BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLXI. MARCH, 1854. VOL. LXXV.
CONTENTS.
DISRAELI: A BIOGRAPHY, 255
THE QUIET HEART.—PART IV., 268
THE RUSSIAN CHURCH AND THE PROTECTORATE IN TURKEY, 285
THE TWO ARNOLDS, 303
COUNT SIGISMUND’S WILL, 315
NEWS FROM THE FARM, 329
ALEXANDER SMITH’S POEMS, 345
THE EPIDEMICS OF THE MIDDLE AGES, 352
THE SONG OF METRODORUS, 367
THE NEW REFORM BILL, 369
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PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLXI. MARCH, 1854. VOL. LXXV.
DISRAELI: A BIOGRAPHY.[1]
Compliments are of various kinds. It is not always necessary that they
should assume a laudatory form—they may be conveyed quite as powerfully
through the medium of abuse. Some men there are whose eulogy is in
itself a disgrace. Few would have cared to see their characters upheld
in the columns of the _Age_ or the _Satirist_—fewer still would like to
hear a panegyric on their morals delivered from a hustings by the lips
of Mr Reynolds. If we had to choose between total obscurity, and a
reputation founded only upon the testimony of Mr Cobden, we should not,
for one moment, hesitate to embrace the first alternative. To be
designated in the polite circle of a sporting tavern as a “nobby cove,”
or a “real swell,” is not, according to our ideas, a high object of
ambition; and we should feel somewhat dubious of the real character of
the individual whose praise was in the mouths of all the cabmen.
On the contrary, there can be no doubt that abuse proceeding from
certain quarters is in itself a considerable recommendation, and may
even be matter of pride to the party who is made the subject of it. The
just Aristides never experienced a thrill of more agreeable complacency
than when, at the request of the illiterate Athenian, he wrote his own
name on the ostracising shell. We may rely upon it that Coriolanus felt
far more gratified than incensed when the howling and hooting of the
plebeians enabled him to deliver his stinging diatribe, and to express
the intensity of his scorn. Virgil regarded the low ribaldry of Mævius
as a direct acknowledgment of his literary accomplishments; and Cicero
in one of his speeches expresses himself as being under obligations to a
notorious blackguard, who had selected him as the object of his attacks.
Mr Disraeli, we think, lies under similar obligations, though the author
of the book before us is simply an ineffable blockhead. Mean, however,
as are his abilities, he has certainly contrived to strike out a
literary novelty; though it may be doubted whether his example, if
followed by men of average intellect, would tend to the improvement or
increase the delights of society. In the pages of a review or the
columns of a magazine, considerable freedom is used in discussing the
merits of eminent living literary or political characters. Such
criticisms or sketches are, no doubt, often tinted with party
colours—are sometimes rather severe—but are rarely, if ever, scurrilous.
But we do not remember any instance parallel to this, where a writer has
selected for his subject an eminent living character, and has proceeded
with deliberate, though most dull malignity, to rake up every particular
of his life which he dared to touch upon, to gather every scrap which he
either has or is supposed to have written from the years of his nonage
upwards, and then to lay before the public, under the title of a
biography, a ponderous volume of no fewer than 646 pages. Should this
example be followed, and the practice become general, it appears to us
that there will be strong necessity for revising the law of libel. We
have grave doubts whether, under any circumstances, one man is entitled
to take so gross a liberty with another. If each of us were to sit down
and compile biographies of his living neighbours, this would be no world
to live in. Either there would be an enormous increase of actions for
defamation, or the cudgel, horse-whip, and pistol, would be brought into
immediate requisition. Let us, however, concede that party animosity,
personal antipathy, or private hatred may, either singly or
collectively, be held to justify the perpetration of such an outrage—let
us suppose that there is such an accumulation of black bile and venom in
the interior of the unhappy human reptile that he must either give vent
to it or be suffocated—he is at least bound to put his name on the
title-page, so that the world may know what manner of man the deliberate
accuser is. For aught we are told to the contrary, this volume may have
been written by Jack Ketch or one of his subordinate assistants.
Evidently it is not written by one who possesses the ordinary feelings
of a gentleman, though it is possible that he may move in good society,
bear a respectable name, and be regarded by veteran red-tapists as a
young man of considerable promise. He is the counterpart of Randal
Leslie in _My Novel_—cold, selfish, and malignant, without a spark of
enthusiasm or a generous thought in his whole composition. Envy is the
grand passion of his mind; and, in this case, hatred co-operates with
envy. The object of this book is to run down Mr Disraeli on all points;
to exhibit him as an impostor in politics, a quack in literature, a
Maw-worm in religion, and a hypocrite in morals. We defy any one to
peruse twenty pages of the work without being convinced that such was
the intention of the author of _Disraeli, a Biography_; and yet the
skulking creature has not courage enough to show himself openly. He even
tries to assume a disguise so as to deceive those who might otherwise
have traced him to his hole. “Conscious,” says the cockatrice, “of no
motive but the public good, with little to hope or fear from any
political party, strongly attached to principles, but indulgent to mere
opinions, neither Whig nor Tory, but a respecter both of the sincere
Conservative and the sincere Liberal, I have no dread of the partisan’s
malice.” Mercy on us! who can this very mysterious person be? “No motive
but the public good!”—“little to hope or fear from any political
party!”—“neither Whig nor Tory!”—what sort of a politician is this? He
butters Mr Gladstone, he butters Lord John Russell, he butters Lord
Palmerston, he butters Mr Hume—his benevolence to every one except Mr
Disraeli is quite marvellous—but more especially doth he laud and
magnify the men who are now in power. “One of the humblest individuals
of this great empire has thought it necessary to enter his protest
against this new system of morality, which threatens to become generally
prevalent!” Humility!—morality!—Brave words, Mr Randal Leslie—but it
really was not worth while to add such hypocrisy to your other sins. We
know you a great deal better than you suppose; and your own past
history, insignificant though you are, has been too politically
profligate to escape reprobation. You say you are neither Whig nor Tory,
and, for once in your life, you speak the truth. But you were a Tory,
and you became a Whig, and you are now a placeman; and you would hold
that place of yours as readily under Mr Cobden as under Lord Aberdeen.
You were once a Peelite, but you had not even the decency to wait for
the fortunes of your chiefs. You lusted after office, and took the bribe
the instant it was tendered by the Whigs; and in consequence you are
universally looked upon and distrusted as the most venal, selfish, and
unprincipled young man of your generation. It would indeed be absurd in
you to entertain any “dread of the partisan’s malice.” You have placed
yourself in such a position that you may defy malice of any kind. Your
career, though obscure, has been so contemptible that your bitterest
enemy could not make you seem worse than you were. It must, however, be
allowed that you have materially added to your infamy by the present
publication.
We have thought it our duty, at the outset, to make these stringent
remarks, not because this writer has selected Mr Disraeli as the object
of his attack, but because we altogether disapprove of, and abominate,
this style of literary warfare. It is, thank heaven, as yet uncommon
among us; and the best way of preventing its occurrence is to make an
example of the caitiff who has introduced it. The idea, however, is not
altogether original. It was engendered in Holywell Street; from which
Paphian locality, as we are given to understand, various works,
professing to be “Private Histories,” and “Secret Memoirs” of eminent
living characters, were formerly issued; and this writer, being no doubt
familiar with that sort of literature, has thought proper to extend the
range of his license. We have, all of us, a decided interest in
maintaining the respectability of controversy. A public career does
indeed render men very amenable to criticism and comment; and it hardly
can be said that there is anything unfair in contrasting public
professions and public acts. A statesman, or even a less distinguished
politician, must be prepared to hear his former opinions set against
those which he now enunciates, and he may even consider it his duty
elaborately to vindicate the change. But to compile biographies of
living men—mixing up, as in this case, their mere literary effusions
with their political lives, and attempting, by distortion and base
inuendo, to render them contemptible in the eyes of the public—is an
outrage on common decency, and must excite universal scorn and disgust.
