Endymion

“The betting is about equal,” said the Knight of the Dolphin.

“Well, we must have some gloves upon it,” said Berengaria.

Endymion walked away.

He walked away, and the first persons that met his eye were the prince and the Count of Ferroll in conversation. It was sickening. They seemed quite gay, and occasionally examined together a paper which the prince held in his hand, and which was an official report by the heralds of the day’s jousting. This friendly conversation might apparently have gone on for ever had not the music ceased and the count been obliged to seek his partner for the coming dance.

“I wonder you can speak to him,” said Endymion, going up to the prince. “If the heralds had not—many think, too hastily—closed the lists this morning, you would have been the victor of the day.”

“My dear child! what can you mean?” said the prince. “I believe everything was closed quite properly, and as for myself, I am entirely satisfied with my share of the day’s success.”

“If you had thrown him,” said Endymion, “he could not with decency have contended for the golden helm.”

“Oh! that is what you deplore,” said the prince. “The Count of Ferroll and I shall have to contend for many things more precious than golden helms before we die.”

“I believe he is a very overrated man,” said Endymion.

“Why?” said the prince.

“I detest him,” said Endymion.

“That is certainly a reason why you should not overrate him,” said the prince.

“There seems a general conspiracy to run him up,” said Endymion with pique.

“The Count of Ferroll is the man of the future,” said the prince calmly.

“That is what Mr. Neuchatel said to me yesterday. I suppose he caught it from you.”

“It is an advantage, a great advantage, for me to observe the Count of Ferroll in this intimate society,” said the prince, speaking slowly, “perhaps even to fathom him. But I am not come to that yet. He is a man neither to love nor to detest. He has himself an intelligence superior to all passion, I might say all feeling; and if, in dealing with such a being, we ourselves have either, we give him an advantage.”

“Well, all the same, I hope you will win the golden helm to-morrow,” said Endymion, looking a little perplexed.

“The golden casque that I am ordained to win,” said the prince, “is not at Montfort Castle. This, after all, is but Mambrino’s helmet.”

A knot of young dandies were discussing the chances of the morrow as Endymion was passing by, and as he knew most of them he joined the group.

“I hope to heaven,” said one, “that the Count of Ferroll will beat that foreign chap to-morrow; I hate foreigners.”

“So do I,” said a second, and there was a general murmur of assent.

“The Count of Ferroll is as much a foreigner as the prince,” said Endymion rather sharply.

“Oh! I don’t call him a foreigner at all,” said the first speaker. “He is a great favourite at White’s; no one rides cross country like him, and he is a deuced fine shot in the bargain.”

“I will back Prince Florestan against him either in field or cover,” said Endymion.

“Well, I don’t know your friend,” said the young gentleman contemptuously, “so I cannot bet.”

“I am sure your friend, Lady Montfort, my dear Dymy, will back the Count of Ferroll,” lisped a third young gentleman.

This completed the programme of mortification, and Endymion, hot and then cold, and then both at the same time, bereft of repartee, and wishing the earth would open and Montfort Castle disappear in its convulsed bosom, stole silently away as soon as practicable, and wandered as far as possible from the music and the bursts of revelry.

These conversations had taken place in the chief saloon, which was contiguous to the ball-room, and which was nearly as full of guests. Endymion, moving in the opposite direction, entered another drawing-room, where the population was sparse. It consisted of couples apparently deeply interested in each other. Some faces were radiant, and some pensive and a little agitated, but they all agreed in one expression, that they took no interest whatever in the solitary Endymion. Even their whispered words were hushed as he passed by, and they seemed, with their stony, unsympathising glance, to look upon him as upon some inferior being who had intruded into their paradise. In short, Endymion felt all that embarrassment, mingled with a certain portion of self contempt, which attends the conviction that we are what is delicately called de trop.

He advanced and took refuge in another room, where there was only a single, and still more engrossed pair; but this was even more intolerable to him. Shrinking from a return to the hostile chamber he had just left, he made a frantic rush forward with affected ease and alacrity, and found himself alone in the favourite morning room of Lady Montfort.

