[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 681. SATURDAY, JANUARY 13, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A WASTED EXISTENCE.
In every account of the French Revolution, there crop up names of
actors in that terrible drama, not to be forgotten. The very vileness
of these individuals has rendered their names imperishable. Execrated
by successive generations, it would never occur to us that a time
would come when, by a distortion of principle, literature would try
to gloss over the evil deeds of these infamous personages, and hold
them up to general admiration and pity. It would be imagined that
Robespierre, Marat, St Just, Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Hebert,
Couthon, and a number of others, were too bad--too persistently
wicked--to evoke sentiments of compassion. Time, however, brings about
unexpected changes. For anything we can tell, some plodding enthusiast
may be ransacking archives, and gathering traditions to represent
Robespierre as a noble-minded hero, whose character has been altogether
misunderstood. Marat, too, may possibly soon be spoken of with gentle
regret--as what a worthy young man he was when studying medicine at
Edinburgh, and living in modest lodgings in the College Wynd, and so
on; making him out to be a prodigy of excellence. As a commencement
to this new and undesirable literature, comes a biography of Camille
Desmoulins, by a French writer, Jules Claretie, purporting to be
founded on hitherto unpublished documents, and which appears before
us as an English translation. Not a paltry-looking book is it by any
means, but a handsomely printed octavo, of nearly five hundred pages,
embellished with a portrait of the hero Camille. After that nothing
will surprise us.
Unless for a hope of drawing some useful moral for the benefit of
young and ardent spirits, we should not have ventured on any notice
of this extraordinary production. What the moral is, will appear as
we go along. It may be worth while in the first place to say that
Claretie, the writer of the book, almost worships his hero. He sets
out by describing him as the '_gamin_ of genius, whom Paris attracted,
seduced, and kept for ever;' and then, to let us know the fullest
particulars of the wonderful _gamin_, he makes a pilgrimage to the
small town of Guise, in Picardy, where Camille was born, 2d March 1760.
The antique little town is gone through from end to end; and the house
in which Camille first drew breath, and spent his early years, situated
in the street of the Grand Pont, in front of the Place d'Armes, is
minutely described. Claretie was shocked to find that the inhabitants
of the town had no remembrance of his hero. 'They have forgotten
their unfortunate townsman, the generous fool, the madcap of genius,
who gave his life to the Republic--they have forgotten, after having
misunderstood, and perhaps calumniated him.'
Camille's father occupied a good position. Skilled in the law, he
was lieutenant-general of the bailiwick of Guise, and a grave and
industrious man, highly esteemed by all within his jurisdiction.
His wife had brought him a small fortune, which partly paid for the
education of his five children, of whom Camille was the eldest. As this
eldest boy grew up, great hopes were entertained of his intelligence
and general liveliness. He should receive a good college education,
and be brought up a man of law. Who knows but he might one day become
a member of the Parliament of Paris? With some financial scheming,
and the presentation of a bursary, Camille was entered a student at
the college of Louis-le-Grand. Here, studying with avidity, and quick
in apprehension, he attained a singular proficiency in a knowledge of
Greek and Roman classics. Unfortunately, the more deeply he became
acquainted with ancient authors, the more was his enthusiastic
temperament stimulated to uphold in its wildest form the cause of
political liberty. Nothing restrained his impassioned notions. Poring
over the Old Testament, he discovered, as he thought, in a passage
in Ezekiel that the Revolution was predicted word for word. Then, in
his perturbed imaginings he began to write poetry, full of frantic
allusions to the harangues of Demosthenes and Cicero. Completing his
education, he became a licentiate of law, and in 1785 was sworn in as
an advocate of the Parliament of Paris. His choice of a profession
was somewhat of a mistake; for in the opening of a speech he usually
stammered awkwardly, by involuntarily repeating the words hon, hon;
wherefore, in fun, he acquired the name Monsieur Hon. It was only at
the outset of an oration that he stumbled on hon, hon; for when once
fairly set agoing he spoke fluently and with precision. Yet, the hon,
hon was against him as a pleader, and he did not rise to distinction at
the bar. The truth is, he was more ready as a writer than a speaker;
and at the dawn of the Revolution he is found to be one of those
pamphleteers who inconsiderately helped to stir up the wildest passions
of the mob. To his relations in the antiquated town in Picardy he
offered a painful spectacle. It was felt that his education and his
brilliant talents had only qualified him to be a reckless demagogue.
Sad down-come to the hopes of old Desmoulins, who had not the slightest
desire to turn the world upside down.
Camille's infatuation was that of thousands, whose brains had been
deranged not less by the teaching of so-called philosophers, than
by the scandalous condition of public affairs. From causes familiar
to all who have read the history of France, abuses of every sort
had attained dimensions which nothing short of the most earnest and
patient consideration could peaceably redress. Patient consideration,
however, was the last thing thought of. The unfortunate Louis XVI. was
unable to allay the general effervescence; and his ministers, though
well-meaning in their way, were unfit to stem the political ferment.