The moral perceptions of the man who could write a book like this must,
of course, be very weak; nevertheless, it is evident that even his
conscience gave him an occasional twinge, by way of reminding him of the
extreme dastardliness of his conduct. He could not but be aware that no
honourable or chivalrous opponent of Mr Disraeli could read this tissue
of malignity without experiencing a sensation of loathing; and,
therefore, he has attempted, at the very outset, to vindicate himself,
by representing Mr Disraeli as entitled to no quarter or courtesy, on
account of his addiction to personality and satire. It may be as well to
take down his own words, because we shall presently have occasion to
make a few observations connected with this charge.
“I admit fully that, if any man be entirely destitute of all claim to
indulgence, it is the subject of this biography. Personality is his
mighty weapon, which he has used like a gladiator whose only object
is, at all events, to inflict a deadly wound upon his adversary, and
not like a chivalrous knight, who will at any risk obey the laws of
the tournament. Mr Disraeli has been a true political Ishmael. His
hand has been raised against every one. He has even run amuck, like
the wild Indian.
“Who can answer a political novel? Libels the most scandalous may be
insinuated, the best and wisest men may be represented as odious, the
purest intentions and most devoted patriotism may be maligned, under
the outline of a fictitious character. The personal satirist is truly
the pest of society, and any method might be considered justifiable by
which he could be hunted down. It would, therefore, seem only a kind
of justice to mete out to Mr Disraeli the same measure which he has
meted out to others. As he has ever used the dagger and the bowl, why,
it may be asked, should not the deadly chalice be presented back to
him, and enforced by the same pointed weapon? This may be
unanswerable; yet I hold that no generous man would encounter an
ungenerous one with his own malice.”
Why not, Randal? If what you say regarding Mr Disraeli be true, you are
perfectly entitled to encounter him with his own weapons. You complain
of his having written political novels, in which certain characters,
whom you regard as sublime and pure, are represented in a different
light. Well, then, do you write a novel of the same kind, showing up Mr
Disraeli under a fictitious name, and we shall review it with all the
pleasure in the world. If it is clever, sparkling, and original, you
shall not want laudation. But you know very well that you could as soon
swim the Hellespont as compose two readable chapters of a novel—that you
have not enough of invention to devise a plot, or of imagination to
shadow forth a character; and, therefore, you are pleased to assume the
magnanimous, and to drivel about the dagger and the bowl. No one who
reads your book will believe that you would abstain from the use of any
weapon which you could wield against Mr Disraeli—(how should he, when
you glide before us as a masked assassin?)—but he will be at no loss to
divine the reason why you decline an encounter of wit. We are perfectly
sincere when we say that your intense dulness ought in some measure to
be accepted as an extenuation for your malevolence, for you have not art
enough to disguise or conceal the hatred which is rankling in your
breast.
But let us examine a little more narrowly into the charge preferred
against Mr Disraeli. It is said that personality is his weapon, which he
has used like a gladiator; and we understand the averment to be that
both his political speeches and his literary works display this
tendency. In considering this matter, it will be proper to separate the
two characters, and look first to the politician, and afterwards to the
novelist.
We shall at once admit that, in the House of Commons, Mr Disraeli is
feared as an antagonist. He possesses vast power of satire, a ready wit,
and has a thorough confidence and reliance in his own resources. He has
besides an intense contempt for that kind of cant in which it formerly
was the fashion to indulge—for the solemn airs of pompous mediocrity,
and for the official jargon and conventional hypocrisies of the Treasury
bench. When, in 1846, the late Sir Robert Peel abandoned the cause of
that party of which he was the accredited leader, he naturally became
the object of unsparing criticism and attack. But his offence was a very
grave one. It fully justified the taunt of Mr Disraeli, which this
writer affects to consider as remarkably offensive, that, “like the
Turkish admiral who, during the war in the Levant, had steered his fleet
into the port of the enemy, Sir Robert Peel had undertaken to fight for
this cause, and now assumed the right of following his own judgment.”
The comparison was certainly not a flattering one to the Prime Minister;
but it had this recommendation that it was strictly apposite, and that
no man could gainsay it. It is the height of absurdity to maintain that
personality could be, or ought to have been, excluded from the
discussions and debates that followed. Why, it was Sir Robert Peel
himself who, by his extraordinary change of policy, made this a personal
question, and brought it to a direct issue between the betrayer and the
betrayed. Are we really to be told at the present day that measures
alone should be discussed in the Houses of Parliament, and that all
commentary on the conduct and previous career of statesmen ought to be
avoided? Are we to be allowed no latitude of reference to former
speeches—no allusion to former protestations? Ought tergiversation to be
permitted to pass without notice or censure—ought duplicity to escape
exposure? If not, we boldly ask in what respect Mr Disraeli has sinned
so grievously as to merit the reproach of this Tartuffe? It may be said,
indeed, that he pushed his resentment of the unparalleled betrayal too
far; and we daresay, now that years have intervened, he may himself
regret the occasional acrimony of his remarks. That is the natural
feeling of every generous-minded man who has been compelled to take an
active share in public discussion; for it is impossible to restrain at
all times the excited passions, and sometimes the hour for calm
retrospection does not arrive, until the occasion of the original
offence has passed into matter of history. Mr Macaulay, in the preface
to the collected edition of his speeches, says with reference to this
very point: “I should not willingly have revived, in the quiet times in
which we are so happy as to live, the memory of those fierce contentions
in which so many years of my public life were passed. Many expressions
which, when society was convulsed by political dissension, and when the
foundations of government were shaking, were heard by an excited
audience with sympathy and applause, may, now that the passions of all
parties have subsided, be thought intemperate and acrimonious. It was
especially painful to me to find myself under the necessity of recalling
to my own recollection, and to the recollection of others, the keen
encounters which took place between the late Sir Robert Peel and
myself.” So it will ever be with the generous and high-spirited; but it
does not follow therefrom that the attacks were not deserved. Of course
such cold toads as Mr Randal Leslie cannot be expected to understand or
appreciate the feeling either of indignation or of regret. Having no
sympathy but for self, and possessing no clear discernment of the
difference between right and wrong, between candour and duplicity—having
been trained from their boyhood upwards to believe that falsehood,
trickery, and deceit, are component and necessary qualities of
statesmanship—they, naturally enough, stand aghast at the audacity which
tore the veil from organised hypocrisies, and hate the exposer with a
hatred more enduring than the love of woman. Hence this cant about
personality, which they talk of as if it were a new element in political
discussion. Now, the fact is, that no political discussion ever was
conducted, or ever will be conducted, without personality. You cannot
separate the idea from the man, the argument from him who uses it. The
first orator of antiquity, Demosthenes, was personal to a degree never
yet paralleled, as every one who has read his Philippics must allow. In
this he was imitated by Cicero, whose stinging invectives, as witness
the speeches against Catiline and Verres, have commanded the admiration
of the world. Chatham’s first speech in the House of Commons was a
purely personal one, no doubt provoked by his antagonist, but almost
witheringly severe. Canning and Brougham dealt largely both in satire
and personality—indeed, it would hardly be possible to find a speech of
the latter orator free from a strong infusion of that quality which the
moral Randal deplores. In our own time no great question has been
discussed without personality; and for this reason, that it would be
impossible to discuss it otherwise. No doubt personality may sometimes
be carried greatly too far. When Lord John Russell taunted Lord George
Bentinck with his former addiction to the turf, intending to convey
thereby an unworthy inuendo, he committed a serious fault, because he
violated gentlemanly decorum. When the late Sir Robert Peel accused Mr
Cobden of a desire to have him assassinated, he was not only
ultra-personal, but outrageously and unpardonably unjust. When the same
statesman could find no better answer to Mr Disraeli, than a charge that
the latter had at one time been willing to hold office under him, he
was, besides being directly personal, guilty of a breach of confidence.
