over the whole interesting surface of male humanity (including
Cannibals)--where is the man to be found whom it would not be
scandalous to mention in the same breath with Mrs. Tincklepaw? The
great delight of this shocking woman's life, is to squabble with her
husband (poor man, he has my warmest sympathy and best good wishes),
and then to bring the quarrel away from home with her, and to let it
off again at society in general, in a series of short spiteful hints.
Mrs. Tincklepaw is the exact opposite of Miss Sticker. She is a very
little woman; she is (and more shame for her, considering how she
acts) young enough to be Miss Sticker's daughter; and she has a kind
of snappish tact in worrying innocent people, under every possible
turn of circumstances, which distinguishes her (disgracefully) from
the poor feeble-minded Maid-Bore, to whom the reader has been already
introduced. Here are some examples--all taken, be it observed, from my
own personal observation--of the manner in which Mrs. Tincklepaw
contrives to persecute her harmless fellow-creatures wherever she
happens to meet with them:
Let us say I am out walking, and I happen to meet Mr. and Mrs.
Tincklepaw. (By the bye, she never lets her husband out of her
sight--he is too necessary to the execution of her schemes of petty
torment. And such a noble creature, to be used for so base a purpose!
He stands six feet two, and is additionally distinguished by a
glorious and majestic stoutness, which has no sort of connection with
the comparatively comic element of fat. His nature, considering what a
wife he has got, is inexcusably meek and patient. Instead of answering
her, he strokes his magnificent flaxen whiskers, and looks up
resignedly at the sky. I sometimes fancy that he stands too high to
hear what his dwarf of a wife says. For his sake, poor man, I hope
this view of the matter may be the true one.)
I am afraid I have contrived to lose myself in a long parenthesis.
Where was I? O! out walking and happening to meet with Mr. and Mrs.
Tincklepaw. She has had a quarrel with her husband at home, and this
is how she contrives to let me know it.
"Delightful weather, dear, is it not?" I say, as we shake hands.
"Charming, indeed," says Mrs. Tincklepaw. "Do you know, love, I am so
glad you made that remark to me, and not to Mr. Tincklepaw?"
"Really?" I ask. "Pray tell me why?"
"Because," answers the malicious creature, "if you had said it was a
fine day to Mr. Tincklepaw, I should have been so afraid of his
frowning at you directly, and saying, 'Stuff! talk of something worth
listening to, if you talk at all.' What a love of a bonnet you have
got on! and how Mr. Tincklepaw would have liked to be staying in your
house when you were getting ready to-day to go out. He would have
waited for you so patiently, dear. He would never have stamped in the
passage; and no such words as, 'Deuce take the woman! is she going to
keep me here all day?' would by any possibility have escaped his lips.
Don't love! don't look at the shops, while Mr. Tincklepaw is with us.
He might say, 'Oh, bother! you're always wanting to buy something!' I
shouldn't like that to happen. Should you, dear?"
Once more. Say I meet Mr. and Mrs. Tincklepaw at a dinner-party, given
in honour of a bride and bridegroom. From the instant when she enters
the house, Mrs. Tincklepaw never has her eye off the young couple. She
looks at them with an expression of heart-broken curiosity. Whenever
they happen to speak to each other, she instantly suspends any
conversation in which she is engaged, and listens to them with a
mournful eagerness. When the ladies retire, she gets the bride into a
corner; appropriates her to herself for the rest of the evening; and
persecutes the wretched young woman in this manner:--
"May I ask, is this your first dinner, since you came back?"
"O, no! we have been in town for some weeks."
"Indeed? I should really have thought, now, that this was your first
dinner."
"Should you? I can't imagine why."
"How very odd, when the reason is as plain as possible! Why, I noticed
you all dinner time, eating and drinking what you liked, without
looking at your husband for orders. I saw nothing rebellious in your
face when you eat all these nice sweet things at dessert. Dear! dear!
don't you understand? Do you really mean to say that your husband has
not begun yet? Did he not say, as you drove here to day, 'Now, mind,
I'm not going to have another night's rest broken, because you always
choose to make yourself ill with stuffing creams and sweets, and all
that sort of thing?' No!!! Mercy on me, what an odd man he must be!
