A Sicilian newspaper courageously commenting on this case of

[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 680. SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

BY MRS NEWMAN, AUTHOR OF 'TOO LATE,' &C.

CHAPTER I.--'INCONGRUOUS MATERIALS.'

'No. 81. Yes; this must certainly be the house,' I murmured, turning

my eyes somewhat disappointedly towards it again, after consulting an

address in my hand. A large, gloomy, dilapidated-looking house, in a

respectably dull street in Westminster, its lower windows facing a

dead-wall, and its upper ones overlooking venerable ecclesiastical

grounds. The lower rooms appeared to be the only portion of the house

which was occupied; and, to judge by the shabbiness of the blinds, they

were kept but in a mean condition. None the less dreary was the present

aspect of the house for the suggestions of by-gone prosperity in the

noble proportions of the entrance, with its link-extinguishers on

either side, and great massive doors opening from the centre. It would

require a vivid imagination to picture those doors flung hospitably

open, and light and warmth from within streaming down upon a gay party

of the present generation, alighting before the broad steps.

'Not very promising,' was my mental comment, as I gathered courage to

ascend the steps and lift the heavy iron wreath of flowers, which used

to be considered high-art in the way of knockers. Nor was I certain

that the house was inhabited at all, until I heard footsteps within,

and presently one of the doors was opened a few inches and a bony hand

thrust out.

'A pretty time this to be bringing coffee that was wanted for

breakfast!'

'Does Mr Wentworth live here?'

A tall, thin, grim-visaged woman looked out, and shortly replied: 'Yes;

he does.'

'Is he at home? Can I see him?'

'He's at home,' she slowly and reluctantly admitted: adding, as she

determinedly blocked up the doorway: 'But he can't see anybody; he's

engaged.'

'Please give this card to Mr Wentworth, and say'----

'If it's the advertisement, you should have come before. Ten to twelve

was the time.'

'Please give this card to Mr Wentworth, and'----

'It won't be any use.'

'And say I shall be greatly obliged if he will see me for five minutes.'

Evidently this was a woman accustomed to have her way, at anyrate with

such callers as came there. The very novelty of my persistence seemed

for the moment to disconcert her, as she eyed me from beneath her bent

brows before replying: 'Haven't I just told you?'

'Please give this card to Mr Wentworth, and say I shall be greatly

obliged if he will see me for five minutes.'

She appeared for a moment undecided as to whether she should shut the

door in my face or do my bidding; then ungraciously moved aside for me

to pass into the hall, which I unhesitatingly did. Mumbling something

to herself, which, to judge by her countenance, was the reverse of

complimentary to me, she left me standing on the mat, and went into

a room on the right of the square hall, the stone floor of which was

sparsely covered here and there with old scraps of carpet. I had just

time to note that, poor and forlorn as everything looked, it was kept

scrupulously clean, when I heard a man's voice, and the words: 'Did I

not tell you?' uttered in a stern low voice.

'I know you did; and I told her, but she wouldn't take "No" for an

answer.'

'Nonsense! Say I'm engaged; it's past the time. I have all but

arranged with some one already. Get rid of her somehow, and do not

disturb me again. I thought you prided yourself upon your ability to

keep off intruders.'

'This one isn't like the others,' grumbled the old woman. 'She goes on

hammering and hammering. However, I'll soon send her off now.'

A nice introduction this! I had not really believed that she was acting

under orders, and I had too grave a reason for desiring an interview,

to allow a disagreeable old woman to prevent my obtaining it. I felt

that an apology ought to be made before I was 'sent off.' Advancing to

the door of the room from which the voices came, and standing on the

threshold, I said: 'Allow me to exonerate your housekeeper, sir' (it

was really a pretty compliment to give that gaunt personification of

shabbiness so sounding a title, and she ought to have been touched by

it). 'I am afraid I was more pertinacious than are the generality of

intruders, in my anxiety to obtain an interview.'

A gentleman sat facing me, frowning down at my card. A pen still in

his hand, and the quantity of papers and pamphlets covering the large

library-table at which he sat, seemed to shew that it had been no

mere excuse about his being engaged. A tall, broad-chested man, with

a fine massive head, and good if somewhat rugged features, looking at

first sight, I fancied, about forty years of age. I saw that there

were a great many books in the room, and two or three fine specimens

of old carved furniture, in curious contrast with the small square of

well-worn and well-mended carpet at the end of the room where he sat.

At sight of me he laid down his pen, and pushed his chair back from

the table, ruffling up his already sufficiently ruffled-up hair with

a look of dismay which was almost comical. As he appeared somewhat

at a loss how to answer me, I added: 'I set out immediately I read

the advertisement; and I hope you will excuse my being an hour and

thirty-seven minutes late;' looking at my watch in order to be quite

correct as to time.

A smile, which had a wonderfully improving effect upon him, dwelt for a

moment on his lips, and remained in his eyes.

'Will you take a seat, Miss--Haddon?' consulting my card for the name.

Then to the old woman: 'You need not wait, Hannah.'

Throwing a look over her shoulder at him, as though to say, 'I told

you,' she went out and shut the door.