He threw himself on a sofa, and hid his face in his hand, and gave a sigh, which was almost a groan. He was sick at heart; his extremities were cold, his brain was feeble. All hope, and truly all thought of the future, deserted him. He remembered only the sorrowful, or the humiliating, chapters in his life. He wished he had never left Hurstley. He wished he had been apprenticed to Farmer Thornberry, that he had never quitted his desk at Somerset House, and never known more of life than Joe’s and the Divan. All was vanity and vexation of spirit. He contemplated finishing his days in the neighbouring stream, in which, but a few days ago, he was bathing in health and joy.

Time flew on; he was unconscious of its course; no one entered the room, and he wished never to see a human face again, when a voice sounded, and he heard his name.

“Endymion!”

He looked up; it was Lady Montfort. He did not speak, but gave her, perhaps unconsciously, a glance of reproach and despair.

“What is the matter with you?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“That is nonsense. Something must have happened. I have missed you so long, but was determined to find you. Have you a headache?”

“No.”

“Come back; come back with me. It is so odd. My lord has asked for you twice.”

“I want to see no one.”

“Oh! but this is absurd—and on a day like this, when every thing has been so successful, and every one is so happy.”

“I am not happy, and I am not successful.”

“You perfectly astonish me,” said Lady Montfort; “I shall begin to believe that you have not so sweet a temper as I always supposed.”

“It matters not what my temper is.”

“I think it matters a great deal. I like, above all things, to live with good-tempered people.”

“I hope you may not be disappointed. My temper is my own affair, and I am content always to be alone.”

“Why! you are talking nonsense, Endymion.”

“Probably; I do not pretend to be gifted. I am not one of those gentlemen who cannot fail. I am not the man of the future.”

“Well! I never was so surprised in my life,” exclaimed Lady Montfort. “I never will pretend to form an opinion of human character again. Now, my dear Endymion, rouse yourself, and come back with me. Give me your arm. I cannot stay another moment; I dare say I have already been wanted a thousand times.”

“I cannot go back,” said Endymion; “I never wish to see anybody again. If you want an arm, there is the Count of Ferroll, and I hope you may find he has a sweeter temper than I have.”

Lady Montfort looked at him with a strange and startled glance. It was a mixture of surprise, a little disdain, some affection blended with mockery. And then exclaiming “Silly boy!” she swept out of the room.

CHAPTER LXI

“I do not like the prospect of affairs,” said Mr. Sidney Wilton to Endymion as they were posting up to London from Montfort Castle; a long journey, but softened in those days by many luxuries, and they had much to talk about.

“The decline of the revenue is not fitful; it is regular. Our people are too apt to look at the state of the revenue merely in a financial point of view. If a surplus, take off taxes; if a deficiency, put them on. But the state of the revenue should also be considered as the index of the condition of the population. According to my impression, the condition of the people is declining; and why? because they are less employed. If this spreads, they will become discontented and disaffected, and I cannot help remembering that, if they become troublesome, it is our office that will have to deal with them.”

“This bad harvest is a great misfortune,” said Endymion.

“Yes, but a bad harvest, though unquestionably a great, perhaps the greatest, misfortune for this country, is not the entire solution of our difficulties—I would say, our coming difficulties. A bad harvest touches the whole of our commercial system: it brings us face to face with the corn laws. I wish our chief would give his mind to that subject. I believe a moderate fixed duty of about twelve shillings a quarter would satisfy every one, and nothing then could shake this country.”

Endymion listened with interest to other views of his master, who descanted on them at much length. Private secretaries know everything about their chiefs, and Endymion was not ignorant that among many of the great houses of the Whig party, and indeed among the bulk of what was called “the Liberal” party generally, Mr. Sidney Wilton was looked upon, so far as economical questions were concerned, as very crotchety, indeed a dangerous character. Lord Montfort was the only magnate who was entirely opposed to the corn laws, but then, as Berengaria would remark, “Simon is against all laws; he is not a practical man.”

