Chapter XXXIV: An Old Photograph-Book (12)

But it is time to return from this personal digression to the routine of the day's work. Among the most important of the morning's duties is the preparation of answers to be given in the House of Commons, and it is often necessary to have answers ready by three o'clock to questions which have only appeared that morning on the notice-paper. The range of questions is infinite, and all the resources of the office are taxed in order to prepare answers at once accurate in fact and wise in policy, to pass them under the Minister's review, and to get them fairly copied out before the House meets. As a rule, the Minister, knowing something of the temper of Parliament, wishes to give a full, explicit, and intelligible answer, or even to go a little beyond the strict terms of the question if he sees what his interrogator is driving at. But this policy is abhorrent to the Permanent Official. The traditions of the Circumlocution Office are by no means dead, and the crime of "wanting to know, you know," is one of the most heinous that the M.P. can commit. The answers, therefore, as prepared for the Minister are generally jejune, often barely civil, sometimes actually misleading. But the Minister, if he be a wise man, edits them into a more informing shape, and after a long and careful deliberation as to the probable effect of his words and the reception which they will have from his questioner, he sends the bundle of written answers away to be fair-copied and turns to his correspondence.

And here the practice of Ministers varies exceedingly. Lord Salisbury writes almost everything with his own hand. Mr. Balfour dictates to a shorthand clerk. Most Ministers write a great deal by their Private Secretaries. Letters of any importance are usually transcribed into a copying-book. A Minister whom I knew used to burn the fragment of blotting-paper with which he had blotted his letter, and laid it down as an axiom that, if a constituent wrote and asked a Member to vote for a particular measure, the Member should on no account give a more precise reply than, "I shall have great pleasure in voting in the sense you desire." For, as this expert observed with great truth, "unless the constituent has kept a copy of his letter--and the chances are twenty to one against that--there will be nothing to prove what the sense he desired was, and you will be perfectly safe in voting as you like." The letters received by a Minister are many, various, and surprising. Of course, a great proportion of them relate to public business, and a considerable number to the affairs of his constituency. But, in addition to all this, lunatics, cranks, and impostors mark a Minister for their own, and their applications for loans, gifts, and offices of profit would exhaust the total patronage of the Crown and break the Bank of England.

When the day's official papers have been dealt with, answers to questions settled, correspondence read, and the replies written or dictated, it is very likely time to go to a conference on some Bill with which the office is concerned. This conference will consist of the Minister in charge of the Bill, two or three of his colleagues who have special knowledge of the subject, the Permanent Officials, the Parliamentary draftsman, and perhaps one of the Law Officers. At the conference the amendments on the paper are carefully discussed, together with the objects for which they were presumably put down, their probable effect, their merits or demerits, and the best mode of meeting them. An hour soon passes in this kind of anticipatory debate, and the Minister is called away to receive a deputation.

The scene is exactly like that which Matthew Arnold described at the Social Science Congress--the large bare room, dusty air, and jaded light, serried ranks of men with bald heads and women in spectacles; the local M.P., like Mr. Gregsbury in _Nicholas Nickleby_, full of affability and importance, introducing the selected spokesmen--"Our worthy mayor; our leading employer of labour; Miss Twoshoes, a philanthropic worker in all good causes"--the Minister, profoundly ignorant of the whole subject, smiling blandly or gazing earnestly from his padded chair; the Permanent Official at his elbow murmuring what the "practice of the department" has been, what his predecessor said on a similar occasion ten years ago, and why the object of the deputation is equally mischievous and impossible; and the Minister finally expressing sympathy and promising earnest consideration. Mr. Bright, though the laziest of mankind at official work, was the ideal hand at receiving deputations. Some Ministers scold or snub or harangue, but he let the spokesmen talk their full, listened patiently, smiled pleasantly, said very little, treated the subject with gravity or banter as its nature required, paid the introducing member a compliment on his assiduity and public spirit, and sent them all away on excellent terms with themselves and highly gratified by their intelligent and courteous reception.

So far we have described our Minister's purely departmental duties. But perhaps the Cabinet meets at twelve, and at the Cabinet he must, to use Mr. Gladstone's phrase, "throw his mind into the common stock" with his fellow-Ministers, and take part in the discussions and decisions which govern the Empire. By two o'clock or thereabouts the Cabinet is over. The labours of the morning are now beginning to tell, and exhausted Nature rings her luncheon-bell. Here again men's habits widely differ. If our Minister has breakfasted late, he will go on till four or five, and then have tea and toast, and perhaps a poached egg; but if he is an early man, he craves for nutriment more substantial. He must not go out to luncheon to a friend's house, for he will be tempted to eat and drink too much, and absence from official territory in the middle of the day has a bad look of idleness and self-indulgence. The _dura ilia_ of the present[37] Duke of Devonshire could always cope with a slice of the office-joint, a hunch of the office-bread, a glass of the office-sherry. But, as a rule, if a man cannot manage to get back to the family meal in South Kensington or Cavendish Square, he turns into a club, has a cutlet and a glass of claret, and gets back to his office for another hour's work before going to the House.

At 3.30 questions begin, and every Minister is in his place, unless, indeed, there is a Levee or a Drawing-room, when a certain number of Ministers, besides the great Officers of State, are expected to be present. The Minister lets himself into the House by a private door--of which Ministers alone have the key--at the back of the Chair. For an hour and a half, or perhaps longer, the storm of questions rages, and then the Minister, if he is in charge of the Bill under discussion, settles himself on the Treasury Bench to spend the remainder of the day in a hand-to-hand encounter with the banded forces of the Opposition, which will tax to their utmost his brain, nerve, and physical endurance. If, however, he is not directly concerned with the business, he goes out perhaps for a breath of air and a cup of tea on the Terrace, and then buries himself in his private room--generally a miserable little dog-hole in the basement of the House--where he finds a pile of office-boxes, containing papers which must be read, minuted, and returned to the office with all convenient dispatch. From these labours he is suddenly summoned by the shrill ting-ting of the division-bell and the raucous bellow of the policeman to take part in a division. He rushes upstairs two steps at a time, and squeezes himself into the House through the almost closed doors. "What are we?" he shouts to the Whip. "Ayes" or "Noes" is the hurried answer; and he stalks through the lobby to discharge this intelligent function, dives down to his room again, only, if the House is in Committee, to be dragged up again ten minutes afterwards for another repetition of the same farce, and so on indefinitely.

