Victoria at Osborne, and before his arrival the Queen and Prince Albert
debated whether it would be better to warn the Prince of Wales and the
Princess Royal of his physical peculiarity, so as to avoid embarrassing
remarks, or to leave it to their own good feeling. The latter course was
adopted. Lord ---- duly arrived. The foot elicited no remarks from the
Royal children, and the visit passed off anxiously but with success.
Next day the Princess Royal asked the Queen, "Where is Lord----?" "He
has gone back to London, dear." "Oh! what a pity! He had promised to
show Bertie and me his foot!" They had caught him in the corridor and
made their own terms with their captive.
In more recent years the little daughter of one of the Queen's most
confidential advisers had the unexampled honour of being invited to
luncheon with her Majesty. During the meal, an Illustrious Lady,
negotiating a pigeon after the German fashion, took up one of its bones
with her finger and thumb. The little visitor, whose sense of British
propriety was stronger than her awe of Courts, regarded the proceeding
with wonder-dilated eyes, and then burst out, "Oh, Piggy-wiggy,
Piggy-wiggy! You _are_ Piggy-wiggy." Probably she is now languishing in
the dungeon keep of Windsor Castle.
If the essence of the _Enfant Terrible_ is that he or she causes
profound embarrassment to the surrounding adults, the palm of
pre-eminence must be assigned to the children of a famous diplomatist,
who, some twenty years ago, organized a charade and performed it without
assistance from their elders. The scene displayed a Crusader knight
returning from the wars to his ancestral castle. At the castle gate he
was welcomed by his beautiful and rejoicing wife, to whom, after tender
salutations, he recounted his triumphs on the tented field and the
number of paynim whom he had slain. "And I too, my lord," replied his
wife, pointing with conscious pride to a long roll of dolls of various
sizes--"and I too, my lord, have not been idle." _Tableau_ indeed!
The argumentative child is scarcely less trying than the _Enfant
Terrible_. Miss Sellon, the foundress of English sisterhoods, adopted
and brought up in her convent at Devonport a little Irish waif who had
been made an orphan by the outbreak of cholera in 1849. The infant's
customs and manners, especially at table, were a perpetual trial to a
community of refined old maids. "Chew your food, Aileen," said Miss
Sellon. "If you please, mother, the whale didn't chew Jonah," was the
prompt reply of the little Romanist, who had been taught that the
examples of Holy Writ were for our imitation. Answers made in
examinations I forbear, as a rule, to quote, but one I must give,
because it so beautifully illustrates the value of ecclesiastical
observances in our elementary schools:--
_Vicar_. "Now, my dear, do you know what happened on Ascension Day?"
_Child_. "Yes, sir, please. We had buns and a swing."
Natural childhood should know nothing of social forms, and the
coachman's son who described his father's master as "the man that rides
in dad's carriage," showed a finely democratic instinct. But the
boastful child is a very unpleasant product of nature or of art. "We've
got a private master comes to teach us at home, but we ain't proud,
because Ma says it's sinful," quoth Morleena Kenwigs, under her mother's
instructions, when Nicholas Nickleby gave her French lessons. The infant
daughter of a country clergyman, drinking tea in the nursery of the
episcopal Palace, boasted that at the Vicarage they had a hen which laid
an egg every day. "Oh, that's nothing," retorted the bishop's daughter;
"Papa lays a foundation-stone every week."
The precocious child, even when thoroughly well-meaning, is a source of
terror by virtue of its intense earnestness. In the days when Maurice
first discredited the doctrine of Eternal Punishment, some learned and
theological people were discussing, in a country house near Oxford, the
abstract credibility of endless pain. Suddenly the child of the house
(now its owner), who was playing on the hearth-rug, looked up and said,
"But how am I to know that it isn't hell already, and that I am not in
it?"--a question which threw a lurid light on his educational and
disciplinary experiences. Some of my readers will probably recollect the
"Japanese Village" at Knightsbridge--a pretty show of Oriental wares
which was burnt down, just at the height of its popularity, a few years
ago. On the day of its destruction I was at the house of a famous
financier, whose children had been to see the show only two days before.
