The unhappy fate of James, the last Earl of Derwentwater, has been so
often recounted, both in prose and verse, that it is almost
unnecessary to repeat the story; but lest any difficulty should be
found in understanding the grounds on which the so-called countess now
bases her pretensions, the following short summary may be found
useful:--
James Radcliffe, the third and last Earl of Derwentwater, suffered
death on Tower Hill, in the prime of his youth, for his devotion to
the cause of the pretender. He is described as having been brave,
chivalrous, and generous; his name has been handed down from
generation to generation as that of a martyr; and his memory even yet
remains green among the descendants of those amongst whom he used to
dwell, and to whom he was at once patron and friend.
When he was twenty-three years of age he espoused Anna Maria, eldest
daughter of Sir John Webb of Cauford, in the county of Dorset, and had
by her an only son, the Hon. John Radcliffe, and a daughter, who
afterwards married the eighth Lord Petre. By the articles at this time
entered into, the baronet agreed to give his daughter £12,000 as her
portion; while the earl, on his part, promised £1000 jointure rent
charge to the lady, to which £100 a-year was added on the death of
either of her parents, and an allowance of £300 a-year was also
granted as pin-money. The earl's estates were to be charged with
£12,000 for the portions of daughter or daughters, or with £20,000 in
the event of there being no male issue; while by the same settlement
his lordship took an estate for life in the family property, which was
thereby entailed upon his first and other sons, with remainder, and
after the determination of his or their estate to his brother, Charles
Radcliffe, for life; on his first or other sons the estates were in
like manner entailed.
If the Earl of Derwentwater had been poor his Jacobite proclivities
might have been overlooked, but he was very rich, and his head fell.
Moreover, after his decapitation on Tower Hill the whole of his
immense property was confiscated, and given by the crown to the
Commissioners of Greenwich Hospital. The commissioners of to-day
assert that the property became the property of the representatives of
the hospital absolutely. On the other hand, it is contended that, by
the Act of Attainder, the property of forfeiting persons was vested in
the crown only, according to their estate, rights, and interest, and
that the earl, having only an estate for life in his property, could
forfeit no greater interest.
His only son, although he lost his title of nobility by the attainder
of his father, was, by solemn adjudication of law, admitted tenant in
tail of all the settled estates, and the fortune of the earl's
daughter was, moreover, raised and paid thereout. The earl's son was
in possession of the estates during sixteen years; and, had he lived
to attain twenty-one, he might have effectually dealt with them, so
that they could not at any future time have been affected by the
attainder of his father, or of his uncle Charles Radcliffe. At least
so say the supporters of the self-styled countess.
Upon the death of the martyr-earl's son, in 1791, and presumably
without issue, the life estate of Charles Radcliffe commenced, but it
vested in the crown by reason of the attainder. Not so, however, the
estate in tail of the eldest son, James Bartholomew. This boy was born
at Vincennes, on the 23d of August, 1725; but by a statute passed in
the reign of Queen Anne, he had all the rights of a subject born in
the United Kingdom; and, among others, of course, had the right to
succeed to any property to which he might be legally entitled. But the
government perceived the fix in which they were placed, and
immediately, on the death of the son of the earl, and when James
Bartholomew was an infant of the age of five years, they hurried an
Act through Parliament which declared that nothing contained in the
dictatory law of Queen Anne gave the privilege of a natural born
subject to any child, born or to be born abroad, whose father at the
time of his or her birth either stood attainted of high treason, or
was in the actual service of a foreign state in enmity to the crown of
Great Britain. This excluded the boy, and the government began to
grant leases of the estates which would otherwise have fallen to him.
And now we begin to plunge into mystery. It is asserted that the
reported death of John Radcliffe, son of the last earl, was merely a
scheme on the part of his friends to protect him against his
Hanoverian enemies who sought his life. Some say that he died at the
age of nineteen, at the house of his maternal grandfather, Sir John
Webb, in Great Marlborough Street, on the 31st of December, 1731.
Others maintain that he was thrown from his horse, and killed, during
his residence in France. But the most recent statement is that his
interment was a sham, and was part of a well-devised plan for
facilitating his escape from France to Germany during the prevalence
of rumoured attempts to restore the Stuarts, and that, after marrying
the Countess of Waldsteine-Waters, he lived, bearing her name, to the
age of eighty-six.
By this reputed marriage it is said that he had a son, who was called
John James Anthony Radcliffe, and who, in his turn, espoused a
descendant of John Sobieski of Poland. To them a daughter was born,
and was named Amelia. Her first appearance at the home of her supposed
ancestors was very peculiar; and the report of her proceedings, which
appeared in the _Hexham Courant_, of the 29th of September, 1868, was
immediately transferred into the London daily papers, and was quoted
from them by almost the entire provincial press. The following is the
account of the local journal, which excited considerable amusement,
but roused very little faith when it was first made public:--
"This morning great excitement was occasioned in the
neighbourhood of Dilston by the appearance of Amelia,
Countess of Derwentwater, with a retinue of servants, at the
old baronial castle of her ancestors--Dilston Old
Castle--and at once taking possession of the old ruin. Her
ladyship, who is a fine-looking elderly lady, was dressed in
an Austrian military uniform, and wore a sword by her side
in the most approved fashion. She was accompanied, as we
have said, by several retainers, who were not long in
unloading the waggon-load of furniture which they had
brought with them, and quickly deposited the various goods
and chattels in the old castle, the rooms of which, as most
of our readers are aware, are without roofs; but a plentiful
supply of stout tarpaulings, which are provided for the
purpose, will soon make the apartments habitable, if not
quite so comfortable as those which the countess has just
left. In the course of the morning her ladyship was visited
by Mr. C.J. Grey, the receiver to the Greenwich Hospital
estates, who informed her she was trespassing upon the
property of the commissioners, and that he would be obliged
to report the circumstance to their lordships. Her ladyship
received Mr. Grey with great courtesy, and informed that
gentleman she was acting under the advice of her legal
advisers, and that she was quite prepared to defend the
legality of her proceedings. The sides of the principal
room have already been hung with the Derwentwater family
pictures, to some of which the countess bears a marked
resemblance, and the old baronial flag of the unfortunate
family already floats proudly from the summit of the fine,
though old and dilapidated tower."
This is a bald newspaper account; but the lady herself is an
experienced correspondent, and in one of her letters, which she has
published in a gorgeously emblazoned volume, thus gives her version of
the affair in her own vigorous way:--
"DEVILSTONE CASTLE, 29_th September_, 1868.
"Here I am, my dear friend, at my own house, my roofless
home; and my first scrawl from here is to the vicarage. You
will be sorry to hear that the Lords of Her Majesty's
Council have defied all equitable terms in my eleven years'
suffering case. My counsel and myself have only received
impertinent replies from under officials. Had my lords met
my case like gentlemen and statesmen, I should not have been
driven to the course I intend to pursue.