It may be asked why a Minister should undergo all this worry of running up and down and in and out, laying down his work and taking it up again, dropping threads, and losing touch, and wasting time, all to give a purely party vote, settled for him by his colleague in charge of the Bill, on a subject with which he is personally unfamiliar. If the Government is in peril, of course every vote is wanted; but, with a normal majority, Ministers' votes might surely be "taken as read," and assumed to be given to the side to which they belong. But the traditions of Government require Ministers to vote. It is a point of honour for each man to be in as many divisions as possible. A record is kept of all the divisions of the session and of the week, and a list is sent round every Monday morning showing in how many each Minister has voted.

The Whips, who must live and move and have their being in the House, naturally head the list, and their colleagues follow in a rather uncertain order. A Minister's place in this list is mainly governed by the question whether he dines at the House or not. If he dines away and "pairs," of course he does not in the least jeopardize his party or embarrass his colleagues; but "pairs" are not indicated in the list of divisions, and, as divisions have an awkward knack of happening between nine and ten, the habitual diner-out naturally sinks in the list. If he is a married man, the claims of the home are to a certain extent recognized by his Whips, but woe to the bachelor who, with no domestic excuse, steals away for two hours' relaxation. The good Minister therefore stays at the House and dines there. Perhaps he is entertaining ladies in the crypt-like dining-rooms which look on the Terrace, and in that case the charms of society may neutralize the material discomforts. But, if he dine upstairs at the Ministerial table, few indeed are the alleviations of his lot. In the first place he must dine with the colleagues with whom his whole waking life is passed--excellent fellows and capital company--but nature demands an occasional enlargement of the mental horizon. Then if by chance he has one special bugbear--a bore or an egotist, a man with dirty hands or a churlish temper--that man will inevitably come and sit down beside him and insist on being affectionate and fraternal.

The room is very hot; dinners have been going on in it for the last two hours; the [Greek: knisê]--the odour of roast meat, which the gods loved, but which most men dislike--pervades the atmosphere; your next-door neighbour is eating a rather high grouse while you are at your apple-tart, or the perfumes of a deliquescent Camembert mingle with your coffee. As to beverages, you may, if you choose, follow the example of Lord Cross, who, when he was Sir Richard, drank beer in its native pewter, or of Mr. Radcliffe Cooke, who tries to popularize cider; or you may venture on that thickest, blackest, and most potent of vintages which a few years back still went by the name of "Mr. Disraeli's port." But as a rule these heroic draughts are eschewed by the modern Minister. Perhaps, if he is in good spirits after making a successful speech or fighting his Estimates through Committee, he will indulge himself with an imperial pint of champagne; but more often a whiskey-and-soda or a half-bottle of Zeltinger quenches his modest thirst.

On Wednesday and Saturday our Minister, if he is not out of London, probably dines at a large dinner-party. Once a session he must dine in full dress with the Speaker; once he must dine at, or give, a full-dress dinner "to celebrate her Majesty's Birthday." On the eve of the meeting of Parliament he must dine again in full dress with the Leader of the House, to hear the rehearsal of the "gracious Speech from the Throne." But, as a rule, his fate on Wednesday and Saturday is a ceremonious banquet at a colleague's house, and a party strictly political--perhaps the Prime Minister as the main attraction, reinforced by Lord and Lady Decimus Tite-Barnacle, Mr. and Mrs. Stiltstalking, Sir John Taper, and young Mr. Tadpole. A political dinner of thirty colleagues, male and female, in the dog-days is only a shade less intolerable than the greasy rations and mephitic vapours of the House of Commons' dining-room.

At the political dinner "shop" is the order of the day. Conversation turns on Brown's successful speech, Jones's palpable falling-off, Robinson's chance of office, the explanation of a recent by-election, or the prospects of an impending division. And, to fill the cup of boredom to the brim, the political dinner is usually followed by a political evening-party. On Saturday the Minister probably does two hours' work at his office and has some boxes sent to his house, but the afternoon he spends in cycling, or golfing, or riding, or boating, or he leaves London till Monday morning. On Wednesday he is at the House till six, and then escapes for a breath of air before dinner. But on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, as a rule, he is at the House from its meeting at three till it adjourns at any hour after midnight. After dinner he smokes and reads and tries to work in his room, and goes to sleep and wakes again, and towards midnight is unnaturally lively. Outsiders believe in the "twelve o'clock rule," but insiders know that, as a matter of fact, it is suspended as often as an Irish member in the '80 Parliament. Whoever else slopes homewards, the Government must stay. Before now a Minister has been fetched out of his bed, to which he had surreptitiously retired, by a messenger in a hansom, and taken back to the House to defend his Estimates at three in the morning.

"There they sit with ranks unbroken, cheering on the fierce debate,
Till the sunrise lights them homeward as they tramp through
Storey's Gate,
Racked with headache, pale and haggard, worn by nights of endless
talk,
While the early sparrows twitter all along the Birdcage Walk."

Some ardent souls there are who, if report speaks true, are not content with even this amount of exertion and excitement, but finish the night, or begin the day, with a rubber at the club or even a turn at baccarat. However, we are describing, not choice spirits or chartered _viveurs_, but the blameless Minister, whose whole life during the Parliamentary session is the undeviating and conscientious discharge of official duty; and he, when he lays his head upon his respectable pillow any time after 1 a.m., may surely go to sleep in the comfortable consciousness that he has done a fair day's work for a not exorbitant remuneration.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] 1897.

