is not every day that one makes the acquaintance of a skeleton; and with
regard to such a thing--thing, shall one say, or person?--there is a
favorable presumption from beforehand; which is this: As he is of
no use, neither profitable nor ornamental to any person whatever,
absolutely _de trop_ in good society, what but distinguished merit
of some kind or other could induce any man to interfere with that
gravitating tendency that by an eternal _nisus_ is pulling him below
ground? Lodgings are dear in England. True it is that, according to the
vile usage on the continent, one room serves a skeleton for bed-room and
sitting-room; neither is his expense heavy, as regards wax-lights, fire,
or "bif-steck." But still, even a skeleton is chargeable; and, if any
dispute should arise about his maintenance, the parish will do
nothing. Mr. White's skeleton, therefore, being costly, was presumably
meritorious, before we had seen him or heard a word in his behalf.
It was, in fact, the skeleton of an eminent robber, or perhaps of a
murderer. But I, for my part, reserved a faint right of suspense. And
as to the profession of robber in those days exercised on the roads
of England, it was a liberal profession, which required more
accomplishments than either the bar or the pulpit: from the beginning it
presumed a most bountiful endowment of heroic qualifications--strength,
health, agility, and exquisite horsemanship, intrepidity of the first
order, presence of mind, courtesy, and a general ambidexterity of
powers for facing all accidents, and for turning to a good account
all unlooked-for contingencies. The finest men in England, physically
speaking, throughout the eighteenth century, the very noblest specimens
of man considered as an animal, were beyond a doubt the mounted robbers
who cultivated their profession on the great leading roads, namely,
on the road from London to York (technically known as "the great north
road"); on the road west to Bath, and thence to Exeter and Plymouth;
north-westwards from London to Oxford, and thence to Chester; eastwards
to Tunbridge; southwards by east to Dover; then inclining westwards to
Portsmouth; more so still, through Salisbury to Dorsetshire and Wilts.
These great roads were farmed out as so many Roman provinces amongst
pro-consuls. Yes, but with a difference, you will say, in respect
of moral principles. Certainly with a difference; for the English
highwayman had a sort of conscience for gala-days, which could not often
be said of the Roman governor or procurator. At this moment we see that
the opening for the forger of bank-notes is brilliant; but practically
it languishes, as being too brilliant; it demands an array of talent for
engraving, etc., which, wherever it exists, is sufficient to carry a man
forward upon principles reputed honorable. Why, then, should _he_ court
danger and disreputability? But in that century the special talents
which led to distinction upon the high road had oftentimes no career
open to them elsewhere. The mounted robber on the highways of England,
in an age when all gentlemen travelled with fire-arms, lived in an
element of danger and adventurous gallantry; which, even from those who
could least allow him any portion of their esteem, extorted sometimes a
good deal of their unwilling admiration. By the necessities of the
case, he brought into his perilous profession some brilliant
qualities--intrepidity, address, promptitude of decision; and, if to
these he added courtesy, and a spirit (native or adopted) of forbearing
generosity, he seemed almost a man that merited public encouragement;
since very plausibly it might be argued that his profession was sure to
exist; that, if he were removed, a successor would inevitably arise,
and that successor might or might _not_ carry the same liberal and
humanizing temper into his practice. The man whose skeleton was now
before us had ranked amongst the most chivalrous of his order, and was
regarded by some people as vindicating the national honor in a point
where not very long before it had suffered a transient eclipse. In the
preceding generation, it had been felt as throwing a shade of disgrace
over the public honor, that the championship of England upon the high
road fell for a time into French hands; upon French prowess rested
the burden of English honor, or, in Gallic phrase, of English _glory_.
