[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 2.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
WHAT IS A PEER?
Judging from casual remarks often heard in ordinary conversation, it
would seem that not a few persons believe every man who is styled ‘Lord
So-and-so’ to be a peer. The notion indicated, though prevalent, is
wholly erroneous; and as the peerage of this realm, unlike that of
other countries, is a matter of substantial importance, not only in a
social but in a constitutional sense, an answer to the question, ‘What
is a peer?’ may not prove uninteresting.
The word ‘peer’ itself, etymologically, in no way denotes superiority
of position; on the contrary, strange to say, it denotes equality,
being simply a form of the Latin _par_, equal, and comes to us through
the French word _pair_, bearing the same meaning. How comes it, then,
that an ennobled person should be designated by a term which signifies
‘an equal?’; and of whom is such person an equal? One statement will
answer these questions—namely, that every peer of the realm is the
equal of every other peer of the realm—that is, of the United Kingdom;
just as the members of all other classes of the community are the peers
of each other in regard to citizen rights. We say ‘peer of the realm,’
because all peers are not entitled to be so styled. Thus, a member of
only the Irish peerage is not the equal of an English peer or a peer of
the realm, for the reason that he is not, by the mere reason of being
a peer of Ireland, entitled to a seat in the House of Lords. In other
words, he is not a peer or lord of parliament unless he is elected to
be such; a remark which requires explanation.
At the time of the union of Ireland with Great Britain, confirmed by
the statute 39 and 40 Geo. III. (1801), it was provided in the Act of
Parliament that the peers of Ireland should have the power to elect
twenty-eight representatives from amongst their own body to sit in the
Upper House of the united legislatures for life. Such representative
peers are chosen when necessary, and when elected, _are_ lords of
parliament, and have all the privileges of peers of the United Kingdom.
Other Irish peers who are not representative peers are in a very
different position. They are not lords of parliament, although they
_primâ facie_ enjoy all such privileges as appertain to the peerage
generally. And this being so, an Irish peer, whether representative
or not, cannot be arrested for debt, in which respect he is on an
equality with all peers of the realm. An Irish peer may also be elected
as a member of the House of Commons for a constituency in England
or Scotland (by 39 and 40 Geo. III. c. 67); but by such election he
becomes for the time being a commoner, and so _pro tem._ loses the
privileges of a peer. It will be remembered that Lord Palmerston, who
represented Tiverton in the House of Commons for so many years, was a
peer of Ireland; and the present member of parliament for East Suffolk,
Lord Rendlesham, is also an Irish peer. His lordship, therefore, though
the peer of all other Irish peers—not representative peers—is not a
peer of, say, Lord Carlingford and other noblemen who sit in the House
of Lords as of right.[1] Indeed, Lord Rendlesham, so long as he sits in
the Lower House of parliament, is of necessity simply a commoner.
As to peers of Scotland only, they also are entitled to elect
representatives out of their general body to sit in the House of Lords.
The number so elected is sixteen; but, unlike the Irish representative
peers, they sit only during the existence of the parliament for which
they are elected. On the other hand, a Scotch peer of any grade, unlike
an Irish peer, is a peer of Great Britain, and he cannot, therefore,
sit in the House of Commons for any constituency whatever. The only
difference between a Scotch peer and a peer of the United Kingdom
is, that the former cannot as of right—that is, unless elected a
representative peer—sit in the House of Lords; in all other respects he
is the peer of a peer of the realm.
When once, then, a nobleman—by which is here meant a person ennobled by
the Crown—takes his seat in the Upper House of parliament, he becomes
a peer of the realm—that is, a lord of parliament; and although the
well-known gradations of dukes, marquises, earls, viscounts, and barons
exist, yet, so far as parliamentary rights are concerned, all ennobled
persons who sit in the House of Lords are the peers or equals of each
other. We purposely make use of the word ‘nobleman,’ because the two
archbishops and all the bishops who sit there and vote too are not
peers; for although they are spiritual lords of parliament, are styled
‘My Lord,’ and—with the exception of the Bishop of Sodor and Man, who
has a ‘place but no voice’—may vote, they are not ‘noble,’ and their
dignity is not hereditary. For this reason, a peer merely for life, in
the absence of an Act of Parliament conferring privileges of peerage
upon him, would not be a ‘noble’ person. Accordingly, when Baron Parke
in 1856 was raised to the peerage for life as Lord Wensleydale, it was
decided by the Lords’ Committee of Privileges that his lordship could
not sit and vote as a peer. Selden, in his _Titles of Honour_, seems
to refer to life peerages as quite ordinary distinctions; but whether
they were so or not, it is clear that they were practically unknown,
or had fallen into disuse between his time (1584-1654) and that of
Lord Wensleydale. However, now, by section six of 39 and 40 Vict. c.
59 (the Appellate Jurisdiction Act, 1876), the Crown may appoint by
letters-patent two qualified persons to be Lords of Appeal in Ordinary,
with a salary of six thousand pounds per annum each. And these persons
shall be entitled for life to rank as Barons, ‘by such style as Her
Majesty shall be pleased to appoint, and shall during the time that
they continue in their office as Lords of Appeal in Ordinary, and no
longer, be entitled to a writ of summons to attend, and to sit and
vote in the House of Lords.’ But ‘their dignity as lords of parliament
shall not descend to their heirs.’ Since this enactment, three Lords of
Appeal in Ordinary have been created—namely, Lord Blackburn (formerly
Mr Justice Blackburn); Lord Gordon, who is dead; and Lord Watson. The
object of appointing these noble and learned persons to life peerages
is, ‘for the purpose of aiding the House of Lords in the hearing and
determination of appeals.’