"I left the Terrace very early this morning, and at
half-past seven o'clock I arrived at the carriage-road of
Dilstone Castle. I stood, and before me lay stretched the
ruins of my grandfather's baronial castle; my heart beat
more quickly as I approached. I am attended by my two
faithful retainers, Michael and Andrew. Mr. Samuel Aiston
conveyed a few needful things; the gentle and docile pony
trotted on until I reached the level top of the
carriage-road, and then we stopped. I dismounted and opened
the gate and bid my squires to follow, and, in front of the
old flag tower, I cut with a spade three square feet of
green sod into a barrier for my feet, in the once happy
nursery--the mother's joyful upstairs parlour--the only room
now standing, and quite roofless. I found not a voice to
cheer me, nothing but naked plasterless walls; a hearth with
no frame of iron; the little chapel which contains the
sacred tombs of the silent dead, and the dishonoured ashes
of my grandsires.
"All here is in a death-like repose, no living thing save a
few innocent pigeons, half wild; but there has been a
tremendous confusion, a wild and wilful uproar of rending,
and a crash of headlong havoc, every angle is surrounded
with desolation, and the whole is a monument of state
vengeance and destruction. But here is the land--the home of
my fathers--which I have been robbed of; this is a piece of
the castle, and the room in which they lived, and talked,
and walked, and smiled, and were cradled and watched with
tender affection. You never saw this old tower nearer than
from the road; the walls of it are three feet or more in
some parts thick, and of rough stone inside. The floor of
this room where I am writing this scrawl is verdure, and
damp with the moisture from heaven. It has not even beams
left for a ceiling, and the stairs up to it are scarcely
passible; but I am truly thankful that all the little
articles I brought are now up in this room, and no accident
to my men.
"Radcliffe's flag is once more raised! and the portraits of
my grandfather and great-grandfather are _here_, back again
to Devilstone Castle (_alias_ Dilstone), and hung on each
side of this roofless room, where both their voices once
sounded. Oh! as I gaze calmly on these mute warders on the
walls, I cannot paint you my feelings of the sense of
injustice and wrong, a refining, a resenting sorrow--my
heart bleeds at the thought of the cruel axe, and I am
punished for its laws that no longer exist. I pray not to be
horror-stricken at the thoughts of the past ambition and
power of princes who cast destruction over our house, and
made us spectacles of barbarity. But, nevertheless, many
great and Christian men the Lord hath raised out of the
house of Radcliffe, who have passed away; and now, oh!
Father of Heaven! how wonderfully hast Thou spared the
remnant of my house, a defenceless orphan, to whom no way is
open but to Thy Fatherly heart. Now Thou hast brought me
here, what still awaits me? 'Leave Thou me not; let me never
forget Thee. Thou hast girded me with strength into the
battle. I will not therefore fear what man can do unto me.'
"These are my thoughts and resolutions. But I am struggling
with the associations of this lone, lone hearth--with no
fire, no father, no mother, sister or brother left--the
whole is heartrending. I quit you now, my kind friends; I am
blind with tears, but this is womanly weakness.
"Twelve o'clock the same day. My tears of excitement have
yielded to counter-excitement. I have just had an intrusive
visitor, who came to inquire if it is my intention to remain
here. I replied in the affirmative, adding earnestly, 'I
have come to my roofless home,' and asked 'Who are you?' He
answered 'I am Mr. Grey, the agent for her Majesty, and I
shall have to communicate your intention.' I answered,
'Quite right, Mr. Grey. Then what _title_ have you to show
that her Majesty has a right here to my freehold estates?'
He replied, 'I have no _title_.' I then took out a parchment
with the titles and the barony and manors, and the names of
my forty-two rich estates, and held it before him and said,
'I am the Countess of Derwentwater, and my title and claim
are acknowledged and substantiated by the Crown of England,
morally, legally, and officially; therefore my title is the
title to these forty-two estates.' He has absented himself
quietly, and I do hope my lords will not leave my case now
to under officials.--Yours truly,
AMELIA, COUNTESS OF DERWENTWATER."
Their lordships left the case to very minor officials, indeed; namely
to a person whom the countess describes as "a dusky little man" and
his underlings, and they without hesitation ejected her from Dilstone
Hall. The lady was very indignant, but was very far from being beaten,
and she and her adherents immediately formed a roadside encampment,
under a hedge, in gipsy fashion, and resolved to re-enter if possible.
From her letters it appears that she was very cold and very miserable,
and, moreover, very hungry at first. But the neighbouring peasantry
were kind, and brought her so much food eventually, that she tells one
of her friends that cases of tinned meats from Paris would be of no
use to her. The worst of the encampment seems to have been that it
interfered with her usual pastime of sketching, which could not be
carried on in the evenings under a tarpaulin, by the light of a
lantern.
But her enemies had no idea that she should be permitted to remain
under the hedge any more than in the hall itself. On the 21st of
October, at the quarter sessions for the county of Northumberland, the
chief constable was questioned by the magistrates about the strange
state of affairs in the district, and reported that the encampment was
a little way from the highway, and that, therefore, the lady could not
be apprehended under the Vagrant Act! A summons, however, had been
taken out by the local surveyor, and would be followed by a warrant.
On that summons the so-called countess was convicted; but appealed to
the Court of Queen's Bench.
During the winter the encampment could not be maintained, and the
weather, more powerful than the Greenwich commissioners, drove the
countess from the roadside. But in the bright days of May she
reappeared to resume the fight, and this time took possession of a
cottage at Dilston, whence, says a newspaper report of the period, "it
is expected she will be ejected; but she may do as she did before, and
pitch her tent on the high-road." On the 30th of the same month, the
conviction by the Northumberland magistrates "for erecting a hut on
the roadside," was affirmed by the Court of Queen's Bench.
On the 17th November, 1869, while Mr. Grey was collecting the
Derwentwater rents, the countess marched into the apartment, at the
head of her attendants, to forbid the proceedings. She was richly
apparelled, but her semi-military guise did not save herself, or those
who came with her, from being somewhat rudely ejected. Her sole
consolation was that the mob cheered her lustily as she drove off in
her carriage.
On the 5th of January, in the following year, a great demonstration in
her favour took place at Consett, in the county of Durham. A few days
previously a large quantity of live stock had been seized at the
instance of the countess, for rent alleged to be due to her, and an
interdict had been obtained against her, prohibiting her from
disposing of it. However, she defied the law, and in the midst of
something very like a riot, the cattle were sold, flags were waved,
speeches were made, and the moment was perhaps the proudest which the
heiress of the Derwentwaters is likely to see in this country.
Such conduct could not be tolerated. The Lords of the Admiralty were
roused, and formally announced that the claims of the so-called
countess were frivolous. They also warned their tenants against paying
their rents to her, and took out summonses against those who had
assisted at the sale. On the 16th of January, the ringleaders in the
disgraceful affair were committed for trial.