Mr. Sidney Wilton reverted to these views more than once in the course of their journey. “I was not alarmed about the Chartists last year. Political trouble in this country never frightens me. Insurrections and riots strengthen an English government; they gave a new lease even to Lord Liverpool when his ministry was most feeble and unpopular; but economical discontent is quite another thing. The moment sedition arises from taxation, or want of employment, it is more dangerous and more difficult to deal with in this country than any other.”

“Lord Roehampton seemed to take rather a sanguine view of the situation after the Bed-Chamber business in the spring,” observed Endymion, rather in an inquiring than a dogmatic spirit.

“Lord Roehampton has other things to think of,” said Mr. Wilton. “He is absorbed, and naturally absorbed, in his department, the most important in the state, and of which he is master. But I am obliged to look at affairs nearer home. Now, this Anti-Corn-Law League, which they established last year at Manchester, and which begins to be very busy, though nobody at present talks of it, is, in my mind, a movement which ought to be watched. I tell you what; it occurred to me more than once during that wondrous pageant, that we have just now been taking part in, the government wants better information than they have as to the state of the country, the real feelings and condition of the bulk of the population. We used to sneer at the Tories for their ignorance of these matters, but after all, we, like them, are mainly dependent on quarter sessions; on the judgment of a lord-lieutenant and the statistics of a bench of magistrates. It is true we have introduced into our subordinate administration at Whitehall some persons who have obtained the reputation of distinguished economists, and we allow them to guide us. But though ingenious men, no doubt, they are chiefly bankrupt tradesmen, who, not having been able to manage their own affairs, have taken upon themselves to advise on the conduct of the country—pedants and prigs at the best, and sometimes impostors. No; this won’t do. It is useless to speak to the chief; I did about the Anti-Corn-Law League; he shrugged his shoulders and said it was a madness that would pass. I have made up my mind to send somebody, quite privately, to the great scenes of national labour. He must be somebody whom nobody knows, and nobody suspects of being connected with the administration, or we shall never get the truth—and the person I have fixed upon is yourself.”

“But am I equal to such a task?” said Endymion modestly, but sincerely.

“I think so,” said Mr. Wilton, “or, of course, I would not have fixed upon you. I want a fresh and virgin intelligence to observe and consider the country. It must be a mind free from prejudice, yet fairly informed on the great questions involved in the wealth of nations. I know you have read Adam Smith, and not lightly. Well, he is the best guide, though of course we must adapt his principles to the circumstances with which we have to deal. You have good judgment, great industry, a fairly quick perception, little passion—perhaps hardly enough; but that is probably the consequence of the sorrows and troubles of early life. But, after all, there is no education like adversity.”

“If it will only cease at the right time,” said Endymion.

“Well, in that respect, I do not think you have anything to complain of,” said Mr. Wilton. “The world is all before you, and I mistake if you do not rise. Perseverance and tact are the two qualities most valuable for all men who would mount, but especially for those who have to step out of the crowd. I am sure no one can say you are not assiduous, but I am glad always to observe that you have tact. Without tact you can learn nothing. Tact teaches you when to be silent. Inquirers who are always inquiring never learn anything.”

CHAPTER LXII

Lancashire was not so wonderful a place forty years ago as it is at present, but, compared then with the rest of England, it was infinitely more striking. For a youth like Endymion, born and bred in our southern counties, the Berkshire downs varied by the bustle of Pall-Mall and the Strand—Lancashire, with its teeming and toiling cities, its colossal manufactories and its gigantic chimneys, its roaring engines and its flaming furnaces, its tramroads and its railroads, its coal and its cotton, offered a far greater contrast to the scenes in which he had hitherto lived, than could be furnished by almost any country of the European continent.

Endymion felt it was rather a crisis in his life, and that his future might much depend on the fulfilment of the confidential office which had been entrusted to him by his chief. He summoned all his energies, concentrated his intelligence on the one subject, and devoted to its study and comprehension every moment of his thought and time. After a while, he had made Manchester his head-quarters. It was even then the centre of a network of railways, and gave him an easy command of the contiguous districts.

