stated what he 
intended to do—would never answer 
any of her objections, or indeed take any 
notice of them, but listened to her with a 
contemptuous silence. I took to doing 
the same; and though I know better 
now, and am sorry I ever could have 
been so foolish and so unkind, yet the 
habit remains with me—not to take the 
trouble to reply to foolish arguments, but 
to do what I think right without saying 
anything about it. This habit, I may 
as well confess, has got me into trouble 
more than once; but I do not say that 
I am prepared to give it up, though I 
know [ have taken harm by it, and no 
good, so far as I am aware. 

We were very poor, and I had been a 
nursery governess and a daily governess 
when I was little more than a child. 
When my poor mother died a little 
money came, and then I got a few les- 
sons to improve me in one or two 
different accomplishments; and then 
I took Mrs. Durham’s situation. My 
father was one of the wandering men 
who live a great deal abroad; and I 
had learned French and enough Ger- 

feo o's. 


tle te it Ole lee lee?’ 


The Two Marys. 47 

man to make a show, in the best 
way, by practice rather than by 
book. ‘French acquired abroad ”— 
that was what was put for me in the 
advertisement, and this I think was 
my principal recommendation to Mrs. 
Durham. Her eldest son was at home 
at the time—a young man just a little 
older than myself. She was a kind 
woman, and unsuspicious. She thought 
George only a boy, and perhaps about 
me she never thought at all—in connec- 
tion with him, at least. I used to be 
encouraged at first to make him talk 
French, and great was the amusement 
in the school-room over his pronuncia- 
tion and his mistakes. They were all 
very kind when I come to think of it. 
They were as fearless and trustful with 
me as if I had belonged to them. And 
then by degrees I found out that George 
had fallen in love with me. I think I 
may say quite certainly that I never 
was in love with him, but I was a little 
excited and pleased, as one always is, 
you know, when that happens for the 
first time. It is so odd—so pleasant to 
feel that you have that power. It seems 
so kind of the man—one thinks so when 
one is young—and it is amusing and flat- 
tering, and a thing which occupies your 
mind, and gives you something agree- 
able to think of. I do not say this is the 
right way of thinking on such a subject, 
but it is how a great many girls feel, 
and I was one of them. I had never 
thought seriously of it at all. It seemed 
so much more like fun than anything 
else ; and then it is always pleasant to 
have people fond of you. I liked it ; 
and I am afraid I never thought of what 
it might come to, and did not take up 
any lofty ground, but let him talk, and 
let him follow me about, and steal out 
after me, and waylay me in the passages. 
I did this without thinking, and more 
than half for the amusement of it. I 
liked him, and I liked the place he took 
up in my life, and the things he said, 
without really responding to his feelings 
at all. 

When it was found out, and there was 
a disturbance in the house about it, I 
came to my senses all at once, with such 

a hot flush of pain and shame that I 
seem to feel it yet. They had been so 
kind to me, that I had never felt my 
dependence ; but now, all in a moment 
I found it out. His mother was 
frightened to death lest he should marry 
me! She thought me quite beneath 
him; me—a Martindale all over—a 
gentleman’s daughter—much better than 
she was! This roused a perfect tempest 
in me. It was my pride that was out- 
raged, not my feelings ; but that pride 
was strong enough and warm enough 
to be called a passion. I did what I 
could to show his mother that nothing 
in the world could be more in- 
different to me than he was, but she 
would not be convinced ; and at last I 
determined to do what my father often 
had done when my mother was un- 
reasonable—to withdraw out of the dis- 
cussion at once and summarily, without 
leaving any opportunity for further talk. 
My father was living then. He was at 
Spa, which was not very difficult to 
reach. One evening, after Mrs. Durham 
had been talking to me (George had 
been sent away, but I was not sent 
away because they were sorry for me), I 
stayed in the school-room till they were 
all at dinner, and then I carried all my 
things, which I had made up into 
bundles, down to the hall with my own 
hands, and got a cab and went off to the 
railway station. I bought a common 
box on my way, and packed them all 
into it. I tell you this to show how 
determined I was ; not even one of the 
servants knew how I had gone, or any- 
thing about me. It was winter, and the 
Durhams dined at half-past six; so I 
had time enough to get off by the 
night train to Dover. I had not a very 
large wardrobe, you may suppose, but I 
left nothing behind me but some old 
things. I was not particular about crush- 
ing my dresses for that one night. I 
remember, as if it were yesterday, the 
dark sea and dark sky, and great, chill, 
invisible, open-air world that I seemed 
to stand alone in, as the steamboat went 
bounding over those black waves, or 
ploughing through them, to Ostend. 
There was a great deal of wind, but the 

48 The Two Marys. 

sea had not had time to rise, and there 
was the exhilaration of a storm without 
its more disagreeable consequences. The 
vessel did not roll, but now and then 
gave a leap, spurning the Channel spray 
from her bows. Oh how I recollect 
every particular! You might think a 
lonely girl in such circumstances—flying 
from persecution, if you like to put it 
so—flying from love; with nothing but 
a very uncertain welcome to look to 
from a very unsatisfactory father, and 
no prospect but to face the world again 
and get her bread somehow—was as sad 
a figure as could be imagined. But I 
was not sad. I had a high spirit, and 
I loved adventure and change. I felt 
as if the steamboat was me, going bound- 
ing on, caring nothing for the sea or the 
darkness. The wind might catch at us, 
the water might dash across our sides, 
the sky might veil itself—who cared? 
We pushed on, defying them all. A poor 
governess as good as turned out of my 
situation because the son of the house 
had fallen in love with me—a penniless 
creature without a home, with nota soul 
to stand by me in all that dark world. 
And yet I don’t remember anything I 
ever enjoyed more, than that journey by 

This will show you—and you may 
show it to Mary to convince her—how 
much I cared for George Durham. I sup- 
pose he was in love with me—at least 
what a young man not much over twenty 
considers love. That is six years ago; and 
probably he has always had a recollec- 
tion, all this time, that he was in love 
with me, and thinks that he ought to 
have been faithful. I should not wonder 
if there was a kind of remorse in his 
mind to find that he had fallen in love 
with Mary, and cared for me no longer. 
It is a superstition with some people 
that, however foolish their first fancy 
was, they ought to hold by it; but I 
must say that I think it was very foolish, 
not to say cruel, of both of them, to 
make this breach on account of me. 

I got another situation after that, and 
did well enough—as governesses do. I 
never complained, or thought I had any 
reason to complain. I taught all I knew 

—not very much, but enough for most 
people. As for education, as people talk 
nowadays—of awakening the minds, and 
training the dispositions, and re-creatin 

the children, so to speak, intellectually 
and morally—TI never thought of such 
a thing; and why should I? That is 
the work of a mother, appointed by God, 
or of some great person endowed with 
great genius or influence—not of a 
young woman between eighteen and five- 
and-twenty, indifferently trained herself, 
with quite enough to do to master her 
own difficulties and keep herself afloat. 
I was not so impertinent, so pre- 
sumptuous, or so foolish as to have any 
such idea. I taught them as well as I 
could ; I tried to make them as fond of 
books as I was myself—I tried to get 
them to talk like gentlewomen, and not 
to be mean or false. I was not their 
mother or their priest, but only their 
teacher. I had no theory then; but 
after one is thirty, one begins to have 
theories ; and I can see what I meant in 
my earlier time by the light of what I 
think now. However, this is not much 
to the purpose. I was a_ successful 
governess on the whole ; I got on very 
well, and I had nothing to find fault 
with. It is not a very happy life—when 
you are young, and hear pleasant sounds 
below-stairs, and have to sit reading by 
yourself in the school-room ; when there 
is music and dancing perhaps, and 
merry talk, and you are left alone in 
that bare place with maps on the walls, 
and one candle—a girl does not feel 
happy ; though on the whole, perhaps, 
the school-room is better than to sit in 
a corner of the drawing-room and be 
taken no notice of—which is the other 
alternative. There are a great many 
difficulties in the position altogether, as 
I can see now that I am older. When 
the governess is made exactly like one 
of the family, the eldest son will go and 
fall in love with her and bring everybody 
into trouble. It is hard for the lady 
of the house as well. However, after 
George Durham, I was careful, and I 
never got into difficulty of that kind 
again. Four years after I left the 
Durhams I had a bad illness—rheumatic 

fever. My people were very kind to 
me, but I was too proud to be a burden 
on them; and as soon as I could be 
moved I left and went into lodgings, 
and was ill there till I had spent all my 
money; it was only then that I had 
recourse to the Spicers. Perhaps I ought 
to confess that, though Mr. Spicer is my 
uncle, I was ashamed of him and dis- 
liked him. I have felt angry at my 
poor mother all my life for having such 
relations ; but of course there they were, 
and had to be made the best of. My 
money lasted till I was almost well, but 
not well enough for another situation. 
My father had died in the meantime ; 
and only then I sent to the Spicers, and 
asked if they would take me in for a 
time. I was a good needlewoman ; I 
knew I could repay them well for keep- 
ing me. That is how I went to them. 
What followed no one could have fore- 
seen, You know how it was. 

I cannot talk about my husband— 
yet. Howcould I talk about that which 
was everything to me, which changed 
my life, which made me another creature? 
People may love you, and it makes but 
little difference to you. It is pleasant, 
no doubt ; it softens your lot; it makes 
things bearable which would not be 
bearable. I had known that in my life. 
But to love—that is another thing. 
That is the true revelation—the lifting 
up of the veil. It is as different from 
simply being loved as night is from day. 
I suppose few women are, as I was, in 
circumstances to feel this sudden lighting 
up of existence all of a sudden. Most 
women have a great deal to love, and know 
that condition better than the other. 
They would not make so much fuss about 
being loved did they not already possess 
the other gift. But I had never really 
loved anybody, I suppose. Various 
people had loved me. I had liked it, and 
had done what I could to be kind and 
agreeable tothem. Some (women) I had 
been very fond of. It seems to me now 
that the world must have been a most 
curious, cloudy sort of place in my early 
youth—a dim place, where nothing 
moved one very much; where daylight 
No, 157,—voL, XXvil. 

The Two Marys. 49 

was quite sober and ordinary, and 
nothing out of oneself was exciting. 
When I saw Mr. Peveril first I had no 
warning of what was coming. I did 
not feel even interested in him. He 
seemed too gentle, too soft for my liking. 
What attracted me was, I think, chiefly 
the fact that he was the only educated 
man I ever saw there—the only being, 
man or woman, who was not of, or like, 
the Spicers. This was my only feeling 
towards him for the first two or three 
times I saw him—but the . 

I am afraid I did not think very 
much about Mary when we were married. 
Of course I meant to do my duty by 
her: that goes without saying. And 
her resistance and dislike did not make 
me angry. They rather amused me. It 
seemed so odd that she should think 
herself of consequence enough to be so 
deeply offended. She, a girl, with all her 
life before her—fifteen—of no present 
importance to any mortal, though no 
doubt she would ripen into something 
after a while. When Mr. Peveril dis- 
tressed himself about what he called her 
want of respect to me, I used to smile 
at him. He would have made her love 
me by force had that been possible—as 
if her little sullenness, poor child, made 
any difference! It was quite natural, 
besides—only foolish, if she could but 
have seen it. She was a naughty child, 
and she thought herself a virgin-martyr. 
I hope it is not wicked of me to be 
amused by that virgin-martyr look. I 
know itso well. I have seen it over and 
over again in all sorts of circumstances. 
To say a tragedy-queen is nothing. There 
is a sublime patience, a pathos about 
your virgin-martyrs, which far outdoes 
anything else. Poor little Mary! if I 
had not seen that she was quite happy 
in her own thoughts, even when she 
thought herself most miserable, I should 
have taken more notice of it. I can’t 
tell what she was always thinking about 
—whether it was some imaginary lover 
or romance of her own that she kept 
weaving for hours together ; but it kept 
her happy anyhow. She was very pro- 
voking sometimes—never was there such 


50 The Two Marys. 

a spoiled child. She balked me tho- 
roughly in one thing, and would not 
let me be her governess as well as her 
stepmother ; which was what I wished. 
How often should I have liked to box 
her little impertinent ears, and then 
laugh and kiss her into good-humour ! 
But in that point there was nothing to 
be done. I had to leave all to time, in 
which I hoped—without, alas! having 
the least thought, the least prevision, 
how short my time was to be. You will 
see that I am not one to linger upon my 
private feelings. I have said nothing to 
you about my happiness. I can say 
nothing about my grief. The beautiful 
life stopped short—the light went out 
after this—an end seemed to come to 
everything. I cannot say more about 
it. Everything ended—except one’s 
pulse, which will go on beating, and the 
long hours and days that have to be got 
through somehow, and the bread that 
has to be eaten in spite of oneself— 
and has to be earned too, as if it were 
worth the while. 

I wonder at myself sometimes, and 
you will wonder, that I did not break 
down under my grief. It was my first 
real grief, as that which preceded it had 
been my first real happiness. I have 
even envied the people who got ill and 
who could go to bed, and darken their 
windows and lie still and let the sword 
go through and through them in quiet- 
ness, instead of writhing on it as I did ; 
but that must be nature. My first in- 
stinct was to snatch at something, to 
lay hold upon something, lest I should 
be carried away by some fiery flood or 
other. And what I snatched at was 
Mary. I love Mary. You may think 
I have not acted as if I did; but that is 
nothing; and she does not love me. 

sut still I have that distinct feeling for 
her which I never experienced till her 
dear, dear father (oh, my God, my 
God, why is it that my child will never 
call him so!) showed me the way. I 
have had a great deal to bear from her ; 
she is not like me; and there are many 
things I dislike in her. But all that 
does not matter. And it is not as I 

loved him—but yet I love her. All I 
remember about those dark days was 
that I laid hold upon Mary. She could 
not escape from me when I seized her so 
—few, very few, peopie can. To resist 
kindness is easy enough, but downright 
love has a different kind of grasp; you 
cannot get free of that. It is because 
there is so much fictitious love in the 
world that people are not aware of the 
power of the true. 

I secured her—for the time. You may 
say it did not last very long; but that 
was not my fault; it was because she too, 
in her time, woke up from her affection 
for me, and all the torpor of her youth, 
and heard the call of love, and got up 
and left those that did but love her. The 
time we lived together was a strange 
dreamy time, between blank despair 
and a kind of languid happiness. Some- 
times I would feel almost happy because 
of what was coming, and then I would 
be plunged into that horror of darkness, 
that shadow of death, which is of all 
things on earth the most terrible— 
worse, a thousand times worse, than 
death itself. I say this with confidence, 
because I as good as died once. I was 
so ill that I had floated off into that 
unconsciousness which would have been 
death had they left me alone ; and it 
was not unpleasant. Had they left me 
alone I should have died, therefore I 
am justified in saying that this was 
death ; and it was not disagreeable—just 
a soft floating away, a gradual growing 
dim and shutting out, without any of 
that sense of desertion and loneliness 
which one feels must be so strong in 
the dying. But the shadow of death is 
very terrible. No one can exaggerate its 
terror. When it seizes upon the soul, 
all that surrounds you is lost in one sea 
of misery. The waves and the billows 
pass over you. You feel as if you could 
not endure, could not last through that 
flood of pain—and yet you do last. The 
great billow passes over, and there is a 
calm, and your soul is so fatigued and 
worn out that it lies exhausted, and a 
languor of rest, which is almost ease, 
passes over it. This was how I lived 
for three months with Mary; until the 

The Two Marys. 51 

shock of the other who thrust himself 
into our life—the stranger, who was no 
stranger, came. 

His first appearance was nothing but 
an insignificant trouble, a mere annoy- 
ance to me,—why should [ care? I had 
not thought of him at all for years ; and 
I never had thought of him much. But 
still I did not want him there: he 
annoyed me ; he was a kind of constant 
menace of more annoyance to come. 
But I don’t know what steps I could 
have taken. It was a long time before 
I could realize that he would fall in love 
with Mary. I rather think it is difficult 
to believe that a man who has loved you 
will love some one else. That is—if you 
are quite indifferent to him ; it is so much 
easier then to believe in his faithfulness. 
The idea did not occur to me. I feared a 
little for Mary once or twice, and tried to 
warn her; but she was always a dreamy 
sort of girl, and it was hard to tell when 
a new influence came over her. She 
had lived in dreams of one kind or other 
ever since I knew her; and I knew 
nothing, really nothing, about what was 
going on, till that unhappy afternoon 
when he recognized me, and came in 
and talked foolishly in Mary’s hearing, 
about things that had happened so long 
before. Poor child !—-I don’t blame her, 
for her foolishness was natural enough. 
She thought I had stolen away her 
lover, as I had stolen away her father. 
She would not listen to me, and when she 
did listen to me she did not believe me ; 
and there on the other hand was he, de- 
manding explanations. Good heavens, 
what right has a man like that to ask 
explanations—a man one had never 
cared for, and would have died of ? He 
worried me so that I could not be civil. 
What with grief, and what with vexation 
at the turn things had taken, and dis- 
appointment in Mary, and illness in my- 
self, I had no patience with the man, 
maundering on about things that had 
happened ages before, that were of no 
importance to any living being. When 
he waylaid me on my way to her, keeping 
me back from her, in her agony of temper 
and mortification and humiliation, what 
I could have done to him! I wasina 

nervous state, I suppose, and easily irri- 
tated. I could have struck him when 
he came outand worried me. And there 
was Mary turning her face to the wall, 
shutting out the light, shutting her ears, 
determined to be miserable. Oh! when 
I toiled up and down stairs going to her, 
when I felt ill and knew that nobody 
cared, when I saw her absorbed in her 
foolish misery, and him tormenting him- 
self and me about dead nonsense that 
never had been anything, you may ex- 
cuse me if I had very little patience, 
After a night of it I got tired and sick 
of the whole business. It seemed too 
hard to be obliged to put up with all 
this folly on the eve of being ill. And 
who would care whether I was ill or not, 
if things went on so? 