In July 1789, on the exile of Necker, the popular wrath was great. The
great court-yard of the Palais-Royal, which we now see a picture of
tranquillity with its nurses and children, was crowded with vehement
orators. The most fiery of the whole is Camille Desmoulins, who jumps
upon a table, and for the instant overcoming his stammer, addresses
and adds fury to the surging multitude. The spark of armed revolt was
struck. A day or two afterwards (July 14), the Bastille was assaulted
and taken. In the midst of the hideous saturnalia, Camille is seen with
a drawn sword in his hand, joining in the popular triumph.
From this time Camille is one of the leaders of the Revolution, by
speaking at the clubs and using his pen freely. His work _La France
Libre_ (France Free) helped materially to give him notoriety. The
book, however, dealt too much with liberty in the abstract. He deemed
it necessary to hint at the advantages of doing summary justice
on suspected individuals. Here was a scholar and a gentleman so
carried off his feet by political frenzy as to write ironically of
assassination. His production, animated with a terrible demoniac
fury, was entitled _Discours de la Lanterne aux Parisiens_--in plain
English, the iron of the street lamps is invoked as a convenient
gallows on which to perform the atrocities of 'Lynch-law.' From this
extraordinary and disreputable production, Camille became known as the
'procureur-général de la lanterne;' a designation which he did not
dislike. Will it be credited? Claretie, who tells all this minutely,
expresses no horror at the revelation. Speaking of the work, he says:
'There was never anything more eloquent. Its wit, even when it seems
ill employed in deadly personalities, dazzles us.'
Conferring a feverish popularity on Camille, which was satisfying
to his vanity, these productions were, it appears, of little
pecuniary avail. He was now thirty years of age, with barely means of
subsistence; such was his extremity, that he was driven to ask doles
of money from his father, which could very ill be spared. From this
state of depression his fortunes rose by the exercise of his pen as
a journalist. His periodical was styled the _Révolutions de France
et de Brabant_. It was successful, but only by the vileness of its
lampoons and libels on private character, which brought him frequently
into trouble. In his wild indiscretion, he even cut libellous jokes
on M. Sanson, the public executioner, who, not inclining to submit to
his impertinence, raised an action of damages to the extent of three
thousand livres. Considering the way in which public affairs were
drifting, an attack on Sanson was very much like an act of madness. The
guillotine was soon to be in full swing.
Towards the end of 1790, Camille passed through what may be called the
romance of his existence. He formed an ardent attachment to Lucille
Duplessis, a young lady of a good family, handsome, beautiful, of
gentle temperament, and whom he called 'an adorable little blonde.' M.
Duplessis, the father, offered some opposition to the proposed match;
but in time he assented to what seemed the inevitable, and accepting
Camille as a son-in-law, gave him a good fortune with his daughter.
The marriage took place December 29, 1790, and we observe that among
Camille's friends as witnesses are inscribed the names of Petion and
Robespierre.
While still pouring out invectives in his journal, there occurred a
fresh theme for vituperation. Alarmed for his personal safety, the poor
king attempted to fly with his family, and was arrested, and brought
back (June 1791). Roused at the idea of the king's desertion of his
post, Camille's fury knew no bounds. He degraded his pen by writing of
the 'male and female Capets,' and in his fervour headed a deputation
to the municipality informing them of the project of deposing Louis
XVI. Shortly afterwards, under some apprehension of rough usage, he
dropped the publication of his journal, and for a time he resumed
his occupation of advocate at the tribunals. In these vicissitudes
he clung in a friendly spirit to Danton, and Danton liked him as an
associate. They lived in different floors of the same building, in the
Cour de Commerce, and betwixt their respective wives there was a kindly
intercourse, the account given of which comes soothingly amidst details
of public perturbation. Camille's son, Horace, was born July 6, 1792,
'the little Horace whom Robespierre danced so often on his knees'--a
fine point this for any biographer of Robespierre!
Soon came the terrible convulsion of the 10th August 1792, when the
Tuileries were sacked by a savage mob, and the royal family were
forced to seek refuge in the National Assembly. What part Camille
took in this brutal affair is not mentioned. We only know that he
was somehow engaged in the disturbance, and, to the consternation of
his wife Lucille, came home with a gun in his hand. The monarchy,
at which he constantly railed, was now substantially at an end. A
universal terrorism was let loose. Searching visits to private houses
having filled the prisons with suspected aristocrats, it was resolved
to massacre them _en masse_. The municipality taking in hand this
atrocity, hired a band of three hundred assassins, who began the work
of destruction on the 2d September. The massacre lasted five days,
during which eight thousand individuals, convicted of no crime, were
put to death with barbarous cruelty. Claretie indignantly denies that
Camille had any hand in this iniquity, and throws the blame on Danton,
who was now Minister of Justice and wished to strike terror into the
royalists. An authority which we consider to be as trustworthy as
Claretie, says distinctly that Camille, who was appointed secretary to
Danton, 'organised with him the massacres in the prisons.' At anyrate,
Camille was the confidant and associate of Danton, with whose designs
he could scarcely fail to be acquainted.