Claude Duval, a French man of undeniable courage, handsome, and
noted for his chivalrous devotion to women, had been honored, on his
condemnation to the gallows, by the tears of many ladies who attended
his trial, and by their sympathizing visits during his imprisonment. But
the robber represented by the skeleton in Mr. White's museum (whom let
us call X, since his true name has perished) added to the same heroic
qualities a person far more superb. Still it was a dreadful drawback
from his pretensions, if he had really practised as a murderer. Upon
what ground did that suspicion arise? In candor (for candor is due even
to a skeleton) it ought to be mentioned that the charge, if it amounted
to so much, arose with a lady from some part of Cheshire--the district
of Knutsford, I believe;--but, wherever it was, in the same district,
during the latter part of his career, had resided our X. At first he was
not suspected even as a robber--as yet not so much as suspected of
being suspicious; in a simple rustic neighborhood, amongst good-natured
peasants, for a long time he was regarded with simple curiosity, rather
than suspicion; and even the curiosity pointed to his horse more than
to himself. The robber had made himself popular amongst the
kind-hearted rustics by his general courtesy. Courtesy and the spirit
of neighborliness go a great way amongst country people; and the worst
construction of the case was, that he might be an embarrassed gentleman
from Manchester or Liverpool, hiding himself from his creditors, who
are notoriously a very immoral class of people. At length, however, a
violent suspicion broke loose against him; for it was ascertained that
on certain nights, when, perhaps, he had _extra_ motives for concealing
the fact of having been abroad, he drew woollen stockings over his
horse's feet, with the purpose of deadening the sound in riding up a
brick-paved entry, common to his own stable and that of a respectable
neighbor. Thus far there was a reasonable foundation laid for suspicion;
but suspicion of what? Because a man attends to the darning of his
horse's stockings, why must he be meditating murder? The fact is--and
known from the very first to a select party of amateurs--that X, our
superb-looking skeleton, did, about three o'clock on a rainy Wednesday
morning, in the dead of winter, ride silently out of Knutsford; and
about forty-eight hours afterwards, on a rainy Friday, silently and
softly did that same superb blood-horse, carrying that same blood-man,
namely, our friend the superb skeleton, pace up the quiet brick entry,
in a neat pair of socks, on his return.
During that interval of forty-eight hours, an atrocious murder was
committed in the ancient city of Bristol. By whom? That question is to
this day unanswered. The scene of it was a house on the west side of the
College Green, which is in fact that same quadrangle planted with trees,
and having on its southern side the Bristol Cathedral, up and down
which, early in the reign of George III., Chatterton walked in jubilant
spirits with fair young women of Bristol; up and down which, some thirty
years later, Robert Southey and S. T. C. walked with young Bristol
belles from a later generation. The subjects of the murder were an
elderly lady bearing some such name as Rusborough, and her
female servant. Mystery there was none as to the motive of the
murder--manifestly it was a hoard of money that had attracted the
assassin; but there was great perplexity as to the agent or agents
concerned in the atrocious act, and as to the mode by which an entrance,
under the known precautions of the lady, could have been effected.
Because a thorough-bred horse could easily have accomplished the
distance to and fro (say three hundred miles) within the forty-eight
hours, and because the two extreme dates of this forty-eight hours'
absence tallied with the requisitions of the Bristol tragedy, it did
not follow that X must have had a hand in it. And yet, had these
coincidences _then_ been observed, they would certainly--now that strong
suspicions had been directed to the man from the extraordinary character
of his nocturnal precautions--not have passed without investigation. But
the remoteness of Bristol, and the rarity of newspapers in those days,
caused these indications to pass unnoticed. Bristol knew of no such
Knutsford highwayman--Knutsford knew of no such Bristol murder. It is
singular enough that these earlier grounds of suspicion against X were
not viewed as such by anybody, until they came to be combined with
another and final ground. Then the presumptions seemed conclusive.