Notwithstanding this untoward _contretemps_, the countess made a
further attempt, in February, to collect the rents of the forty-two
freehold estates, which she said belonged to her. But the bailiffs
were in force and resisted her successfully, being aided in their work
by a severe snowstorm, which completely cowed her followers, although
it did not cool her own courage. On the 11th of February, 1870, the
Lords of the Admiralty applied for an injunction to prevent the
so-called countess from entering on the Greenwich estates, and their
application was immediately granted. Shortly afterwards the bailiff
acting on behalf of the countess, and the ringleaders in the Consett
affair, were sentenced to short terms of imprisonment. Thus those in
possession of the property could boast a decided victory.
But the law courts are free to all, and the countess determined to
take the initiative. She had jewels, and pictures, and documents which
would at once prove her identity and the justice of her claim.
Unfortunately they were all in Germany, and the lady was penniless. By
the generosity of certain confiding gentlemen, about £2000 was
advanced, on loan, to bring them to this country. They came, but their
appearance was not satisfactory even to the creditors, who became
clamorous for their money. There was only one way left to satisfy
them, and Amelia, of Derwentwater, took it. The jewels and pictures
were brought to the hammer in an auction-room in Hexham--the countess
disappeared from public ken, and the newspapers ceased to chronicle
her extraordinary movements.
ARTHUR ORTON--WHO CLAIMED TO BE SIR ROGER CHARLES DOUGHTY TICHBORNE,
BART.
The case of Arthur Orton is too recent to need many words of
introduction. We have hardly yet cooled down to a sober realization of
the facts which, as they stand, mark the latest and most bulky of the
claimants, as not only the greatest impostor of modern or perhaps of
any days, the base calumniator who endeavoured to rob a woman of her
fair fame to gratify his own selfish ends, but as a living proof of
the height to which the blind credulity of the public will now and
again elevate itself. Arthur Orton is in prison undergoing what all
thinking men must admit to be a very lenient sentence--a sentence
which in no way meets the justice of the case; for the advent of this
huge carcase lumbering the earth with lies was nothing less than a
misfortune to the people of England. And the word misfortune, if used
even in its highest and widest sense, will in no way imply that which
has happened to a peaceful family, who have been associated with their
lands and titles as long as our history goes back, and who have had
their privacy violated, and the sanctity of their homes invaded; who
have been pilloried before a ruthless and unsympathising mob, who have
had their women's names banded from one coarse mouth to another, and
who--least misfortune of all--have had to expend large sums of money,
and great amounts of time and trouble, to free themselves from a
persecution as unparalleled as it was vicious and cruel. Those who,
having neither fame nor fortune to lose, speak lightly and think not
at all of the sorrows which were launched avalanche-like upon the
devoted heads of the Tichbornes and their connections, would do well
to ponder over what such personation as that of Arthur Orton means to
its immediate victims. It means a sudden derangement of all the ties
and sympathies by which life is made dear, a sudden shock which never
in life will be recovered. There is no member of the community, no
matter how well and how carefully he has chosen his path in life, who
would not fear to have his every action published and criticised, his
every motive analysed unfairly, and the most mischievous construction
placed upon each deed or thought found capable of perversion. How much
more terrible would it be, then, for any man to know that his wife or
mother was to be subjected to such ordeal; that for no fault
committed, for nothing but the delectation of an unscrupulous
scoundrel and his admirers, a tender and sensitive lady was to be put
to torture far worse than any physical punishment could ever have
been, even in ages and countries whose only refinement was that of
cruelty?
Arthur Orton is in prison, but there are still many who loudly assert
their belief in his identity with the lost Sir Roger; there are others
who are quite as strong in their avowals of doubt as to the name found
for the huge mystery being the correct one; and there are again others
who, caring little who or what the man may be, affect to credit many
of his most villanous utterances. But do these people in their blind
impetuosity ever give the merits of the case one thought? do they
remember that Orton was detected in his every lie, and found as
heinously guilty as man can be detected and found guilty, when the
evidence against him admits of but circumstantial proof? They do not;
and like the man who constantly avers that the earth is flat, and his
congeners who deny the existence of a Being who is apparent in every
one of His marvellous works, the believers in Orton must be placed in
the catalogue of those who, either of malice prepense, or from mental
affliction, take the wrong view of a subject as naturally as sparks
fly upwards. If the man now in prison is Sir Roger Tichborne, then
trial by jury, the selection of our judges, and the whole basis of our
legal system--indeed, of almost every system by which calm and
peaceful government is maintained, and the right of the subject duly
regarded--must be radically wrong, and right is wrong also. If he is
not Arthur Orton, then there never was an Arthur Orton, and Wapping is
a place which has no existence out of the annals of the Tichborne
trial.
The baronetcy of Tichborne, now Doughty-Tichborne, is not only old of
itself, and connected with vast estates, but is held by a family well
known in the history of this country, even as far as that history
goes. No _parvenu_, whose rank is the result of success in
cheesemongering or kindred pursuit, is the holder of the title, for,
as Debrett tells us, the family of Tichborne was of great importance
in Hampshire before the Conquest, and derives its name from the river
Itchen, at the head of which it had estates; "hence it was called De
Itchenbourne, since corrupted into Tichborne. Sir John de Tichborne,
knight, sheriff of Southampton, on hearing of the death of Queen
Elizabeth, immediately repaired to Winchester, and there proclaimed
King James VI. (of Scotland) as King of England. In 1621, he was
created a baronet, the honour of knighthood having been previously
conferred upon three of his sons, while his fourth son Henry was
subsequently knighted. Sir Henry, the third baronet, hazarded his life
in defence of Charles I. in several enterprises, and his estates were
sequestrated by the Parliamentarians. After the restoration he was
successively Lieutenant of the New Forest, and Lieutenant of
Ordnance." Other Tichbornes have been sufficiently prominent in their
times to leave marks on the history of the country; and altogether
riches and honours seemed, until comparatively recently, to be the
unshadowed lot of the head of the family. That, however, large estates
and long descent do not always secure perfect happiness, has been very
well shown in the great trial just past, in many ways perfectly
independent of the actual result, or of any question as to whether or
not the claimant was he whom he professed to be.
Family differences and unpleasantnesses seem to have been the actual,
even if remote, cause of the great imposition of Arthur Orton. Had
matters been conducted as one might have anticipated they would among
people blessed with the means of gratifying every whim and caprice,
Roger Tichborne would have lived and died like other men, and his name
would never have been known except as a quiet country gentleman of
English origin and French tastes, which led him into more or less
eccentricities, and caused him to be more or less popular among his
neighbours and dependants. But this was not to be. All great families
have their secret unpleasantnesses, and in these the Tichbornes were
by no means behindhand. The Tichbornes generally had a knack of
disagreeing, and this feeling was shown in excelsis by James, the
father of Roger, and his wife, who lived abroad for many years, she
being French in every sentiment, while the husband was but
naturalized, and now and again exhibited a desire to return to his
native land. When Roger was born there was but little chance of his
ever becoming the owner of either titles or estates, and so his
education was entirely foreign, his tutors being M. Chatillon, and a
priest named Lefevre. As time wore on, it became evident that Mr. James
Tichborne would in due course become Sir James, and he felt it his
duty to secure to his son an English education. This the mother
opposed most strenuously, and it was only by artifice that the boy was
brought to England. Sir Henry Joseph Tichborne, who had succeeded to
the baronetcy in 1821, had no son, and though time after time a child
was born to him, Providence blessed him with no male heir. Again and
again a child would be born at Tichborne, but it was always a girl.