[36] The word "conservative" here applies only to official routine. The Civil Service has no politics, but many of its members are staunch Liberals.

[37] Spencer Compton, 8th Duke.

XXXIV.

AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH-BOOK.

The diary from which these Recollections have been mainly gathered dates from my thirteenth year, and it has lately received some unexpected illustrations. In turning out the contents of a neglected cupboard, I stumbled on a photograph-book which I filled while I was a boy at a Public School. The school has lately been described under the name of Lyonness,[38] and that name will serve as well as another. The book had been mislaid years ago, and when it accidentally came to light a strange aroma of old times seemed still to hang about it. Inside and out, it was reminiscent of a life in which for five happy years I bore my part. Externally the book showed manifest traces of a schoolboy's ownership, in broken corners; plentiful ink-stains, from exercises and punishments; droppings of illicit candle grease, consumed long after curfew-time; round marks like fairy rings on a greensward, which indicated the standpoint of extinct jam pots--where are those jam pots now? But, while the outside of the book spoke thus, as it were, by innuendo and suggestion, the inside seemed to shout with joyous laughter or chuckle with irreverent mirth; or murmured, in tones lower perhaps, but certainly not less distinct, of things which were neither joyous nor mirthful.

The book had been carefully arranged. As I turned over the leaves, there came back the memory of holiday-evenings and the interested questionings of sisters over each new face or scene; and the kind fingers which did the pasting-in; and the care with which we made portrait and landscape fit into and illustrate one another. And what memories, what impressions, strong and clear as yesterday's, clung to each succeeding view! The Spire--that "pinnacle perched on a precipice"--with its embosoming trees, as one had so often seen it from the North-Western Railway, while the finger of fate, protruding from the carriage window, pointed it out with--"That's where you will go to school." And, years later, came the day when one travelled for the first time by a train which did not rush through Lyonness Station (then how small), but stopped there, and disgorged its crowd of boys and their confusion of luggage, and oneself among the rest, and one's father just as excited and anxious and eager as his son.

A scurry for a seat on the omnibus or a tramp uphill, and we find ourselves abruptly in the village street. Then did each page as I turned it over bring some fresh recollection of one's unspeakable sense of newness and desolation; the haunting fear of doing something ludicrous; the morbid dread of chaff and of being "greened," which even in my time had, happily, supplanted the old terrors of being tossed in a blanket or roasted at a fire. Even less, I venture to think, was one thrilled by the heroic ambitions, the magnificent visions of struggle and success, which stir the heroes of schoolboy novels on the day of their arrival.

Here was a view of the School Library, with its patch of greensward separating it from the dust and traffic of the road. There was the Old School with its Fourth Form Room, of which one had heard so much that the actual sight of it made one half inclined to laugh and half to cry with surprise and disappointment. There was the twisting High Street, with its precipitous causeway; there was the faithful presentment of the fashionable "tuck-shop," with two boys standing in the road, and the leg of a third caught by the camera as he hurried past; and, wandering through all these scenes in the album as one had wandered through them in real life, I reached at last my boarding-house, once a place of mystery and wonderful expectations and untried experiences; now full of memories, some bright, some sad, but all gathering enchantment from their retrospective distance; and in every brick and beam and cupboard and corner as familiar as home itself.

The next picture, a view of the School Bathing-place, carried me a stage onward in memory to my first summer quarter. Two terms of school life had inured one to a new existence, and one began to know the pleasures, as well as the pains, of a Public School. It was a time of cloudless skies, and abundant "strawberry mashes," and _dolce far niente_ in that sweetly-shaded pool, when the sky was at its bluest, and the air at its hottest, and the water at its most inviting temperature.

And then the Old Speech-Room, so ugly, so incommodious, where we stood penned together like sheep for the slaughter, under the gallery, to hear our fate on the first morning of our school life, and where, when he had made his way up the school, the budding scholar received his prize or declaimed his verses on Speech Day. That was the crowning day of the young orator's ambition, when there was an arch of evergreens reared over the school gate, and Lyonness was all alive with carriages, and relations, and grandees,

"And, as Lear, he poured forth the deep imprecation,
By his daughters of Kingdom and reason deprived;
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
He regarded himself as a Garrick revived."

Opposite the Old Speech-Room was the interior of the Chapel, with its roof still echoing the thunder of the Parting Hymn; and the pulpit with its unforgotten pleadings for truthfulness and purity; and the organ, still vocal with those glorious psalms. And, high over all, the Churchyard Hill, with its heaven-pointing spire, and the Poet's Tomb; and, below, the incomparable expanse of pasture and woodland stretching right away to the "proud keep with its double belt of kindred and coeval towers."

"Still does yon bank its living hues unfold,
With bloomy wealth of amethyst and gold;
How oft at eve we watched, while there we lay,
The flaming sun lead down the dying day,
Soothed by the breeze that wandered to and fro
Through the glad foliage musically low.
Still stands that tree, and rears its stately form
In rugged strength, and mocks the winter storm;
There, while of slender shade and sapling growth,
We carved our schoolboy names, a mutual troth.
All, all, revives a bliss too bright to last,
And every leaflet whispers of the past."

And while the views of places were thus eloquent of the old days, assuredly not less so were the portraits. There was the Head Master in his silken robes, looking exactly as he did when, enthroned in the Sixth Form Room, he used to deliver those well-remembered admonitions--"Never say what you know to be wrong," and "Let us leave _commence_ and _partake_ to the newspapers."

And there was the Mathematical Master--the Rev. Rhadamanthus Rhomboid--compared with whom his classical namesake was a lenient judge. An admirable example was old Mr. Rhomboid of a pedagogic type which, I am told, is passing away--precise, accurate, stern, solid; knowing very little, but that little thoroughly; never overlooking a slip, but seldom guilty of an injustice; sternest and most unbending of prehistoric Tories, both in matters political and educational; yet carrying concealed somewhere under the square-cut waistcoat a heart which knew how to sympathize with boy-flesh and the many ills which it is heir to. Good old Mr. Rhomboid! I wonder if he is still alive.