Camille was now appointed a deputy to the Convention by the city of
Paris, and as such he was placed in close connection with the leaders
of the Revolution. We have not space to follow him in this new line
of duty. As a Dantonist, he roundly abused the Girondists. To his
eternal disgrace, he voted for the king's death, and had not even
the good taste to refrain from facetiousness on the occasion. Deeply
and remorsefully did he pay for his obsequiousness to the vilest of
mankind. Already there was a Nemesis on his track. Batch after batch
of unhappy individuals were condemned by the Revolutionary Tribunal,
not only in Paris but all over France. Camille began to entertain the
notion that things had gone too far. His conscience was roused, and
roused in a remarkable manner. Walking out one evening, the rays of
the setting sun shining brilliantly, seemed to transform the waters of
the Seine into a river of blood. To his poetical fancy the phenomenon
was accepted as an appeal to mercy, and awakened him to a lively
sense of the horrors produced by the revolutionary mania. We are led
to understand that from this time he began to agitate for moderate
measures. The change of views, though morally commendable, was fatal
as regarded his own safety. Camille, who at first was thought to be
recklessly extreme in his views, was now reckoned among the moderates,
and was pointed at with the finger of scorn. He was chargeable with the
grave offence of dining with aristocrats. Repudiated by the Cordeliers,
of which club he had once been a shining light, he was in a sense a
political outlaw. Such was the reward of his frantic extravagances.
In his mortification he commenced a paper in numbers, the _Vieux
Cordelier_ (Old Cordelier). It was admirable as a brilliant effort of
genius, but was of no more avail than if it had been addressed to a
menagerie of wild beasts. The Old Cordelier advocated the institution
of a Committee of Clemency to stay the Reign of Terror. The proposals
for mercy were denounced at a meeting of the Jacobin Club, when
Robespierre suggested that the numbers of the Old Cordelier then
published should be burned. 'Burning is not answering,' said Camille.
'Well, your writings shall be answered,' replied Robespierre. The
answer was to be of a sharper nature than was implied by the words.
Robespierre resolved to get rid of Camille, as any further connection
with him would imperil his own safety.
From the fragmentary documents which Claretie has strung together, it
is learned that in the beginning of 1794 Camille was beset by fatal
presentiments. 'He was weary; he felt that all was lost; and that
he had brought about not his own destruction only, but that of his
family.' Bitter consideration! We wonder--for Claretie does not tell
us--whether Camille at this saddening period ever had a clear idea of
the error he had committed? Did he now see that while his theories
were possibly unchallengeable in the abstract, they had all along been
unsuitable for practical application in France, where the bulk of the
people were illiterate, and without any experience of the obligations
incidental to constitutional government? Likely enough, like others
about him, his head was too much in the clouds to see things in this
light. The 'generous fool,' as Claretie calls him, he had, ever since
commencing as tribune of the people, been contributing to widespread
ruin and his own cruel death. Possibly, he reckoned that the friendship
of Robespierre, who was now the arbiter of fate, would save him from
the guillotine. Vain hope, if it ever existed. Robespierre, the
'Incorruptible,' knew nothing of friendship, in pursuit of his grand
idea of cutting off three hundred thousand heads; and the heads of
Camille Desmoulins and his wife Lucille would help as well as others to
make out the tale. Besides, Camille's defection towards moderatism was
not to be endured.
It was not pleasant for Camille to find that he was at the mercy
of a man possessed with notions so very uncompromising; but he had
brought this awkward position on himself, and felt he must take the
consequences. Robespierre had no difficulty in finding a plea to ruin
Camille. Passages of the Old Cordelier were quoted to his disadvantage.
Camille foresaw his condemnation, and while anticipating his arrest, he
received a letter from his father intimating the death of his mother.
'Camille's grief was profound; his eyes were still red with tears
when the patrol charged with the duty of arresting him and Danton,
took possession of the Cour de Commerce. The first words that Camille
uttered when he heard the dull sound of the butt-ends of the muskets on
the pavement were: "They have come to arrest me." Lucille listened to
him, and looked at him bewildered. She felt as if she should go mad.
Camille was calmer than might have been expected. He dressed himself,
embraced his child, took from his library Young's _Night Thoughts_, and
Hervey's _Meditations among the Tombs_, and then pressing to his heart
his weeping wife, whom he adored, their lips met for the last time in
an agonising kiss made bitter by burning tears.'
Camille and Danton were carried off to the prison of the Luxembourg.
