Chapter X: Book II: Persons (5)

At the same moment the designer of this horrible event was steaming across the Atlantic in his splendid yacht, gulling weak-minded, simple Baskelette with highest notions of honour, and what not. When Marese found that the snow had blocked the line and prevented access to New York, his rage and disappointment knew no bounds; but he was sufficiently master of himself to think and decide upon the course to be pursued.

Although that part of the diabolical scheme which aimed at the wholesale destruction of the claimants had failed, all the other sections of it were in train to succeed. The bullion was shipped, the cargo a rich one, the steamer herself valuable—no better prize could ever fall to him. Therefore he telegraphed to Theodore in cypher to proceed as had been arranged.

The infernal machine, concealed in the simple aspect of an ordinary strong deal-box, was sent on board the _Lucca_, and everything happened just as Theodore had foreseen. If the conspirators were somewhat disturbed in their calculations by the snow-storm, on the other hand their designs were assisted by the heavy fog which had occurred at sea. Undoubtedly this fog rendered the poisonous gas escaping from the case still more effective, as it would prevent it dispersing so rapidly, and at the same time it hid any signals the _Lucca_ might have made.

Nothing more fortunate for the conspirators than this fog could have happened, for its service did not end here—it furnished a plausible explanation of what would have otherwise been inexplicable.

Theodore easily contrived the removal of the fatal case, now empty, on board the _Gloire de Dijon_ after the _Lucca_ had returned to port. The case had been consigned to Liverpool, which was the port the _Lucca_ was bound for, and the excuse for sending it by the _Lucca_ was all cut and dried—i.e., that the _Gloire de Dijon_ was for London.

Nothing was more natural than that, after this narrow escape, it should be wished to transfer the case to the _Gloire de Dijon_. This was done; and while at sea Theodore quietly removed his machine and pitched it into the water at night, and it sank in the abyss, being lined with iron inside.

The question of salvage bid fair to occupy the Courts in New York for some considerable time, and to be a boon to the lawyers; but the two conspirators were far too keen to let their prize slip from them in that way. They managed to have the matter referred to arbitration, and the final result was that 400,000 pounds was awarded. This amount they at once transferred to London, and with it plunged at once into fresh schemes.

Chapter Fourteen.

The great city whose ownership was at stake, knew that the eagles were gathered to the living carcase, and yet did not feel their presence. What are one hundred and fifty people in a population of half a million? They are lost, unless they march in order and attract attention by blocking up the streets. Disband a regiment of the Line in Saint Paul’s Churchyard at London, and in ten minutes it would disappear, and no one would notice any unusual prevalence of red coats on the pavements.

The newspaper people were woefully disappointed, for the Press were not admitted. They revenged themselves with caricature portraits of the claimants, and grotesque sketches of their manners and conduct. Although the Press were excluded; there were several present who could write shorthand, and amongst these was a clerk from the office of Shaw, Shaw, and Simson, whose notes I have had the opportunity of consulting.

The Sternhold Hall, in which the council was held, was built, as has been stated, upon a spot once the very centre of the Swamp, now surrounded with noble streets of mansions and club-houses, theatres, picture-galleries—the social centre of Stirmingham. The front—you can buy a photograph of it for a shilling—is of the Ionic order of architecture—that is, the modern mock Ionic—i.e., the basement is supported by columns of that order, and above these the _façade_ consists of windows in the Gothic style, which are, after all, dumb windows only. The guide-books call it magnificent; it is really simply incongruous.

The whole of the first two days was spent by the one hundred and fifty claimants in wrangling as to who should take the chair, how the business should be conducted, who should be admitted and who should not. All the minor differences suppressed while on the voyage broke out afresh, the moment the eagles had scented the carcase. Two days’ glimpse at the wealth of Stirmingham, was sufficient to upset all the artificial calm and friendship, which had been introduced by the generous offers of Marese Baskette. One gentleman proposed that a certain section of claimants should be wholly excluded from the hall. This caused a hubbub, and if the incident had happened in the States revolvers might have been used. The Original Swampers declared that they would not sit under a chairman drawn from any other body but themselves. The outer circle of Baskettes considered that the conceit of the Swampers was something unbearable, and declined to support them in any way. The Illegitimate Swampers alone supported the Originals, in the hope of getting up by clinging to their coat-tails. The Primitive Sibbolds were quite as determined to sit under no president but their own, and, the ranks of the other Sibbolds were split up into twenty parties. The clamour of tongues, the excitement, the hubbub was astounding.