We are aware it is the fashion among the present Ministry to protest
against personalities. Let us ask whether it was his administrative
talent or his practice in personal warfare that elevated Mr Bernal
Osborne to the post of Secretary to the Admiralty? Ministers are far
from objecting to a Spartacus, when they know they may reckon on his
assistance—it is only when a keen weapon is flashing on the other side
that they think it necessary to make an outcry. Party warfare we cannot
expect to see an end of; but, in the name of common sense, let us at
least eschew humbug. The House of Commons is, even now, a queer
assembly, and Lord John Russell may make it worse; still, let us believe
that the members collectively entertain that ordinary sense of propriety
that they will not permit anything to be uttered within the walls of St
Stephens, which calls for direct reprobation, without immediate
challenge, and without censure, if an apology is not made for the
intemperance. One of the principal duties of the Speaker is to repress
and check the use of unparliamentary language. If any accusation, not
falling under that restriction, is preferred, the members of the House
are the judges of its propriety, and may be expected, in the aggregate,
to enforce the rules which govern the conduct of gentlemen. It is,
therefore, most gross impertinence in Mr Randal Leslie to challenge what
Parliament has not challenged. Mr Disraeli’s present position, as the
leader of the largest independent, and most influential section of the
House of Commons, is the best answer to the insinuations of this
contemptible little snake, who, we apprehend, will not receive, from his
political superiors, the meed of gratitude which he expected for his
present unfortunate attempt. It is the misfortune of your Randal
Leslies, that they never can, even by blundering, stumble on the right
path. Set them to defend in writing some particular line of policy, and
the first six pages of their lucubrations will convince the impartial
reader that they are advocating something unsound or untrue, by dint of
their unnecessary affectation of candour. Set them to attack an
opponent, and they fail; because they cannot descry the points upon
which he is really vulnerable, and because they think indiscriminate
abuse is more effective than artistic criticism, of which latter branch
of accomplishment they are wholly incapable. This lad has not even the
talent to malign with plausibility. He calls Mr Disraeli “a true
political Ishmael.” What does the blockhead mean? Does he not know that
the individual whom he denominates Ishmael, is at this moment at the
head of the most powerful separate party in the British House of
Commons?
In justice to the leading members of the Coalition Cabinet, we shall
state our opinion, (not altogether unfortified by certain rumours which
have reached us), that they were unaware of this singularly silly
attempt, on the part of one of their subordinates, to attack an eminent
character in opposition, until the fool launched it from the press
before a disgusted public. Ill-judging Randal Leslie conceived that his
work would make a grand political sensation; so, after the manner of his
kind, he kept his secret to himself, and worked like a perfect
galley-slave, or like a thorough scavenger, at his vocation. Whatever Mr
Disraeli had said or written on politics, or any subject trenching upon
politics, from the period of his first publication down to his last
parliamentary speech, Randal had read and noted; and the poor knave at
last concluded that he had a good case to lay before the public. And
what does his political case, by his own account, amount to? Simply
this: That Mr Disraeli, from his very earliest years, has detested and
denounced the tenets of the Whig party; and that he has always supported
the cause of the people—not in the democratic, but in the real and
truthful sense of the word—against the villanies of organised
oppression, and the rapacity of manufacturing domination. But these
things belong rather to his literary than to his political character.
Randal thought he had made a great hit in bringing them forward. He must
have been very much amazed when an elder and more sagacious colleague
explained to him that, instead of throwing dirt upon the object of his
enmity, he had unconsciously been passing upon him a high encomium, such
as any statesman might be proud of for his panegyric; and that his work,
if generally read, would greatly tend to sap the faith in present
political combinations. After all, how stand the facts? Ten years ago Mr
Disraeli, a member of the Tory party, but not then greatly distinguished
as a politician, nor possessing that influence which hereditary rank and
high connection give to others, had the sagacity to discern that Sir
Robert Peel was not a safe leader, and the courage to make the avowal.
Randal quotes his language in 1844. “He had always acknowledged that he
was a party man. It was the duty of a member of the House of Commons to
be a party man. He, however, would only follow a leader who was prepared
to lead.” No doubt the lips of many a Tadpole and Taper curled with
derision at this audacious declaration of contempt for constituted
authority, on the part of a young man, the tenor of whose speeches they
could not rightly understand. He professed himself to be a Tory, but he
often uttered sentiments which seemed to them strongly to savour of
Radicalism. He did not scruple to avow his sympathy with the labouring
classes, his desire to see them elevated and protected, and his wish for
the adoption of a more genial, considerate, and paternal course of
legislation. He traced the agitation for the Charter to the
establishment of the supremacy of a middle-class government in the
country; and boldly announced his opinion that this monarchy of the
middle classes might one day shake our institutions and endanger the
throne. In particular he denounced centralisation—a great and growing
evil, to which he attributed much of the existing discontent. Such views
were of course unintelligible to the Tadpoles and Tapers—men who
considered statesmanship a science only in so far as it could insure
ascendancy to their party, and places to themselves. There were then a
good many veteran Tadpoles and Tapers; and Sir Robert Peel was doing his
best to educate a new generation of them to supply inevitable vacancies.
Naturally enough they regarded Mr Disraeli as a pure visionary; but
there were others upon whom his argument and example were not lost.
Young men began to consider whether, after all, they were doing their
duty by blindly submitting themselves to party domination, as rigid and
exacting as the most autocratic rule. They were desired, under very
severe penalties for rising politicians, not to venture to think for
themselves, but to do as the minister ordered. They were not to take up
their time in unravelling social questions—if they wanted mental
exercise, let them serve on a railway committee. There might be, and
doubtless was, a cry of distress and a wailing from without—but the
minister would see to that, settle everything by an increase of the
police force, or perhaps a coercion bill; and the Treasury whip would
give them due notice when they were expected to vote. In short, young
members of Parliament were then treated exactly as if they had been
children, incapable of forming an opinion; and they were told, in almost
as many words, that if they did not choose to submit themselves to this
dictation, the doors of the Treasury would remain closed against them
for ever. The effect of this insolence—for we can give it no other
name—was that a considerable portion of the young aristocracy rebelled.
They would not submit to such preposterous tyranny, and they cared not a
rush for any of the Ministerial threats. They saw that, in the country,
there was distress—that discontent and disaffection were very rife—and
that, in the very heart of England, a large body of the working
population were absolutely in a state of bondage. They could not find it
in their hearts to greet, with exultation, the announcement of increased
exports, whilst every year the condition of the producers seemed to be
becoming worse. Looking to the state, they saw two great parties under
autocratic chiefs, bidding against each other for popularity—that is,
power—and for office to their respective staffs, without any real regard
for the interest or improvement of the masses. That was not a spectacle
likely to find favour in the eyes of a young, ardent, and
generous-minded man; and accordingly from that time we may date the
formation of another party, still on the increase, and rapidly
augmenting, which, rejecting what was bad in the old Toryism, but
maintaining its better principle—resolute to preserve the constitution,
but cordially sympathising with the people—is preparing to encounter,
and will encounter with success, the cold-blooded democracy of
Manchester, which would destroy everything that is venerable, noble, or
dear to England, and establish on the ruins a serfdom of Labour, with
Capital as the inexorable tyrant. We do not say that Mr Disraeli is to
be regarded as the founder of that party. Young men professing
conservative opinions were beginning about that time to think
independently for themselves, and to doubt the authenticity and
soundness of tradition. The young Whigs, who were kept in much better
order by their seniors, stuck by their old political breviary; but the
young Tories would not. They were ready, if occasion required, to
maintain to the death the Monarchy, the House of Peers, and the Church;
but they could not, for the lives of them, understand that it was not
their duty to investigate, and if possible improve, the condition of the
working-classes. On the contrary, they regarded that as a distinct moral
duty, in which they were resolved to persevere, notwithstanding the
advice of their own political Gallios, or the example of their opponents
who were always ready, when the people asked for relief, to tender them
a stone. Mr Disraeli, however, has this credit, that he was the first,
in the House of Commons, to free himself from a debasing domination, and
to assert his absolute independence of the minister in thought and deed.
