Do not cracksmen, when a.s.sembled together, entertain themselves with stories of glorious old burglaries which they or bygone heroes have committed? But that my age is mature and my habits formed, I should really just like to try a little criminality. Fancy pa.s.sing a forged bill to your banker; calling on a friend and sweeping his sideboard of plate, his hall of umbrellas and coats; and then going home to dress for dinner, say--and to meet a bishop, a judge, and a police magistrate or so, and talk more morally than any man at table! How I should chuckle (as my host"s spoons clinked softly in my pocket) whilst I was uttering some n.o.ble speech about virtue, duty, charity! I wonder do we meet garroters in society? In an average tea-party, now, how many returned convicts are there? Does John Footman, when he asks permission to go and spend the evening with some friends, pa.s.s his time in thuggee; waylay and strangle an old gentleman, or two; let himself into your house, with the house-key of course, and appear as usual with the shaving-water when you ring your bell in the morning? The very possibility of such a suspicion invests John with a new and romantic interest in my mind.
Behind the grave politeness of his countenance I try and read the lurking treason. Full of this pleasing subject, I have been talking thief-stories with a neighbor. The neighbor tells me how some friends of hers used to keep a jewel-box under a bed in their room; and, going into the room, they thought they heard a noise under the bed. They had the courage to look. The cook was under the bed--under the bed with the jewel-box. Of course she said she had come for purposes connected with her business; but this was absurd. A cook under a bed is not there for professional purposes. A relation of mine had a box containing diamonds under her bed, which diamonds she told me were to be mine. Mine! One day, at dinner-time, between the entrees and the roast, a cab drove away from my relative"s house containing the box wherein lay the diamonds.
John laid the dessert, brought the coffee, waited all the evening--and oh, how frightened he was when he came to learn that his mistress"s box had been conveyed out of her own room, and it contained diamonds--"Law bless us, did it now?" I wonder whether John"s subsequent career has been prosperous? Perhaps the gentlemen from Bow Street were all in the wrong when they agreed in suspecting John as the author of the robbery.
His n.o.ble nature was hurt at the suspicion. You conceive he would not like to remain in a family where they were mean enough to suspect him of stealing a jewel-box out of a bedroom--and the injured man and my relatives soon parted. But, inclining (with my usual cynicism) to think that he did steal the valuables, think of his life for the month or two whilst he still remains in the service! He shows the officers over the house, agrees with them that the coup must have been made by persons familiar with it; gives them every a.s.sistance; pities his master and mistress with a manly compa.s.sion; points out what a cruel misfortune it is to himself as an honest man, with his living to get and his family to provide for, that this suspicion should fall on him. Finally he takes leave of his place, with a deep, though natural melancholy that ever he had accepted it. What"s a thousand pounds to gentle-folks! A loss, certainly, but they will live as well without the diamonds as with them.
But to John his Hhhonor was worth more than diamonds, his Hhonor was.
Whohever is to give him back his character? Who is to prevent hany one from saying, "Ho yes. This is the footman which was in the family where the diamonds was stole?" &c.
I wonder has John prospered in life subsequently? If he is innocent he does not interest me in the least. The interest of the case lies in John"s behavior supposing him to be guilty. Imagine the smiling face, the daily service, the orderly performance of duty, whilst within John is suffering pangs lest discovery should overtake him. Every bell of the door which he is obliged to open may bring a police officer. The accomplices may peach. What an exciting life John"s must have been for a while. And now, years and years after, when pursuit has long ceased, and detection is impossible, does he ever revert to the little transaction?
Is it possible those diamonds cost a thousand pounds? What a rogue the fence must have been who only gave him so and so! And I pleasingly picture to myself an old ex-footman and an ancient receiver of stolen goods meeting and talking over this matter, which dates from times so early that her present Majesty"s fair image could only just have begun to be coined or forged.
I choose to take John at the time when his little peccadillo is suspected, perhaps, but when there is no specific charge of robbery against him. He is not yet convicted: he is not even on his trial; how then can we venture to say he is guilty? Now think what scores of men and women walk the world in a like predicament; and what false coin pa.s.ses current! Pinchbeck strives to pa.s.s off his history as sound coin. He knows it is only base metal, washed over with a thin varnish of learning. Poluphloisbos puts his sermons in circulation: sounding bra.s.s, lacquered over with white metal, and marked with the stamp and image of piety. What say you to Drawcansir"s reputation as a military commander?
to Tibbs"s pretensions to be a fine gentleman? to Sapphira"s claims as a poetess, or Rodoessa"s as a beauty? His bravery, his piety, high birth, genius, beauty--each of these deceivers would palm his falsehood on us, and have us accept his forgeries as sterling coin. And we talk here, please to observe, of weaknesses rather than crimes. Some of us have more serious things to hide than a yellow cheek behind a raddle of rouge, or a white poll under a wig of jetty curls. You know, neighbor, there are not only false teeth in this world, but false tongues: and some make up a bust and an appearance of strength with padding, cotton, and what not? while another kind of artist tries to take you in by wearing under his waistcoat, and perpetually thumping, an immense sham heart. Dear sir, may yours and mine be found, at the right time, of the proper size and in the right place.
