[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 23.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE NEWSMONGER.
He is nothing if not omniscient; and, like Othello, his occupation’s
gone if he be not the first to spread the news and carry the fiery
cross of scandal to the front. For the Newsmonger does not care to
carry good news so much as bad; the latter having a dash of spice in
it, wanting to the former—as red pepper titillates the palate more
than does either honey or sugar. The Newsmonger knows everything, and
foresees as much as he knows. When A’s sudden bankruptcy takes the
world in general by surprise, he, on the contrary, is not the least
astonished. He knew it weeks ago. He can put in black and white the
exact sum for which he has failed—for all that the books are still
in the safe, and the accountant has not begun to score up the items;
and he knows who is the largest creditor, who the most implacable,
and what is the bad debt which has caused all the mischief. He takes
care, however, not to state plainly all these things. He only says he
knows; and people are found to believe him. When Mrs B runs off with
Mr C, and thus exposes the hollowness of the domestic happiness of the
B’s, which was considered so complete; he knew all about that, too,
long before it happened. Indeed, he had warned C that he was going too
far, and that harm would come of it, Mrs B being but a feather-head
at the best; and he had even thrown out friendly hints to B, advising
him to be a little more strict in his guard and watchful in his care.
But no man is so deaf as he who will not hear, nor so blind as he who
will not see; and B was bent on his own destruction, and would not be
enlightened. Whom the gods would destroy, they first madden; and what
is the use of hammering your head against a stone wall? Again, when
Edwin and Angelina come to an abrupt rupture, and the engagement which
promised so well and looked so satisfactory all round, is broken off
in a hurry, to the open-mouthed amazement of society—though the cause
remains a profound mystery to all the rest, Our Newsmonger winks
knowingly when he gives you the story, and tells you that he is in the
confidence of both parties, and understands the whole thing from end to
end. How should he not, when he has been consulted from the beginning,
and himself advised the rupture as the only thing left to be done?
Whatever happens, he has been at the back of it; and no event takes
place of which he has not been cognisant or ever it was made manifest
to the crass public. This must needs be, seeing that he is the general
adviser of the whole world, and taken into every one’s confidence, from
the laying of the egg to the strutting forth of the full-plumaged fowl.
It is the same thing with political matters. To hear him, you would say
Our Newsmonger had a telephonic communication with all the courts in
Europe; and that he and the secret things of the future lay together
on the knees of the gods. He has the insight of Tiresias, and the
prophetic vision of Cassandra. Russia cannot make a spring of which
he had not seen the secret silent combining. France cannot pass a law
which is not the logical outcome of the position he explained not so
long ago. That insurrection at the back of unpronounceable mountains
among tribes of whom no one but a few nomadic experts know, or the
existence, or the aims, or the wrongs—did he not foretell it?—that
tightening of the Bismarckian gag—did he not foretell that too? No
one remembers that he did foretell any one of these things; but if he
says so? As it is impossible to doubt the word of a man who is also
a gentleman, and whom you ask to dinner four times in the year, we
must take Our Newsmonger at his own showing, and assume that we have
been deaf, not that he was—mistaken. When Major Corkscrew, however,
twits him with that drop made in Panslavonic Unifieds, of which Our
Newsmonger was a rather large holder, and asks him, why, knowing the
turn things were sure to take, he did not go in for the fall, and
sell out while stock was steady?—he puts on a grave air and says he
thinks confidential communications ought to be sacred, and that it
would be highly dishonourable on his part were he to use his private
information for his own private gain. Whereupon Major Corkscrew rubs up
his three hairs and a quarter, and whistles, in that low way he has.
‘Only give _me_ the chance, that’s all!’ he says, swelling out his
chest. ‘If I knew a quarter as much as you say you do, my good friend,
I would be a rich man before the year was out. Hang me else!’
And after all, it was strange, was it not? that, knowing of this
coming insurrection at the back of the unpronounceable mountains, Our
Newsmonger should have gone in for a rise, when Panslavonic Unifieds
were so sure to come down with a rattling run, as soon as the first gun
was fired by the obscure tribes aforesaid? Those who like it can accept
the explanation as gospel truth and sure; but a healthy scepticism
is not a bad state of mind for the more wary to cultivate, and the
doctrine of infallibility is not so fashionable as it used to be.
On all the undiscovered mysteries of history and the undisclosed
secrets of literature, Our Newsmonger has opinions as decided as on
other things. Sometimes he follows one authority out of many—as when he
supports himself on the dictum of Voltaire, and maintains that the Man
in the Iron Mask was the twin-brother of Louis XIV., and that all other
hypotheses do not hold water. And sometimes he asserts, but forgets
to prove—as when he ascribes the _Letters of Junius_ to Lord George
Sackville, and scouts the reasoning of experts which gives them to Sir
Philip Francis. In modern times, he knows all the ‘ghosts,’ and spots
all the Anons. He does not give their names, because that would be
dishonourable, you know, as he has been told by the people themselves
in confidence, and he must not betray his trust. He would give them
if he chose; but he must not; and you must be content with this vague
flash of a dim light before your eyes. If you are not, you will have
nothing better; for Our Newsmonger is above all a man of honour where
undiscovered secrets are concerned. When they are made public, then he
can say that he knew them all along—thus betraying no one.