Facing him in the album, and most appropriately contrasted, was the portrait of a young master--the embodiment of all that Mr. Rhomboid most heartily loathed. We will call him Vivian Grey. Vivian Grey was an Oxford Double First of unusual brilliancy, and therefore found a special charm and a satisfying sense of being suitably employed in his duty at Lyonness, which was to instil [Greek: tuptô] and Phaedrus into the five-and-thirty little wiseacres who constituted the lowest form. Over the heads of these sages his political and metaphysical utterances rolled like harmless thunder, for he was at once a transcendentalist in philosophy and a utilitarian Radical of the purest dye. All of which mattered singularly little to his five-and-thirty disciples, but caused infinite commotion and annoyance to the Rhomboids and Rhadamanthuses. Vivian Grey at Oxford had belonged to that school which has been described as professing

"One Kant with a K,
And many a cant with a c."

At Lyonness he was supposed to have helped to break the railings of Hyde Park in the riot of 1866, and to be a Head Centre of the Fenian Brotherhood. As to personal appearance, Mr. Grey was bearded like the pard--and in those days the scholastic order shaved--while his taste in dress made it likely that he was the "Man in the Red Tie" whom we remember at the Oxford Commemoration some thirty years ago. In short, he was the very embodiment of all that was most abhorrent to the old traditions of the schoolmaster's profession; and proportionately great was the appositeness of a practical joke which was played me on my second or third morning at Lyonness. I was told to go for my mathematical lesson to Mr. Rhomboid, who tenanted a room in the Old School. Next door to his room was Mr. Grey's, and I need not say that the first boy whom I asked for guidance playfully directed me to the wrong door. I enter, and the Third Form suspend their Phaedrus, "Please, sir, are you Mr. Rhomboid?" I ask, amid unsmotherable laughter. Never shall I forget the indignant ferocity with which the professor of the new lights drove me from the room, nor the tranquil austerity with which Mr. Rhomboid, when I reached him, set me "fifty lines" before he asked me my name.

On the same page I find the portrait of two men who have before now figured in the world of school-fiction under the names of Rose and Gordon.[39] Of Mr. Rose I will say no more than that he was an excellent schoolmaster and a most true saint, and that to his influence and warnings many a man can, in the long retrospect, trace his escape from moral ruin. Mr. Gordon is now a decorous Dean; at Lyonness he was the most brilliant, the most irregular, and the most fascinating of teachers. He spoilt me for a whole quarter. I loved him for it then, and I thank him even now.

These more distinguished portraits, of cabinet dimensions, were scattered up and down among the miscellaneous herd of _cartes de visits_. The art of Messrs. Hills and Saunders was denoted by the pretentious character of the chairs introduced--the ecclesiastical Glastonbury for masters, and velvet backs studded with gilt nails for boys. The productions of the rival photographer were distinguished by a pillar of variegated marble, or possibly scagliola, on which the person portrayed leaned, bent, or propped himself in every phase of graceful discomfort. The athletes and members of the School Eleven, dressed in appropriate flannel, were depicted as a rale with their arms crossed over the backs of chairs, and brought very much into focus so as to display the muscular development in high relief. The more studious portion of the community, "with leaden eye that loved the ground," scanned small photograph-books with absorbing interest; while a group of editors, of whom I was one, were gathered round a writing-table, with pens, ink, and paper, the finger pressed on the forehead, and on the floor proofs of the journal which we edited--was it the _Tyro_ or the _Triumvirate_?

Among the athletes I instantly recognize Biceps Max., captain of the Cricket Eleven, and practically autocrat of my house--"Charity's" the house was called, in allusion to a prominent feature of my tutor's character. Well, at Charity's we did not think much of intellectual distinction in those days, and little recked that Biceps was "unworthy to be classed" in the terminal examination. We were much more concerned with the fact that he made the highest score at Lord's; that we at Charity's were absolutely under his thumb, in the most literal acceptation of that phrase; that he beat us into mummies if we evaded cricket-fagging; and that if we burnt his toast he chastised us with a tea-tray. Where is Biceps now, and what? If he took Orders, I am sure he must be a muscular Christian of the most aggressive type. If he is an Old Bailey barrister, I pity the timid witness whom he cross-examines. Why do I never meet him at the club or in society? It would be a refreshing novelty to sit at dinner opposite a man who corrected your juvenile shortcomings with a tea-tray. Would he attempt it again if I contradicted him in conversation, or confuted him in argument, or capped his best story with a better?

Next comes Longbow--Old Longbow, as we called him; I suppose as a term of endearment, for there was no Young Longbow. He was an Irishman, and the established wit, buffoon, and jester of the school. Innumerable stories are still told of his youthful escapades, of his audacity and skill in cribbing, of his dexterity in getting out of scrapes, of his repartees to masters and persons in authority. He it was who took up the same exercise in algebra to Mr. Rhomboid all the time he was in the Sixth Form, and obtained maiks, ostensibly for a French exercise, with a composition called _De Camelo qualis sit_. He alone of created boys could joke in the rarefied air of the Head Master's schoolroom, and had power to "chase away the passing frown" with some audacious witticism for which an English boy would have been punished. Longbow was ploughed three times at Oxford, and once "sent down." But he is now the very orthodox vicar of a West End parish, a preacher of culture, and a pattern of ecclesiastical propriety. Then, leaving these heroic figures and coming to my own contemporaries, I discern little Paley, esteemed a prodigy of parts--Paley, who won an Entrance Scholarship while still in knickerbockers; Paley, who ran up the school faster than any boy on record; Paley, who was popularly supposed never to have been turned in a "rep" or to have made a false quantity; Paley, for whom his tutor and the whole magisterial body were never tired of predicting a miraculous success in after life. Poor Paley! He is at this moment languishing in Lincoln's Inn, consoling himself for professional failure by contemplating the largest extant collection of Lyonness prize-books. I knew Paley, as boys say, "at home," and, when he had been a few years at the Bar, I asked his mother if he had got any briefs yet. "Yes," she answered with maternal pride; "he has been very lucky in that way." "And has he got a verdict?" I asked. "Oh, no," replied the simple soul; "we don't aspire to anything so grand as that."

