Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 21.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.

Coasting along the arid Syrian shore, there is little to attract the attention of the traveller from Port Said to Jaffa, till the last-named town is in sight. If, however, there is a haze upon the water and the wind is from the shore, a powerful perfume of orange-flowers borne across the sea is the first intimation that one is nearing Jaffa, perhaps the most ancient town—certainly one of the most ancient towns—in the world. Presuming that no wind has sprung up since you left the Egyptian port—in which case you will be carried on to Beyrout, as the steamers only touch at Jaffa in calm weather, owing to the danger and almost impossibility of landing passengers or goods—presuming, however, that all is well, you reach Jaffa most probably in the early morning; and having anchored outside a reef of rocks which incloses a natural harbour permitting the entrance only of small boats, you look upon a scene as picturesque and peculiarly eastern in its character as you could wish. Rising abruptly from the sea, the whitened, flat-roofed houses intermingle with the domes of the mosques and the convent towers; while the surmounting citadel, the surrounding wall, and massive gates, give the distinctive character that one had observed in Tangier, or Algiers, or Cairo.

Along the quay is collected a throng of people, containing representatives of half the ports in the Levant or the East. Huge brown-sailed boats are moored in the smooth water within; while outside, the water washes over the encircling rocks—the fabled rocks of Andromeda’s captivity. Palms and plantain trees are scattered here and there, with the glimpse of orchards beyond; and stately camels, with their stalwart Bedouin guides, carrying bales of merchandise or corn, now and again move across the line of vision on the shore. And now the boats are putting out to the steamer, and the swarthy boatmen ply their oars with vigour; and boats filled with oranges and lemons and gigantic melons, and bright-hued fishes, swarm around us. Not least, to add to the general effect, and certainly chiefest for one’s individual comfort, are the men of Cook and Howard the agents, clad respectively in blue and red, who in well-manned boats are at the service of the traveller. Here, be it remarked, that whatever prejudice may exist amongst ordinary British travellers against ‘Cooking it’ on the continent, in the East the services of these agents are invaluable; and the travelling public owes much to them for having brought dragomans, guides, hotel-keepers, and stable-keepers to some decency in the matter of their charges. Placing ourselves in the hands of one of them, we are landed at the quay, and pass along the narrow crowded street that leads to the market-place at the top of the town.

The first thing that struck one was the remarkable beauty of the inhabitants, men and women alike. Jews, Turks, Syrians, and Arabs were all in marked contrast to the ugly squat Egyptians amongst whom we had recently sojourned; and the Bedouins are a much finer race than those of either the Egyptian or Sinaitic Desert, whose acquaintance we had just made. As may be assumed, there is a marked Jewish cast of countenance—as we call it at home—amongst all classes, even to the Bedouins. The camels, too, are larger and finer looking. It is to be feared, however, that it is only in physical qualities that the Syrians can show a superiority to the Egyptians; morally, they appear to be very much on a par.

We pass along the winding antiquated street, through ancient arches, up occasional broad steps, past shops of all kinds—holes in the wall, where Jews and Greeks, squatted on their hams, are ready to sell you anything from an estate to a pair of slippers—jostled by camels and mules and donkeys carrying grain and merchandise of various kinds, and accompanied by the handsome picturesque Bedouins of the Syrian Desert, through bazaars with fruit-sellers, water-carriers, and hawkers of all kinds plying their various trades, until we reach the market-place, where there seems to be more spirit and business-like animation than one usually sees in the East. The house of Simon the tanner is pointed out to us, and we receive the information with the necessary reserve. But there are unmistakable tanneries in its neighbourhood, if that evidence goes for anything. Arrived at the hotel, we first ordered a couple of horses to be got ready as soon as possible; and having viewed the sorry-looking hacks, took a hurried breakfast, as we were anxious to be on the road. Good horses and saddles are usually to be obtained in Syria without any difficulty, but we had unfortunately hit upon the very time when they were least plentiful, namely, the Thursday following Easter Sunday. Breakfast was not a very long affair, consisting of the inevitable cutlet and eggs, anchovies, sliced sausages, olives, figs, and oranges—to which some months in the East had made us familiar. A most dirty and exasperating waiter, who seemed to take more than the average delight of his Syrian countrymen in telling lies, boldly asked for ‘backsheesh,’ informing us that his former statement as to being the proprietor was untrue; and when he saw us loading our revolvers, asked what we were ‘going to shoot his people for; that was not good!’ However, he did us the honour to guide us personally to a point where the road led to Jerusalem; and away we went on our journey.

