THE LEADING ARTICLE AND MR. TIMOTHY TURBOT
Nevil declined to come to Steynham, clearly owing to a dread of hearing
Dr. Shrapnel abused, as Rosamund judged by the warmth of his written
eulogies of the man, and an ensuing allusion to Game. He said that he
had not made up his mind as to the Game Laws. Rosamund mentioned the
fact to Mr. Romfrey. 'So we may stick by our licences to shoot to-
morrow,' he rejoined. Of a letter that he also had received from Nevil,
he did not speak. She hinted at it, and he stared. He would have deemed
it as vain a subject to discourse of India, or Continental affairs, at a
period when his house was full for the opening day of sport, and the
expectation of keeping up his renown for great bags on that day so
entirely occupied his mind. Good shots were present who had contributed
to the fame of Steynham on other opening days. Birds were plentiful and
promised not to be too wild. He had the range of the Steynham estate in
his eye, dotted with covers; and after Steynham, Holdesbury, which had
never yielded him the same high celebrity, but both lay mapped out for
action under the profound calculations of the strategist, ready to show
the skill of the field tactician. He could not attend to Nevil. Even
the talk of the forthcoming Elections, hardly to be avoided at his table,
seemed a puerile distraction. Ware the foe of his partridges and
pheasants, be it man or vermin! The name of Shrapnel was frequently on
the tongue of Captain Baskelett. Rosamund heard him, in her room, and
his derisive shouts of laughter over it. Cecil was a fine shot, quite as
fond of the pastime as his uncle, and always in favour with him while
sport stalked the land. He was in gallant spirits, and Rosamund,
brooding over Nevil's fortunes, and sitting much alone, as she did when
there were guests in the house, gave way to her previous apprehensions.
She touched on them to Mr. Stukely Culbrett, her husband's old friend,
one of those happy men who enjoy perceptions without opinions, and are
not born to administer comfort to other than themselves. As far as she
could gather, he fancied Nevil Beauchamp was in danger of something, but
he delivered his mind only upon circumstances and characters: Nevil
risked his luck, Cecil knew his game, Everard Romfrey was the staunchest
of mankind: Stukely had nothing further to say regarding the situation.
She asked him what he thought, and he smiled. Could a reasonable head
venture to think anything in particular? He repeated the amazed, 'You
don't say so' of Colonel Halkett, on hearing the name of the new Liberal
candidate for Bevisham at the dinner-table, together with some of Cecil's
waggish embroidery upon the theme.
Rosamund exclaimed angrily, 'Oh! if I had been there he would not have
dared.'
'Why not be there?' said Stukely. 'You have had your choice for a number
of years.'
She shook her head, reddening.
But supposing that she had greater privileges than were hers now? The
idea flashed. A taint of personal pique, awakened by the fancied
necessity for putting her devotedness to Nevil to proof, asked her if she
would then be the official housekeeper to whom Captain Baskelett bowed
low with affected respect and impertinent affability, ironically praising
her abroad as a wonder among women, that could at one time have played
the deuce in the family, had she chosen to do so.
'Just as you like,' Mr. Culbrett remarked. It was his ironical habit of
mind to believe that the wishes of men and women--women as well as men--
were expressed by their utterances.
'But speak of Nevil to Colonel Halkett,' said Rosamund, earnestly
carrying on what was in her heart. 'Persuade the colonel you do not
think Nevil foolish--not more than just a little impetuous. I want
that marriage to come off! Not on account of her wealth. She is to
inherit a Welsh mine from her uncle, you know, besides being an only
child. Recall what Nevil was during the war. Miss Halkett has not
forgotten it, I am sure, and a good word for him from a man of the world
would, I am certain, counteract Captain Baskelett's--are they designs?
At any rate, you can if you like help Nevil with the colonel. I am
convinced they are doing him a mischief. Colonel Halkett has bought an
estate--and what a misfortune that is!--close to Bevisham. I fancy he is
Toryish. Will you not speak to him? At my request? I am so helpless I
could cry.
