he emerges about 1875 as living in some style at Shanklin, with a London
_pied à terre_ in Cavendish Square, a brougham, and everything genteel
about him. It was at this time I made his acquaintance. He then passed
under the name of Yonge, with some explanation which I forget; but he
confided to me and to others how he was really the Count de Montague, a
Frenchman engaged in conspiring for the Empire, business that was to
account for the seclusion in which he lived. This struck me as dubious:
in those days, before dynamite outrages, one could conspire at the
pitch of one’s voice in the middle of Piccadilly without anyone caring
to interfere. Moreover, in writing to me, he signed himself _De
Montagu_, whereas, for a more favoured friend, he decorated the name
with a final _e_. It took little Sherlock Holmes’ faculty to detect that
a French nobleman ought to know how to spell his own name; but I am glad
to say that from my first sight of the “Count,” I distrusted a gentleman
whose dress and manners seemed too fine to be true. He never deceived me
by his pretensions; and his overdone elegance served to set others on
their guard. Indeed, like Joseph Andrews, he might have passed for a
nobleman with one who had not seen many noblemen.
For not being taken in by him, I have perhaps to thank my deficiencies.
His chief accomplishment, it seems, was playing the piano like an angel,
which left me cold, while it drew tuneful flies into his web of treasons
and stratagems. Some women were much taken by his feline manners, which
on others produced such a feeling of repulsion as was my experience. One
family became so captivated as to act as his social sponsors in the Isle
of Wight, where he was received with open arms. If I remember right, it
was a house belonging to this family which he tenanted; and rumour went
that his admiring landlady’s eyes were hardly opened even by the
exposure that cost her dear. Several writers for the press were brought
into relations with him through a well-known author, who has to confess
that he allowed his honesty to be deceived. When urged to search closer
into Benson’s antecedents, he was content to let himself be put off with
audacity. “Go to the French Ambassador!” exclaimed that plausible knave;
but no such inquiry was carried out; and his most solid credentials were
from a London bank, that knew nothing of him but his having a
considerable balance to draw upon.
How he got the means to figure thus as a wealthy foreigner, I know not;
but I have a good guess as to a main aim of his schemes which never came
to light. At this time he was concerned in founding a periodical which
was to champion religion, loyalty, honesty, and other causes he
professed to have at heart. He knew very little about the higher walks
of the press; and his design wavered between a newspaper and a
half-crown monthly. In the latter form the organ financed by him did
appear, soon to be eclipsed. Its name and short history are best
forgotten. The pious founder, not being so ready with his pen as with
his tongue, proposed to me to write an article on certain money-market
matters, the tone and facts of which article were to be dictated by him.
He was such a shallow knave that he did not take the precaution of
carefully testing my likelihood to be a fit tool in his hands; and at my
first interview with him, he took for granted that I knew nothing of
French; then, by the way in which he and his valet _parlez-voused_ to
each other before my face, I soon got a suspicion they were not master
and servant.
By no means prepossessed in his favour by the ease with which he
reckoned on catching me, I refused to enlist myself as literary bravo in
affairs quite beyond my scope. He did find a more subservient scribe to
write such an article as he had outlined, which the publisher refused to
print as libellous; then Benson was for bringing an action against the
firm by way of advertisement for his organ, now launched with a great
flourish of trumpets. This was at a time when certain papers had done
more or less good service, to themselves and the public, by exposing
scandals in the financial world. On that example, I believe Benson aimed
at gaining a character for audacious honesty, then using it to rig the
money-market to his own profit _quo cumque modo_, or to levy blackmail
in a manner since perfected by certain “financial” papers that are the
disgrace of our journalism.
I never understood why he took some pains to enlist me as his
accomplice, or could imagine that he had found in me a congenial spirit.