And what has this to do with half-crowns, good or bad? Ah, friend! may our coin, battered, and clipped, and defaced though it be, be proved to be Sterling Silver on the day of the Great a.s.say!
"STRANGE TO SAY, ON CLUB PAPER."
Before the Duke of York"s column, and between the "Athenaeum" and "United Service" Clubs, I have seen more than once, on the esplanade, a preacher holding forth to a little congregation of badauds and street-boys, whom he entertains with a discourse on the crimes of a rapacious aristocracy, or warns of the imminent peril of their own souls. Sometimes this orator is made to "move on" by brutal policemen.
Sometimes, on a Sunday, he points to a white head or two visible in the windows of the Clubs to the right and left of him, and volunteers a statement that those quiet and elderly Sabbath-breakers will very soon be called from this world to another, where their lot will by no means be so comfortable as that which the reprobates enjoy here, in their arm-chairs by their snug fires.
At the end of last month, had I been a Pall Mall preacher, I would have liked to send a whip round to all the Clubs in St. James"s, and convoke the few members remaining in London to hear a discourse sub Dio on a text from the Observer newspaper. I would have taken post under the statue of Fame, say, where she stands distributing wreaths to the three Crimean Guardsmen. (The crossing-sweeper does not obstruct the path, and I suppose is away at his villa on Sundays.) And, when the congregation was pretty quiet, I would have begun:--
In the Observer of the 27th September, 1863, in the fifth page and the fourth column, it is thus written:--
"The codicil appended to the will of the late Lord Clyde, executed at Chatham, and bearing the signature of Clyde, F. M., is written, strange to say, on a sheet of paper BEARING THE "ATHENAEUM CLUB" MARK."
What the codicil is, my dear brethren, it is not our business to inquire. It conveys a benefaction to a faithful and attached friend of the good Field-Marshal. The gift may be a lakh of rupees, or it may be a house and its contents--furniture, plate, and wine-cellar. My friends, I know the wine-merchant, and, for the sake of the legatee, hope heartily that the stock is large.
Am I wrong, dear brethren, in supposing that you expect a preacher to say a seasonable word on death here? If you don"t, I fear you are but little familiar with the habits of preachers, and are but lax hearers of sermons. We might contrast the vault where the warrior"s remains lie shrouded and coffined, with that in which his worldly provision of wine is stowed away. Spain and Portugal and France--all the lands which supplied his store--as hardy and obedient subaltern, as resolute captain, as colonel daring but prudent--he has visited the fields of all. In India and China he marches always unconquered; or at the head of his dauntless Highland brigade he treads the Crimean snow; or he rides from conquest to conquest in India once more; succoring his countrymen in the hour of their utmost need; smiting down the scared mutiny, and trampling out the embers of rebellion; at the head of an heroic army, a consummate chief. And now his glorious old sword is sheathed, and his honors are won: and he has bought him a house, and stored it with modest cheer for his friends (the good old man put water in his own wine, and a gla.s.s or two sufficed him)--behold the end comes, and his legatee inherits these modest possessions by virtue of a codicil to his lordship"s will, written, "strange to say, upon a sheet of paper, bearing the "Athenaeum Club" mark."
It is to this part of the text, my brethren, that I propose to address myself particularly, and if the remarks I make are offensive to any of you, you know the doors of our meeting-house are open, and you can walk out when you will. Around us are magnificent halls and palaces frequented by such a mult.i.tude of men as not even the Roman Forum a.s.sembled together. Yonder are the Martium and the Palladium. Next to the Palladium is the elegant Viatorium, which Barry gracefully stole from Rome. By its side is the ma.s.sive Reformatorium: and the--the Ultratorium rears its granite columns beyond. Extending down the street palace after palace rises magnificent, and under their lofty roofs warriors and lawyers, merchants and n.o.bles, scholars and seamen, the wealthy, the poor, the busy, the idle a.s.semble. Into the halls built down this little street and its neighborhood the princ.i.p.al men of all London come to hear or impart the news; and the affairs of the state or of private individuals, the quarrels of empires or of authors, the movements of the court, or the splendid vagaries of fashion, the intrigues of statesmen or of persons of another s.e.x yet more wily, the last news of battles in the great occidental continents, nay, the latest betting for the horse-races, or the advent of a dancer at the theatre--all that men do is discussed in these Pall Mall agorae, where we of London daily a.s.semble.