Friends endeavoured to interpose in Camille's favour. Lucille traversed
Paris trying to reach Robespierre's ear, that she might move him to
pity. All in vain. There was a trial, but it was little better than
a sham. Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Lacroix, Herault de Sechelles,
Fabre d'Eglantine, Westerman, and some others, fifteen in all, were
condemned. It was done! The Dantonists were to die. For the short
space they were in prison previous to execution, Camille crouched
down and wept over his wasted existence, and of what his young and
bereaved wife might have to endure on his account. He had committed a
double crime. By his folly two existences were blighted. And it was
agonising to think of being brought to a violent death at thirty-four
years of age, when full of life and vigour--hard to be sent to the
scaffold by a parcel of ruffians, for whom he had paved the way
to power by his writings, and who were glad to get rid of him, as
being no longer useful in their selfish designs. These were crushing
thoughts for Camille, at this terrible moment. Danton took things more
philosophically. He, too, had to leave a young wife, but besides being
less remorseful, he was of a manlier nature, and he stood firm at the
approach of death. When the executioner arrived at the prison with his
assistants to perform the toilet of the condemned, Camille struggled
unmanfully, and it was necessary to tie him to his seat while the
collar of his shirt and his hair were cut. He asked Danton to place
between his bound hands a locket containing Lucille's hair, which he
had hitherto worn next his heart. Danton complied; then gave himself up
in his turn to the scissors and cords of the executioner.
The condemned filled two tumbrils or carts. The cortège, environed by
an immense crowd, pursued its way along the quay of the Seine to the
Place de la Révolution. 'Wild with rage and despair, Camille tried to
break his bonds, and tearing his shirt to rags, so that his shoulders,
neck, and chest shewed through the tatters, he made a last appeal to
the crowd.' 'Citizens, your preservers are being sacrificed! It was
I who in '89 called you to arms; I raised the first cry of liberty!
My crime, my only crime has been pity.' Vain words. Danton requested
him to be quiet. It was a beautiful April evening in 1794, as the
two cartloads of victims were driven to the foot of the scaffold, on
which stood the hideous machine, which glowed in the setting sun.
All around, the taverns were full of men drinking, who enjoying the
spectacle, sung, and clinked their glasses. A few minutes sufficed to
put the Dantonists out of existence. At the last, Camille recovered his
composure, and died with the lock of Lucille's hair in his hand.
A terrible but just retribution, when we consider the part Camille
had taken to stimulate the popular fury! There was something less
justifiable and more heart-rending to ensue. Lucille had been seen
hovering near the prison, trying to get a glimpse of her husband;
and was seized on the preposterous charge of plotting to overthrow
the Convention. She had been only guilty of love and despair. Along
with eighteen other women, all under twenty-six years of age, she
was condemned. There was a grandeur in the death of the unfortunate
Lucille. She was a little pale but charming. Conscious of her
innocence, and animated with the pious hope of speedily joining her
dear Camille, her face bore a smile of happiness when placed under
the guillotine. 'The fair child-like head retained its expression of
profound joy and passionate ecstasy even after it lay bleeding in the
dreadful basket.' The family tragedy was complete; for little Horace
was too young to be beheaded. He grew up a fine boy in charge of his
mother's family, but died young at Jacmel, in Hayti, 1817. There is
some satisfaction in knowing that, in little more than three months
after the judicial murder of the Desmoulins, Robespierre perished by
the same violent death which he had fanatically meted to others.
For some not uninteresting particulars regarding the effects that
had belonged to the Desmoulins family, we must refer to the work of
Claretie, which at least deserves the praise of untiring industry and
enthusiasm; while it will be admitted that much pains must have been
taken with the translation.[1] In concluding his narrative, the author
offers a number of laudatory remarks on the Revolution, with which we
cannot possibly agree. A convulsion that destroyed the lives of upwards
of a million human beings, besides leading to military despotism, and
wars which for two-and-twenty years were the scourge of mankind, can
never, among well-regulated minds, be spoken of without abhorrence.
As eighty-six years have failed to give a settled government to
France, nothing can be more certain than that the disorderly excesses
promoted by Camille Desmoulins and others were an irreparable and
ever-to-be-lamented blunder.
W. C.
[1] _Camille Desmoulins and his Wife._ By Jules Claretie. Translated by
Mrs Cashel Hoey. Smith and Elder, London, 1876.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER II.--SUCCESS.
'Only a little hungry.'
Was it my voice making the humiliating confession? Had I lost my
self-command and self-respect to such an extent as that! The words
seemed to come from my dry lips independently of my will.
Sundry ejaculations in one voice, and 'I thought she looked a poor
half-starved mortal!' in another, brought my stray senses back, and
I looked about me. I was lying on a couch in a back sitting-room,
smaller, and more comfortable in appearance than that which I had first
seen, Mr Wentworth and his sour-looking servant watching me. A strong
unpleasant smell of burnt feathers pervaded the room. As I afterwards
found, Hannah knew of no better remedy for faintness; and her master
had hurriedly set light to a packet of quill pens, whilst she deluged
my face and head with water.
'Bring some wine and the best you have in the way of food, at once,'
said Mr Wentworth.
She quitted the room; and her master considerately went towards the
window, and stood there turning over the leaves of a pamphlet until she
re-entered carrying a tray, upon which were a glass of sherry, a small
basin containing something with a savoury smell, and some bread.
'Have you nothing better than that?' he asked.
'It's the strong gravy I was making for your chicken,' she replied.
'She couldn't have anything better than that upon an empty stomach.'
I tried to utter a little protest; but I soon felt it was no use; I
should never be able to get away decently without the little fillip
which the food and wine would give me. So I took a few spoonfuls of the
gravy and a little bread, trying to keep up appearances by saying that
I had foolishly taken a very light breakfast, and so forth.