But, by that time, X himself had been executed for a robbery; had
been manufactured into a skeleton by the famous surgeon, Cruickshank,
assisted by Mr. White and other pupils. All interest in the case
had subsided in Knutsford, that could now have cleared up the case
satisfactorily; and thus it happened that to this day the riddle, which
was read pretty decisively in a northern county, still remains a riddle
in the south. When I saw the College Green house in 1809-10, it was
apparently empty, and, as I was told, had always been empty since the
murder: forty years had not cicatrized the bloody remembrance; and, to
this day, perhaps, it remains amongst the gloomy traditions of Bristol.
But whether the Bristol house has or has not shaken off that odor of
blood which offended the nostrils of tenants, it is, I believe, certain
that the city annals have not shaken off the mystery: which yet to
certain people in Knutsford, as I have said, and to us the spectators of
the skeleton, immediately upon hearing one damning fact from the lips
of Mr. White, seemed to melt away and evaporate as convincingly as if we
had heard the explanation issuing in the terms of a confession from the
mouth of the skeleton itself. What, then, _was_ the fact? With pain, and
reluctantly, we felt its force, as we looked at the royal skeleton,
and reflected on the many evidences which he had given of courage, and
perhaps of other noble qualities. The ugly fact was this: In a few weeks
after the College Green tragedy, Knutsford, and the whole neighborhood
as far as Warrington (the half-way town between Liverpool and
Manchester), were deluged with gold and silver coins, moidores, and
dollars, from the Spanish mint of Mexico, etc. These, during the
frequent scarcities of English silver currency, were notoriously current
in England. Now, it is an unhappy fact, and subsequently became known
to the Bristol and London police, that a considerable part of poor
Mrs. Rusborough's treasure lay in such coins, gold and silver, from the
Spanish colonial mints.
Lady Carbery at this period made an effort to teach me Hebrew, by way of
repaying in _kind_ my pains in teaching Greek to _her_. Where, and upon
what motive, she had herself begun to learn Hebrew, I forget: but in
Manchester she had resumed this study with energy on a casual impulse
derived from a certain Dr. Bailey, a clergyman of this city, who had
published a Hebrew Grammar. The doctor was the most unworldly and
guileless of men. Amongst his orthodox brethren he was reputed a
"Methodist;" and not without reason; for some of his Low-Church views he
pushed into practical extravagances that looked like fanaticism, or even
like insanity. Lady Carbery wished naturally to testify her gratitude
for his services by various splendid presents: but nothing would the
good doctor accept, unless it assumed a shape that might be available
for the service of the paupers amongst his congregation. The Hebrew
studies, however, notwithstanding the personal assistance which we drew
from the kindness of Dr. Bailey, languished. For this there were
several reasons; but it was enough that the systematic vagueness in the
pronunciation of this, as of the other Oriental languages, disgusted
both of us. A word which could not be pronounced with any certainty, was
not in a true sense possessed. Let it be understood, however, that it
was not the correct and original pronunciation that we cared for--_that_
has perished probably beyond recall, even in the case of Greek, in spite
of the Asiatic and the Insular Greeks--what we demanded in vain was any
pronunciation whatever that should be articulate, apprehensible, and
intercommunicable, such as might differentiate the words: whereas a
system of mere vowels too inadequately strengthened by consonants,
seemed to leave all words pretty nearly alike. One day, in a pause of
languor amongst these arid Hebrew studies, I read to her, with a beating
heart, "The Ancient Mariner." It had been first published in 1798;
and, about this time (1801), was re-published in the first _two_-volume
edition of "The Lyrical Ballads." Well I knew Lady Carbery's
constitutional inaptitude for poetry; and not for the world would I have
sought sympathy from her or from anybody else upon that part of the L.
B. which belonged to Wordsworth. But I fancied that the wildness of this
tale, and the triple majesties of Solitude, of Mist, and of the Ancient
Unknown Sea, might have won her into relenting; and, in fact, she
listened with gravity and deep attention. But, on reviewing afterwards
in conversation such passages as she happened to remember, she laughed
at the finest parts, and shocked me by calling the mariner himself "an
old quiz;" protesting that the latter part of his homily to the wedding
guest clearly pointed him out as the very man meant by Providence for
a stipendiary curate to the good Dr. Bailey in his over-crowded church.
