BOOK IV_Sybil, Or, The Two Nations

Book 4 Chapter 1

“Are you going down to the house, Egerton?” enquired Mr Berners at

Brookes, of a brother M.P., about four o’clock in the early part of the

spring of 1839.

“The moment I have sealed this letter; we will walk down together, if

you like!” and in a few minutes they left the club.

“Our fellows are in a sort of fright about this Jamaica bill,” said Mr

Egerton in an undertone, as if he were afraid a passer-by might overhear

him. “Don’t say anything about it, but there’s a screw loose.”

“The deuce! But how do you mean?”

“They say the Rads are going to throw us over.”

“Talk, talk. They have threatened this half-a-dozen times. Smoke, sir;

it will end in smoke.”

“I hope it may; but I know, in great confidence mind you, that Lord John

was saying something about it yesterday.”

“That may be; I believe our fellows are heartily sick of the business,

and perhaps would be glad of an excuse to break up the government: but

we must not have Peel in; nothing could prevent a dissolution.”

“Their fellows go about and say that Peel would not dissolve if he came

in.”

“Trust him!”

“He has had enough of dissolutions they say.”

“Why, after all they have not done him much harm. Even --34 was a hit.”

“Whoever dissolves,” said Mr Egerton, “I don’t think there will be much

of a majority either way in our time.”

“We have seen strange things,” said Mr Berners.

“They never would think of breaking up the government without making

their peers,” said Mr Egerton.

“The Queen is not over partial to making more peers; and when parties

are in the present state of equality, the Sovereign is no longer a mere

pageant.”

“They say her Majesty is more touched about these affairs of the

Chartists than anything else,” said Mr Egerton.

“They are rather queer; but for my part I have no serious fears of a

Jacquerie.”

“Not if it comes to an outbreak; but a passive resistance Jacquerie is

altogether a different thing. When we see a regular Convention assembled

in London and holding its daily meetings in Palace Yard; and a

general inclination evinced throughout the country to refrain from the

consumption of exciseable articles, I cannot help thinking that affairs

are more serious than you imagine. I know the government are all on the

‘qui vive.’”

“Just the fellows we wanted!” exclaimed Lord Fitz-Heron, who was leaning

on the arm of Lord Milford, and who met Mr Egerton and his friend in

Pall Mall.

“We want a brace of pairs,” said Lord Milford. “Will you two fellows

pair?”

“I must go down,” said Mr Egerton; “but I will pair from halfpast seven

to eleven.”

“I just paired with Ormsby at White’s,” said Berners; “not half an hour

ago. We are both going to dine at Eskdale’s, and so it was arranged.

Have you any news to-day?”

“Nothing; except that they say that Alfred Mountchesney is going to

marry Lady Joan Fitz-Warene,” said Lord Milford.

“She has been given to so many,” said Mr Egerton.

“It is always so with these great heiresses,” said his companion. “They

never marry. They cannot bear the thought of sharing their money. I bet

Lady Joan will turn out another specimen of the TABITHA CROESUS.”

“Well, put down our pair, Egerton,” said Lord Fitz-Heron. “You do not

dine at Sidonia’s by any chance?”

“Would that I did! You will have the best dishes and the best guests. I

feed at old Malton’s; perhaps a tete a tete: Scotch broth, and to tell

him the news!”

“There is nothing like being a dutiful nephew, particularly when one’s

uncle is a bachelor and has twenty thousand a-year,” said Lord Milford.

“Au revoir! I suppose there will be no division to-night.”

“No chance.”

Egerton and Berners walked on a little further. As they came to the

Golden Ball, a lady quitting the shop was just about to get into her

carriage; she stopped as she recognized them. It was Lady Firebrace.

“Ah! Mr Berners, how d’ye do? You were just the person I wanted to see!

How is Lady Augusta, Mr Egerton? You have no idea, Mr Berners, how I

have been fighting your battles!”

“Really, Lady Firebrace,” said Mr Berners rather uneasy, for he

had perhaps like most of us a peculiar dislike to being attacked or

cheapened. “You are too good.”

“Oh! I don’t care what a person’s politics are!” exclaimed Lady

Firebrace with an air of affectionate devotion. “I should be very glad

indeed to see you one of us. You know your father was! But if any one

is my friend I never will hear him attacked behind his back without

fighting his battles; and I certainly did fight yours last night.”

“Pray tell me where it was?”

“Lady Crumbleford--”

“Confound Lady Crumbleford!” said Mr Berners indignant but a little

relieved.

“No, no; Lady Crumbleford told Lady Alicia Severn.”

“Yes, yes,” said Berners, a little pale, for he was touched.

“But I cannot stop,” said Lady Firebrace. “I must be with Lady St

Julians exactly at a quarter past four;” and she sprang into her

carriage.

“I would sooner meet any woman in London than Lady Firebrace,” said Mr

Berners; “she makes me uneasy for the day: she contrives to convince

me that the whole world are employed behind my back in abusing or

ridiculing me.”

“It is her way,” said Egerton; “she proves her zeal by showing you that

you are odious. It is very successful with people of weak nerves. Scared

at their general unpopularity, they seek refuge with the very person

who at the same time assures them of their odium and alone believes it

unjust. She rules that poor old goose, Lady Gramshawe, who feels that

Lady Firebrace makes her life miserable, but is convinced that if she

break with the torturer, she loses her only friend.”

“There goes a man who is as much altered as any fellow of our time.”

“Not in his looks; I was thinking the other night that he was

better-looking than ever.”

“Oh! no; not in his looks; but in his life. I was at Christchurch with

him, and we entered the world about the same time. I was rather before

him. He did everything; and did it well. And now one never sees him,

except at the House. He goes nowhere; and they tell me he is a regular

reading man.”

“Do you think he looks to office?”

“He does not put himself forward.”

“He attends; and his brother will always be able to get anything for

him,” said Egerton.

“Oh! he and Marney never speak; they hate each other.”

“By Jove! However there is his mother; with this marriage of hers and

Deloraine House, she will be their grandest dame.”

“She is the only good woman the tories have: I think their others do

them harm, from Lady St Julians down to your friend Lady Firebrace.

I wish Lady Deloraine were with us. She keeps their men together

wonderfully; makes her house agreeable; and then her manner--it

certainly is perfect; natural, and yet refined.”

“Lady Mina Blake has an idea that far from looking to office, Egremont’s

heart is faintly with his party; and that if it were not for the

Marchioness--”

“We might gain him, eh?”

“Hem; I hardly know that: he has got crotchets about the people I am

told.”

“What, the ballot and household suffrage?”

“Gad, I believe it is quite a different sort of a thing. I do not know

what it is exactly; but I understand he is crotchetty.”

“Well, that will not do for Peel. He does not like crotchetty men. Do

you see that, Egerton?”