He placed a chair for me, then returned to the old-fashioned

library-chair he had risen from, and courteously waited for me to

begin. So far good--he was a gentleman.

'I will be as concise as possible, Mr Wentworth. I am seeking a

situation of some kind, and can, I think, offer as good testimonials as

any one who has not had an engagement before could have. If you have

not yet decided upon engaging any particular lady, I shall be much

obliged by your kindly looking through these;' taking a little packet

of letters from my pocket, and placing it upon the table before him.

He was eyeing me rather curiously, and I earnestly went on: 'I have

been accustomed to use both my brains and hands, and I would do my very

best with either to earn a respectable living.'

'I fear that I am committed in another direction,' he said courteously.

'In that case, I can only hope that the lady upon whom your choice

has fallen needs an engagement as much as I do,' I replied, trying to

stifle a sigh.

'I am extremely sorry that you should be disappointed.'

'You are very kind' (for I felt that he really was sorry); 'but I am

accustomed to disappointments; and there is a sort of poetical justice

in this, after intruding upon you as I have done,' I said, trying to

speak lightly.

'I am very sorry indeed,' he repeated.

'Pray do not think of it, Mr Wentworth,' rising from my seat; 'allow me

to'----

'A moment, Miss Haddon. It is of the first importance to find a lady

thoroughly competent to undertake the office, and to be candid, I do

not feel quite sure that I have succeeded.'

'But if you are committed?'

'I have been considering that, and I do not think that I am wholly

committed--only so far as having promised to communicate with one lady

goes. For the moment, I could not arrange matters with my conscience.

Out of those who were good enough to notice the advertisement only

one appeared to me at all suitable. But,' he added apologetically, 'I

ought to explain that the requirements are of a somewhat exceptional

character.'

'May I ask what they are, Mr Wentworth?'

'Principally tact in dealing with incongruous materials, and the

exercise of a healthy influence over a sensitive girl.'

'Tact in dealing with incongruous materials,' I repeated musingly.

'Yes; certainly I ought to know something about that.'

Our eyes met, and we both broke into a little laugh, as he said: 'Most

of us have opportunities for acquiring a little experience of the kind.'

'And I think I may claim to have made use of my opportunities,' I

rejoined, after a moment or two's deliberation. 'But the healthy

influence over a sensitive girl,' I went on more doubtfully; 'people

hold such very opposite opinions as to what _is_ a healthy influence. I

certainly should not like to have my own weaknesses petted.'

'You have been accustomed to training?'

'I have been accustomed to _be_ trained, so far as circumstances

could do it, Mr Wentworth,' I returned with a half-smile at the

thought of all that was implied by my words. I could not enter into

my history to him; I could not tell him what I had resigned in order

to remain in attendance upon my dear mother. Indeed, she had been a

confirmed invalid so long a time, that the giving up had ceased to

cost anything; the dread of losing her having become my only trouble,

though year by year the difficulty of getting the little luxuries

she needed and keeping out of debt, had terribly increased. When the

parting came, it took something from the bitterness of regret to

think that she knew nothing of the difficulties which had beset us.

'Still,' I added, desirous of making the best of myself, and led on by

his evident anxiety to select the right kind of association for his

child, or whoever she was, to be as frank as himself, 'mine has been

an experience which ought to be worth something. One's experiences

are hardly to be talked of; but I honestly think you might do worse

than engage me, if it is any recommendation to have been accustomed

to struggle against adverse circumstances, as I think it ought to be.

My testimonials are from the clergyman of the parish, the medical man

who attended my mother during a long illness, and an old friend of my

father's. The last is more complimentary than could be wished; but the

first two gentlemen knew me during a long heavy trial, and, as I begged

them to do, they have, I think, stated only what is fair to me.'

He was smiling, his eyes fixed upon me; and I went on interrogatively:

'It is a chaperon and companion for a young girl required--your

daughter or ward, I presume?'

He laughed outright; and then I saw he was younger than I had at first

supposed him to be. At most, he could not be over thirty-five, I

thought, a little confused at my mistake.

'No relation, and I am glad to say, no ward, Miss Haddon. I am simply

obliging a friend who resides out of town, in order to spare both him

and the ladies replying to the advertisement unnecessary trouble, by

seeing them here. To say that I have regretted my good-nature more than

once this morning, would of course be impolite.'

'It must have been very unpleasant for you sitting in judgment over a

number of women,' I said; 'almost as unpleasant as for them.'

'Pray do not think that I have ventured so far as that, Miss Haddon,'

he returned with an amused look.

But I had not gone there to amuse him, so I simply replied: 'I think

you were bound to do so, having undertaken the responsibility, Mr

Wentworth;' and returned straight to business, asking: 'Do you think

there is any chance for me?'

'Your manners convince me that you would be suited to the office,

Miss Haddon. Mr Farrar is an invalid; and his daughter, for whom he

is seeking a chaperon, is his only child, and motherless. That may

excuse a little extra care in selecting a fitting companion for her,

which every good woman might not be. There is only one thing'---- He

trifled with the papers before him a few moments, and then went on

hesitatingly: 'The lady was not to be very young.'