Of course he was never forgiven by the autocrat, nor will he be forgiven
by the men who still swear by their idol. But he went on undauntedly,
never fearing to say his thought; and barely two years had elapsed
before the great bulk of the Tory party—the Tapers and Tadpoles
excepted—had acknowledged the justness of his estimate as to the
trustworthiness of their former chief, and ranged themselves in
opposition to the late Sir Robert Peel.
It is not our intention to pronounce a panegyric upon Mr Disraeli. We
see no occasion for doing so, and we doubt if he would care to hear one.
But we confess that the impudence of this young whipper-snapper has
somewhat roused our bile. He reminds us of a wretched curtailed messan
whom we once saw introduced into a drawing-room. The creature, which, in
mercy to the future canine breed, ought to have been drowned in the days
of its puppydom, went sniffing about at the furniture, thrusting its
odious nose everywhere, and at last committed sacrilege by lifting its
leg against a magnificent china jar. Of course Nemesis was speedy. We
had the satisfaction of kicking the cur from the upper landing to the
lobby, by a single pedal application; and, beyond the hint gathered from
a dolorous howl, have no cognizance of its after fate. Mr Disraeli’s
present position in the House of Commons is the best possible answer to
“one of the humblest”—for which, read, meanest—“individuals of this
great empire.”
Randal, however, does not confine himself to a review of Mr Disraeli’s
political career. He must needs—though of all men the most unfitted for
the task, for he has no more notion of literature than a
Hottentot—attempt to criticise him as an author. Here he evidently
thinks that he can make out a strong case; and accordingly he goes over,
_seriatim_, the whole of the publications to which Mr Disraeli has set
his name, and one or two others which were not so authenticated. At
first sight it is not easy to understand why he should have given
himself so much trouble. Mr Disraeli’s earliest novel, _Vivian Grey_,
was written when the author was about the age of two-and-twenty, and, no
doubt, to the critical eye, it has many faults. But so have the early
productions of every master—not only in language, but in painting and
all other branches of art,—yet we forgive them all for the unmistakable
traces of real genius which are displayed. That early novel of Mr
Disraeli, though produced so far back as 1826, has never been forgotten.
It took its place at once as a decided work of genius; and, as such,
continued to be read before the author became a political character or
celebrity. And so it was, even in larger measure, with his next work,
_Contarini Fleming_. Now, it is of some importance to ask, _why_ these
books were popular? They certainly could not recommend themselves to the
old, as elaborate compositions, for they showed a lack of worldly
experience, and sometimes bordered on extravagance. But they recommended
themselves to the young, because they were brimful of a youthful spirit;
because they expressed, better perhaps than ever had been done before,
the daring, recklessness, and utter exuberance of youth; and because
even older men recognised in them the distinct image of passions which
they had once entertained, but from which they were divorced for ever.
Poor pitiful Randal, who even in his boyhood does not seem to have
experienced a single generous impulse, thinks that in these juvenile
pictures he can identify the future politician. He says, “It is
impossible, in perusing the book, not to connect Mr Disraeli with
Contarini Fleming;” and he then goes on gravely to argue that many of
the positions in the romance are objectionable. Because Mr Disraeli
makes his leading character talk extravagantly when in love—as what boy
under such circumstances does not talk extravagantly?—we are asked to
believe that the author is habitually addicted to fustian! Because
Contarini Fleming is represented at the head of a band of reckless
collegians, who, inspired by the “Robbers” of Schiller, betake
themselves to the woods, Randal politely insinuates that Mr Disraeli was
intended by nature for a bandit! He might just as well tell us that Miss
Jane Porter was intended for a Scottish chief! Such absolute trash as
this is really below contempt; nor would we have noticed it at all
except to show the animus of this singularly paltry critic. We shall
make no further allusion to his commentary on the early novels, beyond
remarking, that he crawls over every page of _Venetia_ and _Henrietta
Temple_, in the hope to leave upon them traces of his ugly slime.
It is, however, against the political novels that Mr Randal Leslie
chooses principally to inveigh. That he regards them as heterodox in
doctrine is not to be wondered at—that he cannot discriminate between
the sportive and the real is the result of his own narrow powers of
comprehension. But his chief cry, as we have remarked before, is against
personality, and he thus favours us with his ideas: “All men must
execrate the midnight stabber. And a midnight stabber is a man who, in a
work of fiction, endeavours to make a fictitious character stand for a
real one, and attributes to it any vices he pleases. Nothing can be more
unfair; nothing can be more reprehensible. Against such a system of
attack even the virtues of a Socrates are no protection,” &c. We see no
occasion for dragging Socrates into the discussion. Those twin sons of
Sophroniscus, Tadpole and Taper, are quite sufficient for our purpose in
discussing this point of literary personality. We are therefore given to
understand by Mr Leslie, that it is utterly unjustifiable to display, in
a work of fiction, any character corresponding to a real one. That,
certainly, is a broad enough proposition. According to this view, Virgil
was a midnight stabber, because it is notorious that the characters in
the Eneid were intended to represent eminent personages of Rome; and all
of them were not flatteringly portrayed—as, for instance, Drances, who
stands for Cicero. Spenser was a midnight stabber, in respect of Duessa,
intended for Mary Queen of Scots. Shakespeare was a midnight stabber, in
respect of Justice Shallow, the eidolon of Sir Thomas Lucy. Dryden was
an irreclaimable bravo; witness his Absalom and Achitophel. We are
afraid that even Pope must wear the badge of the poniard. Very few of
our deceased, and scarce one of our living novelists, can escape the
charge of satire and personality. If a man is writing about things of
the present day, he must, perforce, take his characters from the men who
move around him, else he will produce no true picture. Both Dickens and
Thackeray draw from life, and their sketches are easily recognisable.