More than once he asked me to his house in the Isle of Wight; but it
proved well that I never accepted any hospitality from him. To oblige my
friend the editor, whose only fault in the matter was a generous
trustfulness, I did write for his organ on subjects in my own line; but
my misgivings held me back from personal intercourse with the
proprietor. The last time I saw him was at a dinner party, some way out
of London, given to make him acquainted with the staff of his literary
enterprise. He had now come to whispering that he was no less than a
prince, who for certain reasons preferred to be _incognito_; and some of
us needy scribblers were much impressed by his condescension. He pressed
on me the honour of having a lift back to town in his carriage, which I
accepted very unwillingly, so strong had grown my suspicions. On our
drive, I remember, the main drift of his conversation was contempt for
the company we had just left; and he abused the host for asking the like
of him to meet such outsiders; but I did not respond to the flattery
implied in such confidences, with which once more he seemed inviting me
to intimacy. I congratulated myself on my reserve, when next week a
reward of £1000 was offered for the arrest of this pseudo-prince, set in
his true light by a notorious trial that followed in the spring of 1877,
after he had been run to earth in Scotland, somewhere about the Bridge
of Allan.
This was known as the Turf Frauds case; but I forgot the precise details
of the ingenious swindle which Benson, along with several accomplices,
was convicted of practising on a French lady, the Comtesse de Goncourt.
As ringleader, and as formerly convicted of forgery, he was sentenced to
fifteen years’ imprisonment. In the course of the trial, it came out
that he had managed to corrupt some of the minor officials of Newgate,
and to keep up relations outside, by whose help this cripple had plotted
a daring escape. Then, his fate being decided, he sought to gain some
remission of his punishment by turning informer on another set of
accomplices; and the public was amazed, not to say dismayed, to learn
that several of the detective inspectors of Scotland Yard had been in
this scoundrel’s pay, hobnobbing with him as his guests, and serving
warnings on him instead of the warrants entrusted to them. The story is
too long to tell that came out in a three weeks’ sensational trial at
the end of the same year. One or two of the accused detectives got off
in a cloud of suspicion; but the others, as well as a solicitor who had
been leagued with them, convicted chiefly on Benson’s evidence, were
sentenced to two years’ imprisonment, from which a couple of
ex-inspectors emerged to start in the shady profession of private
inquiry agents.
I am not sure if Benson served his full term in England; but it was many
years afterwards that I heard of him as having again got into trouble in
Switzerland. This time, he must have come off easily, for when three or
four more years had passed, he is seen seeking fortune in the New World.
Here his last trick was as ingenious and bold as his first appearance at
the Mansion House. A great singer, Madame Patti if I mistake not, was
eagerly expected at the Opera House of Mexico City. A few days in
advance of her, came to the Iturbide Hotel a polite gentleman giving
himself out as her agent. This was Benson, who, having sold all the
boxes and stalls, made off with his plunder in a special train, and
managed to get out of the country, but was arrested, I understand, in
New York, to be held for extradition. It is probable that Mexican penal
servitude has terrors even for habitués of Newgate and Dartmoor. At all
events, poor Benson, in despair, committed suicide by throwing himself
over a landing in his prison. So ended my would-be host in the Isle of
Wight, where he entertained worthier guests than me, not to speak of his
train of friendly detectives.
This is but an ugly story to tell of such a pretty place as Shanklin, an
older and a choicer resort than Sandown, favoured by visitors both in
winter and summer, and with a good share of permanent residents
attracted by its charms. As in the case of Lynton and Lynmouth, Shanklin
has a double character. By the sea has sprung up a new bathing-place
with a smart esplanade, showy pier, a disfiguringly convenient lift to
the top of the cliff, and everything spick and span. The old Shanklin
behind offers a contrast in its nucleus of embowered cottages, and its
irregular High Street hugging an inland hollow, about which villas are
half-buried in blooming gardens and clumps of foliage, like the huge
myrtles that enclose the little parsonage near the churchyard in its
grove of gravestones. But for some rawer rows of houses stretching out
towards the cliff, upper Shanklin has lost little of the charm that
struck Lord Jeffrey,
[Illustration: SHANKLIN VILLAGE--MOONLIGHT AFTER RAIN]
when he described the village as “very small and _scattery_, all mixed
up with trees, and lying among sweet airy falls and swells of ground
which finally rise up behind the breezy Downs 800 feet high, and sink
down in front to the edge of the varying cliffs which overhang a pretty
beach of fine sand, and are approachable by a very striking wooded
ravine which they call the Chine.”