One of them, an urchin of eight, immensely interested by the news of the
fire, asked, not if the pretty things were burnt or the people hurt, but
this one question, "Mamma, was it insured?" Verily, _bon chat chasse de
race_. The children of an excellent but unfortunate judge are said to
have rushed one day into their mother's drawing-room exclaiming, "Dear
Mamma, may we have jam for tea? One of Papa's judgments has been upheld
in the Court of Appeal." An admirable story of commercial precocity
reaches me from one of the many correspondents who have been good enough
to write to me in connection with this book. It may be commended to the
promoters of that class of company which is specially affected by the
widow, the orphan, and the curate. Two small boys, walking down
Tottenham Court Road, passed a tobacconist's shop. The bigger remarked,
"I say, Bill, I've got a ha'penny, and, if you've got one too, we'll
have a penny smoke between us." Bill produced his copper, and Tommy
diving into the shop, promptly reappeared with a penny cigar in his
mouth. The boys walked side by side for a few minutes, when the smaller
mildly said, "I say, Tom, when am I to have a puff? The weed's half
mine." "Oh, you shut up," was the business-like reply. "I'm the Chairman
of this Company, and you are only a shareholder. _You can spit._"
Mr. H.J. Barker, who is, I believe, what Mr. Squeers called "A Educator
of Youth," has lately given us some pleasant echoes from the Board
School. A young moralist recorded his judgment, that it is not cruel to
kill a turkey, "if only you take it into the backyard and use a sharp
knife, _and the turkey is yours!_" Another dogmatized thus: "Don't
teese cats, for firstly, it is wrong so to do; and 2nd, cats have
clawses which is longer than people think." The following theory of the
Bank Holiday would scarcely commend itself to that sound economist Sir
John Lubbock:--"The Banks shut up shop, so as people can't put their
money in, but has to spend it." So far the rude male: it required the
genius of feminine delicacy to define a Civil War as "one in which the
military are unnecessarily and punctiliously civil or polite, often
raising their helmets to each other before engaging in deadly combat."
The joys of childhood are a theme on which a good deal of verse has been
expended. I am far from denying that they are real, but I contend that
they commonly take a form which is quite inconsistent with poetry, and
that the poet (like heaven) "lies about us in our infancy." "I wish
every day in the year was a pot of jam," was the obviously sincere
exclamation of a fat little boy whom I knew, and whom Leech would have
delighted to draw. Two little London girls who had been sent by the
kindness of the vicar's wife to have "a happy day in the country,"
narrating their experiences on their return, said, "Oh yes, mum, we
_did_ 'ave a 'appy day. We saw two pigs killed and a gentleman buried."
And the little boy who was asked if he thought he should like a
hymn-book for his birthday present replied that "he _thought_ he should
like a hymn-book, but he _knew_ he should like a squirt." A small cousin
of mine, hearing his big brothers describe their experiences at a Public
School, observed with unction, "If ever I have a fag of my own, I will
stick pins into him." But now we are leaving childhood behind, and
attaining to the riper joys of full-blooded boyhood.
"O running stream of sparkling joy
To be a soaring human boy!"
exclaimed Mr. Chadband in a moment of inspiration. "In the strictest
sense a boy," was Mr. Gladstone's expressive phrase in his controversy
with Colonel Dopping. For my own part, I confess to a frank dislike of
boys. I dislike them equally whether they are priggish boys, like Kenelm
Chillingly, who asked his mother if she was never overpowered by a sense
of her own identity; or sentimental boys, like Dibbins in _Basil the
Schoolboy_, who, discussing with a friend how to spend a whole holiday,
said, "Let us go to Dingley Dell and talk about Byron;" or manly boys
like Tom Tulliver, of whom it is excellently said that he was the kind
of boy who is commonly spoken of as being very fond of animals--that is,
very fond of throwing stones at them.
Whatever its type,
"I've seemed of late
To shrink from happy boyhood--boys
Have grown so noisy, and I hate
A noise.
They fright me when the beech is green,
By swarming up its stem for eggs;
They drive their horrid hoops between
My legs.
It's idle to repine, I know;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
To bed."
But before I do so let me tell one boy-story, connected with the Eton
and Harrow match, which has always struck me as rather pleasing. In the
year 1866, when F.C. Cobden, who was afterwards so famous for his
bowling in the Cambridge Eleven, was playing for Harrow, an affable
father, by way of making conversation for a little Harrow boy at Lord's,
asked, "Is your Cobden any relation to the great Cobden?" "Why, he _is_
the great Cobden," was the simple and swift reply. This is the true
spirit of hero-worship.