So much for the term ‘peer’ as having reference to an ennobled
person.[2] But it is applicable, in fact, to all persons who are not
ennobled, for they are the ‘peers’ of each other. We all know the
old maxim that ‘every man has a right to be tried by his peers;’ in
other words, his equals. This is, in fact, one of the most important
features in Magna Charta: ‘No freeman shall be taken or imprisoned ...
otherwise than by the lawful judgment of his peers, or by the law of
the land.’ This of course applies as much to noblemen as to commoners,
although its application to the former is, as we shall directly see,
somewhat modified. If John Smith and Thomas Jones were to enter into a
conspiracy to dethrone the sovereign, they would be guilty of treason,
and would be tried by their peers—namely, a common jury; but if the
Duke of A. and Viscount B., peers of parliament, conspired with a like
intent, they also would be entitled to be tried by their peers—who,
however, would be members of the House of Lords. Also, if Brown, Jones,
or Robinson, either singly or in combination, committed burglary,
arson, forgery, robbery, embezzlement, they, or he, would be guilty of
felony, and would be tried by their peers. So also would the Duke of A.
or the Earl of C., &c., as before. But if a peer of parliament were to
obtain money under false pretences, or commit perjury, he would not be
entitled to be tried in these cases by his peers, but would be tried by
those who are his peers only as members of the community. For although
the last-named offences are undoubtedly serious, the law regards them
as less so than the others, and styles them misdemeanours.[3] In all
trials for misdemeanours, then, a peer of parliament, when arraigned
upon a charge coming within this category, is only regarded as a peer
of persons in the lower grades of society. And although members of
the House of Lords enjoy immunity from arrest in civil cases—as do
also members of the House and barristers too when going to and from a
court—yet they are just as liable to arrest in any criminal case as
all other subjects are, so that here also they are only the peers of
their fellow-men whether noble or simple. As regards the proceedings
in courts of law, a peer is liable to be subpœnaed, and must, like a
commoner, obey the subpœna. And although, when acting on a jury[4] for
the purpose of deciding the guilt or innocence of a peer arraigned for
treason or felony, he is entitled—unlike a common juror—to give his
judgment on his honour, yet if he be called as a witness in a court of
law, he must, like any other man, be sworn on oath.
A peer when indicted, is bound, like any commoner, to plead to the
indictment; and if convicted, is liable to be punished precisely like
any other man (4 and 5 Vict. c. 22).
From what has been said, it will be seen that the civil rights of
peers are pretty much the same as those of all other subjects. What
privileges the most exalted peer possesses are rather of an ornamental
than a substantial character. And as every man, however humble may be
his origin, has a chance of becoming a peer, the complaints sometimes
heard about peers being a privileged class, &c., have, apart from
political considerations, but little foundation. Their so-called
privileges may thus be enumerated: They are exempt from arrest for
debt; they have a hereditary place in parliament, and, unlike members
of the House of Commons, they may vote by proxy, and may record their
‘protest’ against proceedings in their own House in its journals; as
permanent counsellors of the sovereign, they have an individual right
of access to the sovereign’s presence and audience while there; they
may wear coronets appropriate to their peerage rank, and scarlet cloth
robes marked in accordance with their degree; they are entitled to be
called ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Most Honourable,’ ‘Your Lordship’ or ‘Right
Honourable,’ according to circumstances. And when addressed by the
sovereign, they are styled his or her ‘cousin,’ with a variety of
ceremonious and endearing epithets prefixed to that term, more or less
so according to their rank. They may also sit in courts of law with
their hats on, if they like, during the proceedings.[5] And this will
explain why a peer is always accommodated with a seat on the bench in
court, when plain Mr Smith is either incapable of getting in at all, or
if in, is relegated to the gallery or other portion of the court set
apart for the public.
A man may be a peer by prescriptive right, by creation, or by
hereditary right; and peers are created in two ways, either by the
ancient mode of writ of summons, or by letters-patent. At the present
day, persons are almost invariably ennobled by the latter process. For
if a person summoned by the sovereign to attend parliament as a peer,
should die before he can take his seat, the peerage so created would
fail, and would, therefore, not descend to his heir. On the other hand,
a peerage created by letters-patent descends to the heir of the person
so ennobled under any circumstances. The writ of summons, however, is
not obsolete, and is used when, for some reason, it is deemed desirable
to call the eldest son of a peer to the Upper House of parliament
during his father’s lifetime. In this case, whether the person summoned
does or does not take his seat, is obviously immaterial, so far as the
descent of the father’s peerage is concerned, because, if the eldest
son has a son, the grandfather’s title will descend to him, if he
outlives his grandfather. When the eldest son of a peer is summoned to
the Upper House in his father’s lifetime, he sits by the baronial title
of the peerage. Thus, the Earl of Albemarle, who is also Viscount Bury
and Baron Ashford, being, in 1876, advanced in years, his eldest son,
Viscount Bury, was summoned to the House of Lords, not, however, as
such, but as Baron or Lord Ashford.