Perhaps he waits till he gets home again? O, come, come, you don't
mean to tell me that he doesn't storm at you frightfully, for having
every one of your glasses filled with wine, and then never touching a
drop of it, but asking for cold water instead, at the very elbow of
the master of the house? If he says, 'Cursed perversity, and want of
proper tact' once, _I_ know he says it a dozen times. And as for
treading on your dress in the hall, and then bullying you before the
servant, for not holding it up out of his way, it's too common a thing
to be mentioned--isn't it? Did you notice Mr. Tincklepaw particularly?
Ah, you did, and you thought he looked good-natured? No! no! don't say
any more; don't say you know better than to trust to appearances.
Please do take leave of all common sense and experience, and pray
trust to appearances, without thinking of their invariable
deceitfulness, this once. Do, dear, to oblige _me_."
I might fill pages with similar examples of the manners and
conversation of this intolerable Lady-Bore. I might add other equally
aggravating characters, to her character and to Miss Sticker's,
without extending my researches an inch beyond the circle of my own
acquaintance. But I am true to my unfeminine resolution to write as
briefly as if I were a man; and I feel that I have said enough,
already, to show that I can prove my case. When a woman like me can
produce, without the least hesitation, or the slightest difficulty,
two such instances of Lady-Bores as I have just exhibited, the
additional number which she might pick out of her list, after a little
mature reflection, may be logically inferred by all impartial readers.
In the meantime, let me hope I have succeeded sufficiently well in my
present purpose to induce our next great satirist to pause before he,
too, attacks his harmless fellow-men, and to make him turn his
withering glance in the direction of our sex. Let all rising young
gentlemen who are racking their brains in search of originality, take
the timely hint which I have given them in these pages. Let us have a
new fictitious literature, in which not only the Bores shall be women,
but the villains too. Look at Shakespeare--do, pray, look at
Shakespeare. Who is most in fault, in that shocking business of the
murder of King Duncan? Lady Macbeth, to be sure! Look at King Lear,
with a small family of only three daughters, and two of the three,
wretches; and even the third an aggravating girl, who can't be
commonly civil to her own father in the first Act, out of sheer
contradiction, because her elder sisters happen to have been civil
before her. Look at Desdemona, who falls in love with a horrid
copper-coloured foreigner, and then, like a fool, instead of managing
him, aggravates him into smothering her. Ah! Shakespeare was a great
man, and knew our sex, and was not afraid to show he knew it. What a
blessing it would be, if some of his literary brethren, in modern
times, could muster courage enough to follow his example!
I have fifty different things to say, but I shall bring myself to a
conclusion by only mentioning one of them. If it would at all
contribute towards forwarding the literary reform that I advocate, to
make a present of the characters of Miss Sticker and Mrs. Tincklepaw,
to modern writers of fiction, I shall be delighted to abandon all
right of proprietorship in those two odious women. At the same time, I
think it fair to explain that when I speak of modern writers, I mean
gentlemen-writers only. I wish to say nothing uncivil to the ladies
who compose books, whose effusions may, by the rule of contraries, be
exceedingly agreeable to male readers; but I positively forbid them to
lay hands upon my two characters. I am charmed to be of use to the
men, in a literary point of view, but I decline altogether to mix
myself up with the women. There need be no fear of offending them by
printing this candid expression of my intentions. Depend on it, they
will all declare, on their sides, that they would much rather have
nothing to do with _me_.
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.
II.
THE GREAT (FORGOTTEN) INVASION.
PREAMBLE.
It happened some sixty years ago; it was a French invasion; and it
actually took place in England. Thousands of people are alive at the
present moment, who ought to remember it perfectly well. And yet it
has been forgotten. In these times, when the French invasion that
_may_ come, turns up perpetually, in public and in private, as a
subject of discussion--the French invasion that _did_ come, is not
honoured with so much as a passing word of notice. The new generation
knows nothing about it. The old generation has carelessly forgotten
it. This is discreditable, and it must be set right; this is a
dangerous security, and it must be disturbed; this is a gap in the
Modern History of England, and it must be filled up.