Greatly relieved, I smiled, and put up my veil. 'I am not very young,

Mr Wentworth. I was nine-and-twenty the day before yesterday.' It would

be really too ridiculous to be rejected on account of being too young,

when that very morning I had been trying to lecture myself into a more

philosophic frame of mind about the loss of my youth, and had failed

ignominiously. The loss of youth meant more to me than it does to most

people.

'Ah! Then I think we may consider that the only objection is disposed

of,' he gravely replied.

Relieved and glad as I was at this decision, I could not but think it

curious that he had not first examined my testimonials. For one so

cautious in some respects, this omission appeared rather lax. But I

still allowed them to lie on the table, as his friend might desire to

see them, though he did not.

'Am I to write to your friend, Mr Wentworth?'

'I was to ask the lady selected, to go to Fairview as soon as she

conveniently could, Miss Haddon,' presenting me with a card upon which

was the address--Mr Farrar, Fairview, Highbrook, Kent.

'To make arrangements with Mr Farrar?' I inquired, not a little

surprised at the suddenness with which matters seemed to be settling

themselves.

'To remain, if you are willing so to do, Miss Haddon. But I ought to

state that the engagement may possibly be for only a limited period;

not longer than a year, perhaps. Miss Farrar is engaged to be married.'

('Ah, now I understand your anxiety about her finding a suitable

companion,' was my mental comment.) 'She will not leave her father in

his present state of health; but in the event of his recovery, there is

some talk of her marriage in a year or so.'

'I do not myself desire a long engagement, Mr Wentworth,' I replied,

with a slight pressure of a certain locket on my watch-chain. If the

illusions of youth were gone, certain things remained to me yet.

He looked a little curious, I fancied, but simply bowed; too much a

gentleman to question about anything not connected with the business in

hand.

'Was there any mention made of salary, Mr Wentworth?'

'Salary? O yes. I really beg your pardon. Something was said about

eighty or a hundred a year. But there were no restrictions about it.

You will find that Mr Farrar is'---- Whatever he was about to say, he

hesitated to say; and after a moment's pause, substituted the word

'liberal. He is a man of large means, Miss Haddon.'

I was rather surprised at the amount; and in my inexperience of such

matters, I failed to take into account the appearance a chaperon would

be expected to make. The little I had hitherto been able to do in the

way of money-getting had brought but very small returns. But then it

had been done surreptitiously, whilst my dear mother was sleeping. She

had been too anxious about me to be allowed to know that her small

pension did not suffice for our expenses; and mine had been such work

and for such pay as I could obtain from shops in the neighbourhood.

'Eighty pounds a year certainly is liberal; I did not hope for anything

so good as that,' I replied. Then I once more rose, and bade him

good-morning, begging him to excuse my having taken up so much of his

time. 'In truth, Mr Wentworth, I was getting almost desperate in my

sore need.'

'I can only regret that a gentlewoman should be put to so much

inconvenience, Miss Haddon; although it bears out my creed, that

gentlewomen are more capable of endurance than are their inferiors.'

All very nice and pleasant of him; but even while he spoke, I was

painfully conscious that I should have the greatest difficulty

in getting out of the room as a gentlewoman should. The sudden

revulsion--the great good fortune--coming so swiftly after bitter

disappointments, told, I suppose, upon my physical strength, lowered

by a longer fast than usual. In fact, a course of discipline in the

way of bearing inconvenience, was telling upon me just at the wrong

moment; and it seemed that his pretty compliment about a gentlewoman's

capability of endurance was about to be proved inapplicable to me. The

furniture appeared to be taking all sorts of fantastic shapes, and he

himself to be expanding and collapsing in the most alarming manner.

But angry and ashamed as I felt--could anything be more humiliating

than an exhibition of weakness at this moment--I strove to smile and

say something about the heat, as with some difficulty I made my way

towards the door.

'But I fear---- Pray allow me,' he ejaculated, springing towards the

door, where I was groping for the handle, telling myself that if I

could only get into the hall and sit there in the fresh air a few

moments, all would be well again.

ITALIAN BRIGANDAGE.

When we were at Naples a few years ago, and wished to make an excursion

to Paestum--which would have occupied only two days altogether in

going and returning--the landlord of our hotel strongly discommended

the attempt. The roads, he said, were unsafe. Brigands might lay

hold of the party, and great trouble would ensue. As this advice was

corroborated by what we heard otherwise, the proposed excursion was

given up. Perhaps, since that time things may have improved on the

route to Paestum; but from all accounts, brigandage is as rife as ever

in the south of Italy and Sicily, or has rather become much worse.

The Italians have generally been congratulated on their establishment

of national independence. The many petty states into which the country

had been divided for centuries, are now united into a single kingdom,

with Rome as the capital. All that sounds well, and looks well. But

here is the pinch. The south of Italy is now much more disturbed and

kept in poverty by brigands than it was when under the Bourbons. A

nominally strong and united government is apparently less able or

willing to keep robbers in subjection than a government of inferior

pretensions, which used to be pretty roundly abused and laughed at.