There are certain characters in Mr Warren’s _Ten Thousand A-Year_, which
we apprehend nobody can mistake. In depicting, for example, the House of
Commons, would it be correct to paint that assembly, not as it is, but
as what it might be, if a total change were made in its members? If a
literary man has occasion, in a work of fiction, to sketch the Treasury
Bench, must he necessarily leave out the principal figures which give
interest to that Elysian locality? But is it really true that Mr
Disraeli has been so excessively licentious in his personality? Tadpoles
he has drawn, no doubt, and Tapers; but there are at least two dozen
gentlemen who have equal right to appropriate those designations to
themselves. He has given us two perfect types of a narrow-minded class,
but the class itself is numerous. The originals of Coningsby and
Millbank, if there were any such, are not likely to complain of their
treatment; and positively the only objectionable instance of personality
which we can remember as occurring in Mr Disraeli’s political novels, is
the character of Rigby. It is quite possible that Mr Disraeli might, if
he chose, give a satisfactory explanation of this departure from
decorum; for we are not of the number of those who profess, like Mr
Randal Leslie, to think that it is unlawful to retaliate with the same
weapon which has been used in assault. But the truth is, we care very
little about the matter. Let us grant that this one character of Rigby
is objectionable—does that justify this outrageous howl about perpetual
personalities? Where are the personalities in Sybil and Tancred? We may
be very dull, but we really cannot find them; and yet we have perused
both works more than once with great pleasure. Who are the leading
political characters whom Mr Disraeli is said to have sketched for the
purpose of misrepresenting their motives? Has he given us in his novels
a sketch of Wellington, of Peel, of Brougham, of Lord John Russell, of
Sir James Graham, of O’Connell, of Cobden, or of Hume? We never heard
that alleged; and yet we are told that his novels are full of outrageous
political libels! Why, if he had intended to be politically personal, he
could not by possibility have avoided introducing some of these men,
under feigned names, seeing that they have all played a conspicuous part
in the great drama of public life. He might, we think, have introduced
them, had he so pleased, without any breach of propriety; but it is
enough, in dealing with Mr Randal Leslie, to remark that he has not done
so, and consequently the whole elaborate structure of hypocrisy falls to
the ground.
It may be said that it was not worth our while to waste powder and shot
upon a jackdaw; nor, in all probability, should we have done so, were
this the sole chatterer of his species. But the splendid abilities and
political success of Mr Disraeli have created for him a host of enemies,
who seem determined, at all hazards, to run him down, and whose attacks
are not only malignant, but unintermitting. Some of these may be
regarded simply as the ebullitions of envy—the mutterings of discontent
against success. The feeling which prompts such attacks is anything but
commendable; but we are inclined to draw a distinction between that
class of writers, and another, whose enmity to Mr Disraeli may be traced
to more personal motives. The former may, perhaps, have no absolute
dislike to the man whom they are endeavouring to decry. They assail him
because he has risen so much and so swiftly above their social level;
and if he were to experience a reverse, their feeling towards him would
probably change. Theirs is just the sentiment of vulgar radicalism—that
which stimulates demagogues to attack the Church and the aristocracy.
Men of the literary profession are very liable to such influences, more
especially when one of their number passes into another sphere of
distinction. So long as Mr Disraeli confined himself to literary
pursuits, he might be regarded and dealt with as one of themselves: it
was his political career, and his accession to office as a Cabinet
Minister, which made the gap between him and the literary multitude. It
is much to be regretted, for the sake of literature itself, that any
such demonstrations of jealousy should be exhibited, but we fear there
is no remedy for it. Other times, besides our own, furnish us with
examples in abundance of this kind of unworthy detraction, which,
however, may not be tinged with absolute personal malice.
The author of this volume has nothing in common with the writers to whom
we have just alluded. In the first place, he has no pretensions whatever
to be considered as a literary man. His style is bald and bad; he is
wholly unpractised in criticism; and he commits the egregious blunder of
dealing in indiscriminate abuse. Notwithstanding all our admiration for
Mr Disraeli, we are bound to admit that some of his novels afford ample
scope for criticism; and that a witty and competent reviewer could
easily, and with perfect fairness, write an amusing article on the
subject. More than one excellent imitation of Mr Disraeli’s peculiar
style has appeared in the periodicals; and we have no doubt that even
the author of _Coningsby_ enjoyed a hearty laugh over the facetious
parodies of _Punch_. There is no kind of malice in the preparation or
issuing of squibs like these. We should all of us become a great deal
too dull and solemn without them; and they contribute to the public
amusement without giving annoyance to any one. But Randal Leslie is such
an absolute bungler that he is not contented with selecting the weak
points in Mr Disraeli’s works, but tries to depreciate those very
excellencies and beauties which have elevated him in the eyes of the
public. He cannot bear to think that Mr Disraeli should have credit for
having written even a single interesting chapter, and therefore he keeps
battering at the fabric of his fame, like a billy-goat butting at a
wall. Had Mr Randal Leslie possessed a little more real knowledge of the
world, or had his conceit been but one degree less than it is, he would
have paused before entering the literary and critical arena. He can talk
glibly enough about gladiators—was he not aware that a certain degree of
training is required, before a literary man becomes used to the practice
of his art? Apparently not; for anything so utterly contemptible, in the
shape of criticism, it never was our fortune to peruse. We conclude,
therefore, that whatever may have been the nature of the other “private
griefs” which stimulated this wretched onslaught on Mr Disraeli,
literary jealousy was not among the number. The frog may wish to emulate
the dimensions of the ox; but not even Esop has ventured to represent it
as emulous of the caroling of the lark.
We have no hesitation in stating our belief, that a certain party in the
State, to whom Mr Disraeli is peculiarly obnoxious, has addressed itself
deliberately to the task, through its organs, of running him down. The
Whigs, of course, regard him with no favour, for he has always been
their determined opponent; but we have no reason whatever to suppose
that their hostility would be carried so far as to induce them to join
in so very unworthy a conspiracy. But to the Peelites he has given
mortal umbrage. They cannot forget that he was the man who first
challenged the despotic authority of their chief in the House of
Commons, and set an example of independence in thought and action to
others of the Tory party. They cannot forget the conflicts in which he
was personally engaged with their leader; and they cannot forgive him
for the havoc which he made in the ranks of the pseudo-Conservatives. If
he and others had chosen to stifle their convictions, to lay aside all
considerations of honour and consistency, to submit to mysterious but
imperative dictation, and to become the passive tools of an autocratic
minister, the Conservatives might still have been in power, and the
red-tapists in possession of their offices. Not one of the latter class
but feels himself personally injured. The Tapers and Tadpoles had been
so long accustomed to the advent of quarter-day, that they regarded
their places almost in the light of patrimonial possessions; and bitter
indeed was their hatred of the man who had assisted to eject them from
their Goshen. Besides this, their vanity, of which they were not without
a large share, was sorely wounded by the manner in which they were
exhibited to the public view, and more so by the intense relish with
which the sketches were received. Mr Disraeli never made so happy a hit
as in his portraiture of these small, bustling, self-sufficient, and
narrow-minded officials, with their ridiculous notions about party
watchwords, political combinations, backstairs influence, and so forth;
nor was there ever a more terse or felicitous description of the then
existing Government, than that which he has put into the mouth of
Taper:—“A sound Conservative government—I understand: Tory men and Whig
measures.” These things belong to the past. They are, however,
intelligible reasons for the rancour which the remnants of the Peel
party, even when allied with the Whigs in power, exhibit towards Mr
Disraeli; and nothing since has occurred to mitigate the acerbity of
that feeling. But there are weighty considerations applicable to the
future. The Aberdeen Cabinet is composed of such heterogeneous materials
that it cannot be expected to hold long together. Even now there is
dissension within it; and, but for the expectation of an immediate and
inveterate war, which renders the idea of a change of government
distasteful to every one, men would consider it as doomed. In fact, the
alliance has never been other than a hollow one, and there is no real
cordiality or confidence among the chiefs. The Whigs are already looking
in the direction of the Radicals; the Peelites would very gladly gain
the confidence of the country gentlemen. They believe it not impossible
even yet, by making certain sacrifices and concessions, to reconstruct
the Conservative party; but Mr Disraeli is the obstacle, and their
hatred of him is even greater than their love of office. They would, in
1852, have opened a negotiation, provided he had been excluded; and they
entertain the same views in 1854. It is evident that Lord Aberdeen
cannot long remain as Premier. He is anything but personally popular; he
is now well advanced in years; and his conduct in the Eastern question
has not raised him in the estimation of the country. But then, failing
him, who is to be the leader of the Peelites in the House of Lords? Not
certainly the Duke of Newcastle, who has neither temper nor ability for
that duty; and they have no one else to put forward. Gladly would they
serve under Lord Derby; but the same Cabinet cannot hold Mr Disraeli and
Mr Gladstone.