This reticence in large matters where no one would be hurt by free
speech, unfortunately does not influence Our Newsmonger in those small
things of private life which do a great deal of harm and cause much
personal pain when blurted abroad. It would not signify more than the
buzz of a fly on the window-pane if the unknown inhabitants of an
obscure village in the west of England were told the name of the person
who wrote _Democracy_, for instance; or that of the Russian woman of
high rank who played ‘La Dame aux Camellias’ in a mask; if they had
the true key to one of Daudet’s novels, or could dot the i’s of all
the ‘Queer Stories’ in _Truth_. No one would be substantially the
wiser for knowing that the hero of the midnight escapade recorded in
the one was the Duke of Sandwich or the Prince of Borrioboolagha. Nor
would it be of the least consequence to any one whatever, inhabiting
the pretty district of Pedlington-in-the-Mud, if the name of the young
gentleman who fell among thieves when he went to the Jews, and had
to pay eighty per cent. for a loan which included bad champagne and
worse pictures, were George Silliman or Harry Prettyman. But things
are different when it is said of Mrs Smith—the wife of the rector
who rules over things spiritual, and directs things temporal too, in
Pedlington-in-the-Mud—that she dyes her hair and corks her eyebrows;
of Miss Lucy, the daughter of the Squire, that she paints her face and
flirts with the footman; and of Major Corkscrew, that he tipples—and
his housekeeper knows it. Such things as these carried from house to
house as so many black beetles to infest the kitchen—so many moths
to eat into the ermine—do an incalculable amount of damage. But Our
Newsmonger, who would not sell a hundred pounds-worth of stock on
information received, nor tell the name of Louis Napoleon’s private
counsellor, has no scruple in letting fly all these dingy little
sparrows to peck at the golden grain of local repute, and to do
irremediable harm to all concerned.
There is nothing that does not pass through the alembic of the
Newsmonger. He knows the exact spot in the house where each man keeps
his skeleton, and he can pitch the precise note struck when the bones
rattle in the wind and the poor possessor turns pale at the sound. Mrs
Screwer starves her servants; but then Mr Screwer gambles, and the
family funds are always in a state of fluctuation which makes things
too uncertain to be counted on. Mrs Towhead scolds her household till
she maddens the maids and dazes the men, so that they do not know which
end stands uppermost. But then Mr Towhead sends the poor woman mad
herself by his open goings-on with that little minx round the corner.
And if Mrs Towhead takes it out in a general conflagration, is it to be
wondered at, seeing the provocation she has? The Spendthrifts are out
at elbows, and no one can get paid, for all they gave that magnificent
ball last week on the coming of age of young Hopeful, who inherits
more debts than rents, and has more holes in his purse than coin to
stop them with. Miss Hangonhand is taken to Paris for the chance of
a husband, those in London proving shy and the supply not equalling
the demand; and Dr Leech’s bill was exorbitant, and a lawsuit was
threatened if he would not abate just one half. And then that Mr Fieri
Facias—have you not heard that he has been dealing with his clients’
securities, and that if matters were looked into he would be now
standing in the dock of the Old Bailey? I assure you they say so; and
for my part I always believe that where there is much smoke there must
be some fire! The Bank, too, is shaky; and you who are a shareholder,
and you who are a depositor, had both better get out of it without a
day’s delay.
All these things, and more, Our Newsmonger will say with a glib tongue
and a light heart; and whether what he says has a grain of truth, or is
pure unmixed and unmitigated falsehood, troubles him no more than if
the wind blows from the south-west or the south-south-west with a point
to spare. He can retail a bit of gossip which will make his visit pass
easily and keep the conversation from lagging; and which also will put
him into the position of one who knows, and thus place him on rising
ground while his friends are only in the shallows. And what matters it
if, for this miserable little gain, he obscures a reputation, breaks a
heart, destroys a life? He has had his pleasure, which was to appear
wiser than the rest; and if others have to pay the bill, the loss is
theirs, not his!
A Newsmonger of this kind is the very pest of the neighbourhood where
he may have pitched his tent. A fox with silent feet and cruel flair
prowling about the henroost where the nestling chickens lie—a viewless
wind laden with poison-germs, and bringing death wherever it blows—a
lurking snake, hidden in the long grass and discovered only when it has
stung—these and any other similes that can be gathered, expressive of
silent secret wrong-doing to innocent things, may be taken as the signs
of the Newsmonger in small places where propinquity places reputations
at the mercy of all who choose to attack them. From such, may the good
grace of fortune and the honest tongues of the sturdy and the upright
deliver us!—for if all the evil that is said of men were tracked to
its source, that source would be found to lie, not in fact, but in
the fertile imagination of the Newsmonger. After all, we know nothing
better than each other. And as we have to live in human communion, it
is as well to live in peace and harmony, and in seeing the best, and
not the worst. The Newsmonger thinks differently. But then those who
are wise discard him as a nuisance and a mischief-maker; and their way
in life is all the more peaceful in consequence.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XXXI.—THE CONJURER.