'Fancy you have no handkerchief,' said Mr. Culbrett, 'and give up
scheming, pray. One has only to begin to scheme, to shorten life to
half-a-dozen hops and jumps. I could say to the colonel, "Young
Beauchamp's a political cub: he ought to have a motherly wife."'
'Yes, yes, you are right; don't speak to him at all,' said Rosamund,
feeling that there must be a conspiracy to rob her of her proud
independence, since not a soul could be won to spare her from taking
some energetic step, if she would be useful to him she loved.
Colonel Halkett was one of the guests at Steynham who knew and respected
her, and he paid her a visit and alluded to Nevil's candidature,
apparently not thinking much the worse of him. 'We can't allow him to
succeed,' he said, and looked for a smiling approval of such natural
opposition, which Rosamund gave him readily after he had expressed the
hope that Nevil Beauchamp would take advantage of his proximity to Mount
Laurels during the contest to try the hospitality of the house. 'He
won't mind meeting his uncle?' The colonel's eyes twinkled. 'My daughter
has engaged Mr. Romfrey and Captain Baskelett to come to us when they
have shot Holdesbury.'
And Captain Baskelett! thought Rosamund; her jealousy whispering that the
mention of his name close upon Cecilia Halkett's might have a nuptial
signification.
She was a witness from her window--a prisoner's window, her 'eager heart
could have termed it--of a remarkable ostentation of cordiality between
the colonel and Cecil, in the presence of Mr. Romfrey. Was it his humour
to conspire to hand Miss Halkett to Cecil, and then to show Nevil the
prize he had forfeited by his folly? The three were on the lawn a little
before Colonel Halkett's departure. The colonel's arm was linked with
Cecil's while they conversed. Presently the latter received his
afternoon's letters, and a newspaper. He soon had the paper out at a
square stretch, and sprightly information for the other two was visible
in his crowing throat. Mr. Romfrey raised the gun from his shoulder-pad,
and grounded it. Colonel Halkett wished to peruse the matter with his
own eyes, but Cecil could not permit it; he must read it aloud for them,
and he suited his action to his sentences. Had Rosamund been accustomed
to leading articles which are the composition of men of an imposing
vocabulary, she would have recognized and as good as read one in Cecil's
gestures as he tilted his lofty stature forward and back, marking his
commas and semicolons with flapping of his elbows, and all but doubling
his body at his periods. Mr. Romfrey had enough of it half-way down the
column; his head went sharply to left and right. Cecil's peculiar
foppish slicing down of his hand pictured him protesting that there was
more and finer of the inimitable stuff to follow. The end of the scene
exhibited the paper on the turf, and Colonel Halkett's hand on Cecil's
shoulder, Mr. Romfrey nodding some sort of acquiescence over the muzzle
of his gun, whether reflective or positive Rosamund could not decide.
She sent out a footman for the paper, and was presently communing with
its eloquent large type, quite unable to perceive where the comicality or
the impropriety of it lay, for it would have struck her that never were
truer things of Nevil Beauchamp better said in the tone befitting them.
This perhaps was because she never heard fervid praises of him, or of
anybody, delivered from the mouth, and it is not common to hear
Englishmen phrasing great eulogies of one another. Still, as a rule,
they do not object to have it performed in that region of our national
eloquence, the Press, by an Irishman or a Scotchman. And what could
there be to warrant Captain Baskelett's malicious derision, and Mr.
Romfrey's nodding assent to it, in an article where all was truth?
The truth was mounted on an unusually high wind. It was indeed a leading
article of a banner-like bravery, and the unrolling of it was designed to
stir emotions. Beauchamp was the theme. Nevil had it under his eyes
earlier than Cecil. The paper was brought into his room with the beams
of day, damp from the presses of the Bevisham Gazette, exactly opposite
to him in the White Hart Hotel, and a glance at the paragraphs gave him a
lively ardour to spring to his feet. What writing! He was uplifted as
'The heroical Commander Beauchamp, of the Royal Navy,' and 'Commander
Beauchamp, R.N., a gentleman of the highest connections': he was 'that
illustrious Commander Beauchamp, of our matchless, navy, who proved on
every field of the last glorious war of this country that the traditional
valour of the noble and indomitable blood transmitted to his veins had
lost none of its edge and weight since the battle-axes of the Lords de
Romfrey, ever to the fore, clove the skulls of our national enemy on the
wide and fertile campaigns of France.' This was pageantry.