Possibly, the political convulsion that led to the consolidation of

power may have bequeathed broken and dissolute bands, which took to

robbery as a profession. Possibly, also, the dissolution of monastic

orders may have had something to do with the present scandalous state

of affairs. A still more expressive reason for the corrupt state of

society has been assigned. This consists in the feebleness of the laws

and administrative policy of the country. Capital punishments have

been all but abolished. The most atrocious crimes are visited by a

condemnation to imprisonment for years or for life; but the punishment

is little better than a sham, for prisoners contrive in many instances

to escape, through the connivance of their jailers, or get loose in

some other way. In a word, the law has no terrors for the criminal,

who is either pardoned or gets off somehow. He is coddled and petted

as an unfortunate being--looked upon rather as a hero in distress than

anything else. In this view of the matter, the blame for the wretched

condition of Southern Italy rests mainly on those higher and middle

classes who are presumably the leaders of public opinion.

There is a moral blight even beyond what may be suggested by these

allegations. It is absolutely asserted that there are vast numbers

of persons, high and low, from the courtier to the peasant, who, for

selfish purposes, wink at brigandage and theft. Strange tales have

been told of a confederation in Naples, known as the _Camarista_,

the members of which live by extorting under threats a species of

black-mail on every commercial transaction. Shopkeepers are laid under

contribution for a share in the profits of every sale they happen to

make. And it has been said, that a cabman is expected to deliver up a

percentage of every fare he pockets. As little has been lately heard of

the Camarista, we entertain a hope that, taking shame to itself, the

municipality has successfully stamped out this illegal and intolerable

tyranny.

If we take for granted that the Camarista has disappeared or been

abated, it is certain that in Sicily a much more cruel species of

oppression, called the _Mafia_, is still in a flourishing condition.

The Mafia might almost be called a universal conspiracy against law

and order. Its basis is terror. All who belong to the confederacy are

protected, on the understanding that they aid in sheltering evil-doers

and facilitating their escape from justice. On certain terms, they

participate in the plunder of a successful act of brigandage. Men in

a high position, for instance, who are seen driving about in elegant

style, derive a part of their income from the contributions of robbers,

whom by trickery they help to evade the law. Just think of nearly a

whole community being concerned in this species of underhand rascality!

Neither law nor police has any chance of preserving public order.

Society is rotten to the backbone. Who knows but the higher government

officials, while ostentatiously hounding on Prefects to do their

duty, are all the time pocketing money from the audacious wretches

whom they affect to denounce? If the persons in question are not open

to this suspicion, they at least, by their perfunctory proceedings,

are chargeable with scandalously tolerating a condition of things

disgraceful to their country.

No doubt, the government officials ostentatiously offer large rewards

for the capture of certain notorious brigands; but they must well know

that the public are in such a terror-stricken state that no one dares

to bring malefactors to justice. The greatest ruffians swagger about

unchallenged. Local magistrates are so intimidated and brow-beaten by

them, that they are fain to let them go about their business. It is

perfectly obvious that the civil authorities are powerless. Nothing but

martial law, firmly administered, is fit to check the disorder. The

Carabinieri, a species of armed police, seem to be a poor-spirited set.

A few companies of French gendarmerie, with authority to capture, try,

and shoot every brigand, would very speedily render Southern Italy as

quiet and orderly as any part of France or England.

Within the last two or three years several cases of brigandage in

Sicily have been made known through the newspapers. One of the

latest, which occurred early in November 1876, was that of Mr Rose, an

Englishman connected with a mercantile firm in Sicily. 'Mr Rose and

his brother with two servants (so runs the account) alighted at the

railway station of Lercara. There Mr Rose mounted a horse, accompanied

by one of the servants. His brother followed in a carriage with

the other servant. Other carriages appeared immediately behind the

brothers filled with apparently friendly people. At a turn of the road

suddenly the celebrated brigand Leone, on whose head a reward of one

thousand pounds has been set for three years, presented himself, with

three other men, all well mounted. Leone caused Mr Rose to dismount

and take another horse, and made for the village of Montemaggiore.

Mr Rose, looking back, saw his brother in the carriage and other

carriages following. He dismounted, ran towards his brother, thinking

the party would outmatch the brigands, and called to them for help.

But Leone riding up dared the whole party to raise a finger. All

seemed paralysed. Mr Rose offered fifty thousand lire as ransom.

Leone contemptuously shrugged his shoulders, made Mr Rose remount,

and carried him off. Four hours after, the Carabinieri were informed

of the matter, and the chase of Leone began, but came to nothing. It

appears that Mr Rose had to ride for sixteen hours on horseback. His

horse being at last exhausted, had to be abandoned. They arrived at a

cave on the morning of the 5th inst., and remained there seven days,

being abundantly supplied with provisions. On the eighth night the

brigands, knowing that they were pursued by an armed force, abandoned

the cave and remained on the march all night, the same thing occurring

every subsequent night until the captive was released. From morning

until mid-day they remained stationary in a wood, supporting themselves

on poor fare, consisting of bread, cheese, and wine. In the afternoon

the brigands, knowing that the troops were reposing, made prudent

exploring excursions. Mr Rose never undressed from the time of his

capture until he returned home. He was set at liberty near the Sciarra

Railway Station, and the brigands gave him a mantle and a cap, with a

third-class passenger ticket.' Mr Rose was liberated only on giving a

ransom of four thousand pounds.