The road was very dusty, but the air was full of the perfume of flowers; and it was delicious to ride past the orange groves and gardens and orchards that extended for nearly a mile out of the busy, jostling, evil-smelling town. After passing the orchards and gardens, the road becomes rather tame and barren, and though well enough for riding, must be terribly disagreeable for those who undertake the journey by carriage. We met many pilgrims returning from Jerusalem—there had been ten thousand of them there in Holy Week. They came trooping past, on camels, mules, donkeys, and horses, in carts and carriages, and many on foot. They were chiefly Russians, but many were Levantines. Many carried the precious relics that had been made sacred to them by being laid upon the Holy Sepulchre, or perhaps thrust into the so-called ‘Holy Fire.’ Sometimes a crowd would appear in the distance, and the long cylindrical tins containing sanctified candles—some of them five or six feet long—would shine like lances in the sun. ‘Family’ camels with a sort of howdah, or a canopy with beds on either side or ‘atop,’ would hold some three or four children and their mother. Others would be squatted on the top of their baggage. All their faces had a pleased and satisfied look, as of having accomplished a desirable work. At intervals of a mile or so, we passed the guardhouses of the police, placed for the protection of the road to Jerusalem; and after about three hours and a half, reached Ramleh, the first halting-place on the road, and remarkable for its broad and clean streets, and its well-to-do, sleepy appearance. Indeed, but for the hideously diseased and distorted mendicants, one might have thought one’s self in some rather odd-looking English or French or German village; which feeling would not be dispelled by the homely appearance of the primitive little German hotel, where we were supplied with cold meat and salad, and the most delicious beer we had tasted since leaving England—_Marzenburg Export Bier_, it was called. After a short halt, we remounted, having only paid a hurried visit to the tower of Ramleh—a landmark for some distance over this flat country, and whence one obtains an extensive view. The road now improves somewhat, though there is little of interest or beauty to be seen. An hour’s ride brought us to the village of Kubâb, where we obtained some oranges and a drink of water, the heat being very great.

Leaving Kubâb, we shortly after entered the valley of Ajalon, where we enjoyed a pleasant gallop over the rich soft earth skirting the fields, which in a few weeks would be covered with verdure. The roadway itself was in course of being mended, and one pitied the unhappy occupants of the vehicles forced to traverse the highway. Here we were passed by hundreds of pilgrims, with whom we exchanged the usual ‘Liltak said,’ or ‘Naharak rubârah,’ of friendly greeting; and shortly after ascending an incline at the end of the valley, reached Latroon, the supposed birthplace of the Penitent Thief. By the roadside was a rough kind of restaurant, at which many pilgrims were regaling themselves with coffee, cakes, fruit, and their hubble-bubbles. But turning off the main road, we alighted at the _Latroon Hotel_, where everything was of a rather primitive character, but managed by a civil and intelligent young Greek. We were made very comfortable. The freshness in the air here was delightful, after our dusty and hot ride; and as it was now about four o’clock, and there was still a good six hours to Jerusalem, we determined upon staying at Latroon for the night. The interesting historical associations of the surrounding country—the passing of the pilgrims—the tinkling of bells—the finely placed ruin of the ‘Castle of the Good Thief’—the rustic character of the people about, who forgot even to ask for backsheesh—the fertile fields—here a group of Bedouins with their camels brought to knee—there a batch of pilgrims settling down for the night—while shepherds hurry home their flocks, and horses and mules and asses are being tethered for the night—all served to bring before one a charming and interesting picture, that was well worth the delay.

After a very refreshing night’s rest in a clean and comfortable room, we started betimes next morning. Half an hour from Latroon brought us to the mouth of Wady Ali, a lovely glen, through which one enters amongst the Judæan hills. The glen, with large rocks and boulders on either side, but rich in wild-flowers of all kinds, and prominent amongst them our own national thistle, did indeed at times remind us of spots we had known in the west of Scotland. After winding through a delightfully picturesque valley, well wooded, and rich in olive groves, we began to make the ascent of the Judæan hills, winding round and about by steep zigzag paths, occasionally obtaining fine views of the surrounding country, and on reaching the summit, had a splendid panorama of the coast of Syria with the Mediterranean beyond, and away to the south the bare Desert of Tih, running up to the well-cultivated country of Palestine. We had last seen this Tih Desert from the mountains of Sinai, away to the south-east.

The country about the summit of the Judæan hills is wild and bare and rocky; and as we begin again to descend gradually by zigzag and abrupt ups and downs, the road is often steep, and always difficult, and gives one an opportunity of testing and admiring the sureness of foot of the Arab horse. Poor as were the specimens we bestrode—and neither of the riders was a light weight—they picked their way amongst loose stones or glistening rocks, and down the steep inclines, with a perfectly marvellous facility, and galloped over the rough rock-strewn roads as if their legs were made of cast-iron. It is rare to find an Arab that will trot properly. The usual pace is a quick walk, or an amble, a most serviceable pace, which they seem capable of keeping up indefinitely, and which is as little distressing to the horse as to his rider. The shoe, which consists of a flat piece of metal with a hole in the middle, certainly does not seem to the stranger exactly adapted to their work; and a horse is sometimes lamed by a small stone getting into the hole; but acute judges say that this mode of shoeing—common all over the East—has advantages where the roads are hard, hot, and dry.