XXXII.
LETTER-WRITING.
"Odd men write odd letters." This rather platitudinous sentence, from an
otherwise excellent essay of the late Bishop Thorold's, is abundantly
illustrated alike by my Collections and by my Recollections. I plunge at
random into my subject, and immediately encounter the following letter
from a Protestant clergyman in the north of Ireland, written in response
to a suggestion that he might with advantage study Mr. Gladstone's
magnificent speech on the Second Reading of the Affirmation Bill in
1883:--
"My dear Sir,--I have received your recommendation to read carefully the
speech of Mr. Gladstone in favour of admitting the infidel Bradlaugh
into Parliament, I did so when it was delivered, and I must say that the
strength of argument rests with the opposition. I fully expect in the
event of a dissolution the Government will lose between fifty and sixty
seats. Any conclusion can be arrived at, according to the premises laid
down. Mr. G. avoided the Scriptural lines and followed his own. All
parties knew the feeling of the country on the subject, and,
notwithstanding the bullying and majority of Gladstone, he was defeated.
Before the Irish Church was robbed, I was nominated to the Deanery of
Tuam, but Mr. Disraeli resigning, I was defrauded of my just right by
Mr. Gladstone, and my wife, Lady----, the only surviving child of an
Earl, was sadly disappointed; but there is a just Judge above. The
letter of nomination is still in my possession. I am, dear sir, yours
faithfully,----."
It is highly characteristic of Mr. Gladstone that, when this letter was
shown to him by its recipient as a specimen of epistolary oddity, he
read it, not with a smile, but with a portentous frown, and, handing it
back, sternly asked, "What does the fellow mean by quoting an engagement
entered into by my predecessor as binding on me?"
It is not only clergy "defrauded" of expected dignities that write odd
letters. Young curates in search of benefices often seek to gratify
their innocent ambitions by the most ingenious appeals. Here is a letter
received not many years ago by the Prime Minister of the day:--
"I have no doubt but that your time is fully occupied. I will therefore
compress as much as possible what I wish to say, and frame my request in
a few words. Some time ago my mother wrote to her brother, Lord ----,
asking him to try and do something for me in the way of obtaining a
living. The reply from Lady ---- was that my uncle could do nothing to
help me. I naturally thought that a Premier possessed of such a
plenitude of power as yourself would find it a matter of less difficulty
to transform a curate into a rector or vicar than to create a peer. My
name is in the Chancellor's List--a proceeding, as far as results,
somewhat suggestive, I fear, of the Greek Kalends.... My future
father-in-law is a member of the City Liberal Club, in which a _large
bust_ of yourself was unveiled last year. I am 31 years of age; a High
Churchman; musical, &c.; graduate of----. If I had a living I could
marry.... I am very anxious to marry, but I am very poor, and a living
would help me very much. Being a Southerner, fond of music and of books,
I naturally would like to be somewhere near town. I hope you will be
able to help me in this respect, and thus afford much happiness to more
than one." There is great force in that appeal to the "large bust."
Here is a request which Bishop Thorold received from an admirer, who
unfortunately omitted to give his address:--
"Rev. and learned Sir,--Coming into your presence through the medium of
a letter, I do so in the spirit of respect due to you as a gentleman and
a scholar. I unfortunately am a scholar, but a blackguard. I heard you
preach a few times, and thought you might pity the position I have
brought myself to. I should be grateful to you for an old coat or an old
pair of boots."
And while the seekers after emolument write odd letters, odd letters are
also written by their admirers on their behalf. A few years ago one of
the principal benefices in West London was vacated, and, the
presentation lapsing to the Crown, the Prime Minister received the
following appeal:--
"Sir,--Doubtless you do not often get a letter from a working man on the
subject of clerical appointments, but as I here you have got to find a
minister for to fill Mr. Boyd Carpenter's place, allow me to ask you to
just go some Sunday afternoon and here our little curate, Mr. ----, at
St. Matthew's Church--he is a good, Earnest little man, and a genuine
little Fellow; got no humbug about him, but a sound Churchman, is an
Extempor Preacher, and deserves promotion. Nobody knows I am writing to
you, and it is not a matter of kiss and go by favour, but simply asking
you to take a run over and here him, and then put him a stept higher--he
deserves it. I know Mr. Sullivan will give him a good character, and so
will Mr. Alcroft, the Patron. Now do go over and here him before you
make a choice. We working men will be sorry to loose him, but we think
he ought not to be missed promotion, as he is a good fellow.--Your
obediently servant."