There was more of it. Then the serious afflatus of the article
condescended, as it were, to blow a shrill and well-known whistle:--the
study of the science of navigation made by Commander Beauchamp, R.N., was
cited for a jocose warranty of a seaman's aptness to assist in steering
the Vessel of the State. After thus heeling over, to tip a familiar wink
to the multitude, the leader tone resumed its fit deportment. Commander
Beauchamp, in responding to the invitation of the great and united
Liberal party of the borough of Bevisham, obeyed the inspirations of
genius, the dictates of humanity, and what he rightly considered the
paramount duty, as it is the proudest ambition, of the citizen of a free
country.
But for an occasional drop and bump of the sailing gasbag upon catch-
words of enthusiasm, which are the rhetoric of the merely windy, and a
collapse on a poetic line, which too often signalizes the rhetorician's
emptiness of his wind, the article was eminent for flight, sweep, and
dash, and sailed along far more grandly than ordinary provincial organs
for the promoting or seconding of public opinion, that are as little to
be compared with the mighty metropolitan as are the fife and bugle boys
practising on their instruments round melancholy outskirts of garrison
towns with the regimental marching full band under the presidency of its
drum-major. No signature to the article was needed for Bevisham to know
who had returned to the town to pen it. Those long-stretching sentences,
comparable to the very ship Leviathan, spanning two Atlantic billows,
appertained to none but the renowned Mr. Timothy Turbot, of the Corn Law
campaigns, Reform agitations, and all manifestly popular movements
requiring the heaven-endowed man of speech, an interpreter of multitudes,
and a prompter. Like most men who have little to say, he was an orator
in print, but that was a poor medium for him--his body without his fire.
Mr. Timothy's place was the platform. A wise discernment, or else a
lucky accident (for he came hurriedly from the soil of his native isle,
needing occupation), set him on that side in politics which happened to
be making an established current and strong headway. Oratory will not
work against the stream, or on languid tides. Driblets of movements that
allowed the world to doubt whether they were so much movements as
illusions of the optics, did not suit his genius. Thus he was a Liberal,
no Radical, fountain. Liberalism had the attraction for the orator of
being the active force in politics, between two passive opposing bodies,
the aspect of either of which it can assume for a menace to the other,
Toryish as against Radicals; a trifle red in the eyes of the Tory. It
can seem to lean back on the Past; it can seem to be amorous of the
Future. It is actually the thing of the Present and its urgencies,
therefore popular, pouring forth the pure waters of moderation, strong in
their copiousness. Delicious and rapturous effects are to be produced in
the flood of a Liberal oration by a chance infusion of the fierier
spirit, a flavour of Radicalism. That is the thing to set an audience
bounding and quirking. Whereas if you commence by tilling a Triton
pitcher full of the neat liquor upon them, 'you have to resort to the
natural element for the orator's art of variation, you are diluted--and
that's bathos, to quote Mr. Timothy. It was a fine piece of discernment
in him. Let Liberalism be your feast, Radicalism your spice. And now
and then, off and on, for a change, for diversion, for a new emotion,
just for half an hour or so-now and then the Sunday coat of Toryism will
give you an air. You have only to complain of the fit, to release your
shoulders in a trice. Mr. Timothy felt for his art as poets do for
theirs, and considered what was best adapted to speaking, purely to
speaking. Upon no creature did he look with such contempt as upon Dr.
Shrapnel, whose loose disjunct audiences he was conscious he could,
giving the doctor any start he liked, whirl away from him and have
compact, enchained, at his first flourish; yea, though they were composed
of 'the poor man,' with a stomach for the political distillery fit to
drain relishingly every private bogside or mountain-side tap in old
Ireland in its best days--the illicit, you understand.