Presently we come upon the village of Kirjath-Jearim (the ‘Village of the Grapes’), and passing the possible Emmaus, descend to Kolonieh, close by a river-bed, which we cross by a bridge, to make the last ascent of the journey. On reaching the top of this ascent, Jerusalem appears suddenly close to us with a suburb of modern buildings: hospitals, almshouses, and villas—spick-and-span with iron railings, porters’ lodges, and clocks—European time, and Roman numerals on the face! which make us rub our eyes for the moment. Passing these, however, we come immediately to the walls of the Holy City; and turning sharply off to the left, past the new German hotel (Fiel), the only one outside the walls, we enter the Damascus Gate, and our journey is at an end.

It does not come within the scope of the present article to give a description, which has been done a thousand times before, of anything beyond the mere journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem. But in a few words it must be said that the impression is one of disappointment at Jerusalem. The streets are dirty and ill-paved, and scarcely any properly authenticated spot can actually be pointed out. Each sanctimonious-looking dragoman has a sniffle, and ‘lies like a wily Hindu.’ From the Greek or Armenian priest who humbugs the miserable pilgrims with his ‘Holy Fire,’ to the hawker of cards of sham flowers from Zion or Bethlehem, sham shells from the Jordan, or sham wood from Olivet, there is nothing but falsehood and extortion. About the only redeeming feature amidst the mass of corruption, dirt, and hypocrisy, is the well-kept and trim little English church, with its decent congregation; while certainly the only well-ordered quarter of the city is the Moslem quarter.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXIX.—SUSPICION.

And those interlacing shadows of the bare branches across the footpath through the forest which had been like delicate fairy fretwork when Philip passed along, broadened and deepened into black masses before the father as he followed. He had no purpose in following, beyond a vague craving to know what Madge would say when she learned that he had disinherited this favourite of the family, and a fancy that it would be pleasant to walk back with him, when he might explain more fully than he had done the motives by which he had been actuated.

He, too, knew this pathway well; but, although he walked on, he had not yet decided to go all the way. When he entered the glade in which the King’s Oak reigned, he halted. This was a place for elfin revels, and fairy-rings were common in it. Every child brought here to play felt sure that this was the very spot where little Red Riding Hood met the wolf, and that her grandmother’s cottage stood over there, where some funny people tried to make them believe was once a Roman camp. Romans indeed! as if they were going to give up the delightful association of Red Riding Hood with the place for a lot of dull people they were forced to read about in school-books! And, of course, it was here also that the other Hood called Robin assembled with his merry men, and Little John and Friar Tuck. It was no use attempting to correct their geography by informing them that Sherwood Forest was a long way from here: the child’s imagination insists upon associating its heroes with known places.

Mr Hadleigh was reminded of the happy group of children he had found here in the sunshine not long ago, and as their bright faces rose before him in the soft twilight, he seemed to grow strong again. Pleasant memories are as helpful to us as pleasant anticipations.

When he resumed his way, he walked more firmly than he had done since Philip left him. He had now decided to go on and wait for him near the stile; and he unconsciously quickened his pace, although aware that he would have plenty of time to spare. On reaching the roadway, however, he proceeded leisurely, listening to the river, but hearing no melody in it.

As he approached the stile, he saw the figures of a man and woman slowly cross the road. They shook hands, and he heard the man say:

‘I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it. Be faithful, and I shall be able to think of the past without pain.’

There was a reply, but in a tone so low that it did not reach his ears. He recognised in the man the stranger who had recently taken up his quarters in the village, although he had only seen him once and, then, at a distance. The woman was Madge.

They parted. She hurried up the meadow; and after a brief pause, Mr Beecham turned in the direction of the village.

Mr Hadleigh had involuntarily halted, feeling that he was the accidental spectator of an incident for which the actors had not desired an audience. Beecham’s words and the girl’s manner satisfied him of that. He became immediately aware, however, that standing still would naturally suggest that he was playing the part of a spy. And he could not escape observation, for the man was coming straight towards him. He, therefore, resumed his leisurely pace.

As was frequently his habit, Mr Beecham walked with head slightly bent, his eyes seeming to read strange writings on the ground. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. There was a momentary and unaccountable change in his expression—as if he had suddenly passed under the shadow of a tree, and coming into the full light again it was placid and gentle as usual.

‘Good-evening,’ said Mr Hadleigh hastily, remembering the country custom he had adopted of saluting any one he encountered on the road.

‘Good-evening,’ echoed Beecham, with a slight inclination of the head.

They passed, moving quietly on their opposite ways. Neither looked back, for each was conscious that the other intended or wished to do so, and did not care to be caught in the act.

That is one of the droll sensations often experienced in the common course of daily life. We meet a friend, part, and without any reason, have a desire to look after him, but restrain ourselves, lest he, being similarly disposed, should ‘catch us at it.’ We laugh at ourselves, and forget the absurd impulse. But what informs the look, the breath, the tone which makes us like or dislike a man or a woman without any apparent justification? The mystery is one which the poets and philosophers of all ages seem to be continually touching, but never grasping. Some call it instinct, others animal magnetism. All we know is that we feel and cannot tell why; but there are few who have not had occasion to regret that they have not allowed themselves to be guided by this inexplicable influence.