He accepted the explanation in an easy, matter-of-course way; adding,
that he also frequently got into disgrace with Hannah on account of
his want of appetite in the early morning, and could quite understand
other people's shortcomings in the same way. Then he courteously
expressed a hope that I should rest there until Hannah had prepared
luncheon. 'There is no one in the house besides us three, and therefore
you will not be disturbed. Quietness is about the only thing this old
place has to boast of now.'
'You are very kind,' I murmured, at a loss for words.
'In an hour or two, when you have had luncheon, and feel quite sure
you are sufficiently rested, I will give you fuller particulars as
to the best way of getting to Fairview. We shall meet there very
shortly, I daresay, when I trust to hear that you approve of your new
surroundings, Miss Haddon.' Then, touching my hand, and bowing low with
old-fashioned courtesy, he quitted the room.
The old woman watched him with astonished eyes, and then turned them
suspiciously upon me. I could not help fancying that she was mentally
repeating the words, 'Meet there very shortly.' How weak I must have
been to let this grim-looking, disagreeable old woman see the tears
which forced themselves into my eyes. I intuitively knew that tears and
weakness were the very worst weapons to use with one of her calibre. I
felt that she had in her heart declared war against me from the very
moment I succeeded in obtaining an interview with her master, and, so
to speak, set her at defiance. This was but an armed truce between us,
if truce it was. In course of time I learned that there was another
cause for her antagonism.
Her forbidding suspicious looks had very soon the good effect of
helping me towards recovery. Brushing away the tears which her master's
kindness had brought to my eyes, I drank the sherry, set to work with
the spoon again, and was presently able to eye her as steadily and
speculatively as she eyed me.
'You will do now, till lunch is ready, I suppose?'
'I shall do now without luncheon; in five minutes I shall be able to
go. Will you please tell Mr Wentworth so; and say if he will kindly
send me the further instructions he spoke about, I need not disturb him
again.'
'You are going to meet again?' I thought rather offensively.
'Yes; I hope so.--My bonnet, please. How wet you have made my hair!'
'I suppose it's most of it that new stuff, that can be easily dried or
replaced,' she ungraciously replied, presenting my bonnet. (I did not
take the trouble to vindicate my hair, simply using a towel which lay
near to press out the water as much as possible.) 'I am sorry there is
not a looking-glass in the room; but I can fetch one, if you like.'
I saw that this was meant for sarcasm, so pleasantly responded: 'Yes,
please.'
'It's at the top of the house,' she grumbled.
'In that case I will excuse you from fetching it,' I replied, with
amiable condescension.
She waited a moment to recover that, and then said: 'You are not going
to stop to lunch then?'
'No. Does that surprise you?'
'Yes; it does.'
'Ah, that shews you may be mistaken sometimes.'
She seemed to hesitate a moment as to whether she should carry on the
war or not; and then, I suppose, concluded to defer it, though she took
unnecessary pains to shew that it was only deferred, frowning angry
defiance at me as she went out of the room.
She presently returned with the message that her master thought I could
not be sufficiently rested, and hoped I would stay to luncheon; adding,
with a grim smile: 'He is not accustomed to ladies who are given to
fainting; and does not know how soon they can sometimes get over it.'
'Your master is very kind; but I must go now.'
'If you would not be persuaded, I was to give you this.'
'I am much obliged to him,' I replied, taking the letter she offered;
I really could not honestly add, 'and to you;' but bade her good-day
as pleasantly as I could. She opened the room-door, and then the
hall-door, still as it were under protest, and with the same expression
of disapproval on her face. 'I suppose it is a disagreeable manner that
is natural to her,' I thought, as I turned away.
I walked slowly to the Park, where I sat down and rested awhile; then
went on again towards home--if I could give the place I found shelter
in so euphemistic a name--trying to get used to the idea of my good
fortune, and to think over the arrangements that had to be made for my
flitting. But I was not yet equal to anything in the way of sustained
thought, only conscious, in a pleasant, dreamy kind of way, that a
heavy burden was lifted off my shoulders, and that life would now be
more endurable for the next few months.
The fresh air was doing me good; and by the time I had reached the
house where I lodged, situated in a by-street west of the Park, I had
begun to recover my mental equilibrium. But I fancy my first proceeding
after reaching my room made Becky, the small maid who occasionally did
errands for me, think that I had taken leave of my senses.
'A chop, and a sixpenny cake, and a quarter of a pound of best butter,
and an ounce of tea and sugar!' she repeated, staring at me with widely
opened eyes, while she ran over the items, pausing at each, as though
to remind me of what I was doing.
'I am expecting company, Becky,' I replied, with what was meant for a
reassuring smile.
But Becky was not to be so easily reassured. 'Then give them a
penny'o'th of shrimps, and keep the chop and the cake for yourself when
they are gone,' she earnestly advised.
'But it is some one I care very much for, Becky,' I replied; 'and I can
quite afford it now--I can indeed.'
