On the morrow, as I was setting out to dine at Brooks's, I received the
following on a torn slip of paper: “Dear Richard, we shall have a good
show to-day you may care to see.” It was signed “Fox,” and dated at
St. Stephen's. I lost no time in riding to Westminster, where I found a
flock of excited people in Parliament Street and in the Palace Yard. And
on climbing the wide stone steps outside and a narrower flight within I
was admitted directly into the august presence of the representatives of
the English people. They were in a most prodigious and unseemly state of
uproar.
What a place is old St. Stephen's Chapel, over St. Mary's in the Vaults,
for the great Commons of England to gather! It is scarce larger or more
imposing than our own assembly room in the Stadt House in Annapolis.
St. Stephen's measures but ten yards by thirty, with a narrow gallery
running along each side for visitors. In one of these, by the rail, I
sat down suffocated, bewildered, and deafened. And my first impression
out of the confusion was of the bewigged speaker enthroned under the
royal arms, sore put to restore order. On the table in front of him lay
the great mace of the Restoration. Three chandeliers threw down their
light upon the mob of honourable members, and I wondered what had put
them into this state of uproar.
Presently, with the help of a kind stranger on my right, who was
occasionally making shorthand notes, I got a few bearings. That was the
Treasury Bench, where Lord North sat (he was wide awake, now). And there
was the Government side. He pointed out Barrington and Weymouth and
Jerry Dyson and Sandwich, and Rigby in the court suit of purple velvet
with the sword thrust through the pocket. I took them all in, as some of
the worst enemies my country had in Britain. Then my informant seemed
to hesitate, and made bold to ask my persuasion. When I told him I was a
Whig, and an American, he begged the favour of my hand.
“There, sir,” he cried excitedly, “that stout young gentleman with the
black face and eyebrows, and the blacker heart, I may say,--the one
dressed in the fantastical costume called by a French name,--is Mr.
Charles Fox. He has been sent by the devil himself, I believe, to ruin
this country. 'Ods, sir, that devil Lord Holland begot him. He is but
one and twenty, but his detestable arts have saved North's neck from
Burke and Wedderburn on two occasions this year.”
“And what has happened to-day?” I asked, smiling.
The stranger smiled, too.
“Why, sir,” he answered, raising his voice above the noise; “if you have
been in London any length of time, you will have read the account, with
comment, of the Duke of Grafton's speech in the Lords, signed Domitian.
Their Lordships well know it should have been over a greater signature.
This afternoon his Grace of Manchester was talking in the Upper House
about the Spanish troubles, when Lord Gower arose and desired that the
place might be cleared of strangers, lest some Castilian spy might lurk
under the gallery. That was directed against us of the press, sir, and
their Lordships knew it. 'Ad's heart, sir, there was a riot, the house
servants tumbling everybody out, and Mr. Burke and Mr. Dunning in the
boot, who were gone there on the business of this house to present a
bill. Those gentlemen are but just back, calling upon the commons
to revenge them and vindicate their honour. And my Lord North looks
troubled, as you will mark, for the matter is like to go hard against
his Majesty's friends. But hush, Mr. Burke is to speak.”
The horse fell quiet to listen, and my friend began to ply his shorthand
industriously. I leaned forward with a sharp curiosity to see this great
friend of America. He was dressed in a well-worn suit of brown, and
I recall a decided Irish face, and a more decided Irish accent, which
presently I forgot under the spell of his eloquence. I have heard it
said he had many defects of delivery. He had none that day, or else I
was too little experienced to note them. Afire with indignation, he told
how the deputy black rod had hustled him like a vagabond or a thief, and
he called the House of Lords a bear garden. He was followed by Dunning,
in a still more inflammatory mood, until it seemed as if all the King's
friends in the Lower House must desert their confederates in the
Upper. No less important a retainer than Mr. Onslow moved a policy of
retaliation, and those that were left began to act like the Egyptians
when they felt the Red Sea under them. They nodded and whispered in
their consternation.