An earlier visitor was Keats, who is understood to have written his
_Lamia_ in a cottage, not now standing, about the opening rechristened
“Keats’ Green” in honour of this sojourn, when, to tell the truth, he
wrote of the Isle of Wight as “but so, so,” though he admired the coast
from Shanklin to Bonchurch, as well he might. Longfellow, who wrote an
inscription for a fountain near his hotel, called Shanklin “one of the
quietest and loveliest places in the kingdom,” with which, indeed, his
acquaintance had not been exhaustive.
Shanklin and Sandown, the most growing resorts of the Island of late
years, love one another like Liverpool and Manchester, like Ramsgate and
Margate, like St Paul’s and Minneapolis, and other pairs of too near
rivals for popularity. Careful parents may prefer Sandown as a place
where their youngsters will find nothing to fall off; but poetic and
artistic souls will give their vote for Shanklin, which has chalybeate
springs and elaborate baths as attraction, as well as beautiful
surroundings. Its beauty spot _par excellence_ is, of course, the Chine
above mentioned, which makes one of the shows of the Island. The
Chines, so named here and on the opposite mainland coast--but in one
part of Hampshire _Bunny_ is a less romantic title for them--are deep,
irregular ravines carved out by streams of water upon cliffs of soft
clay or sand, often sheltering a profusion of tangled vegetation, or
again, as at Bournemouth, revealing the frame of naked nature. The
Shanklin Chine, in the former variety, is by many judged the prettiest,
as it is perhaps the best known to visitors. A description of it may be
borrowed from Black’s _Guide to the Isle of Wight_.
This popular sight, like other wonders of nature on the Island, is
enclosed, a small charge being made for admission, and in more than
one respect rather suggests the tea-garden order of resort, but
nothing can spoil it. It is to be entered at either end, but
excursion coaches usually bring their passengers to the head of the
Chine. At the top will be found a ferruginous spring. Here the
chasm is at its narrowest, increasing till it has a breadth of
nearly 300 feet, while the steep sides are in parts almost 200 feet
high. Winding walks take one for some quarter of a mile down a deep
glen, which differs notably from Blackgang Chine in being choked up
with trees and a rich undergrowth of ferns, moss, and brushwood,
wherever any shade-loving plant can take root. Into the top pours a
little waterfall, rushing to the sea at the bottom of this
wilderness of greenery.
But even without its Chine, Shanklin would have a right to be proud of
itself. It lies at the corner of the southern range of Downs that
separate it from Ventnor and the Undercliff. Open and airy walks may be
taken on these heights; or less arduous strolls by the leafy knolls and
hollows on their flanks. One favourite ramble is to Cook’s Castle, an
artificial ruin
[Illustration: SHANKLIN CHINE]
upon a wooded brow commanding a fine view, whence it is a short mile to
Wroxall, the next station on the railway as it bends inland, to find
nothing for it but a tunnel through the heights that shelter Ventnor.
From the bottom of Shanklin Chine, when the tide is out, one can follow
the coast round the fissured crags of Dunnose, on which a cliff-walk is
always open. Thus is reached Luccombe Chine, a modestly retiring scene,
not so easily found, since there is no charge for admission; but well
worth finding. Beyond this one enters the tangled wilderness of the
Landslip, through which winds a path for Bonchurch. But here we come
within the purlieus of Ventnor, and round to the “Back of the Island.”