Then I took my resolution suddenly, as 
I had done before. It was not with the 
hope and high spirit that had kept me 
up when I went off to Ostend that I left 
Southampton Street, my own house. I 
was sick and tired, that was all. I could 
not be troubled to goon. I was worried 
and impatient and indignant—and then 
Mary had a friend to take care of her. 
I went away. I went to an hospital 
after a while in the same irritated hope- 
less state, feeling that it did not matter 
what happened ; and there my boy was 
born. Well! what did it matter? They 
are for honest, poor women, these hos- 
pitals—and Heaven knows I was poor 
enough, but honest. One cares for one- 
self only when one has other people who 
care. I had nobody. I did not lose 
heart altogether, because that is not my 
nature. I could not if I would; but 
what did I care for what people would 
think or for what they might say? no 
more than for the buzzing of the flies. 
I should never even hear of it—there 
was nobody to tell me, nobody to pay 
any attention. I thought most likely 
I should die; but I did not calculate 
upon dying, for by that time I knew I 
had strength to go through a great deal, 
And so I did. My boy was quite strong 
and well, and I got quite well and strong 
too. Often I have thought this showed 
how little heart I must have; but I 
could not help it. I got quite strong. 

- Oo 

52 The Two Marys. 

I reflected seriously whether I should not 
try for a nurse’s place, which was very 
well paid, and where very little was 
required ; but even if I could have 
parted with my boy, I had no one to 
trust with the care of him. So instead 
of doing this, I made shift to live for a 
whole year upon my forty pounds of 
income, with a little more which I earned 
by needlework. When you are a very 
good needlewoman, you can always earn 
something. I did very well; I made 
baby clothes ; my eyes were strong, and 
my health was good, and I had my own 
baby to comfort me. There is nothing 
that comforts like a baby. When the 
child laughs, you laugh too. You laugh 
to make him laugh ; first it is sympathy, 
then it is delight, till gradually you 
grow a baby too, and are amused at 
nothing, and happy for nothing, and 
live over again, beginning at the very 
beginning, in the child. 

In this way I grew to be so tran- 
quil, so eased in mind, and happy in 
heart, notwithstanding my loss, which 
I never forgot, that I was tempted to 
remain just as I was always; but then 
it occurred to me that I should lose all 
that I knew, that I would never be able 
to teach him, or to get him education, 
or to rise in the world, as I wanted to 
do for his sake; therefore it was clear 
I must do something else. This was 
what I did: I found out about a situa- 
tion in a school after a great deal of in- 
quiry. I went to the lady and told 
her my story ; I said I would go to her 
for almost nothing if I might have my 
baby and a little maid to take care of 
him. When she heard of my “French 
acquired abroad,” my showy bit of Ger- 
man, my music, and how I would make 
myself as useful as ever she liked, 
having excellent health and no sort of 
prejudices about what I did, she closed 
with me. I had two rooms, and board 
for myself and the maid and the boy— 
no more at first—but I managed on 
that. And then by degrees we im- 
proved. She gave me first twenty 
pounds, then a little more. A baby’s 
white frock and a widow’s black gown 
do not cost much, Wedidvery well. I 

have fifty pounds now the school has in- 
creased so much ; and I believe I may have 
ashare soon if all goes well. My French 
goes for a great deal, and even my name 
and my widow’s cap go for something, 
and everybody in the school likes to tell 
the story of the baby. Am I happy, 
do you say? I never stop toask myself 
whether I am happy or not. One must 
form some idea of change in one’s mind, 
some thought of a possibility which 
might make one happier, before one 
would think of asking oneself such a 
question. And as I have no reasonable 
prospect of ever being happier than I 
am, I do not think about it. I am not 
unhappy—of that I am sure. 

You talk of bringing Mary and me 
together again. Would it answer, I 
wonder? Sentiment is one thing, but 
practicability is another. Having told 
you that I loved Mary, I have said all 
that either woman or man can say. 
Likings change and alter, but love is 
for ever. Yet, whether we could live 
together, whether she could trust me, 
whether she would understand the past, 
and feel how little I wished or intended 
to interfere with her, I cannot tell; 
unless she could, it would almost be 
better to leave us as we are. So long 
as a woman is young, as Mary is, it is 
doubtful and dangerous, I am afraid, to 
try any relationships but those that are 
quite natural. She is with you, you 
dearest, kind friend, as if she were your 
own child. You can do her nothing but 
good ; but I am not so very much older 
than she is. I am older—centuries 
older—but not to outward appearance ; 
and can you not suppose a state of 
things in which the last chapter of our 
lives might be, one way or other, re- 
peated again? I say this not with any 
sort of vanity, Heaven knows, but with 
fear and trembling. For I should be 
happier with her—far happier—but not 
if she came to me with a single doubt 
in her mind, a single thought which was 
uncertain or suspicious. Do not tell her 
this one difficulty which seems to me to 
stand in our way, but judge for us both 
what is best. I want her for myself 
and for my boy. We belong to each 

nw Re OS eA Oe Om: 

=~ A Or 

The Two Marys. 53 

other, and no one else in the world 
belongs to us. How often I long for 
her when I am sitting alone! How 
many things I have in my mind to 
say to her! But not unless it would 
be well for her, to whom anything may 
happen. Nothing that I know of, ex- 
cept through her or my baby, can now 
happen to me. 


I wit not enter into all the particu- 
lars of our discussion after this, for 
time would fail me. The last part 
of Mary’s letter, which she said was 
not to be shown to me, made me 
angry. I thought it was vanity on her 
part to be afraid of interfering with me 
again. “In what way?” I could not 
but ask, and that sharply; how could 
the last chapter of our lives be repeated ? 
Mrs. Tufnell only smoothed my hair 
and soothed me, and called me “dear” 
and “ darling,” but would give no expla- 
nation. ‘“ What does she mean?” I 
asked. “ Oh, she means, my love—pro- 
bably she means nothing. It is just a 
way of talking that people fall into,” 
said my old lady. I knew this was said 
simply to quiet me, but on the whole 
perhaps I preferred it to anything more 
definite ; and, after a time, I allowed 
myself to be persuaded to pay this visit. 
What a strange journey into the past 
it seemed ! and yet actually we went far 
away from the scene of the past, intoa 
place so new and unknown to me, that 
it could awaken no associations. We 
drove in the comfortable old fly, with 
the old sleek horse and the old fat man, 
which was as good as Mrs. Tufnell’s 
private carriage. She did not keep a 
carriage of her own, but I am sure this 
fly, in which she drove every day of her 
life except when she was ill, cost her 
more than a carriage would have done. 
She was very apologetic about it always. 
“T could not undertake the respousi- 
bility of a carriage,” she would say ; 
“ horses are always getting ill, and your 
coachman drinks, or he gets into trouble 
with the maids, or something. Old 
Groombridge and his fly suit me quite 

well. No, he is not an old rogue, I 
have to pay him, of course, for all his 
trouble, and for the loss of customers, 
and so forth, You know, Mary, he 
always suits himself to my convenience 
at whatever sacrifice e 

This was her idea, and nothing would 
convince her otherwise. So we drove in 
Groombridge’s old fly—which was one of 
the most expensive vehicles in town— 
out Hampstead way, but past all the 
houses, past everything, till we came to 
new houses again, and skeleton roads and 
villas growing up like mushrooms, in one 
of those long straggling arms that Lon- 
don puts out into the country. I had 
got excited so often thinking that we 
must be quite close upon the place, that 
at last I ceased to be excited, and felt 
as if we had set out upon a hopeless 
circle, and were going to wind in and 
out and round and round, till we 
worked back to the point from which we 
started. How dreary they look, those 
new places—roads newly laid out, 
breaking in upon the fields, which 
somehow look so superior, so dese- 
erated, and vulgarized by those new 
muddy lines with the unnecessary 
kerbstones ; and then all the half-built 
houses, each one uglier than the other, 
with their bow-windows, all made by 
the gross (I suppose), and their thin 
little walls that the wind whistles 
through, and even their monotonous at- 
tempt at irregularity. A steady, solid 
row which is very ugly and nothing 
more, is endurable. I was saying this, 
when suddenly the fly made a sharp 
turn, and immediately the villas and the 
kerbstones became invisible. We had 
got within a mossy wall, through a 
large old-fashioned gate. There was an 
avenue, not very long nor very grand, 
but still an avenue, with odd old trees 
all gaarled and mossed over, and I sup- 
pose in a very bad condition, but still 
old, and trees—trees which our grand- 
fathers might have walked under. The 
house was an old red-brick house, very 
dark red, and covered with little brown 
and yellow lichens. It was neat, but 
yet one could see it was in want of 
repair, and looked like a poor lady in 


a faded gown and mended lace by the 
side of the fine shop-people in silk and 
satin. It was a winter day—a very 
still and bright one. The shadows of 
all the leafless trees made a network 
upon the brown gravel path. The cld 
house seemed to be basking, warming 
itself in the sun. There were a great 
many twinkling windows, but not a 
creature to be seen except one little 
child on the white step of the deep 
doorway. There was a porch, and pro- 
bably his nurse was there, but the little 
fellow was standing out in the sun, 
cracking a little whip he had, with his 
hair shining in the bright light, and 
his little face like an apple-blossom. 
He was shouting out some baby nonsense 
at the top of his voice. He did not 
care for us, nor for anyone. He was 
the monarch of all—quite alone in his 
kingdom, independent of everybody. 

“Who do you think it is, Mary ?” 
said Mrs. Tufnell, taking my hand sud- 
denly, as I looked out laughing and 
amused by him. Good heavens! I had 
never once thought. I fell back into 
my corner and began to cry, I cannot 
tell why. Of course I knew at once 
whom it must be. 

And then she came, not in the least 
altered, kissing me just as if we had 
parted yesterday. But she was agitated, 
though she tried not to show it. She 
took the little boy and brought him to 
me, and thrust him into my arms with- 
out a word, and her lip quivered, and 
for some minutes she could not say 
anything. The meeting was hard 
altogether. When the thing that sun- 
dered you is too far off to be talked 
about, and when everybody counsels you 
to avoid explanations and go on again 
as if nothing had happened, it is very 
hard ; you may succeed in uniting the 
old strands and twisting them together 
once more, but it is perhaps more likely 
that you will fail We went into 
Mary’s new home, and saw the lady who 
was the head of the school. It was 
holiday time—the Christmas holidays— 
and they were alone. This lady was 

middle-aged, older than Mary, but not 
so old as Mrs. Tufnell. She was an 

The Two Marys. 

unmarried woman, and I could at once 
understand what Mary had said, that her 
very name and her widow's cap told for 
something in the place. But what was 
most evident of all was that little Jack 
was the sovereign of Grove House, 
Whatever anybody might do or say, he 
was supreme. Miss Robinson was fond 
of his mother, and “appreciated” her, 
as she told us; but little Jack was the 
monarch, and did what he pleased. 

Our visit was, as people say, quite 
pleasant. It went off perfectly well— 
we kissed wher we met and when we 
parted—we had a great deal to say to 
each other of what had passed since we 
met—and there was little Jack to make 
acquaintance with, and a great many of 
his wonderful adventures to be told of. 
Mrs. ‘Tufnell came away with the 
thought that it had been a great success, 
and that henceforward nothing more 
was wanted—that Mary and I would be 
one again. 

But Mary and I felt differently. I did, 
at least, and I am sure so did she. You 
cannot mend a rent so easily. Such a 
rent—a rent that had lasted more than 
five years—how can it be drawn toge- 
ther again by any hasty needle and 
thread like a thing done yesterday ? 
We parted friends, with promises to 
meet again; but with hearts, oh! so much 
more apart from each other than they 
had been an hour before! An hour 
before we met I had all sorts of vague 
hopes in my heart—vague feelings that 
she would understand me, that 1 would 
understand her—vague yearnings to- 
wards the old union which was almost 
perfect. Did you ever see the great 
glass sereen they have in some houses 
to shield you from the heat of the fire ? 
You can see the cheerful blaze through 
it, but you feel nothing. Something of 
the kind was between Mary and me. 
We saw through it as well as ever, and 
seemed to enjoy the pleasant warmth ; 
but no other sensation followed, only 
the chill of a disappointment. I felt 
that she was now nothing, nothing to 
me ; and I—I cannot tell how I seemed 
to her. We had the old habit suddenly 
brought to life and put on again, but 

The Two Marys. 55 

none of the old meaning. We were 
like mummers trying to make ourselves 
out to be heroines of the past, but 
knowing we were not and never could 
be what we appeared. I was very 
silent during our drive home. I did 
not know what to say to my dear old 
lady. She looked very fragile with her 
pretty rose-cheeks, lying back in the 
corner of the fly; she was fatigued, 
and in the daylight I suddenly woke 
up to see that she did look very fragile. 
I had not believed in it before. And 
how could I vex her by telling her of my 
disappointment? I could not do it; she 
was pleased and happy; she held my 
hand, and nodded to me and said: 
“ Now you see you are not so much 
alone as you thought you were. Now 
you see you have friends who belong to 
you.” How could I have had the heart 
to say otherwise—to say I had found 
out that we were separated for ever, 
Mary and I? 

That evening, however, after tea, she 
began to talk to me very seriously. 
We were sitting over the fire—she on 
her favourite sofa, I on a low chair near 
her. ‘The firelight kept dancing about, 
lighting up the room fitfully. It was a 
large room. We had some candles on 
the mantel-piece, which shone, reflected 
in the great mirror, as if from some dim, 
deep chamber opening off this one ; but 
it was really the firelight that lighted 
the room. I had been singing to her, 
and I half thought she had been asleep, 
when suddenly she roused up all at 
once, and sat upright in her little prim 
“T want to speak to you, Mary,” she 
said; and then, after a pause—“ You 
think I meant nothing but love and 
kindness when I took you to see Mrs. 
Peveril to-day; but I am a scheming, 
wicked old woman, Mary. I had more 
than that in my mind.” 

I was alittle, but only a little, startled 
by this: I knew her way. I looked up 
at her, smiling. ‘ You are so designing,” 
I said ; “I might have known there was 
something underneath. You are going 
to ask them to spend the rest of their 
holidays here ?” : 

“That if you like,” she said brightly, 
encouraged, I could see, by my tone; 
“but more than that, Mary; more than 

I was not curious. I looked with an 
indolent amusement at the shining of 
the firelight and the reflection in the 
mirror of the flame of the candles, which 
shone out of its surface without seeming 
to move the dark ruddy gloom beyond. 
A glass is always an inscrutable, won- 
derful thing, like an opening into the 
unseen : it was especially so that night. 

“ Mary,” Mrs. Tufnell resumed, with 
a voice that faltered, I could not tell 
why ; “do you remember when I first 
spoke to you of Mrs. Peveril—when I 
was ill—and what I said ?” 

“Yes,” I answered, with sudden 
alarm, looking up at her. ‘“ You don’t 
feel ill now ?” 

“No, but I have got a shake,” she 
said. “When a woman at my time of 
life is ill, though it may seem to pass 
quite away, it always leaves a something. 
I shall never be as strong as I have 
been, my dear child. I feel I have got 
a shake. My life has come to be like 
the late leaves on the top of a tree, 
They may last through many gales, but 
the first gust may blow them off. I 
cannot feel sure for a day.” 

I went close up to her in my fright, 
and knelt down by the sofa, and put 
my arms round her. “Do not speak 
so,” I said; “you could not leave me? 
What could I do without you? I am 
not an orphan as long as I have you. 
You cannot have the heart of 

“Qh, Mary! hush ; don’t overwhelm 
me. It was of that I wanted to speak. I 
shall live as long as I can, for your sake. 
But, dear, old people cannot stay always, 
however much they may be wanted. 
I have been thinking of it a great deal, 
and there is a proposal I have to make 
to you—with Mrs. Peveril’s consent, 
Mary. You must listen to all 1 have to 

“Oh, you have consulted Mrs. 
Peveril!” said 1; and I got up, feeling 
my heart grow chill and sore, and went 
back to my seat to hear what was to be 
said tome. In the depths of my heart 

56 The Two Marys. 

I must have been jealous of her still. 
It came all back upon me like a flood. 
My dear old lady gave me a grieved 
look, but she did not stop to explain. 
She went quickly on with what she had 
to say: 

“Grove House is a nice old-fashioned 
house, and cheap, and they have a good 
list of scholars; and Miss Robinson 
would be glad to retire, and would not 
ask very much for the furniture and 
things; and Mrs. Peveril is so much 
liked by everybody. I have always set 
apart as much as I thought was right of 
my little property, intending it for you, 
Mary x 

“ Don’t !” I cried, in a voice so shrill 
and sharp that it startled even myself 
who spoke. 

“Tt is not very mach,” she went on, 
“but it is all I can give away, and my 
whole heart has been set upon doing 
something for you with this money that 
would make you independent. My dear 
Mary, I am half afraid you don’t like 
the thought, you are so silent. I had 
thought of buying Grove House for 
Mrs. Peveril and you.” 

“For Mrs. Peveril and me!” 

“*Yes—don’t you like the idea, Mary? 
—don’t you like the idea? I thought it 
was something that would please you 
so much. You have always said you 
liked teaching, and it would be a living 
for you, dear, and a home when I am 
gone. I have so wished to make these 
arrangements for you, Mary 2 

“Ts it all settled ?” I said. 

“Nothing could be settled without 
your consent. All that I want is your 
good. I could not leave you, could I, 
at your age, without anyone to stand 
by you, without a home to go to, with- 
out a friend “ 

Thus she apologized to me for those 
kind, tender plans of hers ; and I sat 
like a clod, feeling that I could not 
reply. I was dull and heavy and mise- 
rable; not grateful, yet feeling how 
grateful I ought to be ; understanding 
her, yet not owning even to myself that 
I understood her. It was not a very 
great destiny that was thus allotted to 
me, but that was not what I was think- 

ing. My mind did not revolt against 
the idea of being the mistress of a 
school ; which was natural enough. To 
tell the truth, I cannot quite tell what 
it was that gave me so miserable a feel- 
ing. Here was my life marked out for 
me; there was never to be any change 
in it; no alteration for the brighter or 
better occurred to this dear old woman 
who loved me. She wanted to make 
sure I should have daily bread and a 
roof to shelter me, and some sort of 
companionship. How right she was! 
How good and how kind! and yet, oh, 
how dreary, how unutterably blank and 
hopeless seemed the prospect! I felt 
this with a dull fighting and struggle of 
the two things in me—wanting to please 
her by looking pleased, feeling how good 
she was, and how kind, how just, how 
suitable was the arrangement. I felt all 
this in a kind of way, and then I felt 
the struggle not to be wildly angry, not 
to burst out and ask her how she could 
think of condemning me so—for my life? 