Now among so many talkers, consider how many false reports must fly about: in such mult.i.tudes imagine how many disappointed men there must be; how many chatterboxes; how many feeble and credulous (whereof I mark some specimens in my congregation); how many mean, rancorous, p.r.o.ne to believe ill of their betters, eager to find fault; and then, my brethren, fancy how the words of my text must have been read and received in Pall Mall! (I perceive several of the congregation looking most uncomfortable. One old boy with a dyed moustache turns purple in the face, and struts back to the Martium: another, with a shrug of the shoulder and a murmur of "Rubbish," slinks away in the direction of the Togatorium, and the preacher continues.) The will of Field-Marshal Lord Clyde--signed AT CHATHAM, mind, where his lordship died--is written, STRANGE TO SAY, on a sheet of paper bearing the "Athenaeum Club" mark!
The inference is obvious. A man cannot get Athenaeum paper except at the "Athenaeum." Such paper is not sold at Chatham, where the last codicil to his lordship"s will is dated. And so the painful belief is forced upon us, that a Peer, a Field-Marshal, wealthy, respected, ill.u.s.trious, could pocket paper at his Club, and carry it away with him to the country. One fancies the hall-porter conscious of the old lord"s iniquity, and holding down his head as the Marshal pa.s.ses the door.
What is that roll which his lordship carries? Is it his Marshal"s baton gloriously won? No; it is a roll of foolscap conveyed from the Club.
What has he on his breast, under his greatcoat? Is it his Star of India?
No; it is a bundle of envelopes, bearing the head of Minerva, some sealing-wax, and a half-score of pens.
Let us imagine how in the hall of one or other of these Clubs this strange anecdote will be discussed.
"Notorious screw," says Sneer. "The poor old fellow"s avarice has long been known."
"Suppose he wishes to imitate the Duke of Marlborough," says Simper.
"Habit of looting contracted in India, you know; ain"t so easy to get over, you know," says Sn.i.g.g.e.r.
"When officers dined with him in India," remarks Solemn, "it was notorious that the spoons were all of a different pattern."
"Perhaps it isn"t true. Suppose he wrote his paper at the Club?"
interposes Jones.
"It is dated at Chatham, my good man," says Brown. "A man if he is in London says he is in London. A man if he is in Rochester says he is in Rochester. This man happens to forget that he is using the Club paper; and he happens to be found out: many men DON"T happen to be found out.
I"ve seen literary fellows at Clubs writing their rubbishing articles; I have no doubt they take away reams of paper. They crib thoughts: why shouldn"t they crib stationery? One of your literary vagabonds who is capable of stabbing a reputation, who is capable of telling any monstrous falsehood to support his party, is surely capable of stealing a ream of paper."
"Well, well, we have all our weaknesses," sighs Robinson. "Seen that article, Thompson, in the Observer about Lord Clyde and the Club paper?
You"ll find it up stairs. In the third column of the fifth page towards the bottom of the page. I suppose he was so poor he couldn"t afford to buy a quire of paper. Hadn"t fourpence in the world. Oh, no!"
"And they want to get up a testimonial to this man"s memory--a statue or something!" cries Jawkins. "A man who wallows in wealth and takes paper away from his Club! I don"t say he is not brave. Brutal courage most men have. I don"t say he was not a good officer: a man with such experience MUST have been a good officer unless he was a born fool. But to think of this man loaded with honors--though of a low origin--so lost to self-respect as actually to take away the "Athenaeum" paper! These parvenus, sir, betray their origin--betray their origin. I said to my wife this very morning, "Mrs. Jawkins," I said, "there is talk of a testimonial to this man. I will not give one shilling. I have no idea of raising statues to fellows who take away Club paper. No, by George, I have not. Why, they will be raising statues to men who take Club spoons next! Not one penny of MY money shall they have!""
And now, if you please, we will tell the real story which has furnished this scandal to a newspaper, this tattle to Club gossips and loungers.