From the heights at this corner, one looks down upon the scene of one of
the saddest of naval disasters in our day, recorded in churchyards that
show the tombs of so many young lives. Off Dunnose was lost, in 1878,
the training ship _Eurydice_, with her company of hearty and hopeful
lads. I well remember how that Sunday afternoon the March wind blustered
on the northern heights of London. But under the lee of the Undercliff,
the homeward bound sailors hailed it as a favouring breeze; then with
ports open and under all plain canvas, the _Eurydice_ spanked on round
Dunnose, passing out of shelter of the Downs, to be taken aback by a
snow squall, that threw her on her beam-ends before the men could
shorten sail. Many of them must have been drowned as they rushed to
struggle up on deck, from which others were swept away, blinded by the
snow, or drawn down in the vortex of the sinking vessel. Three or four
came to be picked up, an hour later, by a passing collier, and only two
lived to tell the amazement of their sudden wreck, whose victims had
much the same fate as those of the _Royal George_.
Gone in a moment! hurried headlong down
From light and hope to darkness and despair!
Plunged into utter night without renown,
Bereft of all--home, country, earth, and air--
Without a warning, yea, without a prayer!
THE UNDERCLIFF
The “Back of the Island” is a familiar name given locally to the south
coast, its eastern end more widely famed as the Undercliff. All this
side is marked by sterner features and sharper outlines than the shallow
creeks and flats of the northern shore; and through its geological
history the Undercliff makes a peculiar exhibition of picturesqueness,
while by its winter climate it is one of England’s most favoured nooks.
Here a narrow strip of shore lies for miles walled in to the north by a
steep bank several hundred feet high, sometimes presenting a rugged face
of sandstone cliff, elsewhere rising in the turf swell of chalk downs.
But the bastions of rock thus displayed rest upon a treacherous
foundation of gault clay, expressively known as the “Blue slipper,”
which, saturated with water, has given way so as to cause repeated
landslides and falls of the super-incumbent strata, tumbling the lower
slopes into a broken chaos of terraces and knolls, dotted with boulders
of chalk and sandstone. This ruin of nature has long been overgrown by
rich greenery, mantling its asperities, all the more since the charms
and mildness of the situation go to making it a much trimmed wilderness,
populated with villages and villas that turn the Undercliff into one
great garden of choice and luxuriant vegetation.
The capital of the Undercliff is Ventnor, whose dependencies and
outposts straggle almost all along this sheltered coast-strip. Now the
most beautifully placed and the most widely admired town in the Island,
it has risen to such note within the memory of men still living. A
century ago Sir H. Englefield gives it a word as “a neat hamlet,” while
guide-books of his day do not even name it between the older villages of
St Lawrence and Bonchurch, that on either side wing its body of terraces
and zigzag streets. Its history seems illustrated in the old “Crab and
Lobster” Inn, from a modest haunt of fishermen developed into a spacious
hotel, and still more plainly in the monuments of so many a young life
close packed about its nineteenth century churches. It was Sir James
Clarke, an esteemed physician of our great-grandfathers’ day, who dubbed
Ventnor an English Madeira, and brought it into medical repute as a
rival of Torquay, both of them disputing the honour of having the
mildest winter climate in England, which probably belongs rather to the
Cornish coast, or to other claimants still wanting a _vates sacer_, that
is, a London doctor to give them bold advertisement.
The shift in medical opinion as to the cure of consumption by pure and
dry air, however cold, must have somewhat blown upon Ventnor’s
reputation; and it may in future come to depend upon its amenities as
much as on the soft climate, now that Mentone itself seems rather shy of
its old character as a rendezvous for consumptive germs. It has a summer
as well as a winter season; but there is not much to be said for its
bathing and boating, the shore here being rougher than on the east side,
and exposed to dangerous currents. The beach before the esplanade has
been tamed a little and brought under the yoke of bathing machines.
Further along there are here and there tempting strips of sand; but
swimmers may be cautioned as to launching forth too trustfully. The same
hint applies to boating, this coast being best navigated with the help
of someone who knows its reefs and eddies. Ventnor visitors are more
ready to make jaunts on land than by sea; and in fine weather their
favourite amusement is supplied by the coaches, brakes, and other
vehicles which carry them to all parts of the Island. There are daily
excursions in the season to Freshwater, Cowes, and other remote points;
besides morning and afternoon trips to Blackgang, Shanklin, and such
nearer goals; and the stranger will have much ado to deny the
insinuating recruiters who at every corner of the High Street lie in
wait to enlist him for their crew of pleasure-seekers.