It was then that Mr. Fox got calmly up before the pack of frightened
mercenaries and argued (God save the mark!) for moderation. He had the
ear of the house in a second, and he spoke with all the confidence--this
youngster who had just reached his majority--he had used with me before
his intimates. I gaped with astonishment and admiration. The Lords, said
he, had plainly meant no insult to this honourable house, nor yet to
the honourable members. They had aimed at the common enemies of man, the
printers. And for this their heat was more than pardonable. My friend at
my side stopped his writing to swear under his breath. “Look at 'em!”
he cried; “they are turning already. He could argue Swedenborg into
popery!”
The deserters were coming back to the ranks, indeed, and North and Dyson
and Weymouth had ceased to look haggard, and were wreathed in smiles. In
vain did Mr. Burke harangue them in polished phrase. It was a language
North and Company did not understand, and cared not to learn. Their
young champion spoke the more worldly and cynical tongue of White's and
Brooks's, with its shorter sentences and absence of formality. And even
as the devil can quote Scripture to his purpose, Mr. Fox quoted history
and the classics, with plenty more that was not above the heads of the
booted and spurred country squires. And thus, for the third time, he
earned the gratitude of his gracious Majesty.
“Well, Richard,” said he, slipping his arm through mine as we came out
into Parliament Street, “I promised you some sport. Have you enjoyed
it?”
I was forced to admit that I had.
“Let us to the 'Thatched House,' and have supper privately,” he
suggested. “I do not feel like a company to-night.” We walked on for
some time in silence. Presently he said:
“You must not leave us, Richard. You may go home to see your grandfather
die, and when you come back I will see about getting you a little
borough for what my father paid for mine. And you shall marry Dorothy,
and perchance return in ten years as governor of a principality. That
is, after we've ruined you at the club. How does that prospect sit?”
I wondered at the mood he was in, that made him choose me rather than
the adulation and applause he was sure to receive at Brooks's for the
part he had played that night. After we had satisfied our hunger,--for
neither of us had dined,--and poured out a bottle of claret, he looked
up at me quizzically.
“I have not heard you congratulate me,” he said.
“Nor will you,” I replied, laughing.
“I like you the better for it, Richard. 'Twas a damned poor performance,
and that's truth.”
“I thought the performance remarkable,” I said honestly.
“Oh, but it was not,” he answered scornfully. “The moment that
dun-coloured Irishman gets up, the whole government pack begins to whine
and shiver. There are men I went to school with I fear more than Burke.
But you don't like to see the champion of America come off second best.
Is that what you're thinking?”
“No. But I was wondering why you have devoted your talents to the
devil,” I said, amazed at my boldness.
He glanced at me, and half laughed again.
“You are cursed frank,” said he; “damned frank.”
“But you invited it.”
“Yes,” he replied, “so I did. Give me a man who is honest. Fill up
again,” said he; “and spit out all you would like to say, Richard.”
“Then,” said I, “why do you waste your time and your breath in defending
a crew of political brigands and placemen, and a king who knows not the
meaning of the word gratitude, and who has no use for a man of ability?
You have honoured me with your friendship, Charles Fox, and I may take
the liberty to add that you seem to love power more than spoils. You
have originality. You are honest enough to think and act upon your own
impulses. And pardon me if I say you have very little chance on that
side of the house where you have put yourself.”
“You seem to have picked up a trifle since you came into England,” he
said. “A damned shrewd estimate, I'll be sworn. And for a colonial! But,
as for power,” he added a little doggedly, “I have it in plenty, and
the kind I like. The King and North hate and fear me already more than
Wilkes.”
“And with more cause,” I replied warmly. “His Majesty perhaps knows
that you understand him better, and foresees the time when a man of your
character will give him cause to fear indeed.”
He did not answer that, but called for a reckoning; and taking my arm
again, we walked out past the sleeping houses.
“Have you ever thought much of the men we have in the colonies?” I
asked.
“No,” he replied; “Chatham stands for 'em, and I hate Chatham on my
father's account. That is reason enough for me.”
“You should come back to America with me,” I said. “And when you had
rested awhile at Carvel Hall, I would ride with you through the length
of the provinces from Massachusetts to North Carolina. You will see
little besides hard-working, self-respecting Englishmen, loyal to a king
who deserves loyalty as little as Louis of France. But with their eyes
open, and despite the course he has taken. They are men whose measure of
resolution is not guessed at.”