The Field-Marshal, wishing to make a further provision for a friend, informed his lawyer what he desired to do. The lawyer, a member of the "Athenaeum Club," there wrote the draft of such a codicil as he would advise, and sent the paper by the post to Lord Clyde at Chatham. Lord Clyde finding the paper perfectly satisfactory, signed it and sent it back: and hence we have the story of "the codicil bearing the signature of Clyde, F. M., and written, strange to say, upon paper bearing the "Athenaeum Club" mark."
Here I have been imagining a dialogue between a half-dozen gossips such as congregate round a Club fireplace of an afternoon. I wonder how many people besides--whether any chance reader of this very page has read and believed this story about the good old lord? Have the country papers copied the anecdote, and our "own correspondents" made their remarks on it? If, my good sir, or madam, you have read it and credited it, don"t you own to a little feeling of shame and sorrow, now that the trumpery little mystery is cleared? To "the new inhabitant of light," pa.s.sed away and out of reach of our censure, misrepresentation, scandal, dulness, malice, a silly falsehood matters nothing. Censure and praise are alike to him--
"The music warbling to the deafened ear, The incense wasted on the funeral bier,"
the pompous eulogy p.r.o.nounced over the gravestone, or the lie that slander spits on it. Faithfully though this brave old chief did his duty, honest and upright though his life was, glorious his renown--you see he could write at Chatham on London paper; you see men can be found to point out how "strange" his behavior was.
And about ourselves? My good people, do you by chance know any man or woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbor? Have you ever found yourself willing, nay, eager to believe evil of some man whom you hate? Whom you hate because he is successful, and you are not: because he is rich, and you are poor: because he dines with great men who don"t invite you: because he wears a silk gown, and yours is still stuff: because he has been called in to perform the operation though you lived close by: because his pictures have been bought and yours returned home unsold: because he fills his church, and you are preaching to empty pews? If your rival prospers have you ever felt a twinge of anger? If his wife"s carriage pa.s.ses you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab, don"t you feel that those people are giving themselves absurd airs of importance? If he lives with great people, are you not sure he is a sneak? And if you ever felt envy towards another, and if your heart has ever been black towards your brother, if you have been peevish at his success, pleased to hear his merit depreciated, and eager to believe all that is said in his disfavor--my good sir, as you yourself contritely own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so, you may be sure, some men are uncharitable, jealous, and unjust regarding YOU.
The proofs and ma.n.u.script of this little sermon have just come from the printer"s, and as I look at the writing, I perceive, not without a smile, that one or two of the pages bear, "strange to say," the mark of a Club of which I have the honor to be a member. Those lines quoted in a foregoing page are from some n.o.ble verses written by one of Mr.
Addison"s men, Mr. Tickell, on the death of Cadogan, who was amongst the most prominent "of Marlborough"s captains and Eugenio"s friends." If you are acquainted with the history of those times, you have read how Cadogan had his feuds and hatreds too, as Tickell"s patron had his, as Cadogan"s great chief had his. "The Duke of Marlborough"s character has been so variously drawn" (writes a famous contemporary of the duke"s), "that it is hard to p.r.o.nounce on either side without the suspicion of flattery or detraction. I shall say nothing of his military accomplishments, which the opposite reports of his friends and enemies among the soldiers have rendered problematical. Those maligners who deny him personal valor, seem not to consider that this accusation is charged at a venture, since the person of a general is too seldom exposed, and that fear which is said sometimes to have disconcerted him before action might probably be more for his army than himself." If Swift could hint a doubt of Marlborough"s courage, what wonder that a nameless scribe of our day should question the honor of Clyde?
THE LAST SKETCH.
Not many days since I went to visit a house where in former years I had received many a friendly welcome. We went into the owner"s--an artist"s--studio. Prints, pictures, and sketches hung on the walls as I had last seen and remembered them. The implements of the painter"s art were there. The light which had shone upon so many, many hours of patient and cheerful toil, poured through the northern window upon print and bust, lay figure and sketch, and upon the easel before which the good, the gentle, the beloved Leslie labored. In this room the busy brain had devised, and the skilful hand executed, I know not how many of the n.o.ble works which have delighted the world with their beauty and charming humor. Here the poet called up into pictorial presence, and informed with life, grace, beauty, infinite friendly mirth and wondrous naturalness of expression, the people of whom his dear books told him the stories,--his Shakspeare, his Cervantes, his Moliere, his Le Sage.