[Footnote: St. James', according to my present recollection.] With an
albatross perched on his shoulder, and who might be introduced to the
congregation as the immediate organ of his conversion, and supported
by the droning of a bassoon, she represented the mariner lecturing to
advantage in English; the doctor overhead in the pulpit enforcing it in
Hebrew. Angry I was, though forced to laugh. But of what use is anger or
argument in a duel with female criticism? Our ponderous masculine wits
are no match for the mercurial fancy of women. Once, however, I had a
triumph: to my great surprise, one day, she suddenly repeated by heart,
to Dr. Bailey, the beautiful passage--
"It ceased, yet still the sails made on," &c.
asking what he thought of _that?_ As it happened, the simple, childlike
doctor had more sensibility than herself; for, though he had never in
his whole homely life read more of poetry than he had drunk of Tokay or
Constantia,--in fact, had scarcely heard tell of any poetry but Watts'
Hymns,--he seemed petrified: and at last, with a deep sigh, as if
recovering from the spasms of a new birth, said, "I never heard anything
so beautiful in my whole life."
During the long stay of the Laxton party in Manchester, occurred a
Christmas; and at Christmas--that is, at the approach of this great
Christian festival, so properly substituted in England for the Pagan
festival of January and the New Year--there was, according to ancient
usage, on the breaking up for the holidays, at the Grammar School,
a solemn celebration of the season by public speeches. Among the six
speakers, I, of course (as one of the three boys who composed the head
class), held a distinguished place; and it followed, also, as a matter
of course, that all my friends congregated on this occasion to do me
honor. What I had to recite was a copy of Latin verses (Alcaics) on the
recent conquest of Malta. _Melite Britannis Subacta_--this was the title
of my worshipful nonsense. The whole strength of the Laxton party had
mustered on this occasion. Lady Carbery made a point of bringing in her
party every creature whom she could influence. And, probably, there
were in that crowded audience many old Manchester friends of my father,
loving his memory, and thinking to honor it by kindness to his son.
Furious, at any rate, was the applause which greeted me: furious was
my own disgust. Frantic were the clamors as I concluded my nonsense.
Frantic was my inner sense of shame at the childish exhibition to which,
unavoidably, I was making myself a party. Lady Carbery had, at first,
directed towards me occasional glances, expressing a comic sympathy
with the thoughts which she supposed to be occupying my mind. But these
glances ceased; and I was recalled by the gloomy sadness in her altered
countenance to some sense of my own extravagant and disproportionate
frenzy on this occasion: from the indulgent kindness with which she
honored me, her countenance on this occasion became a mirror to my own.
At night she assured me, when talking over the case, that she had
never witnessed an expression of such settled misery, and also (so she
fancied) of misanthropy, as that which darkened my countenance in those
moments of apparent public triumph, no matter how trivial the occasion,
and amidst an uproar of friendly felicitation. I look back to that state
of mind as almost a criminal reproach to myself, if it were not for
the facts of the case. But, in excuse for myself, this fact, above
all others, ought to be mentioned--that, over and above the killing
oppression to my too sensitive system of the monotonous school tasks,
and the ruinous want of exercise, I had fallen under medical advice the
most misleading that it is possible to imagine. The physician and
the surgeon of my family were men too eminent, it seemed to me, and,
consequently, with time too notoriously bearing a high pecuniary
value, for any school-boy to detain them with complaints. Under these
circumstances, I threw myself for aid, in a case so simple that any
clever boy in a druggist's shop would have known how to treat it, upon
the advice of an old, old apothecary, who had full authority from my
guardians to run up a most furious account against me for medicine. This
being the regular mode of payment, inevitably, and unconsciously, he
was biased to a mode of treatment; namely, by drastic medicines varied
without end, which fearfully exasperated the complaint. This complaint,
as I now know, was the simplest possible derangement of the liver, a
torpor in its action that might have been put to rights in three days.