He was silent again until we had got into Piccadilly and opposite his
lodgings.
“Are they all like you?” he demanded.
“Who?” said I. For I had forgotten my words.
“The Americans.”
“The greater part feel as I do.”
“I suppose you are for bed,” he remarked abruptly.
“The night is not yet begun,” I answered, repeating his favourite words,
and pointing at the glint of the sun on the windows.
“What do you say to a drive behind those chestnuts of mine, for a breath
of air? I have just got my new cabriolet Selwyn ordered in Paris.”
Soon we were rattling over the stones in Piccadilly, wrapped in
greatcoats, for the morning wind was cold. We saw the Earl of March and
Ruglen getting out of a chair before his house, opposite the Green Park,
and he stopped swearing at the chairmen to wave at us.
“Hello, March!” Mr. Fox said affably, “you're drunk.”
His Lordship smiled, bowed graciously if unsteadily to me, and did not
appear to resent the pleasantry. Then he sighed.
“What a pair of cubs it is,” said he; “I wish to God I was young again.
I hear you astonished the world again last night, Charles.”
We left him being assisted into his residence by a sleepy footman, paid
our toll at Hyde Park Corner, and rolled onward toward Kensington,
Fox laughing as we passed the empty park at the thought of what had so
lately occurred there. After the close night of St. Stephen's, nature
seemed doubly beautiful. The sun slanted over the water in the gardens
in bars of green and gold. The bright new leaves were on the trees, and
the morning dew had brought with it the smell of the living earth. We
passed the stream of market wagons lumbering along, pulled by sturdy,
patient farm-horses, driven by smocked countrymen, who touched their
caps to the fine gentlemen of the court end of town; who shook their
heads and exchanged deep tones over the whims of quality, unaccountable
as the weather. But one big-chested fellow arrested his salute, a scowl
came over his face, and he shouted back to the wagoner whose horses were
munching his hay:
“Hi, Jeems, keep down yere hands. Mr. Fox is noo friend of we.”
This brought a hard smile on Mr. Fox's face.
“I believe, Richard,” he said, “I have become more detested than any man
in Parliament.”
“And justly,” I replied; “for you have fought all that is good in you.”
“I was mobbed once, in Parliament Street. I thought they would kill me.
Have you ever been mobbed, Richard?” he asked indifferently.
“Never, I thank Heaven,” I answered fervently.
“I think I would rather be mobbed than indulge in any amusement I know
of,” he continued. “Than confound Wedderburn, or drive a measure against
Burke,--which is no bad sport, my word on't. I would rather be mobbed
than have my horse win at Newmarket. There is a keen pleasure you wot
not of, my lad, in listening to Billingsgate and Spitalfields howl
maledictions upon you. And no sensation I know of is equal to that of
the moment when the mud and sticks and oranges are coming through the
windows of your coach, when the dirty weavers are clutching at your
ruffles and shaking their filthy fists under your nose.”
“It is, at any rate, strictly an aristocratic pleasure,” I assented,
laughing.
So we came to Holland House. Its wide fields of sprouting corn, its
woods and pastures and orchards in blossom, were smiling that morning,
as though Leviathan, the town, were not rolling onward to swallow
them. Lord Holland had bought the place from the Warwicks, with all
its associations and memories. The capped towers and quaint facades and
projecting windows were plain to be seen from where we halted in the
shaded park, and to the south was that Kensington Road we had left, over
which all the glory and royalty of England at one time or another had
rolled. Under these majestic oaks and cedars Cromwell and Ireton had
stood while the beaten Royalists lashed their horses on to Brentford.
Nor did I forget that the renowned Addison had lived here after his
unhappy marriage with Lady Warwick, and had often ridden hence to
Button's Coffee House in town, where my grandfather had had his dinner
with Dean Swift.
We sat gazing at the building, which was bathed in the early sun, at the
deer and sheep grazing in the park, at the changing colours of the young
leaves as the breeze swayed them. The market wagons had almost ceased
now, and there was little to break the stillness.