Mr Hadleigh, merely passing this stranger in the deepening twilight, knew that he was a foe.

Whether or not surprise at the words he had overheard, and wonder at their being addressed to Miss Heathcote, had anything to do with the sensation, he could not tell; but he felt as keen a chill as if he had passed an iceberg—mentally and physically the sensation was exactly the same. Yet he had heard nothing but praise of this quiet, kindly-looking gentleman. There was a degree of chagrin, certainly, in the thought that in a few weeks Mr Beecham—a casual visitor, as he might still be called—had obtained more influence amongst the villagers than the master of Ringsford had won by years of endeavour to help and guide them.

Of course, Mr Hadleigh attributed this success to the fact that the stranger was indiscriminate in his charity. He gave help wherever it was wanted, without taking the trouble to inquire into each case, or to advise the recipients of his bounty as to the future conduct which would insure their independence. He gave them their own way, in short, saying nothing about the carelessness which created their necessities. To a man who has the means, this is the easiest and shortest road to popularity. But this could never result in permanent benefit to the poor.

Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so little result—the affection of those around him.

He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he craved.

If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love. Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.

To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for her?

He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of the village. He was not to wait for his son.

At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.

A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.

At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first blame was due.

With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out with effusive cordiality.

‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us, and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible rule, is it not? But we should have liked _you_ to find us a little more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’

This was spoken with Wrentham’s usual gay rapidity, allowing his unexpected guest no opportunity to protest, as he ushered him into a tidy little drawing-room which was apparently very much in ‘reception order.’ Chairs, tables, nick-nacks were almost too primly arranged to accord with the free-and-easy ways which the owner professed. He was, however, so seldom in the room that he was ignorant of its condition. The dining-room, on the other side of the passage, was his ‘snuggery,’ and there he spent his evenings when at home, which was seldom until late at night; and frequently he was absent for days on business.

But he was an affectionate husband and father. He was particular about having his wife and daughter always dressed in the newest and finest fabrics, and regularly took them out for a treat on Saturday or Sunday. Mrs Wrentham was a delicate, nervous lady, apparently content with her lot, and glad to escape from the toil of visiting and receiving visitors. Her whole existence was filled by her child Ada, a bright creature of eight years, nicknamed by her father ‘Pussie,’ on account of her passionate attachment to cats.

‘Will you take a chair?’ Wrentham went on. ‘You are such a fellow for taking one by surprise—always a pleasant surprise; but you give one no chance of doing anything to show how it is appreciated. You dropped down upon me in Golden Alley, just as you have dropped down upon me here, without the least warning.’

Mr Hadleigh listened patiently, his cold, dreaming eyes staring vacantly at him, but closely noting every change on his face.

‘I hope I do not disturb you?’ he said quietly, taking the proffered chair.

‘My dear sir!—as if I should not be delighted to see you under any circumstances—at any time—in any place!’

‘You are very kind. I come to you for the same reason that I visited your office—I want some information which I think you may be able to give me.’

‘About your son? I am afraid there is not much I can say in regard to him that will be satisfactory to a man of business like yourself.’

Wrentham shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if the subject were one he would rather not discuss.

‘It is not about my son that I desire to speak to you this time.’

There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words, suggestive that the result of the former conversation had not been satisfactory. Wrentham was, or very cleverly affected to be, unconscious of the suggestion.

‘I am glad of that—real glad, as Americans say. And yet I have more than once had a notion of going to you and asking you to try to bring the young man to reason. I am supposed to be his manager and adviser. My management consists in doing the work of a message-boy—that is, strictly carrying out his instructions: my advice is nowhere.’

‘I have no desire to interfere with him in his present course.’

‘So I supposed, and that is what has kept me from going to you. I had no idea, until after accepting this agreement with him, that he was such an obstinate beggar—you know that I am speaking of him as my friend. He has got this mania—I have told him that I consider it a mania—and he sticks to it. Unfortunately, his uncle approves of it; but you know that this is not business—he will never get anything out of it.’

‘Not in your sense, Mr Wrentham; but there are some profits which cannot be reckoned by the figures in our ledgers—and some losses too.’

‘Undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly; at the same time, you cannot blame me for taking the commonplace view of things, and regretting that a young man with such a splendid opportunity should deliberately chuck it into the gutter. Why, with his capital, I can see a magnificent future, if he would only consent to follow the dictates of common-sense.’

‘You mean those dictates which lead to the making of money. His notion is to make people happy. Well, as you are aware, I have had some experience in obeying common-sense, as you understand it; and I am curious to see the result of Philip’s experiment. I have no desire and no right to interfere with him.’