She was grieved and disappointed at 
the way I received her proposal, but she 
was so good that she took no notice, but 
kissed me, and said nothing should be 
done or thought of against my consent. 
For my part my heart was so heavy and 
dull that I could not even thank her for 

*her kindness; but I hung about her 
when she went to bed, and held her 
fast in a speechless way that she under- 
stood, I think, though I said nothing. 
She cried; she looked at me with her 
kind old eyes full of tears. “Oh, Mary,” 
she said, “don’t break my heart! If I 
could live for ever and go on always 
taking care of you, don’t you think I 
would do it, for your sake and your 
father’s too? But I cannot. One must 
die when one’s time comes, however 
much one may be wanted, and I must 
provide for that.” 

“Oh, why can’t I provide for it?” I 
cried, “Why can’t I die too? That 
would be the best way.” 

And then she was angry—half angry 
—as much as it was in her nature to be. 
And oh, with what a dreary feeling I 
found myself alone, and had to sit 
down and think it over, and make up 

- hes tn mit 2 te 4h et teh eee O68 

Tie Two Marys. 57 

my mind to it, as one has so often in 
this life. I had to teach myself to see 
how good it was. AndIdid. I made 
up my mind to it. What was there 
else in heaven or earth—as I could not 
die with my only friend, or compel her 
to live, what was there else that I could 


Next morning when I woke, the im- 
pression on my mind was, that Mrs. 
Tufnell must have died in the night. 
I cannot tell why I thought so, but I 
woke with such a horror in my mind, 
that I threw a shawl over my shoulders 
and rushed to her door to ask how she 
was, before I could take breath. She 
was not up; but smiled at me from her 
bed, where she lay with all the pictures 
and the portraits of her friends about 
her, the centre of a silent company. 
“T am quite well—better than usual,” 
she said ; but I think she knew the 
meaning of my terror, and felt that 
after all that had been said it was 
natural I should be afraid. This per- 
haps threw just a little cloud upon her 
serenity too, during the morning, for 
however calmly one may think of 
dying, I suppose it must startle one to 
see that others are thinking of it. I 
suppose so—it seems natural. She was 
very grave, thoughtful, and somewhat 
silent during the forenoon ; and when I 
went and sat down by her, and asked 
her to forgive me, and said I was ready 
to do whatever she thought best, she 
took me into her arms and cried and 
kissed me. “Oh, that it should be 
necessary to change!” she said. “Ido 
not feel as if I could face the change— 
but, Mary, for your good Ps 

It was about noon as we thus sat 
talking it over. It comforted me to see 
that she liked it as little as I did ; that 
she would rather have kept me with 
her to the last moment of her life. 
But then what should I have done? 
—this was what she thought of. We 
were talking it all over very seriously, 
with more pain than either of us would 
show. It was a chilly winter morning. 

The room was bright, to be sure, with a 
good fire burning, and all the comforts 
that so many poor people are without ; 
but there was a chill that went to one’s 
heart—the chill of the grave for her, 
which she thought near ; and the chill of 
the outside world, from which she had 
sheltered me so long, for me. I re- 
member the look of that morning—there 
was a black frost outside which bound 
all the dry street, and seemed to hold 
the naked trees in the square so fast that 
they dared not rustle, though an icy 
wind was blowing through them. There 
were traces still on the windows, not- 
withstanding the fire, of the frosty net- 
work of the night. The sun had begun 
to shine as it approached noon, but even 
the sun was white and cold, and seemed 
rather to point out how chilly the world 
was, than to warm it. After we had 
got through all our explanations and 
said all that was to be said, and arranged 
that Mary was to be invited to the 
Square with her child to spend a week 
of the holidays and arrange everything, 
we still kept sitting together holding 
each other’s hands, not saying much. I 
could not pretend that I liked it even 
to please her, and she did not like it, 
though she thought it right; but all the 
same it was settled, and there was 
nothing more to say. 

It was all settled by twelve o'clock, 
fixed and decided with that double cer- 
tainty which is given by pain. If we 
had liked it we should not have felt half 
so sure. At half-past twelve the mid- 
day post came in, and I was still sitting 
by my dear old lady, holding her hand, 
feeling my heart sink lower and lower 
every moment, thinking how I should 
have to leave her when she wanted me 
most—when Mrs. Tufnell’s maid came 
in with the letters. She gave some to 
her mistress, and she gave one to me, I 
do not think I recognized the writing at 
first. But I got few letters, and it gave 
me a little thrill of agitation, I could 
not quite tell why. It was a foreign 
letter, with a number of unintelligible 
postmarks. I got up and went to the 
window, partly because my heart began 
to beat very loud, and partly to leave 

58 The Two Marys. 

Mrs. Tufnell at liberty to read her 
letters. I recollect looking out uncon- 
sciously and seeing the dried-up, dusty, 
frosty look of everything, the ice-wind 
sweeping the dust round the corners, the 
bare shivering trees—with a momentary 
thrill of sensation that my life was like 
that, dried-up, frost-bound, for ever and 
ever. And then, with my fingers trem- 
bling and my heart beating, and a con- 
sciousness of something coming, I could 
not tell what, I opened the envelope 
and found This was what I found ; 
without any preface or introduction— 
without anything to soften the difference 
between what was before my eyes and 
what was going to be. 

There was no beginning to the letter ; 
there were a good many blots in it, as if 
it had been written with a hand which 
was not very steady. There was not 
even a date until the end. He who had 
written it had been as much agitated as 
she who read it; and she who read it 
did so as in a dream, not knowing where 
she was standing, feeling the world and 
the white curtains and the frosty square 
to be going round and round with her, 
making a buzzing in her ears and a 
thumping against her breast. 

What a plunge into a new world— 
into an old world—into a world not 

ealized, not possible, and yet so strange 
in its fascination, so bewildering! Was 
it a dream—or could it be true ? 

“I have long wanted, and often 
tried, to write to you again. I do not 
know now whether I may or whether I 
ought. If this letter should come to 
another man’s wife, if it should fall into 
your hands in such changed circum- 
stances that you will scarcely remember 
the writer’s name—and I cannot hide 
from myself that all this may be the 
case—then forgive me, Mary, and put 
it in the fire without further thought. 
It will not be for you, in your new life, 
but for someone else whom you will have 
forgotten, though I can never forget her. 
But if you are still little Mary Peveril 
as you used to be, oh, read it! and try 
to throw your thoughts back to the time 
when you knew me—when we used to 

meet. You were not much more than a 
child. How much I have thought of that 
time ; how often and often I have gone 
over it in my thoughts I need not tell 
you. You were badly used, dear Mary. 
I was wrong—I will say it humbly 
on my knees if you like: having got 
your promise and your heart—for I did 
have that, if only for a little while— 
nothing could have justified me in 
appearing for one moment to place you 
otherwise than first in all I did or said. 
I will not excuse myself by saying how 
much startled I was by the sight of Miss 
Martindale, nor how anxious I was to 
know whether my mother had any 
share, or what share she had, in her dis- 
appearance from our house. I will say 
nothing about all that, but only that I 
was wrong, wrong without any excuse. 
Had I thought of what I was risking 
by my curiosity, I would have bitten my 
tongue out sooner than have asked a 
single question. Do you think, could 
you think, that I would have sacrificed 
you to the old foolish business which 
was over years before? I was an utter 
fool, I allow, but not such a fool as that. 
Therefore, Mary dear, dearest, whom I 
havealways thought of, listen tomeagain ; 
take me back again! I will beg your 
pardon a hundred and a thousand times. 
I will humbly do whatever penance you 
may appoint me ; but listen to me now. 
You would not listen to me at first— 
and perhaps I was not so ready at first 
to acknowledge how wrong I was. I 
have had five long years to think of it, 
and I see it all. You were rightly angry, 
dear, and I was wrong ; and if ever man 
repented, I have repented. Mary, Mary! 
take me back ! 

“TI have been wandering about the 
world all this time, working and doing 
well enough. I can offer you something 
better now than the little cottage we 
once spoke of, though that would have 
been Paradise. Iam leaving along with 
this letter, and hope to arrive in England 
almost as soon. I do not ask you to 
write—unless indeed you would, of your 
own sweet kindness—one word—to 
Chester Street? But even if you don’t 
do that, I will go to Russell Square in 

——aeh ane @& @& ate st oe 

The Two Marys. 59 

the hope of finding you. Mary! don’t 
break my heart. You liked me once. If 
I knew what to say that would move 
you, I would make this letter miles long ; 
but I don’t know what more to say, 
except that I love you better than ever, 
and no one but you; and that I am 
coming back to England for you, for you 
only—half hopeless, only determined to 
try once more. Perhaps by the time you 
have read this I may be at your door. 
“ Ever and ever yours, 
“Gerorce Dura.” 

“ Mary !” cried some one calling me ; 
“Mary, what is the matter? Have you 
bad news, my dear? Mary! Good 
gracious, the child will faint! Mary, 
don’t you hear me?” 

“Oh, hush, hush!” I cried, not know- 
ing what I said. “ Hark! listen! is that 
him at the door?” 

It was not him just then ; and after a 
little while the curtains stopped going 
round, and the floor and the Square and 
everything about grew solid and steady, 
and I came to myself. To myself, yes 
—but not to the same self as had been 
sitting so sadly holding my old lady’s 
hand. What a change all in a moment! 
If I had not been so happy, I should 
have been ashamed to think that a 
man’s letter could all in a moment 
make such a change in a woman’s life. 
It is demoralizing to the last degree— 
it comes in the way of all the proper 
efforts of education and independent 
thought, and everything that is most ne- 
cessary and elevating. If in a moment, 
without any virtue of yours, without 
any exertion of yours, you are to have 
your existence all altered for you—the 
greyness turned into brightness, the 
labour into ease, the poverty into wealth 
—how is it to be supposed that you can 
be trained aright? It is demoralizing— 
but it is very pleasant. Oh, the change 
in one half-hour ! 

But I should find it very difficult 
to explain to anyone how it was that 
I behaved like a rational creature at 
this moment, and did not take a bad 
turn and torture him and myself with 
objections. It was not wisdom on my 

part ; I think it was the absolute sud- 
denness of the whole transaction. Had 
he left me more time to think, or pre- 
pared me for his reception, my pride 
and my delicacy would have come in, 
and probably I should have thrown 
away both his happiness and my own. 
But fortunately he arrived that very 
afternoon, before the first excitement 
was over, and hearing that Miss Peveril 
was at home, and that the servants had 
not been forbidden to admit him, walked 
up stairs when I was not thinking, and 
took possession of me as if there had 
been no doubt on the subject. Mrs. 
Tufnell was begging me to write to 
him at the very moment. I had shown 
her my letter, and she was full of 
enthusiasm about it. “Be an honest 
girl, Mary,” she was saying: “a girl 
should not worry a man like that: 
you ought to be frank and open, and 
send him a word to meet him when 
he comes home. Say you are as fond 
of him as he is of you 

“No, I could not—I could not,” I 
was beginning to say; when suddenly 
something overshadowed us, and a big, 
ringing voice said behind me, “ How 
could she? Let us be reasonable.” Rea- 
sonable! After that there was no more 
to say. 

But if it had not all passed like a 
dream ; if he had not been so sudden ; 
if he had taken more time and more 
care—the chances are, I know, that I 
should have behaved like a fool, and 
hesitated and questioned, and been 
proud and been foolish. As it was, 
I had to be honest and happy—there 
was no time for anything else. 

This was of course the ending of the 
whole matter. I have often wondered 
whether, had my dear old lady been 
burdened with the anxiety of her charge 
of me, she would have died. As it is, 
she has not died. She lives with us 
often now, and we with her. On my 
wedding day she talked of departing 
in peace; but so far from departing 
in peace, she has been stronger ever 
since, and has a complexion any girl 
of twenty might envy. When I look 
back to Southampton Street and to 

60 The Two Marys. 

Russell Square, where I was so un- 
happy, they all grow delightful and 
beautiful to me. It was very bad, no 
doubt (I suppose), while it lasted, but 
how I smile now at all my dolours! 
The delightful fact that they are over 
makes them pleasant. “That is how 
it will be, Mary,” my dearest old 
lady says, “with all our sorrows, when 
we die and get safely out of them. We 
shall smile—I know it—and wonder 
how we could have made such a fuss 
over those momentary woes.” ‘This is a 
serious way of ending a story, which 
after all has turned out merely a love- 
story, a thing I never contemplated 
when I began to confide my early 
miseries to you. How miserable I 
was! and how it all makes me smile 

As for Mary—the other Mary—we 
carried out that arrangement for her 
which had been proposed for me. We 
bought Grove House for her. I do not 
know what we could have done better. 
I never see that she is dull or weary of 

her life. What languors she may have 
she keeps from common view. Little 
Jaek has grown a great boy, and she is 
very happy in him. But she does not 
give herself up to him, like so many 
mothers. “I must keep my own life,” 
she said to me once, when I wanted her 
to give up, to live quietly at home and 
devote herself to my little brother alone. 
“ He will go out into the world after 
a while,” she went on; “he must, he 
has to make his way—and I, what 
should I do then? follow him or stay 
at home all alone+—No! I must keep 
my own life.” And so she does. Hap- 
piness? I cannot tell if she has happi- 
ness: so many people get on without 
that—though some of us, I thank God 
humbly on my knees, have it without 
deserving it—without having done any- 
thing for it. Mary, I believe, never 
takes time to ask herself how about 
that. She said so once; she is not 
unhappy, and never will be; she has 
her life. 

—— == = Cle 




Tue Act for Regulating the Sale of In- 
toxicating Liquors received the Royal 
Assent on one of the last days of the 
expiring session, and its immediate 
result has taken the great mass of the 
public completely by surprise. 

The Bill had dragged its way so slowly 
through Parliament, it had been the 
subject of such intense and almost 
microscopic scrutiny, so many conflict- 
ing interests had secured so many 
alterations of detail, that when a veteran 
statesman gave it a bene discessit in the 
memorable words that the House was 
well rid of it at any price, its opponents 
and its supporters alike believed that 
all the life was gone out of it, and the 
public was persuaded that it was the 
weak and timid measure of an Adminis- 
tration pledged to do something, and 
yet anxious to do as little as possible. 

But a very different impression would 
have been produced in the minds of any 
of our readers who had taken sufficient 
interest in the subject to watch its first 
operation in the nearest town, or village, 
and he would not have been slow to 
come to the conclusion that it was very 
far from being a weak or timid measure, 
and that nothing but an intense reliance 
upon an Englishman’s habitual submis- 
sion to law and his natural love of order 
could have justified its enactment, or 
rendered the maintenance of its pro- 
visions probable. If our reader had 
taken for his point of observation a 
village in the agricultural districts, he 
_would have heard it proclaimed early 
in the evening, that this was the first 
Saturday evening in the harvest, that 
the labourers had never been so great 
in their own eyes for many a long year, 
had never received such a week’s wages 
by from five to ten shillings, that they 
had most of them drunk during the 
day their allotted gallon of ale, that 

the steady men had taken enough, and 
yet were contemplating that wretched 
“one pint more” which produces so 
much misery and mischief, whilst 
the hard drinkers were making them- 
selves up for the best night of it they 
had made since last harvest, and for 
disposing with all speed of the surplus 
wages, which were burning a hole in 
their pockets ; he would have seen the 
wives of the steadier labourers anxiously 
speculating how soon they might expect 
their good men, and with what sum 
they might hope to begin their shopping, 
whilst the wives of the hard drinkers 
were looking forward to the midnight, 
when the public-houses would discharge 
their drunken inmates, and they would 
get their poor salvage out of the wages, 
the deficiency too often made up in 
oaths, abuse, and perhaps a kick or a 
blow to those long-suffering ones, who 
were safe not “ to go for a summons.” 

The butchers’ and grocers’ shops flared 
up very tantalizing to the matrons, but 
as yet very quiet, till the Licensed 
Victuallers should have taken their first 
turn at the wages. 

But as ten o’clock! approached, a scene 
with an intensely comic element was 
developed ; the men came up in groups 
from the various farm-houses ; they had 
not left work till after nine on this fine 
harvest day, and the wages had been 
reckoned up and paid afterwards, so 
they were late; but when they reached 
their special “ public” they could hardly 
believe their eyes or their ears ; no blaze 
of gas, no clean-swept floors, no froth- 
ing ale, no jolly songs, no village ora- 
tions, no oaths or wrangling ; the gas is 
being lowered, the first shutter is already 
up, silence within, and without a knot 

1 The magistrates in this division had exer- 

cised their power, and fixed ten as the hour of 

62 The Act for Regulating the Sale of Intowicating Liquors. 

of very discontented grumblers mutter- 
ing curses loud and deep, mingled with 
larger knots of women and girls, many 
of them positively dancing for joy, and 
chaffing the men most unmercifully. 
Thus they learn for the first time—for 
the secret either by accident or design 
has been marvellously well kept—that 
the new Act has come into operation, 
and the public-houses are henceforth to 
be closed at ten. 

A few choice spirits prompt at an 
emergency seize upon empty bottles 
and jugs, and replenishing them with 
hot haste prepare for an al fresco revel ; 
but somehow it does not take, and the 
sensible and well-disposed (and after all 
they form the great majority of the agri- 
cultural labourers), with a few shrugs of 
the broad shoulders, a “ what next?” or 
two, and perhapsa fewstronger expletives, 
turn to their homes or their “* missuses,” 
who are looking out for them, and who, 
if they are wise matrons, have at home 
some oil for the ruffled tempers in the 
shape of a jug of ale and a comfortable 
bit of supper. 

So the men are at last mollified, and 
the missus goes out rejoicing, with a 
heavier purse and a lighter heart than 
she has had for many a weary year. 

For another hour the shops of the 
butchers, grocers, bakers, &c., are busy 
with cheery bargaining ; then they begin 
to close just at the hour the press of 
business had usually commenced, and 
soon after eleven all is quiet in the 

So much for the villages. The towns 
in which the greatest results were ob- 
tained are—(1) Leeds, where it is said 
“the streets in the lower parts were 
usually on a Saturday night in a state 
of uproar till one o’clock, and numerous 
robberies and assaults took place be- 
tween twelve and one o'clock ; on 
this night, however, all was quiet by 
midnight, and only four apprehen- 
sions were made after eleven o'clock.” 
(2) Birmingham, which is remarkable 
for the organized strength of the Licensed 
Victuallers, and in which nevertheless 
the new hours met with little or no 
opposition. (3) Rochdale, in which the 

enforcement of the early hours was co- 
incident with the commencement of the 
Rush-bearing wake—during which in 
previous years the drunkenness was 
almost intolerable, in which however not 
one single arrest for drunkenness was on 
this night made after eleven o'clock ; 
and (4) Liverpool, where the change is 
so graphically recorded as to be worth 
describing in the words of the report 
which has come to hand. 