Ladies, as might naturally be expected, are even more enthusiastic in
advocating the claims of their favourite divines. Writing lately on the
Agreeableness of Clergymen, I described some of the Canons of St. Paul's
and Westminster, and casually referred to the handsome presence of Dr.
Duckworth. I immediately received the following effusion, which, wishing
to oblige the writer, and having no access to the _Church Family
Newspaper_, I now make public:--
"A member of the Rev. Canon Duckworth's congregation for _more than 25
years_ has been much pained by the scant and curious manner in which he
is mentioned by you, and begs to say that his Gospel teaching, his
scholarly and yet simple and charitable discourses (and teaching), his
courteous and sympathetic and prompt answers to his people's requests
and inquiries, his energetic and constant work in his parish, are beyond
praise. Added to all is his clear and sonorous voice in his rendering of
the prayer and praise amongst us. A grateful parishioner hopes and
_asks_ for some further recognition of his position in the Church of
Christ, in the _Church Family Newspaper_, June 12." So far the Church. I
now turn to the world.
In the second volume of Lord Beaconsfield's _Endymion_ will be found a
description, by a hand which was never excelled at such business, of
that grotesque revival of medievalism, the Tournament at Eglinton Castle
in 1839. But the writer, conceding something to the requirements of art,
ignores the fact that the splendid pageant was spoilt by rain. Two
years' preparation and enormous expense were thrown away. A grand
cavalcade, in which Prince Louis Napoleon rode as one of the knights,
left Eglinton Castle on the 28th of August at two in the afternoon, with
heralds, banners, pursuivants, the knight-marshal, the jester, the King
of the Tournament, the Queen of Beauty, and a glowing assemblage of
knights and ladies, seneschals, chamberlains, esquires, pages, and
men-at-arms, and took their way in procession to the lists, which were
overlooked by galleries in which nearly two thousand spectators were
accommodated; but all the while the rain came down in bucketfuls, never
ceased while the tourney proceeded, and brought the proceedings to a
premature and ignominious close. I only mention the occurrence here
because the Queen of Beauty, elected to that high honour by unanimous
acclamation, was Jane Sheridan, Lady Seymour; and there is all the charm
of vivid contrast in turning from the reckless expenditure and fantastic
brilliancy of 1839 to the following correspondence, which was published
in the newspapers in the early part of 1840.
Anne, Lady Shuckburgh, was the wife of Sir Francis Shuckburgh, a
Northamptonshire Baronet, and to her the Queen of Beauty, forsaking the
triumphs of chivalry for the duties of domestic economy, addressed the
following letter:--
"Lady Seymour presents her compliments to Lady Shuckburgh, and would be
obliged to her for the character of Mary Stedman, who states that she
lived twelve months, and still is, in Lady Shuckburgh's establishment.
Can Mary Stedman cook plain dishes well? make bread? and is she honest,
good-tempered, sober, willing, and cleanly? Lady Seymour would also like
to know the reason why she leaves Lady Shuckburgh's service. Direct,
under cover to Lord Seymour, Maiden Bradley."
To this polite and business-like inquiry, Lady Shuckburgh replied as
follows:--
"Lady Shuckburgh presents her compliments to Lady Seymour. Her
ladyship's note, dated October 28, only reached her yesterday, November
3. Lady Shuckburgh was unacquainted with the name of the kitchen-maid
until mentioned by Lady Seymour, as it is her custom neither to apply
for or to give characters to any of the under servants, this being
always done by the housekeeper, Mrs. Couch--and this was well known to
the young woman; therefore Lady Shuckburgh is surprised at her referring
any lady to her for a character. Lady Shuckburgh having a professed
cook, as well as a housekeeper, in her establishment, it is not very
likely she herself should know anything of the abilities or merits of
the under servants; therefore she is unable to answer Lady Seymour's
note. Lady Shuckburgh cannot imagine Mary Stedman to be capable of
cooking for any except the servants'-hall table.