In the creation of a peerage, the limitations—that is to say,
the arrangements as to how it shall descend—may be analogous to
the limitations of real estate; for a title is just as much a
hereditament—which simply means something that can be inherited—as an
acre of land, except that the latter is termed in law a corporeal or
tangible hereditament, and the former an incorporeal hereditament.
Accordingly, a title may be _in fee_, in which case it will descend to
the heirs-general of the first holder; _in tail_, male or female, when
it descends to the eldest son, &c., or his brothers and their eldest
sons, &c.; or it may be, as we have seen, _for life_, when, at the
death of the holder, it expires.
Thus, not only may a man be created a peer, but a woman may also be
ennobled; and a woman may also occupy the status of a peeress by
marriage, whereas a man never can by marriage occupy even the status of
a peer. There are several instances of ladies holding peerages, as may
be seen by referring to Sir Bernard Burke’s magnificent and interesting
work; but we have no dukedom, marquisate, or viscounty, in what may be
called the female peerage. Peeresses by descent or by creation are the
only persons who are legally entitled to be called ‘Ladies in their
own right,’ and their titles descend to their sons and their daughters
according to circumstances. Real peeresses, and also those by marriage,
have most of the privileges of peers; but of course they cannot sit in
parliament and so forth; and if a peeress by marriage, being a widow,
remarries with a commoner, all her privileges cease, although she may
retain her title conferred by the first marriage. A peeress in her own
right, however, who marries a commoner is still a peeress, and does not
forfeit any of her privileges as such; but, as before indicated, she
cannot ennoble her husband, although she may her son or her daughter—of
course, after her own decease—by transmitting her title to him or her.
Daughters of dukes, marquises, and earls, are usually designated by
the title of ‘Lady,’ their Christian names being used before their
patronymic; and we often hear that Lady Matilda So-and-so is a lady in
her own right. Such, however, is not a correct statement; for the title
in such case is held by no absolute right, but only by a custom, itself
founded on what is called ‘the courtesy of the realm’—_curialitas
regni_.
And this brings us to an examination of the opening statement in our
paper—namely, that many people appear to think that every man styled
Lord So-and-so is necessarily a peer.
Now we have shown what a peer _is_; and it may be safely asserted, that
every person in this kingdom, be he whom he may, if not entitled to the
description we have given of a peer, his status, and his privileges,
is, to all intents and purposes, a commoner, just as much as though
he were a costermonger. But we have marquises, earls, viscounts, and
lords, in the House of Commons, and how is it that they sit there
bearing their titles? The answer is, that although they bear titles,
yet such are not titles of nobility, but are simply designations
allowed them by reason of their father’s rank; the permission being
accorded, as in the case of daughters of dukes, marquises, and earls,
by the ‘courtesy of the realm.’
Many dukes[6] have also a marquisate, an earldom, a viscounty, and a
barony attached to their dukedom; many marquises are earls, viscounts,
and barons; in the same way, an earl is generally a viscount and a
baron; while a viscount may have a barony attached to his peerage.
By the courtesy of England, the eldest son of all the peers above
mentioned, except the last, is allowed to assume his father’s second
title; but in reality such eldest son is in every respect nothing but
a commoner, so far as his legal rights are concerned. Thus, the eldest
son of the Duke of Bedford is styled Marquis of Tavistock, his father’s
second title; but as M.P. for Bedfordshire, he was not elected to sit
by that title, but as the Honourable So-and-so Russell, or rather,
perhaps, as So-and-So Russell, Esquire, commonly called Marquis of
Tavistock. And a similar rule prevails as to all other similar cases,
including instances where any son, not the eldest of a duke or marquis,
sits in the Lower House, which persons are all styled ‘Lord,’ with
their Christian and family surnames affixed. Thus, ‘Lord’ Randolph
Churchill, who is in law, Randolph Churchill, Esquire, commonly called
Lord Randolph Churchill, sits as member of parliament for Woodstock.
But neither he nor any other person bearing a mere courtesy title is
really a ‘nobleman,’ still less is he a peer of parliament, but in
legal contemplation a peer only of his own peers—that is to say, of
every commoner of the realm, and has no inherent rights or privileges
which they do not possess.
The eldest son of the sovereign is born a peer as Duke of Cornwall,
and as such, at twenty-one, is entitled to sit and vote in the House
of Lords. The other sons of the sovereign are not born peers, although
they are Princes, but they may be created peers; and to enable his or
her sons to sit in parliament, the sovereign usually confers peerages
on his or her younger sons. Hence, Prince Alfred became Duke of
Edinburgh; Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught; and Prince Leopold, Duke
of Albany. As Princes, they could not sit in parliament; but having
been created peers, they can sit and vote and exercise all the other
rights of peers.
It does not follow that a peer of a certain grade in the Scottish or
Irish peerage, although entitled a peer of parliament, necessarily sits
and votes in the Upper House by the title which he ordinarily bears.