Fathers and mothers, read and be reminded; British youths and maidens,
read and be informed. Here follows the true history of the great
forgotten Invasion of England, at the end of the last century; divided
into scenes and periods, and carefully derived from proved and written
facts recorded in Kelly's History of the Wars:
I. OF THE FRENCH INVASION AS SEEN FROM ILFRACOMBE.
On the twenty-second day of February, in the year seventeen hundred
and ninety-seven, the inhabitants of North Devonshire looked towards
the Bristol Channel, and saw the French invasion coming on, in four
ships.
The Directory of the French Republic had been threatening these
islands some time previously; but much talk and little action having
characterised the proceedings of that governing body in most other
matters, no great apprehension was felt of their really carrying out
their expressed intention in relation to this country. The war between
the two nations was, at this time, confined to naval operations, in
which the English invariably got the better of the French. North
Devonshire (as well as the rest of England) was aware of this, and
trusted implicitly in our supremacy of the seas. North Devonshire got
up on the morning of the twenty-second of February, without a thought
of the invasion; North Devonshire looked out towards the Bristol
Channel, and there--in spite of our supremacy of the seas--there the
invasion was, as large as life.
Of the four ships which the Directory had sent to conquer England, two
were frigates and two were smaller vessels. This formidable fleet
sailed along, in view of a whole panic-stricken, defenceless coast;
and the place at which it seemed inclined to try the invading
experiment first, was Ilfracombe. The commander of the expedition
brought his ships up before the harbour, scuttled a few coasting
vessels, prepared to destroy the rest, thought better of it, and
suddenly turned his four warlike sterns on North Devonshire, in the
most unaccountable manner. History is silent as to the cause of this
abrupt and singular change of purpose. Did the chief of the invaders
act from sheer indecision? Did he distrust the hotel accommodation at
Ilfracombe? Had he heard of the clotted cream of Devonshire, and did
he apprehend the bilious disorganisation of the whole army, if they
once got within reach of that luscious delicacy? These are important
questions, but no satisfactory answer can be found to them. The
motives which animated the commander of the invading Frenchmen, are
buried in oblivion: the fact alone remains, that he spared Ilfracombe.
The last that was seen of him from North Devonshire, he was sailing
over ruthlessly to the devoted coast of Wales.
II. OF THE FRENCH INVASION AS SEEN BY WELSHMEN IN GENERAL.
In one respect it may be said that Wales was favoured by comparison
with North Devonshire. The great fact of the French invasion had burst
suddenly on Ilfracombe; but it only dawned in a gradual manner on the
coast of Pembrokeshire. In the course of his cruise across the Bristol
Channel, it had apparently occurred to the commander of the
expedition, that a little diplomatic deception, at the outset, might
prove to be of ultimate advantage to him. He decided, therefore, on
concealing his true character from the eyes of the Welshmen; and when
his four ships were first made out, from the heights above Saint
Bride's Bay, they were all sailing under British colours.
There are men in Wales, as in the rest of the world, whom it is
impossible to satisfy; and there were spectators on the heights of
Saint Bride's who were not satisfied with the British colours, on this
occasion, because they felt doubtful about the ships that bore them.
To the eyes of these sceptics all four vessels had an unpleasantly
French look, and manœuvred in an unpleasantly French manner. Wise
Welshmen along the coast collected together by twos and threes, and
sat down on the heights, and looked out to sea, and shook their heads,
and suspected. But the majority, as usual, saw nothing extraordinary
where nothing extraordinary appeared to be intended; and the country
was not yet alarmed; and the four ships sailed on till they doubled
Saint David's Head; and sailed on again, a few miles to the northward;
and then stopped, and came to single anchor in Cardigan Bay.
Here, again, another difficult question occurs, which recalcitrant
History once more declines to solve. The Frenchmen had hardly been
observed to cast their single anchors in Cardigan Bay, before they
were also observed to pull them up again, and go on. Why? The
commander of the expedition had doubted already at Ilfracombe--was he
doubting again in Cardigan Bay? Or did he merely want time to mature
his plans; and was it a peculiarity of his nature that he always
required to come to anchor before he could think at his ease? To this
mystery, as to the mystery at Ilfracombe, there is no solution; and
here, as there, nothing is certainly known but that the Frenchman
paused--threatened--and then sailed on.