At this moment, Mr Egerton and his friend were about to step over from

Trafalgar square to Charing Cross. They observed the carriages of Lady

St Julians and the Marchioness of Deloraine drawn up side by side in

the middle of the street, and those two eminent stateswomen in earnest

conversation. Egerton and Berners bowed and smiled, but could not hear

the brief but not uninteresting words that have nevertheless reached us.

“I give them eleven,” said Lady St Julians.

“Well, Charles tells me,” said Lady Deloraine, “that Sir Thomas says

so, and he certainly is generally right; but it is not Charles’ own

opinion.”

“Sir Thomas, I know, gives them eleven,” said Lady St Julians; “and that

would satisfy me; and we will say eleven. But I have a list here,” and

she slightly elevated her brow, and then glanced at Lady Deloraine with

a piquant air, “which proves that they cannot have more than nine; but

this is in the greatest confidence: of course between us there can be

no secrets. It is Mr Tadpole’s list; nobody has seen it but me; not even

Sir Robert. Lord Grubminster has had a stroke: they are concealing

it, but Mr Tadpole has found it out. They wanted to pair him off with

Colonel Fantomme, who they think is dying: but Mr Tadpole has got a

Mesmerist who has done wonders for him, and who has guaranteed that he

shall vote. Well, that makes a difference of one.”

“And then Sir Henry Churton--”

“Oh! you know it,” said Lady St Julians, looking slightly mortified.

“Yes: he votes with us.”

Lady Deloraine shook her head. “I think,” she said, “I know the origin

of that report. Quite a mistake. He is in a bad humour, has been so the

whole session, and he was at Lady Alice Fermyne’s, and did say all

sorts of things. All that is true. But he told Charles this morning on a

committee, that he should vote with the Government.”

“Stupid man!” exclaimed Lady St Julians; “I never could bear him. And

I have sent his vulgar wife and great staring daughter a card for next

Wednesday! Well, I hope affairs will soon be brought to a crisis, for I

do not think I can bear much longer this life of perpetual sacrifice,”

added Lady St Julians a little out of temper, both because she had lost

a vote and found her friend and rival better informed than herself.

“There is no chance of a division to-night,” said Lady Deloraine.

“That is settled,” said Lady St Julians. “Adieu, my dear friend. We

meet, I believe, at dinner?”

“Plotting,” said Mr Egerton to Mr Berners, as they passed the great

ladies.

“The only consolation one has,” said Berners, “is, that if they do turn

us out, Lady Deloraine and Lady St Julians must quarrel, for they both

want the same thing.”

“Lady Deloraine will have it,” said Egerton.

Here they picked up Mr Jermyn, a young tory M.P., who perhaps the reader

may remember at Mowbray Castle; and they walked on together, Egerton and

Berners trying to pump him as to the expectations of his friends.

“How will Trodgits go?” said Egerton.

“I think Trodgits will stay away,” said Jermyn.

“Who do you give that new man to--that north-country borough

fellow;--what’s his name?” said Berners.

“Blugsby! Oh, Blugsby dined with Peel,” said Jermyn.

“Our fellows say dinners are no good,” said Egerton; “and they certainly

are a cursed bore: but you may depend upon it they do for the burgesses.

We don’t dine our men half enough. Now Blugsby was just the sort of

fellow to be caught by dining with Peel: and I dare say they made Peel

remember to take wine with him. We got Melbourne to give a grand feed

the other day to some of our men who want attention they say, and he

did not take wine with a single guest. He forgot. I wonder what they are

doing at the House! Here’s Spencer May, he will tell us. Well, what is

going on?”

“WISHY is up, and WASHY follows.”

“No division, of course?”

“Not a chance; a regular covey ready on both sides.”

Book 4 Chapter 2

On the morning of the same day that Mr Egerton and his friend Mr Berners

walked down together to the House of Commons, as appears in our last

chapter, Egremont had made a visit to his mother, who had married since

the commencement of this history the Marquis of Deloraine, a great noble

who had always been her admirer. The family had been established by a

lawyer, and recently in our history. The present Lord Deloraine, though

he was gartered and had been a viceroy, was only the grandson of an

attorney, but one who, conscious of his powers, had been called to the

bar and died an ex-chancellor. A certain talent was hereditary in the

family. The attorney’s son had been a successful courtier, and had

planted himself in the cabinet for a quarter of a century. It was a

maxim in this family to make great alliances; so the blood progressively

refined, and the connections were always distinguished by power and

fashion. It was a great hit, in the second generation of an earldom,

to convert the coronet into that of a marquis; but the son of the old

chancellor lived in stirring times, and cruised for his object with the

same devoted patience with which Lord Anson watched for the galleon. It

came at last, as everything does if men are firm and calm. The present

marquis, through his ancestry and his first wife, was allied with the

highest houses of the realm and looked their peer. He might have

been selected as the personification of aristocracy: so noble was his

appearance, so distinguished his manner; his bow gained every eye, his

smile every heart. He was also very accomplished, and not ill-informed;

had read a little, and thought a little, and was in every respect a most

superior man; alike famed for his favour by the fair, and the constancy

of his homage to the charming Lady Marney.

Lord Deloraine was not very rich; but he was not embarrassed, and had

the appearance of princely wealth; a splendid family mansion with a

courtyard; a noble country-seat with a magnificent park, including

a quite celebrated lake, but with very few farms attached to it.

He however held a good patent place which had been conferred on his

descendants by the old chancellor, and this brought in annually some

thousands. His marriage with Lady Marney was quite an affair of the

heart; her considerable jointure however did not diminish the lustre of

his position.

It was this impending marriage, and the anxiety of Lady Marney to see

Egremont’s affairs settled before it took place, which about a year

and a half ago had induced her to summon him so urgently from Mowedale,

which the reader perhaps may have not forgotten. And now Egremont is

paying one of his almost daily visits to his mother at Deloraine House.

“A truce to politics, my dear Charles,” said Lady Marney; “you must be

wearied with my inquiries. Besides, I do not take the sanguine view

of affairs in which some of our friends indulge. I am one of those who

think the pear is not ripe. These men will totter on, and longer

perhaps than even themselves imagine. I want to speak of something

very different. To-morrow, my dear son, is your birth-day. Now I should

grieve were it to pass without your receiving something which showed

that its recollection was cherished by your mother. But of all silly

things in the world, the silliest is a present that is not wanted. It

destroys the sentiment a little perhaps but it enhances the gift, if I

ask you in the most literal manner to assist me in giving you something

that really would please you?”

“But how can I, my dear mother?” said Egremont. “You have ever been so

kind and so generous that I literally want nothing.”

“Oh! you cannot be such a fortunate man as to want nothing, Charles,”

said Lady Marney with a smile. “A dressing-case you have: your rooms are

furnished enough: all this is in my way; but there are such things as

horses and guns of which I know nothing, but which men always require.

You must want a horse or a gun, Charles. Well, I should like you to

get either; the finest, the most valuable that money can purchase. Or a

brougham, Charles; what do you think of a new brougham? Would you like

that Barker should build you a brougham?”

“You are too good, my dear mother. I have horses and guns enough; and my

present carriage is all I can desire.”