Thus, the Duke of Argyll as a lord of parliament is not really a duke,
but only a baron; and in the division lists of the House of Lords he is
always mentioned among the barons as Lord Sundridge. Again, the Duke of
Leinster, who, as regards the Irish peerage, is premier duke, marquis,
and earl, is nevertheless only Viscount Leinster so far as the House of
Lords is concerned, and by such title he sits and votes. As a matter
of politeness, however, both of the two distinguished persons just
mentioned are severally referred to by their more exalted titles when
spoken of in the House, or when their speeches are reported. Again,
locality does not necessarily indicate the status of a nobleman. Thus,
Lord Rendlesham, an Irish peer, takes his title from a Suffolk village;
and Lord Emly—formerly the Right Honourable W. Monsell—who takes his
title from a place in Ireland, is a peer of the United Kingdom. So also
of the Earls of Erroll and Enniskillen, who have respectively Scotch
and Irish titles, but are yet English peers—though the English peerage
is technically held in each case under a different title from that by
which these peers are generally known.
Lastly, although the grades of the peerage are dukes, marquises, earls,
viscounts, and barons, yet of these, earl is the oldest title so far
as regards the British peerage. The first earldom extant, though not
the first created, is that of Arundel, created by King Stephen in 1139.
Next come barons, of whom, however, we read long before the Conquest.
The first barony in the peerage is that of Kingsale (1181), already
alluded to. Dukes follow the barons, the first of them having been the
Duke of Cornwall, son of Edward III., created in 1377; then marquises,
the first of whom was De Vere, Marquis of Dublin, in the reign of
Richard II. (1377-1399). Not until the reign of Henry VI. (1422-1461)
do we hear of viscounts, and the title of the first viscounty—namely,
that of Viscount Beaumont, created in 1440—no longer exists.
We have thus endeavoured to answer the question, ‘What is a Peer?’ and
we trust that the foregoing statements have assisted any reader who may
have previously entertained confused notions concerning the subject
dealt with.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It may be observed with regard to the Irish peerage, that the
Crown can create a new peer of Ireland only as often as three peerages
existing in 1801 become extinct. But in order to keep the peerage of
Ireland up to the number of one hundred, if one of that number becomes
extinct, the Crown may then create another. Of course we refer to the
Irish peerage pure and simple, and do not include peers who are peers
of Ireland as well as of the United Kingdom. As a peerage merely of
Ireland or of Scotland confers an empty title and nothing more, such a
dignity has ceased to be created.
[2] Peers as noblemen have likewise been styled by the Latin and French
appellations of Magnates, Les Grandes, Proceres, Domini, Seigneurs, and
Pares Regni.
[3] The distinction between felony and misdemeanour at common law was,
that a conviction for the former caused a forfeiture of the offender’s
goods, &c., to the Crown. The latter did not have this effect. The Act
33 and 34 Vict. c. 23 abolishes forfeiture for treason and felony; but
the distinction in other respects between felonies and misdemeanours
still exists.
[4] A jury of peers would be technically described as ‘the
lords-triers.’
[5] One peer, Lord Kingsale, of the Irish peerage, is entitled to be
covered even in the sovereign’s presence. This singular privilege is
of very ancient date. The peerage itself was created in 1181, and the
present holder of it is the thirty-first baron.
[6] We say ‘many,’ because all dukes, &c., do not hold the successive
titles. Thus, the eldest son of the Duke of Richmond and Gordon bears
the courtesy title of Earl of March, and by such style sits in the
House of Commons as member of parliament for West Sussex.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER III.—WHAT IS TO BE.
The master of Willowmere, Dick Crawshay, was recognised throughout
the county as a perfect specimen of the good old style of yeoman
farmer. He was proud of the distinction, and proud of upholding all
the traditions of his rapidly diminishing class. It was not so much
owing to eccentricity or vanity, as to simple faith in what he believed
to be due to his position, that his dress invariably combined the
characteristics of the past and the present. His top-boots and breeches
were like those worn by his father; his long waistcoat was after the
pattern of his grandfather’s; whilst his short coat and billycock hat
belonged in some degree to his own day.
Rough and ready, outspoken in friendship or enmity, quick-tempered,
but never bearing malice, his whole creed was that a man should mean
what he says and say what he means. He was huge in person, height and
breadth, and many people had good reason to know that he was equally
huge in kindliness of heart.
Legends of his feats of strength in wrestling, boxing, horse-training
and riding, were often recounted by the old men of the district as
worthy examples of skill and prowess for their grandchildren to
emulate, or to amuse their cronies in the taproom of the _Cherry Tree_.
‘Ah, when I thinks on that day of the Hunt Cup Steeplechase, thirty
year ago!’ old Jerry Mogridge used to mumble over his jug of foaming
ale. ‘The young Maister—he were the young Maister Dick in them
days—entered his ’oss against some o’ the best blood out o’ Yorkshire,
not to mention what our own county turned out, and we had some rare
uns. We don’t have no such riding nor no such ’osses, I do believe,
nowadays.’
Then Jerry would pause to reflect over departed glories, press down the
ashes of his long clay-pipe carefully with his third finger and draw a
long breath.
‘You was there, Jerry,’ his neighbour observed.