Very reluctantly she took the money, and went off with a grave face to
do my bidding. Then I sat down with pencil and paper to make certain
calculations. I possessed fifteen shillings and sixpence in money,
my clothes, and a certain packet of my dear mother's old-fashioned
jewellery, with a few words written on the outside to the effect that,
in the event of either illness or death, the contents were to be sold
to defray expenses. I had spoken truly enough in alluding to my sore
need. I had had a hard fight for existence for five long weary months,
during which time I had been able to obtain no better employment
than such as was to be had from shops. Embroidery, screen-painting,
wool-work illuminating, I tried them all in turn, with very slight
success in the matter of remuneration; 'ladies' being, I found, looked
upon rather suspiciously as workers, and as a rule, expected to give a
great deal more labour for small pay than do the 'regulars,' as they
are called. This arises, or did arise--women are getting wiser in these
days--from the false delicacy of a few, who preferred keeping up the
fiction that they were only playing at work, and so deteriorated the
value of gentlewomen as workers. I soon found that it was hopeless
to expect to earn a living that way; and as I had not the experience
in teaching which I believed to be necessary for a governess to
have, there seemed little else to turn to than that of obtaining an
engagement as companion. After the expenses of my mother's funeral had
been paid, I found myself almost destitute; and though I had contrived
to exist since, it was a kind of existence which could not go on
much longer. And yet there was a bright future before me, if I could
contrive to get through the next eight or ten months.
Eight years before the commencement of this story, I was on the eve
of marriage with Philip Dallas, and we were to set out on a voyage to
Jamaica immediately afterwards. Certain plantations there, belonging
to his elder brother, were going to ruin for want of an interested
overlooker on the spot. Edward Dallas did not wholly depend upon the
property, and was not inclined to exile himself; but as he appeared
still less inclined to advance his brother's fortunes in England,
Philip and I agreed to go out and reside in Jamaica until he had made a
competency, which we had every reason to believe might be done in the
course of a few years. We were young (both one-and-twenty), and strong,
and energetic; and hoped, by careful living, to be able to return in
time to enjoy the best part of our lives in Old England. The one and
only thing which caused us to hesitate was the dread of leaving my dear
mother. But she would not hear of Philip sacrificing his prospects,
or of my remaining with her. Unselfish as she was clear-sighted, she
cheerfully assured us she would be more happy in the reflection that
her child was the wife of a good man, and well cared for, than in
keeping me by her side. She was so unmistakably in earnest, that we
felt we were really doing what would most conduce to her happiness in
obeying her. She had her small pension, which quite sufficed for her
needs; and as she pointed out to us, she was altogether better situated
than many mothers. There seemed every reason for hoping that she would
live to a good old age, and we persuaded ourselves that we should be in
England again in time to be a comfort to her declining years.
We had few friends, mother and I. Her limited means, and perhaps a
little of the morbid sensitiveness which the refined poor are apt
to acquire, prevented her moving in the society she was so well
fitted for; and as years went by, she gradually drifted away from old
associations without making new ones. By my father's family (in which
my father was the only son) she had never been much noticed; and after
his death, which took place when I was a child, they entirely ignored
her. She had accepted the position--which now entailed straitened
circumstances--and proudly kept aloof from them. It was perhaps natural
enough that the Haddons of Haddon should not approve the marriage of
their only son with the vicar's penniless daughter; the match was
perhaps not a very prudent one, but they ought not to have forgotten
that she was a gentlewoman. So little, however, did the loss of their
favour trouble us, that it had come to be a jest between my mother and
me to threaten each other with the Haddons of Haddon when any little
financial difficulty arose; a jest which made us more inclined to be
satisfied with things as they were. We could imagine nothing more
humiliating than being obliged to apply to the Haddons of Haddon for
aid of any kind.
My modest trousseau was prepared, and everything packed ready for
transport to the vessel in which our passage was taken. It was the
evening before our wedding-day, and Philip and I had been for a walk in
a quiet silent fashion of our own, taking farewell of the old country.
We walked through part of the city, at peace in the soft summer
moonlight after its day of unrest; and turning into a church where
evening service was going on, knelt down unseen in one of the high pews
to join in the prayers. Then we turned our steps homewards--it would
ever be home to us where my dear mother was--our hearts too full for
words.
I was to spend the remainder of this last night alone with her; and as
we had previously agreed to do, Philip and I parted at the door. Ah,
Philip! how good and true, how handsome you looked as you stood there
lingering to say a few last words, before I entered the house!
'Our last parting, Mary! God bless you, dear wife. Try to make our
mother believe what you will be to me; it will be her best comfort; and
remind her of our agreement. No tears to-morrow.'
Ah, me! had sorrow not been too deep for tears, there would have been
nothing else on the morrow. I ran hastily up-stairs--we had secured
comfortable lodgings with a respectable family for her--and opened the
door, looking towards her accustomed seat as I half-uttered some little
loving speech; only half-uttered it, and then broke down with a cry
of alarm. My mother was lying on the floor in what, for the first few
moments, I imagined to be a fainting-fit. Alas! it was more serious
than that. Whether the cause was physical or mental, I know not; it
is most probable that she had suffered more about the approaching
separation between us than she herself would allow; but she was taken
up a helpless and incurable invalid, who would never again be able to
move from her couch. That was the fiat issued by the medical men on the
bright May morning which was to have seen me a happy bride.