“ Under the late-hour system all was 
glitter and glare in the neighbourhood 
of London Road, Lime Street, and 
Williamson Square, from the time dark- 
ness set in until the gin-palaces closed 
at 1 a.m. About midnight, vice held 
high carnival in these localities: the 
public-houses did a roaring trade, and 
the streets were thronged with loose 
women, and other disreputable charac- 
ters. All this was changed on this 
night, as if by an enchanter’s wand. At 
eleven o'clock, the licensed houses were 
closed, and where the night before 
there had been drunkenness and riot, 
decency and order prevailed. 

“ Before midnight the streets were 
quiet, and in otherwise notorious tho- 
roughfares there was a marked absence 
of drunkenness, and of those unhappy 
wretches who thronged the streets, or 
who wandered about from public-house 
to public-house in search of victims.” 

But if Saturday night took the whole 
public by surprise, not less did Monday 
morning bring astonished dismay to 
many an unlucky offender at the Police- 
courts throughout the country. 

This is the sort of scene which 
occurred at one certainly, and probably 
in a hundred others :— 

John Stokes appears in the prisoners’ 
dock, age twenty-two,—sodden with his 
debauch—much bemused with blood 
and beer—loathsome with dirt—with 
almost every finger-touch of God's 
handiwork obliterated by vice and 
drink: in the back of the court, a 
careworn woman, young, but all youth 
gone out of her, with a black-eye, a 
miserable baby, and a ragged shawl, 
herself much dishevelled, too miserable 
to care how she looks, and yet, strange 


Saat ot itt eee mem eee em. 8 lO lhe ae a ae a Oe eS 

a le ae. i ie i Ce eee oe es ee 

The Act for Regulating the Sale of Intoxicating Liquors. 63 

mystery, with some care still for the 
drunken fellow in the dock. 

It is only the old story : he was turned 
out of the public-house at eleven o'clock, 
made a disturbance, wanted to fight the 
world generally, knocked his wife over 
when she came to persuade him to go 
home, then with a nice sense of equality 
rolled over into the gutter himself and 
wallowed there, swearing grievously ; 
finally, was brought to the Police-court 
on a stretcher. Has got nothing to 
say—thinks it is all true what the 
“genleman” (i.e. P.C. A 23) says, but 
don’t remember “nothink about it— 
suppose he must pay.” —“ Must pay?” — 
he thinks the usual fine is coming, five 
shillings and costs, with a week to pay 
it in, during which wife and child must 
live on bread and water. But, not so 
fast—the Superintendent speaks. ‘“‘ The 
New Act has come into operation, your 
worship, and there are seventeen 
previous convictions against this man, 
eight for drunkenness, two for felony, 
three for larceny, four for assaults.” 
There are three magistrates ; they con- 
fer, consult the Act; and refer to the 
12th clause. 
with hard labour is the penalty ; shall 
he have it? It is the first offence 
under the New Act; let it be fourteen 
days, one of the Bench proposes. 
“Give him the whole month and the 
first offence may be the last,” a second 
magistrate advises. Jn medio tutissimus 
ibis, propounds the chairman, and sen- 
tences the prisoner to twenty-one days. 
“What, isn’t there nothink to pay?” 
exclaims the prisoner, horribly disgusted. 
“No,” is the answer ; “we have power 
to commit without a fine, and we 
exercise it.” Blank dismay falls on the 
countenances of a large party of the 
prisoner’s comrades, who are in court, 
and the prisoner is taken out. 

But John Stokes is not the only man 
astonished at the Court that Monday 
morning. John Stokes had emerged 
from the Pig and Porcupine kept by 
Thomas Nokes, and he takes the place 
of John Stokes, answering to a summons 
promptly served upon him, and, in all 
his look of injured innocence demanding 

A month’s imprisonment: 

to know why he is placed in that dis- 
graceful situation, he is soon informed. 
Police-constable A 23, confirmed by 
Police-constable A 32, and supported by 
a respectable tradesman, who appears as 
a summoned witness sorely against his 
will, had seen John Stokes reel into the 
Pig and Porcupine, and there be served 
with a pint of beer. The landlord: 
‘*Daresay it was so; how is he in a crowd 
of customers to pick out every man who 
has had a drop of beer too much?” 
The Magistrates confer again. They 
refer to the 13th clause, and again, 
adopting a medium course after due 
consultation, they inflict a fine of five 
pounds and costs. The landlord pays 
the fine, with a prophecy that the Pig 
and Porcupine must shortly be closed if 
that is the law. The loss of the Pig 
and Porcupine, and the loss of many 
Pigs and Porcupines, will be equably 
borne by society. 

Having thus endeavoured to describe 
the inauguration of the Act for Regulat- 
ing the Sale of Intoxicating Liquors, it 
is time that we refer more in detail to 
its provisions, and to the provisions of 
Acts of previous Sessions. In point of 
fact any real effort to suppress intem 
perance is of very recent date. 

At the time when senators, judges, 
and magistrates got drunk themselves, 
without fear or shame—though in the 
good old times they did many strange 
things—they could hardly be very severe 
upon drunken culprits. In point of 
fact, drunkenness per se went un- 
punished, and landlords thought it was 
no concern of theirs that men got 
drunken in their houses, so long as riot 
within their premises was avoided. 

But as intemperance in its grosser 
forms decayed amongst the higher and 
middle classes, gradually thinking men 
began more clearly to recognize the 
magnitude of the evil as it prevailed 
amongst the working classes. The ad- 
vocates of total abstinence no doubt 
were the pioneers of this movement ; 
they prepared the public mind for re- 
pression, and made that safe which a 
few years ago would have produced a 

64 The Act for Regulating the Sale of Intoxicating Liquors. 

But the advocates of total abstinence 
were not long alone ; judges and magis- 
trates, Poor-law commissioners and 
Poor-law guardians, ministers of re- 
ligion and members of the medical pro- 
fession, gradually raised a loud and ener- 
getic protest: two-thirds of the crime, 
one-half of the pauperism, one-third of 
the disease, and three-fourths of the in- 
sanity of the country, could be clearly 
traced to intemperance. 

These were startling facts, and they 
were produced not by theorists or fana- 
tics, but by practical men amongst the 
first in power and position in the coun- 
try. What could be done to diminish 
evils so gigantic ? 

“ Abstain altogether,” the temperance 
advocates prescribed. But even if it 
were granted that a universal total ab- 
stinence was desirable, or possible, or 
could long be maintained without a 
reaction, the country was not ripe for it: 
the progress of the total abstinence 
movement was slow, while the evils 
were very pressing. At least, Bench 
and Bar, Divinity and Medicine, urged, 
“Increase the penalty of drunkenness, 
and do something to diminish the temp- 
tations to it by regulating the traffic in 
drink.” And so the public mind set 
itself seriously to consider the subject 
which was thus forced on its attention. 

Three distinct plans were very ably 
presented to it, in addition to the total 
abstinence which it had rejected. 

(1.) To transfer the regulation of the 
drink traffic to boards chosen by the 
ratepayers, who should have the power 
to fix the hours and conditions of sale 
in any given parish, and to decide on 
the number of houses, with power of 
total prohibition if carried by a majority 
of two-thirds. 

(2.) The adoption of a plan which 
had been successfully tried in Sweden,! 
namely, to purchase or suppress all exist- 
ing houses, and sell liquors only in 
houses made the property of the Go- 
vernment, giving to the salaried servants 
who sold them no interest whatever in 
their sale. 

(3.) To give to the magistrates, in 

1 See Macmillan for Feb. 1872. 

whom the regulation of the traffic was 
at present vested, increased power both 
in the suppression of drunkenness and 
as regarded the conduct and number of 
the public-houses. 

To the first of these proposals there 
was this great objection, that the result 
would be very various in different 
parishes, and could only be obtained by 
an incalculably bitter and severe contest 
between contending parties. And to 
both the first and the second there was 
this objection, that the capital engaged 
in the liquor traffic was enormous, and 
that to wholly or partially suppress 
it without compensation would be a 
dangerous precedent, and could not be 
justified even by its evident expediency, 
whilst fully to compensate might appal 
the financier most sanguine as to the 
ultimately recuperative results of the 
expenditure. To the third proposal 
there was this objection, that the magis- 
trates were held in the public mind to 
be the parties culpable as regarded the 
existing state of things. ‘They had, 
however, a good answer, which was 
ultimately accepted by the Legislature. 
They said that the power apparently 
vested in them was illusory, and it was 
thus described :— 

The only statute which imposed a 
penalty on drunkenness was that old one 
of James I., which inflicted a fine of 
five shillings, giving the offender a week 
to pay it in, with the alternative of six 
hours in the stocks if not paid. But 
the stocks were gone, and no magistrate 
would ever dream of their revival. So 
the offender used to leave the dock 
grinning with a sort of “ Don’t you wish 
you may get it?” They had then no 
power to punish drunkenness. 

So, too, as regarded the number and 
conduct of public-houses. Forty years 
ago they had some power, but about that 
time an Act was passed which permitted 
any man who could obtain a licence from 
the Excise to sell beer. At first there 
were some feeble safeguards : a bond fide 
rateable value of the house was required, 
and official testimonials of character 
were indispensable ; but gradually all 
these were withdrawn or evaded, and it 

The Act for Regulating the Sale of Intoxicating Liquors. 65 

came to this, that all the houses in a 
parish might become beer-shops if men 
foolish enough to open them could be 
found ; and that they might be con- 
ducted as recklessly as possible, and 
still continue to be pvublic-houses, pro- 
vided only the tenant was changed after 
a second conviction. So there were 
houses which were perfectly well known 
as thieves’ houses, in which robberies 
were planned, and to which their booty 
was taken ; into which also if an honest 
man entered it was perfectly certain he 
would be drugged and robbed ; there 
were poachers’ houses, gamblers’ houses, 
brothels, &c. Every house had its 
spécialité, and in the majority of in- 
stances the spécialité was not innocent. 

In the meantime the legitimate trade 
was in a miserable condition ; if a house 
had established a respectable trade, a 
rival was opened three doors off, and the 
landlord must devise some new attrac- 
tion or be ruined. They were ruined 
in numbers. The writer of this article 
has known houses which have changed 
their tenants four times in a year: 
he has seen gentlemen’s servants bring 
the savings of a lifetime ; returned emi- 
grants and mechanics the hard earnings 
of their best years ; widows and unfor- 
tunate tradesmen the salvage of better 
times ; all to be absorbed in this great 
gulf of the liquor trade. Many houses 
were opened and retained solely that 
they might be baits for the unwary, and 
innumerable artifices were employed for 
presenting a fictitious trade. 

This is the report which the Magis- 
trates presented to the public; and very 
cautiously at first, but by degrees more 
and more decidedly, power was placed 
in their hands. First of all, they were 
allowed, if a drunkard was riotous as 
well as drunk, to fine or imprison him ; 
the limit of imprisonment without a fine 
being seven days without hard labour. 
‘Then the beer-houses were brought under 
their jurisdiction. No licence was to be 
issued by the Excise without their cer- 
tificate, and they might refuse licences 
both to them and to licensed houses 
on the following grounds :—1, That the 
house was unsuitable for the purpoce ; 
2, that it was badly conducted ; 3, that 

No, 157,—VoL, XXv11. 

the character of the landlord was un- 
satisfactory. These do not look large 
powers on paper, but the results were 
extraordinary where they were rigor- 
ously exercised. 

The “Luton Experiment,” as it is 
termed, was one of the earliest and 
most prominent. In that town the 
bench of Magistrates, aided by a zealous 
and active Superintendent of Police and 
well supported, it must be added, by the 
public opinion of the town, exercised 
these powers with great vigour and 
boldness. The first result reported was 
that crime was diminished to one-half, 
serious crime to one-fourth. An experi- 
enced statesman said to the writer of 
this paper, “ I could not have believed it 
in human power to produce such a result 
in so short a time.” There was nothing 
spasmodic in this result; the decrease in 
crime was maintained, the gaol became 
more empty, and the county rates more 

The Government undertook at the 
commencement of this session to legislate 
on this principle. The Act which it 
passed cannot be described as exhaus- 
tive of the subject, but, as we said earlier 
in this article, it is by no means the 
timid, objectless measure it has been 
described. Its most important features 
may be thus summed up :— 

1. The detection and punishment of 

2. The punishment of aggravated 
drunkenness without the option of a 

3. The earlier closing of public-houses 
and their optional closing on Sundays. 

4. The regulation of the conduct of 
public-houses, by severe and clearly de- 
scribed penalties on the permission of 
drunkenness and gaming, or the admis- 
sion of disorderly or dishonest characters, 

The first of these provisions was 
clearly necessary at the outset. With- 
out crediting all the stories of widely 
spread adulteration, there can be no 
doubt that it existed largely in the 
lower-class houses, and that many a 
man came out of them drunk who was 
no more responsible for it than a man 
who had been poisoned would be for 
taking poison. 


66 The Act for Regulating the Sale of Intowicating Liquors. 

The second will render intemperance 
disgraceful and dangerous. No legis- 
lative enactments will of themselves 
cure dipsomaniacs, but the fear and 
disgrace of a gaol will deter many a 
man who has not yet lost all self- 

The third will extinguish the trade 
during those hours in which it is most 
dangerous. All authorities concur in 
attributing the most mischief to the last 
two hours. It is during them that men 
drink themselves drunk; it is during 
them that wages are squandered, crime is 
concocted and committed, and homes 
rendered miserable by drunken outrage. 

The fourth provision will no doubt 
strike a death-blow to many houses 
which only pander to the vice and 
crime of the community; and though 
vice and crims will continue to exist 
when these panderers have passed 
away, there is no doubt they have been 
thus stimulated to an unnatural vigour, 
and will dwindle and decrease when the 
stimulant is withdrawn. Nor will even 
the vested interests suffer in the long 
run. The disreputable trade does not 
really pay. The brewer will do his 
business in fewer houses and with more 
respectable tenants ; he will not be con- 
stantly compelled by a ruinous competi- 
tion to push his trade into unproductive 
investments ; his capital and his losses 
will be reduced, as his conscience, let 
us hope, becomes more easy ; and thus 
a great social reform will have been 
inaugurated with a minimum of suffering 
to particular interests. 

Notr.—Since this article was written 
the Superintendents of Police in up- 
wards of 300 towns have been requested 
to report on the operation of the Act. 

Some of the replies record an in- 
creased number of convictions for 
drunkenness, which, as drunkenness 
per se was rarely prosecuted previous to 
the passing of the Act, may be taken 
as evidence of the salutary operation of 
a social medicine hereafter to produce 
good results ; but as regards the general 
working of the Act their unanimity is 
very remarkable ;—almost without an 
exception they speak most favourably of 

present and hopefully of future results. 
It will be sufficient to subjoin specimen 
replies from three or four representa- 
tive towns of each class, 

Large Manufacturing Towns and 
Mining Districts. 

1. Ashby-de-la-Zouch :—A large min- 
ing division. The miners get large 
wages, and there is always a good deal 
of drinking going on... . but the 
new Act works well—(G. Ward, Su- 
perintendent. ) 

2. Birmingham :—The order of our 
streets greatly improved. The nights 
are now peaceable.—(G. Glossop, Chief 
of Police.) 

3. Bradford :—Town much quieter 
after closing than formerly. Police ap- 
prove of the Act.—(F. W. Graham, 
Chief Constable.) 

4. Dudley :—Quiet, where disorder 
and fighting prevailed. Night police 
spared much rough usage. — (Henry 
Burton, Superintendent.) 

Small Country Towns. 

1. Andover:—No one can tell the 
difference but those who witness it; I 
have been a Superintendent of Police 
thirty-two years, and I never recollect 
an Act passing that will do such an 
amount of good.—(Thomas Campbell, 

2. Buckingham :—Quietude and sa- 
tisfaction amongst all parties, except a 
few drunkards, who would like houses 
to be open always.—(J. Howe, Super- 

3. Cirencester :—I believe the eleven 
o'clock closing to be a benefit to the 
town and neighbourhood.—(W. Wood, 

Seaports and Watering-places. 

1. Bath :—Great quietness in the 
streets ; fewer cases of drunkenness.— 
(G. S. Mattlebury, Superintendent.) 

2. Plymouth :—Streets very much 
quieter and more orderly.—(Frederick 
Wareford, Superintendent.) 

3. Yarmouth :—Town very much 
quieter. Police consider it a great im- 
provement.—(G. Tewsley, Superinten- 






Tux passing of the Reform Bill of 1867 
necessitated the early consideration of 
three other kindred measures. The ad- 
mission to the franchise of a large 
uumber of persons belonging to a class 
more or less dependent upen others, and 
therefore susceptible of various kinds of 
influence, was certain to add a new im- 
petus to the Ballot movement ; the es- 
tablichment of household suffrage in the 
towns inevitably led to a demand for 
uniformity of suffrage in this respect 
between town and country ; whilst the 
attention of Parliament could hardiy 
have been directed to the subject of 
Reform at all without disclosing to the 
public view such anomalies and vagaries 
in our present distribution of electoral 
power as could not fail to lead erelong 
to a thorough overhauling of the repre- 
sentative system under which we live. 
Ii is probable that the Ministry which 
passed the Reform Bill hardly foresaw 
the consequences of the proceeding by 
which they “dished the Whigs.” 
Honestly anxious to settle a question 
which had long stood between them- 
selves and popular favour, they saw 
little beyond the franchise difficulties 
of the moment, and hugged themselves 
with delight at the idea of having out- 
bid their opponents, and being enabled 
to display themselves upon the hustings 
as the party which had enfranchised the 
“working man.” They were new dis- 
ciples in the school of Reform, and may 
therefore be excused for not having 
foreseen the inevitable consequences of 
their abandonment of tie old resistance 
policy of their Party, and their adoption 
of principles and measures which be- 
longed of right to their opponents, and 
the logical results of which they could 
therefore scarcely be expected to under- 

Questions of the character which we 

are discussing are never “settled,” and 
the only practical result of the Disraeli 
Reform Bill was to change the platform 
of agitation, and encourage the hopes of 
the more “advanced” school of agi- 
tators. Thus, had the six-pound fran- 
chise Bill of Lord Russell’s Government 
become law, we should probably be now 
at the beginning of an agitation for 
“household suffrage,” which would have 
lasted us for ten, fifteen, or twenty 
years, during which time our efforts 
at National Education would have been 
preparing the rising generation of our 
people for such an extension of elec- 
toral rights. Mr. Disraeli has saved 
us from this agitation, but only to land 
us in another; and to-day, having jus’ 
carried the Ballot, we begin to hear the 
mutterings of the coming storm which 
the defenders of the Constitution will 
ere long have to encounter. 