“You love the place?” I said.
He started, as though I had awakened him out of a sleep. And he was no
longer the Fox of the clubs, the cynical, the reckless. He was no longer
the best-dressed man in St. James's Street, or the aggressive youngster
of St. Stephen's.
“Love it!” he cried. “Ay, Richard, and few guess how well. You will not
laugh when I tell you that my happiest days have been passed here, when
I was but a chit, in the long room where Addison used to walk up and
down composing his Spectators: or trotting after my father through these
woods and gardens. A kinder parent does not breathe than he. Well
I remember how he tossed me in his arms under that tree when I had
thrashed another lad for speaking ill of him. He called me his knight.
In all my life he has never broken faith with me. When they were
blasting down a wall where those palings now stand, he promised me I
should see it done, and had it rebuilt and blown down again because I
had missed the sight. All he ever exacted of me was that I should treat
him as an elder brother. He had his own notion of the world I was going
into, and prepared me accordingly. He took me from Eton to Spa, where I
learned gaming instead of Greek, and gave me so much a night to risk at
play.”
I looked at him in astonishment. To say that I thought these relations
strange would have been a waste of words.
“To be sure,” Charles continued, “I was bound to learn, and could
acquire no younger.” He flicked the glossy red backs of his horses with
his whip. “You are thinking it an extraordinary education, I know,” he
added rather sadly. “I hav a-told you this--God knows why! Yes, because
I like you damnably, and you would have heard worse elsewhere, both of
him and of me. I fear you have listened to the world's opinion of Lord
Holland.”
Indeed, I had heard a deal of that nobleman's peculations of the public
funds. But in this he was no worse than the bulk of his colleagues. His
desertion of William Pitt I found hard to forgive.
“The best father in the world, Richard!” cried Charles. “If his former
friends could but look into his kind heart, and see him in his home,
they would not have turned their backs upon him. I do not mean such
scoundrels as Rigby. And now my father is in exile half the year in
Nice, and the other half at King's Gate. The King and Jack Bute used
him for a tool, and then cast him out. You wonder why I am of the King's
party?” said he, with something sinister in his smile; “I will tell you.
When I got my borough I cared not a fig for parties or principles. I
had only the one definite ambition, to revenge Lord Holland. Nay,” he
exclaimed, stopping my protest, “I was not too young to know rottenness
as well as another. The times are rotten in England. You may have virtue
in America, amongst a people which is fresh from a struggle with the
earth and its savages. We have cursed little at home, in faith. The
King, with his barley water and rising at six, and shivering in chapel,
and his middle-class table, is rottener than the rest. The money he
saves in his damned beggarly court goes to buy men's souls. His word is
good with none. For my part I prefer a man who is drunk six days out of
the seven to one who takes his pleasure so. And I am not so great a fool
that I cannot distinguish justice from injustice. I know the wrongs of
the colonies, which you yourself have put as clear as I wish to hear,
despite Mr. Burke and his eloquence.
[My grandfather has made a note here, which in justice should be
added, that he was not deceived by Mr. Fox's partiality.--D. C. C.]
And perhaps, Richard,” he concluded, with a last lingering look at the
old pile as he turned his horses, “perhaps some day, I shall remember
what you told us at Brooks's.”
It was thus, boyishly, that Mr. Fox chose to take me into his
confidence, an honour which I shall remember with a thrill to my dying
day. So did he reveal to me the impulses of his early life, hidden
forever from his detractors. How little does the censure of this world
count, which cannot see the heart behind the embroidered waistcoat! When
Charles Fox began his career he was a thoughtless lad, but steadfast to
such principles as he had formed for himself. They were not many, but,
compared to those of the arena which he entered, they were noble. He
strove to serve his friends, to lift the name of a father from whom he
had received nothing but kindness, however misguided. And when he saw at
length the error of his ways, what a mighty blow did he strike for the
right!
“Here is a man,” said Dr. Johnson, many years afterwards, “who has
divided his kingdom with Caesar; so that it was a doubt whether the
nation should be ruled by the sceptre of George the Third or the tongue
of Fox.”