‘The result will be ruin—absolute ruin. In less than twelve months he will not have a penny of the whole capital now at his disposal. However, as you say, we have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I trust you will, for my sake, remember by-and-by that I have entered my protest against the course he is pursuing.’

‘I shall remember,’ said Mr Hadleigh, inclining his head gravely. ‘What I called to ask you was, do you know anything about Mr Beecham, who seems to have taken permanent quarters at the _King’s Head_?’

‘Beecham!’ exclaimed Wrentham gleefully, as if intensely relieved by an agreeable change of subject. ‘I should think so. I believe that it was my privilege to be the first amongst his acquaintances in Kingshope. I don’t think he would object to my saying that he is a friend of mine. A capital fellow—simple as a child, and yet wise as a philosopher ever can be.’

‘That sounds like a sneer at philosophers.’

‘I did not mean it; but there is a difference between the man who is a philosopher and the man who is up to the time of day. Now, this Beecham has travelled a great deal, read a great deal, and knows a great deal; but he doesn’t know a game at cards. I had to show him how to play Nap!’

Mr Hadleigh was not interested by this record of the simplicity of the stranger; he was occupied by some other reflection, which caused his brows to contract and his eyelids to droop.

‘Has he told you what part of the world he comes from?’

Wrentham laughed.

‘Why, he comes from everywhere—America, Australia, and likely enough the North Pole, although he has not particularly referred to it.’

Mr Hadleigh rose.

‘Will you find out for me, if you can, where he came from last?’

Wrentham became suddenly serious.

‘You don’t suppose there is anything wrong about him? He acts and talks straightforwardly enough.’

‘I am asking you, Mr Wrentham, for information,’ answered Mr Hadleigh with a mechanical smile. ‘If you have won money from him in betting or playing Nap, I have no doubt you will be paid. My inquiry is suggested by the fact, that he has reminded me of an old—acquaintance’ (he seemed to falter over the word, as if he had wished to say friend, but could not). ‘Should he be the man, I want to have a little conversation with him.’

‘Meaning no harm to him?’ queried Wrentham, suspiciously.

‘On the contrary—good to him and to myself.’

‘Then I shall go along and see him this evening. He’ll tell me at once.’

‘I would prefer that my name was not mentioned.’

‘Oh ... that may make a difference. However, I have no doubt of being able to give you the information you want by to-morrow.’

Mr Hadleigh went away, turning his steps homeward. Through the forest again. Those withered branches were like the milestones of his life, and the pathway of withered leaves was a fitting one for him. You who love nature know that those leaves which the careless call dead are the nurses of the coming spring blossoms; and to him they brought back old thoughts, old faces. How beautiful they are: beautiful, because our tenderest thoughts have their roots in graves.

SOME CURIOSITIES OF THE PEERAGE.

IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

The most recent instance of reviving an extinct title is the assumption by Sir Henry Brand, late Speaker of the House of Commons, of the Viscounty of Hampden. It is usual for the Speaker, on retiring from office, to be created a Viscount, and there are circumstances of interest surrounding the elevation of Sir Henry Brand to this dignity. In the first place, he is heir-presumptive to the barony of Dacre, now held by his brother, the twenty-second lord, who was born in 1808. Should, therefore, Lord Hampden survive Lord Dacre, the ancient barony will merge in the recent viscounty and be lost sight of. But why should Sir Henry Brand have chosen the title of Hampden? The fact is this title is young compared with the _name_ borne by ‘the great Buckinghamshire Esquire,’ as Macaulay calls the illustrious patriot. It was created in 1776, when Robert Trevor, fourth baron of that title, assumed the name of Hampden, and was created Viscount Hampden of Great and Little Hampden, in the county of Bucks, where the Hampdens had been the untitled lords long before the Conquest. Three Trevor-Hampdens bore this title, which became extinct in 1824. Now, between the Trevors and the Lords Dacre there is a connection, which we will endeavour to shortly exhibit. The original family name of the Lords Dacre was Dacre; but an unusual variety of other surnames have been at different times assumed by them. In 1715, the fifteenth lord died without male issue; and his daughter Anne became Baroness Dacre, sixteenth holder of the title, who was three times married, and had male issue by each of her husbands. One of them, Thomas Barrett Lennard, became seventeenth Lord Dacre. A son, Charles, by her second marriage, became the husband of Gertrude, daughter and co-heir of John Trevor, Esq., of Glynde in Sussex. The children of Charles and Gertrude were a son and a daughter; of whom the former became eighteenth Lord Dacre, and the latter another Baroness Dacre (nineteenth), who married, in 1771, Thomas Brand, Esq., of the Hoo, Welwyn, Herts; and thus we bring together the Trevors and the Brands. The twentieth Lord Dacre died without issue, and was succeeded by his brother, the twenty-first lord, who assumed the name and arms of Trevor, in compliance with a direction in the will of the last Viscount Hampden. Accordingly, while the surname of the present Lord Dacre is Trevor, that of his brother, Lord Hampden, is merely Brand. It is understood that some members of the family of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, whose patronymic is Hobart Hampden—they being descended in the female line from the patriot, who left no male issue—endeavoured to dissuade Sir Henry Brand from taking the title which he chose. But surely, considering the circumstances mentioned above, he was justified in his selection; and all will feel that the title of Hampden could not be borne by one more worthy to be associated with this great name than the late Speaker.