Mr Beecham returned.
‘The young people are crowding in now; and Mrs Joy and the
schoolmistress with some of their friends are trying to place them
comfortably, so that the smallest may have the front benches. Come
along and help them.’
The long narrow hall was already well filled, the faces of the children
shining with the combined effect of recent scrubbing and excitement.
Some of the youngest faces wore a half-frightened expression, for
the only magician they knew about was the wicked one in the story of
Aladdin, and they did not know what the magician they were to see
to-night might do to them. But others had seen this conjurer performing
on the village green in open daylight on fair-days, and were able to
reassure the timid ones, whilst regaling them in loud whispers with
exaggerated accounts of the wonderful things he had done.
In the background were parents, on whose heavy and usually
expressionless faces a degree of curiosity was indicated by open
mouths and eyes staring at the still unoccupied platform on which the
performance was to take place. Along the side, near the front, was a
row of chairs occupied by Mrs Joy and her friends, who were presently
joined by Mr Beecham and Wrentham, and later by Dr Joy. One of Mr
Beecham’s ideas was not to overawe the children by the presence of too
many of the ‘gentry;’ consequently, he only invited those who were to
help him in making his young guests comfortable.
The whispering ceased suddenly on the appearance of the conjurer.
Wrentham leaned carelessly back on his chair, so that Mrs Joy’s bonnet
hid his face from Mr Tuppit.
The latter looked quite smart in his well-brushed black frock-coat, his
white collar, his lavender-coloured tie, secured in a large brass ring
with a glass diamond in the centre, which glistened in the lamp-light
and at once attracted the children’s eyes. The professor of wonders had
a long solemn face, and black hair brushed close to his head, where it
stuck as if pasted on with oil. His voice had a pleasant ring, and he
began by merrily informing his audience that he intended to explain
to them how all his tricks were done. Every boy and girl who watched
him attentively would be able—with a little practice, of course—to
do everything he did. This was delightful information, and secured
immediate attention. But it was a little dashed by the intimation
that they would first have to learn how to spell the mystic word
‘Abracadabra.’ However, he would teach them how to do that too; and he
pinned on the wall a scroll bearing the word in large red letters. This
was a clever dodge to divert too quick eyes from his sleight of hand.
Then, chattering all the time, he began his tricks. Pennies were
transformed into half-crowns and back to the poorer metal, much to the
regret of the grinning yokels—one of them denounced it as ‘a mortal
shame;’ handkerchiefs were torn into shreds and returned to their
owners neatly folded and uninjured; a pigeon was placed under a cap,
and when the cap was lifted there was a glass of water in its stead;
cards seemed to obey the conjurer like living things—and so on through
the usual range of legerdemain.
The great feat of the evening was the last. Mr Tuppit advancing with
a polite bow—an excessively polite bow—begged Mr Wrentham to be so
good as to trust him for a few minutes with his hat, which should
be returned uninjured. Wrentham stared at the man, as if privately
confounding his impudence, and complied with the request. Another
polite bow and a smile, and the conjurer returned to his rostrum. The
glossy hat was placed on the table: flour, water, raisins, and all the
ingredients for a plum-pudding were poured into it amidst the laughter
and excited exclamations of the youngsters, who could scarcely retain
their seats. The whole was stirred with the magic rod, then covered
with a cloth, and when that was removed, there arose a column of steam
as from a caldron. A waiter brought a huge plate, and the conjurer
tumbled out on it a piping hot plum-pudding from the hat. The wonder
was not over yet. The pudding was quickly cut into hunks, and two
waiters were employed to serve it to the astounded audience. But how
that pudding came to suffice for the supply of all those young folk and
their parents was a mystery which only the conjurer, Mr Beecham, and
the hotel cook could properly explain.
The hat was restored to its owner in perfect condition. Wrentham said
‘Thank you,’ and again stared at the man, who again bowed politely, and
retired after saying good-night to the children, whose cheers were not
stifled even by mouthfuls of plum-pudding.
‘There is another of my sources of happiness,’ said Mr Beecham as
Wrentham was going away; ‘doing something to make others happy.’
Wrentham had not gained the particular information he had been seeking
as to Beecham’s antecedents, but he had learned several things.
‘Bob is becoming troublesome. I must arrange with him either to sail in
the same boat or not to run foul of me in this way.’