“You will not assist me, then? You are resolved that I shall do

something very stupid. For to give you something I am determined.”

“Well my dear mother,” said Egremont smiling and looking round, “give me

something that is here.”

“Choose then,” said Lady Marney, and she looked round the blue satin

walls of her apartment, covered with cabinet pictures of exquisite art,

and then at her tables crowded with precious and fantastic toys.

“It would be plunder, my dear mother,” said Egremont.

“No, no; you have said it; you shall choose something. Will you have

those vases?” and she pointed to an almost matchless specimen of old

Sevres porcelain.

“They are in too becoming a position to be disturbed,” said Egremont,

“and would ill suit my quiet chambers, where a bronze or a marble is

my greatest ornament. If you would permit me, I would rather choose a

picture?”

“Then select one at once,” said Lady Marney; “I make no reservation,

except that Watteau, for it was given me by your father before we were

married. Shall it be this Cuyp?”

“I would rather choose this,” said Egremont, and he pointed to the

portrait of a saint by Allori: the face of a beautiful young girl,

radiant and yet solemn, with rich tresses of golden brown hair, and

large eyes dark as night, fringed with ebon lashes that hung upon the

glowing cheek.

“Ah! you choose that! Well, that was a great favourite of poor Sir

Thomas Lawrence. But for my part I have never seen any one in the least

like it, and I think I am sure that you have not.”

“It reminds me--” said Egremont musingly.

“Of what you have dreamed,” said Lady Marney.

“Perhaps so,” said Egremont; “indeed I think it must have been a dream.”

“Well, the vision shall still hover before you,” said his mother; “and

you shall find this portrait to-morrow over your chimney in the Albany.”

Book 4 Chapter 3

“Strangers must withdraw.”

“Division: clear the gallery. Withdraw.”

“Nonsense; no; it’s quite ridiculous; quite absurd. Some fellow must

get up. Send to the Carlton; send to the Reform; send to Brookes’s.

Are your men ready? No; are your’s? I am sure I can’t say. What does

it mean? Most absurd! Are there many fellows in the library? The

smoking-room is quite full. All our men are paired till half-past

eleven. It wants five minutes to the halfhour. What do you think of

Trenchard’s speech? I don’t care for ourselves; I am sorry for him. Well

that is very charitable. Withdraw, withdraw; you must withdraw.”

“Where are you going, Fitztheron?” said a Conservative whipling.

“I must go; I am paired till half-past eleven, and it wants some

minutes, and my man is not here.”

“Confound it!”

“How will it go?”

“Gad, I don’t know.”

“Fishy eh?”

“Deuced!” said the under-whip in an under-tone, pale and speaking behind

his teeth.

The division bell was still ringing; peers and diplomatists and

strangers were turned out; members came rushing in from library and

smoking-room; some desperate cabs just arrived in time to land their

passengers in the waiting-room. The doors were locked.

The mysteries of the Lobby are only for the initiated. Three quarters

of an hour after the division was called, the result was known to the

exoteric world. Majority for Ministers thirty-seven! Never had the

opposition made such a bad division, and this too on their trial of

strength for the session. Everything went wrong. Lord Milford was away

without a pair. Mr Ormsby, who had paired with Mr Berners, never came,

and let his man poll; for which he was infinitely accursed, particularly

by the expectant twelve hundred a-yearers, but not wanting anything

himself, and having an income of forty thousand pounds paid quarterly,

Mr Ormsby bore their reported indignation like a lamb.

There were several other similar or analogous mischances; the

whigs contrived to poll Lord Grubminster in a wheeled chair; he was

unconscious but had heard as much of the debate as a good many. Colonel

Fantomme on the other hand could not come to time; the mesmerist had

thrown him into a trance from which it was fated he should never awake:

but the crash of the night was a speech made against the opposition by

one of their own men, Mr Trenchard, who voted with the government.

“The rest may be accounted for,” said Lady St Julians to Lady Deloraine

the morning after; “it is simply vexatious; it was a surprise and will

be a lesson: but this affair of this Mr Trenchard--and they tell me that

William Loraine was absolutely cheering him the whole time--what does it

mean? Do you know the man?”

“I have heard Charles speak of him, and I think much in his favour,”

said Lady Deloraine; “if he were here, he would tell us more about it.

I wonder he does not come: he never misses looking in after a great

division and giving me all the news.”

“Do you know, my dear friend,” said Lady St Julians with an air of some

solemnity, “I am half meditating a great stroke? This is not a time

for trifling. It is all very well for these people to boast of their

division of last night, but it was a surprise, and as great to them as

to us. I know there is dissension in the camp; ever since that Finality

speech of Lord John, there has been a smouldering sedition. Mr Tadpole

knows all about it; he has liaisons with the frondeurs. This affair of

Trenchard may do us the greatest possible injury. When it comes to a

fair fight, the government have not more than twelve or so. If this

Mr Trenchard and three or four others choose to make themselves of

importance--you see? The danger is imminent, it must be met with

decision.”

“And what do you propose doing?”

“Has he a wife?”

“I really do not know. I wish Charles would come, perhaps he could tell

us.”

“I have no doubt he has,” said Lady St Julians. “One would have met him,

somehow or other in the course of two years, if he had not been married.

Well, married or unmarried, with his wife, or without his wife,--I shall

send him a card for Wednesday.” And Lady St Julians paused, overwhelmed

as it were by the commensurate vastness of her idea and her sacrifice.

“Do not you think it would be rather sudden?” said Lady Deloraine.

“What does that signify? He will understand it; he will have gained his

object; and all will be right.”

“But are you sure it is his object? We do not know the man.”

“What else can be his object?” said Lady St Julians. “People get into

Parliament to get on; their aims are indefinite. If they have indulged

in hallucinations about place before they enter the House, they are soon

freed from such distempered fancies; they find they have no more talent

than other people, and if they had, they learn that power, patronage and

pay are reserved for us and our friends. Well then like practical men,

they look to some result, and they get it. They are asked out to dinner

more than they would be; they move rigmarole resolutions at nonsensical

public meetings; and they get invited with their women to assemblies at

their leader’s where they see stars and blue ribbons, and above all, us,

whom they little think in appearing on such occasions, make the greatest

conceivable sacrifice. Well then, of course such people are entirely in

one’s power, if one only had time and inclination to notice them. You

can do anything with them. Ask them to a ball, and they will give you

their votes; invite them to dinner and if necessary they will rescind

them; but cultivate them, remember their wives at assemblies and call

their daughters, if possible, by their right names; and they will

not only change their principles or desert their party for you; but

subscribe their fortunes if necessary and lay down their lives in your

service.”

“You paint them to the life, my dear Lady St Julians,” said Lady

Deloraine laughing; “but with such knowledge and such powers, why did

you not save our boroughs?”

“We had lost our heads, then, I must confess,” said Lady St Julians.