The foregoing transcripts from titular and family history have been somewhat detailed, inasmuch as their features are representative of many other peerages, and also elucidate various matters connected with the peerage not patent to all persons. They show _inter alia_ how titles may not only be extinguished, but may be shifted about from family to family when the limitations of those titles are in fee. They show, also, why it is that a peer who is generally known by one title may yet sit and vote in the House of Lords or Peers by some other; the short explanation being, that he is not a peer of the United Kingdom, or, in other words, a peer of the entire realm, so far as his first title is concerned. In our previous paper ‘What is a Peer?’ this feature of the peerage was alluded to; and we may now add that there is only one peer, who, not being a peer of the realm in regard to his chief title, yet sits and votes in the House of Lords by a title as exalted as the other. This is the Duke of Hamilton, who, though premier Duke of Scotland, yet, as such has no hereditary seat in parliament,[1] while as Duke of Brandon he has; and he would be so described in the Lords’ division lists. Then, again, the Marquis of Huntly, though premier Marquis of Scotland, is yet only Lord Meldrum when sitting in the House of Lords. The Marquis of Sligo is only such in the peerage of Ireland, but sits in parliament as Lord Monteagle; and there is also a Lord Monteagle who is a peer of the realm by that title only. The eighteenth Earl of Erroll is singularly situated. When sitting in parliament he is Lord Kilmarnock, and this is the courtesy title borne by his eldest son, so that there are two Lords Kilmarnock!

The distinctions just referred to between peers of the United Kingdom and those who are not have given rise to some singular features in the peerage which are, at first sight, of an anomalous character. Thus, while the son of a tradesman who becomes a peer of the United Kingdom to-day may die to-morrow, and his son may take his seat in the House of Lords as an hereditary legislator; on the other hand, the thirty-fourth Scotch Earl of Mar—merely as such—and the thirty-first Irish Lord Kingsale have no hereditary right to a seat in the legislature, although the latter is premier Baron of Ireland. It is of course competent to the Crown—the fountain of honour—to promote these and other noblemen similarly situated to the peerage of the United Kingdom; but until this is done, they take rank below the last created baron of the realm. At one time it appears to have been usual to honour a man by first making him an Irish peer, and then to promote him gradually, as in the case of Rawdon, Earl of Moira, and conspicuously so in that of the Fitzwilliam peerage and others. But then we must remember that it was not before January 1, 1801, that the expression ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland’ was known; nor before 1707 that the term ‘Great Britain’ was, or could in law have been applied to England and Scotland as a whole.[2] The one was created by the statute 39 and 40 Geo. III. c. 67 (July 2, 1800), the other by 5 and 6 Anne c. 8 (May 1, 1707). To these statutes we refer the reader desirous of more information on this subject. He may also peruse that interesting work of light reading, _The Reports of the Lords’ Committees on the Dignity of a Peer of the Realm_, comprised in four folio volumes (1826).

In ‘What is a Peer?’ we made allusion to peerages created by writ of summons and by letters-patent. We may here observe that there was another form of barony, that by tenure, which, however, long ago became obsolete. Now, it is to be remarked with regard to the creation of a barony by writ of summons, that it always conferred a peerage in fee—in other words, one descendible to males and females—and this will introduce us to two terms previously mentioned, ‘abeyance’ and ‘co-heirs,’ which require a short explanation. It will be convenient to furnish this by reference to those baronies of the Huntingdon earldom which, we have seen, were transplanted, so to speak, from the Hastings into the Rawdon family by the single act of marriage of an heiress of the former with a member of the latter house. The word ‘abeyance’ itself is peculiar, and signifies, to look at something expectingly—in fact, with open mouth. It has been used with regard to corporeal hereditaments; but the subject of estates in abeyance, or in _nubibus_, is far too intricate to be entered upon here. We must, however, make some allusion to the law of real property, in order to render our succeeding statements intelligible—and titles of honour are to be dealt with under the rules of that branch of law. There are some of those rules, however, which, though applicable to ordinary incorporeal hereditaments, are not so to titles of honour. Thus, while an acre of land in fee is alienable, a title in fee is not; it may devolve, but cannot be devised. Again, if the tenant or, as we commonly say, the owner of an estate in fee simple dies intestate, leaving no sons, but daughters, all the latter inherit as ‘co-heirs,’ or, as lawyers call them, ‘coparceners,’ who are regarded in law as making one heir. Under such circumstances, they may sever the joint ownership if they like; but if they do not, the entire estate may devolve upon the last survivor, assuming the others to die unmarried and intestate. This right of survivorship will not, however, exist as against the heir of any of them where the above circumstances are wanting. Thus, if A. and B. are coparceners, and B. marries, dies, and leaves a son C., the right of B. will descend on C.; and so on. Well, now, a title of honour clearly cannot be made the subject of partition; and accordingly, if the male holder of a barony which originated in a writ of summons dies leaving two daughters, his barony does not become extinct, but falls into ‘abeyance.’ If one of these daughters marries, then dies, leaving a daughter, but her own sister still unmarried, the barony is still in abeyance until either the aunt or her niece dies. If the latter predeceases the former, leaving no issue, there is an end of the abeyance; the aunt assumes the title; but if she dies without having been married, the title then becomes ‘extinct.’ If, on the other hand, the niece has male children, and dies, her eldest son succeeds; and if the latter dies without issue, leaving no brothers or their issue, but only sisters, who do not marry, the title will again fall into abeyance. Thus, it is seen how a barony may be in abeyance, and how there may be co-heirs thereto as claimants also, how such co-heirs and their heirs may exist as such for an indefinite period, or until the title can devolve upon _one_ person. The Crown, however, may exercise its prerogative of terminating the abeyance in favour of one of them, as was done in the Zouche peerage in 1828.