A Sicilian newspaper courageously commenting on this case of abduction,

makes the following candid remarks: 'The putting of Mr Rose to ransom

has proved incontestably two things--that ransoms in Sicily are not

arranged by the brigands, but are the result of a vile and dastardly

speculation of wealthy persons, and that round a band of brigands a

vast association of evil-doers belonging to the upper class forms

itself and enriches itself in different ways by means of brigandage.

We ask, who furnished the brigand Leone with all the necessary

indications to make the seizure? Who informed him in advance of the

coming of Mr Rose? Who gave to the bandit the exaggerated audacity of

going and seeking again his prey among thirteen persons in the midst

of three carriages, at a short distance from three "Carabinieri?" Who

communicated to the brigand the password that the mounted soldiers use

with the "Carabinieri?" And again, who posted to Palermo the letters

which Leone made Mr John Rose write to the members of his family? And

who gave him the account, with such marvellous exactness, of the

conversations which occurred in the house of Rose and with the friends

of the family? Who gave complete information of the movements of the

public force? Who furnished them in the plain country (for during

twenty days the band did not come near a single house) with victuals,

with warnings, and who had care of the bandits' horses? This is what we

wish to know, what we ought to know. The civic power has the supreme

right, the supreme duty, of bringing these things to light. The state

of alarm is intolerable; the state of fear is unworthy of us. Citizens,

arouse yourselves! you are sons of a free country--and there is no

liberty where order is not--and let it be a blow of the executioner;

put a price on the head and kill without pity. But the government does

not believe that if it ought to arouse for itself the vigour of the

citizens it would not have the duty of completing it. The security

of the infected Sicilian provinces can only be regained by Herculean

efforts and exceptional intelligence.' Very true; but where is that

intelligence to be found?

A correspondent of _The Times_ (December 11), dating from Naples,

throws some light on the audacious proceedings of Leone, and the

weakness of magisterial authority in dealing with Sicilian brigandage.

'To shew you (says this writer) what is the state of Sicily, I cite

briefly the report of a recent trial at Assisi. The band of Leone,

which lately carried off Mr Rose, some time ago carried off a gentleman

of Termini called Paoli. As he was rich, money was supposed to be the

motive of the capture, and a large ransom was offered, but vengeance

was the object, and Signor Paoli was murdered. His friends, who were

ignorant of the fact, sent a ransom amounting to between seventy and

eighty thousand lire, not to be delivered until Paoli was in their

hands. The brigands, however, insisted on the money being given up

immediately, promising to send their prisoner to his friends. This

the two messengers refused to do, and were returning, when they were

riddled with shot, and the ransom money was seized. A companion of

Leone, called De Pasquale, who had some regard for the murdered man

and some sense of honour, resolved to take vengeance on Leone, but

he was anticipated, for Leone murdered him treacherously, and placed

his head on a cross in the commune of Alia, which, by-the-bye, has a

population of from four to five thousand inhabitants. The trial which

has been alluded to above concerned three of the band who had been

arrested after these atrocious crimes. Each had his advocates, but

on the day of trial they were not forthcoming. The president of the

court assigned them three other advocates, but these were refused by

the brigands, who demanded an adjournment. To this the court would not

consent, and the accused then began to insult the president, jury,

advocates, and witnesses, till it was found necessary to remove them

and continue the trial in their absence. The result was, that two were

condemned to capital punishment, and the third to the Ergastolo, in

consideration of his youth, he having been under twenty-one years when

the crimes were committed. As to the two condemned to death, no doubt a

pardon or commutation will be granted, the more so that the abolition

of capital punishment is resolved on; but whether pardoned or not, it

will make little difference under the present weak system of judicial

administration.'

Nothing, we repeat, but a stern course of martial law will remedy the

disorder. But of that or any intelligent system of repression there is

little prospect. The ministers of the crown, and likely enough other

members of the legislature, will talk plentifully on the subject,

and there will be an end of the affair. Mawkish philanthropy, to say

nothing of black-mail, is keeping a large portion of Sicily in a

state of chronic disorder. Capital has deserted that beautiful and

productive island. Tourists are afraid to visit it. Roads are in a

bad condition. Lands are uncultivated. Unless from some mercantile

compulsion, well-disposed persons flee from a country so delivered

up by misgovernment to a parcel of unscrupulous ruffians. A sad blot

this on modern Italy, which it does not seem in a hurry to remove.

Nor, we fear, will it be removed until a higher moral tone pervades

the classes connected with the public administration. As regards the

personal security of travellers, the southern parts of Italy at present

rank below Turkey; and we advise all who have the power to do so, to

refrain from visiting a country so unhappily delivered up to the demon

of brigandage!

W. C.

WITS AND WITTICISMS.