Aymer, as clerk to Mr Broughton, had a first-rate view of the whole, for Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had provided for the comfort of their representative by purchasing for the time the right to use the stage entrance of the room. Their offices were for the nonce established in the green-room. Their clients mounted upon the platform or stage, and passed behind the curtain to private consultation. This astute management upset the other seven companies, whose representatives had to locate themselves as best they might in the midst of a stormy sea of contending people. From the rear of the stage, just where the stage-manager was accustomed to look out upon the audience and watch the effect upon them of the play, Aymer had a good view of the crowd below, and beheld men in every shade of cloth, with rolls of paper, yellow deeds, or old books and quill pens in their hands, gesticulating and chattering like the starlings at World’s End.

For two whole days the storm continued, till at last Mr Broughton suggested that the debate should be conducted in sections; each party to have its own president, secretary, committee, and reporter of progress; each to sit apart from the others by means of screens, and that there should be a central committee-room, to receive the reports and tabulate them in order. This scheme was adopted, and something like order began to prevail. Anthony Baskelette, Esq, who had now arrived per the _Gloire de Dijon_, was pretty unanimously voted to the presidentship of the central committee, or section, the members of which were composed of representatives from every party. Screens were provided at no little expense, and the great hall was portioned out into thirty or forty pens, not unlike the high pews used of old in village churches.

Aymer was intensely interested and amused, as he stood at his peep-hole on the stage, from which he could see into every one of these pens, or pews, and watch the eagerness of the disputes going on between the actors in each.

The first great object the sections had in view was to reduce their claims to something like shape and order; for this purpose each section was numbered from 1 to 37, and was to deliver to the central section, Number 38, a report or summary of the general principles and facts upon which the members of the section based their claim. This summary of claim, as it was called, was to be short, succinct, and clear; and to be supported by minute extracts of evidence, by the vouchers of the separate individuals, so to say, showing that the summary was correct.

These extracts of evidence attached to the summary were really not extracts, but full copies, and had to contain the dates, names, method of identification, and references to church registers, tombstones, family Bibles, and so forth.

Aymer was astounded at the magnitude of these volumes of evidence—for such, in fact, they were. He had an opportunity of just glancing at them, as they were laid upon the table of the central section one after another. The summaries were reasonable and tolerably well expressed. The minutes of evidence were something overwhelming. A section would send up in the course of a day—first, its summary and a pile of folios—seventy or eighty large lawyer’s folios of evidence to be attached to it. On the morrow it would beg for permission to add to its evidence, and towards the afternoon up would come another huge bundle of closely-written manuscript.

This would go on for several days, till the central committee at last issued an order to receive no more evidence from section Number —.

Then section Number — would hold an indignation meeting and protest, till the central committee was obliged to receive additional bundles of so-called evidence. Half of this evidence was nothing better than personal recollection.

The method pursued in the sections was delightfully simple and gratifying to every member’s vanity. He was supplied with pen and ink, and told to put down all he could recollect about his family. The result was that in each section there were five or six people—and in some more—all busily at work, writing autobiographies; and as everybody considered himself of quite as much consequence as his neighbour, the bulk of these autobiographies can easily be imagined.

If any one had taken the trouble to wade through these personal histories, he would have been highly gratified with the fertility of the United States in breeding truly benevolent, upright, and distinguished men!

Out of all that one hundred and fifty there was not one who did not merit the gratitude of his township at least, and some were fully worthy of the President’s chair at the White House. Their labours for the good of others were most carefully recorded—the subscriptions they had made to local charities far away on the other side of the Atlantic, to schoolhouses, and chapels, town-halls, and what not.