“What with the dear King and the dear Duke, we really had brought

ourselves to believe that we lived in the days of Versailles or nearly;

and I must admit I think we had become a little too exclusive. Out of

the cottage circle, there was really no world, and after all we were

lost not by insulting the people but by snubbing the aristocracy.”

The servant announced Lady Firebrace. “Oh! my dear Lady Deloraine. Oh!

my dear Lady St Julians!” and she shook her head.

“You have no news, I suppose,” said Lady St Julians.

“Only about that dreadful Mr Trenchard; you know the reason why he

ratted?”

“No, indeed,” said Lady St Julians with a sigh.

“An invitation to Lansdowne House, for himself and his wife!”

“Oh! he is married then?”

“Yes; she is at the bottom of it all. Terms regularly settled

beforehand. I have a note here--all the facts.” And Lady Firebrace

twirled in her hand a bulletin from Mr Tadpole.

“Lansdowne House is destined to cross me,” said Lady St Julians with

bitterness.

“Well it is very provoking,” said Lady Deloraine, “when you had made up

your mind to ask them for Wednesday.”

“Yes, that alone is a sacrifice,” said Lady St Julians.

“Talking over the division I suppose,” said Egremont as he entered.

“Ah! Mr Egremont,” said Lady St Julians. “What a hachis you made of it.”

Lady Firebrace shook her head, as it were reproachfully.

“Charles,” said Lady Deloraine, “we were talking of this Mr Trenchard.

Did I not once hear you say you knew something of him?”

“Why, he is one of my intimate acquaintance.”

“Heavens! what a man for a friend!” said Lady St Julians.

“Heavens!” echoed Lady Firebrace raising her hands.

“And why did you not present him to me, Charles,” said Lady Deloraine.

“I did; at Lady Peel’s.”

“And why did you not ask him here?”

“I did several times; but he would not come.”

“He is going to Lansdowne House, though,” said Lady Firebrace.

“I suppose you wrote the leading article in the Standard which I have

just read,” said Egremont smiling. “It announces in large type the

secret reasons of Mr Trenchard’s vote.”

“It is a fact,” said Lady Firebrace.

“That Trenchard is going to Lansdowne House to-night; very likely. I

have met him at Lansdowne House half-a-dozen times. He is very intimate

with the family and lives in the same county.”

“But his wife,” said Lady Firebrace; “that’s the point: he never could

get his wife there before.”

“He has none,” said Egremont very quietly.

“Then we may regain him,” said Lady St Julians with energy. “You shall

make a little dinner to Greenwich, Mr Egremont, and I will sit next to

him.”

“Fortunate Trenchard!” said Egremont. “But do you know I fear he is

hardly worthy of his lot. He has a horror of fine ladies; and there is

nothing in the world he more avoids than what you call society. At

home, as this morning when I breakfasted with him, or in a circle of his

intimates, he is the best company in the world; no one so well informed,

fuller of rich humour, and more sincerely amiable. He is popular with

all who know him--except Taper, Lady St Julians, and Tadpole, Lady

Firebrace.”

“Well, I think I will ask him still for Wednesday,” said Lady St

Julians; “and I will write him a little note. If society is not his

object, what is?”

“Ay!” said Egremont, “there is a great question for you and Lady

Firebrace to ponder over. This is a lesson for you fine ladies, who

think you can govern the world by what you call your social influences:

asking people once or twice a-year to an inconvenient crowd in your

house; now haughtily smirking, and now impertinently staring, at them;

and flattering yourselves all this time, that to have the occasional

privilege of entering your saloons and the periodical experience of

your insolent recognition, is to be a reward for great exertions, or if

necessary an inducement to infamous tergiversation.”

Book 4 Chapter 4

It was night: clear and serene, though the moon had not risen; and a

vast concourse of persons were assembling on Mowbray Moor. The chief

gathering collected in the vicinity of some huge rocks, one of which,

pre-eminent above its fellows, and having a broad flat head, on which

some twenty persons might easily stand at the same time, was called the

Druid’s Altar. The ground about was strewn with stony fragments, covered

tonight with human beings, who found a convenient resting-place amid

these ruins of some ancient temple or relics of some ancient world. The

shadowy concourse increased, the dim circle of the nocturnal assemblage

each moment spread and widened; there was the hum and stir of many

thousands. Suddenly in the distance the sound of martial music: and

instantly, quick as the lightning and far more wild, each person present

brandished a flaming torch, amid a chorus of cheers, that, renewed

and resounding, floated far away over the broad bosom of the dusk

wilderness.

The music and the banners denoted the arrival of the leaders of the

people. They mounted the craggy ascent that led to the summit of

the Druid’s Altar, and there, surrounded by his companions, amid the

enthusiastic shouts of the multitude, Walter Gerard came forth to

address a TORCH-LIGHT MEETING.

His tall form seemed colossal in the uncertain and flickering light, his

rich and powerful voice reached almost to the utmost limit of his vast

audience, now still with expectation and silent with excitement. Their

fixed and eager glance, the mouth compressed with fierce resolution or

distended by novel sympathy, as they listened to the exposition of their

wrongs, and the vindication of the sacred rights of labour--the shouts

and waving of the torches as some bright or bold phrase touched them to

the quick--the cause, the hour, the scene--all combined to render the

assemblage in a high degree exciting.

“I wonder if Warner will speak to-night,” said Dandy Mick to Devilsdust.

“He can’t pitch it in like Gerard,” replied his companion.

“But he is a trump in the tender,” said the Dandy. “The Handlooms looks

to him as their man, and that’s a powerful section.”

“If you come to the depth of a question, there’s nothing like Stephen

Morley,” said Devilsdust. “‘Twould take six clergymen any day to settle

him. He knows the principles of society by heart. But Gerard gets hold

of the passions.”

“And that’s the way to do the trick,” said Dandy Mick. “I wish he would

say march, and no mistake.”

“There is a great deal to do before saying that,” said Devilsdust. “We

must have discussion, because when it comes to reasoning, the oligarchs

have not got a leg to stand on; and we must stop the consumption of

exciseable articles, and when they have no tin to pay the bayonets and

their b--y police, they are dished.”

“You have a long head, Dusty,” said Mick.

“Why I have been thinking of it ever since I knew two and two made

four,” said his friend. “I was not ten years old when I said to

myself--It’s a pretty go this, that I should be toiling in a shoddy-hole

to pay the taxes for a gentleman what drinks his port wine and stretches

his legs on a Turkey carpet. Hear, hear,” he suddenly exclaimed, as

Gerard threw off a stinging sentence. “Ah! that’s the man for the

people. You will see, Mick, whatever happens, Gerard is the man who will

always lead.”

Gerard had ceased amid enthusiastic plaudits, and Warner--that hand-loom

weaver whom the reader may recollect, and who had since become a popular

leader and one of the principal followers of Gerard--had also addressed

the multitude. They had cheered and shouted, and voted resolutions, and

the business of the night was over. Now they were enjoined to disperse

in order and depart in peace. The band sounded a triumphant retreat; the

leaders had descended from the Druid’s Altar; the multitude were melting

away, bearing back to the town their high resolves and panting thoughts,

and echoing in many quarters the suggestive appeals of those who

had addressed them. Dandy Mick and Devilsdust departed together; the

business of their night had not yet commenced, and it was an important

one.