Shakspeare's statement, that 'a jest's prosperity lies not in the

tongue of him who makes it,' is unhappily not quite correct. It often

lies not only in his tongue but in his manner of speaking it, and in

the occasion which brings it forth; and all these advantages are lost

when it is re-told. In works, therefore, such as Timbs' _Anecdote Lives

of the later Wits and Humorists_ (Bentley) before us, the editor has a

much more difficult task, and one less likely to be appreciated than

may be supposed. With the exception too of Douglas Jerrold and one or

two others, whose sayings have not only been 'extremely quoted,' as

Praed expresses it, but published, it is very hard to discover what

they said. A wit is in this view almost as unfortunate as an actor,

since if we have neither seen nor heard him, we are not likely to be in

a position to judge how great a wit he was. On the other hand, a work

of this kind is very useful in putting the saddle on the right horse,

and also in tracing the accepted witticism to its true source.

For example, no _bon mot_ has been in more general use of late than

that attributed to Sir George Cornewall Lewis. 'How pleasant would life

be but for its amusements; and especially if there was no such thing

as "a little music" in the world.' Now, the germ of this, as Mr Timbs

shews us, is to be found in Talleyrand's _Memoirs_. 'Is not Geneva

dull?' asked a friend of his. 'Yes,' he replied, 'especially when they

amuse themselves.'

There has been no one like Talleyrand for cynicism; for though

Jerrold has a reputation for bitter aloes, there was generally some

fun about his satire, which prevented irritation on the part of its

object. Imagine a lady hearing that this had been said of her: 'She

is insupportable;' with the addition (as if the prudent statesman had

gone too far, and wished to make amends): 'that is her only defect.'

Thulieres, who wrote on the Polish Revolution, once observed: 'I

never did but one mischievous work in my life.' 'And when will it be

ended?' inquired Talleyrand. It was he who remarked upon the murder

of the Duke d'Enghien, that 'it was worse than a crime; it was a

blunder.' Curiously enough, Charles Buller said of this 'that such

an expression could never be uttered by an Englishman, and could be

heard by no Englishman without disgust;' and yet this saying has been

more quoted of late--and seriously too--than almost any other, both

by our statesmen and our newspaper writers. Madame de Staël drew a

portrait of him, as an elderly lady, in her novel of _Delphine_, and

also of herself as the heroine. 'They tell me,' said he, 'that we are

both of us in your novel in the _disguise_ of women.' Perhaps his very

best witticism was upon an old lady of rank, who married a _valet de

chambre_, and it was made at the whist-table. 'Ah,' said he, 'it was

late in the game: at nine[1] we don't reckon honours.'

A very different sort of Wit was Archbishop Whately; for though he was

caustic enough, he could be comical, and even did not shrink from a

pun. This is generally a low species of wit, but it must be remembered

that perhaps the very best 'good thing' that was ever uttered,

Jerrold's definition of dogmatism (grown-up puppyism), included it.

Pinel was speaking to the archbishop about the (then) new and improved

treatment of lunatics, and mentioned that gardening was found to

be a good occupation for them. 'I should doubt that,' replied His

Grace; 'they might _grow madder_.' He once confounded a horse-dealer

who was endeavouring to sell him a very powerful animal. 'There is

nothing, your Grace,' said he, 'which he can't draw.' 'Can he draw

an inference?' inquired Whately. It is curious how many now popular

jokes and even riddles emanated from the brain of the Archbishop of

Dublin: What Joan of Arc was made of; the difference between forms and

ceremonies; why a man never starves in the Great Desert, &c. The answer

to the following he withheld; it has puzzled many persons who make

nothing of a double acrostic, and will probably continue to do so:

When from the Ark's capacious round

The beasts came forth in pairs,

Who was the first to hear the sound

Of boots upon the stairs?

One of his great pleasures was to poke fun at people who will think

philosophically upon questions that only require the commonest of

common-sense. He propounded to a whole roomful of divines the problem:

'Why do white sheep eat so very much more than black sheep?' There were

all sorts of reasons suggested. One profound person thought since black

attracted the sun, that black sheep could get on with less nutriment

than the others. Dr Whately shook his head: 'White sheep eat more

because there are more of them.'

The archbishop was the very personification of shrewdness, and he was

not afraid to say what he thought.

'Concealment,' he observed, 'is a good spur to curiosity, which gives

an interest to investigation, and the _Letters of Junius_ would have

been long forgotten if the author could have been clearly pointed out

at the time.' This is very true, though few would have had the courage

to say it. The _Letters of Junius_ are inferior to those of _The

Englishman_ (also, by-the-bye, anonymous), published in the _Times_

newspaper some years ago, and even inferior to many of the biting

personal articles (beneath contempt, viewed in that light) printed

later still in the _Queen's Messenger_.