“There,” ran many a proud record,—“you will see my initials upon the corner-stone—‘J.I.B.,’ for ‘Jonathan Ithuriel Baskette,’ and the date (186-), which is in itself good evidence towards my case.”

All this mass of rubbish had to be sifted by the central, committee, to be docketed, indexed, arranged, and a general analysis made of it.

They worked for a while without a murmur, and suddenly collapsed. It was impossible to meet the flood of writing. Fancy one hundred and fifty people writing their autobiographies all at once, and each determined to do himself justice! Such a spectacle was never witnessed since the world began, and was worthy of the nineteenth century. The central committee flung up their hands in despair. A resource was presently found in the printing-press.

When once the idea was started, the cry spread to all corners of the hall, and rose in a volume of sound to be echoed from the roof. The Press! The Spirit evoked by Faust which he could not control, nor any who have followed him.

It was unanimously decided that everything should be printed—sectional summaries, minutes of evidence, central committees analysis, solicitors arguments, references and all. There was rejoicing in the printing offices at Stirmingham that day. Now the _Stirmingham Daily Post_ reaped the reward of its long attack upon the family of the heir, upon Sternhold Baskette, and Marese, his son. The contract was offered to the _Daily Post_, the _Daily Post_ accepted it, and set to work, but soon found it necessary to obtain the aid of other local printers.

Now a new source of delay and worry arose. The moment everybody knew they were going into print—why is it print sounds so much better than manuscript?—each and all wanted to revise and add to their histories. First, all the sections had to receive back their summaries and minutes of evidence, to be re-written, corrected, revised, and above all extended. The scribbling of pens recommenced with redoubled vigour, and now the printer’s devils appeared upon the scene. The cost of printing the enormous mass of verbiage must have been something immense, but it was cheerfully submitted to—because each man looked forward to the pleasure of seeing himself in print.

Acres upon acres of proofs went in and out of the Sternhold Hall, and meantime Aymer grew impatient and weary of it. His time was much more occupied than at Barnham. He had to conduct all Broughton’s correspondence, and when that was finished lend a hand in arranging the minutes of evidence for the committee, who had applied for assistance to the solicitors. He had only reckoned on a month at Stirmingham at the outside. Already a fortnight had elapsed, and there seemed no sign of the end.

His letters to Violet became tinged with a species of dull despair. All this scribbling was to him the very acme of misery, the very winter of discontent—meaningless, insufferable. There was no progress in it for him: he could not find a minute’s spare time now to proceed with his private work. Not a step was gained nearer Violet.

When at last the scribbling was over; when the proofs had been read and re-read and corrected till the compositors went mad; then the speechifying had to begin. This to Aymer was even more wearisome than the other. For Mr Broughton having discovered his literary talent, employed him to listen to the debate and write a daily _précis_ of its progress, which it would be less trouble to him to read than the copious and interminable notes of the shorthand writer.

This order compelled Aymer to pay close attention to every speech from first to last; and as they one and all followed the American plan of writing out their speeches and reading them, most were of inordinate length. To suit the speakers a new arrangement of the hall had to be made. The screens were now removed, and the sections placed in a kind of semi-circle, with the central section in front. Those who desired to speak gave in their names, and were called upon by the president in regular rotation.

The first subject discussed was the method to be pursued. Some recommended that the whole body of claimants should combine and present their claims _en masse_. Others thought that this plan might sacrifice those who had good claims to those who had bad ones. Many were for forming a committee, chosen from the various sections, to remain in England and instruct the solicitors; others were for forming at once a committee of solicitors.

After four or five days of fierce discussion the subject was still unsettled, and a new one occupied its place. This was—how should the plunder be divided? Such a topic seemed to outsiders very much like reckoning the chickens before they were hatched. But not so to these enthusiastic gentlemen. They were certain of wresting the properly from the hands of the “Britishers,” who had so long kept them out of their rights—the Stars and Stripes would yet float over the city of Stirmingham, and the President of the United States should be invited to a grand dinner in that very hall!

