In his autobiographic sketch, 'Introduction to the World of Strife,' he
tells of his brother's enterprise in establishing the _Gazette_, which
was to record their doings, and also of Mrs. Evans's place on the
_Gazette_. The following is evidently a passage which was prepared for
that part of the article, but was from some cause or other omitted:
I suppose no creature ever led such a life as I led on the _Gazette_;
sometimes running up, like Wallenstein, to the giddiest pinnacles of
honour, then down again without notice or warning to the dust;
cashiered--rendered incapable of ever serving H. M. again; nay, actually
drummed out of the army, my uniform stripped off, and the 'rogue's
march' played after me. And all for what? I protest, to this hour, I
have no guess. If any person knows, that person is not myself; and the
reader is quite as well able to furnish guesses to me as I to him--to
enlighten _me_ upon the subject as I _him_.
Mrs. Evans was a very important person in the play; I don't suppose that
things could have gone on without _her_. For, as there was no writer in
the _Gazette_ but my brother, so there was no reader of it except Mrs.
Evans. And here came in a shocking annoyance to me that, as often as
any necessity occurred (which was every third day) for restoring me to
my rank, since my brother would not have it supposed that he could be
weak enough to initiate such an indulgence, the _Gazette_ threw the
_onus_ of this amiable weakness, and consequently of my gratitude, upon
Mrs. Evans, affirming that the major-general had received a pardon and
an amnesty for all his past atrocities at the request of 'a
distinguished lady,' who was obscurely indicated in a parenthesis as
'the truly honourable Mrs. Evans.' To listen to the _Gazette_ one would
have supposed that this woman, who so cordially detested me, spent her
whole time in going down on her knees and making earnest supplications
to the throne on my behalf. But what signified the representations of
the _Gazette_ if I knew them to be false? Aye, but I did not know that
they were false. It is true that my obligations to her were quite
aerial, and might, as the reader will think, have been supported without
any preternatural effort. But exactly these aerial burdens, whether of
gratitude or of honour, most oppressed me as being least tangible and
incapable of pecuniary or other satisfaction. No sinking fund could meet
them. And even the dull unimaginative woman herself, eternally held up
to admiration as my resolute benefactress, got the habit (I am sure) of
looking upon me as under nameless obligations to her. This raised my
wrath. It was not that to my feelings the obligations were really a mere
figment of pretence. On the contrary, according to my pains endured,
they towered up to the clouds. But I felt that nobody had any right to
load me with favours that I had never asked for, and without leave even
asked from me; and the more real were the favours, the deeper the wrong
done to me. I sought, therefore, for some means of retaliation. And it
is odd that it was not till thirty years after that I perceived one. It
then struck me that the eternal intercession might have been equally
odious to her. To find herself prostrate for ever, weeping like Niobe,
and, if the _Gazette_ was to be believed, refusing to raise herself from
the mud or the flinty pavement till I had been forgiven, and reinstated
in my rank--ah, how loathsome that must have been to her! Ah, how
loathsome the whole cycle of favours were to me, considering from whom
they came! Then we had effectually plagued each other. And it was not
without loud laughter, as of malice unexpectedly triumphant, that I
found one night thirty years after, on regretting my powerlessness of
vengeance, that, in fact, I had amply triumphed thirty years before. So,
undaunted Mrs. Evans, if you live anywhere within call, listen to the
assurance that all accounts are squared between us, and that we balanced
our mutual debts by mutual disgust; and that, if you plagued me
perversely, I plagued you unconsciously.
And though shot and bullets were forbidden fruit, yet something might be
done with hard wadding. A good deal of classical literature disappeared
in this way, which by one who valued no classics very highly might be
called the way of all flesh. The best of authors, he contended, had
better perish by this warlike consummation than by the inglorious enmity
of bookworms and moths--honeycombed, as most of the books had been which
had gone out to India with our two uncles. Even wadding, however, was
declared to be inadmissible as too dangerous, after wounds had been
inflicted more than once.