Next to Paley in my book is Roderick Random, the cricketer. Dear Random, my contemporary, my form-fellow and house-fellow; partaker with me in the ignominy of Biceps's tea-tray and the tedium of Mr. Rhomboid's problems: my sympathetic companion in every amusement, and the pleasant drag on every intellectual effort--Random, who never knew a lesson, nor could answer a question; who never could get up in time for First School, nor lay his hand on his own Virgil--Random, who spent more of his half-holidays in Extra School than any boy of his day, and had acquired by long practice the power of writing the "record" number of lines in an hour; who never told a lie, nor bullied a weaker boy, nor dropped an unkind jest, nor uttered a shameful word--Random, for whom every one in authority prophesied ruin, speedy and inevitable; who is, therefore, the best of landlords and the most popular of country gentlemen; who was the most popular officer in the Guards till duty called him elsewhere, and at the last election came in at the top of the poll for his native county.

Then what shall we say for Lucian Gay, whose bright eyes and curly hair greet me on the same page, with the attractive charm which won me when we stood together under the Speech-Room gallery on the first morning of our school life? Gay was often at the top of his form, yet sometimes near the bottom; wrote, apparently by inspiration, the most brilliant verses; and never could put two and two together in Mr. Rhomboid's schoolroom. He had the most astonishing memory on record, and an inventive faculty which often did him even better service. He was the soul of every intellectual enterprise in the school, the best speaker at the Debating Society; the best performer on Speech Day; who knew nothing about [Greek: ge] and less about [Greek: men] and [Greek: de]; who composed satirical choices when he should have been taking notes on Tacitus; edited a School Journal with surprising brilliancy; failed, to conjugate the verbs in [Greek: mi] during his last fortnight in the school; and won the Balliol Scholarship when he was seventeen. I trust, if this meets his eye, he will accept it as a tribute of affectionate recollection from one who worked with him, idled with him, and joked with him for five happy years.

Under another face, marked by a more spiritual grace, I find written _Requiescat_. None who ever knew them will forget that bright and pure beauty, those eyes of strange, supernatural light, that voice which thrilled and vibrated with an unearthly charm. All who were his contemporaries remember that dauntless courage, that heroic virtue, that stainless purity of thought and speech, before which all evil things seemed to shrink away abashed. We remember how the outward beauty of body seemed only the visible symbol of a goodness which dwelt within, and how moral and intellectual excellence grew up together, blending into a perfect whole. We remember the School Concert, and the enchanting voice, and the words of the song which afterwards sounded like a warning prophecy, and the last walk together in the gloaming of a June holiday, and the loving, trusting companionship, and the tender talk of home. And then for a day or two we missed the accustomed presence, and dimly caught a word of dangerous illness; and then came the agony of the parting scene, and the clear, hard, pitiless school bell, cutting on our hearts the sense of an irreparable loss, as it thrilled through the sultry darkness of the summer night.

Here I shut the book. And with the memories which that picture called up I may well bring these Recollections to a close. It is something to remember, amid the bustle and bitterness of active life, that one once had youth, and hope, and eagerness, and large opportunities, and generous friends. A tender and regretful sentiment seems to cling to the very walls and trees among which one cherished such bright ambitions and felt the passionate sympathy of such loving hearts. The innocence and the confidence of boyhood pass away soon enough, and thrice happy is he who has contrived to keep

"The young lamb's heart amid the full-grown flocks."

FOOTNOTES:

[38] In _School and Home Life,_ by T.G. Rooper, M.A.

[39] In _Eric_, by F.W. Farrar, D.D.

TRAITS DE MOEURS ANGLAISES.

JEAN LA FRETTE.

De ce côté de la Manche nous avons une spécialité de souvenirs militaires, et le public paraît prendre goût à ce genre de lectures. De l'autre côté, les souvenirs sont plutôt d'ordre politique ou littéraire. Ils n'en sont pas moins intéressants. Après tout, les récits de massacres et de saccages se ressemblent beaucoup, qu'ils soient d'Hérodote ou de Canrobert: et même il ne semble pas que le genre soit en progrès, si l'on compare les termes extrêmes de la série. Car Hérodote vit autre chose que les tueries, et il l'en faut féliciter.

Il y a une autre différence entre les deux groupes de mémoires en question. Les nôtres ont trait pour la plupart à une époque que beaucoup de gens considèrent comme un apogée, de sorte que, pour le lecteur, ils apportent plutôt un sentiment de découragement. "Voilà ce qu'ils firent," se dit-il: "et nous?..." Car ce qu'on est convenu d'appeler "les gloires" napoléoniennes du début du siècle ne suffit pas, hélas, à effacer la tache--non moins napoléonienne--de 1870. Ce sentiment, le lecteur anglais ne l'éprouve pas à lire les mémoires qui lui sont offerts, et qui, s'ils ne racontent pas, d'habitude, des exploits guerriers, relatent les phases principales d'une lente évolution, d'un progrès très réel dans les moeurs, dans la culture et dans l'amélioration sociale générale.

Quel était l'auteur du plus récent volume de souvenirs, _Collections and Recollections_, publié par MM. Smith, Elder et C'ie, à Londres, on l'ignora quelques semaines. Maintenant il n'y a plus de doute: l'auteur s'est fait connaître; c'est M.G.W.E. Russell. Sa personnalité importait assez peu d'ailleurs: car ce n'est lui-même qu'il raconte: ce sont ses contemporains et les faits dont il a été témoin. Mais M. Russell est un homme de culture, qui a beaucoup approché de notabilités politiques et littéraires, et a su les écouter parler, saisissant plus volontiers le côté humoristique ou anecdotique de leurs propos. Son livre est amusant et instructif à la fois: et il met bien en lumière, dans les premiers chapitres en particulier, l'évolution dont il était parlé plus haut, la transformation graduelle que les moeurs anglaises ont subie depuis le commencement du siècle.