His report to Mr Hadleigh was brief and decisive. ‘I can make nothing
of Beecham except that he is a harmless, good-natured chap, who likes
to spend his money in standing treat to all the youngsters in the
parish. There is no sham about his philanthropy either: never a bit
of fuss. Take last night, for instance. Nobody knew anything about
it barring those who were invited. I can’t make him out; but Miss
Heathcote may be able to help you. He corresponds with her.’
‘Corresponds with her?’
‘Yes; I saw a letter addressed to her on his desk. They seem to be
great chums, too, as I hear—and he is not too old to be a lover.’
‘That is curious,’ said Mr Hadleigh thoughtfully, but not heeding the
jest with which Wrentham concluded his remarks.
CHAPTER XXXII.—THE ENTHUSIAST.
Philip was a little bothered by what Madge had told him. In honest
dealing he was unable to comprehend how man or woman could have any
knowledge or design which might not be communicated to the person who
was nearest in affection to him or her. He took for granted that he
must stand nearest in affection to Madge. If the knowledge or design
was not intended to hurt anybody, why should there be any mystery about
it? The more light that shone upon one’s work, the better it would be
done. Those who by choice worked in the dark must be trying to deceive
somebody—maybe themselves. He had as little liking for mysteries as
Aunt Hessy herself, because he could not see the use of them.
Had he consulted his brother Coutts on this subject, he would have
learned from that City philosopher that the business of every man was
to cheat—well, if the sound was more pleasing, overreach—every other
man. Only a fool would make plain to others what he was going to do
and how he meant to do it—and the fool paid the penalty of his folly
by going promptly to the wall. He would have learned that in the race
for Fortune there are many runners who want to be first to reach the
winning-post. Therefore, it behoved every racer to keep the qualities
of his horse dark, and to keep his fellows ignorant of the turns on the
course where he purposed to put on an extra spurt and outwit them.
‘A clever lie,’ Coutts would have said with his cynical smile, ‘often
saves much trouble, and wins the game. Most of the losers grin and
bear, and whilst congratulating the winner, laugh at the “truthful
James” who grumbles that he has lost because he did not understand or
could not submit to the recognised rules of the course.’
‘But how can a lie be necessary?’ Philip would have asked—‘how can it
be useful unless you mean to cheat?’
That was his great stumbling-block: he could not understand the use of
a lie, any more than he could understand a captain in a fog running his
vessel straight ahead without regard to compass or charts.
Coutts would regard him pityingly, and answer with the calmness of one
whose principles are founded upon established law:
‘Why I tell a lie is because I wish to gain an advantage over somebody.
If gaining this advantage be cheating, then I must cheat, because
everybody else is doing the same thing; or I must submit to be cheated.
However, in the City it is vulgar to talk about cheating and lies in
connection with respectable business transactions. When we profit by
the ignorance of others, we call it rules of trade, custom, and may
occasionally go so far as to speak of sharp practice; but so long as a
man keeps on the right side of the law, we never use such rude language
as you do. When he gets to the wrong side of the law, however—that is,
when he is found out—we are down upon him as heavily as you like. You
had better not meddle with business, Philip, for you will be fleeced as
easily as a sick sheep.’
Philip turned away in disgust from the ethics of selfishness as
expounded by his brother, and refused to believe that the primary rule
for success in business was to do the best for yourself no matter what
others lose, or that any enterprise of moment had ever been carried to
a successful issue under the guidance of such a theory. People might
hold their tongues when silence meant no harm to any one and possible
good to somebody. That was right, and that was what Madge was doing.
So, after the first sensation of bother—for it was not displeasure or
suspicion of any kind: only a mixed feeling of regret and astonishment
that there could be, even for a brief period, a thought which they
might not both possess—he proceeded with the work in hand. She gave
him what is most precious to the enthusiast, sympathy and faith in his
visions.
‘People of experience,’ he told her, ‘say that I am aiming at an
ideal condition of men, which is pretty as an ideal, and absolutely
impracticable until human nature has so altered that all men are
honest. Besides, they say, I am really striving after community of
interest, which has been tried before and failed. Robert Owen tried
it long ago—Hawthorne and his friends tried it—and failed. I answer,
that although my object is the same as theirs, my way of reaching it
is different. It is certainly community of interest that I seek to
establish, but under this condition—that the most industrious and most
gifted shall take their proper places and reap their due reward. Every
man is to stand upon his own merits: if fortune be his aim, let him win
it by hard work of hand and brain. The man who works hardest will get
most, and he who works least will get least. I think that is perfectly
simple, and easily understood by any man or woman who is willing to
work. There are to be no drones, as I have said, to hamper the progress
of the workers.’
Madge could see it all, and the scheme was a noble one in her eyes,
which ought to be workable—if they could only get rid of the drones.
But that ‘if’ introduced Philip to his troubles.
The question as to the price of the land Philip desired to purchase had
been settled with amazing promptitude after he had, in the rough but
emphatic phrase, ‘put his foot down.’ Wrentham came to him with looks
of triumph and the exclamation, ‘See the conquering hero comes.’ He was
under the impression that he had done a good stroke of business.