Lord John Russell, like 'Single-speech Hamilton,' said one good thing,

on which we believe his reputation in that line rests; he defined a

proverb as 'The wisdom of many and the wit of one.' Rogers observed it

was the only saying for which he envied any man, and Rogers was a good

judge. Sydney Smith said of the latter's slow habit of composition,

that 'when he produced a couplet he went to bed, the knocker was tied

up, straw laid down, the caudle made, and that the answer to inquirers

was, that Mr Rogers was as well as could be expected.' And he was

almost as elaborate with his sayings as with his verses. When they were

said, however, they were very good. 'When Croker wrote his review in

the _Quarterly_ upon Macaulay's _History_, Rogers remarked that he had

"intended murder, but committed suicide."'

A great advantage bestowed on us by the publication of these volumes

is that they contain several famous things which are not to be found

elsewhere, or only with much difficulty. One of these is Lord Byron's

_Question and Answer_ upon Rogers, which (if we remember right) is

suppressed, and at all events is not to be found in many editions

of his works; another, of a very different kind, is Albert Smith's

'Engineer's Story,' which used to convulse the audience in the Egyptian

Hall. Of course one misses the hubble-bubble of the pipe, and the

inimitable manner with which the narrator informed us: 'He told me the

stupidest story I ever heard in my life, and now I am going to tell it

to you.'

There are some very disappointing things in this work, which, however,

are not to be laid at the door of Mr Timbs; a good many wits appear in

it, who--for all that is related of them--never made a witticism. Dr

Maginn, for example, had a great reputation, but it has not outlived

him, and nothing we read here of him impresses us favourably, or

indeed at all. 'Father Prout' also, as the Rev. Francis Mahoney called

himself, may have been a most charming companion, but he is very dull

reading. We are afraid that whisky had a good deal to do with the

exhilaration experienced in their society by these gentlemen's friends.

Even John Hookham Frere--when he comes to be 'fried,' as the Americans

call it--was not so much of a joker, and made a little wit go a very

long way. It is true that the farther we go back the less likely it is

that good _sayings_ should be preserved; but those that _are_ preserved

should be worth hearing. On the other hand, all that is written stands

on the same ground, and it is certain that the examples given of the

more modern writers are much superior to those of their elder brothers.

Of the seniors, Canning is one of the most remarkable, though the

impression that he was greatly overrated by his contemporaries is not

to be eluded. In many respects he reminds us of the living Disraeli.

Moore says of him, in his _Life of Sheridan_, that he joined the

Tories 'because of the difficulties which even genius like his would

experience in rising to its full growth under the shadowy branches of

the Whig aristocracy;' and generally the interest attaching to him, as

in the case of the present Premier, is of a personal character. His

mode of life was, for statesmen of that day, domestic, and he is said

to have invented the now popular game of 'Twenty Questions.' In the

example here given of it, however, the answers are not simply 'Yes'

and 'No,' so that the thing which is to be guessed must have been

very much more easily arrived at, and his 'power of logical division'

need not have been overwhelming. As a drawing-room wit he had a great

reputation; but as a statesman, Sydney Smith gives this characteristic

account of him: 'His being "in office" is like a fly in amber. Nobody

cares about the fly; the only question is, How the mischief did it get

there? When he is jocular, he is strong; when he is serious, he is like

Samson in a wig. Call him a legislator, a reasoner, and the conductor

of the affairs of a great nation, and it seems to me as absurd as if a

butterfly were to teach bees to make honey. That he is an extraordinary

writer of small poetry, and a diner-out of the highest metre, I

do most readily admit.' He certainly said some very injudicious

things in parliament; for example, his description of the American

navy--'Half-a-dozen fir frigates with bits of bunting flying at their

heads'--excited Cousin Jonathan, as it well might, beyond all bounds.

He compared Lord Sidmouth (Mr Addington), because he was included in

every ministry, to the small-pox, 'since everybody must have it once in

their lives.' His wittiest verses perhaps occur in the poem composed on

the tomb of Lord Anglesey's leg, lost at Waterloo:

And here five little ones repose,

Twin-born with other five;

Unheeded of their brother toes,

Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot, to speak more plain,

Lie here of one commanding;

Who though he might his wits retain,

Lost half his understanding....

And now in England, just as gay,

As in the battle brave,

Goes to the rout, the ball, the play,

With one leg in the grave....

Fate but indulged a harmless whim;

Since he could _walk_ with one,

She saw two legs were lost on him

Who never meant to _run_.

A very lively poem, no doubt; but how inferior, when compared with one

on a somewhat similar subject by Thomas Hood, namely, _Ben Battle_:

Said he: 'Let others shoot,

For here I leave my _second_ leg,

And the _forty-second foot_.'

Comparisons, however, are odious; and it would be especially odious to

Mr Canning to pursue this one.

Of the once famous Captain Morris, we read that his poems reached

a twenty-fourth edition. But where are they now? His verses were

principally Anacreontic; his _To my Cup_ received the gold cup from

the Harmonic Society; but they are greatly inferior to Tom Moore's.

In Hood's line, however, he was more successful, and his _Town and

Country_ might well have been written by that great humorist himself:

Oh, but to hear a milkmaid blithe,

Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!

My grass is of that sort, alas!

That makes no hay--called sparrow-grass

By folks of vulgar tongue....

Where are ye, birds that blithely wing

From tree to tree, and gaily sing,

Or mourn in thicket deep?