Ce n'est point que l'auteur soit centenaire, d'ailleurs. Il nous le dit expressément: ses souvenirs personnels remontent à 1856 seulement: mais il a beaucoup vu de vieilles gens, il a pris note de leurs récits, et c'est par ces récits qu'il est facile de mesurer le chemin parcouru.

Ils confirment ce qu'on savait déjà de la grossièreté des moeurs à une époque encore récente. Du reste l'exemple venait de haut, et la famille royale ne pouvait en imposer ni par la tenue, ni par la moralité.

Le prince de Galles, raconte Lord Seymour, dans des mémoires inédits, le prince de Galles assure--et doit s'y connaître--"qu'il n'y a pas une honnête femme à Londres, excepté Lady Parker et Lady Westmorland: et encore sont-elles si bêtes qu'on n'en peut rien tirer: tout au plus sont-elles capables de se moucher elles-mêmes." A la réception de Mme Vaneck, la semaine dernière [ceci se passe en 1788], le prince de Galles; à l'honneur de la politesse et de l'élégance de ses manières, mesura la largeur de Mme V---- par derrière avec son mouchoir, et alla montrer les dimensions à presque tous ceux qui étaient là. Un autre trait de la conduite respectueuse du prince: à cette même assemblée il a fait signe à la pauvre vieille duchesse de Bedford à travers une grande salle, et après qu'elle eut pris la peine de traverser cette dernière, il lui dit brusquement n'avoir rien à lui communiquer. Le prince a rendu visite la semaine dernière à Mme Vaneck, avec deux de ses écuyers. En entrant dans la salle il s'est exclame: "Il _faut_ que je le fasse: il le _faut_ ..." Mme V---- lui a demandé ce qu'il était obligé de faire, et là-dessus il a jeté un clignement d'oeil à St. Léger et à l'autre complice qui ont couché Mme V---- à terre, et le prince l'a positivement fouettée...

C'était le résultat d'un pari. Mais Mlle Vaneck avait quelque habitude des "jeux de rois": le prince fit pénitence le lendemain, et elle ne lui en voulut point. Autre aimable fantaisie du prince: il reçoit le duc d'Orléans, accompagné de son frère naturel, l'abbé de la Fai(?). L'abbé prétend avoir un secret pour charmer les poissons: d'où le pari, à la suite duquel l'abbé s'approche de l'eau pour chatouiller un poisson avec une baguette. Se méfiant toutefois du prince, qu'il connaissait sans doute de réputation, il dit qu'il espère bien que celui-ci ne lui jouera pas le tour de le jeter à l'eau. Le prince de protester et de donner "sa parole d'honneur." L'abbé commence à se pencher sur un petit pont et le prince aussitôt le saisit et le fait culbuter à l'eau, d'où l'abbé se tire non sans peine, et non sans colère, car il court sur le prince avec un fouet pour le corriger, déclarant à qui veut l'entendre ce qu'il pense d'un prince incapable de tenir parole. Les _practical jokers_ de ce genre n'étaient pas rares: le duc de Cumberland fit partager le même sort à une jeune fille qui servait de dame de compagnie. Les "grands" s'amusent....

Ils ont d'autres manières de s'amuser: le jeu, la boisson, et le reste, qui sont de tous les temps et de tous les pays: l'histoire de France en peut témoigner autant que celle de n'importe quelle nation. Il faut croire que ces plaisirs sont les plus appropriés à la caste oisive et riche, à qui il a suffi de naître pour être--ou paraître--quelque chose. Au reste, il n'y aurait guère à s'en plaindre: ils font office d'agents de sélection; ils éliminent--dans la stérilité ou imbécillité--des êtres imbéciles et malfaisants, et ils remettent en circulation des richesses qui n'ont souvent été accumulées qu'à coups de rapines, ou par une persévérante marche dans les voies déshonnêtes.

Mais ces soi-disant plaisirs mènent de façon très directe au crime: c'est là une notion banale, et les exemples ne manquent point.

Le duc de Bedford--cinquième du nom--ayant perdu de grosses sommes un soir, à Newmarket, incrimina les dés, les accusant d'être pipés. Il se leva de table en colère, saisit les instruments de son malheur, et les emporta pour les examiner à loisir. Rentré chez lui, il se coucha, pour se calmer, remettant ses investigations au lendemain. Celles-ci se firent avec le concours de ses compagnons, et il dut reconnaître que les dés étaient fort orthodoxes. Cela le surprit, mais il n'avait qu'à s'exécuter et c'est ce qu'il fit: il adressa des excuses, et paya. Quelques années après, un des joueurs qui se mourait le fit appeler. "Je vous ai prié de venir," dit-il, "parce que je voulais vous dire que vous étiez dans le vrai. Les dés étaient effectivement pipés. Mais nous attendîmes que vous fussiez couché: nous nous sommes glissés dans votre chambre, et aux dés pipés que vous aviez emportés nous avons substitué qui ne l'étaient point, et nous les avons placés dans votre poche." "Mais si je m'étais éveillé, et si je vous avais pris sur le fait?..." "Eh bien! nous étions décidés à tout ... et nous avions des pistolets."

La seule action méritoire de sa vie, disait M. Goldwin Smith du duc d'York, c'est de l'avoir une fois risquée en duel.... C'était maigre, pour un prince du sang, et pour un simple particulier aussi bien. Car il ne la perdit point.

La délicatesse est très médiocre.