‘I treated the greedy beggars to what I call the don’t-care-a-brass-farthing
style. I was only an agent, and my principal said take it or leave
it. I didn’t care which way they decided, at the same time I had a
conviction that they were throwing away a good offer—cash down. We
had some fencing—I wish you had been there—and at last they agreed to
accept a sum which is only two hundred beyond what you offered, so I
closed the bargain.’
The difference was not of much consequence; but for a moment Philip
thought it strange that Wrentham had been able to conclude the bargain
so easily after what he had told him. The thought, however, passed from
his mind immediately.
Now came the business of starting the work. Here Caleb Kersey proved
useful, not only in organising the labourers but in dealing with the
mechanics. The difficulty was much the same with the skilled and
unskilled workers—namely, to enable them to understand that it was
better and honester to employer and employed to be paid for the work
done than for the time spent over it. Prospective profit did not count
for anything in the minds of most of the men; and the ‘honesty’ that
was in the system was regarded as only another word for extra profit to
the employer.
‘Gammon!’ was the general remark; ‘you don’t take us in with that
chaff. We get so much an hour, and we mean to have it.’
In spite of this, however, Philip, aided by Caleb, collected a band of
workmen sufficient for his purpose. For a time all went well. There
were grumblings occasionally; but most of the men began in a short
time to comprehend how they could improve their own position by the
amount of work produced. But these presently found themselves hampered
and scoffed at by those whose chief object was to ‘put in time.’ That
was the grievance of the real workers: the grievance of the master,
which was not found out until too late, was that the highest market
price for the best materials was paid for the worst. The groans became
more numerous, and their outcries louder, as their pay decreased
in accordance with their own decrease of production. But they said
they had ‘put in time,’ and ought to be paid accordingly. They were
completely satisfied with this argument, which proved to themselves
beyond question that they were being injured by the man who pretended
to be their friend.
Next the unions spoke, and all the men who belonged to them were
withdrawn. Those who remained were picketed and boycotted until Philip
took what was considered by his friends another mad step.
‘Look here, lads, you who are willing to stand by me—you shall have
your home in the works, and before long we shall have help enough. I am
sorry that we should have had this breakdown; but I expected something
of the sort; and when I started this scheme of mutual labour for mutual
profit—I ought to say the system of individual work—I was prepared
to encounter much misunderstanding, but I was inspired by the hope
that in the end I should find real help amongst the real workers. I
am convinced that there are plenty of men willing to work if they can
find it. Now, why should we not work together? The principle is a very
simple one, and easily understood. You want to get as much as you can.
So do I. But in getting it, let us try to deserve it by really earning
it. I am trying to earn my share of the profit that ought to come from
the capital that I hold in trust. At the same time, I will not allow
any man to share with me who says he cannot produce, but must be paid
for the time he spends inside our gates.’
He was striving to bridge that troublous sea which lies between capital
and labour; and the great pillars of his bridge were to be productive
labour on the one side and honest buyers on the other. The men
applauded these sentiments, satisfied that nothing was wanting except
the honest buyers.
‘The real capital of the world is Brains,’ he said; ‘and to carry out
the work which they devise, the labourer of all degrees is as necessary
as the man with money.’
‘Hear, hear!’ cried a grim-visaged fellow who was leaving Philip’s
service; ‘and, consequently, the labourer ought to have share and share
alike in the profits with the money-man.’
‘Undoubtedly; and he should, likewise, take his share in the losses,’
was Philip’s reply; and he endeavoured to explain his projected scheme
of the regulation of wages by results.
But this was not easy to understand. So long as he talked of sharing
profits, the thing was clear enough; but when it came to be a question
of also sharing losses, the majority could not see it. Philip was
impatient of their stubborn refusal to believe in what was so plain and
simple to him—that when a man was paid for what he produced he would be
the gainer or loser according to the degree of his industry.
However, Philip persevered eagerly with his scheme, and in his
character of honest buyer of labour he met with many surprises.
Work was scamped: he detected it, and dismissed the scampers. They went
to join the clamorous crowd of incompetent or lazy workmen who cry that
they only want work, but do not add to the cry that they want it on
their own terms.
The few real workers who remained became disheartened because they
were so few, and some of them were frightened by vicious crowds
outside. They had wives and families dependent on them; but they
must obey the inexorable majority, although in doing so they would
have to accept charity or starvation. They accepted the charity, and
clamoured more loudly than ever against the tyranny of capital which
left them no other alternative. They loafed about public-houses, drank
beer, discussed their grievances, whilst their wives went out charing
or washing. And they called themselves over their pewter pots the
ill-used, down-trodden people of England!