Sir Henry had seven children, of whom six lived, all celebrated for
their good looks, and their tall and handsome proportions; but all
were daughters. Still there was Sir Henry's brother, Edward
Tichborne, who had taken large estates under the will of a Miss
Doughty--which led to the present junction of the Doughty and
Tichborne properties, and to the double surname--and with them had
assumed the name of that lady, and he was after Sir Henry the next
heir. Edward had a son and daughter. But one day there came the news
to James and his wife in France, that Sir Edward's little boy had
died, and then it was that the father perceived more clearly the error
that he had made in permitting Roger to grow up ignorant of English
habits and the English tongue. Edward Doughty was an old man. His
brother James Tichborne himself was growing in years. The prospect of
Roger one day becoming the head of the old house of Tichborne, which
had once been so remote, had now become almost a certainty. It would
not do for the Lord of Tichborne to be a Frenchman; sooner or later he
must learn English, and receive an education fitting him to take the
position which now appeared in store for him. All this was clear
enough to Mr. James, but not so clear to his weak-headed and prejudiced
wife. The father did, indeed, obtain her consent to take the boy over
to England, and let him see his uncle and aunt, the Doughtys, at
Upton, in Dorsetshire, and his uncle, Sir Henry, at the ancestral home
down in Hampshire. But Roger was then but a child, and as he grew
older Mrs. Tichborne became more than ever resolute in her
determination that, come what might, her darling should be a
Frenchman. What cared she for the old Hampshire traditions? France was
to her the only land worth living in; a Frenchman's life was the only
life worthy of the name. Her dear Roger might succeed to the title and
estates, but she could not bear the thought of his going to England.
It was in her imagination a land of cold bleak rains and unwholesome
fogs. But it was worse; it was the country of a people who had been
false to their ancient faith. Even the Tichbornes, though still
Catholics, had not always been true to their religion. And so Mrs.
Tichborne planned out for the future heir of Tichborne a life of
perpetual absenteeism. He should marry into some distinguished family
in France or Italy, and little short of a Princess should share his
fortunes. If he went into the army it should be in some foreign
service. But in no case should he go to Tichborne, or set foot in
England again, if she could help it.
James Tichborne was like many other weak men who have self-willed
wives. He put off the inevitable day as long as he could, but finally
achieved his purpose by strategy. Roger was in his seventeenth year
when the news arrived that Sir Henry had died. It was right that James
Tichborne should be present at his brother's funeral, and reasonable
that he should take with him the heir, as everyone regarded him to
be. Accordingly Roger took leave of his mother under solemn
injunctions to return quickly. But there was no intention of allowing
him to return. The boy attended the funeral of his uncle at the old
chapel at Tichborne, went to his grandfather's place at Knoyle, and
thence, by the advice of relations and friends, and with the consent
of the boy himself, he was taken down to the Jesuit College at
Stonyhurst, and there placed in the seminary with the class of
students known as "philosophers." When Mrs. Tichborne learnt that this
step had been completed her fury knew no bounds. Roger wrote her kind
and filial letters in French--ill-spelt it is true, but admirably
worded, and testifying an amount of good sense which promised well for
his manhood. But Mrs. Tichborne gave no reply, and for twelve months
the son, though longing ardently for a letter, got no token of
affection. Yet Mrs. Tichborne was not the person to see her son removed
from her control without an effort. She upbraided her husband
violently, and there was a renewal of the old scenes in the Tichborne
household; but Roger was now far away, and the danger of Mr.
Tichborne's yielding in a momentary fit of weakness was at an end.
Meanwhile the mother wrote violent letters to the heads of the
college, exposing family troubles in a way which called forth a
remonstrance from even the lad himself. What was the precise nature of
his studies at Stonyhurst, and what progress he made in them, are
questions that have been much debated, but it is certain that he
applied himself resolutely to the study of English, and made such
progress that, although he could never speak it with so much purity
and command of words as when conversing in his mother tongue, he
learnt to write it with only occasional errors in spelling and
construction. In Latin he made some little progress, and in
mathematics more. He attended voluntary classes on chemistry, and his
letters evidence an inclination for the study both of science and
polite literature. At Stonyhurst Roger may be said to have passed the
three happiest years of his life.
During the period just mentioned, the then last of the Tichbornes made
many friends, and if he did not become what we understand as
accomplished, he was refined and sensitive. During the vacations he
used to visit his English relatives in turn; but there was one place
above all others to which he preferred to go. This was the house at
Tichborne, then in possession of his father's brother Sir Edward
Doughty. There was a certain amount of delicacy in his position
towards his uncle and his aunt Lady Doughty, which cannot but be
intelligible to any one who has the least knowledge of human failings.
It is not in the nature of things that either Lady Doughty or her
husband could have been greatly predisposed towards the youthful
stranger, and Roger was shy and reserved and over-sensitive. He had
the misfortune to stand in the place which they must once have
ardently hoped that their dead child would have lived to inherit. Sir
Edward was in failing health, and his brother James was an old man.
The time could not therefore be far distant when this youth, with his
foreign habits and his strong French accent, would take possession of
Tichborne Park with all the ancient lands. More than that, he would
come into absolute possession of the new Doughty property, including
the beautiful residence of Upton, near Poole, in Dorsetshire, for
which Sir Edward and his family had so strong an affection. It was
through Sir Edward alone that this property had been acquired, but the
lady who had bequeathed it to him had no notion of founding a second
family; in time all the lands and houses in various countries
bequeathed by her, as well as those which were purchased by trustees
under her will, were to go to swell the Tichborne estate, and to
increase the grandeur and renown of the old house. Upton was the
favourite home of the Doughtys. Sir Edward, who had been in the West
Indies, had returned thence with his black servant named Andrew Bogle,
then a boy, and had married--he and his wife doubtless for a long time
looking on Upton as their home for life. It cost them a pang to remove
even to the house at Tichborne. It was at Upton that their only
surviving child Kate had spent her early years, and to return there
and enjoy the fresh sea breezes in the summer holidays was always a
fresh source of delight. It was hard to think that even Upton must
pass from them, and that the day was probably not far distant when
there would be nothing left for them but to yield up their home and
estates to the new comer, and retire even upon a widow's handsome
jointure and the fortune of Miss Kate. But if such feelings ever
passed through the minds of the family at Tichborne, they could have
been only transient. The shy, pale-faced boy with the long dark locks,
came always to Tichborne in his holidays, making his way steadily in
the favour of that household, and this not from interested motives on
the part of Lady Doughty, as has been falsely alleged, and
triumphantly disproved, but clearly from something in the nature of
the youth which disarmed ill-feeling. Roger, despite his early
training abroad, soon showed good sound English tastes. He took
delight in country life; and though he did not bring down the
partridges in the woods, or throw the fly upon the surface of the
Itchen, with a degree of skill that would command much respect in the
county of Hants, he did his best, and really liked the out-door life.