It is not our purpose to-day to deal 
with the question of uniformity of fran- 
chise. Mr. Trevelyan has already given 
notice of a motion for next session for 
leave to bring in a Bill to extend house- 
hoid suffrage to counties ; and although 
valid reasons for the postponement of 
such a measure may doubtless be ad- 
vanced, it is difficult to see how the 
ebove-named extension can long be re- 
sisted. The householder in a repre- 
sented borough is not rendered by any 
special privileges of locality a superior 
being to his fellow-citizen who is estab- 
lished in a place which chances to be 
unrepresented ; and it can scarcely be 
doubted that, before many years have 
passed over our heads, the sauce for 
the town goose will be found equally 
suitable to the country gander. But 
whether this question be solved next 
year—or the year after—or when it shall 
have become sufficiently the subject of 
agitation to influence contests at a 

F 2 

68 Redistribution of Political Power. 

general election, it is pretty certain 
that the third measure to which we 
have alluded as being rendered neces- 
sary by the Reform Bill of 1867 is 
about to force itself upon the attention 
of the country. The following an- 
nouncement in the Daily News of 
August 9th heralds the coming move- 
ment :— 

“Conference on Electoral Reform—Redis- 
tribution of Seats. —A conference convened by 
tue Electoral Reform Association of_repre- 
sentatives of Reform Associations, Jiberal 
tectoral Committees and others, to discuss 
srievances arising out of the present imperfect 
svstem of representation, will be held at St. 
James's Hall, London, on the 12th November, 
iteleven o'clock. Reform Associations, Liberal 
Conmittees and others, are invited to nominate 
representatives to attend such conference. A 
molic meeting will be held in the evening of 
tiie same day in support of the resolutions 
advpted by the conference.” 

One of the most cherished privileges 
of an Englishman is his right to “ dis- 
cuss his grievances,” and if inequality 
iu the distribution of representation be 
i:ndecd a grievance upon those to whom 
nas fallen a lesser share of this blessing 
tun they would appear to be entitled 
t» by the circumstances of combined 
wealth and population, it must be at 
once conceded that there exist a vast 
number of our fellow-countrymen with 
so legitimate a grievance, that St. James’s 
tiall, or twenty St. James’s Halls, might 
wtsily be filled to overflowing by the 

I: is not too much to say that, test it 
as we will, there is scarcely anything 
topertaining to our British constitution 
vive absurd and anomalous than the 
«istiibution of our representation. In- 
‘cd, so entirely is it above and beyond 

‘ae application of any intelligible reason 
hy which its present state might be ex- 
yun ned and justified, that if such were 

it desire at the present moment we 
+10. be inelined to fall back upon the 

of an eminent Conservative 
stuvstian, Who once expressed himself 
t» to writer of this article in the fol- 
nz terms: “It is all very well,” 
i he, “to tak about eyualities of 
eeocoral rights, equal electoral districts, 
wit a fairer system of representation 

according to wealth and population. 
That never was the object of the 
British constitution in providing a House 
of Commons. The real object was, and 
is, to get together, somehow or other, a 
body of gentlemen of position and cha- 
racter, willing to charge themselves with 
the transaction of public business, and 
to be the intermediate body between the 
Crown and the people. So long as you 
secure such a body, it signifies but little 
by what constituencies its members are 

If we could accept the above as a cor- 
rect description of the whole circum- 
stances of the case, we might be content 
to let the subject rest. Unfortunately, 
however, whatever may be the object 
with which the framers of the British 
constitution originally provided us with 
a House of Commons, the question of 
its composition and manner of selection 
cannot be so easily laid aside. We are 
all, doubtless, interested in securing the 
election of an able, educated, honest 
representative body, in whom public 
confidence may be reposed. But that 
same public confidence will never be 
given, or will at least be given only in 
a minor degree, to a body which can be 
easily shown to be scarcely “ repre- 
sentative,” except by a strained or 
limited interpretation of the word. It 
is all very well to say that at the present 
moment the House of Commons contains 
within itself men who may be fairly 
said to represent every class of the com- 
munity, save always that great operative 
class who can never be directly repre- 
sented in any appreciable manner in 
an unpaid Leyislature. The assertion 
would be hardly true, as a mere matter 
of fact; and even if it were so, would 
not be satisfactory to the inquiring 
public, if it were found that the pro- 
cess by which such a result had been 
obtained could not be defended by any 
rational argument, and rested upon no 
tangible theory of representation. 

In the discussion of such a question 
as the present, it is generally much 
easier to describe the grievance than 
to suggest the remedy; and before we 
proceed to do either the one thing or 

woth We ag ker cg 


—s Pp 

nocd © Ft oe 

Pee ee oO 

ee ae a a a ee 

Redistribution of Political Power. 69 

the other, it is well to consider the pre- 
cise object we have in view, and the 
principles upon which we desire to pro- 
ceed. Our object, then, is to obtain a 
House of Commons as nearly as possible 
representing the opinions and interests 
of all classes of her Majesty’s subjects. 
The principles which we must bear in 
mind in our attempt to achieve this 
object may be roughly stated as two— 
first, that representation shall be distri- 
buted with due regard to the wealth, 
population, and national importance of 
the different districts to be represented ; 
and, secondly, that no class or interest 
shall be wronged or placed at disadvan- 
tage in the distribution. But the diffi- 
culty of dealing with such a question in 
a practical and satisfactory manner is 
almost incalculable. There are those 
who would apportion out the whole 
country into “equal electoral districts,” 
But what are “equal electoral districts” ? 
Are they to be equal in area, or in popu- 
lation? The former would be absurd, 
because you might have ten square miles 
in one county, with a population of a 
thousand persons, or very much less, 
and a population of many thousands 
upon one square mile in another 
locality. Electoral districts, however, 
equal in population, or as nearly so as 
could be arranged, would be by no 
means satisfactory. The importance of 
a district depends not only upon its 
population, but upon its wealth-pro- 
ducing powers, and a comparatively 
small district, as far as population is 
concerned, may often be of much greater 
importance to the nation than a densely 
populated area elsewhere. And, indeed, 
if we had districts carved out for us to- 
morrow, as nearly as may be equal in 
their importance and population, it can- 
not be doubted that very few years 
would pass over our heads before the 
constant shiftings of population caused 
by the creation of new industries, the 
opening up of fresh fields of labour in 
distant countries, and the ceaseless de- 
velopment of trade which is ever taking 
place in a country like our own, would 
leave our representative system again in 
an unequal and anomalous condition. 

It is not, however, because there are 
difficulties in the way of improvement 
that all attempts at improvement are to 
be rejected ; and probably the best way 
to promote the success of such attempts 
will be to point out some of the most 
glaring anomalies which exist at present. 
In so doing, we shall exclude Scotland 
and Ireland altogether from considera- 
tion—not because they have no share in 
the national grievance, but because there 
are exceptional circumstances in the case 
of each country which render it difficult 
to deal with all three within the limits 
of one and the same article. Leaving, 
therefore, the 103 members for Ireland 
(reduced from 105 by the disfranchise- 
ment of Cashel and Sligo) and the 60 
members contributed by Scotland to the 
national Legislature, we come to regard 
the position of our English and Welsh 
legislators, whose number—to fulfil the 
magic roll of 658—should be 493, but 
who only amount to 489 in consequence 
of the disfranchisement of the delinquent 
boroughs of Beverley and Bridgewater, 
and the non-apportionment of these 
seats to any other centre of representa- 
tion. Of these 489 English and Welsh 
members, 187 are returned by counties 
and divisions of counties ; 275 by cities 
and boroughs exclusive of the metro- 
polis ; 22 by metropolitan constituencies, 
and 5 by universities, 

Let us commence our investigation of 
anomalies by a slight examination of the 
manner in which the Census returns of 
1871 bear upon the above distribution 
of representatives. Observe the propor- 
tion: 187 county members, 302 town 
and university members ;—then turn to 
the “ Preliminary Report and Tables of 
the Population and Houses enumerated 
in England aud Wales, on 3rd April, 
1871,” and we shall find, at page 21, a 
table showing the division of our popu- 
lation to be as follows :— 

1. Resident in parliamentary 
boroughs . . . + «ss 
2. In counties outside parlia- 
mentary boroughs . . . 

Total . 


. 22,704,108 

So that the minority of the whole popu- 





= = 

70 Redistribution of Political Power. 

lation of the country, dwelling in repre- 
sented towns, actually returns to Parlia- 
ment a far greater number of members 
than the majority. 

Some kind of reply to this startling 
fact has occasionally been made by 
attempting to show, first, that a certain 
number of borough constituencies have 
attached to them rural districts which 
bring them, in reality, under the deno- 
mination of small counties rather than 
towns ; and, secondly, that many of the 
smaller boroughs are practically under 
the same influences as those which pre- 
vail in counties. Neither of these argu- 
ments, however, appear to us to be of 
much vaiue. As regards the first, it 
cuts both ways, for it may be said that 
towns too small to be legitimate centres 
of representation are bolstered up by 
the addition of rural districts whose 
electors they “swamp,” whereas they 
had much better yield their members 
either to larger towns now unrepresented, 
or to the under-represented counties ; 
whilst as to the second argument, if it 
be true, it certainly appears desirable 
that such small boroughs should be 
merged in their counties, and their 
members returned by the whole rather 
than by a portion only of those electors 
who are said to be of the same character, 
and subject to the same influences. 
Moreover, if this argument be sound, it 
may be that the town element and not 
the country is actually wronged by this 
misleading distribution of seats. 

Bui, in fact, it is simply idle to argue 
in favour of an anomaly so absurd as 
that illustrated in the figures given 
above; there is no pretence either of 
justice or of equality, in a system which 
allows ten millions of people to have 
302 representatives, and obliges twelve 
millions to be content with 187. Men 
do not become better or wiser in propor- 
tion to their concentration in towns. If 
they did so, our great centres of popula- 
tion, as will be presently shown, are 
cruelly wronged by the present distribu- 
tion of political power. But a man is 
no better or worse an elector because he 
lives in a town: why, then, should his 
urban propensities vest him with so 

much greater electoral privileges than 
those possessed by the man who “shuns 
the din of cities” and resides in the 
country? This, then, is the first great 
problem which must be met and reso- 
lutely faced by any statesman who under- 
takes to deal with the question which 
we are now discussing. It cannot be 
shirked or evaded. Any attempt te 
settle upon a satisfactory basis the distri- 
bution of our representation must clash 
at once with vested interests, whose 
resistance it will only be possible to 
overcome by proceeding upon some 
principle which will appeal to the fair- 
ness and sense of justice of those in 
whose hands the decision will rest ; and 
this principle will not have been dis- 
covered until the balance is fairly struck 
between urban and rural population, and 
the glaring inequality which we have 
pointed out duly investigated and re- 

But whilst the town constituencies 
monopolize so large a share of electoral 
power, it must not be supposed that this 
share is distributed among them in pro- 
portions of a fair and equal character. 
Of the 10,655,930 population resident 
in parliamentary boroughs, the ten metro- 
politan constituencies contain 3,008,101 ; 
and therefore, if population were the 
test, out of the 297 members returned 
by towns, exclusive of the universities, 
about 84 instead of 22 would properly 
fall to the metropolis. To this there 
is, of course, one answer of some 
validity—namely, that the interests ot 
London are to a great degree the in- 
terests of the whole country ; and that 
the whole of the 654 members of Parlia- 
ment residing of necessity some half the 
year in London, may be called, in one 
sense, representatives of, the metropolis. 
Moreover, it may be urged that it would 
be alike against public policy and public 
opinion to concentrate so much political 
power in the metropolitan boroughs, 
and that the case is one of an exceptional 
character, to which the population test 
could not fairly be made to apply. 

These arguments, however, do not 
apply to the next instance of inequality 
in our Borough representation system. 

Redistribution of Political Power. 

The Census returns before us show 
17 “borough” constituencies the popu- 
lation of each of which exceeds 100,000 
persons. Liverpool heads the list with 
493,346, or nearly half a million ; 
Brighton closes it with 103,760. The 
aggregate population of these boroughs 
amounts in round numbers to 3,270,000 
persons. By our population test, there- 
fore, these constituencies would be en- 
titled to 91 members, whereas 36 
is the number which they return to 
Parliament. Thus, these seventeen 
towns and the metropolitan boroughs, 
comprising, jointly, a population of 
above six and a quarter millions out of 
the total borough population of some- 
thing above ten millions and a half, 
return 58 members, whilst the remain- 
ing constituencies, comprising a popula- 
tion of four and a quarter millions, are 
provided with 239 representatives. 

The anomalies of the system, however, 
may be better and more concisely shown 
by the following table, which shows, in 
round numbers, the distribution of elec- 
toral power among the 10,655,000 popu- 
lation resident in represented places :— 


3,008,000 resident 
boroughs return ‘ 

3,270,000 resident in 17 towns with 
a population exceeding 

; _ Members. 
in metropolitan 

y . ure 
1,575,000 resident in 22 towns with 
a population between 
50,000 and 100,000 . . 37 
1,850,000 resident in 54 towns with 
a population between 
20,000 and 50,000. . . 81 
552,000 resident in 39 towns with 
a population between 
10,000 and 20,000. . . 64 
400,000 resident in 56 towns with a 
population below 10,000. 56 


By comparing the two first items of the 
above table with the rest, it will be seen 
at once that 400,000 persons in Eng- 
land, by the accident of their localiza- 
tion, actually return to Parliament 
within three of the number of represen- 
tatives returned by upwards of six and 
a quarter millions of their fellow-country- 
men located elsewhere; whilst 952,000 


persons return 120 members against 
96 members returned by a population 
of about seven and a half millions / 

The incongruity of the system, how- 
ever, does not end here—the more closely 
it is examined the more indefensible 
does it appear. Among the fifty-six 
boroughs with a population under 
10,000 are thirteen with a population 
in each below 6,000, and an aggregate 
population of 64,342, which return to 
Parliament twelve members ; whilst, ex- 
clusive of metropolitan boroughs, there 
are thirty-one towns the aggregate popu- 
lation of each of whieh exceeds the 
aggregate of the aforesaid twelve, but of 
which four return three and the rest 
only two members each. Moreover, to 
contrast individually with each of these 
small privileged boroughs, there are 
twenty-eight towns possessed of munici- 
pal privileges but not in the enjoyment 
of representation, the population of each 
of which exceeds that of each of the 
fifty-six represented towns, and of which 
five have a population exceeding twenty, 
fifteen a population exceeding ten, 
thousand. The list is enormously in- 
creased if we pass to towns having 
neither parliamentary nor municipal 
privileges, and the necessity of revision 
becomes more and more apparent. Place 
side by side with Bridgnorth, Bridport, 
Chippenham, Eye, Marlborough, Tewkes- 
bury, and the like (several of which 
actually show a population diminished 
since the Census of 1861), such places 
in the south as Croydon, Ramsgate, 
Margate, Tunbridge Wells, Torquay, 
Luton, &c., and the system which gives 
members to the former whilst leaving 
the latter unrepresented appears really 
beyond criticism. Similar instances of 
inequality might be multiplied ad in- 
Jimitum if we were to bring into review 
the large unrepresented towns in the 
North of England. St. Helens, Hanley, 
Keighley, Barnsley, and other towns with 
populations varying from ten thousand 
up to fifty or sixty thousand, might be 
adduced to prove our position, but that 
it really seems superfluous to add further 
evidence. It is plain beyond the neces- 
sity of proof that no intelligible prin- 

72 Redistribution of Political Power. 

ciple governs our present system of 
representative distribution, and the diffi- 
culty is one which time will only aggra- 
vate. It has already become the habit 
of certain organs of public opinion to 
criticise important divisions in the House 
of Commons with a view to discover the 
amount of wealth and population rela- 
tively represented by majorities and 
minorities, and it cannot be satisfactory 
when the result (as has more than once 
been the case) shows a minority of mem- 
bers representing a majority of popula- 
tion. As the education of the country 
progresses, these things will be better 
understood, and public opinion will 
scarcely permit that the voice of the 
great centres of industry and the most 
important interests of the country shall 
be neutralized or out-voted by a number 
of small and unimportant constituencies. 

The argument in favour of small 
boroughs, moreover, has been destroyed 
by the course of events. However in- 
defensible in theory, it was practically 
useful that young men of promise should 
by this channel be introduced into the 
House of Commons. There is no such 
mistake as to object to a candidate on 
account of his youth. Of course it would 
be a great misfortune to have a Parlia- 
ment of which a majority were youths 
of one- or two-and-twenty, but this is a 
contingency which we need hardly ap- 
prehend under any possible system. The 
business of a member of Parliament, 
however, requires an apprenticeship as 
much as any trade or profession, and it 
will be an evil day for England when 
her electoral system excludes men from 
entering the House of Commons at an 
early age. 