The division of the property caused more dissension than everything else taken together. One section—that of the Original Swampers—declared that it _would_ have, nothing should prevent its having, the whole of the streets, etc, built on the site of the Swamp. The Sibbolds cared not a rap for the Swamp; they _would_ have all the property which had grown upon the site of old Sibbold’s farm at Wolfs Glow. The Illegitimates claimed pieces here and there, corresponding to the islands of the Swamp. Some one proposed that the meeting should be provided with maps of Stirmingham, and the idea was unanimously adopted.

Then came the day of the surveyors. One vast map was ordered—it had to be made in sections—and was estimated to cover, when extended, a mile in length by three hundred yards in breadth; and then it did not satisfy some of the claimants. Then followed a terrible wrangle over the maps. Everybody wanted to mark his possession upon it with red ink, and these red ink lines invariably interfered with one another. One gentleman proposed, with true American ingenuity, to have the map traced in squares—like the outlying territories and backwoods of America—and to assign to each section a square! But this was too equal a mode to satisfy the more grasping.

Finally, it was resolved that all the minutes of evidence should be gone through by the central committee, and that they should sketch out those portions of the city to which each section was entitled. This took some time. At the end of that time the great Sternhold Hall presented an extraordinary spectacle. The walls of the hall, from the ceiling to the floor, and all round, and the very ceiling itself, were papered with these sections of the map, each strongly marked with lines in red ink. Near the stage there was a vast library of books, reaching half-way to the ceiling; this was composed of the summaries, minutes of evidence, etc.

All round the room wandered the claimants in knots of two or three, examining their claims as marked upon the sections of the map. Many had opera-glasses to distinguish the claims which were “skyed;” some affected to lie down on their backs and examine the ceiling with telescopes; scores had their volume of evidence in their hands, and were trying to discover upon what principle the central committee had apportioned out the city.

Of course there was a general outcry of dissatisfaction—one section had too much, another too little, and some sections, it was contended, had no right to any. The meeting then resolved that each section should visit the spaces marked out for its claim, and should report to the central committee upon its value. Away went the sections, and there might have been seen five or six gentlemen in one street, and ten or twelve round the corner, with maps and pencils, talking eagerly, and curiously scanning the shops and houses—poking their noses into back courts and alleys—measuring the frontage of club-houses and theatres. The result was an uproar, for each section declared that the other had had a more valuable portion of the city given to it; and one utterly rejected its section, for it had got the Wolf’s Glow district—the lowest den in Stirmingham!

After a long discussion, it was at last arranged that each section should retain, _pro tem_, its claim as marked out, and that _token the property was realised_, any excess of one section over the other should be equally divided. These people actually contemplated the possibility of putting the city up to auction! To such lengths will the desire of wealth drive the astutest of men, blinding their eyes to their own absurdity.

After these preliminary points were settled, the meeting at last resolved itself into a committee of the whole house, and proceeded to business. The first business was to verify the evidence. This necessitated visits to the churches, and public record office to make extracts, etc, and two days were set apart for that purpose. It was a rich harvest for the parish clerks of Stirmingham, and especially for the fortunate clerk at Wolf’s Glow. After this the meeting, beginning to be alarmed at the enormous expense it had incurred, resolved on action, and with that object it decided to hold a secret session, and to exclude all persons not strictly claimants.

This relieved Aymer from his wearisome task of chronicling the proceedings; but he could not leave or get a day to visit Violet. As he left the hall he stopped a moment to look at the stock-in-trade of an itinerant bookseller, who had established his track in front of the building since the family congress began. His stock was principally genealogical, antiquarian, and topographical—mostly old rubbish, that no one would imagine to be worth a sixpence, and yet which, among a certain class, commands a good sale.

The title of a more modern-looking volume caught Aymer’s eye. It was “A Fortune for a Shilling,” and consisted of a list of unclaimed estates, next of kin, persons advertised for, etc. He weighed it in his hand—it tempted him; yet he despised himself for his weakness. But Violet? He should serve her best by saving his shilling. He put it down, and went his way.

Chapter Fifteen.