In hunting he took delight from the time when he donned his first
scarlet coat, and he rarely missed an opportunity of appearing at "the
meet" in that neighbourhood. The time soon came when Roger had to
think of a profession, and James Tichborne again gave mortal offence
to his wife by determining that the young man should go into the
army. Among the daughters of Sir Henry, was one who had married
Colonel William Greenwood of the Grenadier Guards. Their house at
Brookwood was but half an hour's ride from Tichborne, and Roger was
fond of visiting there. Colonel Greenwood's brother George was also in
the army, and he took kindly to Roger, and determined to do his best
to get him on. So he took him one morning to the Horse Guards, and
introduced him to the commander-in-chief, who promised him a
commission. There was a little delay in keeping this promise, and the
young man did not go troubling uncles again, but took the self-reliant
course of writing direct to the Horse Guards, to remind the
Commander-in-chief of what he had said; and before long Mr. Roger
Charles Tichborne was gazetted a cornet in the 6th Dragoons, better
known as the Carabineers. He passed his examination at Sandhurst
satisfactorily, and went straight over to Dublin to join his regiment.
From Dublin he went to the south of Ireland, and twice he came over to
England on short visits. He went through the painful ordeal of
practical joking which awaited every young officer in those days, and
came out of it, not without annoyance and an occasional display of
resentment, yet in a way which conciliated his brother officers; and
few men were more liked in the regiment than Roger Tichborne,
affectionately nicknamed among them "Teesh." In 1852 the Carabineers
came over to England, and were quartered at Canterbury. They expected
then to be sent to India, but the order was countermanded, and Roger
saw himself doomed apparently to a life of inaction. There is a letter
of Roger's among the mass of correspondence which he kept up at this
period of his life, in which he notices the fact that his mother still
dwelt upon her old idea of providing him with a wife in the shape of
one of those Italian princesses of which he had heard so much, and
with whom he had always been threatened. But Roger was by this time in
love with his cousin, and his love was by no means happy. Roger had
been for years visiting at Tichborne before he had ever seen his
cousin Kate there. He had met her long before when he came over as a
child from Paris on a visit, but Miss Doughty was too young at that
time to have retained much impression of the little dark-haired French
boy, who could hardly have said "Good morning, cousin," in her native
tongue. When Roger was twenty years of age, they met for a few days at
Bath, where both had come on the melancholy duty of taking leave of Mr.
Seymour, then lying dangerously ill and near his death. Then they
parted again; Roger went to Tichborne for a long stay, but Miss
Doughty returned to school at the convent at Taunton. In the Midsummer
holidays, however, they once more met at the house in Hampshire, and
for six weeks the young cousins saw each other daily. Then Miss
Doughty went away to Scotland with her parents; and the youth took
upon himself the pleasant duty of going to see the party take their
departure from St. Katherine's Wharf. October found the party again
assembled at Tichborne Park; and there Roger took farewell of uncle,
aunt, and cousin, to go to Ireland and join his regiment; and Miss
Doughty, whose schooldays were not yet ended, went down to a convent
at Newhall, in Essex. When Roger got a short leave of absence, his
first thought was to visit his uncle and aunt, who had so affectionate
a regard for him. There was a summer visit to Upton, in Dorsetshire,
for a week, when Miss Doughty happened to be there; and there was a
visit to Tichborne in January 1850, when there were great festivities,
for Roger then attained his majority; again the cousins took farewell,
and met no more for eighteen months. No wonder Roger loved Tichborne,
with all its associations. In that well-ordered and affectionate
household he found a tranquillity and happiness to which he had been a
stranger in his own home. In his correspondence with his father and
mother at this time there were no lack of tokens of a loving son; but
no one was more sensible than Roger of the miseries of that life which
he had led up to the day when he came away to pursue his studies at
the Jesuit College, and to learn to be an Englishman. But there was
another association, long unsuspected, yet growing steadily, until it
absorbed all his thoughts, and gave to that neighbourhood a glory and
a light invisible to other eyes. Roger had spent many happy hours with
his cousin; she had grown in those few years from a girl almost into a
woman, and he had come to love her deeply. To her he said not a word,
to Sir Edward he dared not speak, but one day Roger took an
opportunity of confiding to Lady Doughty the new secret of his life.
His aunt did not discourage the idea; but Miss Doughty was still but a
girl of fifteen; and there was the grave objection that the twain were
first cousins. And besides, though Roger was of a kind and considerate
disposition, truthful, honourable, and scrupulous in points of duty,
he had certain habits which assumed serious proportions in the mind of
a lady so strict in notions of propriety. He had in Paris acquired a
habit of smoking immoderately. In the regiment he had been compelled,
by evil customs then prevailing, to go through a noviciate in the
matter of imbibing "military port;" and his habits had followed him to
Tichborne, and the young officer had been seen at least on one
occasion in a state of semi-intoxication--no less a word will describe
his condition. He was also accustomed to bring in his portmanteau
French novels, which were decidedly objectionable, though few young
men would probably regard it as much sin to read them. So little did
the young man appreciate her objections to this exciting kind of
literature that he had actually recommended to his aunt some stories
which no amount of humour and cleverness could prevent that pious lady
regarding as debasing and absolutely immoral. How Lady Doughty felt
under all the circumstances of Roger's love, as compared with his
general conduct, will be best shown by the following letter:--
"1850. Tichborne Park, _begun_ 29 _Jan., finished 31st._
"MY DEAREST ROGER,--After three weeks being between life and
death it has pleased God to restore me so far that I have
this day for the first time been in the wheel chair to the
drawing-room, and I hasten to begin my thanks to you for
your letters, especially that private one, though it may yet
be some days before I finish all I wish to say to you, for I
am yet very weak, and my eyes scarcely allow of reading or
writing.... Remember, dear Roger, that by that conversation
in town you gave me every right to be deeply interested in
your fate, and therefore doubly do I feel grieved when I see
you abusing that noblest of God's gifts to man, reason, by
diminishing its power.... I cannot recall to my mind the
subject you say I was beginning in the drawing-room when
interrupted; probably it might have had reference to the
confidence which you say you do not repent having placed in
me. No, dear Roger, never repent it; be fully assured that I
never shall betray that confidence. You are young, and
intercourse with life and the society you must mix with
might very possibly change your feelings towards one now
dear to you, or rather settle them into the affection of a
brother towards a sister; but whatever may be the case
hereafter, my line of duty is marked out, and ought steadily
to be followed; that is, not to encourage anything that
could fetter the future choice of either party before they
had fully seen others and mixed with the world, and with all
the fond care of a mother endeavour, while she is yet so
young, to prevent her heart and mind from being occupied by
ideas not suited to what should be her present occupations,
and hereafter, with the blessing of God, guard her against
the dangers she may be liable to be ensnared into by the
position in which she is placed.... You have been, I rejoice
to hear, raised in the opinion of all with whom you have
lately had to transact business by your firmness and
decision. You are in an honourable profession, which gives
you occupation.... Resist drink, or a rash throwing away
life, or wasting in any way the energies of a naturally
strong, sensible mind, and really attached heart. Now write
to me soon; tell me truly if I have tried your patience by
this long letter which I venture to send, for it is when
returning to life as I now feel that renewed love for all
dear to one seems to take possession of our hearts, so you
must forgive it if you find it long. Your uncle and cousin
send their kindest love.--Adieu, dearest Roger, ever be
assured of the sincere affection and real attachment of your
aunt.