They took their way to that suburb whither Gerard and Morley repaired

the evening of their return from Marney Abbey; but it was not on this

occasion to pay a visit to Chaffing Jack and his brilliant saloon.

Winding through many obscure lanes, Mick and his friend at length turned

into a passage which ended in a square court of a not inconsiderable

size, and which was surrounded by high buildings that had the appearance

of warehouses. Entering one of these, and taking up a dim lamp that

was placed on the stone of an empty hearth, Devilsdust led his friend

through several unoccupied and unfurnished rooms, until he came to one

in which there were some signs of occupation.

“Now, Mick,” said he, in a very earnest, almost solemn tone, “are you

firm?”

“All right, my hearty,” replied his friend, though not without some

affectation of ease.

“There is a good deal to go through,” said Devilsdust. “It tries a man.”

“You don’t mean that?”

“But if you are firm, all’s right. Now I must leave you.”

“No, no, Dusty,” said Mick.

“I must go,” said Devilsdust; “and you must rest here till you are

sent for. Now mind--whatever is bid you, obey; and whatever you see, be

quiet. There,” and Devilsdust taking a flask out of his pocket, held it

forth to his friend, “give a good pull, man, I can’t leave it you, for

though your heart must be warm, your head must be cool,” and so saying

he vanished.

Notwithstanding the animating draught, the heart of Mick Radley

trembled. There are some moments when the nervous system defies even

brandy. Mick was on the eve of a great and solemn incident, round

which for years his imagination had gathered and brooded. Often in that

imagination he had conceived the scene, and successfully confronted its

perils or its trials. Often had the occasion been the drama of many a

triumphant reverie, but the stern presence of reality had dispelled all

his fancy and all his courage. He recalled the warning of Julia, who had

often dissuaded him from the impending step; that warning received with

so much scorn and treated with so much levity. He began to think that

women were always right; that Devilsdust was after all a dangerous

counsellor; he even meditated over the possibility of a retreat. He

looked around him: the glimmering lamp scarcely indicated the outline of

the obscure chamber. It was lofty, nor in the obscurity was it possible

for the eye to reach the ceiling, which several huge beams seemed to

cross transversally, looming in the darkness. There was apparently no

windows, and the door by which they had entered was not easily to

be recognised. Mick had just taken up the lamp and was surveying his

position, when a slight noise startled him, and looking round he beheld

at some little distance two forms which he hoped were human.

Enveloped in dark cloaks and wearing black masks, a conical cap of the

same colour adding to their considerable height, each held a torch. They

stood in silence--two awful sentries.

Their appearance appalled, their stillness terrified, Mick: he remained

with his mouth open and the lamp in his extended arm. At length, unable

any longer to sustain the solemn mystery, and plucking up his natural

audacity, he exclaimed, “I say, what do you want?”

All was silent.

“Come, come,” said Mick much alarmed; “none of this sort of thing. I

say, you must speak though.”

The figures advanced: they stuck their torches in a niche that was by;

and then they placed each of them a hand on the shoulder of Mick.

“No, no; none of that,” said Mick, trying to disembarrass himself.

But, notwithstanding this fresh appeal, one of the silent masks pinioned

his arms; and in a moment the eyes of the helpless friend of Devilsdust

were bandaged.

Conducted by these guides, it seemed to Mick that he was traversing

interminable rooms, or rather galleries, for once stretching out his

arm, while one of his supporters had momentarily quitted him to open

some gate or door, Mick touched a wall. At length one of the masks

spoke, and said, “In five minutes you will be in the presence of the

SEVEN--prepare.”

At this moment rose the sound of distant voices singing in concert, and

gradually increasing in volume as Mick and the masks advanced. One of

these attendants now notifying to their charge that he must kneel down,

Mick found he rested on a cushion, while at the same time his arms still

pinioned, he seemed to be left alone.

The voices became louder and louder; Mick could distinguish the words

and burthen of the hymn; he was sensible that many persons were entering

the apartment; he could distinguish the measured tread of some solemn

procession. Round the chamber, more than once, they moved with slow and

awful step. Suddenly that movement ceased; there was a pause of a few

minutes; at length a voice spoke. “I denounce John Briars.”

“Why?” said another.

“He offers to take nothing but piece-work; the man who does piece-work

is guilty of less defensible conduct than a drunkard. The worst passions

of our nature are enlisted in support of piece-work. Avarice, meanness,

cunning, hypocrisy, all excite and feed upon the miserable votary who

works by the task and not by the hour. A man who earns by piece-work

forty shillings per week, the usual wages for day-work being twenty,

robs his fellows of a week’s employment; therefore I denounce John

Briars.”

“Let it go forth,” said the other voice; “John Briars is denounced.

If he receive another week’s wages by the piece, he shall not have the

option of working the week after for time. No.87, see to John Briars.”

“I denounce Claughton and Hicks,” said another voice.

“Why?”

“They have removed Gregory Ray from being a superintendent, because he

belonged to this lodge.”

“Brethren, is it your pleasure that there shall be a turn out for ten

days at Claughton and Hicks?”

“It is our pleasure,” cried several voices.

“No.34, give orders to-morrow that the works at Claughton and Hicks stop

till further orders.”

“Brethren,” said another voice, “I propose the expulsion from this

Union, of any member who shall be known to boast of his superior

ability, as to either the quantity or quality of work he can do, either

in public or private company. Is it your pleasure?”

“It is our pleasure.”

“Brethren,” said a voice that seemed a presiding one, “before we proceed

to the receipt of the revenue from the different districts of this

lodge, there is I am informed a stranger present, who prays to be

admitted into our fraternity. Are all robed in the mystic robe? Are all

masked in the secret mask?”

“All

“Then let us pray!” And thereupon after a movement which intimated that

all present were kneeling, the presiding voice offered up an extemporary

prayer of great power and even eloquence. This was succeeded by the

Hymn of Labour, and at its conclusion the arms of the neophyte were

unpinioned, and then his eyes were unbandaged.

Mick found himself in a lofty and spacious room lighted with many

tapers. Its walls were hung with black cloth; at a table covered with

the same material, were seated seven persons in surplices and masked,

the president on a loftier seat; above which on a pedestal was a

skeleton complete. On each side of the skeleton was a man robed and

masked, holding a drawn sword; and on each of Mick was a man in the same

garb holding a battle-axe. On the table was the sacred volume open, and

at a distance, ranged in order on each side of the room, was a row of

persons in white robes and white masks, and holding torches.

