The Revolt of Man

CHAPTER XIII

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE CHAPTER XIII THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE I T was evening when the rebel leader stood upon the heights of Hampstead and looked before him, by the light of the setting sun, upon the hazy and indistinct mass of the great city which he was come to conquer. Behind him his ten thousand men, with twice ten thousand followers, were erecting their tents and setting up the camp with a mighty bustle, noise, and clamour. Yet there was no confusion. Thanks to the administrative capacity of Algy Dunquerque, all was done in order. The Professor, who had left her carriage, stood beside Lord Chester. He was dismounted, and, with the aid of a glass, was trying to make out familiar towers in the golden mist that rested upon the great city. ‘So far, my lord, we have sped well,’ she said softly. He started at her voice. ‘Well, indeed, my dear Professor,’ he replied. ‘I would to-morrow were over.’ ‘Fear not; your men will answer to your call.’ ‘I do not fear. They are brave fellows. Yet—to think that their blood must be spilt!’ ‘There spoke Lord Chester of the past, not the gallant Prince of the present. Why, what if a few hundreds of dead men strew this field to-morrow provided the Right prevails? Of what good is a man’s life to him, if he does not give it for the sacred cause? To give a life—why, it is to lend a thing; to hasten the slow course of time; to make the soul take at a single leap the immortality which comes to others so slowly. Fear not for the blood of martyrs, my lord.’ ‘You always cheer and comfort me, Professor.’ ‘It is because I am a woman,’ she replied. ‘Let me fulfil the highest function of my sex.’ They were interrupted by an aide-de-camp, who came galloping across the Heath. ‘From Captain Dunquerque, my lord,’ he began. ‘The Convict Wardens are encamped in force in Hyde Park; they number ten thousand, and have got thirty guns; they march to-morrow morning.’ ‘Very good,’ said the Chief; and the young officer fell back. ‘Ten thousand strong!’ said the Professor. ‘Then they have left the prisons almost without a guard. When these are dispersed, where will they find a new army? They are delivered into your hands.’ Hampstead Heath may be approached by two or three roads: there is the direct road up Haverstock Hill; or there is the way by the Gospel Oak and the Vale of Health; or, again, there is the road from the north, or that from Highgate. But the way by which the Convict Wardens would march from Hyde Park was most certainly that of Haverstock Hill; and they would emerge upon the Heath by one of the narrow roads known as Holly Hill, Heath Street, and the Grove,—probably by all three. Or they might attempt the upper part of the Heath by the Vale of Health. The plan of battle was agreed to with very little debate, because it was simple. The cannon, loaded with grape-shot and masked by bushes, were drawn up to command these three streets. Behind the cannon the Guards were to lie, ready to spring to their feet and send in a volley after the first discharge of grape-shot. The cavalry were to be posted among the trees, on the spot called after a once famous tavern which formerly stood there—Jack Straw’s Castle; the infantry, now divided into five battalions, each two thousand strong, were to lie in their places behind the Guards. These simple arrangements made, the Chief rode into the camp to encourage the men. They needed little encouragement; the men were in excellent spirits; the news that they would have to fight those enemies of mankind, the Convict Wardens, filled them with joy. Not one among them all but had some friend, some relation, immured within the gloomy prisons, for disobedience, mutiny, or violence; some had themselves experienced the rigours of imprisonment, and the tender mercies of the ruffians who were allowed to maintain discipline with rod and lash, rifle and bayonet. These were the men who were coming out to shoot them down! Very good; they should see. Lord Chester and his Staff rode about the camp, making speeches, cheering the men, drinking with them, and encouraging them. Their liberties, he told them, were in their own hand: one victory, and the cause was won. Then he inspired them with contempt as well as hatred for their opponents. They were men who could shoot down a flying prisoner, but had never stood face to face with a foe: they were coming out, expecting to find a meek herd, who would fly at the first shot; in their place they would meet an army of Englishmen. The men shouted and cheered: their spirit was up. And later on, about ten o’clock, a strange thing happened. No one ever knew how it began, or who set it going; but from man to man the word was passed. Then all the army rose to their feet, and shouted for joy; then the company of girls came, and shed tears among them, but for joy; and some, including the girl they had called Susan, fell upon the necks of their old sweethearts, and kissed them, bidding them be brave, and fight like men; and those who were old men wept, because this good thing had come too late for them. For the word was—Divorce! The young men, they said, were to abandon the wives they had been forced to marry. With Victory they were to win Love! It was about ten o’clock when Lord Chester sought the Bishop’s tent. He had just concluded an Evening Service, and was sitting with his wife, his daughters, and Clarence Veysey. With the Chief came Algernon Dunquerque. ‘We are here,’ said Lord Chester, ‘for a few words—it may be of farewell. My Lord Bishop, are you contented with your pupils?’ ‘I give you all,’ he said solemnly, ‘my blessing. Go on and prosper. But as we may fail and so die, because victory is not of man, let those who have aught to say to each other say it now.’ Algernon spoke first, though all looked at each other. ‘I love your daughter Faith. Give us your consent, my Lord Bishop, before we go out to fight.’ The Bishop took the girl by the hand, and gave her to the young man, saying, ‘Blessed be thou, O my daughter!’ Then Clarence Veysey spoke likewise, and asked for Grace; and with such words did the father give her to him. ‘Now,’ said Algernon, ‘there needs no more. If we fall, we fall together.’ ‘Yes,’ said Grace quietly, ‘we should not survive the cause.’ ‘I hope,’ said Lord Chester, smiling gravely, ‘that one of you will live at least long enough to take my last message to Lady Carlyon. You will tell her, Grace, or you, my dear Professor, that my last thought was for her.’ But as he spoke the curtain of the tent was pulled aside, and Constance herself stood before them. She was pale, and tears were in her eyes. She wore a riding-habit; but it was covered with dust. ‘Edward!’ she cried. ‘Fly ... fly ... while there is time! All of you fly!’ ‘What is it, Constance? How came you here?’ ‘I came because I can bear it no longer. I came to warn you, and to help your escape, if that may be. The Duchess has issued a warrant for my arrest,—for High Treason: that is nothing,’ with a proud gesture. ‘They will say I ran away from the warrant: that is false. Edward, your life is gone unless you are twenty miles from London to-morrow!’ ‘Come, Constance,’ said the Professor, ‘you are hot and tired. Rest a little; drink some water; take breath. We are prepared, I think, for all that you can tell us.’ ‘Oh, no!... no!... you cannot be. Listen! They have ten thousand Convict Wardens in Hyde Park ...’ ‘We know this,’ said Algernon. ‘Who will attack you to-morrow.’ ‘We know this too.’ ‘Their orders are to shoot down all without parley; all—do you hear?—who are found with arms. The Chiefs are to be taken to the Tower!’ she shuddered. ‘We know all this, Constance,’ said Lord Chester. ‘You know it! and you can look unconcerned?’ ‘Not unconcerned entirely, but resigned perhaps, and even hopeful.’ ‘Edward, what can you do?’ ‘If they have orders to shoot all who do not fly, my men, for their part, have orders not to fly, but to shoot all who stand in their way.’ ‘Your men? Poor farm-labourers! what can they do?’ ‘Wait till morning, Constance, and you shall see. Is there anything else you can tell me?’ ‘Yes. After the Wardens have dispersed the rebels, the Horse Guards are to be ordered out to ride them down.’ ‘Oh!’ said Lord Chester. ‘Well ... after we are dispersed, we will consider the question of the riding down. Then we need not expect the Horse Guards to-morrow morning?’ ‘No; they will come afterwards.’ ‘Thank you, Constance; you have given me one piece of intelligence. I confess I was uncertain about the Guards. And now, dear child,’—he called her, the late Home Secretary, ‘dear child,’—‘as this is a solemn night, and we have much to think of and to do ... one word before we part. Constance, you have by this act of yours, cast in your lot with us, because you thought to save my life. Everything is risked upon to-morrow’s victory. If we fail we die. Are you ready to die with me?’ She made no reply. The old feeling, the overwhelming force of the man, made her cheek white and her heart faint. She held out her hands. He took her—before all those witnesses—in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Stay with us, my darling,’ he whispered; ‘cast in your lot with mine.’ She had no power to resist, none to refuse. She was conquered; Man was stronger than Woman. ‘Children,’ said the Bishop solemnly, ‘you shall not die, but live.’ Constance started. She knew not this kind of language, which was borrowed from the Books of the Ancient Faith. ‘There are many things,’ said the Bishop, ‘of which you know not yet, Lady Carlyon. After to-morrow we will instruct you. Meantime it is late; the Chief has business; I would be alone. Go you with my daughters and rest, if you can, until the morning.’ The very atmosphere seemed strange to Constance: the young men in authority, the women submissive; this old man speaking as if he were a learned divine, reverend, grave, and accustomed to be heard ; and, outside, the voices of men ringing, of arms clashing, of music playing,—all the noise of a camp before it settles into rest for the night. ‘Can they,’ Constance whispered to Grace Ingleby, looking round her outside the tent—‘will they dare to fight these terrible and cruel Convict Wardens?’ ‘Oh, Lady Carlyon!’ Grace replied, ‘you do not know, you cannot guess, what wonderful things Lord Chester has done with the men in the last fortnight. From poor, obedient slaves, he has made them men indeed.’ ‘Men!’ Constance saw that she could not understand the word in the sense to which she had been accustomed. ‘Surely you know,’ Grace went on, ‘that our object is more than we have ventured to proclaim. We began with the cry of “Youth for the Young.” That touched a grievance which was more felt, perhaps, in country districts, where men retained some of their independence, than in towns. But we meant very much more. We shall abolish the Established Church, and the supremacy of Woman. Man will reign once more, and will worship, after the manner of his ancestors, the real living Divine Man, instead of the shadowy Perfect Woman.’ ‘Oh!’ Constance heard and trembled. ‘And we—what shall we do?’ ‘We shall take our own place—we shall be the housewives; we shall be loving and faithful servants to men, and they will be our servants in return. Love knows no mastery. Yet man must rule outside the house.’ ‘Oh!’ Constance could say no more. ‘Believe me, this is the true place of woman; she is the giver of happiness and love; she is the mother and the wife. As for us, we have reigned and have tried to rule. How much we have failed, no one knows better than yourself.’ Grace guided her companion to a great marquee, where the company of girls, sobered now, and rather tearful, because their sweethearts were to go a-fighting in earnest on the morrow, were making lint and bandages. ‘I must go on with my work,’ said Grace. Her sister Faith was already in her place, tearing, cutting and shaping. ‘Do you lie down’ here is a pile of lint—make that your bed, and sleep if you can.’ Constance lay down; but she could not sleep. She already heard in imagination the tramp of the cruel Convict Wardens; she saw her lover and his companions shot down; she was herself a prisoner; then, with a cry, she sprang to her feet. ‘Give me some work to do,’ she said to Grace; ‘I cannot sleep.’ They made a place for her, Grace and Faith between them, saying nothing. By this time the girls were all silent, and some were crying; for the day was dawning—the day when these terrible preparations of lint would be used for poor wounded men. When, about half-past five, the first rays of the September sun poured into the marquee upon the group of women, Grace sprang to her feet, crying aloud in a kind of ecstacy. ‘The day has come—the day is here! Oh, what can we do but pray!’ She threw herself upon her knees and prayed aloud, while all wept and sobbed. Constance knelt with the rest, but the prayer touched her not. She was only sad, while Grace sorrowed with faith and hope. Then Faith Ingleby raised her sweet strong voice, and, with her, the girls sang together a hymn which was unknown to Constance. It began:— Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily course of duty run. This act of worship and submission done, they returned to their work. Outside, the camp began gradually to awaken. Before six o’clock the fires were lit, and the men’s breakfast was getting ready; by seven o’clock everything was done—tents struck, arms piled, men accoutred. Constance went out to look at the strange sight of the rebel army. Her heart beat when she looked upon the novel scene. Regiments were forming, companies marching into place, flags flying, drums beating, and trumpets calling. And the soldiers!—saw one ever such men before? They were marching, heads erect and flashing eyes; the look of submission gone—for ever. Yes; these men might be shot down, but they could never be reduced to their old condition. ‘There is the Chief,’ said Faith Ingleby. He stood without his tent, his Staff about him, looking round him. Authority was on his brow; he was indeed, Constance felt with sinking heart, that hitherto incredible thing—a Man in command. ‘We girls have no business here,’ said Faith; ‘let us go back to our tent.’ But as she spoke, Lord Chester saw them; and leaving his Staff, he walked across the Heath, bearing his sword in his hand, followed by Algernon Dunquerque. ‘Constance,’ he said gravely, ‘buckle my sword for me before the battle.’ She did it, trembling and tearful. Then, while Faith Ingleby did the same office for Algernon, he took her in his arms and kissed her lips in the sight of all the army. Every man took it as a lesson for himself. He was to fight for love as well as liberty. A deafening shout rent the air. Then Lord Chester sprang upon his horse and rode to the front. Everything was now in readiness. The cannon, masked by bushes, were protected by the pond in front; on either side were the guards ready to lie down; behind them, the regiments, massed at present, but prepared for open order; and in the trees could be seen the gleaming helmets and swords of the cavalry. ‘Let us go to my father,’ said Faith; ‘he and Clarence will pray for us.’ ‘Algy,’ said Lord Chester cheerfully, ‘what are you thinking of?’ ‘I was thinking how sorry Jack Kennion will be to have missed this day.’ And then there happened the most remarkable, the most surprising thing in the whole of this surprising campaign. There was a movement among the men in front, followed by loud laughing and shouting; and then a party of girls, some of the Company of women which followed the army, came flying across the Heath breathless, because they had run all the way from Marble Arch to convey their news. ‘They have run away, my lord!’ they cried all together. ‘Who have run away?’ ‘The Army of Avengers—the Convict Wardens. They have all run away, and there is not one left.’ ‘Run away? What does it mean? Why did they run away?’ Then the girls looked at each other and laughed, but were a little ashamed, because they were not quite sure how the Chief would take it. ‘It seemed such a pity,’ said one of them, presently, ‘that any of our own brave fellows should be killed.’ ‘Such a dreadful pity,’ they murmured. ‘And by such cruel men.’ ‘Such cruel, horrible men,’ they echoed. ‘So that we ... we stole into the camp when they were asleep and we frightened them; and they all ran away, leaving their arms behind them.’ Lord Chester looked at Captain Dunquerque. ‘Woman’s wit,’ he said. ‘Would you and I have thought of such a trick? Go, girls, tell the Bishop.’ But Algy looked sad. ‘And after all this drilling,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘and all our shouting, there is to be no fighting!’ CHAPTER XIV THE ARMY OF AVENGERS T HE awful nature of the crisis, and the strangeness of the sight, kept the streets in the neighbourhood of the Camp in Hyde Park full of women, young and old. They roamed about among the tents, looking at the sullen faces of the men, examining their arms, and gazing upon them curiously, as if they were wild beasts. Not one among them expressed the least friendliness or kind feeling. The men were regarded by those who paid them, as well as by the rebels, with undisguised loathing. About midnight the crowd lessened; at two o’clock, though there were still a few stragglers, most of the curious and anxious politicians had gone home to bed; at three, some of them still remained; at four—the darkest and deadest time of an autumn night—all were gone home, every special constable even, and the Camp was left in silence, the men in their tents, and asleep. There still remained, however, a little crowd of some two or three dozen girls; they were collected together about the Marble Arch. They had formed, during the evening, part of the crowd; but now that this was dispersed, they seemed to gather together, and to talk in whispers. Presently, as if some resolution was arrived at, they all poured into the Park, and entered the sleeping Camp. The men were lying down, mostly asleep; but they were not undressed, so as to be ready for their early march. No sentries were on duty, nor was there any watch kept. Presently the girls found, in the darkness, a cart containing drums. They seized them and began drumming with all their might. Then they separated, and ran about from tent to tent; they pulled and haled the sleepers, startled by the drums, into terrified wakefulness; they cried as soon as their men were wide awake, ‘Wake up all!—wake up!—run for your lives!—the rebels will be on us in ten minutes! They are a hundred thousand strong: run for your lives!—they have sworn to hang every Convict Warden who is not shot. Oh, run, run, run!’ Then they ran to the next tent, and similarly exhorted its sleepers. Consider the effect of this nocturnal alarm. The men slept eight in a tent. There were about thirty girls, and somewhat more than a thousand tents. It is creditable to the girls that the thirty made so much noise that they seemed like three thousand to the startled soldiers. To be awakened suddenly in the dead of night, to be told that their enemies were upon them, to hear cries and screams of warning, with the beating of drums, produced exactly the consequences that were expected. The men, who had no experience of collective action, who had no officers, who had no heart for their work, were bewildered; they ran about here and there, asking where was the enemy: then shots were heard, for the girls found the rifles and fired random shots in the air; and then a panic followed, and they fled—fled in wild terror, running in every direction, leaving their guns behind them in the tents, so that in a quarter of an hour there was not one single man of all the Army of Avengers left in the Camp. The orders were that the march should begin about six o’clock in the morning—that is, as soon after sunrise as was possible. It was also ordered that the Army of Avengers should be followed by the Head of the Police Department, Lady Princetown, with her assistant secretaries, clerks, and officers, and that they should be supplied with tumbrils for the conveyance to prison of any who might escape the vengeance prepared for them and be taken prisoners. At a quarter past six o’clock an orderly clerk proceeded to the Camp. To her great joy the Camp was empty; she