Chapter 4 (4)

After Palmerston’s defeat over the Conspiracy Bill and the failure of Derby’s followers in the Bernard case, the proceedings taken by the Government against the two pamphlets became impossible. If Bernard had been found guilty, hanged or sent to twenty years’ penal servitude, and public opinion had remained unmoved, then it would have been easy to complete the sacrifice with two or three Isaacs in the publishing trade. The French agents had already pounced upon other pamphlets, including Mazzini’s letter.

But Bernard had been acquitted, and that was not all. The ovation received by the jury, the enthusiastic uproar in the Old Bailey, the delight all over England, did not promise success. The case of the pamphlets was transferred to the Queen’s Bench.

This was their last effort to secure the conviction of the accused. The jury at the Old Bailey could not, it seemed, be relied upon; city men, who firmly maintained their rights and were from tradition somewhat in opposition, did not inspire confidence; while the jury of the Queen’s Bench came from the West End and were mostly wealthy tradesmen, who firmly upheld the religion of order and the tradition of profit, but even this jury could hardly be reckoned on after the tailor’s verdict.

Moreover, every newspaper in London and throughout the kingdom, with the exception of a few sheets, obviously in the pay of the Government, rose without distinction of party against the assault on the freedom of the press. Meetings were called, committees were formed, subscriptions were got up to pay fines and legal expenses, in case the Government should succeed in and petition the conviction of the publishers; addresses securings were signed.

The position was growing more difficult and more absurd every day. France in full trousers, _couleur garance_, with a _képi_ a little on one side, was gazing across the Channel with a sinister air, waiting for the end of the proceedings taken in defence of her master. Bernard’s release had deeply offended her, and she had drawn her sabre from its sheath, swearing like a corporal.

‘The heavy heart grew heavier
Beneath its weight of care....’[74]

The capitalists, pale as their own silver, looked to the Government; the Government like a mirror reflected their panic. But all this was nothing to Campbell and the judicial powers not of this world. They recognised one thing, that proceedings against the freedom of the press were opposed to the spirit of the whole nation, and that a severe sentence would deprive them of all popularity and provoke a fierce protest. The only course left them would be to pass a trivial sentence, a farthing damages or one day’s imprisonment.... While France with her _képi_ on one side would take such a sentence as a personal insult.

It would be worse still if the jury acquitted Truelove and Tchorszewski, then the whole blame would fall on the Government for not having ordered the _Préfet de Londres_, or the Lord Mayor, to select the jury from the _Service de sûreté_ or at least from the _friends of order_ ... and after that ‘_Tambourgi, tambourgi, they ’larum afar!_’

The Ministers of the Queen and her lawyers thoroughly grasped this awkward position and, perhaps, they would have done something, if it were possible in England to perform what the English call a ‘coop detty’ and the French a ‘_coup d’état_,’ while, moreover, the example of the resourceful, indefatigable, elusive, youthful old Palmerston was so fresh....

‘Oh Lord, what a task it is
To be the ruler of a grown-up nation!’[75]

The day of the trial arrived. The evening before, our B. went off to the Queen’s Bench and gave a policeman five shillings to let him in next day. B. laughed and rubbed his hands; he was persuaded that we should be unable to get seats, or should be stopped at the door. He forgot that there is as fact no door to the Queen’s Bench Court, but only a big archway. I arrived an hour before Campbell; there were not very many people and I got an excellent seat. Twenty minutes later I saw B. enter, looking in all directions, hunting about and apparently uneasy. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am looking for my policeman.’

‘What do you want him for?’

‘Why, he promised to keep a seat for me.’

‘Upon my soul, why, there are a hundred seats at your service.’

‘The policeman has cheated me,’ said B. laughing.

‘How has he cheated you? Why, you have got a place.’

The policeman of course did not show himself.

An eager conversation was going on between Tchorszewski and Truelove. Their solicitors were taking part in it too; at last, Tchorszewski turned to me and said, handing me a letter: ‘What do you think of this letter?’ The letter was from Truelove to his lawyer; in it he complained of having been arrested and said that, though he had printed the pamphlet, he had no intention of publishing such books; the letter was signed. Truelove was standing close by.

It was not for me to advise Truelove. I got out of it with some meaningless phrase, but Tchorszewski said: ‘They want me to sign a letter like that; I won’t do that. I’d rather go to prison than sign a letter like that.’

‘Silence,’ cried the usher. Lord Campbell appeared. When all the formalities were completed and the jury had taken the oath, Fitzroy Kelly got up and informed Campbell that he had a communication from the Government. ‘The Government,’ he said, ‘in view of Truelove’s letter, in which he undertakes this and that, and, taking into consideration this and that, abandons the prosecution.’

Campbell turning to the jury said to this: ‘That the guilt of the publisher of the pamphlet on tyrannicide is unquestioned, that the English law, while allowing every possible freedom of the press, nevertheless provides measures for punishing a provocation to so terrible a crime, and soon. But since the Government, owing to certain considerations, abandons the prosecution, he is ready, if the jury consent, to cut short the proceedings; if, however, they do not choose that this should be done, he will continue the trial.’

The jurymen wanted their lunch and wanted to go about their business, and so, without leaving the box, they turned their backs and, after consulting together, answered, as might have been expected, that they agreed that the proceedings should be stopped.

Campbell informed Truelove that he was at liberty to leave the court. There was no applause at this, nothing but laughter.

An _entr’acte_ followed at this moment. B. remembered that he had not had his morning tea, and went off to a neighbouring tavern. I note this trait especially because it is typically Russian. The Englishman eats a great deal of rich food, the German eats a great deal of inferior food, the Frenchman eats little but with enthusiasm; the Englishman drinks beer and everything else heavily, the German drinks beer, too, and beer instead of anything else; but neither Englishman, Frenchman nor German is so completely dependent on the habits of his stomach as the Russian. He is bound hand and foot by them. To miss his dinner ... impossible ... better arrive a day late, better not see some one at all. B. paid for his tea, besides his two shillings, with the following superb scene.

When Tchorszewski’s turn came Fitzroy Kelly rose, and again announced that he had a communication from the Government. I strained my ears; what cause could he have invented? Tchorszewski had written no letter.

‘Though the accused,’ began Fitzroy Kelly, ‘Stanislas Trou ... Torf ... Tush ...’ and he stopped, adding: ‘This is impossible! The foreign gentleman at the bar is certainly guilty of the publication and sale of Felix Pyat’s pamphlet, yet the Government, taking into consideration that he is a foreigner and ignorant of the English law, and that this is his first offence, abandons the prosecution.’

And the same farce was repeated. Campbell asked the jurymen. The jury instantly acquitted Tchorszewski.

On this occasion, too, the French were displeased. They wanted a grand _mise en scène_, they wanted to thunder against tyrants and champion _la cause des peuples_ ... possibly Truelove and Tchorszewski would incidentally have been fined or condemned to prison; but what does prison, ten years of prison, signify ... beside the opportunity of repeating in the face of all people the great principles that outlaw tyrants and their Zaids[76] ... the everlasting principles of 1789 on which the freedom of France stands so firmly ... in exile!

The Government, frightened by its neighbour, had for the second time struck upon the granite rock of English freedom, and had meekly given way; could there have been a greater triumph for the freedom of the press?