But to return to the Hastings’ honours, and the baronies which Elizabeth transferred to the Rawdon family. The first Baron Hungerford was summoned by writ in the reign of Henry VI.; and his son married Margaret, daughter of Baron Botreaux, thus acquiring this title. Their son Robert married the daughter of Baron Molynes or Molines, and in her right assumed that title, with his own and Botreaux. He was beheaded in 1463. The son of this last Baron Hungerford had a daughter, Mary, who married the first Baron Hastings somewhere about 1480, was summoned to parliament by writ; and in 1485 the attainder of the Hungerfords was reversed, and the family honours were restored. The third Baron Hastings was raised to the earldom of Huntingdon, in which dignity these honours were merged; and when the eighteenth earl died in 1789, they descended to his sister, the mother of the first marquis, and this is really how they came into the Rawdon family. It will also be understood from what precedes that the only dignity in the peerage which can fall into abeyance, and, accordingly, to which there can only be co-heirs, is a barony created by writ; and we may observe, that when it cannot be determined upon whom a higher title devolves, there is said to be a ‘suspension’ of that title. It is also to be remembered that as no barony is known to have been created by letters-patent prior to the eleventh year of Richard II., baronies created before then are presumed to have been created by writ of summons.

We have said that the Crown by the exercise of its prerogative may terminate an abeyance, and this may be done either in favour of a person who is, or one who is not, a peer. In the former case, a writ of summons issues to him by the style of the barony in abeyance; in the latter, letters-patent are employed, and this is the practice where the person on whom the title falls is a lady.

And now a few words as to the ‘forfeiture’ of a title. This will follow in all cases upon a conviction for high treason, but not necessarily for felony. If, however, a peerage has originated in a writ of summons, and therefore descendible to heirs-general, it will be forfeited on an attainder for felony. It is a curious fact, too, that although the Crown can pardon a criminal, it cannot in any case restore a dignity once forfeited for attainder, so as to place the offender and his family _in statu quo_. This can be done only by an Act of Parliament. The Crown can revive the forfeited title, but it then becomes a new one; so that if a twentieth Earl of X. is attainted, although the Crown may create his son Earl of X., yet the latter becomes not the twenty-first, but only the first Earl of X.

There is one more matter of interest which ought to be mentioned here. We have seen that the barons of Hungerford acquired two titles in right of their wives. Now, with regard to real property, if a man is married to a woman possessed of an estate in fee simple or in tail, and she dies without having had a child born alive, he will, in the absence of a settlement, or a will by her to the contrary, lose all interest in such property. If, however, she has had a child which may have lived only long enough to utter one cry, or can be proved in any way to have lived after its birth, the husband will in such case, after his wife’s death, become tenant of the estate for life, and will be termed ‘tenant by the curtesy.’ Such, however, is not the case with regard to titles of honour; and although, as we have seen, there are instances of this ‘curtesy’ in regard to dignities, yet, according to Sir Harris Nicolas, there are none to be met with after the reign of Henry VIII., the latest examples being those of Hungerford, already referred to, and Strange.