In fact, one week's pedestrian travelling amongst the Caernarvonshire
mountains effected a revolution in my health such as left me nothing to
complain of.
An odd thing happened by the merest accident. I, when my Alcaics had run
down their foolish larum, instead of resuming my official place as one
of the trinity who composed the head class, took a seat by the side of
Lady Carbery. On the other side of her was seated a stranger: and this
stranger, whom mere chance had thrown next to her, was Lord Belgrave,
her old and at one time (as some people fancied) favored suitor. In
this there was nothing at all extraordinary. Lord Grey de Wilton, an old
_alumnus_ of this Manchester Grammar School, and an _alumnus_ during
the early reign of this same _Archididascalus_, made a point of showing
honor to his ancient tutor, especially now when reputed to be decaying;
and with the same view he brought Lord Belgrave, who had become his
son-in-law after his rejection by Lady Carbery. The whole was a very
natural accident. But Lady Carbery was not sufficiently bronzed by
worldly habits to treat this accident with _nonchalance_. She did not
_to the public eye_ betray any embarrassment; but afterwards she told me
that no incident could have been more distressing to her.
Some months after this, the Laxton party quitted Manchester, having no
further motive for staying. Mrs. Schreiber was now confessedly dying:
medical skill could do no more for her; and this being so, there was
no reason why she should continue to exchange her own quiet little
Rutlandshire cottage for the discomforts of smoky lodgings. Lady Carbery
retired like some golden pageant amongst the clouds; thick darkness
succeeded; the ancient torpor reestablished itself; and my health grew
distressingly worse. Then it was, after dreadful self-conflicts, that
I took the unhappy resolution of which the results are recorded in the
"Opium Confessions." At this point, the reader must understand, comes
in that chapter of my life; and for all which concerns that delirious
period I refer him to those "Confessions." Some anxiety I had, on
leaving Manchester, lest my mother should suffer too much from this rash
step; and on that impulse I altered the direction of my wanderings; not
going (as I had originally planned) to the English Lakes, but making
first of all for St. John's Priory, Chester, at that time my mother's
residence. There I found my maternal uncle, Captain Penson, of the
Bengal establishment, just recently come home on a two years' leave of
absence; and there I had an interview with my mother. By a temporary
arrangement I received a weekly allowance, which would have enabled me
to live in _any_ district of Wales, either North or South; for Wales,
both North and South, is (or at any rate _was_) a land of exemplary
cheapness. For instance, at Talyllyn, in Merionethshire, or anywhere
off the line of tourists, I and a lieutenant in our English navy paid
sixpence uniformly for a handsome dinner; sixpence, I mean, apiece. But
two months later came a golden blockhead, who instructed the people that
it was "sinful" to charge less than three shillings. In Wales, meantime,
I suffered grievously from want of books; and fancying, in my
profound ignorance of the world, that I could borrow money upon my own
expectations, or, at least, that I could do so with the joint security
of Lord Westport (now Earl of Altamont, upon his father's elevation to
the Marquisate of Sligo), or (failing _that_) with the security of his
amiable and friendly cousin, the Earl of Desart, I had the unpardonable
folly to quit the deep tranquillities of North Wales for the uproars,
and perils, and the certain miseries, of London. I had borrowed ten
guineas from Lady Carbery; and at that time, when my purpose was known
to nobody, I might have borrowed any sum I pleased. But I could never
again avail myself of that resource, because I must have given some
address, in order to insure the receipt of Lady Carbery's answer; and in
that case, so sternly conscientious was she, that, under the notion of
saving me from ruin, my address would have been immediately communicated
to my guardians, and by them would have been confided to the unrivalled
detective talents, in those days, of Townsend, or some other Bow-street
officer.