The strong point of the town is its picturesque site, which, indeed,
implies the defects of its qualities, having been termed “fit for
kangaroos” by some short-winded critic. Nature never meant herself here
to be laid out in streets, and eligible plots of building land have to
be taken as they can be found on the steep slope. This fact, however
favourable to scenic effect, proves a little trying to those feeble folk
who make so large a part of the population. Communication with the
different levels of the town, where the climate varies according to
their degree of elevation and protection, has to be effected by steep
stairs, winding ascents, and devious roads; and often one’s goal seems
provokingly near, while it turns out to be tiresomely far by the only
available access. One thoroughfare is so precipitous that a railing has
been provided for the aid of those risking its descent. The twisting
High Street debouches into a hollow, prettily laid out, about which are
the most sheltered parts of the town. Here stands the pier with its
shelters and pavilion; and a short esplanade curves round the little bay
to a rocky point, from which other zigzags remount to the higher
quarters. There has been a proposal to extend this esplanade along the
Bonchurch side of the shore, where the gasworks certainly do not form a
very pleasant or convenient obstruction; but on the whole it appears
better to leave Ventnor as it is. Its great charm consists of being as
unlike as possible to the general type of seaside resorts; and its
irregular architecture, wilful roads, and provoking impasses are at
least in harmony with each other.
Let us see how it strikes a stranger--Mr W. D. Howells, to wit--on a
recent visit.
The lovely little town, which is like an English water-colour, for
the rich, soft blur of its greys and blues and greens, has a sea at
its feet of an almost Bermudian variety of rainbow tints, and a
milky horizon all its own, with the sails of fishing-boats drowning
in it like moths that had got into the milk. The streets rise in
amphitheatrical terraces from the shore, and where they cease to
have the liveliness of watering-place shops, they have the
domesticity of residential hotels and summer boarding-houses, and
private villas set in depths of myrtle and holly and oleander and
laurel: some of the better-looking houses were thatched, perhaps to
satisfy a sentiment for rusticity in the summer boarder or tenant.
But this appreciative stranger is a little at sea in freely dashing into
his sketch a background of “seats and parks of nobility and gentry,”
which seems somewhat of an American exaggeration for the villaed skirts
of Ventnor. The most lordly “seat” about Ventnor is Steephill Castle, at
the west end, from the tower of which flaunts his own Stars and Stripes
to proclaim it the home of a compatriot who must have reason to chuckle,
as he does in a volume of memoirs, that slow, simple, honest John Bull
now wakes up to let himself be exploited by Transatlantic enterprise.
This gentleman’s daughter was the late popular novelist “John Oliver
Hobbes,” who latterly lived much here, or in the neighbourhood. The
modern castle, that has housed an empress in its time, took the place of
a cottage of gentility built by Hans Stanley, George III.’s Governor of
the Island. It formerly belonged to the Hamborough family, whose heir
met with his death in a painful way, that gave rise to what was known
as the Ardlamont murder case.
The trustees of this family have lately been at loggerheads with the
Ventnor people as to enclosing the links by the shore. Part of the cliff
here, however, has been acquired as a prettily unconventional public
park, laid out with playing greens beneath its leafy mazes and airy
walks. At this end, opposite the west gate of the park, is the station
of the mid-island line, distinguished as “Ventnor Town,” whereas
“Ventnor” station of the older east coast rail stands so high above the
sea that access to it suggests the “stations” of a pilgrimage. The last
time I was in Ventnor, I had the pleasure of being able to assist some
countrywomen of Mr Howell’s whom I found fluttering in breathless doubt
between those two confusing goals, that ought to be joined by some kind
of mountain railway.