Their mouths watered for the great city, yet it seemed no nearer to them than when three thousand miles away on the other side of the Atlantic. They talked loudly of their rights, but there was the little difficulty of possession, which is sometimes a trifle more than nine points of the law. I have conversed with unreasonable members of a certain Church, which claims to be universal, who considered that half England—half the vast domains owned by lords and ladies, by the two hundred and fifty proprietors of Great Britain—was really the property of the Church, if she had her rights.

There are those who consider that Algeria ought to belong to the Arabs, that Africa belongs to the blacks, and India to the Hindoos. Sat there comes this awkward item of possession. You have to buy the man in possession out, or else pitch him out; and the difficulty in this case was that there were so many in possession. Eight companies and a Corporation are not easily ejected.

The fact was, the grand family council was a farce, and fell through. Even as a demonstration it completely failed. The members of it might just as well have stayed at home, and sent a monster petition to the House of Lords, several hundred yards long (as per the usual custom now-a-days), and their progress would have been about as great.

The _Stirmingham Daily News_, which had published the life of Sternhold Baskette, and defended his legitimate line, poured bitter satire upon it, and held the whole business up to ridicule—as well it might. The _News_ was now Conservative. The intense self-conceit of the Yankees—to imagine that they were going to quietly take possession of a great English city, and hoist the Stars and Stripes on Saint George’s Cathedral at Stirmingham!

The American gentlemen fumed and fussed, and uttered threats of making the Stirmingham claim a feature in the next Presidential election—it should “leave the low sphere of personal contention, and enter the arena of political discussion;” so they said. It should be a new _Alabama_ case; and if they could not have Stirmingham, they would have—the Dollars!

Meantime the dollars disappeared rather rapidly, and, after a month or six weeks of these endless wranglings in the Sternhold Hall, there began to be symptoms of an early break-up. First, three or four, then ten, then a dozen, crept off, and quietly sailed for New York, lighter in pocket, and looking rather foolish. The body, however, of the claimants could not break up in that ignominious manner. It was necessary for them to do something to mark the fact that they had been there, at all events.

The final result was that they appointed a committee of solicitors—one for each section that chose to be represented. Twenty-two sections did choose, and twenty-two solicitors formed the English committee who were to promote the claims of one hundred and fifty able-bodied Baskettes and Sibboldians, who represented about three times that number of women and children. Then they held a banquet in the Sternhold Hall, and invited the Mayor of Stirmingham, who, however, was very busy that evening, and “deeply regretted” his inability to be present. The council then broke up, and departed for New York.

Aymer was indeed glad; now he should be able to see Violet again, and resume his book so long laid aside. But no; there came a new surprise. A certain recalcitrant borough in the West returned unexpectedly a member of the wrong colour to Parliament, and the House was dissolved, and writs were issued for a general election. Three days afterwards an address appeared in the _Stirmingham Daily News_, announcing Marese Baskette as a candidate for that place in the Conservative interest. The heir had resolved to enter the House if possible, and his proclamation fell on Stirmingham, not like a thunderbolt, but like the very apple of discord dropped from heaven.

First, it upset poor Aymer’s little plans and hopes. The companies were desperately alarmed, and not without reason; for if Marese got into Parliament he would, no doubt, very quickly become in himself a power, and would be supported by his party in his claim upon the building societies. It would be to the interest of his party that he should obtain his property—it would be so much substantial gain to them. Practically, Marese Baskette would have the important borough of Stirmingham in his pocket; therefore the party would be sure to do all they could to get his claim fully admitted. Imagine that party in power; fancy the chief at the head of Government!

Every one knows that justice and equity are immaculate in England, and that no strain is ever put upon them for political purposes, or to gratify political supporters. The fact is so well understood, so patent, that it is unnecessary to adduce any proof of it. But there is, nevertheless, a certain indefinite feeling that the complexion of the political party in power extends very widely, and penetrates into quarters supposed to be remote from its centre. Whichever happens to be uppermost—but let us not even think such treasonable things.