Although the House of Lords is undoubtedly an aristocratic assembly, yet it is essentially a cosmopolitan body, and paradoxical as the statement will perhaps appear, it may even be said to be in one sense democratic. It is also to be observed that in this respect the House of Lords differs from the peerage viewed in its entirety. For whereas the latter, so regarded, is aristocratic because of the remote ancestry, wealth, and power of many of its members who have no seat in the House of Lords, yet this assembly, as a section of the peerage, will be found to contain men who may fairly be said to be—employing a significant common phrase—‘Of no family at all.’ Hence our application of the term ‘democratic’ to this assembly; and on consideration, it will be found to be hardly either far-fetched or inappropriate, because the history of England will disclose instances in which the sympathy of the House of Lords has been with the people, where rights and liberties have been endangered, either by injudicious action by the Commons, by the attempt to unduly enlarge the prerogatives of the Crown, or from other causes. The truth is, we have peers who have sprung from all sorts and conditions of men—from traders, retail as well as wholesale; also from the professions. Of these sources of supply the legal profession is the most distinguished, about half the members of the present House of Lords, including some of the oldest, wealthiest, and grandest of them, either being descended from, or owing their position to, successful members of the Bar. We are not aware of any solicitor, as such, having been raised to the peerage; but the great Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, ancestor of the present earl, commenced life as an articled clerk; and Thomas Parker the first Earl of Macclesfield practised as a solicitor before becoming a barrister. Like his illustrious predecessor Bacon, he was impeached for corrupt practices in his office, and fined thirty thousand pounds.

It is amusing to notice—though, of course, the fact is not mentioned as an argument for any previous statement—that in the peerage we have a Browne, a Jones, and a Robinson, which are the family names respectively of the Marquis of Sligo, Viscount Ranelagh, and the Marquis of Ripon, the present Governor-general of India. Four of our greatest dukes—Cleveland, Grafton, Richmond, and St Albans—are severally descended from Charles II. and his mistresses, the last-named having for his ancestress the fair and amiable, but frail Eleanor Gwynne, or as she is commonly called, Nell Gwynne. Another ‘irregular scion of royalty’ is the present Earl of Munster, whose grandparents were King William IV. and Mrs Jordan the actress. With regard to the above-named dukes, it is a remarkable circumstance that although the sovereigns of England ceased in 1801 to perpetrate the act of absurdity and effrontery of styling themselves kings of France, yet the above-mentioned noblemen still quarter the arms of that country on their heraldic shields. At the same time, over such arms, which are those of Charles II., there is placed the sinister[3] baton—that is, one extending from nearly the top of the left of the shield to nearly the bottom of its right—which is the emblem of illegitimacy. Lord Munster also bears the royal arms with the same ‘abatement,’ as a herald would say. Then, on the other hand, there are eight dukes, three marquises, seventeen earls, three viscounts, and fourteen barons who are entitled to quarter the royal arms of Plantagenet on their shields without this said baton. But this is not so singular as the fact disclosed during the course of the ‘Sussex Peerage Case,’ to be noticed again presently, that upwards of thirty thousand persons in this country have royal blood in their veins!

The distinction between what may be termed personal titles and those of a local or territorial character should be observed. Occasionally, one hears of a Marquis _of_ Townshend, a Marquis _of_ Conyngham, an Earl _of_ Waldegrave, _of_ Granville, &c. Such expressions are erroneous; there are, in fact, no such titles, and the ‘of’ is improperly introduced. We ought to say Earl Granville, &c. So also with the Earls Cairns, Fitzwilliam, Grey, Stanhope, &c., whose name and chief title are the same. We have, however, Earl Brownlow, whose family name is Cust. Moreover, a peer whose chief title is personal, may yet possess others which are local, but not, so far as we know, territorial. Thus, Earl Fortescue’s second title is Viscount Ebrington, and the Marquis Conyngham is Earl of Mountcharles. Again, all a peer’s titles may be the same as his name, as in the case of Sir J. V. S. Townshend, Bart., who is Marquis, Viscount, and Baron Townshend. It is, however, usual in this family for the eldest son to be designated Viscount Raynham during his father’s lifetime, the viscounty being, in fact, ‘Townshend of Raynham, in the county of Norfolk.’

But even where peers do bear territorial or local titles, as, for example, the Duke of Norfolk, Marquis of Northampton or Earl of Derby, it is not usual in society to so speak of them except in the case of a dukedom; all noblemen, whether actually so, or only by courtesy, being styled simply Lord So-and-so.

It now and then happens that some distinguished man, who for some reason is not disposed to accept a peerage himself, will yet permit such honour to be conferred on his wife. This was the case with the late Lord Beaconsfield, whose wife became in 1868 Viscountess Beaconsfield, her husband still remaining a commoner. Then, again, in 1836 the wife of Sir John Campbell, afterwards Lord Campbell, and Chief Justice of England, was raised to the peerage as Baroness Stratheden, before her husband was, a circumstance which will be found to disclose the unusual fact of three baronies being conferred in the short space of six years on two families, each indebted for its elevation to nobility to a successful lawyer. The father of Lady Stratheden was Sir James Scarlett, who was created Chief Baron of the Exchequer and Lord Abinger in January 1835. Next year the Stratheden peerage was created; and in 1841, Lady Stratheden’s husband became Lord Chancellor of Great Britain and Lord Campbell. She died in 1860, whereupon her eldest son succeeded to her title. Lord Campbell died next year; and the same nobleman also took his father’s title. Thus we have what seems at first sight the puzzling title of Stratheden and Campbell.