III. OF ONE WELSHMAN IN PARTICULAR, AND OF WHAT HE SAW.
He was the only man in Great Britain who saw the invading army land on
our native shores--and his name has perished.
It is known that he was a Welshman, and that he belonged to the lower
order of the population. He may be still alive--this man, who is
connected with a crisis in English History, may be still alive--and
nobody has found him out; nobody has taken his photograph; nobody has
written a genial biographical notice of him; nobody has made him into
an Entertainment; nobody has held a Commemoration of him; nobody has
presented him with a testimonial, relieved him by a subscription, or
addressed him with a speech. In these enlightened times, this brief
record can only single him out and individually distinguish him--as
the Hero of the Invasion. Such is Fame.
The Hero of the Invasion, then, was standing, or sitting--for even on
this important point tradition is silent--on the cliffs of the Welsh
coast, near Lanonda Church, when he saw the four ships enter the bay
below him, and come to anchor--this time, without showing any symptoms
of getting under weigh again. The English colours, under which the
Expedition had thus far attempted to deceive the population of the
coast, were now hauled down, and the threatening flag of France was
boldly hoisted in their stead. This done, the boats were lowered away,
were filled with a ferocious soldiery, and were pointed straight for
the beach.
It is on record that the Hero of the Invasion distinctly saw this; and
it is _not_ on record that he ran away. Honour to the unknown brave!
Honour to the solitary Welshman who faced the French army!
The boats came on straight to the beach--the ferocious soldiery leapt
out on English soil, and swarmed up the cliff, thirsting for the
subjugation of the British Isles. The Hero of the Invasion, watching
solitary on the cliffs, saw the Frenchmen crawling up below
him--tossing their muskets on before them--climbing with the cool
calculation of an army of chimney-sweeps--nimble as the monkey, supple
as the tiger, stealthy as the cat--hungry for plunder, bloodshed, and
Welsh mutton--void of all respect for the British Constitution--an
army of Invaders on the Land of the Habeas Corpus!
The Welshman saw that, and vanished. Whether he waited with clenched
fist till the head of the foremost Frenchman rose parallel with the
cliff-side, or whether he achieved a long start, by letting the army
get half-way up the cliff, and then retreating inland to give the
alarm--is, like every other circumstance in connection with the Hero
of the Invasion, a matter of the profoundest doubt. It is only known
that he got away at all, because it is _not_ known that he was taken
prisoner. He parts with us here, the shadow of a shade, the most
impalpable of historical apparitions. Honour, nevertheless, to the
crafty brave! Honour to the solitary Welshman who faced the French
army without being shot, and retired from the French army without
being caught!
IV. OF WHAT THE INVADERS DID WHEN THEY GOT ON SHORE.
The Art of Invasion has its routine, its laws, manners, and customs,
like other Arts. And the French army acted strictly in accordance with
established precedents. The first thing the first men did, when they
got to the top of the cliff, was to strike a light and set fire to the
furze-bushes. While national feeling deplores this destruction of
property, unprejudiced History looks on at her ease. Given Invasion as
a cause, fire follows, according to all known rules, as an effect. If
an army of Englishmen had been invading France under similar
circumstances, they, on their side, would necessarily have begun by
setting fire to something; and unprejudiced History would, in that
case also, have looked on at her ease.
While the furze-bushes were blazing, the remainder of the
invaders--assured by the sight of the flames, of their companions'
success so far--was disembarking, and swarming up the rocks. When it
was finally mustered on the top of the cliff, the army amounted to
fourteen hundred men. This was the whole force which the Directory of
the French Republic had thought it desirable to despatch for the
subjugation of Great Britain. History, until she is certain of
results, will pronounce no opinion on the wisdom of this proceeding.