Endymion had more than once inquired after the Anti-Corn-Law League, but had not as yet been so fortunate as to attend any of their meetings. They were rarer than they afterwards soon became, and the great manufacturers did not encourage them. “I do not like extreme views,” said one of the most eminent one day to Endymion. “In my opinion, we should always avoid extremes;” and he paused and looked around, as if he had enunciated a heaven-born truth, and for the first time. “I am a Liberal; so we all are here. I supported Lord Grey, and I support Lord Melbourne, and I am, in everything, for a liberal policy. I don’t like extremes. A wise minister should take off the duty on cotton wool. That is what the country really wants, and then everybody would be satisfied. No; I know nothing about this League you ask about, and I do not know any one—that is to say, any one respectable—who does. They came to me to lend my name. ‘No,’ I said, ‘gentlemen; I feel much honoured, but I do not like extremes;’ and they went away. They are making a little more noise now, because they have got a man who has the gift of the gab, and the people like to go and hear him speak. But as I said to a friend of mine, who seemed half inclined to join them, ‘Well; if I did anything of that sort, I would be led by a Lancashire lad. They have got a foreigner to lead them, a fellow out of Berkshire; an agitator—and only a print-work after all. No; that will never do.’”

Notwithstanding these views, which Endymion found very generally entertained by the new world in which he mixed, he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of attending the meeting of the League, and it soon arrived.

It was an evening meeting, so that workmen—or the operatives, as they were styled in this part of the kingdom—should be able to attend. The assembly took place in a large but temporary building; very well adapted to the human voice, and able to contain even thousands. It was fairly full to-night; and the platform, on which those who took a part in the proceedings, or who, by their comparatively influential presence, it was supposed, might assist the cause, was almost crowded.

“He is going to speak to-night,” said an operative to Endymion. “That is why there is such an attendance.”

Remembering Mr. Wilton’s hint about not asking unnecessary questions which often arrest information, Endymion did not inquire who “he” was; and to promote communication merely observed, “A fine speaker, then, I conclude?”

“Well, he is in a way,” said the operative. “He has not got Hollaballoo’s voice, but he knows what he is talking about. I doubt their getting what they are after; they have not the working classes with them. If they went against truck, it would be something.”

The chairman opened the proceedings; but was coldly received, though he spoke sensibly and at some length. He then introduced a gentleman, who was absolutely an alderman, to move a resolution condemnatory of the corn laws. The august position of the speaker atoned for his halting rhetoric, and a city which had only just for the first time been invested with municipal privileges was hushed before a man who might in time even become a mayor.

Then the seconder advanced, and there was a general burst of applause.

“There he is,” said the operative to Endymion; “you see they like him. Oh, Job knows how to do it!”

Endymion listened with interest, soon with delight, soon with a feeling of exciting and not unpleasing perplexity, to the orator; for he was an orator, though then unrecognised, and known only in his district. He was a pale and slender man, with a fine brow and an eye that occasionally flashed with the fire of a creative mind. His voice certainly was not like Hollaballoo’s. It was rather thin, but singularly clear. There was nothing clearer except his meaning. Endymion never heard a case stated with such pellucid art; facts marshalled with such vivid simplicity, and inferences so natural and spontaneous and irresistible, that they seemed, as it were, borrowed from his audience, though none of that audience had arrived at them before. The meeting was hushed, was rapt in intellectual delight, for they did not give the speaker the enthusiasm of their sympathy. That was not shared, perhaps, by the moiety of those who listened to him. When his case was fairly before them, the speaker dealt with his opponents—some in the press, some in parliament—with much power of sarcasm, but this power was evidently rather repressed than allowed to run riot. What impressed Endymion as the chief quality of this remarkable speaker was his persuasiveness, and he had the air of being too prudent to offend even an opponent unnecessarily. His language, though natural and easy, was choice and refined. He was evidently a man who had read, and not a little; and there was no taint of vulgarity, scarcely a provincialism, in his pronunciation.