‘I wish you could get rid of all that sham,’ Philip said, irritated at
last with himself as much as with the men. ‘So long as you are mean
enough to live upon the earnings of your wives, and what you can borrow
or obtain from charity, and thus supported, refuse to work unless the
terms and the nature of your work be exactly what you choose to accept,
you will never have the right to call yourselves honest sellers of
labour. I want you to understand me. I say that if a man wants work, he
should be ready to take up any job that is offered him, whether it is
in his line or not. The nature of the work is of no consequence so long
as a man can do it, for all work is honourable. What is of consequence
is that a man should be independent of the parish and the earnings of
his wife. I say, here is work; come and do it: you shall not only have
payment for what you do, but a share in whatever extra profit it may
produce.’
That speech settled the whole affair so far as the men were concerned.
All, except some half-dozen, left him, and filled their haunts with
outcries against the new monopolist who wanted them actually to produce
so much work for so much pay. Meanwhile, they got on comfortably enough
with the earnings of their wives and the parish loaves.
‘God forbid that we should call such creatures workmen!’ cried Philip
in his desperation; ‘but the country is crowded with them—a disgrace
as much to legislation as to human nature. Let us see how we can do
without them.’
He could have done without them if he had been allowed a fair chance.
But in the first place, there was Wrentham’s frankly declared objection
that the scheme was all nonsense, and could never succeed until all men
ceased to be greedy or lazy. And then there was the hardest blow of all
to Philip in the sudden change which came over Caleb Kersey.
Caleb had entered upon the work with an enthusiasm as strong as that of
Philip himself, although not so openly expressed. There was a glow of
hopefulness and happiness on his honest brown face when Philip first
laid the plans before him. Here was the Utopia of which he had vaguely
dreamed: here was the chance for poor men to take their place in the
social sphere according to their capacities and without regard to the
conditions under which they started. Here was the chance for every man
to have his fair share of the world’s wealth.
‘I hadn’t the means to work it out as you have, sir, but my notion has
always been something of the kind that you have got into ship-shape
form. I’ll try to help you.’
And he kept his word. There was no more earnest worker on Shield’s Land
(that was the name Philip had given to the estate he purchased) than
Caleb. Example, advice, and suggestions of the practical advantage each
man would secure if he faithfully followed out the rules Philip had
laid down, were given by him to all his fellow-workmen.
Suddenly the enthusiasm disappeared. The light seemed to fade from his
eyes; and Caleb, who had been the sustaining force of the workers,
became dull and listless.
About Wrentham’s opposition there was a degree of lightness; as if one
should say, ‘Just as you please, sir; I don’t believe in it, but I am
entirely at your command,’ which did not affect personal intercourse.
With Caleb it was the reverse, because he felt more deeply. Wrentham
could be at his ease because he regarded the whole affair as a matter
of business out of which he was to make some money. Caleb thought only
of the possibilities the scheme suggested of the future of the workman.
Philip had given up all hope of persuading Wrentham to believe in his
theories; but he could not give up Caleb. So he resolved to speak to
him.
‘What is wrong, Kersey? You have not lost heart because those fellows
have left us?’
‘No, not because of that’ (hesitatingly and slowly); ‘but they were not
so much to blame in leaving us as you may think, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, they did not understand you; and when they saw things coming in
in the raw state at higher prices than could be got for them when made
up, they didn’t see where the profit you spoke of was to come from.’
‘Oh——!’ murmured Philip, curiosity aroused, and the note passing
through the stages of surprise and perplexity to suspicion. ‘Why have
you not told me about this before?’
‘It weren’t my place, sir; Mr Wrentham has charge of these things.’
A pause, during which Philip tried a paper-knife on the desk as if it
were a rapier. Then: ‘All right; I’ll see about that. But you have not
answered me as to yourself. You are sulking for some reason. You say it
is not the loss of the men which has put you out of sorts; I know it is
nothing connected with me, or you would tell me. Then what is it?’
There was no answer; but Caleb bowed his head and moved as if he wished
to go.
‘You have not heard anything about Pansy?’ said Philip suddenly, moved
by a good-natured desire to discover the cause of the man’s depression,
in the hope that he might be able to relieve it.
There was a lurch of the broad shoulders, and Caleb’s dark eyes flashed
like two bull’s-eye lanterns on his master. ‘No—have you?’
The question was an awkward one for Philip, remembering what he had
thought about the attentions of his brother to the gardener’s daughter.
He was immediately relieved from his unpleasant position by Caleb
himself. ‘No—I won’t ask you that, sir; it ’ud be hard lines for you to
have to speak about’——
The rest was a mumble, and Caleb again moved towards the door. Philip
called him back. ‘I won’t pretend not to know what you mean, Kersey,’
he said kindly; ‘but if you listen to what is said by envious wenches
or spiteful lads, you are a confounded fool. Trust her, man; trust her.
That is the way to be worthy of a worthy woman.’
‘And the way to be fooled by an unworthy one,’ said Wrentham, who
came in as the last sentence was being uttered. Then seeing Philip’s
frown and Caleb’s scowl, he added apologetically: ‘I beg your pardon.