* * * * *
That episode, or impassioned parenthesis in my life, which is
comprehended in "The Confessions of the Opium-Eater," had finished;
suppose it over and gone, and once more, after the storms of London,
suppose me resting from my dreadful remembrances, in the deep monastic
tranquillity, of St. John's Priory; and just then, by accident, with no
associates except my mother and my uncle. What was the Priory like? Was
it young or old, handsome or plain? What was my uncle the captain like?
Young or old, handsome or plain? Wait a little, my reader; give me time,
and I will tell you all. My uncle's leave of absence from India had
not expired; in fact, it had nine or ten months still to run; and
this accident furnished us all with an opportunity of witnessing his
preternatural activity. One morning early in April of the year 1803,
a gentleman called at the Priory, and mentioned, as the news of the
morning brought down by the London mail, that there had been a very
hot and very sudden "press" along the Thames, and simultaneously at the
outports. Indeed, before this the spiteful tone of Sebastiani's Report,
together with the arrogant comment in the _Moniteur_ on the supposed
inability of Great Britain to contend "single-handed" with France; and,
finally, the public brutality to our ambassador, had prepared us all for
war. But, then, might not all this blow over? No; apart from any
choice or preference of war on the part of Napoleon, his very existence
depended upon war. He lived by and through the army. Without a
succession of wars and martial glories in reserve for the army, what
interest had _they_ in Napoleon? This was obscurely acknowledged by
everybody. More or less consciously perceived, a feeling deep and strong
ran through the nation that it was vain to seek expedients or delays; a
mighty strife had to be fought out, which could not be evaded. Thence it
was that the volunteer system was so rapidly and earnestly developed.
As a first stage in the process of national enthusiasm, this was
invaluable. The first impulse drew out the material.
Next, as might have been foreseen, came an experience which taught us
seasonably that these redundant materials, crude and miscellaneous,
required a winnowing and sifting, which very soon we had; and the result
was, an incomparable militia. Chester shone conspicuously in this noble
competition. But here, as elsewhere, at first there was no cavalry. Upon
that arose a knot of gentlemen, chiefly those who hunted, and in a very
few hours laid the foundation of a small cavalry force. Three troops
were raised in the _city_ of Chester, one of the three being given to my
uncle. The whole were under the command of Colonel Dod, who had a landed
estate in the county, and who (like my uncle) had been in India. But
Colonel Dod and the captains of the two other troops gave comparatively
little aid. The whole working activities of the system rested with my
uncle. Then first I saw energy: then first I knew what it meant. All the
officers of the three troops exchanged dinner-parties with each other;
and consequently they dined at the Priory often enough to make us
acquainted with their characteristic qualities. That period had not
yet passed away, though it was already passing, when gentlemen did
not willingly leave the dinner-table in a state of absolute sobriety.
Colonel Dod and my uncle had learned in Bengal, under the coërcion of
the climate, habits of temperance. But the others (though few, perhaps,
might be systematic drinkers) were careless in this respect, and drank
under social excitement quite enough to lay bare the ruling tendencies
of their several characters. Being English, naturally the majority were
energetic, and beyond all things despised dreaming _fainéans_ (such,
for instance, as we find the politicians, or even the conspirators, of
Italy, Spain, and Germany, whose whole power of action evaporates in
talking, and histrionically gesticulating). Yet still the best of them
seemed inert by comparison with my uncle, and to regard _his_ standard
of action and exertion as trespassing to a needless degree upon ordinary
human comfort.
Commonplace, meantime, my uncle was in the character of his intellect;
there he fell a thousand leagues below my mother, to whom he looked up
with affectionate astonishment. But, as a man of action, he ran so far
ahead of men generally, that he ceased to impress one as commonplace.
He, if any man ever did, realized the Roman poet's description of being
_natus rebus agendis_--sent into this world not for talking, but for
doing; not for counsel, but for execution. On that field he was a
portentous man, a monster; and, viewing him as such, I am disposed to
concede a few words to what modern slang denominates his "antecedents."