He spoke for rather more than an hour; and frequently during this time, Endymion, notwithstanding his keen interest in what was taking place, was troubled, it might be disturbed, by pictures and memories of the past that he endeavoured in vain to drive away. When the orator concluded, amid cheering much louder than that which had first greeted him, Endymion, in a rather agitated voice, whispered to his neighbour, “Tell me—is his name Thornberry?”

“That is your time of day,” said the operative. “Job Thornberry is his name, and I am on his works.”

“And yet you do not agree with him?”

“Well; I go as far as he goes, but he does not go so far as I go; that’s it.”

“I do not see how a man can go much farther,” said Endymion. “Where are his works? I knew your master when he was in the south of England, and I should like to call on him.”

“My employer,” said the operative. “They call themselves masters, but we do not. I will tell you. His works are a mile out of town; but it seems only a step, for there are houses all the way. Job Thornberry & Co.‘s Print-works, Pendleton Road—any one can guide you—and when you get there, you can ask for me, if you like. I am his overlooker, and my name is ENOCH CRAGGS.”

CHAPTER LXIII

“You are not much altered,” said Thornberry, as he retained Endymion’s hand, and he looked at him earnestly; “and yet you have become a man. I suppose I am ten years your senior. I have never been back to the old place, and yet I sometimes think I should like to be buried there. The old man has been here, and more than once, and liked it well enough; at least, I hope so. He told me a good deal about you all; some sorrows, and, I hope, some joys. I heard of Miss Myra’s marriage; she was a sweet young lady; the gravest person I ever knew; I never knew her smile. I remember they thought her proud, but I always had a fancy for her. Well; she has married a topsawyer—I believe the ablest of them all, and probably the most unprincipled; though I ought not to say that to you. However, public men are spoken freely of. I wish to Heaven you would get him to leave off tinkering those commercial treaties that he is always making such a fuss about. More pernicious nonsense was never devised by man than treaties of commerce. However, their precious most favoured nation clause will break down the whole concern yet. But you wish to see the works; I will show them to you myself. There is not much going on now, and the stagnation increases daily. And then, if you are willing, we will go home and have a bit of lunch—I live hard by. My best works are my wife and children: I have made that joke before, as you can well fancy.”

This was the greeting, sincere but not unkind, of Job Thornberry to Endymion on the day after the meeting of the Anti-Corn-Law League. To Endymion it was an interesting, and, as he believed it would prove, a useful encounter.

The print-works were among the most considerable of their kind at Manchester, but they were working now with reduced numbers and at half-time. It was the energy and the taste and invention of Thornberry that had given them their reputation, and secured them extensive markets. He had worked with borrowed capital, but had paid off his debt, and his establishment was now his own; but, stimulated by his success, he had made a consignment of large amount to the United States, where it arrived only to be welcomed by what was called the American crash.

Turning from the high road, a walk of half a mile brought them to a little world of villas; varying in style and size, but all pretty, and each in its garden. “And this is my home,” said Thornberry, opening the wicket, “and here is my mistress and the young folks”—pointing to a pretty woman, but with an expression of no inconsiderable self-confidence, and with several children clinging to her dress and hiding their faces at the unexpected sight of a stranger. “My eldest is a boy, but he is at school,” said Thornberry. “I have named him, after one of the greatest men that ever lived, John Hampden.”

“He was a landed proprietor,” observed Endymion rather drily; “and a considerable one.”

“I have brought an old friend to take cheer with us,” continued Thornberry; “one whom I knew before any here present; so show your faces, little people;” and he caught up one of the children, a fair child like its mother, long-haired and blushing like a Worcestershire orchard before harvest time. “Tell the gentleman what you are.”

“A free-trader,” murmured the infant.

Within the house were several shelves of books well selected, and the walls were adorned with capital prints of famous works of art. “They are chiefly what are called books of reference,” said Thornberry, as Endymion was noticing his volumes; “but I have not much room, and, to tell you the truth, they are not merely books of reference to me—I like reading encyclopaedia. The ‘Dictionary of Dates’ is a favourite book of mine. The mind sometimes wants tone, and then I read Milton. He is the only poet I read—he is complete, and is enough. I have got his prose works too. Milton was the greatest of Englishmen.”