‘There I was, for sure. And there was Maister Dick with his horse
Goggles that he was ready to back agin anything on four legs. It
were a sight, I tell you. Nine on ’em started, and Goggles took the
lead right away’—here old Jerry, with the stem of his pipe serving
as a pencil, began to trace on the table the imaginary lines of the
course—‘he cleared the water-jump pretty, and maybe half a dozen came
after. On the flat they was nigh equal, but—Lor’ bless you—Goggles was
only laughin’ at ’em. _He_ knowed as he could get away as soon as the
Maister pleased to give him head. They was a’most abreast when they
came near the ugly fence down by Farmer Tubbs’s land. Then Goggles got
his way. He were as brave as a lion—or a unicorn, for the matter o’
that—and he took the fence at the nighest but the worst part. We see
him rise in the air as it might be, and dip again. Then—well, then, if
he didn’t roll right over, and Maister Dick turned a somersault into
the ditch.’
There Jerry would stop again in order that his listeners might realise
the full horror of the position, emitting half-a-dozen deliberate puffs
of smoke from his mouth, and proceed with the pride of a bearer of good
news.
‘But the Maister was on his feet again afore you could count your
fingers. So was Goggles. The Maister give him a pat on the neck and,
says he: “If you can do it Goggles, I’m game.” With that he jumps into
the saddle and went tearin’ after them as was proud to think that he
was out o’ the chase, and he caught ’em up, and when they were about a
quarter of a mile from home, Goggles put on an extra spurt and came in
first by a neck. But that weren’t the end on it, for while everybody
was a-crowdin’ round about him, Dr Mauldon says:
‘“What’s the matter with your right arm, Dick, that it’s hangin’ so
limp-like at your side?”
‘“Dunno what it may be,” says Dick; “but it’s been no use to me since
we tumbled over the fence.”
‘“Broken, sure-ly,” says the doctor angry-like, “and you went on riding
the race—you’re a fool.”
‘“But I won it,” says Dick, “and I’m main proud on it, for there’s
summat more nor the cup hanging on to Goggles this blessed day.”
‘Six months after that steeplechase, he married Hesba Loughton,’ the
old man concluded with subdued but suggestive emphasis.
From that day the homestead of Willowmere had been a merry one,
notwithstanding the dark shadows which had from time to time crossed
it. Three children had been born, but one by one had passed away,
leaving a blank in the lives of mother and father which nothing could
fill. But it made them the more ready to welcome the child of Mrs
Crawshay’s sister when misfortune fell upon her. Madge had been at once
taken into their hearts as their own child, and had grown up with as
much love and respect for them as she could have given to her parents
proper.
On their part Mr and Mrs Crawshay were devoted to the girl, and allowed
her from the first to be mistress of the whole house. She wanted
books, they were at once obtained: she wanted a piano, and her wish was
gratified. In her education, they spared neither care nor money, but
Crawshay would never consent to her being banished to a boarding-school.
So she had grown up quite a home-bird, as her uncle used to say; being
endowed with mental capacity, however, she had made the most of every
opportunity for reading and learning. And through it all she took her
share in the household work, and her guardians had reason to be proud
of her.
Until the present occasion her uncle had never hinted that he expected
to be consulted in her choice of a husband. Even now he only warned
her that he would not approve of any of the Ringsford family. But the
warning came late, and surprised her the more as no distinct reason was
advanced for it. Although there had been no formal announcement that
she and Philip had come to the conclusion that they had been born for
each other and were dutifully ready to accept their fate, he had for
some time been regarded as her chosen suitor.
Their wooing had been free from petty concealments, and there had
not been much formal discussion on the subject between themselves.
Unconsciously they realised the fact that man or woman can no more be
in love and not know it than have the toothache and not feel it. They
may coquette with fancy but not with love. They may in modesty try to
hide it, but they know it is there. So there had been no ‘set scene’ of
asking and granting. A flash of the eyes—a touch of the hand—a quick,
joyful little cry—a kiss and all was known. They loved: they knew it;
and were happy in their hope of the future that lay before them.
This sudden change of her uncle’s mind in regard to Philip—for of
course he could refer only to him when he spoke of the Ringsford
people—presented a problem with which she had never expected to be
tried. Suppose her guardians should forbid her to marry Philip, would
she be able to obey them? Ought she to obey them?
There was no present answer for the questions, and yet they could
not be dismissed from the mind. She was glad to find that Philip was
innocent of any conscious cause of offence, and pleased that he should
go at once to seek an explanation.
* * * * *
The stables, the barn, with their red-tile roofs washed with varying
shades of green, the cow-house and piggeries with a white row of
labourers’ cottages, formed a cosy group of buildings by the side of
the green lane which led from Willowmere to the main road between the
village of Kingshope and the little town of Dunthorpe.
Crawshay was standing in the gateway with a tall gentleman whose
features were almost entirely concealed by thick black beard, whiskers,
and moustache. By way of contrast perhaps, he wore a white hat. His
dark-blue frock-coat was buttoned tightly; in his claret-coloured scarf
was a horseshoe pin studded with diamonds; his boots were covered by
yellow gaiters. A smart man, evidently of some importance. He was
discussing with Crawshay the merits of a horse which was being trotted
up and down the lane for their inspection.
‘You won’t find anywhere a better bit of horse-flesh for your purpose,’
Crawshay was saying whilst he held the stem of an acorn-cup in the side
of his mouth like a pipe.
‘When you say that, Crawshay, I am satisfied, and he would be a fool
who was not. We’ll consider it a bargain.’