My cuckoo has some ware to sell,

The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sheep!

The above is excellent; nor is the Captain less felicitous in

describing the other view of the subject--which was no doubt his

own--namely, the disadvantages of a rustic life:

In London I never know what to be at,

Enraptured with this, and transported with that;

. . . . .

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees,

And whisper soft nonsense in groves, if you please;

But a house is much more to my mind than a tree;

And for groves--oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me....

Then in town let me live and in town let me die,

For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.

If I must have a villa, in London to dwell,

Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall.

It is sad to think that the last line will be almost the only one

familiar to our readers, and that the memory of the gallant captain has

died away, not indeed 'from all the circle of the hills,' but from the

London squares he loved, and which knew him so well.

It is not as a wit that Samuel Taylor Coleridge is chiefly famous,

but his _Table-talk_ contains many things that would have made the

reputation of a diner-out; sometimes they are metaphorical, as when,

upon a friend of Fox's, who would take the very words out of his mouth,

and always put himself forward to interpret him, he observed that the

man always put him in mind of the steeple of St Martin's on Ludgate

Hill, which is constantly getting in the way when you wish to see the

dome of St Paul's. Sometimes they are philosophic, as when he remarked

that all women past seventy, whom ever he knew, were divided into three

classes--1. That dear old soul; 2. That old woman; 3. That old witch.

And again, they are sometimes purely witty, as, 'Some men are like

musical glasses--to produce their finest tones, you must keep them wet.'

Coleridge has also left some fine definitions, which are only not witty

because of their wisdom. He compares a single Thought to a wave of the

sea, which takes its form from the waves which precede and follow it;

and Experience to the stern-lights of a ship, which illumine only the

track it has passed.

His epigram on a bad singer is excellent:

Swans sing before they die; 'twere no bad thing

Should certain persons die before they sing.

With respect to the Irish wits who are introduced in these volumes, the

reader is in many cases disposed to imagine that some of the joke must

lie in the brogue, which print is unable to render; but Curran is a

brilliant exception. There is nothing more humorous in the whole work

than the account of his duel with Judge Egan. The latter was a big man,

and directed the attention of the second to the advantage which in this

respect his adversary had over him.

'He may hit me as easily as he would a haystack, and I might as well be

aiming at the edge of a knife as at his lean carcass.'

'Well,' said Curran, 'let the gentleman chalk the size of my body on

your side, and let every ball hitting outside of that go for nothing.'

Even Sydney Smith never beat this; but he said many things as humorous

as this one of Curran's, and indeed was always saying them. Here is

one, also, as it happens, respecting fat and leanness. Speaking of

having been shampooed at Mahommed's Baths at Brighton, he said: 'They

squeezed enough out of me to make a lean curate.' Every one knows the

advice he gave to the Bishop of New Zealand, just before his departure

for that cannibal diocese: 'A bishop should be given to hospitality,

and never be without a smoked little boy in the bacon-rack and a cold

missionary on the sideboard.' The above is perhaps the best example

of the lengths to which Sydney Smith's imagination would run in the

way of humour; as the following is the most characteristic stroke of

Jerrold's caustic tongue. At a certain supper of sheep's heads a guest

was so charmed with his fare that he threw down his knife and fork,

exclaiming: 'Well, say I, sheep's heads for ever!' 'There's egotism,'

said Jerrold.

There is nothing, it has been written, so dreary as a jest-book;

and for fear our article on this subject should come under the same

condemnation, we here bring it to a conclusion, with a cordial

expression of approval of the cake from which we have extracted so many

plums.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] They played long-whist in those times; we should say of course 'at

four' nowadays.

RURAL LIFE IN FRANCE.

The ordinary tourist has in general no time to get acquainted with the

inner life of the people to whom his flying visits are paid. He has the

largest possible space to get over in the shortest possible time, and

thanks to railways and steamboats, he accomplishes his object. He goes

to see Paris, and finds it not altogether unlike London; the people are

not very dissimilar; the habits of life have a general resemblance;

he need not even talk French unless he chooses; and except that he is

generally pretty well got up in his Continental Bradshaw, he returns

little wiser than he went away.

This ignorance about continental nations in general, and about our

nearest neighbours in particular, Mr Hamerton does his best to remedy

in his very interesting and instructive account of rural life in

France.[2]

His first difficulty was to find a house there which should be

tolerably convenient, and within easy reach of the picturesque scenery

in which a landscape painter finds his treasure-trove. In company

with his wife he visited a variety of places, such as Vienne, Macon,

Collonges, and the wine districts of Burgundy; but with none was he

satisfied. He next tried Nuits, Besançon, the valley of the Doubs and

other spots, without being able to find the particular one which could

alone suit his wandering foot; and when about to give up the search in

despair, a friend came to the rescue. 'Make a note of what you want,'

said this sensible man, 'and I will find it for you.' He was as good

as his word; the house was found (precisely where, we are not told);

and a very charming little house it was, out of the world, but still

sufficiently in it to be accessible, with fine natural scenery near,

and an abundance of hills, valleys, and streams sufficiently large to

be navigable by a canoe.