did not observe the guns lying about, but as there were no men visible, she concluded that the Army was already on the march. She returned and reported the fact. Then the order of the Police Procession was rapidly arranged; and it too followed, as they thought, the march of the Avengers. By this time a good many women were in the streets or at the windows of the houses. Most of the streets were draped with black hangings, in token of general shame and woe that man should be found so inexpressibly guilty. The church bells tolled a knell; a service of humiliation was going on in all of them, but men were not allowed to participate. It was felt that it was safer for them to be at home. Consequently, the strange spectacle of a whole city awake and ready for the day’s work, without a single man visible, was, for one morning only, seen in London. The Police Procession formed in Whitehall, and slowly moved north. It was headed by Lady Princetown, riding, with her two assistant secretaries; after them came the chief clerks and senior clerks of the Department, followed by the messengers, police constables, and servants, who walked; after them followed, with a horrible grumbling and grinding of wheels, the six great black tumbrils intended for the prisoners. The march was through Regent Street, Oxford Street, the Tottenham Court Road, Chalk Farm, and so up Haverstock Hill. Everywhere the streets were lined with women, who looked after the dreadful signs of punishment with pity and terror, even though they acknowledged the justice and necessity of the step. These men, they told each other, had torn down Religion, scoffed at things holy, and proclaimed divorce where the husband had been forced to marry; they pretended that theirs was the right to rule; they were going to destroy every social institution. Should such wretches be allowed to live? Yet, always, the whisper, the suspicion, the doubt, the question, put not in words, but by looks and gestures,—‘What have we women done that we should deserve to rule? and which among us does not know that the Religion of the Perfect Woman was only invented by ourselves for the better suppression of man? Who believes it? What have we done with Love?’ And the sight, the actual sight, of those officers of law going forth to bring in the prisoners, was a dreadful thing to witness. Meantime, what were the Army of Avengers doing? Slaughtering, shooting down, bayoneting, no doubt. No farther off than the heights of Hampstead their terrible work was going on. It spoke well for the zeal of these devoted soldiers that they had marched so early in the morning that no one had seen them go by. Very odd, that no one at all had seen them. Would Lord Chester escape? And what—oh what!—would be done with Lady Carlyon, Professor Ingleby and her two daughters, and the crowd of girls who had flocked to London with the rebels? Hanging—mere hanging—was far too good for them. Let them be tortured. The Procession reached the top of Haverstock Hill. Hampstead Hill alone remained. In a short time the relentless Lady Princetown would be on the field of action. Strange, not only that no sign of the Army had been seen, but that no firing had been heard! Could Lord Chester have fled with all his men? Now just before the Police Procession reached the Heath, they were astonished by a clattering of mounted soldiers, richly dressed and gallantly armed, who rode down the narrow streets of the town and surrounded them. They were a detachment of cavalry headed by Captain Dunquerque, who saluted Lady Princetown laughing. All the men laughed too. ‘I have the honour,’ he said, ‘to invite your ladyship to take a seat in a tumbril. You are my prisoner.’ ‘Where—where—where is the Army?’ ‘You mean the Convict Wardens? They fled before daylight. Come, my lads, time presses.’ They were actually in the hands of the enemy! In a few moments the whole of the Chiefs of the great Police Department were being driven in the rumbling black tumbrils, followed by the Lancers, towards the rebel camp. They looked at each other in sheer despair. ‘As for you women,’ said Captain Dunquerque, addressing the clerks and constables, ‘you can go free. Disperse! Vanish!’ He left them staring at each other. Presently a few turned and hurried down the Hill to spread the news. But the greater part followed timidly, but spurred by curiosity, into the Camp. Here, what marvels met their eyes! Men, such as they had never dreamed of, bravely dressed, and bearing themselves with a gallant masterfulness which frightened those who saw it for the first time. Presently a trumpet blew and the men fell in. Then the astonished women saw that wonderful thing, the evolutions of an army. The regiments were drawn up in a great hollow square. At one corner stood the fatal black tumbril with Lady Princetown and her aides sitting dolefully and in amazement. Bands of music stood in the centre. Presently Lord Chester, the Chief, rode in with his Staff, and the bands broke out in triumphal strains. ‘Men of England!’ he cried, ‘our enemies have fled. There is no longer any opposition. We march on London immediately.’ The shouts of the soldiers rent the air. When silence was possible, the Bishop, venerable in lawn-sleeves and cassock, spoke,— ‘I proclaim Edward, sometime called Earl of Chester, lawful hereditary King of Great Britain and Ireland. God save the King!’ Then the officers of the Staff did homage, bending the knee and kissing the hand of their Sovereign. And the bands struck up again, playing the old and wellnigh forgotten air ‘God save the King!’ And the soldiers shouted again. And Lady Princetown saw, indeed, that the supremacy of women was gone. Then the march on London was resumed. After the advance-cavalry came the Guards, preceding and following the King. Before him was borne the Royal Standard, made long ago for such an occasion by Grace and Faith Ingleby. The bands played and the soldiers sang ‘God save the King’ along the streets. The houses were crowded with women’s faces—some anxious, some sad, some angry, some rejoicing, but all frightened; and the wrath of those who were wrathful waxed fiercer when the company of girls followed the soldiers, dressed in ‘loyal’ ribbons and such finery as they could command, and singing, like the men, ‘God save the King.’ The House of Peeresses was sitting in permanence. Some of the ladies had been sitting all night; a few had fallen asleep; a few more had come to the House early, unable to keep away. They all looked anxious and haggard. At nine o’clock the first of the fugitives from the Police Procession arrived, and brought the dreadful news that the Army of Avengers had dispersed without striking a blow, that Lady Princetown was a prisoner, and that the rebels would probably march on London without delay. Then the Duchess of Dunstanburgh informed the terror-stricken House that she had ordered out the three regiments of Guards. They were to be hurled, she said, at the rebels; they would serve to harass and keep them in check while a new army was gathered together. She exhorted the Peeresses to remain calm and collected, and, above all, to be assured that there was not the slightest reason for alarm. Alas! the barracks were empty! What then, had become of the Guards? At the first news of the dispersion of the Avengers, the wives of the Guardsmen, acting with one common consent, made for the barracks and dragged away the soldiers, every woman her own husband to her own home, where she defied the clerks of the War Office, who rushed about trying to get the men together. For greater safety the women hid away the boots—those splendid boots without which the Horse Guards would be but as common men. Of the three thousand, there remained only two orphan drummer-boys and a sergeant, a widower without sisters. To hurl this remnant against Lord Chester was manifestly too absurd even for the clerks of the War Office. Besides, they refused to go. On the top of this dreadful news, the House was informed by the Chancellor that the officers sent to carry out the arrest of Lady Carlyon reported that her ladyship had fled, and was now in Lord Chester’s camp with the rebels. What next? ‘The next thing, ladies,’ said a middle-aged Peeress who had been conspicuous all her life for nothing in the world except an entire want of interest in political questions, ‘is that our reign is over. Man has taken the power in his own hands. For my own part, I am only astonished that he has waited so long. It needed nothing but the courage of one young fellow to light the fire with a single spark. I propose that a vote of thanks be passed to her Grace the Duchess of Dunstanburgh, whose attempt to marry a man young enough to be her great-grandson has been the cause of this House’s overthrow.’ She sat down, and the Duchess sprang to her feet, crying out that the House was insulted, and that these traitorous words should be taken down. ‘We shall all be taken down ourselves,’ replied the noble lady who had spoken, ‘before many hours. Can we not devise some means of dying gracefully? At least let us spare ourselves the indignity of being hustled down the steps of Westminster Hall, as the unlucky Department of Police has been this morning hustled on Hampstead Heath.’ Several proposals were made. It was proposed to send a deputation of religion. But the Preaching Sisters had been rejected with scorn, when the army was still small and hesitating. What would happen, now that they were victorious? It was proposed that they should send a thousand girls, young, beautiful, and richly dressed, to make overtures of peace, and charm the men back to their allegiance. The young Lady Dunlop—aged eighteen—icily replied that they would not get ten girls to go on such an errand. It was proposed, again, that they should send a messenger offering to treat preliminaries on Hampstead Hill. The messenger was despatched—she was the Clerk of the House—but she never came back. Then the dreadful news arrived that the conqueror had assumed the title of King, and was marching with all his forces to Westminster, in order to take over the reins of power. At this intelligence, which left nothing more to be expected but complete overthrow, the Peeresses cowered. ‘As everything is gone,’ said the middle-aged lady who had first expressed her opinion, ‘and as the streets will be extremely uncomfortable until these men settle down, I shall go home and stay there. And I should recommend your ladyships to do the same, and to keep your daughters at home until they can learn to behave—as they have tried to make the men behave. My dears, submission belongs to the sex who do none of the work.’ She got up and went away, followed by about half the House. About a hundred Peeresses were left. ‘I,’ said the Duchess of Dunstanburgh, ‘shall remain with the Chancellor till I am carried out.’ ‘I,’ said the Chancellor, ‘shall remain to protest against the invasion of armed men and the trampling upon law.’ ‘And I,’ said young Lady Dunlop, loud enough to be heard all over the House, ‘shall remain to see Lord Chester—I mean, His Majesty the King. He is a handsome fellow, and of course Constance will be his Queen.’ ‘Ladies,’ said the Duchess, dignified and austere to the last, ‘it is at least our duty to make a final stand for religion.’ Lady Dunlop scoffed. ‘Religion!’ she cried. ‘Have we not had enough of that nonsense? Which of us believes any more in the Church? Even men have ceased to believe—especially since they were called upon to marry their grandmothers. The Perfect Woman! Why, we are ourselves the best educated, the best bred, the best born—and look at us! As for me, I shall go over to Lord Chester’s religion, and in future worship the Perfect Man, if he likes to order it so.’ The Duchess made no reply. She had received so many insults; such dreadful things had been said; her cherished faiths, prejudices, and traditions had been so rudely attacked,—that all her forces were wanted to maintain her dignity. She sat now motionless, expectant, haggard. The game was played out. She had lost. She would have no more power. It was then about half-past three in the afternoon. They waited in silence, these noble ladies, like the Senators of Rome when the Gaul was in the streets—without a word. Before long the tramp of feet and the clatter of arms were heard in Westminster Hall. The very servants and officers, the clerks, of the House, had run away; there was not a woman in the place except themselves: the House looked deserted already. There hung behind the Chancellor a heavy curtain rich with gold and lace: no one in that House had ever seen the curtain drawn. Yet it was known that behind it stood the image in marble of the only Sovereign acknowledged by the House—the Perfect Woman. When the trampling of feet was heard in Westminster Hall, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh rose and slowly walked—she seemed ten years older—towards this curtain: when the doors of the House were thrown open violently, she stood beside the Chancellor, her hand upon the curtain. Tan-ta-ra-ta-ra! A flourish of trumpets, and the trumpeters stood aside. The Guards came after, marching up the floor of the House. They formed a lane. Then came the Bishop in his robes, preceded by his chaplain, the Rev. Clarence Veysey, surpliced, carrying a Book upon a velvet cushion; then the officers of the Staff with drawn swords; last, in splendid dress and flowing robes, the King himself. As he entered, the Duchess drew aside the curtain and revealed, standing in pure white marble, with undraped limbs, wonderful beyond expression, the Heaven-descended figure of the Perfect Woman. ‘Behold!’ she cried. ‘Revere the Divine Effigy of your Goddess.’ The young priest in surplice and cassock sprang upon the platform on which the figure stood and hurled it upon the floor. It fell upon the marble pavement with a crash. ‘So fell the great God Dagon,’ he cried. Then no more remained. The ladies rose with a shriek, and in a moment the House was empty. It is not too much to say that the Duchess scuttled. And while the King took his place upon the throne, the bands struck up again, the soldiers shouted, volleys of guns were fired for joy, and the bells were rung. Strange to say, the dense crowd which gathered about the army of victory outside the Hall consisted almost wholly of women. CONCLUSION T HE Great Revolution was thus accomplished. No woman was insulted: there was no pillage, no licence, no ill-treatment of anybody, no revenge. The long reign of woman, if it had not destroyed the natural ferocity and fighting energy of men, had at least taught them respect for the weaker sex. The next steps, are they not written in the Books of the Chronicles of the country? A few things remain to be noted. Thus, because the streets were crowded with women come out to see, to lament, sometimes to curse, a proclamation was made ordering all women to keep within doors for the present, except such as were sent out to exercise children, and such as received permission for special purposes: they were forbidden the right of public meeting; the newspapers were stopped; religious worship of the old kind was prohibited. These apparently harsh and arbitrary measures, tendered necessary by the refractory and mutinous conduct