Let them do their worst. It is not by publications of this kind, or
unscrupulous newspaper invectives, that they will accomplish their
object. Even the critic who has taken this book as a text for his
commentary in the _Times_, is constrained to acknowledge that the author
has sate down “to accumulate upon the head of his living victim all the
dislike, malevolence, and disgust he can get together in 650 octavo
pages.” We must say that it never was our lot to peruse a more
extraordinary article than that which we now refer to. The critic does
not even think it necessary to affect that he cares for public morality.
He dislikes the Protectionists, whose general ability he doubts, as much
as he abhors their tenets; and he thinks that Mr Disraeli ought to have
left their camp in 1848, immediately after the death of Lord George
Bentinck. We confess that we were at first a good deal startled at this
proposition, inasmuch as the course of conduct which is here indicated
would have laid Mr Disraeli open to such charges of perfidy as no
honourable man could endure; but, on looking a little further, we began
to see the drift of these observations. There are two detachments of
mischief-makers at work—the object of the one being to disgust the Tory
party with Mr Disraeli; that of the other being to disgust Mr Disraeli
with his party. We think it right, out of sheer regard for ethics, to
quote a sentence or two from the critical article in the _Times_:—
“For weeks,” says the critic, referring to the position of Mr Disraeli
in 1848, “did he suffer mortification, insult, and ingratitude from the
Protectionist party, with Lord Derby at its head; such as must have
roused a nobler soul to self-respect, and stung it with a consciousness
of intolerable wrong. What if, at that period of consummate baseness and
unblushing insolence, Mr Disraeli had stood apart from the conspirators,
and taken an independent place in the arena which he had already made
his own! Does he believe that the good-will of his countrymen would have
been wanting to him at that trying hour, and that the sympathies of Whig
and Tory would not have sustained him in the crisis? He will never
recover the consequences of the fault then committed. He stooped low as
the ground to conquer, and he failed. He might have vanquished nobly,
and held his head erect. By consenting to act with men who did not
hesitate to let him feel how much they despised him, he has, indeed,
tasted the sweets of office, and for a season held the reins of power.
But where is he now? Where might he have been, had he proudly taken his
seat in 1848, aloof from the false allies who had no belief in his
earnestness, no satisfaction in his company, and who hurled their
contempt in his teeth?”
It requires more than one perusal before the full meaning of this
passage can be comprehended. The critic first informs us, with a most
suspicious degree of circumstantiality as to details, that, after the
death of Lord George Bentinck, there was some indisposition to intrust
the leadership of the Protectionist party in the House of Commons to Mr
Disraeli, and then argues that he ought to have left them at once and
for ever! Beautiful, indeed, are the notions of morality and honour
which are here inculcated!
But how comes the writer in the _Times_ to be so intimately acquainted
with the secret councils of the Protectionist party, whom in the
aggregate he sneers at, terms “conspirators,” and accuses of “consummate
baseness and unblushing insolence?” What does he know, more than other
determined supporters of Sir Robert Peel, of what was passing in the
opposite camp? He tells us, speaking of 1845, that “in England the
injustice of the Corn Laws is felt at every hearth. Sir Robert Peel
seizes the opportunity to repair some of the errors of his former life,
and to establish his name for ever in the grateful recollection of his
countrymen.” The man who wrote these words never could have had any
trafficking with the Protectionists; he must have abhorred them
throughout; and yet the curious thing is, that he knows, or pretends to
know, a great deal more about them than an enemy could possibly have
done. For example, he says, in reference to the alleged unwillingness,
on the part of the Protectionists, to be led by Mr Disraeli, that
“almost in as many words Lord Derby, then Lord Stanley, condescended to
convey the intelligence to the gifted subaltern, and to inform him that,
notwithstanding the transcendent services he had rendered, he had not
respectability enough for the place of honour he had earned.” This is
either false or true. If false, it is the most unblushing fiction we
ever remember to have met with; if true, we should like very much to
know how the writer came by his information.
Not less remarkable is the intimate knowledge which the critic affects
of Mr Disraeli’s private character. That he dislikes him is very
evident. He describes him as “Genius without Conscience;” says “he has
not a bad heart—he has no heart at all;” that he “will stand before
posterity as the great political infidel of his age, as one who believed
in nothing but himself;” and a great deal to the same purpose. He
denounces him as inconsistent; and yet, in the same breath, blames him
for not having abandoned his party on the impulse of a sudden pique. If
Iago were alive and a critic, we should expect from him just such an
article as that which appeared in the _Times_.
We end as we began. In this wicked and envious little world of ours, no
man of any note can hope to escape without abuse, which may be
formidable or not, according to the quarter from which it comes, and the
motives which called it forth. If more than the share commonly set apart
for public men has fallen upon Mr Disraeli, he may comfort himself with
the reflection that there is but one feeling on the part of the public
with regard to the conduct of his assailants; and we are greatly
mistaken if, by this time, the author of the _Literary and Political
Biography_ does not wish, in his secret heart, that he had never
addressed himself to his dirty task. As for other attacks, he is
certainly liable to these, both as a party leader and as an ex-minister.
No one knows better than Mr Disraeli that enmities may sometimes arise
from peculiar causes. Of this, indeed, he has given us, in one of his
earlier fictions, a very apt illustration, when he makes Ixion say: “I
remember we had a confounded poet at Larissa, who proved my family lived
before the Deluge, and asked me for a pension. I refused him, and then
he wrote an epigram asserting that I sprang from the veritable stones
thrown by Deucalion and Pyrrha at the repeopling of the earth, and
retained all the properties of my ancestors!”
THE QUIET HEART.
PART IV.—CHAPTER XVIII.
“Eh, Menie, are you sure yon’s London?”
So asked little July Home standing under the shadow of the elm-trees,
and looking out upon the sea of city smoke, with great St Paul’s looming
through its dimness. July did not quite understand how she could be said
to be near London, so long as she stood upon the green sod, and saw
above her the kindly sky. “There’s no very mony houses hereaway,” said
the innocent July; “there’s mair in Dumfries, Menie—and this is just a
fine green park, and here’s trees—are you sure yon’s London?”
“Yes, it’s London.” Very differently they looked at it;—the one with the
marvelling eyes of a child, ready to believe all wonders of that
mysterious place, supreme among the nations, which was rather a superb
individual personage from among the Arabian genii than a collection of
human streets and houses, full of the usual weaknesses of humankind; the
other with the dreamy gaze of a woman, pondering in her heart over the
scene of her fate.
“And Randall’s yonder, and Johnnie Lithgow?” said July. “I would just
like to ken where; Menie, you’ve been down yonder in the town—where will
Johnnie and our Randall be? Mrs Wellwood down in Kirklands bade me ask
Randall if he knew a cousin of hers, Peter Scott, that lives in London;
but nobody could ken a’ the folk, Menie, in such a muckle town.”
“My dear Miss July, muckle is an ugly word,” said Miss Annie Laurie,
“and you must observe how nicely your brother and his friend speak—quite
marvellous for self-educated young men—and even Menie here is very well.
You must not say muckle, my love.”
“It was because I meant to say very big,” said July with a great blush,
holding down her head and speaking in a whisper. July had thrown many a
wandering glance already at Miss Annie, speculating whether to call her
the old lady or the young lady, and listening with reverential curiosity
to all she said; for July thought “She—the lady,” was very kind to call
her my dear and my love so soon, and to kiss her when she went away
wearied, on her first evening at Heathbank, to rest; though July could
never be sure about Miss Annie, and marvelled much that Menie Laurie
should dare to call any one in such ringlets and such gowns, aunt.