Further, to quote Mr. Timothy's points of view, the Radical orator has
but two notes, and one is the drawling pathetic, and the other is the
ultra-furious; and the effect of the former we liken to the English
working man's wife's hob-set queasy brew of well-meant villany, that she
calls by the innocent name of tea; and the latter is to be blown, asks to
be blown, and never should be blown without at least seeming to be blown,
with an accompaniment of a house on fire. Sir, we must adapt ourselves
to our times. Perhaps a spark or two does lurk about our house, but we
have vigilant watchmen in plenty, and the house has been pretty fairly
insured. Shrieking in it is an annoyance to the inmates, nonsensical;
weeping is a sickly business. The times are against Radicalism to the
full as much as great oratory is opposed to extremes. These drag the
orator too near to the matter. So it is that one Radical speech is
amazingly like another--they all have the earth-spots. They smell, too;
they smell of brimstone. Soaring is impossible among that faction; but
this they can do, they can furnish the Tory his opportunity to soar.
When hear you a thrilling Tory speech that carries the country with it,
save when the incendiary Radical has shrieked? If there was envy in the
soul of Timothy, it was addressed to the fine occasions offered to the
Tory speaker for vindicating our ancient principles and our sacred homes.
He admired the tone to be assumed for that purpose: it was a good note.
Then could the Tory, delivering at the right season the Shakesperian
'This England . . .' and Byronic--'The inviolate Island . . .'
shake the frame, as though smiting it with the tail of the gymnotus
electricus. Ah, and then could he thump out his Horace, the Tory's
mentor and his cordial, with other great ancient comic and satiric poets,
his old Port of the classical cellarage, reflecting veneration upon him
who did but name them to an audience of good dispositions. The Tory
possessed also an innate inimitably easy style of humour, that had the
long reach, the jolly lordly indifference, the comfortable masterfulness,
of the whip of a four-in-hand driver, capable of flicking and stinging,
and of being ironically caressing. Timothy appreciated it, for he had
winced under it. No professor of Liberalism could venture on it, unless
it were in the remote district of a back parlour, in the society of a
cherishing friend or two, and with a slice of lemon requiring to be
refloated in the glass.
But gifts of this description were of a minor order. Liberalism gave the
heading cry, devoid of which parties are dogs without a scent, orators
mere pump-handles. The Tory's cry was but a whistle to his pack, the
Radical howled to the moon like any chained hound. And no wonder, for
these parties had no established current, they were as hard-bound waters;
the Radical being dyked and dammed most soundly, the Tory resembling a
placid lake of the plains, fed by springs and no confluents. For such
good reasons, Mr. Timothy rejoiced in the happy circumstances which had
expelled him from the shores of his native isle to find a refuge and a
vocation in Manchester at a period when an orator happened to be in
request because dozens were wanted. That centre of convulsions and
source of streams possessed the statistical orator, the reasoning orator,
and the inspired; with others of quality; and yet it had need of an ever-
ready spontaneous imperturbable speaker, whose bubbling generalizations
and ability to beat the drum humorous could swing halls of meeting from
the grasp of an enemy, and then ascend on incalescent adjectives to the
popular idea of the sublime. He was the artistic orator of Corn Law
Repeal--the Manchester flood, before which time Whigs were, since which
they have walked like spectral antediluvians, or floated as dead canine
bodies that are sucked away on the ebb of tides and flung back on the
flow, ignorant whether they be progressive or retrograde. Timothy Turbot
assisted in that vast effort. It should have elevated him beyond the
editorship of a country newspaper. Why it did not do so his antagonists
pretended to know, and his friends would smile to hear. The report was
that he worshipped the nymph Whisky.
Timothy's article had plucked Beauchamp out of bed; Beauchamp's card in
return did the same for him.
'Commander Beauchamp? I am heartily glad to make your acquaintance,
sir; I've been absent, at work, on the big business we have in common,
I rejoice to say, and am behind my fellow townsmen in this pleasure and
lucky I slept here in my room above, where I don't often sleep, for the
row of the machinery--it 's like a steamer that won't go, though it's
always starting ye,' Mr. Timothy said in a single breath, upon entering
the back office of the Gazette, like unto those accomplished violinists
who can hold on the bow to finger an incredible number of notes, and may
be imaged as representing slow paternal Time, that rolls his capering
dot-headed generation of mortals over the wheel, hundreds to the minute.