I thought and hope you were speaking generally, not of any one in
particular.’
‘Come to my chambers this afternoon, Kersey; I want to speak to you.’
Caleb gave one of his awkward nods and left the office.
STAINED GLASS AS AN ACCESSORY TO DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE.
In a former paper (September 1879) we briefly reviewed the growth and
progress of the art of glass-staining and painting, and described
the various processes necessary to its prosecution, and practised at
the present day; and, after tracing its career in its application to
the purposes of ecclesiastical decoration, hinted at its capability
of adaptation to ornamental requirements beyond those pertaining to
the embellishment of the sacred edifice. We propose in the present
paper to deal more exhaustively with this branch of an art, and to
endeavour to point out, as succinctly as possible, the more prominent
and obvious cases where its introduction would be desirable in secular
ornamentation.
Public buildings of course demand the first attention; and in a country
like our own, owing its prosperity to its commercial enterprise,
its political organisation, and its unequalled system of municipal
government, we have witnessed in the course of the last few years the
commencement, progress, and completion of costly and magnificently
adorned buildings. Upon these noble buildings have been lavished the
utmost resources of decorative art; and latterly, stained glass has
formed an important element in the general scheme of decoration, and
it is to its adaptation to this class of domestic architecture that we
would first draw attention.
One of the first, as it is one of the most natural, motives prompting
the enrichment of the ornamental accessories of a building, is
discovered in a desire to see perpetuated the memory of its founder or
founders. The most natural expression of this feeling is, of course,
the desire to permanently retain a record of their features and
personal characteristics in the shape of a pictorial representation.
This desire at first sight seems to be susceptible of immediate
gratification by a portrait, either on canvas or in marble; but further
consideration will tend towards the conviction that the use of these
media is not altogether free from objection. Little, perhaps, can be
said against the statue in itself; but the elaborate and gorgeous
decoration of our more sumptuous buildings is likely to be unpleasantly
marred by the marble pallor of sculpture; and after all, dignified
and stately as are many of our statuesque memorials, they convey
little more than an idealised impression of the features of the person
commemorated.
The employment of oil portraiture is also open to certain objections.
It must be remembered that modern decoration means a great deal more
than a mere picking out in gold and colour of the salient lines of a
cornice, or the stencilled powdering of a conventional pattern over the
area of a wall or a ceiling; it has advanced far beyond the province
of the builder and house-painter, and demands no inconsiderable
proportion of the genius of the artist. If the decoration of a room or
hall is designed to constitute in itself a complete work of art, its
effect may be grievously injured by the injudicious introduction of
a heavy gold frame, and colours, which while admirably accomplishing
the purpose of the artist, may in a great measure interfere with the
surrounding harmony of colour. We have, then, no other place left but
the window, and the problem seems to be in a fair way towards solution.
The perfection to which the painting of glass has attained leaves no
room for doubt as to the fidelity of the likeness; but apart from this
fact, a far more extensive recognition of the virtues or services
of the subject of the memorial is to be obtained by various devices
and emblems, appropriate to the character and life of the person
honoured, which could hardly with propriety be introduced into an oil
picture. One example, recently erected, may serve to more clearly
demonstrate our meaning. The lately erected town-hall of Lerwick
has been enriched by two windows illustrative of persons and scenes
connected with some of the primitive traditions of Orkney. In one
window, divided by a central mullion into twin-lights, is represented
the figure of Archbishop Eystein, one of the earliest of Orcadian
prelates, clad in his archiepiscopal vestments; while a panel beneath
the figure illustrates his consecration of King Magnus. Side by side
with the figure of the archbishop stands Bishop William, the founder
of the venerable cathedral of Kirkwall, the formal ceremony itself
being depicted in the panel below. The corresponding window displays
the gigantic form of the Norse warrior Harald Haarfager, with his
landing in Zetland shown in the lower panel; and Jarl Rognvald, whose
investiture as Earl of Orkney, 870 A.D., is represented in the panel
beneath. In the ‘tracery’ above the two windows are shown respectively
the Orcadian and Norwegian coats-of-arms. Now, a combination of
such historical and traditional interest could hardly be otherwise
so successfully treated, while the glowing colours and fine design
materially add to the effect of the neighbouring beauties of the
structure.
There is another consideration not without importance in connection
with the establishment of a complete scheme of internal decoration.
Light is one of the most important essentials in a building where exact
and extensive business is transacted, and the presence of large and
frequent windows is a necessity. But how painfully is the harmony and
continuity of the ornament interrupted by the constant recurrence of
these patches of white light. The eye, in following the progress of
the decorative design, grows weary of the constant loss and recapture
of its thread; and that which would otherwise have pleased and charmed
by its beauty as a whole, only perplexes and tires by its division
into parts. Here, then, is called into requisition the art of the
glass-stainer; without any vital diminution of light, the scheme
of colour is no longer disturbed, a perfect chromatic harmony is
established, and the window serves a double purpose, by admitting the
necessary illumination from without, and enhancing the beauty of the
building within.