It was very hard for Philip; and as might naturally be expected, he
for a while found it difficult to accede to the sudden change in his
prospects. But I knew he was not likely to blame me for acting as I
did, after the first bitterness of disappointment was over. After a
hurried interview with his brother, in which the latter insisted upon
his keeping to his bond, and setting sail with or without me, Philip
entreated me to go through the ceremony with him, and let him at least
feel that he was leaving a wife. I might soon be left motherless, he
pleaded; and in that case, it would be so much easier for me to follow
him as his wife.
My courage almost gave way. I was sorely tempted to yield. But the
doctors had said that, though my dear mother might not live very
long, there was just a possibility that she might linger for years.
My mother might be excused for looking at the question only as it
affected her child; and she entirely sided with Philip in wishing me
to become his wife, since I insisted upon remaining with her. But I
had to think for him; and strength was given me to act according to
my perception. So long as my mother was spared to me, she must be my
care, and Philip must remain unfettered. That was my decision; and they
could not turn me from it by any amount of persuasion. The following
day Philip set forth alone, and I remained with my mother. But if, in
his disappointment, he was a little hard with me at the time, his first
letter shewed that he blamed me no longer.
I know now it never occurred to him that my mother's income might die
with her. He had been content to take a penniless bride; and if he gave
a thought to my mother's money, it was only to rejoice that she had
enough until he could more amply provide for her. Pride, self-reliance,
or perhaps a little of both, prevented my telling him at the last.
She lived nearly eight years after his departure. Philip, with whom I
had corresponded all that time, was beginning to write hopefully of
being able to return within a twelvemonth, and I tried to struggle on
unaided. What I should have done had things come to the worst, I know
not. There was Edward Dallas; but he was a hard man, who had taken a
great deal more kindly to the delay than he had to our marriage, and I
did not choose that he should know his brother's future wife required
his charity. And there were the Haddons of Haddon, I told myself, with
a forlorn attempt at the old jest.
Meantime, Philip's letters arrived regularly, full of life, and love,
and hope. He had succeeded beyond his expectations. The estate had
rapidly increased in value under his management. Before he had been
there a year, he was able to dictate terms to his brother, and had
since acted as managing partner, with everything in his own hands.
Before she died, my dear mother had the happiness of believing that
Philip and I would soon be united and living in affluence. It was her
greatest comfort to know that I never regretted my decision, and that
Philip had come in time to say that he loved and trusted me all the
more for having kept to it.
As years passed on, there had been observable in Philip's letters just
the growth of mind which might have been expected in the man I had
known at twenty-one. I on my side did my best to make my mental growth
worthy of his. But of late, when I looked at the portrait in my locket
of the fair, frank, almost boyish face of my lover, I was conscious
of a certain uneasiness slowly but surely taking root in my heart,
though I told myself that of course he could not look like that now.
Did _he_ also remember the years that had passed, when he looked at the
portrait he had of me? Did he reflect that a woman of nine-and-twenty
could no longer look like a girl? But these reflections disturbed me
only occasionally, and were soon put aside as unworthy of the woman he
loved. He loved _me_, so what mattered my age?
FAMOUS BRITISH REGIMENTS.
THE BRIGADE OF FOOT GUARDS.
This famous band of British soldiers has always played an important
part in the annals of this country, and its services afford an example
of what our army has been in the past, and what England hopes it will
be in the future. The brigade consists of the Grenadier, Coldstream,
and Fusilier Corps; the first having three battalions, and the others
two each. Each regiment is distinct in itself, and is possessed of its
own traditionary records, although the brigade has likewise traditions
common to the trio which extend over a period of more than two hundred
years; for these splendid corps have ever been inseparable, though each
is in possession of an orderly-room of its own at the Horse Guards,
where its affairs are conducted, and where are kept, amongst many
interesting souvenirs, its records and State colour or flag. The latter
is an elaborate standard, used only on special state occasions, such as
the coronation, mounting guard on the sovereign's birthday, &c.; and
is of crimson silk, richly embroidered with gold, and edged with gold
fringe, and bearing in the centre of its silken folds the names of the
battles in which the regiment to which it belongs has been engaged.
The oldest of the three regiments is the Coldstream, which, when the
brigade is paraded, takes up its position as such on the left of the
line; the Grenadier regiment comes next in point of seniority, and
occupies the right; while the Fusilier--the youngest regiment--forms
up in the centre. This formation may appear mysterious to non-military
readers, as, according to popular notions, the oldest regiment always
occupies the right of the line; but this is not so, for the true reason
is, that the Grenadiers occupy the right because of the particular
service which their title signifies, the grenadier company of every
regiment being the first company.
The proper designation of the three corps is as follows: 1. The
Grenadier or First Regiment of Foot Guards. 2. The Coldstream Guards.