At all events the companies had a real dread—a heartfelt fear—lest Marese Baskette should get into Parliament, and so obtain political support to his claim. They had foreseen something of the kind; they had dreaded its happening any time ever since he came of age; but they had reckoned that his known poverty would keep him out, especially as there was a very popular landlord in the county, Sir Jasper Norton, who, with another prominent supporter of the Liberal Government, had hitherto proved invincible. It had hung over their heads for years; now it had fallen, and fallen, of all other times, just at the very moment when their leases were on the point of expiring. A more unfortunate moment for them could not have been chosen. With one consent they resolved to fight him tooth and nail. This was fatal to poor Aymer’s hopes. For the company (Number 6) which employed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson could not possibly spare Mr Broughton’s energetic spirit; he must help them fight the coming man. Broughton, seeing good fees and some sport, resolved, to stay, and with him poor Aymer had to remain.

The whole city was in a ferment. Marese Baskette’s name was upon every lip, and as the murmur swelled into a roar it grew into something very like a cheer for the heir. That cheer penetrated the thick walls of many a fashionable villa and mansion, and was listened to with ill-concealed anxiety. Many a portly gentleman, dressed in the tailor’s best, with broad shirt-front, gold studs, and heavy ring, rubicund with good living, as he stood upon his hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, in the midst of his family circle, surrounded with luxury, grew thoughtful and absent as that dull distant roar reached his ears. Banker and speculator, city man, merchant, ironworker, coalowner, millowner, heard and trembled. For the first time they began to comprehend the meaning of the word Mob.

That word is well understood in America; twice it has been thoroughly spelt and learnt by heart in France. Will it ever be learnt in England? Outside those thick walls and strong shutters in the dingy street or dimly-lit suburban road, where the bitter winter wind drove the cold rain and sleet along, there roamed abroad a mighty monster roused from his den. They heard and trembled. Before that monster the safeguards of civilisation are as cobwebs. He may be scotched with Horse Guards and Snider rifles, beaten back into his caverns; but of what avail is that after the mischief is done? In sober earnest, the middle classes began to fear for the safety of Stirmingham. You see, the grey sewer-rats had undermined it from end to end!

It happened that the ironmasters and the coalowners, and some of the millowners, had held out long and successfully against a mighty strike: a strike that extended almost to a million of hearths and homes. They had won in the struggle, but the mind of the monster was bitter against them. They were Liberal—nearly all. Let them and their candidates keep a good look-out!

It happened also that the winter was hard and cold, work scarce, provisions dear; everything was wrong. It is at such times that, in exact opposition to all rules, the grey rat flourishes!

Finally, it happened that the party who had so strangely abdicated power just at the time when they seemed so firmly fixed, had committed a singularly, an exceptionally, unpopular act. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! They had curtailed his hours for drinking it, and to all appearance in an arbitrary way. Rumour said that they contemplated an alliance with the Cold Water Pump—that horror of horrors, the Temperance party. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! And the grey rat showed his teeth.

Marese Baskette issued his _pronunciamento_, and at once opened the campaign. Everybody read it, from the club-house to the grimy bar of the lowest public-house. The club-house smiled, and said, “Clever;” the pot-house cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He _was_ their man. Even yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was born.

History magnifies itself as time rolls on; the memory of that brief hour of unlimited riot had grown till it remained the one green spot in the life of the Stirmingham populace. This was the very man—this was the very infant whose advent, almost a generation ago, had been celebrated with rejoicings such as no king or queen in these degenerate days ever offered to the people.

When old Sternhold Baskette in the joy of his heart poured out wine in gallons, spirits in casks, and beer in rivers, he baptised his son Marese, the Child of the People. And it bore fruit at this great distance of time.

John Marese Baskette was, as we know, a clever man; he had a still more subtle man at his elbow. Between them they composed his address and his first oration. Be sure they did not forget the memory so dear to the people. Not one single thing was omitted which could tend to identify Marese Baskette with the populace. The combination of capital against them, the hard winter and price of provisions, all were skilfully turned to advantage; and, above all, the beer. When the publicans had read his address they one and all said, “He’s our man.” Licensed victuallers, beer-house keepers, “off the premises” men, gin-palace, eating-house, restaurant, hotel—all joined hands and marched in chorus, praising the man who promised to turn on the beer.