This, however, has been to some ex- 
tent the result of the manner in which 
we have dealt with our small boroughs. 
We have in most cases got rid of the 
“patron,” who used to nominate some 
friend of his own, or some leading mem- 
ber of his Party, who might be in want 
of a seat. It may be doubted, however, 
whether, having gone thus far, we might 
not with advantage have gone somewhat 
further in the enlargement of constitu- 
encies. For the tendency of boroughs 

under the present system is to elect either 
a very rich or a “local” candidate, and 
upon this point our representative system 
shows a lamentable weakness. That 
which we should all desire is the election 
of men capable of legislating for the 
interests of the empire at large, and as 
little as possible hampered by local ties 
and prejudices. But the smaller the 
constituency, the stronger the influence 
of a local candidate, and at the present 
moment not only is the number of places 
extremely limited in which a candidate 
without wealth or local influence could 
hope for success, but the accidental dis- 
placement of even a prominent member 
of either political party is hard to remedy, 
owing especially to the large number of 
“local” representatives now sitting in 

It appears to us, therefore, that in any 
redistribution of representative power, 
two main objects should be kept in view. 
First, the removal of glaring inequalities 
between town and country and between 
borough and borough; secondly, the 
merging as far as possible of local in 
general interests—or rather, the preven- 
tion of the mischief which ensues from the 
preponderating power possessed by the 
former over the latter under our present 
system. It must not be supposed that 
we imagine or desire that by any change 
which might be adopted for the further- 
ance of the above object the interests of 
any particular locality would suffer in 
the slightest degree. Such interests can 
indeed rarely be promoted under the 
present system by the special exertions 
of the one or two members which the 
locality may return to Parliament, unless 
the case affecting them which comes 
before the Legislature has real merits of 
its own which the assiduous attention of 
such members may bring more clearly 
into view. But our argument is, that to 
secure men best fitted to promote the 
general interests of the country should 
be the first consideration in the consti- 
tution of the Legislative Body, and that 
attention to individual local interests 
will always follow and be consequential 
upon the attainment of this desideratum. 
A “local” case worth attention will 

always find its advocates, who will more- 
over do battle with far greater advan- 
tage when it is known that their own 
self-interest and re-election are not 
directly involved in the issue. On the 
other hand, under the present system, 
a good and useful member of Parliament 
often loses his seat, not from any de- 
parture from the principles upon which 
he has been elected, not from any neglect 
of duty, but because he has offended 
some small local prejudice, has been 
unable to confer personal favours upon 
some few constituents, or because the 
course of legislation which he or his 
party have supported has given umbrage 
to some particular interest in the borough 
which he represents, whose local desires 
have been opposed to the general good 
of the community. 

The remedy for this evil, and for the 
startling representative inequalities 
which we have endeavoured to point 
out, must be bold and sweeping, if it is 
to be effectual. Mr. Hare’s plan has 
been frequently discussed, and its adop- 
tion would, no doubt, in some measure 
remove our complaints. One general list 
of candidates for the whole country for 
which every elector might vote, and the 
requirement of a certain quota of votes 
to return each member, would effectually 
get rid of the “local” grievance, and 
would equally solve the larger difficulty 
of unequal distribution. There appear 
to us, however, to be two powerful ob- 
jections to the adoption of this scheme. 
In the first place, although it would in 
all probability secure seats in Parlia- 
ment to any and every man of any 
prominence in the political world, it 
would entirely fail to secure that vepre- 
sentation of interests which is so 
desirable in a country like our own. 
It would be quite possible that the 
entire fusion of constituencies and the 
ignoring altogether of local feeling 
might result in the very imperfect repre- 
sentation of certain interests, and the 
exclusion of men specially qualified to 
represent such interests in the House of 
Commons. ‘The second objection, how- 

ever, is of a character still more im- 

The utter abolition (so to 

Redistribution of Politacal Dower. 73 

speak) of local representation would 
cure one grievance only to inflict another. 
There would be danger that many voters, 
finding their electoral power diminished, 
and their share in the choice of mem- 
bers infinitesimally reduced, would ab- 
stain altogether from participation in 
parliamentary elections. Thus the 
political life of England would be 
deadened ; and no greater misfortune 
could happen than the possible result, 
that the people, or a large portion of 
them, should cease to take an interest 
in political matters. Another evil 
might also spring up, namely, that those 
whose interest in politics had been thus 
diminished, but who were still willing 
to take some share in the electoral battle, 
would be tempted to place themselves 
in the hands of agents and wire-pullers, 
who would thus, to a great extent, con- 
trol the elections, which are at present 
carried on with at least some amount of 
self-action on the part of the great body 
of the electors. This objection, however, 
is to some extent weakened by the fact 
that the adoption of the Ballot will pro- 
bably have done pretty near as much as 
can be done in the way of placing 
elections under the control of “ wire- 
pullers” and central agencies, and that, 
if this be an evil, it is probable that it 
will have already been accomplished with- 
out any alteration in our Redistribution 
of representation. 

There is, however, a modification of 
Mr. Hare’s scheme, which appears to us 
to comprise all its advantages without 
the objections to which we have called 
attention. It is almost hopeless to strike 
an exact and accurate balance between 
the urban and rural constituencies ; but 
it is not impossible to adopt a system by 
which this balance might be left to ad- 
just itself. If it were at all likely that 
a proposition would be entertained 
which would at once create against it- 
self such an amount of fierce opposition 
as that which we are about to mention, 
we should propose to begin by reducing 
the number of members of the House 
of Commons. The proper transaction 
of business by 658 or (as at present) 

-654 persons, is so utterly impossible, 

74 Redistribution of Political Power. 

that our wonder is, not that so many 
Acts of Parliament are difficult of inter- 
pretation, and that “ Amendment Acts” 
are constantly required to explain and 
alter what has been done, but that 
any Acts are ever passed at all. An un- 
wieldy assembly, transacting business in 
a chamber which cannot accommodate 
above two-thirds, or, by dint of great 
and inconvenient crowding, possibly 
three-fourths of its members at the same 
time, is neither a creditable nor a neces- 
sary part of our constitution ; and it may 
be safely stated that a considerable re- 
duction of the number of members 
would be attended by no mischief to 
any class or interest, whilst it would 
greatly facilitate the due performance of 
legislative duties. But as the scheme 
which we are about to recommend does 
not necessarily involve such a reduction, 
we shrink from the opposition with 
which our proposition would be encoun- 
tered, and proceed to discuss the ques- 
tion upon the supposition that the 
number of members will continue the 
same, and the proportions between Eng- 
land, Scotland, and Ireland remain 

This being settled, therefore, we have 
to apportion 493 members throughout 
England and Wales. The population 
being 22,704,108, two members to each 
100,000 of population would give a 
total of 454. But if, leaving the five 
university members as they are, and 
possibly giving a member to Durham 
University and one to the Inns of 
Court, we made the present counties 
and electoral divisions of counties 
centres of representation, a very little 
manipulation of details would enable us 
to absorb the number of 493 among the 
fifty-two counties of England and Wales. 
The method of procedure would then 
be as follows:—Each division of a 
county would have a number of 
members according to its population, 
and each elector in the division, whether 
resident in town or country, would have 
a share in returning that number. 
Take as an example the county of 
Durham, which now returns thirteen 
members to Parliament; namely, four 

for the two divisions into which the 
county is divided, two each for Durham 
and Sunderland, and one each for 
Stockton, Darlington, Hartlepool, South 
Shields, and Gateshead. Under the 
proposed change the population of the 
county of Durham, including the above 
towns, and amounting to 685,046, would 
entitle it to fourteen members; eight 
for the Northern and six for the South- 
ern Division. Again, Sussex, which 
at present enjoys an unfairly large share 
of representation, sending to Parliament 
four county members, two each for 
Brighton, Hastings, and Shoreham, and 
one each for Chichester, Horsham, 
Lewes, Midhurst, and Rye, making a 
total of fifteen, would be reduced to 
nine, that being the full share to which 
her population of 417,407 would entitle 
her. Lancashire and Yorkshire, more- 
over, would have their relative repre- 
sentation more fairly adjusted: the 
former, which, with her boroughs, now 
returns thirty-two members, would be 
entitled to fifty-six by her population of 
2,818,904 ; and the latter, with a popu- 
lation of 2,436,113, would send forty- 
nine instead of her present number of 
thirty-six. Can anyone maintain that 
the importance of these two great 
counties, relatively to the rest of the 
empire, does not fairly entitle them to 
this increase of representation ? 

It might indeed be a question whether 
the five great provincial towns of Eng- 
land—viz. Liverpool, Manchester, Bir- 
mingham, Leeds, and Sheffield—should 
not be treated exceptionally, and return 
members independently of the counties 
in which they are respectively situated. 
Probably this might be desirable, but 
our scheme would in no way be injured 
thereby. An exception might also with 
advantage be made in the case of the 
metropolis, the three million population 
of which might return its proportion of 
members, which would only amount to 
an increase of eight over the present 
number of twenty-two. 

The abstraction of the metropolis 
and the five great towns would prevent 
the swamping by town-voters of any of 
the county constituencies, and it only 

ee ene an ae ee’ at oe 8 ee 

Redistribution of Political Power. 75 

remains to point out the working and 
the advantages of the proposed alter- 
ation. In the first place, there would 
be absolute equality of franchise 
throughout the country. One man 
would not be endowed with a greater 
share of electoral power than his neigh- 
bour by the mere accident of locality, 
but every voter throughout each county, 
urban or rural, would have an equal 
share with every other voter in the 
same county. Next, the evil of petty 
local jealousies and prejudices would be 
swept away without injury to anyone. 
Each elector, for instance, in Sunder- 
land, Stockton, Darlington, or any other 
borough in the county of Durham, 
would, by his present qualification, be 
enabled to vote for a much larger 
number of members than he can do 
under the present system, whilst, in the 
selection of candidates, small local pre- 
dilections and local influences would 
have to give way to the more enlarged 
requirements of a greater constituency. 
A man must have given evidence of 
talent and capability for work beyond 
the precincts of his own immediate 
locality, in order to be acceptable to a 
constituency which would embrace so 
much wider an area, and the result 
would probably be most beneficial to the 
constitution of the House of Commons. 
Counties would look out, naturally, for 
the best and most distinguished men 
among their own country people ; and as 
there would probably be many cases in 
which such a list would not exhaust the 
number of members to be returned, 
. there would be openings which hardly 
exist at present for good and tried men, 
who, unconnected with a particular 
county, might be recommended to it by 
their public services. 

One great improvement, however, 
might be engrafted upon the proposed 
change. We refer to the adoption of 
the cumulative system of voting, by 
which the utter ousting of a minority 
from representation would be at once 
prevented. We are well aware of all 
that can be urged, and plausibly urged, 
against the ‘‘ Representation of Minori- 
ties ;” nor are we about to enter upon 

the arguments by which the project may 
be supported. It is well known, how- 
ever, that the system which at present 
obtains in the “unicorn” counties and 
towns is by no means the system which 
is specially advocated by the friends of 
“‘Minority Representation.” If the 
change which we propose were adopted, 
there is no doubt that an extension of 
the existing system of the “ minority 
vote” would secure a fair share of re- 
presentation to all important minorities. 
The extension would simply go to this 
—that each elector should only be able 
to vote for two-thirds of the number of 
members to be returned. Thus, if the 
total number were fourteen (as in the 
case of Durham), the nearest figure to 
two-thirds being ten, each elector might 
vote for ten candidates. The result 
would, of course, be that, after an elee- 
tion or two by way of testing their rela- 
tive strength, ten candidates of the party 
in the majority and five of the party in 
the minority would be returned. But 
the cumulative vote would enable every 
elector to vote for the whole fourteen if 
he pleased, or to give his fourteen votes, 
counting fourteen, to one candidate, or 
seven votes apiece to two candidates— 
or to distribute them, in short, accord- 
ing to his fancy. Even without this 
change in the law of voting, we believe 
that the advantages of our scheme 
would be found to greatly preponderate, 
although we confess to a predilection 
for some such amendment as that to 
which we have alluded. 

It would be possible, as an alternative, 
to adopt Mr. Hare’s plan, and apply it 
in a modified form to the constituencies 
formed under the above scheme. The 
number of votes which each candidate 
would require to poll having been ascer- 
tained, the whole list for each county or 
division of a county would have to be 
voted for; those declared elected who 
had obtained the requisite number of 
votes ; and the vacancies caused by the 
failure to obtain the necessary quota 
would have to be filled up by a fresh 
election. Probably, however, the trouble 
and expense which this plan would en- 
tail upon constituencies and candidates 

76 Redistribution of Political Power. 

would be found to constitute a formid- 
able if not insuperable objection to its 
adoption; and for our own part we 
would greatly prefer the cumulative 
vote, although we believe the scheme 
which we propose would, even without 
this addition, work sufficiently well. 

In shadowing forth the above scheme 
for the removal of existing inequalities 
and the fairer redistribution of political 
power throughout the country, we have 
not attempted to elaborate details, nor 
to anticipate the many objections which 
will be taken by the friends of the pre- 
sent system. Our fear, however, is not 
on account of the imperfections so much 
as of the boldness of the scheme. It is 
never easy to make men surrender a 
privilege, or what they believe to be a 
privilege, for the general good ; nor will 
they easily understand that the general 
good can really clash with what they 
think to be their own interests. The 
ramifications, moreover, which surround 
an ancient system, the obstinate dislike 
to change which is inherent in our 

English natures, and the fear of some 
possible consequential evil, shadowy and 
indistinct, but none the less fearful, 
all combine to render difficult the im- 
provement we suggest. Yet the ques- 
tion must be faced, and that speedily. 
There is just cause for an agitation in 
favour of a great and sweeping change, 
and just cause for an agitation ought 
not to be allowed to exist. We widened 
the basis of our constitution in 1866-67, 
but we stopped short of completion in 
our task. Let us delay no longer, but 
anticipate the storm which will infal- 
libly arise ere long, and deal with this 
question before it has been made the 
battle-field of Party, before it is identi- 
fied with men whose aims and desires 
go far beyond the progressive constitu- 
tional improvement which is desired by 
moderate men of both political parties, 
and before we are forced to deal with it 
at a season less calm and a moment less 
opportune than the present for the wise 
and satisfactory solution of a difficult 
political problem. 

E. H. Kyatonsuri-HuceEssen, 

da a ee he ee ee ee 





Srxce the death of Sir John Burgoyne there 
is perhaps no one living who has made that 
special branch of strategy which deals with the 
value of fortifications so completely his own 
as the writer of this memoir. His Excellency 
General Baron Scholl is well known as lately 
occupying the post of Minister for National 
Defence in the Austrian Cabinet, an office 
which may be said to have been created for 
the time in order to give the reviving Empire 
of the Hapsburgs the special benefit of his 
counsels under new military conditions. He 
had previously held a post equivalent to our 
Inspector-Generalship of Fortifications ; and 
his services had been specially called on for the 
necessary defence of the great Quadrilateral 
fortresses in 1859 and 1866. The very 
strength of their works, and the defensive 
strategy adopted by the Austrians, combined 
to prevent their engineers from being called on 
for more than preparation. But Baron Scholl 
is far more than an engineer. No scientific 
part of the military profession has escaped his 
grasp ; whilst his study of military exigencies 
in other countries than Austria is so close 
that it is the editor’s belief, the result of per- 
sonal conversation on the subject, that it 
would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to find 
any Frenchman at this moment so thoroughly 
conversant with the past and future of the 
defences of Paris, for example, as this dis- 
tinguished foreigner. It cannot be a matter 
of indifference to the public to see his thoughts 
on our own defences frankly given us ; and 
they are the more important as his views differ 
widely from those of the highest authority we 

. The Editor of Macmillan having kindly 
offered this memoir, as of national interest, 
the benefit of its wide circulation, it is 
necessary to say that its late appearance, con- 
sidered as a review of Cclonel Jervois’ Royal 
{nstitution lecture on “The Defences of Eng- 
land,” delivered last year, is explained by the 
iztter’s having only fallen, in a complete form, 
iuto Baron Scholl’s hands this spring, when 

vis.ting England after a close professional in- 
spection of the works of Paris, and by the 
delay of translation—for it was in English 
druis that it came over. The duty has fallen 

to lic uf compressing it, in order to bring the 
Poa Viehim magazine limits; hut 1 have 
» this without treading on the 

? a ; ’ 

cader of the 

~ seypteets $' ves 
Gy OF COM vie Lae 

benefit of any of his opinions on important 
questions. It is enough to add that the subject 
which Baron Scholl treats with such startling 
knowledge is doubtless studied on the Con- 
tinent elsewhere than at Vienna.—C. C. C. 

CotoneL JeERvoIs’s pamphlet? was put 
into my hands during my last visit to 
England, with the request that I would 
give my opinion frankly upon the whole 
subject, and especially upon the forti- 
fying of London. 

The circumstance of my not being 
an Englishman may arouse suspicion in 
the reader, that I may not care to write 
what I really think, or that the pro- 
posals I may make would be contrary 
to the public interests of the country. 
May I be allowed as far as possible to 
clear myself beforehand from suspicion 
of this kind ? 

As an Austrian I belong to a country 
which has never yet been at war with 
England, but, on the contrary, has often 
been its ally, and it is hoped may be so 
again. That Austria is the natural ally 
of England has indeed become almost 
a proverb ; and when I had the honour, 
in the year 1851, of being presented to 
the Duke of Wellington, he said, “It 
is always a pleasure to me to see one 
of our old allies.” I have also been 
personally connected with England 
through a series of years, by ties of 
friendship and relationship, which my 
recent visit has served to strengthen. 
And if a man’s word has any weight 
with the reader, will he accept mine, 
that I shall endeavour to treat this sub- 

1 “*The Defensive Policy of Great Britain, 
considered in a lecture delivered at the Roval 
Institution on May 12th, 1871.” By Colonc! 
W. PF. Drummond Jervois, R.E., C. B., Secret ir; 

Director of Fortifications. London: 1871. ~ 

78 An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

ject as though I were myself none other 
than a loyal Englishman ? 

Colonel Jervois’ pamphlet appears to 
me divisible into two parts. For while 
the first eight chapters treat of the 
general conditions affecting the defence 
of the mother country, its coasts, its 
colonies, and its commerce, the rest 
are exclusively devoted to the necessity 
of the fortification of London. And 
it would seem to me as though this 
were in the main the object the writer 
had in view. 

I not only agree with Colonel Jervois 
in all that he advances in his first eight 
chapters, but would also add to his 
arguments the following :-— 


In an article which appeared in 1869 
in the publications of the Austrian 
Engineer Committee, I endeavoured to 
set forth the great importance of Gib- 
raltar to England. The Straits, indeed, 
are not actually so narrow at that point 
that they could be closed by means of 
heavy guns planted on Europa Point ; 
yet the Bay of Algesiras, adjoining on 
the west, affords good shelter for a fleet 
ready to attack in flank any enemy who 
should venture to pass the Straits. By 
this means, England in the event of 
war at once cuts in two the navies of 
all such Powers as possess fleets on both 
sides of the Continent, as is the case 
with Spain, France, and Russia; she 
may at her will confine the navies of 
the Mediterranean (as the Italian and 
Austrian) to that sea, and prevent all 
others from entering its waters, 

Besides this, Gibraltar forms a station 
for coaling on the all-important road to 
India through Egypt ; and Nature her- 
self has already so fortified it that it 
has become a proverb to say of any other 
very strong place, “It is a second Gib- 
raltar.” I agree, therefore, in strongly 
combating the opinion of those who 
talk of giving up Gibraltar. 