3. The Scots Fusilier or Third Regiment of Foot Guards. This is the
order in which they stand when on the right of the army, and it will
be seen that although there is a first and third regiment of Foot
Guards, there is, nominally, no _second_, the Coldstreams never being
officially designated by any number. The reason for this will presently
appear; and in the meantime we will take the regiments in regular
order, and narrate, as briefly as possible, the history of each,
together with some deeds of daring performed by individual members of
them, and the collective achievements of the brigade.
The Grenadier Guards, as just mentioned, takes the right of the
British army when in line. It is looked upon as the premier corps
of our infantry, and was raised under the following circumstances.
In the year 1655, Cromwell having allied himself with Louis XIV.,
Charles (II.) quitted the French coast and joined the Spaniards in
the Netherlands against the king of France. The loyal English who
shared the prince's exile were enrolled in 1657, and formed into
six regiments. The first of these was called the 'Royal Regiment of
Guards.' There after a time it became disbanded, through the inability
of the exiled prince to maintain it intact; and its members were
compelled to wander about the continent, many of them being reduced so
low as to beg for their daily subsistence.
On the Restoration of Charles II. the regiment was again assembled,
and returned to its native land, where, under circumstances which will
be narrated in connection with the Coldstreams, it became the First
Regiment of Foot Guards.
At Waterloo, this regiment particularly distinguished itself by totally
defeating the Grenadiers of the French Imperial Guards, and thus won
a chaplet which will for ever be associated with its name, for after
the battle the Prince Regent conferred upon it the title of 'Grenadier
Guards' in honour of the event. Every Briton must remember with pride
the glorious charge of the Guards on that occasion, when, lying down
(to avoid the galling fire of the French artillery) until their
opponents were within a few yards of the supposed breach in the British
line, they sprang up at the magic and heart-thrilling words of 'Up,
Guards, and at them!'--ascribed to the Duke of Wellington; and after
pouring a tremendous volley into the devoted ranks of Ney's followers,
rushed madly forward to a splendid and complete victory.
The Duke of Cambridge is the present colonel of the regiment, and its
colours bear the words Lincelles, Corunna (at which battle it was the
only regiment of the Guards present), Barrosa, Peninsula, Waterloo,
Alma, Inkerman, and Sevastopol. The badge of the regiment is a grenade,
which is likewise borne on the colours, together with the royal cipher
within the garter, and the words, '_Honi soit qui mal y pense_.'
The Coldstream Guards was raised in the year 1650; but it was in 1660
that it marched from the little town of Coldstream (from whence it
derives its name), near Berwick-on-Tweed, to London, under the command
of its first colonel, George Monk (afterwards Duke of Albemarle), for
the express purpose of restoring the monarchy by placing Charles II.
on the throne. Monk was a general in the Parliamentary forces and an
admiral of the fleet, and owing to this latter fact the regiment is
permitted to bear upon its Queen's colour a small Union-jack, in honour
of its first colonel's naval rank; a proud privilege not appertaining
to any other regiment in the service.
The 'gallant Coldstreamers,' as they were called, materially assisted
in the happy restoration of the English monarchy; and while marching
to London they met with an enthusiastic reception in the towns and
villages through which they passed. In the meantime Colonel Russell,
an old loyalist officer, had raised a corps which he called the
'King's Regiment of Guards;' and on the arrival of Charles it was
united with the 'Royal Regiment of Guards' which came with him. After
the Restoration, the three regiments which now form the brigade of
Guards were assembled on Tower Hill to take the oath of allegiance to
the king; and as a sign that they repudiated the Commonwealth, they
were ordered to lay down their arms. Having obeyed this order with
the utmost alacrity, they were commanded to take them up again in
the king's service as the First, Second, and Third Regiments of Foot
Guards. The First and Third Regiments did so with cheers; but the
Coldstreamers, to the astonishment of the king, who was present, stood
firm.
'Why does your regiment hesitate?' inquired Charles of General Monk.
'May it please your Majesty,' said the stern old soldier, lowering
the point of his sword, 'the Coldstreamers are your Majesty's devoted
servants; but after the service they have had the honour of rendering
to your Highness, they cannot consent to be _second_ to any corps in
your Majesty's service.'
'And they are right,' said the king; 'they shall be second to none. Let
them take up their arms as my Coldstream Regiment of Foot Guards.'
Monk rode back to the line and communicated the king's decision to the
regiment. It had a magical effect. The arms were instantly raised amid
frantic cries of 'Long live the king!' Since this event the motto of
the Coldstream Guards has been '_Nulli Secundus_'--Second to None.
The regiment has had a part in every important campaign which has taken
place during the two hundred and twenty-six years of its existence,
and has on many occasions greatly distinguished itself. Its colours
bear the words Lincelles, Egypt (with the Sphinx), Talavera, Barrosa,
Peninsula, Waterloo, Alma, Inkerman, and Sevastopol. And the badge of
the regiment is the star of Brunswick with the garter and motto, '_Honi
soit qui mal y pense_.'