KATHERINE DOUGHTY."
Roger protested that his failings had been exaggerated, and by his
letters it is noticeable there is a trace of vexation that Lady
Doughty should have lent an ear to coloured reports of his manner of
life; but there is no abatement in the affectionate terms on which he
stood with his aunt at Tichborne. Matters, however, could not long go
on in this fashion. As yet Roger Tichborne had never spoken of his
love to Miss Doughty, though it cannot be doubted that some tokens had
revealed that secret. But love must find expression in something more
than hints and tokens, and at last came the inevitable time. It was on
Christmas eve, 1851, that Roger joyfully set foot in Tichborne Park
once more. That was a happy meeting in all but the fact that Sir
Edward Doughty was in weak health. Now comes the _dénoûment_. Miss
Doughty had given Roger a keepsake volume of Father Faber's Hymns, and
there was an exchange of gifts. Suddenly the truth flashed across the
mind of the father, and he was vexed and angry. On a Sunday morning,
when the two cousins had been walking in the garden enjoying the
bright winter day, and they were sitting together at breakfast, a
message came that Sir Edward desired to see his nephew in the library.
The girl waited, but Roger did not come back to the breakfast table.
The eyes of the cousins met sorrowfully in the chapel, and in the
afternoon, with Lady Doughty's permission, they saw each other in the
drawing-room to take farewell. For Sir Edward's fiat had gone forth.
Marriage between first cousins was forbidden by the Church, and there
were other reasons why he was resolute that this engagement should be
broken off before it grew more serious. So it was arranged that on the
very next morning the young man should leave the house for ever. Thus
the great hope of Roger's life was suddenly extinguished, and there
was nothing left for him but to sail with his regiment for India, and
endeavour, if he could, to forget the past. Some days after that, at
his cousin's request, he wrote out for her a narrative of his sorrows
at this time, in which he said:--
"What I felt when I left my uncle it is difficult for me to explain. I
was like thunderstruck. I came back to my room, and tried to pack up
my things, but was obliged to give up the attempt, as my mind was
quite absent. I sank on a chair, and remained there, my head buried
between my two knees for more than half an hour. What was the nature
of my thoughts, my dearest K., you may easily imagine. To think that I
was obliged to leave you the next day, not to see you again--not,
perhaps, for years, if ever I came back from India. The idea was
breaking my heart. It passed on, giving me no relief, until about two
o'clock, when my aunt told me that you wished to see me. That news
gave me more pleasure than I could express; so much so that I never
could have expected it. The evening that I saw you, my dear K., about
five o'clock, you cannot conceive what pleasure it gave me. I saw you
felt my going away, so I determined to tell you everything I felt
towards you. What I told you it is not necessary to repeat, as I
suppose you remember it. When I came away from the drawing-room my
mind was so much oppressed that it was impossible to think of going to
bed. I stopped up until two o'clock in the morning. I do not think it
necessary, my dearest K., to tire you with all the details of what I
have felt for you during these two days; suffice it to say, that I
never felt more acute pain, especially during the night when I could
not sleep. I promise to my own dearest Kate, on my word and honour,
that I will be back in England, if she is not married or engaged,
towards the end of the autumn of 1854, or the month of January 1855.
If she is so engaged I shall remain in India for ten or fifteen years,
and shall wish for her happiness, which I shall be too happy to
promote."
Neither Roger nor Kate had, however, given up hope of some change.
Lady Doughty, despite a secret dread of her nephew's habits, had a
strong regard for him, and would be certain to plead his cause. And
in a very few days circumstances unexpectedly favoured his suit. Sir
Edward's malady grew worse, the physicians despaired, and he believed
himself near his end. Roger was sent for hurriedly to take farewell of
his uncle. As he approached the sick bed his uncle said, "I know, my
dear Roger, the mutual attachment which exists between you and your
cousin. If you were not so near related I should not object at all to
a marriage between you two: but, however, wait, three years; then, if
the attachment still exists between you, and you can get your father's
consent, and also leave from the Church, it will be the will of God,
and I will not object to it any longer."
To which Roger replied--"Ever since I have had the pleasure of knowing
you and my cousin, I have always tried to act towards you two in the
most honourable way I possibly could. The Church, as you know, grants
dispensations on these occasions. Of course, if you approve of it, I
will get my father's consent, and also leave from the Church, and do
it in an honourable way in the eyes of God and of the world." These
two speeches seem rather stilted and unnatural, yet this is how they
have been given in evidence. Days passed, and Roger sat up night after
night with his uncle. It was during those tedious watchings that he
again wrote at Miss Doughty's request a narrative of his feelings,
which ran thus:--
"TICHBORNE PARK, _Feb_. 4, 1852 (1.30 A.M.)
"I shall go on," he said, "with my confessions, only asking
for some indulgence if you find them too long and too
tedious. You are, my dearest K., the only one for whom I
have formed so strong and sincere an attachment. I never
could have believed, a few years ago, I was able to get so
attached to another. You are the only young person who has
shown me some kindness, for which I feel very thankful. It
is in some respects rather a painful subject for me to have
to acknowledge my faults; but, as I have undertaken the
task, I must write all I have done, and what have been my
thoughts, for the last five weeks. I had a very wrong idea
when I left Ireland. It was this: I thought that you had
entirely forgotten me. I was, nevertheless, very anxious to
come to Tichborne for a short time to take a last farewell
of you, my uncle, and my aunt. My mind and heart were then
so much oppressed by these thoughts, that it was my
intention not to come back from India for ten or fifteen
years. I loved you, my dearest K., as dearly as ever. I
would have done anything in this world to oblige you, and
give you more of that happiness which I hoped I might see
you enjoy. I would have given my life for your happiness'
sake. To have seen all these things, I repeat again, with a
dry eye and an unbroken heart, or for a person who has a
strong feeling of attachment towards another to behold it,
is almost beyond human power. These feelings will arise when
I shall be thousands of miles from you, but I have taken my
pains and sorrows and your happiness in this world, and said
a prayer that you might bear the pains and sorrows of this
world with courage and resignation, and by these means be
happy in the next. When I came here I found I had been
mistaken in the opinion I had formed, and I reproached
myself bitterly for ever having such an idea. It is not
necessary for me to mention that I got rid of these bad
thoughts in a few minutes. Things went on happily until
Sunday, January 11, 1852, when I was sent for by my uncle at
breakfast. What took place between us I think it unnecessary
to repeat, as you know already. I was obliged to leave the
next morning by the first train for London. I never felt
before so deeply in my life what it was to part with the
only person I ever loved. How deeply I felt I cannot
express, but I shall try to explain as much of it as I can
in the next chapter.