The foregoing remarks naturally have reference to all public buildings
of more or less importance, though we have instanced the town-hall as
a representative building, associated with the more imposing class of
secular edifices.
There is an institution and building, without the existence of which
the writing on subjects of beauty and art would be a serious waste of
time—namely, the school; and here the introduction of stained glass
may be found of beneficial effect. It is not to be denied that when
the watchful eye of the master relaxes its vigilance, the youthful
eye will wander too, and the direction of nearly every eye will be
towards the window; and principals of schools and their subordinates
are fully aware of the fact. They are also aware of the attractions or
distractions presented by the tempting spectacle of green trees and
spreading meadows in summer; or falling snow and ice-bound stream in
winter, or even at all times the freedom of the open street; so, to
remove the cause of temptation, the glass is made opaque by painting
it over with a dull white mixture which effectually conceals the
dangerous landscape. But by the introduction of cathedral glass, of
the simplest patterns and pleasing tints, the unsightly whitewashed
panes would be replaced by panels of unblemished glass more or less
ornamental, perfectly effectual in their primary purpose, and at the
same time affording some relief to the eyes from the monotony of the
barren school walls. Tinted glass leaded in various geometric or
flowing patterns might be made most useful as an excellent substitute
for drawing copies of the elementary stage; the rudiments of freehand
drawing could all be acquired from the glazed patterns; while, under
competent hands, it could afford most valuable assistance in the
teaching of the laws of the harmony and artistic contrasting of
colours. The trifling initial expense would be speedily saved, as there
would be no wear and tear of copies; there could be no _measuring_,
most disastrous to the student; the copy would be always clean; the
colour would be refreshing to the eye; and much labour would be saved
to the teacher, as he could demonstrate his teaching to the whole class
at once.
Passing from the consideration of public requirements to those of the
private home, the increasing cultivation and appreciation of the fine
arts, and their application to domestic necessities, are sufficient
encouragement for the advancing of the claims of stained glass to hold
a place in the general scheme of internal decoration. Of course, with
such diversity as necessarily exists in the comparative size and extent
of family abodes, from the lordliest mansion, standing in the midst of
its own far-stretching grounds, to the more humble dwelling, forming
a unit among the many that go to constitute a street, or terrace, or
‘gardens,’ it would be impossible to lay down any precise suggestions
for their ornamentation; but it may be possible to offer a few general
and broadly elastic ideas, capable of being expanded or contracted
according to the means and wants of all.
The more pretentious of the mansions of the nobility and gentry are
pretty sure to boast of at least one fine, large, and imposing window,
affording ample scope for artistic design, and, whether in the family
tracing its pedigree for centuries, or the _nouveau riche_ who began
life with a struggle, heraldry and its concomitants seem to be held,
more or less, in equal reverence. It needs little apology, therefore,
for suggesting the blazonry of shield, helmet, crest, mantling, motto,
supporters, and other resources of the gentle science, as affording
a most appropriate exercise of the glass-stainer’s skill. Making
use, as heraldry does almost exclusively, of the five most prominent
colours, as well as white and gold, it is admirably adapted for its
reproduction in stained glass, whose exquisite and transparent tints
are seen to fine effect in heraldic compositions. The matter of expense
is of course an important consideration; but the treatment of heraldic
design can be almost endlessly modified or elaborated; so that, while
within easy reach of the only moderately affluent, it may, on the other
hand, be raised to such a height of gorgeous enrichment as to form no
unworthy element in the decoration of a palace.
Nor is a large and finely proportioned window an absolute necessity.
At Rydal Hall, Westmoreland, the seat of the family of Le Fleming, a
window, the heraldic blazoning of which was designed by the present
writer, consisted merely of nine upright oblong square panels, each
about two feet high by eighteen inches wide, arranged three, three, and
three; and separated by mullions and transoms. But this unpromising
rigidity of construction was not only overcome, but made subservient to
the general design, in the following manner: the arms of the Le Fleming
family, in a shield of nine quarterings, occupied the centre panel; the
quarterings (all divisions of a shield above two, no matter how many in
number, are called quarters) being those respectively of Le Fleming, of
course in the place of honour, the dexter chief; and of eight ancestral
and collateral branches of the family; and each of these quarterings,
thus brought together in one shield to form the perfect ‘achievement of
arms’ of the present representative, was displayed separately on single
shields occupying the eight surrounding panels.
One of the principal documents in the muniment rooms of the great is
the genealogical tree, duly set forth on musty parchment, in itself a
guarantee of its own antiquity. How admirably could this be executed
in glass! The tree, very conventionally designed, trained over the
whole surface of the window; the quaintly hung shields depending from
its branches at intervals; the whole forming an interesting study for
antiquary and genealogist.