'You'll excuse my not shaving, sir, to come down to your summons without
an extra touch to the neck-band.'
Beauchamp beheld a middle-sized round man, with loose lips and pendant
indigo jowl, whose eyes twinkled watery, like pebbles under the shore-
wash, and whose neck-band needed an extra touch from fingers other than
his own.
'I am sorry to have disturbed you so early,' he replied.
'Not a bit, Commander Beauchamp, not a bit, sir. Early or late, and ay
ready--with the Napiers; I'll wash, I'll wash.'
'I came to speak to you of this article of yours on me. They tell me in
the office that you are the writer. Pray don't "Commander" me so much.
--It's not customary, and I object to it.'
'Certainly, certainly,' Timothy acquiesced.
'And for the future, Mr. Turbot, please to be good enough not to allude
in print to any of my performances here and there. Your intentions are
complimentary, but it happens that I don't like a public patting on the
back.'
'No, and that's true,' said Timothy.
His appreciative and sympathetic agreement with these sharp strictures on
the article brought Beauchamp to a stop.
Timothy waited for him; then, smoothing his prickly cheek, remarked:
'If I'd guessed your errand, Commander Beauchamp, I'd have called in the
barber before I came down, just to make myself decent for a 'first
introduction.'
Beauchamp was not insensible to the slyness of the poke at him.
'You see, I come to the borough unknown to it, and as quietly as
possible, and I want to be taken as a politician,' he continued, for the
sake of showing that he had sufficient to say to account for his hasty
and peremptory summons of the writer of that article to his presence.
'It's excessively disagreeable to have one's family lugged into notice in
a newspaper--especially if they are of different politics. I feel it.'
All would, sir,' said Timothy.
'Then why the deuce did you do it?'
Timothy drew a lading of air into his lungs. 'Politics, Commander
Beauchamp, involves the doing of lots of disagreeable things to ourselves
and our relations; it 's positive. I'm a soldier of the Great Campaign:
and who knows it better than I, sir? It's climbing the greasy pole for
the leg o' mutton, that makes the mother's heart ache for the jacket and
the nether garments she mended neatly, if she didn't make them. Mutton
or no mutton, there's grease for certain! Since it's sure we can't be
disconnected from the family, the trick is to turn the misfortune to a
profit; and allow me the observation, that an old family, sir, and a high
and titled family, is not to be despised for a background of a portrait
in naval uniform, with medal and clasps, and some small smoke of powder
clearing off over there:--that's if we're to act sagaciously in
introducing an unknown candidate to a borough that has a sneaking liking
for the kind of person, more honour to it. I'm a political veteran, sir;
I speak from experience. We must employ our weapons, every one of them,
and all off the grindstone.'
'Very well,' said Beauchamp. 'Now understand; you are not in future to
employ the weapons, as you call them, that I have objected to.'
Timothy gaped slightly.
'Whatever you will, but no puffery,' Beauchamp added. 'Can I by any
means arrest--purchase--is it possible, tell me, to lay an embargo--stop
to-day's issue of the Gazette?'
'No more--than the bite of a mad dog,' Timothy replied, before he had
considered upon the monstrous nature of the proposal.
Beauchamp humphed, and tossed his head. The simile of the dog struck him
with intense effect.
'There'd be a second edition,' said Timothy, 'and you might buy up that.
But there'll be a third, and you may buy up that; but there'll be a
fourth and a fifth, and so on ad infinitum, with the advertisement of the
sale of the foregoing creating a demand like a rageing thirst in a
shipwreck, in Bligh's boat, in the tropics. I'm afraid, Com--Captain
Beauchamp, sir, there's no stopping the Press while the people have an
appetite for it--and a Company's at the back of it.'
'Pooh, don't talk to me in that way; all I complain of is the figure you
have made of me,' said Beauchamp, fetching him smartly out of his
nonsense; 'and all I ask of you is not to be at it again. Who would
suppose from reading an article like that, that I am a candidate with a
single political idea!'