‘Give her another turn, Jerry.—There’s action for you!’ he added with
enthusiasm as the animal was trotted up and down the lane again.
‘There’s form!—proper, ain’t it? Seems to me that I can’t part with
her.’
‘You cannot help it now: we have struck the bargain,’ rejoined the
purchaser, grinning. He was aware that the farmer’s exclamation was
in no degree akin to any of the horse-dealer’s tricks to enhance the
animal’s value.
‘Well, you are a neighbour, Mr Wrentham, and that is always a sort of
comfort.’
‘I’ll be good to her, never fear. Now, I’m off.—Hullo, Hadleigh, how
are you? I am just bolting to catch my train. Good-bye.’
Mr Wrentham walked smartly into the stable-yard, got into his gig and
drove off, waving his hand to his two friends as he passed through the
gateway.
Philip, who just then had entered the gateway, was glad to see him go:
first, because he did not like the man, although frequently forced
into contact with him; and, second, because he wanted to be alone with
Crawshay.
The latter had not displayed any coldness and had given him the
customary greeting. He was patting the mare he had just sold and
passing his hand affectionately over her flanks whilst he repeated
various expressions of admiration, the burden of them all being:
‘He’s got a rare bargain, but he’s a smart fellow and he’ll be good to
you, old girl.’
‘I have been hunting for you everywhere,’ said Philip with his frank
smile and without any fear of the explanation which was about to take
place. ‘Are you going up to the house just now?’
‘No; I was meaning to go down to see how the lads are getting on with
the wheat. Am I wanted at the house?’
‘Not particularly; but I want to have a chat with you.’
‘Come along then. There’ll be time enough for chatting as we cross the
Merefield. What is it?’
‘That is exactly what I have got to ask you. What have I been doing
that you have been upsetting Madge by telling her that she is to have
nothing more to do with me?’
They were in the field—an extensive plain which had been once a morass.
Drainage and cultivation had converted it into valuable meadow-land.
The hedges which bounded it were studded with willows, and three trees
of the same kind formed a group in the centre. These trees and the
nature of the ground had doubtless suggested the name of the farm. In
wet seasons the Merefield justified its title by presenting a sheet
of water sometimes more than a foot deep, in spite of drains and
embankment to keep the river out.
‘That’s right, Philip, lad—straight from the shoulder; and I’ll make
answer likewise. I never told Madge that she was to have nought more
ado with you.’
‘I was sure of it,’ exclaimed the lover in cheerful confidence; ‘and
now I may call you Uncle Dick again. But you have given her a scare—you
know how seriously she takes things, and you will have to tell her
yourself that it was only your fun.’
Crawshay’s face had at first assumed an expression of internal
chuckling at some joke which amused and yet did not altogether please
him. Now, however, his brows contracted slightly, and he spoke gravely.
‘Ah, but it weren’t all fun neither.’
‘Then what in the name of goodness was it? I know that you had some
disagreement with my guv’nor the other day; but you are not going to
make us miserable on that score.’
‘I don’t want to put you out on any score: but your father may.’
‘My father!—nonsense. What could make you fancy that he would interfere
with me in this matter?’
Crawshay halted, close by the three willows, clasped his hands behind
him and looked straight at his young friend.
‘I am not going to tell you ought about what passed atween your
father and me,’ he said resolutely. ‘You can ask him if you like; but
if you’ll take a word of counsel from me, you won’t do it. You can
understand this much, however; I am not going to stand in your way with
Madge; but I am not going to let you stand in Madge’s way, neither.’
‘I do not see how that can be,’ answered Philip, perplexed by
Crawshay’s words and manner, ‘since we two have only one way before us.’
‘That is to say you think so now’——
‘And shall always.’
‘Ay, ay; we understand all that,’ said the elder, nodding with the
regretful scepticism of experience; ‘but there never was any harm done
by making sure of every foothold when passing through a bog. See if
we can’t clear things up a bit. When are you going away on this grand
journey that’s to make your fortune?’
‘In about a fortnight.’
‘And you’ll be away how long?’
‘Perhaps a year.’
‘Maybe two—maybe three.’
‘O no; there is no probability of that.’
‘There’s no saying. But what I want to be at now—and mind you, I’m not
doubting you, and I’m not like to doubt Madge—what I want to be at is
that while you are away in foreign parts you may change your mind—hold
hard a minute—Madge may change hers. Heaps of things may happen. So
that all I meant by what I said to her the other night is that you
should both be welcome to change if you think it best for yourselves.
So there are to be no bindings and pledges atween you. If you come back
and are of the same mind and she is content, I will not be against
you. Is it a bargain? It is a fair one, though you mayn’t think it
now; but you are not the lad I take you for if you don’t own it to be
common-sense and agree to it.’
‘I cannot see anything in it to disturb us,’ said Philip, ‘since you
leave us free to please ourselves.’
‘Ay, but you understand that when I say _free_, I mean it. If you are
going back to the house, you can tell Madge everything I’ve said.’
‘We could not desire any other arrangement. I am content, and she will
be. Whatever your tiff with my father may be about, it will not bother
us.’
‘Ah, you had better wait till you hear what he has to say,’ observed
the yeoman, with a droll shadow of a grin, as if he again recalled that
joke which amused but did not please him.
A ROMANCE OF ALMANACS.