“Michael Radley,” said the President. “Do you voluntarily swear in

the presence of Almighty God and before these witnesses, that you will

execute with zeal and alacrity, as far as in you lies, every task and

injunction that the majority of your brethren testified by the mandate

of this grand committee, shall impose upon you, in futherance of

our common welfare, of which they are the sole judges; such as the

chastisement of Nobs, the assassination of oppressive and tyrannical

masters, or the demolition of all mills, works and shops that shall be

deemed by us incorrigible. Do you swear this in the presence of Almighty

God and before these witnesses?”

“I do swear it,” replied a tremulous voice.

“Then rise and kiss that book.”

Mick slowly rose from his kneeling position, advanced with a trembling

step, and bending, embraced with reverence the open volume.

Immediately every one unmasked; Devilsdust came forward, and taking Mick

by the hand led him to the President, who received him pronouncing some

mystic rhymes. He was covered with a robe and presented with a torch,

and then ranged in order with his companions. Thus terminated the

initiation of Dandy Mick into a TRADES UNION.

Book 4 Chapter 5

“His lordship has not yet rung his bell, gentlemen.”

It was the valet of Lord Milford that spoke, addressing from the door of

a house in Belgrave Square, about noon, a deputation from the National

Convention, consisting of two of its delegates, who waited on the young

viscount in common with other members of the legislature, in order

to call his particular attention to the National Petition which the

Convention had prepared, and which in the course of the session was to

be presented by one of the members for Birmingham.

“I fear we are too early for these fine birds,” said one delegate to the

other. “Who is next on our list?”

“No. 27, -- Street, close by; Mr THOROUGH BASE: he ought to be with the

people, for his father was only a fiddler; but I understand he is quite

an aristocrat and has married a widow of quality.”

“Well, knock.”

Mr Thorough Base was not at home; had received the card of the delegates

apprising him of the honour of their intended visit, but had made up his

mind on the subject.

No.18 in the same street received them more courteously. Here resided

Mr KREMLIN, who after listening with patience if not with interest,

to their statement, apprised them that forms of government were of no

consequence, and domestic policy of no interest; that there was only

one subject which should engage the attention of public men, because

everything depended on it,--that was our external system; and that the

only specific for a revival of trade and the contentment of the people,

was a general settlement of the boundary questions. Finally, Mr Kremlin

urged upon the National Convention to recast their petition with this

view, assuring them that on foreign policy they would have the public

with them.

The deputation in reply might have referred as an evidence of the

general interest excited by questions of foreign policy, to the

impossibility even of a leader making a house on one; and to the fact

that there are not three men in the House of Commons who even pretend

to have any acquaintance with the external circumstances of the country;

they might have added, that even in such an assembly Mr Kremlin himself

was distinguished for ignorance, for he had only one idea,--and that was

wrong.

Their next visit was to WRIGGLE, a member for a metropolitan district,

a disciple of Progress, who went with the times, but who took particular

good care to ascertain their complexion; and whose movements if

expedient could partake of a regressive character. As the Charter might

some day turn up trumps as well as so many other unexpected cards

and colours, Wriggle gave his adhesion to it, but of course only

provisionally; provided that is to say, he might vote against it at

present. But he saw no harm in it--not he, and should be prepared to

support it when circumstances, that is to say the temper of the times,

would permit him. More could hardly be expected from a gentleman in the

delicate position in which Wriggle found himself at this moment, for he

had solicited a baronetcy of the whigs, and had secretly pledged himself

to Taper to vote against them on the impending Jamaica division.

BOMBASTES RIP snubbed them, which was hard, for he had been one of

themselves, had written confidential letters in 1831 to the secretary of

the Treasury, and “provided his expenses were paid,” offered to come up

from the manufacturing town he now represented, at the head of a hundred

thousand men, and burn down Apsley House. But now Bombastes Rip talked

of the great middle class; of public order and public credit. He would

have said more to them, but had an appointment in the city, being a

most active member of the committee for raising a statue to the Duke of

Wellington.

FLOATWELL received them in the politest manner, though he did not agree

with them. What he did agree with was difficult to say. Clever, brisk,

and bustling, with an university reputation and without patrimony,

Floatwell shrunk from the toils of a profession, and in the hurry skurry

of reform found himself to his astonishment a parliament man. There he

had remained, but why, the Fates alone knew. The fun of such a thing

must have evaporated with the novelty. Floatwell had entered public life

in complete ignorance of every subject which could possibly engage

the attention of a public man. He knew nothing of history, national or

constitutional law, had indeed none but puerile acquirements, and

had seen nothing of life. Assiduous at committees he gained those

superficial habits of business which are competent to the conduct of

ordinary affairs, and picked up in time some of the slang of economical

questions. Floatwell began at once with a little success, and he kept

his little success; nobody envied him it; he hoarded his sixpences

without exciting any evil emulation. He was one of those characters who

above all things shrink from isolation, and who imagine they are getting

on if they are keeping company with some who stick like themselves. He

was always an idolater of some great personage who was on the shelf,

and who he was convinced, because the great personage assured him of

it after dinner, would sooner or later turn out the man. At present,

Floatwell swore by Lord Dunderhead; and the game of this little coterie,

who dined together and thought they were a party, was to be courteous to

the Convention.

After the endurance of an almost interminable lecture on the currency

from Mr KITE, who would pledge himself to the charter if the charter

would pledge itself to one-pound notes, the two delegates had arrived in

Piccadilly, and the next member upon their list was Lord Valentine.

“It is two o’clock,” said one of the delegates, “I think we may

venture;” so they knocked at the portal of the court yard, and found

they were awaited.

A private staircase led to the suite of rooms of Lord Valentine, who

lived in the family mansion. The delegates were ushered through

an ante-chamber into a saloon which opened into a very fanciful

conservatory, where amid tall tropical plants played a fountain. The

saloon was hung with blue satin, and adorned with brilliant mirrors: its

coved ceiling was richly painted, and its furniture became the rest of

its decorations. On one sofa were a number of portfolios, some open,

full of drawings of costumes; a table of pietra dura was covered with

richly bound volumes that appeared to have been recently referred to;

several ancient swords of extreme beauty were lying on a couch; in

a corner of the room was a figure in complete armour, black and gold

richly inlaid, and grasping in its gauntlet the ancient standard of

England.

The two delegates of the National Convention stared at each other, as

if to express their surprise that a dweller in such an abode should ever

have permitted them to enter it; but ere either of them could venture to

speak, Lord Valentine made his appearance.

He was a young man, above the middle height, slender, broad-shouldered,

small-waisted, of a graceful presence; he was very fair, with dark blue

eyes, bright and intelligent, and features of classic precision; a small

Greek cap crowned his long light-brown hair, and he was enveloped in a

morning robe of Indian shawls.

“Well, gentlemen,” said his lordship, as he invited them to be seated,

in a clear and cheerful voice, and with an unaffected tone of frankness

which put his guests at their ease; “I promised to see you; well, what

have you got to say?”