"November 4, Pavilion, Hans Place."
But Sheridan's granddaughter was quite the wrong subject for these
experiments in fine-ladyism, and she lost no time in replying as
follows:--
"Lady Seymour presents her compliments to Lady Shuckburgh, and begs she
will order her housekeeper, Mrs. Pouch, to send the girl's character
without delay; otherwise another young woman will be sought for
elsewhere, as Lady Seymour's children cannot remain without their
dinners because Lady Shuckburgh, keeping a 'professed cook and a
housekeeper,' thinks a knowledge of the details of her establishment
beneath her notice. Lady Seymour understands from Stedman that, in
addition to her other talents, she was actually capable of dressing food
fit for the little Shuckburghs to partake of when hungry."
To this note was appended a pen-and-ink vignette by Lady Seymour
representing the three "little Shuckburghs," with large heads and
cauliflower wigs, sitting at a round table and voraciously scrambling
for mutton chops dressed by Mary Stedman, who was seen looking on with
supreme satisfaction, while Lady Shuckburgh appeared in the distance in
evident dismay. A crushing rejoinder closed this correspondence:--
"Madam,--Lady Shuckburgh has directed me to acquaint you that she
declines answering your note, the vulgarity of which is beneath
contempt; and although it may be the characteristic of the Sheridans to
be vulgar, coarse, and witty, it is not that of a 'lady,' unless she
happens to have been born in a garret and bred in a kitchen. Mary
Stedman informs me that your ladyship does not keep either a cook or a
housekeeper, and that you only require a girl who can cook a mutton
chop. If so, I apprehend that Mary Stedman or any other scullion will be
found fully equal to cook for or manage the establishment of the Queen
of Beauty.--I am, your Ladyship's, &c.,
"ELIZABETH COUCH (not Pouch)."
"Odd men," quoth Bishop Thorold, "write odd letters," and so do odd
women. The original of the following epistle to Mr. Gladstone lies
before me. It is dated Cannes, March 15, 1893:--
"Far away from my native Land, my bitter indignation as a _Welshwoman_
prompts me to reproach you, you _bad, wicked, false_, treacherous Old
Man! for your iniquitous scheme to _rob_ and overthrow the
dearly-beloved Old Church of my Country. You have no conscience, but I
pray that God may even yet give you one that will sorely _smart_ and
trouble you before you die. You pretend to be religious, you old
hypocrite! that you may more successfully pander to the evil passions of
the lowest and most ignorant of the Welsh people. But you neither care
for nor respect the principles of Religion, or you would not distress
the minds of all true Christian people by instigating a mob to Commit
the awful sin of Sacrilege. You think you will shine in History, but it
will be a notoriety similar to that of _Nero._ I see some one pays you
the unintentional compliment of comparing you to Pontius Pilate, and I
am sorry, for Pilate, though a political time-server, was, with all his
faults, a very respectable man in comparison with you. And he did not,
like you, profess the Christian Religion You are certainly _clever_. So
also is your lord and master the Devil. And I cannot regard it as sinful
to hate and despise you, any more than it is sinful to abhor him. So,
with full measure of contempt and detestation, accept these compliments
from
"A DAUGHTER OF OLD WALES."
It is a triumph of female perseverance and ingenuity that the whole of
the foregoing is compressed into a single postcard.
Some letters, like the foregoing, are odd from their extraordinary
rudeness. Others--not usually, it must be admitted, Englishmen's
letters--are odd from their excess of civility. An Italian priest
working in London wrote to a Roman Catholic M.P., asking for an order of
admission to the House of Commons, and, on receiving it, acknowledged it
as follows:--
"_To the Hon. Mr. ----, M.P._
"Hon. Sir, Son in Jesu Christ, I beg most respectfully you, Hon. Sir, to
accept the very deep gratitude for the ticket which you, Hon. Sir, with
noble kindness, favoured me by post to-day. May the Blessing of God
Almighty come upon you, Hon. Sir, and may He preserve you, Hon. Sir, for
ever and ever, Amen! With all due respect, I have the honour to be, Hon.
Sir, your most
"humble and obedient servant,
"----."
Surely the British Constituent might take a lesson from this extremely
polite letter-writer when his long-suffering Member has squeezed him
into the Strangers' Gallery.