She knows that nothing in politics, is abstractedly rash, cruel,
treacherous, or disgraceful--she knows that Success is the sole
touchstone of merit--she knows that the man who fails is contemptible,
and the man who succeeds is illustrious, without any reference to the
means used in either case; to the character of the men; or to the
nature of the motives under which they may have proceeded to action.
If the Invasion succeeds, History will applaud it as an act of
heroism: if it fails, History will condemn it as an act of folly.
It has been said that the Invasion began creditably, according to the
rules established in all cases of conquering. It continued to follow
those rules with the most praiseworthy regularity. Having started with
setting something on fire, it went on, in due course, to accomplish the
other first objects of all Invasions, thieving and killing--performing
much of the former, and little of the latter. Two rash Welshmen, who
persisted in defending their native leeks, suffered accordingly: the
rest lost nothing but their national victuals, and their national
flannel. On this first day of the Invasion, when the army had done
marauding, the results on both sides may be thus summed up. Gains to
the French:--good dinners, and protection next the skin. Loss to the
English:--mutton, stout Welsh flannel, and two rash countrymen.
V. OF THE BRITISH DEFENCE, AND OF THE WAY IN WHICH THE WOMEN
CONTRIBUTED TO IT.
The appearance of the Frenchmen on the coast, and the loss to the
English, mentioned above, produced the results naturally to be
expected. The country was alarmed, and started up to defend itself.
On the numbers of the invaders being known, and on its being
discovered that, though they were without field-pieces, they had with
them seventy cart-loads of powder and ball, and a quantity of
grenades, the principal men in the country bestirred themselves in
setting up the defence. Before nightfall, all the available men who
knew anything of the art of fighting were collected. When the ranks
were drawn out, the English defence was even more ridiculous in point
of numbers than the French attack. It amounted, at a time when we were
at war with France, and were supposed to be prepared for any dangers
that might threaten--it amounted, including militia, fencibles, and
yeomanry cavalry, to just six hundred and sixty men, or, in other
words, to less than half the number of the invading Frenchmen.
Fortunately for the credit of the nation, the command of this
exceedingly compact force was taken by the principal grandee in the
neighbourhood. He turned out to be a man of considerable cunning, as
well as a man of high rank; and he was known by the style and title of
the Earl of Cawdor.
The one cheering circumstance in connection with the heavy
responsibility which now rested on the shoulders of the Earl,
consisted in this: that he had apparently no cause to dread internal
treason as well as foreign invasion. The remarkably inconvenient spot
which the French had selected for their landing, showed, not only that
they themselves knew nothing of the coast, but that none of the
inhabitants, who might have led them to an easier place of
disembarkation, were privy to their purpose. So far so good. But
still, the great difficulty remained of facing the French with an
equality of numbers, and with the appearance, at least, of an equality
of discipline. The first of these requisites it was easy to fulfil.
There were hosts of colliers and other labourers in the
neighbourhood,--big, bold, lusty fellows enough; but so far as the art
of marching and using weapons was concerned, as helpless as a pack of
children. The question was, how to make good use of these men for
show-purposes, without allowing them fatally to embarrass the
proceedings of their trained and disciplined companions. In this
emergency, Lord Cawdor hit on a grand Idea. He boldly mixed the women
up in the business--and it is unnecessary to add, that the business
began to prosper from that lucky moment.
In those days, the wives of the Welsh labourers wore, what the wives
of all classes of the community have been wearing since--red
petticoats. It was Lord Cawdor's happy idea to call on these
patriot-matrons to sink the question of skirts; to forego the
luxurious consideration of warmth; and to turn the colliers into
military men (so far as external appearances, viewed at a distance,
were concerned), by taking off the wives' red petticoats and putting
them over the husbands' shoulders. Where patriot-matrons are
concerned, no national appeal is made in vain, and no personal
sacrifice is refused. All the women seized their strings, and stepped
out of their petticoats on the spot. What man in that make-shift
military but must think of "home and beauty," now that he had the
tenderest memento of both to grace his shoulders and jog his memory?
In an inconceivably short space of time every woman was shivering, and
every collier was turned into a soldier.
VI. OF HOW IT ALL ENDED.