"What I have suffered last night I cannot easily explain.
You do not know, my own dearest K., what are my feelings
towards you. You cannot conceive how much I loved you. It
breaks my heart, my own dearest K., to think how long I
shall be without seeing you. I do feel that more than I can
tell you. You have the comfort of a home, and, moreover, at
some time or other, some person to whom you can speak, and
who will comfort you. I have none. I am thrown on the world
quite alone, without a friend--nothing; but, however, I
shall try and take courage, and I hope that when you will
see me in three years you will find a change for the better.
I shall employ these three years to reform my conduct, and
become all that you wish to see me. I shall never, my own,
my dearest K., forget the few moments I have spent with you;
but, on the contrary, I shall only consider them as the
happiest of my life. You cannot imagine how much pleasure
your letter has given me. It proved to me, far beyond any
possible doubt, what are your feelings towards me. I did
not, it is true, require that proof to know how you felt for
me. It is for that reason that I thank you most sincerely
for that proof of confidence, by expressing yourself so
kindly and openly to me. You may rest assured, my own
dearest K., that nothing in this world will prevent me,
except death in actual service, from coming back from India
at the time I have named to you--the latter part of the
autumn of 1854, or the beginning of 1855. It will be a great
comfort for me, my own dearest K., when I shall be in India,
to think of you. It will be, I may say, the only pleasure I
shall have to think of the first person I ever loved. You
may rest assured that nothing in the world will make me
change. Moreover, if you wish me to come back sooner, only
write to me, and I shall not remain five minutes in the army
more than I can help. I shall always be happy to comply with
your wishes, and come back as soon as possible. Again rest
assured, my dearest K., that if in any situation of life I
can be of help or service to you, I shall only be too happy,
my dearest K., to serve and oblige you.--Your very
affectionate cousin,
R.C. TICHBORNE."
Roger went back to his regiment in Ireland soon after the date given
in the foregoing extract; but the Carabineers were finally removed to
Canterbury, and in the summer he again got leave of absence, which he
spent with his aunt and cousin in London, and at Tichborne; and it
was on the 22d of June 1852, that the young people walked together for
the last time in the garden of Tichborne house. They talked of the
future hopefully; and for her comfort he told her a secret. Some
months before that time he had made a vow, and written out and signed
it solemnly. It was in these words:--"I make on this day a promiss,
that if I marry my Cousin Kate Doughty, this year, or before three
years are over, at the latest, to build a church or chapel at
Tichborne to the Holy Virgin, in thanksgiving for the protection which
she has showed us in praying God that our wishes might be fulfilled."
Roger went back to his regiment and indulged his habitual melancholy.
To his great regret, the order for the Carabineers to go to India had
been countermanded; but he had no intention of leading the dull round
of barrack life in Canterbury. He had determined to go abroad for a
year and a half or two years; by that time the allotted period of
trial would be near an end. He had determined to leave a profession
which offered no outlet for his energies. The tame round of the cities
and picture-galleries of Europe had no charms for him. Among the many
books which he had read at this time were the Indian romances of
Chateaubriand, "René," "Attila," and "Le Dernier Abencerage." How
deeply these stories had impressed his mind is apparent in his letters
to Lady Doughty. "Happy," he says, "was the life of René. He knew how
to take his troubles with courage, and keep them to himself,--retired
from all his friends to be more at liberty to think about his sorrows
and misfortunes, and bury them in himself. I admire that man for his
courage; that is, the courage to carry those sorrows to the grave
which drove him into solitude." Among his intimate friends and
schoolfellows at Stonyhurst, was Mr. Edward Waterton, whose father, the
celebrated naturalist, had given to the college a collection of
stuffed foreign birds and other preserved animals; and there can be no
doubt that the famous narratives of adventure in South America of that
distinguished traveller were among the books which Roger and other
college friends read at that period. How deeply the splendours of the
natural history collection of Stonyhurst had impressed the mind of the
boy is evidenced in the fact that Roger took delight at school in
practising the art of preserving birds and other animals; while long
afterwards, in humble emulation of the great naturalist's achievement,
he gathered and sent home, when on his travels, many a specimen of
birds of splendid plumage. South America, in short, had long been the
subject of his dreams; and now in travelling in that vast continent,
he would try to find occupation for the mind, and get through the long
time of waiting which he had undertaken to bear patiently. His scheme
was to spend a twelvemonth in Chili, Guayaquil, and Peru, seeing not
only wild scenes but famous cities; thence to visit Mexico, and so by
way of the United States find his way back to England. Having taken
this resolution, he set about putting his affairs in order, for Roger
was a man of business-like habits, and by no means prone to neglect
his worldly interests. He made his will,--saying, however, as he
remarked in one of his letters, "nothing about the church or chapel at
Tichborne," which he said he would only build under the conditions
mentioned in a paper which he had left in the hands of his dearest and
most trusted friend, Mr. Gosford, the steward of the family estates. In
truth, months before the day when he gave Miss Doughty a copy of "The
Vow" in the garden at Tichborne, he had solemnly signed and sealed up
a compact with his own conscience, and deposited it with other
precious mementoes of that time in his friend's safe keeping. Parting
with friends in England cost him, perhaps, but little sorrow, for his
mind was full of projects to be carried into effect on his return. He
aspired to the character of a traveller, and to be qualified for
membership at the Travellers' Club, where, in one of his letters while
abroad, he requests that his name may be inscribed as a candidate. He
had an old habit of keeping diaries, and he promised to send extracts,
and, after all, the time would not be long. There was one house in
which Roger naturally shrank from saying farewell. He had made a
solemn resolution that he would go to Tichborne no more while matters
remained thus, and his pride was wounded by what appeared to him to
be a want of confidence on the part of Lady Doughty. In a worldly
point of view it is difficult to conceive any union more desirable
than that of the two cousins. But it is clear that the mother trembled
for the future of her child. Hence she still gave ready ear to tales
of the wild life of the regiment, and hinted them in her letters to
her nephew in a way that made him angry, but not vindictive. He was
asked to go and see his uncle, Sir Edward, before starting; but his
will was inflexible, and he went away, as he had all along said that
he would, resolved to bury his sorrows within himself. Roger went away
in February, and spent nearly three weeks in Paris with his parents
and some old friends of his early days. His mother was much averse to
his plan of travelling; and she opposed it both by her own
upbraidings, and by the persuasion of spiritual advisers who had
influence over her son. But it was of no avail. Roger had chosen to
sail in a French vessel from Havre--"La Pauline"--and sail he would.