For he’s a jolly good fellow, And so say all of us!

But Marese Baskette did not wholly rely upon the poorer classes: he gained the goodwill, or at least the neutrality, of two-thirds of the middle classes, by openly declaring that when he came into his property, as he grandly designated half the city, he should devote one-third of it to the relief of local taxation, to form a kind of common fund for sewers, gas, water, poor-rates, paving, etc. He went further—this he did not promulgate openly, but he caused it to be spread industriously abroad from house to house—and said that, when he inherited his rights, the house rents should be reduced from their present exorbitant figure.

Now it was notorious that the companies only waited to see whether they could tide over the year of expiration of their leases before they raised the rents. The arrow therefore went home. Baskette had hit the nail upon the head. The other party began to threaten petitions for bribery—contending that these promises were nothing short of it.

The _Daily Post_ published a leader on “Glaring Corruption and Wholesale Venality.” Baskette and Theodore smiled. What would be the use of unseating him if, as they clearly saw, the opposite party was gone to utter destruction?

Baskette met with a triumphant reception at his first meeting. Whenever he appeared in the streets he was cheered to the echo.

The building societies and the Corporation were desperately alarmed. Though so bitterly opposed to each other at ordinary times, a common fear gave them unity. They held a secret meeting—at least they thought it was secret, but such things are impossible in our time. The pen is everywhere—its sharp point penetrates through the thickest wall. They united, formed themselves into an association, voted funds—secret also—hired speakers and hired roughs.

It all leaked out. The _Stirmingham Daily News_—Baskette’s paper—came out with a report and a leader, and held up the poor heir to the commiseration of the people. See what a combination against him!—anything to keep him out of his rights. Hired speakers to talk him down—hired roughs to knock him on the head. Vested interests arrayed against him—poor heir! How deeply to be pitied! How greatly to be sympathised with! The paper used stronger language than this, and hinted at “gangs of foul conspirators,” but that was not gentlemanly.

The exposure was worth a thousand votes to Baskette. But though exposed, the Corporation and the companies never ceased their efforts. Between them they comprised almost all of the rich employers of labour. They had one terrible engine—a fearful instrument of oppression and torture—invented in our modern days, in order that we may not get free and “become as gods.” They put on the screw.

There is not a working man in England, from the hedger and ditcher, and the wretch who breaks the flints by the roadside, up to the best paid clerk or manager of a bank—not one single man who receives wages from another—who does not know the meaning of that word.

Let no one imagine that the “screw” is confined in its operation to the needy artisan or the labourer. It extends into all ranks of society, poisons every family circle, tortures every tenant and householder—all who in any way depend for comfort, luxury, or peace upon another person. There is but one rank who are free—the few who, whether for wages or as tenants, never have to look to others.

Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous, and the second, infinitely few—i.e., the Screwed-down, and the Screw-drivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the screw-drivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.

Perhaps they gave it one turn too many; at all events the mob set up a yell. They formed processions and marched about the streets with bundles of screws, strung like bunches of keys, at the end of poles. Squibs flew in all directions—too personal to be quoted here. Somebody wrote a parody on “John Brown’s Knapsack”—representing old Sternhold Baskette as John Brown, and his soul as marching on. This, set to music, resounded in every corner.

It is sad, but it is true. Everything might still have gone off pretty quiet, had it not been for religion, or rather pseudo-religion. There were in the city vast numbers of workmen of the lowest class from Ireland, and when the watchwords “Orangemen” and “Papists” are mentioned, every one will understand. Fights occurred hourly—a grand battle-royal was imminent. The grey rats did all they could to foster the animosity, and got up sham quarrels to set fire to the excited passions of the mob. Their game was riot, in order that they might plunder. While the fools were fighting and the wise men trying to put them down, the grey rats meant to make off with all they could get.