William et John Scott, plus tard Lord Stowell et Lord Eldon, ayant obtenu quelque succès comme avocats; dans leurs jeunes aimées, avaient résolu de célébrer l'événement par un dîner à la taverne, après quoi l'on irait au théâtre. En payant l'addition, William laissa tomber une guinée que les deux frères ne purent retrouver. "Mauvaise affaire," fit William: "voilà qu'il nous faut renoncer au théâtre." "Que non pas," dit John: "je sais une tour qui vaut mieux." Il appela la servante. "Betty, nous avons perdu deux guinées: voyez donc si vous pouvez les retrouver." Betty se met à quatre pattes et cherche si bien qu'elle retrouve la pièce. "Bonne fille," fait William: "quand vous trouverez l'autre, vous pourrez la garder pour votre peine." Et les deux frères s'en furent au théâtre, et plus tard aux plus hautes dignités de la magistrature. La pauvre Betty a-t-elle jamais compris le tour? Il se peut: ce n'est point par la délicatesse et les scrupules que se distinguait la clientèle à laquelle elle avait d'habitude affaire.

De façon générale, pourtant, ce monde avait un certain courage personnel.

Le cinquième comte de Berkeley avait dit un jour, devant témoins, qu'il n'y a point de honte à être réduit par des adversaires, quand ceux-ci l'emportent par le nombre, mais que, pour lui, il ne se rendrait jamais à un voleur de grand chemin qui l'attaquerait seul.

En ce temps le brigandage était répandu. Une nuit qu'il se rendait de Berkeley à Londres, sa voiture fut arrêtée par un seigneur de grande route qui, passant sa tête à la portière, lui dit: "N'êtes-vous pas Lord Berkeley?"

"Certainement," répliqua celui-ci.

"C'est bien vous qui avez déclaré que vous ne vous rendriez jamais à un voleur de grand chemin qui vous attaquerait seul?"

"Parfaitement."

"Eh bien!"--et ce disant il braquait un pistolet sur Lord Berkeley--"je suis un de ces voleurs, et je suis seul; je vous demande la bourse ou la vie."

"Chien couard," crie Lord Berkeley, "crois-tu donc me tromper? Est-ce que je ne vois pas tes complices cachés derrière toi?"

Le voleur se retourne, surpris, pour voir ces complices qu'il ignorait, car il était réellement seul, et dans ce moment Lord Berkeley lui brûle la cervelle.

Courage, et surtout présence d'esprit. Cette anecdote a été racontée à notre auteur par la propre fille de Lord Berkeley.

La religion n'inspirait qu'un médiocre respect. La faute en était en partie à ses représentants, en partie à l'esprit général. Un pur formalisme, une étiquette mondaine, telle elle était: rien de plus. Le système était commode; il est resté tel, d'ailleurs, et non pas seulement en Angleterre.

Le mépris des choses religieuses était naturel, et l'exemple partait de haut. Un des frères du roi, le duc de Cambridge, s'était fait une spécialité dans l'irrévérence, en se créant pour lui seul une liturgie, et en répondant personnellement à l'officiant.

"Prions," disait ce dernier à la congrégation.

"Certainement," faisait observer le duc; "c'est cela; prions."

Le clergyman commença. Sans doute, la saison était fort sèche, car il demanda d'abord au ciel d'envoyer de la pluie. Mais le duc l'interrompit:

"Inutile; rien à faire pour le moment, le vent est à l'Est...."

Le service continua par une lecture de la Bible. "Et Zacchée se leva et dit: Vois, Seigneur, je donne la moitié de mes biens aux pauvres ..."

"C'est trop, c'est beaucoup trop," interrompit le duc; "des privilèges, si vous voulez, mais pas le reste."

On lit les commandements. Le duc les commente. Il en est deux qui le gênent:

"C'est très bien dit; mais il est des cas où c'est diablement difficile d'obéir.... Ah! pour celui-là, non; c'est mon frère Ernest qui l'a violé; cela ne me regarde pas."

A ce troupeau grossier, et mené par des pasteurs grossiers, on chercherait avec peine quelques sentiments élevés, en dehors du courage personnel. C'est quelque chose assurément: mais n'est-il pas infiniment plus déshonorant de ne l'avoir point, qu'il n'est honorable de l'avoir? Il ne semble pas qu'il y ait tant à vanter la possession d'un attribut qu'il serait dégradant de ne pas posséder: c'est une vertu négative. La condition du peuple était pitoyable: entre le _status_ des enfants des fabriques et l'esclavage, il était difficile d'apercevoir une différence. A Bedlam, les aliénés étaient enchaînés à leurs lits de paille, en 1828, et du samedi au lundi ils étaient abandonnés à eux-mêmes, avec les aliments nécessaires à portée, tandis que le geôlier allait s'amuser au dehors. En 1770, il y avait 160 offenses punies de la peine de mort, et le nombre s'en était beaucoup accru au commencement de ce siècle. Le vol simple appelait la peine capitale, et pour avoir volé cinq _shillings_ de marchandises dans un magasin, c'était la corde. En 1789, on brûlait les faux monnayeurs. C'étaient du reste des réjouissances, que les exécutions, et pour inculquer à la jeunesse des sentiments moraux, on conduisait des écoles entières au spectacle. Ceci se passait encore en 1820. Sur le chapitre des dettes, la loi était féroce. Une femme est morte dans la prison d'Exeter après quarante cinq ans d'incarcération, cette dernière motivée par le fait qu'elle ne pouvait acquitter une dette de moins de 500 francs... Aussi les malheureux qui avaient perdu leur avoir, ou qui ne pouvaient faire face à leurs engagements, étaient-ils, pour ainsi dire, jetés dans les bras du crime. Plutôt que d'aller moisir dans les cachots, ils prenaient la fuite, et comme il faut manger, ils demandaient le nécessaire à la société. Ils le demandaient de façons variées: l'une des plus répandues, et qui est relativement honorable, consistait à se faire brigand de grand chemin. Nombre de vaincus de la vie embrassèrent cette carrière où l'on put voir des gentlemen ruinés et jusqu'à un prélat, l'évêque de Raphoe. Ils avaient beaucoup d'audace, pillant les voitures des invités à peu de distance du palais.

Voilà pour le passé.