His voyage to Valparaiso was to last four months, and thence he was
going on in the same vessel to Peru. It was doubtless because of the
strong hold which the French language and many French manners still
had on him, that, though he took an English servant with him, he
preferred a French ship with a French captain and French seamen. On
the 1st of March, 1853, he sailed away from Europe, and, as we are
bound to believe, never returned. The "Pauline" started with bad
weather, which detained her in the Channel, and compelled her to put
in at Falmouth, but after that she made a good voyage round Cape Horn
to Valparaiso, where she arrived on the 19th of June. As the vessel
was to remain there a month, Roger, after spending a week in
Valparaiso, started with his servant John Moore to see Santiago, the
capital of Chili, about ninety miles inland. Thence he returned and
sailed for Peru, where he embarked for places in the north. At
Santiago his servant had been taken ill, and, though recovering, was
unfitted to travel. His master thereupon furnished him with funds to
set up a store, and took another servant, with whom he underwent many
adventures. At Lima he visited the celebrated churches, and purchased
souvenirs for his friends and relatives. Having stored a little yacht
with provisions, he started with his servant on a voyage of about
three hundred miles up the river Guayaquil, and was for some days
under the Line; he made similar journeys in a canoe with his servant
and two Indians, still bent on collecting and preserving rare birds of
gorgeous plumage. He also visited and explored silver and copper
mines. During all this travelling he continued his home correspondence
with great regularity. But the first news he received was bad.
Scarcely had the "Pauline" left sight of our shores, when Sir Edward
Doughty died, and Roger's father and mother were now Sir James and
Lady Tichborne. By and by the wanderer began to retrace his steps,
came back to Valparaiso, and with his last new servant, Jules Berraut,
rode thence in one night ninety miles to Santiago again. Again he
started with muleteers and servants on the difficult and perilous
journey over the Cordilleras, and thence across the Pampas to Buenos
Ayres, Monte Video, and Rio de Janeiro. In April 1854, there was in
the harbour of Rio a vessel which hailed from Liverpool, and was
called the "Bella." She was about to sail for Kingston, Jamaica, and
it was to Kingston that Roger had directed his letters and remittances
to be forwarded, that being a convenient resting place on his journey
to Mexico, where he intended to spend a few months. The "Bella" was a
full-rigged ship of nearly 500 tons burden, clipper-built, and almost
new. Aboard this ship, then taking in her cargo of coffee and logwood,
came one April morning a young English gentleman who introduced
himself as Mr. Tichborne. He was dressed in a half tourist, half
nautical costume, and wanted a passage to Kingston. Travelling with
servants, hiring yachts and canoes, buying paintings, curiosities, and
natural history specimens, had proved more expensive than he expected.
His funds were exhausted; nor could his purse be replenished until he
got to Kingston, where letters of credit were expected to be waiting
for him. It was some little time before the captain believed the
young man's story, but when he did, he not only undertook to convey
him and his people to Kingston; he determined to help him in a matter
of some delicacy and not a little danger; for when the vessel was near
sailing, Roger was found to be without that indispensable requisite, a
passport. Great excitement then prevailed in Brazil on the subject of
runaway slaves. Black slaves had escaped by making themselves
stowaways; "half-caste" people, relying on their comparative fairness
of skin, had openly taken passage as seamen or even passengers, and
thus got away from a hateful life of bondage. Hence the peremptory
regulation that no captain should sail with a stranger aboard without
an official license. Under these circumstances a plan was devised by
the captain. When the Government officers came aboard, no Tichborne or
other stranger was visible. As the vessel, loosened from her moorings,
was slowly drifting down the harbour in the morning, the officers sat
at a little table on deck, smoked and drank with the captain. At
length the moment came to call their boat and take farewell, wishing
the good ship "Bella" and her valuable freight a pleasant voyage.
Scarcely had they departed, when the table was removed; and just
beneath where they had been sitting a circular plug closing the
entrance to what is known as the "lazarette" was lifted, and out came
Roger laughing at the success of their harmless device. Before noon
the "Bella" had passed from the harbour of Rio into the open ocean,
and was soon on her voyage northward. That was on the 20th of April
1854, and that is the last ever known in good sooth of the "Bella,"
except as a foundered vessel. Six days after she had left the port of
Rio, a ship, traversing her path, found tokens of a wreck--straw
bedding such as men lay on deck in hot latitudes, a water-cask, a
chest of drawers, and among other things a long boat floating bottom
upwards, and bearing on her stern the ominous words "Bella,
Liverpool." These were brought into Rio, and forthwith the Brazilian
authorities caused steam vessels to go out and scour the seas in quest
of survivors; but none were seen. That the "Bella" had foundered
there was little room to doubt; though the articles found were chiefly
such as would have been on her deck. Even the items of cabin furniture
were known to have been placed on deck to make way for merchandise,
with which she was heavily laden. The night before these articles were
found had been gusty, but there had been nothing like a storm. When
time went by and brought no tidings, Captain Oates, a great friend of
the captain of the "Bella," who had been instrumental in getting Roger
on board, came with other practical seamen to the conclusion that she
had been caught in a squall; that her cargo of coffee had shifted; and
that hence, unable to right herself, the "Bella" had gone down in deep
water, giving but little warning to those on board. In a few months
this sorrowful news was brought to Tichborne, where there was of
course great mourning. One by one the heirs of the old house were
disappearing; and now it seemed that all the hopes of the family must
be centred in Alfred, then a boy of fifteen. So, at least, felt Sir
James Tichborne. He had inquiries made in America and elsewhere. For a
time there was a faint hope that some aboard the "Bella" had escaped,
and had, perhaps, been rescued. But months went by, and still there
was no sign. The letters of news that poor Roger had so anxiously
asked to be directed to him at the Post Office, Kingston, Jamaica,
remained there till the paper grew faded. The banker's bill, which was
wanted to pay the passage money, lay at the agents, but neither the
captain nor his passenger of the "Bella" came to claim it. Weeks and
months rolled on; the annual allowance of one thousand a year, which
was Roger's by right, was paid into Glyn & Co.'s bank, but no draft
upon it was ever more presented at their counters. The diligent
correspondent ceased to correspond. At Lloyd's the unfortunate vessel
was finally written down upon the "Loss Book"--the insurance was paid
to the owners, and in time the "Bella" faded away from the memories of
all but those who had lost friends or relatives in her. Lady Tichborne
was always full of hope that her son had been saved, and could never
be brought to regard him as drowned; but we have now seen the last of
the real Roger Tichborne, and our next business will be with the
counterfeit.