If any book deserves the name of ‘irrepressible,’ it is the almanac.
Notwithstanding its great antiquity, it is still important; and though
we grow old, it renews its youth every year, and greets us regularly
with a kind of good-natured, ‘Here I am again!’ The oldest almanac in
existence is an Egyptian one, and may be seen in the British Museum.
Buried nearly three thousand years ago with some human contemporary
of Rameses the Great, it has been brought to light again, and copied
in fac-simile. Twenty-five columns are wholly or partially preserved.
The fortunate days are marked in black ink, and the unfortunate in
red—a curious instance of a superstition which European nations
have reversed. It contains observations about religious ceremonies,
cautions against unlucky times, and predictions as to the fate of
children born on certain days. But apart from this immense antiquity,
we find almanacs early occupying an important part in the Christian
economics. Indeed, to churchmen and to church-goers, they soon became
indispensable; the more so, as fast days, feast days, and saints’ days
increased in number.
Written almanacs of later date have not been traced farther back than
the second century; but from the eighth to the fifteenth there are many
beautiful specimens in existence. For every Missal, Psalter, Breviary,
&c., had a calendar in the beginning, pointing out to the faithful the
Church’s fasts and feasts; and King Athelstan’s Psalter, 703 A.D., also
exhibits lunar tables.
In Saxon almanacs, the signs of the zodiac do not appear; each month
is typified by some domestic or agricultural symbol—thus, ploughing
represents February; apple-gathering, September; the Christmas feast,
December. The illustrations of French almanacs of the same period
distinctly mark the nationality; while those of Flemish and Italian
origin are remarkable for their delicate fancies and marvellous beauty
of colouring. The French had also rhymes, preserving, in short,
satirical remarks, national peculiarities and prejudices.
After the tenth century, the almanacs were the great repositories of
astrology, medicine, proverbial wisdom, and popular superstitions.
All of them had lists of the lucky and unlucky days; but as yet there
were no predictions. Learned churchmen stealthily cultivated astrology
and astronomy; but the vulgar were left in ignorance as to whether
doleful Saturn was diffusing his baleful influence, or fiery Mars
bringing war and bloodshed. Each month in the year had at least two
unfortunate days, except April, which had only one; but that was the
terrible Walpurgis Night, specially given up to demons and witches.
However, as the English list differed from the French, and the French
from the Italian, a man by having the whole three could cheat fate and
defy misfortune. Friday has always been a black day; and there are even
yet people who have a mysterious dislike to it, who never heard of the
thirteen reasons duly set forth in these old almanacs, such as the
killing of Abel, the slaughter of the Innocents, the beheading of John
the Baptist, &c.
No part of these old almanacs is more positive and more unpleasant than
the medical department. Bleeding and herb-teas are specifics for every
malady. Each month had its particular herb, and nearly every month its
libation of human blood. September had two—the ‘liver vein’ is said to
be then ‘full of venom;’ and bleeding at the beginning and end of the
month, ‘most needful and comforting.’
From the homely character of the information in these early almanacs,
it is evident that they were intended for general use, and it is
probable every burgher possessed one; for we are apt to underrate the
extent of manuscript literature, and to overrate its price. That the
number of copyists was very great, is evident from the complaints
following the invention of printing, which, it was said, ‘deprived
hundreds of bread.’ Of these manuscript almanacs, three famous ones
remain—that in Lambeth Palace, bearing the date of 1460; that of John
Somers, written in Oxford, five hundred years ago; and the Oxford
almanac of 1386. The last was printed as a curiosity at the beginning
of the present century; and it may be noted, that in early days, Oxford
was the centre of almanac manufacture, astronomy and surgery being
mixed with religion and history.
The first printed almanac was published in Buda-Pesth in 1475.
Twenty years after it, the first printed English almanac appeared.
It contained much miscellaneous information; but the compiler was
consistently and gloriously mysterious. Others rapidly followed.
Twenty-five years ago, an almanac of that period (1495) was found in an
old chest in Edinburgh, and placed in the Bodleian Library, where it
may now be seen. It has on its title-page, ‘Flete Strete, by Wynkin de
Worde;’ and it consists of fifteen leaves, each leaf two inches square.
A French almanac which began to appear about this time, is still
published. It is called _Le Grand Compost et Calendrier des Bergers_,
and it claims to be four hundred years old. _A Prognostication of
Righte Goode Effecte_, was set forth by Leonard Digges in London, 1553.
It contains some queer astronomical and astrological observations. In
it we are told that the moon is fifteen thousand seven hundred and
fifty miles from the earth, and Mercury only twelve thousand eight
hundred and twelve; that Saturn’s conjunction with the moon caused
unlucky days; but the moon with Jupiter, fortunate ones. Venus gave
luck to woo and marry, and make pleasant pastimes, and, strangely
enough, ‘blood-letting’ is included among the latter. Mercury was good
to buy and sell under, and to send children to school.
Dr Dee’s almanac followed in 1571. This is a regular almanac, having a
list of days down one side of the page, and the other left blank for
memoranda. In this almanac we find among the rhymes that useful one
beginning, ‘Thirty days hath September,’ &c. Dr Dee’s almanac did not
make any prophecies, except against the Turk and the Pope, the downfall
of both of whom was constantly foretold. Before the end of Elizabeth’s
reign, almanacs had become a popular necessity. Many of them had shrewd
touches at the times—at the pride of the nobles, at the tricks of the
lawyers; and Pond in 1611 includes all the three ‘learned professions’
in his evil list.