The delegates made their accustomed statement; they wished to pledge no

one; all that the people desired was a respectful discussion of their

claims; the national petition, signed by nearly a million and a half of

the flower of the working classes, was shortly to be presented to the

House of Commons, praying the House to take into consideration the

five points in which the working classes deemed their best interests

involved; to wit, universal suffrage, vote by ballot, annual

parliaments, salaried members, and the abolition of the property

qualification.

“And supposing these five points conceded,” said Lord Valentine, “what

do you mean to do?”

“The people then being at length really represented,” replied one of the

delegates, “they would decide upon the measures which the interests of

the great majority require.”

“I am not so clear about that,” said Lord Valentine; “that is the very

point at issue. I do not think the great majority are the best judges of

their own interests. At all events, gentlemen, the respective advantages

of aristocracy and democracy are a moot point. Well then, finding the

question practically settled in this country, you will excuse me for not

wishing to agitate it. I give you complete credit for the sincerity of

your convictions; extend the same confidence to me. You are democrats;

I am an aristocrat. My family has been ennobled for nearly three

centuries; they bore a knightly name before their elevation. They have

mainly and materially assisted in making England what it is. They have

shed their blood in many battles; I have had two ancestors killed in the

command of our fleets. You will not underrate such services, even if you

do not appreciate their conduct as statesmen, though that has often been

laborious, and sometimes distinguished. The finest trees in England

were planted by my family; they raised several of your most beautiful

churches; they have built bridges, made roads, dug mines, and

constructed canals, and drained a marsh of a million of acres which

bears our name to this day, and is now one of the most flourishing

portions of the country. You talk of our taxation and our wars; and of

your inventions and your industry. Our wars converted an island into

an empire, and at any rate developed that industry and stimulated those

inventions of which you boast. You tell me that you are the delegates

of the unrepresented working classes of Mowbray. Why, what would Mowbray

have been if it had not been for your aristocracy and their wars? Your

town would not have existed; there would have been no working classes

there to send up delegates. In fact you owe your every existence to

us. I have told you what my ancestors have done; I am prepared, if the

occasion requires it, not to disgrace them; I have inherited their great

position, and I tell you fairly, gentlemen, I will not relinquish it

without a struggle.”

“Will you combat the people in that suit of armour, my lord?” said one

of the delegates smiling, but in a tone of kindness and respect.

“That suit of armour has combated for the people before this,” said Lord

Valentine, “for it stood by Simon de Montfort on the field of Evesham.”

“My lord,” said the other delegate, “it is well known that you come from

a great and honoured race; and we have seen enough to-day to show that

in intelligence and spirit you are not unworthy of your ancestry. But

the great question, which your lordship has introduced, not us, is not

to be decided by a happy instance. Your ancestors may have done great

things. What wonder! They were members of a very limited class which had

the monopoly of action. And the people, have not they shed their blood

in battle, though they may have commanded fleets less often than your

lordship’s relatives? And these mines and canals that you have excavated

and constructed, these woods you have planted, these waters you have

drained--had the people no hand in these creations? What share in these

great works had that faculty of Labour whose sacred claims we now urge,

but which for centuries have been passed over in contemptuous silence?

No, my lord, we call upon you to decide this question by the result.

The Aristocracy of England have had for three centuries the exercise

of power; for the last century and a half that exercise has been

uncontrolled; they form at this moment the most prosperous class that

the history of the world can furnish: as rich as the Roman senators,

with sources of convenience and enjoyment which modern science could

alone supply. All this is not denied. Your order stands before Europe

the most gorgeous of existing spectacles; though you have of late years

dexterously thrown some of the odium of your polity upon that middle

class which you despise, and who are despicable only because they

imitate you, your tenure of power is not in reality impaired. You govern

us still with absolute authority--and you govern the most miserable

people on the face of the globe.”

“And is this a fair description of the people of England?” said Lord

Valentine. “A flash of rhetoric, I presume, that would place them lower

than the Portuguese or the Poles, the serfs of Russia or the Lazzaroni

of Naples.”

“Infinitely lower,” said the delegate, “for they are not only degraded,

but conscious of their degradation. They no longer believe in any

innate difference between the governing and the governed classes of this

country. They are sufficiently enlightened to feel they are victims.

Compared with the privileged classes of their own land, they are in

a lower state than any other population compared with its privileged

classes. All is relative, my lord, and believe me, the relations of the

working classes of England to its privileged orders are relations of

enmity, and therefore of peril.”

“The people must have leaders,” said Lord Valentine.

“And they have found them,” said the delegate.

“When it comes to a push they will follow their nobility,” said Lord

Valentine.

“Will their nobility lead them?” said the other delegate. “For my part

I do not pretend to be a philosopher, and if I saw a Simon de Montfort

again I should be content to fight under his banner.”

“We have an aristocracy of wealth,” said the delegate who had chiefly

spoken. “In a progressive civilization wealth is the only means of class

distinction: but a new disposition of wealth may remove even this.”

“Ah! you want to get at our estates,” said Lord Valentine smiling; “but

the effort on your part may resolve society into its original elements,

and the old sources of distinction may again develop themselves.”

“Tall barons will not stand against Paixhans rockets,” said the

delegate. “Modern science has vindicated the natural equality of man.”

“And I must say I am very sorry for it,” said the other delegate;

“for human strength always seems to me the natural process of settling

affairs.”

“I am not surprised at your opinion,” said Lord Valentine, turning to

the delegate and smiling. “I should not be over-glad to meet you in a

fray. You stand some inches above six feet, or I am mistaken.”

“I was six feet two inches when I stopped growing,” said the delegate;

“and age has not stolen any of my height yet.”

“That suit of armour would fit you,” said Lord Valentine, as they all

rose.

“And might I ask your lordship,” said the tall delegate, “why it is

here?”

“I am to represent Richard Coeur de Lion at the Queen’s ball,” said Lord

Valentine; “and before my sovereign I will not don a Drury-Lane cuirass,

so I got this up from my father’s castle.”

“Ah! I almost wish the good old times of Coeur de Lion were here again,”

said the tall delegate.

“And we should be serfs,” said his companion.

“I am not sure of that,” said the tall delegate. “At any rate there was

the free forest.”

“I like that young fellow,” said the tall delegate to his companion, as

they descended the staircase.

“He has awful prejudices,” said his friend.

“Well, well; he has his opinions and we have ours. But he is a man;

with clear, straightforward ideas, a frank, noble, presence; and as

good-looking a fellow as I ever set eyes on. Where are we now?”

“We have only one more name on our list to-day, and it is at hand.

Letter K, No.1, Albany. Another member of the aristocracy, the

Honourable Charles Egremont.”

“Well, I prefer them, as far as I can judge, to Wriggle, and Rip, and

Thorough Base,” said the tall delegate laughing. “I dare say we should

have found Lord Milford a very jolly fellow, if he had only been up.”

“Here we are,” said his companion, as he knocked. “Mr Egremont, is he at

home?”

“The gentlemen of the deputation? Yes, my master gave particular orders

that he was at home to you. Will you walk in, gentlemen?”

“There you see,” said the tall delegate. “This would be a lesson to

Thorough Base.”