In view of the interests of England, I 
would not even hear a word in favour 
of taking Ceuta in exchange for Gib- 
raltar, for Spain could not reimburse 
the expenditure which has been made 

upon Gibraltar ; and, besides, the Bay 
of Ceuta is unfavourably situated with 
regard toithe Straits compared to that 
of Algesiras, and is more exposed to 
the weather. Ceuta could never be 
made by any art so strong as Gibral- 
tar; and finally, the glorious memories 
which attach to the Rock would be 
wanting to inspire the garrison in case 
of an attack. 

It is undoubtedly true that the 
Spaniards could incommode ships lying 
in the Bay of Gibraltar, and could even 
cannonade the harbour. But for this 
there are two remedies—either let Eng- 
land acquire the Spanish territory about 
the Bay of Algesiras and fortify it; or 
let England keep good friends with 
Spain, which is all the easier, because 
Spain is at present much interested in 
cultivating the support of England. 

2. Tue Iste or Wicut. 

The south coast of England, in its 
extent from the Land’s End to Rams- 
gate, is certainly the most exposed, on 
account of its proximity to the French 
coast ; and as the Isle of Wight lies in 
front of this coast, and is only sepa- 
rated from the mainland by the nar- 
row channel of the Solent, this island 
appears to me of such importance for 
friend and foe that I cannot sufficiently 
recommend it to attention, and I would 
wish to see more done to fortify it than 
has hitherto been effected. The Solent 
is to an English fleet just what the 
channel near Pola was to the Austrian 
before the battle of Lissa, affording good 
shelter and free issue, either towards 
east or west. 

The Solent, in fact, is the true offen- 
sive basis for British maritime opera- 
tions; but it would cease to be so 
from the moment an enemy was in the 
Isle of Wight. This is my reason for 
asserting that the defences of this 
island should be further strengthened. 
This is the more necessary because an 
enemy lodged there would have within 
reach of him, at the short distance 
across the Solent, a most desirable 
pied terre. It might be alleged that 
a landing at the back of the Isle of 

ie) alll a i i a: af Ee oe 

Wight is difficult from the nature of 
the coast, and that the enemy, having 
no port there, would not seek to occupy 
the Isle of Wight, because troops once 
landed could not be reinforced or sup- 
plied in bad weather, and would even 
be in danger of starving. But many 
persons acquainted with the locality 
believe that a landing is perfectly pos- 
sible, the sea often remaining calm for 
days together. And it would perhaps be 
to the enemy’s interest to seize the Isle 
of Wight, with the object of diverting 
the defender’s attention from points of 
landing elsewhere. In that case he 
would throw only a small number of 
troops on the island, and the landing 
would occupy but a very short time. 
They would thus be little exposed to 
danger from a sea goiting up during 
the operation, and the small number 
could easily be provided with food and 
ammunition sufficient for a considerable 

With the enemy in possession of the 
Isle of Wight, there is the striking dis- 
advantage that the works which serve 
to close the Solent at the Needles 
passage and Spithead are taken in flank 
and rear, that the fleet can no longer 
use the Solent, and the entry into Ports- 
mouth is endangered. Moreover, in 
order to check the further advance of 
the invader, it would be necessary to 
concentrate a superior force on the Eng- 
lish coast, cut in two as it is by the 
deep inlet of Southampton Water, and 
any English army acting elsewhere 
would be correspondingly weakened. I 
assume here, naturally, that the enemy 
has not only infantry but also guns on 
the island, for it is only with the shells 
of these that he can reach the northern 
shore of the Solent. The island is in 
fact a very tempting object for an 
enemy ; for if the landing succeeds, he 
secures himself a footing from which he 
cannot be easily expelled, having the 
Solent, like a gigantic wet ditch, in his 
front. It may be further said of the Isle 
of Wight, that its preservation is all 
the more important in English interests, 
inasmuch as by its means the dis- 
advantages of Portsmouth (the position 

An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 79 

of which, under modern conditions, is 
very bad) are somewhat obviated. Ports- 
mouth, as a great naval depdt, is far 
too advanced. In regard to this question, 
I must recognize the wisdom of the 
English Government in having, as has 
been the case quite recently, paid in- 
creased attention to the more secure 
position of Chatham, and having made 
extensive preparations there for build- 
ing and repairing ships of war. 

I do not propose to enter here upon 
the question of what further fortifications 
are necessary on the Isle of Wight to 
prevent the enemy from occupying it, 
for this is a question of detail, the solu- 
tion of which my honoured friend 
Colonel Jervois understands as well at 
least as I can pretend to. 

3. ‘THe Iste or ANGLESEY. 

No reference is made to this islead 
in the treatise, possibly for the reason 
that it lies on a less exposed side of the 
country, and because Colonel Jervois, 
considering the shortness of the time 
available to him, did not wish to bring 
too many questions under consideration, 
and desired to arrive as svon as possible 
at his virtual object. Perhaps I mar 
be allowed to add something relative to 
the Isle of Anglesey. 

Although I am not of those who 
believe in the probable outbreak of a 
war between England and the United 
States, in which the latter could play 
so aggressive a part as io carry the 
operations into the mother country, yet 
nevertheless one should for safety’s 
sake accept the supposition that the 
Americans, aided by a coalition of 
Zuropean States, might carry the war 
to Europe. In such a case Ireland 
might become a base of operations in the 
prosecution of the war, and considering 
the small width of the Irish Channel, 
the Isle cf Anglesey would offer the 
same advantages as the Isle of Wight, 
and become a good pied @ terre naturally 
secured from attacks from England by 
the Menai Straits. 

On a closer comparison with the Isle 
of Wight, Anglesey has the advantage, 
being in possession of a good harbour at 

80 An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

Holyhead, whereby troops could be 
supplied and reinforced whatever the 
weather. It appears to me very necessary 
that some special attention should be 
paid to its defences, although, on the 
other hand, I must allow that the Menai 
Straits do not form a rendezvous for 
the fleet like the Solent, neither is there 
any point in the vicinity resembling 
Portsmouth in importance. 


Colonel Jervois speaks of the necessity 
of keeping a strong force in Ireland in 
case of war. Thoroughly agreeing with 
this view, I cannot divest myself of the 
apprehension that the enemy might suc- 
cced in possessing himself of Ireland ; 
for as it would be undesirable to weaken 
the army in Great Britain too much, 
this force in Ireland could never be very 
large, and on the coast of Ireland there 
are a number of unfortified harbours and 
bays where the enemy could very easily 

The possibility of the loss of the 
island should therefore be held in view, 
and it should be considered what should 
he done either to prevent it or to regain 
the island if lost. 

The first end would certainly be ob- 
tained by means of fortifications. But 
even if only so much were done as to 
prevent enemy’s vessels from lying in 
any harbour, this would involve the 
ex»enditure of a very formidable sum. 

It would be better to undertake first 
what would be necessary for effecting 
the recapture of the island. This in- 
volves the means of landing an entire 
my with all its material without mo- 
tation, of putting it in a position to 
ce the offensive immediately under 
ivourable conditions, and of having ra 

e of security to fall back upon in the 
want of failure in the open field. In 
renly to the further question whethe: 
one or two points of the coast should 
le scleeted for this purpose, I would 
ecytainly say ¢o ; for advantages not only 

L'e, but manifold, are to be derived 

efrom. For suppose one point of the 
only prepared, should the enemy 

» position before it with his entire 



strength, it might happen that it would 
be altogether impossible to debouch, or 
the prospects of success be very much 
diminished. But if two points of the 
coast are so prepared, and the English 
army lands at that one where the enemy 
is not, there is no obstacle to debouching. 
And should the enemy take position 
before both points, he has committed 
the fault of dividing his strength, and 
the English army has good prospect of 
beating the enemy in detail. The 
existing fortifications of Cork are not 
sufficient for such purposes as the above, 
as they only serve to prevent an enemy 
on the leeward side from forcing his 
way into the harbour. The existence, 
however, of these fortifications and of 
the harbour establishments, and the 
geographical situation of Cork Harbour, 
with reference to a British fleet stationed 
on the English coast, and an army held 
ready for embarkation, should be suffi- 
cient to designate this as one of the 
places spoken of, whilst the other should 
be in the northern section of the eastern 
coast near Dundalk, if the natural con- 
ditions are appropriate. Not at Dublin, 
certainly, for this would be too near 
Cork, and the development of the town 
would be interfered with. Cork and 
Dundalk would be, so to speak, the 
tétes du pont which would facilitate the 
recapture of Ireland, and would also 
serve for any troops to retreat upon 
which had been unable to prevent the 
enemy’s landing, and obliged to retire 
before numbers. 
5. A Centrat ARSENAL, 

Notwithstanding that Colonel Jervois 
has drawn attention to the importance 
of a central arsenal, I cannot refrain 
from saying that its importance appears 
to me so great, that every means should 
be adopted to call it into existence as 
early as possible. 

At present, all the supplies for the 
army are on the coast, which is at the 
same time the frontier, aud consequently 

» placed as to ) be most expos my to th 
euemy’s attacks. This is contrary to the 
havsara 1 order of things, and pvt lead 
to the very worst conseqnence 

An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 81 

Even Woolwich is not properly placed 
in view of war. The Central Arsenal 
should contain all the stores of the army, 
and partly of the navy also, and should 
accommodate all workshops for the 
manufacture of war material. 

In order not to weaken the active 
army in the field too much, the arsenal 
should be capable of being defended 
for a long time by a small number of 
men: this obliges us to search for a 
locality where nature has already done 
much to facilitate defence. The forti- 
fications should be designed with a view 
to mere defence, for the offensive might 
lead to losses too serious for a small 
garrison. There would be a wise 
economy in the creation of a Central 
Arsenal, for at present the stores 
being scattered on the coast Jead to 
many places being more strongly forti- 
fied than they otherwise would be, 
merely because they are depdts of sup- 

I am not inclined to dispute the 
point as to whether Sheffield or Cannock 
Chase would be best adapted for a 
Central Arsenal. This is matter for 
special local inquiry. I would only re- 
mark that the locale should be one 
where Art comes to the aid of Nature 
only, and not where everything must be 
left to Art ; for such artificial fortifica- 
tions are expensive, and never can as- 
sume the large proportions to be met 
with where Nature herself eo-operates 
in the defence, as she often does on 
a gigantic scale. 


On the Continent the English military 
organization is often blamed, and the 
institution of Volunteers laughed at. 
For my part I have never been able to 
join in this blame and derision. 

The system of voluntary enlistment 
is of course far less of an injury to per- 
sonal freedom than the conseription, or 
any form of compulsory levy ; and the 
raising of volunteers is less injurious 
still. Enlistment provides soldiers of 
long service, which is particularly de- 
sirable for non-commissioned officers, 
and also for soldiers who enter the 

No. 157.—vou. xxvti. 

cavalry or other special arm. Under 
the law of universal liability to service 
prevalent on the Continent, the want of 
old soldiers is bitterly felt, and every- 
thing put into operation to meet the dis- 
advantage has been insufficient to wean 
men from the attractions of their homes. 
I believe, therefore, that England ought 
to adhere to her present system of en- 
listment for the standing army, all the 
more because she requires a system of 
long service, seattered as her troops are 
over the world, and hampered by the 
difficulties of foreign relief. 

The institution of Volunteers I would 
also preserve, with all its shortcomings ; 
for it has the great advantage of being 
of spontaneous growth, and only requir- 
ing fostering care. I am persuaded that 
the Volunteers, if called to arms by 
the country in earnest, would be on the 
spot and ready for action in a trice, 

This is guaranteed by the patriotism 
of the Briton, his habit of self-reliance, 
his respect for the law and public 
opinion, the conseiousness of the pos- 
session of institutions more liberal 
than any which could be given him by 
others, the memories of former victories, 
and, finally, a great contempt of the 
enemy. Where such powerful factors 
work in unison, no one should despair 
of such an institution, while its bare 
existence warns the enemy that he must 
use far greater foresight than if he had 
merely the standing army to deal with. 

From my point of view, the only 
disadvantage of the standing army and 
the Volunteers is that their numbers are 
too small ; a defect all the more sensible 
because, if a general war broke out, 
England would probably be obliged to 
strengthen the garrisons in India and 
the colonies considerably, and to send 
them strong reinforcements from the 
mother country. The words of Marshal 
Bugeaud on this subject are remarkable : 
“Linfanterie Anglaise est la plus ré- 
doutable du monde, mais heureusement 
il n’y en a pas beaucoup.” 

If England has gained many victories 
on the Continent in spite of the smail 
strength of her army, it must not be 
forgotten that she was ‘generally acting 


An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

with allies. Indeed, British comman- 
ders have derived the further advantage 
from their allies that they have been 
able to use them for duties for which 
the English soldier is least well adapted, 
eg. skirmishing; for the red’ uni- 
form, and the contempt of cover which 
is the consequence of an excessive dar- 
ing, lead to heavy losses on such service, 
England should accustom herself to con- 
sider the possibility of having to rely 
upon her own resources in the case of 
a general war, and of encountering a 
coalition which could bring a superiority 
of force against her. Under such cir- 
cumstances nothing remains but to de- 
velop one’s own forces to the utmost ; 
and as this pressure can only be of a 
temporary nature, the question of per- 
sonal freedom should be set aside for 
the time, and every man fit for service 
be called to action. Without abolishing 
what exists, and setting up something 
different in its place, it would be well 
if England raised her wilitia in- 
fantry at least in the sense of the law 
of universal service, training them solely 
as auxiliaries for the defence of the 
mother country. 

As a pattern for such a militia, I 
would recommend that of Switzerland, 
which, though costing very little, 
showed in 1870 a readiness for service 
which did them the highest honour. 

The first training of recruits, and the 
periodical call out to manceuvres, would 
certainly affect the national economy 
considerably. Colonel Jervois reckons 
the cost at 30/. sterling per man per 
year ; but where the independence of 
the country is actually at stake, money 
considerations sink into insignificance. 
If Switzerland, with her republican feel- 
ings, and her possessions which no one 
covets, recognizes this universal obliga- 
tion, how much more should England 
do so, whose riches are the envy of the 
Continent, and whose foreign posses- 
sions are constantly exposed to so many 
dangers ! 

1 A very doubtful assertion this. Many 
practical soldiers declare red to be one of the 
least conspicuous of colours at a moderate 
distance,—C. C. €. 

7. Lonpon, 

Having referred to what seemed 
proper to supplement the first eight 
chapters of the “ Lecture,” I now pass 
to the consideration of what I regard as 
its chief conclusion—the fortifying of 
London, which my honoured friend 
wishes to see effected. 

The importance of the subject is such 
that I think it necessary to say some- 
thing on the theory of the subject ; for 
in all matters of fortification there is 
a theory, and the application of it toa 
given case is a subsequent stage. The 
defence of capitals is a subject for such 
a special theory, and perhaps this ques- 
tion has never been so well ventilated 
as in the present century. While 
some advocated the defence of capitals, 
others, and among them even military 
men, have declared it to be folly; and 
therefore, if we ask, in this case, which 
is the true view, the answer cannot be 
made, as it so often is, that a middle 
course is the true one, for here there is 
no middle course—either fortify, or do 
not fortify! “To be, or not to be, that 
is the question.” 

When it is considered that in such 
fortification strategical and tactical data 
are but part of the determining factors, 
and that other circumstances inter- 
pose themselves which must have great 
practical weight, it is clear that the 
answer may be given with as much 
justice in the negative as in the affirma- 
tive, according to the special case. 
Wherever the whole life is concentrated 
in the capital, and this is exposed to be 
easily reached by the enemy, as in the 
case of Paris, fortification appears highly 
necessary ; but where those conditions 
are different, as at St. Petersburg (on 
the land side), Moscow, or Madrid, the 
argument for fortification is lost; or if 
it still holds good in part, the question 
arises whether the expenditure which 
the fortification of the capital demands 
would not be better applied to other 
military measures. 

It is chiefly among continental peo- 
ples that the question of the fortifica- 
tion of the capital arises. Having com- 

munication with their neighbours over 
dry land, they are always liable to 
attack; and the less the distance and 
intervening obstacles, the greater the 
apprehension. This is increased in pro- 
portion as the country is centralized, 
for with the capital the command of 
the whole country has often been lost, 
although a considerable extent of terri- 
tory remained untouched. On _ this 
theory we maintain that in the French 
interest the fortification of Paris is in a 
high degree justifiable ; while, on the 
other hand, Spain; which with its pro- 
vincial divisions is decentralized rather 
than centralized, would do much better 
to apply her money towards the fortifi- 
cation of the provinces on her border 
than upon the defence of the capital. 

Turning our attention now specially 
to London, it would be absurd to main- 
tain that London fortified would not 
offer a much longer resistance than 
London unfortified. But although Lon- 
don forms officially the central point of 
the countries subject to the sceptre of 
England, can this great city be con- 
sidered as a capital in the same sense 
as the capitals of continental countries 
which theorists would recommend to be 
fortified ? 

To answer this question aright we 
must go back into the book of History, 
and there we find that those peoples 
who, like the Anglo-Saxons and Nor- 
mans, took possession of the British 
Islands, made it their first business to 
divide the lands and to secure places of 
residence upon them. They in no way 
sought to collect themselves in towns, 
as did the founders of Venice, and, at 
an earlier date, those of the Roman 

When subsequently in England mar- 
kets were established, and towns arose, 
and the “gentlemen” built themselves 
houses therein, these were only for 
temporary wants. The country-seat con- 
tinued to be so much the principal con- 
sideration, that it actually gave rise to 
an architecture of its own, with a wider 
range than is to be found in any other 
country. Thus from the earliest times 
in England a peculiar country life has 

An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 83 

been developed, and the true house of 
the gentleman is his country-seat, not 
the town-house which he has built in 
London, for the most part within such 
limited horizontal dimensions that the 
several living rooms are stacked in tiers 
one above another, The English gentle- 
man, in contradistinction to his fellow 
on the Continent, passes the greater 
part of the year, even the winter, in 
the country: to London he goes merely 
for business, or to meet friends, or for 
such amusements as are to be found only 
where men congregate. In spite, there 
fore, of the colossal size to which London 
has attained, it is not to be compared 
with capitals on the Continent, where 
the house of the gentleman is in the 
capital, and the estates he owns are 
merely regarded as possessions to be 
occasionally visited. 