Aymer, having by this time made for himself some little reputation for intelligence and quick observation, was sent out by the committee, of which Broughton was chairman, to watch the temper of the people; to penetrate into all the corners and out-of-the-way places; to hang on the skirts of the crowd and pick up their hopes and wishes, and to make reports from time to time as anything struck him. He was even to bring in the lampoons and squibs that were circulated, and, if possible, to spy out the secret doings of the other party—a commission which gave him liberty to roam. He wished to be gone, but this was better than the close office-work. He should see something of life; he should see man face to face. (In gilded salons and well-bred society it is only the profile one sees—the full face is averted.) He put on his roughest suit, took his note-book, and strolled out into the city.

The first thing he had to report was that an insinuation which had been spread abroad against Baskette was actually working in his favour. It had been thrown out that he was upon too familiar terms with a certain lady, singer and actress, the fame of whose wonderful beauty was sullied with suspicions of her frailty. With a certain section of the people, who prided themselves upon being “English to the backbone,” this was resented as unfair. With a far larger portion it was at once believed, and, amid sly nods and winks, taken as another proof that Baskette was one of themselves.

Aymer wandered about the city; he saw its horrors, its crime. At such a period the sin, the wickedness and misery which commonly lurks in corners, came out and flaunted in the daylight. A great horror fell upon him—a horror of the drunkenness, the cursing, the immorality, the fierce brutishness. He shuddered. Not that he was himself pure, but he was sensitive and quick to understand, to see beneath the surface. He was of an age when the mind deals with broad generalities. If this was the state of one city only—then, poor England!

His imagination pictured a time when this monster might be uppermost. One night he ascended the tower of a great brewery and looked down upon the city, all flaring with gas. Up from the depth came the shouting, the hum of thousands, the tramp of the multitudes. He looked afar. The horizon was bright with blazing fires—the sky red with a crimson and yellow glow. Not a star, was visible, a dense cloud of smoke hid everything. The iron furnaces shot forth their glowing flames, the engines puffed and snorted. He thought of Violet and trembled: when the monster was let loose, what then?

He descended and wandered away he knew not exactly whither, but he found himself towards midnight mixed in a crowd around the police station. Jammed in amid, the throng he was shoved against the wall, but fortunately a lamp-post preserved him from the crush. However, he could not move. The gas-light fell upon the wall and lit up the proclamations of “V.R.”—the advertisements of missing and lost, the descriptions of persons who were wanted, etc.

One sheet, half-defaced with the wind and rain and mud splashed against it, caught his eye—

“Escaped,” so ran the fragment, “from... mingham Asylum, a lunatic of homicidal tendencies... Stabbed a warder... killed his wife by driving a nail into her head... Is at large. His description—Long grey hair, restless eye, peculiar ears, walks with a shambling gait, and has a melancholy expression of countenance. Plays fantastic airs upon a tin whistle, and is particularly fond of tinkering.”

A new bill, “Two Hundred Pounds Reward,” for the apprehension of a defaulting bank manager, blotted out the rest.

But Aymer had read enough. A sickening sensation seized him—this horrible being loose upon society, tinkering, playing upon a tin whistle, and driving nails into women’s heads! In his ears sounded the din of tremendous shouts, “Baskette for ever!” and he saw a carriage go by from which the horses had been taken, and in which a man was standing upright, with his hat off, bowing. It was Marese Baskette returning from an evening meeting, and dragged in his carriage by the mob to his hotel.

Aymer caught a glance of his dark eye flashing with triumph, and it left an unpleasant impression upon him. But the shouts rose up to the thick cloud of smoke overhead—“Baskette for ever! Baskette for ever!”

“Oh! my love,” wrote Aymer to Violet, “this is, indeed, an awful place. I begin to live in dread of my fellow-creatures. Not for worlds—no, not for worlds, would I be the owner of this city (as so many are striving to be), lest I should be held, partly at least, responsible hereafter for its miseries, its crimes, its drunkenness, its nameless, indefinable horrors.”

These words, read by what afterwards happened, are remarkable. Aymer’s last vision of Stirmingham was the same man drawn again in his carriage amid tenfold louder shouts than before, “Baskette for ever!” He headed the poll by over 1000 votes.

The grey rats were triumphant.

End of Volume Two.