The importance of the almanac from a commercial point of view
originally occurred to James I. He granted a monopoly of these
publications to the Stationers’ Company and the two universities, and
so filled his exchequer. We have a volume before us containing sixteen
almanacs for the year 1615. One of the chief things to be noted in
this collection is the list of historical events which at that date
were thought worth remembering. They are—the invention of printing,
the capture of Boulogne, the sweating sickness, the great plague, the
great frost of 1564, a blazing star in 1572, a deep snow in 1581, the
camp at Tilbury in 1588, the taking of Cadiz in 1596. Bretnor, a famous
almanac-maker of James’s reign, has the good and evil days in tables,
with warnings in such droll phrases, that they are worth a short
quotation. Thus the month of January shows that
4, 8. All that you can. 1, 2, 7. Lost labour.
9. What you desire. 3, 5, 6. On the losing side.
13, 14. Both heart and hand. 10, 11, 12. All for your harm.
17, 18. A fast friend.
21, 22, 23. Well ventured. 15, 16. Nothing to your purpose.
28, 29. Through the briers. 19, 20. But hard hap.
30, 31. Past hope of recovery. 24, 25, 26, 27. Unfit for thy purpose.
Early in the reign of Charles I., the first commercial almanac was
published. It may be called the first _Poor Richard_. It contained
tables of interest, necessary tables of expenses, pithy proverbs
inculcating frugality and industry, and the usual melange of astrology
and medicine. About the same time the religious almanac appeared. A
rigid Puritan called Ranger was its editor. It is a gloomy production.
In Cromwell’s time, the almanacs are of a religious character; all
receipts and directions end ‘sermonwise.’ The famous William Lilly was
at this time the prince of astrologists and almanac-makers. At first,
he prophesied for the king. But he was shrewd enough to see, without
casting any horoscope, whose star was in the ascendant; and very soon
all the stars in their courses fought against Charles.
As a matter of statecraft, James did a wise thing when he legalised
astrology. Almanacs have always had a great influence with the mass;
and it was a subtle device to give the liberty of prophesying after
that legitimate fashion which should gloss with superstition ‘the
divine right of kings.’ But the universities finally grew ashamed
of their connection with the almanac, and sold their rights to the
Stationers’ Company. This Company was always on the side of the
ruling power. It had prophesied for Charles, and it had prophesied
for Cromwell. It sang Te Deum for the Restoration, as it had done for
the Protectorate. It dated its little books from the year ‘of our
deliverance by King William from popery and arbitrary government;’ and
it invoked the blessing of the planets on the last of the Stuarts.
When Lilly died, the Company employed his pupil Gadbury; and when
Gadbury died, his relative, Job Gadbury, prophesied through another
generation of credulous dupes. Then came the infamous John Partridge,
who was pilloried by Swift’s wicked wit in 1709. But at that time he
had been prophesying for the Stationers’ Company forty years. After
Swift’s attack, he refused to predict, and the Company, who did not
like to be laughed out of the profits of his reputation, published an
almanac which had Partridge’s name to it, but which Partridge never
wrote. This almanac was still dragging on an existence in 1828, with
the sins of a century and a half on its head. Francis Moore began
his career of imposture in 1698, and _Poor Robin_, the ribald hoary
jester of the Company, about the same time. A dozen years after the
Restoration, it also published a _Yea and Nay Almanac for the People
called by the men of the world, Quakers_. A more atrocious libel on
their faith and morals it is impossible to imagine.
In 1775, an enterprising bookseller called Carnan became possessed
with the idea that this corporation had no legal right to its monopoly
in almanacs, and he published one of his own. The Company sent him to
prison as regularly as he sold his annual commodities; but Carnan was
not a man to be put down. It is said he always kept a clean shirt in
his pocket, ready for a decent appearance before the magistrates; and
at length the Common Pleas decided in his favour. Then the Stationers’
Company appealed to Lord North; and as that minister wanted prophecies
to make the war against the American colonies popular, he brought in a
bill to the House of Commons re-investing the Company with the monopoly
which had been declared illegal. The two universities also—which had an
annuity from the Company—used all their influence against the solitary
bookseller. But he had a good cause, and he had Erskine to plead it;
and he triumphed.
When the French Revolution came, Moore was more terrific in his
prophecies and more awful in his hieroglyphics than ever. The people
wondered and trembled, and the sale of this almanac reached a point
without parallel in the annals of imposture. But the continent of
Europe had a rival even to Moore in the famous almanac of Liége. A
tradition ascribes it first to a canon who lived in 1590. Its early
numbers are published ‘with the permission of the superior powers;’
the later ones are content with ‘the favour of His Highness.’ It is
full of political predictions. In 1700, a French almanac called the
_Almanach Royal_ started a new idea, the one which has since made the
_Almanach de Gotha_ so famous—it gave the names and birthdays of all
the princes and princesses in Europe, lists of clergy, bar, army, and
diplomatic corps. The latter almanac has been brought to a high pitch
of perfection, and contains a vast amount of valuable and well-assorted
information.