If under the name of the capital of a 
country we understand the focus of its 
life and the development of its civi- 
lization, we must, in the case of Eng- 
land, apply the term to a far wider area 
than the limits of London would offer. 

Geographers may be perfectly right in 
describing London as the capital ; but in 
a politico-strategical question such as 
this, I should say that the whole island of 
Great Britain, or at least England proper, 
is the capital of all the countries which 
are governed from the British throne. 

London has so overflowed into the 
surrounding country, that it would 
puzzle the geographers themselves to 
define its true limits; and if they 
were to fix the limit to-day, it would 
be wrong again (and so much the better 
for the Marquis of Westminster) to- 
morrow. I have thought it right to 
notice these facts, because London must 
be regarded with other eyes than any 
continental city, and because, as a rule, 
books on the art of fortification speak of 
capitals under merely military condi- 
tions, and do not allude to the bearings 
of national culture and of politics on 
the question. 

Besides the gentlemen’s country-seats, 
manufacturing establishments have been 
set up which appear gigantic compared 
with those on the Continent, and are, 

84 An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

in fact, the main sources of England’s 
power and wealth, agriculture and 
breeding of animals being as nothing 
in comparison. These mines of wealth 
are so valuable that it cannot be a 
matter of indifference whether they are 
to go on, or be occupied by the enemy 
and come to a standstill. 

The argument that the stoppage of the 
factories would create a starving prole- 
tariat class, of which the Government 
would find it difficult to disembarrass 
itself when peace was regained, is alone 
sufficiently weighty to cause any great 
extension of the fortifications to embrace 
these establishments. We thus come 
involuntarily to the sea, and as the coast 
forms a line having in front of it that 
great wet ditch, I affirm my conviction 
that the circuit of the fortitications of 
London is nowhere else to be sought 
than on the line of the coast, and that 
any funds designed for the defence of 
London should be employed to perfect 
the fortifications of the coast. 

England, whose insular position makes 
her differ so vastly from every conti- 
nental nation, should draw advantage 
from these circumstances. She can do 
so all the better from the possession of 
a highly developed network of railways, 
while the distances of the coast-line from 
an army stationed centrally are in com- 
parison to other countries very small, 
and the country so thickly populated 
that a sufficient number of combatants 
ought to be soon got together to throw 
against an enemy attempting to land 
with good prospect of success. If such 
a force can be brought at once on the 
spot, a moderate number may prove 
quite sufficient. For landing an army 
is an operation which, to be successful, 
should not be in the least impeded 
by the enemy, even though weather 
and coast are favourable. 

If we consider successful instances of 
landing, as in 1840, near Beyrout, and 
in the Crimea in 1854, we should not 
forget that these landings were not in 
the least disputed by the enemy ; while 
on the other hand, another case in 1840 
shows that three hundred troops, with- 
out any guns, were able to prevent the 

landing of the crews of three men-of- 
war (the Benbow, Carysfort, and Zebra), 
mounting together one hundred and 
twenty-four guns, The risk of being 
forced to retire by the smallest resist- 
ance is the reason why naval officers of 
experience are so careful in selecting 
places for disembarkation. This is 
particularly the case when the disem- 
barkation is on a large scale, for then 
there is more time fur bad weather to 
come on, and the danger arises lest the 
party landing should be obliged to break 
off their operations, leaving the troops 
already on shore to their fate, when they 
would probably be soon thrown into the 
sea by superior forces. This is the 
reason why different points of the coast 
are of very different importance to the 
defender with respect to a landing. 
Small bodies of troops could land 
almost anywhere, but entire armies only 
where the locality is peculiarly suitable. 
Moreover, the advance of the fortifica- 
tion of London to the coast would en- 
able the navy to take an active part in 
the defence, which it could hardly do 
were it withdrawn from the coast. In 
1870-71 the crews of the French navy 
undoubtedly took a stirring part in the 
defence of the forts of Paris; but how 
much more service would they not have 
rendered if Paris had lain upon the 
sea, when they could have made use of 
their armed ships, and would have been 
acting on an element and in localities 
which they knew. 

It is not to be denied that the coast- 
line, even if we exclude Scotland, is 
very much longer than a ring run 
closely round London; but in fortifi- 
cation it is often seen that a greater 
extension gives a stronger form. He 
who, being in a valley surrounded by 

hills, seeks to make his defence in the - 

lower ground, will often be less able to 
resist than if he took up a position on 
the more distant barrier; and in the 
case of an island, it often happens that 
a position on the coast is preferable, 
partly on account of its steepness, partly 
from the prevalence of rocks and shoals, 
but principally because the enemy who 
proposes to land must undertake con- 

ee ea ee, ee ee. 

it ———_ an - een, ae 

siderable operations under fire without 
being able to answer. Bad weather gives 
the defender the respite he so often 
needs, an advantage enjoyed in much 
smaller measure in the defence of land 
fortifications. But few outposts are 
necessary to watch the enemy to sea- 
ward during such weather, and the 
whole of the rest of the force can take 
its repose without danger. 

By the fortification of the coast I do 
not mean the multiplication of such 
powerful batteries as those which in 
recent years have been erected at differ- 
ent points. Batteries for guns of posi- 
tion (upon Moncrieff carriages) are only 
required at certain very important points, 
and the greater part of the works would 
consist at the most merely of earthworks 
for the temporary shelter of field-guus, of 
breastworks for infantry, and chiefly in 
theconstruction of communications along 
and down to the coast, and of buildings 
for the shelter of troops, which could 
thus be kept at hand and in good con- 

Where long tongues of land stretch 
into the sea, interior entrenchments could 
be designed, cutting off such promon- 
tories, and so shortening the line of 
defence. Such entrenchments would 
certainly not impede any landing 
beyond them, but by tracing them suit- 
ably they could be made so strong that 
the enemy would never break through. 
The advance of the line of fortification 
to the coast should be accompanied by 
a system of defensive organization ; 
and this organization must, where not 
already existing, be properly prepared 
beforehand during peace. According 
to my view, the whole coast should be 
divided into districts ; and the militia, 
with the Volunteers in each district, 
should be practised in the defence of 
the adjacent coast-line, and in time of 
war be kept in readiness to be em- 
ployed on this duty. 

During peace a permanent command- 
ant of the districts should be appointed, 
with a suitable staff; they should make 
themselves familiar with the locality, 
and prepare such dispositions as in time 
of war might become necessary. 

An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 


It would be always competent to the 
commander-in-chief to concentrate his 
army in the interior of the country, or 
to detach portions of it to the most 
threatened parts of the coast, and so 
reinforce the Volunteers and territorial 
militia. Above all, a scheme of defence 
taking in all Great Britain and Ireland 
should be established. It is only in this 
way that it is possible to bring all the 
measures introduced by the War De- 
partment in peace time into harmony 
with what would be required in war. 
And if this is not attained, we may see 
the War Department preparing what 
is not wanted, and making omissions 
whieh, when war broke out, could not 
be rectified for want of time. 

The first consequence of the establish- 
ment of this scheme of defence would 
be a heavy task for the general staff— 
viz., the choice of the first points of 
coucentration and the best lines of 
operation, the taking note of the capa- 
bilities of the railways available, and 
the fixing of favourable points where 
resistance could be offered to the enemy, 
even after he might have penetrated 
the coast zone. It would then be the 
affair of the Engineer department to 
prepare during peace plans for forti- 
fying these positions differently, accord- 
ing to the time available, so that in 
case of need work could be at once 
commenced, and the usual loss of time 
spared. Itis, of course, understood that 
fortitications of this kind can only be of 
a temporary nature, and that the time 
allowed for construction would be the 
very shortest—perhaps not more than 
forty-eight hours. I cannot sufficiently 
urge this establishment of a general 
scheme of defence ; the advantage of it 
is, that it preserves us not only from 
incurring irreparable loss of time, but 
also from taking hurried and false 
measures. The commander of the army 
finds everything prepared to his hand, 
and it only needs his order to call the 
whole machinery into action. 

The adoption of field fortification 
as a means of strengthening the posi- 
tions of the army is entirely in accord- 
dance with what Colonel Jervois 

86 An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

in his tenth chapter quotes as the 
dictum of the Duke of Wellington: “I 
know of no mode of resistance, much 
less of protection, from the danger, ex- 
cept by an army in the field capable of 
meeting and contending with its for- 
midable enemy, aided by all means of 
fortifications which experience in war 
and science can suggest.” It cannot 
remain a matter of indifference whether 
this means is merely thought of as to 
be applied in case of war, or whether 
the ground is already surveyed and the 
plans made in peace. 

I readily agree with Colonel Jervois 
that it would be a grand misfortune to 
England if London were to fall into 
the enemy’s hands; but to prevent 
this calamity it appears to me more 
advantageous to defend the coast than 
to erect a special zone of works which, 
however much art is brought to bear 
in its construction, can never form 
such a giant obstacle as the sea, or be 
so unassailable as many parts of the 
coast already are by nature. It is to 
be understood that I except the line 
of the Thames from these remarks ; it 
should be made impossible to the 
enemy to avail himself of this approach, 
and if the works now existing in the 
river are insufficient, there is nothing 
to prevent their being strengthened and 
made more numerous. ‘Torpedoes, as 
an auxiliary for the defence of the 
Thames and other harbours, will con- 
tinue to be employed, but too much 
confidence should not be reposed in 
them; powerful guns are always the 
main thing. 

If, however, London must be fortified, 
I would, in opposition to the view taken 
by my honoured friend, plead for that 
which he calls an indirect defence—viz., 
not for fortification by means of a zone of 
detached forts (direct defence), but for 
the erection of some small-sized fortresses 
at a greater distance from London, and 
besides these for a light enceinte near 
London, of which Colonel Jervois makes 
no mention. 

Paris, Verona, Coblentz, are exam- 
ples of such a modern fortress, and 
the opinion is generally adopted that 

for the future no other system could or 
should be employed. “ Le systéme des 
forts détachés” is looked on as the 
optimum ; and if it could be said of a 
place, “ It has no detached forts,” people 
at once snapped their fingers at it. In 
joy at the discovery of this new system, 
which without doubt has many advan- 
tages, the disadvantages have been lost 
sight of. 

I will not enter into the details of 
how much less strength a chain of 
works with wide, unoccupied intervals 
must have, than a connected line, like 
that of the old enceintes; and I will 
be entirely silent over the great calamity 
which would ensue from the loss of a 
couple of forts, when the rest become 
uiseless ;—I confine myself here to the 
persona! question; a question which, as 
it appears to me, has been too little 
considered, but which in practice is of 
great import by reason of its many 

In a fortress of the old style, i.e. one 
with an enceinte merely, like old Ports- 
mouth, there was one, and but one, 
commandant. This officer could super- 
vise everything, give his orders person- 
ally, and be always on the spot where 
needed. This was an advantage for 
the commanders of detachments sub- 
ordinated to him, as they could easily 
refer to him, and so avoid the great 
responsibility of acting independently. 
jut how very different in the case of 
fortresses with detached forts! Here it 
is impossible for the commandant to see 
everything: very often he must make 
dispositions suddenly on no other data 
than news just received—often very 
meagre; and if he leaves his usual 
residence, it is possibly long before 
he is again found. Each detached 
fort must have its own individual com- 
mandant, who at one time is acting 
under the directions of the commander 
of the whole, at another on his own 
judgment, having in the latter case to 
bear the full weight of the responsibility. 
Besides this, these commandants often 
labour under the difficulty of having to 
handle arms with which they are in- 
differently acquainted, They would be 

An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

chiefly officers of Infantry—men who 
have little experience with the weapons 
of the Artillery, particularly with heavy 
guns, perhaps have hardly ever seen one, 
and yet suddenly would have to dispose 
of thirty or more! Many undoubtedly 
would soon master their new position, 
but many not, and particularly not those 
who belong to the mediocrities; and as 
these, after all, form the majority, we 
must keep them chiefly in view. If 
London is to be surrounded by a girdle 
of fifty detached forts—high as is my 
opinion of the British army—I think 
it will be no easy matter for the com- 
mander to find at once, amongst the 
troops under his orders, fifty individuals 
capable of fulfilling the very difficult 
duties attached to the post of com- 
mandant of a detached fort, more 
especially as the troops will, in all 
probability, not be well known to their 

This personal question induces me, 
therefore, in any plan for the fortification 
of London, to prefer what Colonel Jervois 
terms the indirect system, according to 
which the capital would be surrounded 
by a far smaller number of small fort- 
resses, each of them under the orders of 
an entirely independent commandant; 
the intervals between them being pre- 
pared as fast as possible for defence by the 
readiest available means. Thus London 
would have nothing to fear from a night 
attack, and obstacles would not be 
placed in the way of an extension of 
the town, as would be the case were 
lines erected. The small fortresses in 
question should be constructed exclu- 
sively for defensive purposes, offensive 
operations being left to the garrison and 
its commandant. Even if they were so 
far distant from each other that their 
guns did not command the intervals, no 
apprehension need be entertained of the 
line of these fortresses being permanently 
pierced, for no enemy could establish 
himself with a siege train on a spot to 
the rear of which, right and left, he 
knew he had positions occupied by his 
opponents, and armed with fortress 


8. Pantcs. 

Towards the conclusion of his lecture, 
Colonel Jervois speaks of the panics 
which periodically occur, and expresses 
an opinion that they will cease as soon 
as proper and definite plans are adopted 
fur the defence of Great Britain. 

Were measures taken in accordance 
with what I have stated above, I should 
concur in this opinion. If, on the other 
hand, Colonel Jervois thinks that these 
panics will cease simply because, instead 
of devoting all energies to the fortifi- 
cation of the coasts, London especially 
is fortified, I must remark that panics 
of this nature would be just as prevalent 
amongst those who have their homes out- 
side London. But I think these panics 
spring from other and deeper sources. 
They are caused much less bya want of 
defensive measures than by the recent 
policy of England. During the close of 
the wars against Napoleon I., England 
was a Power respected and feared: the 
marvellous victories of Aboukir and 
Trafalgar, of Vittoria and Waterloo, had 
contributed their share to the founda- 
tion of her prestige, which lasted long 
after the deposition of Napoleon. Eng- 
land was then at the zenith of her power 
and glory ; and because she then feared 
no one, there were then no panics. 

A great change has since then taken 
place in the position of England, not in 
consequence of the rise of another 
Great Power on the other side of the 
ocean, but because the statesmen of 
England have themselves been most 
active in bringing it about. From the 
moment when dreams of universal peace 
began to prevail, her policy changed, and 
being taken for absolute weakness, gave 
room for aggression abroad and panic at 

What, for example, can be thought of 
the conduct of a Power so rich and 
great as England, when, in spite of its 
strength and importance, she volun- 
tarily gives up Corfu, leaving the 
impression on the Continent that the 
foreign policy of England was hence- 
forth to be dictated by economy alone ? 
Who in former times would ever have 

ee ee 

88 An Austrian View of the Defence of England. 

dared even to mention the cession 
of Gibraltar? From an English point 
of view it will be asked, Did we not 
in the Crimean War destroy the Russian 
dockyards, and did we not, in order to 
liberate the Abyssinian prisoners, make 
a most expensive campaign? My reply 
is, that the destruction of those dock- 
yards was considered on the Continent 
as a very tardy revenge for the seizure 
of the Vixen, and that it was Napo- 
leon III. who set the Crimean War 
a-going. As to the Abyssinian War, it 
is known to many persons on the Con- 
tinent that the liberation of the captives 
was not its sole object. 

The power of Napoleon IIT. was 
increasing by means of the Suez Canal, 
his influence was taking root in Egypt, 
and all the efforts of English diplo- 
macy to defeat the Canal project had 
failed. It was consequently necessary 
to do something to strengthen the posi- 
tion of England in these regions, and 
to maintain the command of the road 
to India. 

Thus the causes which led to the 
Abyssinian campaign were political and 
commercial as well as humanitarian, 
although to English honour it must not 
be forgotten that she rescued prisoners 
who were not her own subjects. 

If England were the only nation in 
the world, an earthly paradise might 
result from the teaching of the policy of 
peace at any price : each man would live 
solely for his own interests, much money 
would be made, and many pleasures en- 
joyed. But besides England there are 
many other lands, where dwell nations 
entertaining very varied opinions. In- 
nate in some of these nations there is 
such flexibility of character, and so much 
mental quickness, that events occur sud- 
denly and in rapid succession ; and as 
the French, the neighbours of England, 
have these characteristics specially, it is 
no wonder that the lovers of peace are 
periodically awakened from their dreams 
by events which produce surprise and 
panic. As long as such dreams in- 

fluence public policy, there will be no 
cessation of panics, even though .Eng- 
land encase herself in Sir John Brown’s 
14-inch iron plates, and be made tuo 
bristle all over with Mr. Bessemer’s 30- 
inch steel guns. If English statesmen 
allow the present state of things to last 
much longer ; if they do not, as regards 
their foreign policy, revert to the prin- 
ciples of their predecessors who over- 
threw Napoleon I., England will, it is 
true, remain a great commercial country, 
but it will abdicate all claim to the title 
of a Great Power, sink down to the level 
of a larger Holland, and possibly at some 
future day become the prey of the old 
German race, led on by Germanized 
Slavs; or perhaps a colony of North 
America. It is a source of regret to me 
that the above remarks contain what 
may wound the feelings of an English 
patriot. But in a question of such 
importance, it has appeared to me neces- 
sary to mention all that can bear upon 
it, not with a view to causing pain, but 
in order to arrive at a clear idea of 
what is requisite as the basis of a plan 
of defence. Had I not touched on these 
matters, I should have failed to give my 
readers the reasons for my opinion, and 
thus been guilty of an omission which I 
should ever afterwards regret. I should 
ill requite the cordial reception which 
has on many occasions been given to 
me in England, if I failed to say what I 
have at heart, or spoke otherwise than 
I think. In conclusion, I regret that 
my views respecting the fortification of 
London do not coincide with those of 
Colonel Jervois. The cause of this lies 
in our looking at the matter from dif- 
ferent starting-points ; I therefore hope 
that he and those who share his opinions 
will not on this account bear me ill- 
will, And I would beg of all my 
readers to consider me, though a foreign 
critic, yet as a real friend, who, far from 
desiring the decline, is very anxious for 
the prosperity of England. 

Vienna, Sept. 1872.