C'est par le mouvement religieux, issu d'Oxford il y a bientôt soixante-dix ans, que la transformation fut opérée. Par le mouvement religieux, qui fut admirable, et aussi par le mouvement politique où la Révolution et la France jouèrent un rôle prépondérant. Ces deux facteurs ont puissamment contribué à remodeler l'Angleterre.

La passion politique était vive: et pendant un temps, tout l'intérêt se concentra sur ce qui se passait en France. Tous les esprits qui avaient à coeur la liberté civile et la liberté religieuse, tous ceux que l'impéritie et la suffisance de la classe aristocratique dégoûtaient, tous ceux qui voyaient avec mépris ce que l'Eglise avait pu faire de la religion, avaient embrassé la cause de la France révolutionnaire. Fox, à la prise de la Bastille, s'exclamait: "C'est le plus grand événement qui se soit passé au monde, et c'en est le meilleur." Il croyait que tout serait fini avec le démantèlement de la vieille forteresse symbolique et ne prévoyait pas qu'elle pouvait être sitôt reconstituée: l'idée que le peuple serait assez bête pour se forger, bénévolement, des chaînes pour s'entraver lui-même ne lui était point apparue. Par contre, Burke était pessimiste. Il ne voyait là que "la vieille férocité parisienne," et se demandait si, après tout, ce peuple n'est pas impropre à la liberté, et s'il n'a pas besoin d'une main vigoureuse pour le contenir. Il était pessimiste et autoritaire: aussi eut-il beaucoup d'adhérents; et Pitt bientôt se joignit à lui, au moins dans la haine des révolutionnaires. Son humiliation fut une joie profonde pour les whigs qui suivaient Fox: et il est intéressant de voir que, pour beaucoup, la défaite de Pitt comptait plus que celle de Napoléon. Il y avait des whigs jusque dans la famille royale, et ils étaient pleins d'ardeur. Au reste la cause était belle: c'était celle de la liberté contre l'autorité. "Nos adversaires," s'écriait Lord John Russell, "nous cassent le tympan avec le cri: 'Le roi et l'Eglise.' Savez-vous ce qu'ils entendent par là? C'est une Eglise sans évangile et un roi qui se met au-dessus de la loi." Oxford--clérical et littéraire--était tory; Cambridge, scientifique, qui avait eu Newton et attendait Darwin, était whig. Il est bon que la politique inspire de telles passions: car, au total, c'est la lutte entre les principes fondamentaux, et l'enjeu est de nature telle que nul n'a le droit de se désintéresser de la partie. Car l'enjeu ce sont les hommes mêmes, leurs privilèges et leurs droits, et s'ils se désintéressent, ils n'ont que ce qu'ils méritent le jour où la force s'appesantit sur eux brutalement.

A n'entendre parler que de politique, les enfants mêmes se troublaient "Maman," demandait la fille d'un whig éminent; "les tories naissent-ils méchants, ou bien le deviennent-ils?" "Ils naissent méchants," répliqua la mère, "et deviennent pires....' Une vieille fille excentrique, que l'auteur a connue, ne consentait à monter dans une voiture de louage qu'après avoir demandé au cocher s'il n'avait point transporté de malades atteints d'une maladie infectieuse, s'il n'était pas puseyite, et enfin s'il adhérait au programme whig.

"La passion aveugle," dît Topffer: elle aveuglait sur la moralité des procédés. Pitt, en visite chez une femme qui occupait un rang élevé dans le monde whig, au moment d'une élection, dit à son interlocutrice: "Eh bien! vous savez, nous l'emporterons. Dix mille guinées partiront demain par un homme de confiance pour le Yorkshire, et c'est pour notre usage qu'elles partent." "Du diable s'il en est ainsi," réplique la dame. Et la nuit même le porteur était arrêté, et son précieux fardeau allait grossir les poches des électeurs qui votèrent pour le candidat whig et en assurèrent la nomination.

C'est au cours de ces luttes politiques, pleines de feu et glorieuses, qui marquèrent principalement le début de ce siècle, et firent tant de bien à la nation, que les barrières entre les castes commencèrent à s'abaisser. Jusque-là, il n'y avait point de rapports entre l'aristocratie et la classe moyenne, en dehors des cas, encore rares, où la première patronnait l'aristocratie intellectuelle. (Voyez _La Vie de Johnson_ par Boswell, par exemple.)

Les choses allaient à ce point que Wilberforce refusa la pairie pour ne point retirer à ses fils le privilège de fréquenter chez les _gentlemen_, les familles du commerce, etc. A l'école--et c'est lord Bathurst qui a raconté ceci à l'auteur--les fils de nobles étaient assis sur un banc à part, loin du contact avec les roturiers. Il fallait garder la tradition. C'est ce que faisait le marquis d'Abercorn, qui mourut en 1818. Il n'allait jamais à la chasse sans arborer sa décoration--son _Blue Ribbon_--et exigeait que pour faire son lit les femmes de chambre eussent les mains gantées, et de gants de peau, pas de fil.... Avant d'épouser sa cousine Hamilton, il la fit anoblir par le régent, pour ne pas se marier au-dessous de sa condition. Et quand il apprit qu'elle le voulait planter là pour suivre un amant, il la pria de prendre le carrosse de famille afin qu'il ne fût pas dit que Lady Abercorn avait quitté le domicile conjugal dans une voiture de louage. A ses yeux cette "voiture de louage" jetait évidemment un grand discrédit sur les operations. On a de la race ou l'on n'en a pas.

Nous avons dit plus haut que M.G.W.E. Russell avait connu beaucoup d'hommes marquants de ce siècle, et avait eu avec eux des relations personnelles. Il en fut de toutes sortes; leurs opinions religieuses et politiques étaient souvent très opposées, mais tous étaient au nombre des, notabilités du jour. Sur chacun d'eux, notre auteur donne son impression personnelle, et rappelle des souvenirs personnels ou des anecdotes intéressantes. Nous ne pouvons les passer tous en revue: mais on en peut citer quelques-uns.