There was his last work on the easel--a beautiful fresh smiling shape of t.i.tania, such as his sweet guileless fancy imagined the Midsummer Night"s queen to be. Gracious, and pure, and bright, the sweet smiling image glimmers on the canvas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to have been grouped around their mistress in laughing cl.u.s.ters. Honest Bottom"s grotesque head and form are indicated as reposing by the side of the consummate beauty. The darkling forest would have grown around them, with the stars glittering from the midsummer sky: the flowers at the queen"s feet, and the boughs and foliage about her, would have been peopled with gambolling sprites and fays. They were dwelling in the artist"s mind no doubt, and would have been developed by that patient, faithful, admirable genius: but the busy brain stopped working, the skilful hand fell lifeless, the loving, honest heart ceased to beat.
What was she to have been--that fair t.i.tania--when perfected by the patient skill of the poet, who in imagination saw the sweet innocent figure, and with tender courtesy and caresses, as it were, posed and shaped and traced the fair form? Is there record kept anywhere of fancies conceived, beautiful, unborn? Some day will they a.s.sume form in some yet undeveloped light? If our bad unspoken thoughts are registered against us, and are written in the awful account, will not the good thoughts unspoken, the love and tenderness, the pity, beauty, charity, which pa.s.s through the breast, and cause the heart to throb with silent good, find a remembrance too? A few weeks more, and this lovely offspring of the poet"s conception would have been complete--to charm the world with its beautiful mirth. May there not be some sphere unknown to us where it may have an existence? They say our words, once out of our lips, go travelling in omne oevum, reverberating for ever and ever.
If our words, why not our thoughts? If the Has Been, why not the Might Have Been?
Some day our spirits may be permitted to walk in galleries of fancies more wondrous and beautiful than any achieved works which at present we see, and our minds to behold and delight in masterpieces which poets"
and artists" minds have fathered and conceived only.
With a feeling much akin to that with which I looked upon the friend"s--the admirable artist"s--unfinished work, I can fancy many readers turning to the last pages which were traced by Charlotte Bronte"s hand. Of the mult.i.tude that have read her books, who has not known and deplored the tragedy of her family, her own most sad and untimely fate? Which of her readers has not become her friend? Who that has known her books has not admired the artist"s n.o.ble English, the burning love of truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the indignation at wrong, the eager sympathy, the pious love and reverence, the pa.s.sionate honor, so to speak, of the woman? What a story is that of that family of poets in their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern moors! At nine o"clock at night, Mrs. Gaskell tells, after evening prayers, when their guardian and relative had gone to bed, the three poetesses--the three maidens, Charlotte, and Emily, and Anne--Charlotte being the "motherly friend and guardian to the other two"--"began, like restless wild animals, to pace up and down their parlor, "making out" their wonderful stories, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future life."
One evening, at the close of 1854, as Charlotte Nicholls sat with her husband by the fire, listening to the howling of the wind about the house, she suddenly said to her husband, "If you had not been with me, I must have been writing now." She then ran up stairs, and brought down, and read aloud, the beginning of a new tale. When she had finished, her husband remarked, "The critics will accuse you of repet.i.tion." She replied, "Oh! I shall alter that. I always begin two or three times before I can please myself." But it was not to be. The trembling little hand was to write no more. The heart newly awakened to love and happiness, and throbbing with maternal hope, was soon to cease to beat; that intrepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that eager, impetuous redresser of wrong, was to be called out of the world"s fight and struggle, to lay down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere where even a n.o.ble indignation cor ulterius nequit lacerare, and where truth complete, and right triumphant, no longer need to wage war.
I can only say of this lady, vidi tantum. I saw her first just as I rose out of an illness from which I had never thought to recover. I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest eyes.
An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions. (I have smiled at one or two pa.s.sages in the "Biography," in which my own disposition or behavior forms the subject of talk.) She formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation, with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal.
Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely: but perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure, and lofty, and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me. As one thinks of that life so n.o.ble, so lonely--of that pa.s.sion for truth--of those nights and nights of eager study, swarming fancies, invention, depression, elation, prayer; as one reads the necessarily incomplete, though most touching and admirable history of the heart that throbbed in this one little frame--of this one amongst the myriads of souls that have lived and died on this great earth--this great earth?--this little speck in the infinite universe of G.o.d,--with what wonder do we think of to-day, with what awe await to-morrow, when that which is now but darkly seen shall be clear! As I read this little fragmentary sketch, I think of the rest. Is it? And where is it? Will not the leaf be turned some day, and the story be told? Shall the deviser of the tale somewhere perfect the history of little EMMA"S griefs and troubles? Shall t.i.tANIA come forth complete with her sportive court, with the flowers at her feet, the forest around her, and all the stars of summer glittering overhead?