'An article like that,' said Timothy, winking, and a little surer of his
man now that he suggested his possession of ideas, 'an article like that
is the best cloak you can put on a candidate with too many of 'em,
Captain Beauchamp. I'll tell you, sir; I came, I heard of your
candidature, I had your sketch, the pattern of ye, before me, and I was
told that Dr. Shrapnel fathered you politically. There was my brief!
I had to persuade our constituents that you, Commander Beauchamp of the
Royal Navy, and the great family of the Earls of Romfrey, one of the
heroes of the war, and the recipient of a Royal Humane Society's medal
for saving life in Bevisham waters, were something more than the Radical
doctor's political son; and, sir, it was to this end, aim, and object,
that I wrote the article I am not ashamed to avow as mine, and I do so,
sir, because of the solitary merit it has of serving your political
interests as the liberal candidate for Bevisham by counteracting the
unpopularity of Dr. Shrapnel's name, on the one part, and of reviving the
credit due to your valour and high bearing on the field of battle in
defence of your country, on the other, so that Bevisham may apprehend, in
spite of party distinctions, that it has the option, and had better seize
upon the honour, of making a M.P. of a hero.'
Beauchamp interposed hastily: 'Thank you, thank you for the best of
intentions. But let me tell you I am prepared to stand or fall with
Dr. Shrapnel, and be hanged to all that humbug.'
Timothy rubbed his hands with an abstracted air of washing. 'Well,
commander, well, sir, they say a candidate's to be humoured in his
infancy, for he has to do all the humouring before he's many weeks old at
it; only there's the fact!--he soon finds out he has to pay for his first
fling, like the son of a family sowing his oats to reap his Jews. Credit
me, sir, I thought it prudent to counteract a bit of an apothecary's shop
odour in the junior Liberal candidate's address. I found the town
sniffing, they scented Shrapnel in the composition.'
'Every line of it was mine,' said Beauchamp.
'Of course it was, and the address was admirably worded, sir, I make bold
to say it to your face; but most indubitably it threatened powerful drugs
for weak stomachs, and it blew cold on votes, which are sensitive plants
like nothing else in botany.'
'If they are only to be got by abandoning principles, and by anything but
honesty in stating them, they may go,' said Beauchamp.
'I repeat, my dear sir, I repeat, the infant candidate delights in his
honesty, like the babe in its nakedness, the beautiful virgin in her
innocence. So he does; but he discovers it's time for him to wear
clothes in a contested election. And what's that but to preserve the
outlines pretty correctly, whilst he doesn't shock and horrify the
optics? A dash of conventionalism makes the whole civilized world kin,
ye know. That's the truth. You must appear to be one of them, for them
to choose you. After all, there's no harm in a dyer's hand; and, sir, a
candidate looking at his own, when he has won the Election . . .'
'Ah, well,' said Beauchamp, swinging on his heel, 'and now I'll take my
leave of you, and I apologize for bringing you down here so early.
Please attend to what I have said; it's peremptory. You will give me
great pleasure by dining with me to-night, at the hotel opposite. Will
you? I don't know what kind of wine I shall be able to offer you.
Perhaps you know the cellar, and may help me in that.'
Timothy grasped his hand, 'With pleasure, Commander Beauchamp. They have
a bucellas over there that 's old, and a tolerable claret, and a Port to
be inquired for under the breath, in a mysteriously intimate tone of
voice, as one says, "I know of your treasure, and the corner under ground
where it lies." Avoid the champagne: 'tis the banqueting wine. Ditto
the sherry. One can drink them, one can drink them.'
'At a quarter to eight this evening, then,' said Nevil.
'I'll be there at the stroke of the clock, sure as the date of a bill,'
said Timothy.
And it's early to guess whether you'll catch Bevisham or you won't, he
reflected, as he gazed at the young gentleman crossing the road; but
female Bevisham's with you, if that counts for much. Timothy confessed,
that without the employment of any weapon save arrogance and a look of
candour, the commander had gone some way toward catching the feminine
side of himself.