“You will soon learn better, my dear little girl,” said the gracious
Miss Annie, “and you must just be content to continue a little girl
while you are here, and take a lesson now and then, you know; and above
all, my darling, you must take care not to fall in love with this young
man whom you speak of so familiarly. He must not be Johnnie any more,
but only Mr Lithgow, your brother’s friend and ours—for I cannot have
both my young ladies falling in love.”
“Me!” July’s light little frame trembled all over, her soft hair fell
down upon her neck. “It never will stay up,” murmured July, with eager
deprecation, as Miss Annie’s eye fell upon the silky uncurled locks; but
it was only shamefacedness and embarrassment which made July notice the
descent of her hair—for July was trembling with a little thrill of fear
and wonder and curiosity. Was it possible, then, that little July had
come to sufficient years to be capable of falling in love?—and, in spite
of herself, July thought again upon Johnnie Lithgow, and marvelled
innocently, though with a blush, whether he “minded” her as she minded
him.
But July could not understand the strange abstraction which had fallen
upon her friend—the dreamy eye, the vacant look, the long intervals of
silence. Menie Laurie of Burnside had known nothing of all this new-come
gravity, and July’s wistful look had already begun to follow those
wandering eyes of hers—to follow them away through the daylight, and
into the dark, wondering—wondering—what it was that Menie sought to see.
Jenny is busied in the remote regions of the kitchen at this present
moment, delivering a lecture, very sharp, and marked with some
excitement, to Miss Annie Laurie’s kitchen maid, who is by no means an
ornamental person, and for that and many other reasons is a perpetual
grief to Miss Annie’s heart—so Jenny is happily spared the provocation
of beholding the new visitor who has entered the portals of Heathbank.
For a portentous shawl, heavy as a thundercloud, a gown lurid as the
lightning escaping from under its shade, and a new bonnet grim with
gentility, are making their way round the little lawn, concealing from
expectant eyes the slight person and small well-formed head, with its
short matted crop of curls, which distinguish Johnnie Lithgow. Johnnie,
good fellow, does not think his sister the most suitable visitor in the
world to the Laurie household; but Johnnie would not, for more wealth
than he can reckon, put slight upon his sister even in idea—so Miss
Annie Laurie’s Maria announces Miss Panton at the door of Miss Annie
Laurie’s drawing-room, and Nelly, where she failed to come as a servant,
is introduced as a guest.
“Thank’ye, mem,” said Nelly. “I like London very weel so far as I’ve
seen it—but it’s a muckle place, I dinna doubt, no to be lookit through
in a day—and I’m aye fleyed to lose mysel in thae weary streets; but you
see I didna come here ance errand to see the town, but rather came with
an object, mem—and now I’m to bide on to take care of Johnnie. My mother
down-by at hame has had mony thochts about him being left his lane, with
naebody but himself to care about in a strange place—and it’s sure to be
a comfort to her me stopping with Johnnie, for she kens I’m a
weel-meaning person, whatever folk do to me; and I would be real
thankful if ye could recommend me to a shop for good linen, for I have
a’ his shirts to mend. To be sure, he has plenty of siller—but he’s
turning the maist extravagant lad I ever saw.”
“Good soul! and you have come to do all those kind things for him,” said
Miss Annie Laurie: “it is so delightful to me to find these fine homely
natural feelings in operation—so primitive and unsophisticated. I can’t
tell you what pleasure I have in watching the natural action of a kind
heart.”
“I am much obliged to ye, mem,” said Nelly, wavering on her seat with a
half intention of rising to acknowledge with a curtsey this
complimentary declaration. “I was aye kent for a weel-meaning lass,
though I have my faults—but I’m sure Johnnie ought to ken how weel he
can depend on me.”
July Home was standing by the window—standing very timid and demure,
pretending to look out, but in reality lost in conjectures concerning
Johnnie Lithgow, whose image had never left her mind since Miss Annie
took the pains to advise her not to think of him. July, innocent heart,
would never have thought of him had this warning been withheld; but the
fascination and thrill of conscious danger filled July’s mind with one
continual recollection of his presence, though she did not dare to turn
round frankly and own herself his old acquaintance. With a slight
tremble in her little figure, July stands by the window, and July’s
silky hair already begins to droop out of the braid in which she had
confined it with so much care. A silk gown—the first and only one of its
race belonging to July—has been put on in honour of this, her first day
at Heathbank; and July, to tell the truth, is somewhat fluttered on
account of it, and is a little afraid of herself and the unaccustomed
splendour of her dress.
Menie Laurie, a good way apart, sits on a stool at her mother’s feet,
looking round upon all those faces—from July’s innocent tremble of shy
pleasure, to Johnnie Lithgow’s wellpleased recognition of his childish
friend. There is something touching in the contrast when you turn to
Menie Laurie, looking up, with all these new-awakened thoughts in her
eyes, into her mother’s face. For dutiful and loving as Menie has always
been, you can tell by a glance that she never clung before as she clings
now—that never in her most trustful childish times was she so humble in
her helplessness as her tender woman’s love is to-day. Deprecating,
anxious, full of so many wistful beseeching ways—do you think the mother
does not know why it is that Menie’s silent devotion thus pleads and
kneels and clings to her very feet?
And there is a shadow on Mrs Laurie’s brow—a certain something
glittering under Mrs Laurie’s eyelid. No, she needs no interpreter—and
the mother hears Menie’s prayer, “Will you like him—will you try to like
him?” sounding in her heart, and resolves that she will indeed try to
like him for Menie’s sake.
“Mr Home, of course, will come to see us to-night,” said the sprightly
Miss Annie. “My dear Mrs Laurie, how can I sufficiently thank you for
bringing such a delightful circle of young people to Heathbank? It quite
renews my heart again. You can’t think how soon one gets worn out and
weary in this commonplace London world: but so fresh—so full of young
spirits and life—I assure you, Mr Lithgow, yourself, and your friend,
and my sweet girls here, are quite like a spring to me.”
Johnnie, bowing a response, gradually drew near the window. You will
begin to think there is something very simply pretty and graceful in
this little figure standing here within shadow of the curtain, the
evening sun just missing it as it steals timidly into the shade. And
this brown hair, so silky soft, has slidden down at last upon July’s
shoulder, and the breath comes something fast on July’s small full
nether lip, and a little changeful flush of colour hovers about, coming
and going upon July’s face. Listen—for now a sweet little timid voice,
fragrant with the low-spoken Border-speech, softened out of all its
harshness, steals upon Johnnie Lithgow’s ear. He knows what the words
are, for he draws very near to listen—but we, a little farther off, hear
nothing but the voice—a very unassured, shy, girlish voice; and July
casts a furtive look around her, to see if it is not possible to get
Menie Laurie to whisper her answer to; but when she does trust the air
with these few words of hers, July feels less afraid.
Johnnie Lithgow!—no doubt it is the same Johnnie Lithgow who carried her
through the wood, half a mile about, to see the sunset from the Resting
Stane—but whether this can be the Mr Lithgow who is very clever and a
great writer, July is puzzled to know. For he begins to ask so kindly
about the old homely Kirkland people—he “minds” every nook and corner so
well, and has such a joyous recollection of all the Hogmanays and
Hallowe’ens—the boyish pranks and frolics, the boyish friends. July,
simple and perplexed, thinks within herself that Randall never did so,
and doubts whether Johnnie Lithgow can be clever, after all.
CHAPTER XIX.