They sat down in an antechamber: the servant opened a mahogany

folding-door which he shut after him and announced to his master the

arrival of the delegates. Egremont was seated in his library, at a round

table covered with writing materials, books, and letters. On another

table were arranged his parliamentary papers, and piles of blue books.

The room was classically furnished. On the mantelpiece were some ancient

vases, which he had brought with him from Italy, standing on each side

of that picture of Allori of which we have spoken.

The servant returned to the ante-room, and announcing to the delegates

that his master was ready to receive them, ushered into the presence of

Egremont--WALTER GERARD and STEPHEN MORLEY.

Book 4 Chapter 6

It is much to be deplored that our sacred buildings are generally closed

except at the stated periods of public resort. It is still more to be

regretted that when with difficulty entered, there is so much in their

arrangements to offend the taste and outrage the feelings. In the tumult

of life, a few minutes occasionally passed in the solemn shadow of some

lofty and ancient aisle, exercise very often a salutary influence: they

purify the heart and elevate the mind; dispel many haunting fancies, and

prevent many an act which otherwise might be repented. The church would

in this light still afford us a sanctuary; not against the power of the

law but against the violence of our own will; not against the passions

of man but against our own.

The Abbey of Westminster rises amid the strife of factions. Around its

consecrated precinct some of the boldest and some of the worst deeds

have been achieved or perpetrated: sacrilege, rapine, murder, and

treason. Here robbery has been practised on the greatest scale known

in modern ages: here ten thousand manors belonging to the order of the

Templars, without any proof, scarcely with a pretext, were forfeited

in one day and divided among the monarch and his chief nobles; here

the great estate of the church, which, whatever its articles of faith,

belonged and still belongs to the people, was seized at various times,

under various pretences, by an assembly that continually changed the

religion of their country and their own by a parliamentary majority,

but which never refunded the booty. Here too was brought forth that

monstrous conception which even patrician Rome in its most ruthless

period never equalled--the mortgaging of the industry of the country

to enrich and to protect property; an act which is now bringing its

retributive consequences in a degraded and alienated population. Here

too have the innocent been impeached and hunted to death; and a virtuous

and able monarch martyred, because, among other benefits projected for

his people, he was of opinion that it was more for their advantage that

the economic service of the state should be supplied by direct taxation

levied by an individual known to all, than by indirect taxation,

raised by an irresponsible and fluctuating assembly. But thanks

to parliamentary patriotism, the people of England were saved from

ship-money, which money the wealthy paid, and only got in its stead

the customs and excise, which the poor mainly supply. Rightly was

King Charles surnamed the Martyr; for he was the holocaust of direct

taxation. Never yet did man lay down his heroic life for so great a

cause: the cause of the Church and the cause of the Poor.

Even now in the quiet times in which we live, when public robbery is out

of fashion and takes the milder title of a commission of inquiry, and

when there is no treason except voting against a Minister, who, though

he may have changed all the policy which you have been elected to

support, expects your vote and confidence all the same; even in this

age of mean passions and petty risks, it is something to step aside from

Palace Yard and instead of listening to a dull debate, where the facts

are only a repetition of the blue books you have already read, and the

fancy an ingenious appeal to the recrimination of Hansard, to enter the

old abbey and listen to an anthem!

This was a favourite habit of Egremont, and though the mean discipline

and sordid arrangements of the ecclesiastical body to which the

guardianship of the beautiful edifice is intrusted, have certainly done

all that could injure and impair the holy genius of the place, it still

was a habit often full of charm and consolation.

There is not perhaps another metropolitan population in the world that

would tolerate such conduct as is pursued to “that great lubber, the

public” by the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and submit in silence to

be shut out from the only building in the two cities which is worthy of

the name of a cathedral. But the British public will bear anything; they

are so busy in speculating in railroad shares.

When Egremont had entered on his first visit to the Abbey by the south

transept, and beheld the boards and the spikes with which he seemed

to be environed as if the Abbey were in a state of siege; iron gates

shutting him out from the solemn nave and the shadowy aisles; scarcely

a glimpse to be caught of a single window; while on a dirty form, some

noisy vergers sate like ticket-porters or babbled like tapsters at their

ease,--the visions of abbatial perfection in which he had early and

often indulged among the ruins of Marney rose on his outraged sense,

and he was then about hastily to retire from the scene he had so long

purposed to visit, when suddenly the organ burst forth, a celestial

symphony floated in the lofty roof, and voices of plaintive melody

blended with the swelling sounds. He was fixed to the spot.

Perhaps it was some similar feeling that influenced another individual

on the day after the visit of the deputation to Egremont. The sun,

though in his summer heaven he had still a long course, had passed his

meridian by many hours, the service was performing in the choir, and

a few persons entering by the door into that part of the Abbey Church

which is so well known by the name of Poet’s Corner, proceeded through

the unseemly stockade which the chapter have erected, and took their

seats. One only, a female, declined to pass, notwithstanding the

officious admonitions of the vergers that she had better move on, but

approaching the iron grating that shut her out from the body of the

church, looked wistfully down the long dim perspective of the beautiful

southern aisle. And thus motionless she remained in contemplation, or

it might be prayer, while the solemn peals of the organ and the sweet

voices of the choir enjoyed that holy liberty for which she sighed, and

seemed to wander at their will in every sacred recess and consecrated

corner.

The sounds--those mystical and thrilling sounds that at once elevate

the soul and touch the heart--ceased, the chaunting of the service

recommenced; the motionless form moved; and as she moved Egremont came

forth from the choir, and his eye was at once caught by the symmetry of

her shape and the picturesque position which she gracefully occupied;

still gazing through that grate, while the light pouring through the

western window, suffused the body of the church with a soft radiance,

just touching the head of the unknown with a kind of halo. Egremont

approached the transept door with a lingering pace, so that the

stranger, who he observed was preparing to leave the church, might

overtake him. As he reached the door, anxious to assure himself that he

was not mistaken, he turned round and his eye at once caught the face

of Sybil. He started, he trembled; she was not two yards distant, she

evidently recognised him; he held open the swinging postern of the Abbey

that she might pass, which she did and then stopped on the outside, and

said “Mr Franklin!”

It was therefore clear that her father had not thought fit, or had

not yet had an opportunity, to communicate to Sybil the interview of

yesterday. Egremont was still Mr Franklin. This was perplexing. Egremont

would like to have been saved the pain and awkwardness of the avowal,

yet it must be made, though not with unnecessary crudeness. And so

at present he only expressed his delight, the unexpected delight he

experienced at their meeting. And then he walked on by her side.

“Indeed,” said Sybil, “I can easily imagine you must have been

surprised at seeing me in this great city. But many things, strange and

unforeseen, have happened to us since you were at Mowedale. You know, of

course you with your pursuits must know, that the People have at length

resolved to summon their own parliament in Westminster. The people of

Mowbray had to send up two delegates to the Convention, and they chose

my father for one of them. For so great is their confidence in him none