“And July, little girl—you are glad to see Menie Laurie again?”
But July makes a long pause—July is always timid of speaking to her
brother.
“Menie is not Menie now,” said July thoughtfully. “She never looks like
what she used to look at Burnside.”
“What has changed her?” At last Randall began to look interested.
Another long pause, and then July startled him with a burst of tears.
“She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside,” repeated
Menie’s little friend, with timid sobs, “but aye thinks, thinks, and has
trouble in her face night and day.”
The brother and sister were in the room alone. Randall turned round with
impatience. “What a foolish little creature you are, July. Menie does
not cry like you for every little matter; Menie has nothing to trouble
her.”
“It’s no me, Randall,” said little July, meekly. “If I cry, I just canna
help it, and it’s nae matter; but, oh, I wish you would speak to
Menie—for something’s vexing _her_.”
“I am sure you will excuse me for leaving you so long,” said the
sprightly voice of Miss Annie Laurie, entering the room. “What! crying,
July darling? Have we not used her well, Mr Home?—but my poor friend Mrs
Laurie has just got a very unpleasant letter, and I have been sitting
with her to comfort her.”
Randall made no reply, unless the smile of indifference which came to
his lips, the careless turning away of his head, might be supposed to
answer; for Randall did not think it necessary to pretend any interest
in Mrs Laurie.
But just then he caught a momentary glimpse of some one stealing across
the farthest corner of the lawn, behind a group of shrubs. Randall could
not mistake the figure; and it seemed to pause there, where it was
completely hidden, except to the keen eye which had watched it thither,
and still saw a flutter of drapery through the leaves.
“Mem, if you please, Miss Menie’s out,” said Jenny, entering suddenly,
“and the mistress sent me with word that she wasna very weel hersel, and
would keep up the stair if you’ve nae objections. As I said, ‘I trow no,
you would have nae objections’—no to say there’s company in the house to
be a divert—and the mistress is far frae weel.”
“But, Jenny, you must tell my darling Menie to come in,” said Miss
Annie. “I cannot want her, you know; and I am sure she cannot know who
is here, or she would never bid you say she was out. Tell her I want
her, Jenny.”
“Mem, I have told you,” said Jenny, somewhat fiercely, “if she was ane
given to leasing-making she would have to get another lass to gang her
errands than Jenny, and I canna tell whatfor Miss Menie should heed, or
do aught but her ain pleasure, for ony company that’s here ’enow. I’m no
fit mysel, an auld lass like me, to gang away after Miss Menie’s licht
fit; but she’s out-by, puir bairn—and it’s little onybody kens Jenny
that would blame me wi’ a lee.”
She had reached the door before Randall could prevail with himself to
follow her; but at last he did hurry after Jenny, making a hasty apology
as he went. Randall had by no means paid to Jenny the respect to which
she held herself entitled: her quick sense had either heard his step
behind, or surmised that he would follow her; and Jenny, in a violent
fuff, strongly suppressing herself, but quivering all over with the
effort it cost her, turned sharp round upon him, and came to a dead
pause facing him, as he closed the door.
“Where is Miss Menie Laurie? I wish to see her,” said Randall. Randall
did not choose to be familiar even now.
“Miss Menie Laurie takes her ain will commonly,” said Jenny, making a
satirical curtsey. “She’s been used wi’t this lang while; and she hasna
done what Jenny bade her this mony a weary day. Atweel, if she had, some
things wouldna have been to undo that are—and mony an hour’s wark and
hour’s peace the haill house micht ha’e gotten, if she had aye had the
sense to advise with the like of me; but she’s young, and she takes her
ain gate. Poor thing! she’ll have to do somebody else’s will soon enough
if there’s nae deliverance; whatfor should I grudge her her ain the
noo?”
“What do you mean? I want to see Menie,” exclaimed Randall, with
considerable haste and eagerness. “Do you mean to say she does not want
to see me? I have never been avoided before. What does she mean?”
“Ay, my lad, that’s right,” said Jenny; “think of yoursel just, like a
man, afore ye gie a kindly thought to her, and her in trouble. It’s like
you a’; it’s like the haill race and lineage of ye, father and son. No
that I’m meaning ony ill to auld Crofthill; but nae doubt he’s a man
like the lave.”
Randall lifted his hand impatiently, waving her away.
“I wouldna wonder!” cried Jenny. “I wouldna wonder—no me. She’s owre
mony about that like her, has she?—it’ll be my turn to gang my ways, and
no trouble the maister. You would like to get her, now she’s in her
flower; you would like to take her up and carry her away, and put her in
a cage, like a puir bit singing-burdie, to be a pleasure to you. What
are you courting my bairn for? It’s a’ for your ain delight and
pleasure, because ye canna help but be glad at the sight of her, a
darling as she is; because ye would like to get her to yoursel, like a
piece of land; because she would be something to you to be maister and
lord of, to make ye the mair esteemed in ither folks’ een, and happier
for yoursel. Man, I’ve carried her miles o’ gate in thae very arms of
mine. I’ve watched her grow year to year, till there’s no ane like her
in a’ the countryside. Is’t for mysel?—she canna be Jenny’s wife—she
canna be Jenny’s ain born bairn? But Jenny would put down her neck under
the darling’s foot, if it was to give her pleasure—and here’s a strange
lad comes that would set away _me_.”
But Jenny’s vehemence was touched with such depth of higher feeling as
to exalt it entirely out of the region of the “fuff.” With a hasty and
trembling hand she dashed away some tears out of her eyes. “I’m no to
make a fule of mysel afore _him_,” muttered Jenny, drawing a hard breath
through her dilated nostrils.
Randall, with some passion, and much scorn in his face, had drawn back a
little to listen. Now he took up his hat hurriedly.
“If you are done, you will let me pass, perhaps,” he said angrily. “This
is absurd, you know—let me pass. I warn you I will not quarrel with
Menie for all the old women in the world.”
“If it’s me, you’re welcome to ca’ me names,” said Jenny, fiercely. “I
daur ye to say a word of the mistress—on your peril. Miss Menie pleases
to be her lane. I tell you Miss Menie’s out-by; and I would like to ken
what call ony mortal has to disturb the poor lassie in her distress,
when she wants to keep it to hersel. He doesna hear me—he’s gane the
very way she gaed,” said Jenny, softening, as he burst past her out of
sight. “I’ll no say I think ony waur of him for that; but waes me, waes
me—what’s to come out o’t a’, but dismay and distress to my puir bairn?”
Distress and dismay—it is not hard to see them both in Menie Laurie’s
face, so pale and full of thought, as she leans upon the wall here among
the wet leaves, looking out. Yes, she is looking out, fixedly and long,
but not upon the misty far-away London, not upon the pleasant slope of
green, the retired and quiet houses, the whispering neighbour trees.
Something has brought the dreamy distant future, the unknown country,
bright and far away—brought it close upon her, laid it at her feet. Her
own living breath this moment stirs the atmosphere of this still
unaccomplished world; her foot is stayed upon its threshold. No more
vague fears—no more mere clouds upon the joyous firmament—but close
before her, dark and tangible, the crisis and decision—the turning-point
of heart and hope. Before her wistful eyes lie two clear paths, winding
before her into the evening sky. Two; but the spectre of a third comes
in upon her—a life distraught and barren of all comfort—a fate
irrevocable, not to be changed or softened; and Menie’s heart is deadly
sick in her poor breast, and faints for fear. Alas for Menie Laurie’s
quiet heart!
She was sad yesterday. Yesterday she saw a cloudy sword, suspended in
the skies, wavering and threatening above her unguarded head; to-day she
looks no longer at this imaginative menace. From another unfeared
quarter there has fallen a real blow.