of the lower classes of women, who resented their deposition, were difficult to enforce, and required that every street should be garrisoned. To do this, thirty thousand additional men were needed: these were sent up by Jack Kennion, who had recruited double that number. As the women refused to obey, and it was impossible to use violence towards them, the men were ordered to turn the hose upon them. This had the desired effect; and a few draggled petticoats, lamentable in themselves, proved sufficient to clear the streets. Then the word was given to bring out all the men and parade them in districts. Indeed, before this order, there were healthy and encouraging signs on all sides that the spirit of revolt was spreading even in the most secluded homes. The men who formed the first army were entirely country born and bred. They had been accustomed to work together, and freedom became natural to them from the first. The men whom the Order of Council brought out of the houses of London were chiefly the men of the middle class—the most conventional, the worst educated, the least valuable of any. They lacked the physical advantages of the higher classes and of the lower; they were mostly, in spite of the laws for the Promotion of Health and Strength of Man, a puny, sickly race; they had been taught a trade, for instance, which it was not considered genteel to practice; they were not allowed to work at any occupation which brought in money, because it was foolishly considered ungentlemanly to work for money, or to invade, as it was called, woman’s Province of Thought. Yet they had no money and no dot ; they had very little hope of marrying; and mostly they lounged at home, peevish, unhappy, ignorantly craving for the life of occupation. Yet when the day of deliverance came, they were almost forcibly dragged out of the house, showing the utmost reluctance to go, and clinging like children to their sisters and mothers. ‘Alas!’ cried the women, ‘you will find yourselves among monsters and murderers, who have destroyed Religion and Government. Poor boys! What will be your fate?’ They were brought in companies of a hundred each before the officers of the Staff. At first they were turned out to camp in Hyde Park and other open places, where the best among them, finding themselves encouraged to cheerfulness, and in no way threatened or ill treated by these monsters, began to fraternise, to make friends, to practise gymnastics, to entertain rivalries, and in fact to enter into the body corporate. To such as these, who were quickly picked out from the ignoble herd, this new life appeared by no means disagreeable. They even began to listen to the words of the new Preachers, and the doctrines of the new Religion; they turned an obedient ear to the exhortations of those who exposed the inefficacy of the old Government. Finally, they were promoted to work of all kinds in the public departments, or were enlisted in the Army. It presently became the joy of these young fellows to go home and show their new ideas, their new manners, their new uniforms, and their new religion to the sisters whose rule they acknowledged no longer. There came next the feeble youths who had not the courage to shake off the old chains, or the brains to adopt the new teaching. These poor creatures could not even fraternise; they knew not how to make friends. It was thought that their best chance was to be kept continually in barracks, there to work at the trade they had been taught, to eat at a common table, to live in common rooms, and to be made strong by physical exercise. Out of this poor material, however, very little good stuff could be made. In the long-run, they were chiefly turned into copying-clerks, the lowest and the meanest of all handicrafts. Allusion has been made to the barracks in which were confined the unmarried men who had no friends to keep them. Among these were the poor creatures afflicted with some impediment to marriage, such as hump-back, crooked back, consumptive tendencies, threatenings of heart disease, cerebral affections, asthma, gout, and so forth. They were employed in houses of business at a very small rate of pay, receiving in return for their labour nothing for themselves but free board and lodging in the barracks. It is curious to relate that these poor fellows proved in the reorganisation of civic matters the most useful allies: they had lived so long together that they knew how to act together; they were so cheap as servants, and so good, that they had been entrusted with most important offices; in short, when the Government seemed about to fall to pieces by the threatened closing of all the mercantile houses, these honest fellows stepped to the front, took the reins, directed the banks, received the new men-clerks, taught and assigned their duties, and, in fine, carried on the trade of the country. The question of religion was the greatest difficulty. Where were the preachers? There were but two or three in whom trust could be placed; and these, though they did their best, could not be everywhere at once. Therefore, for a while, the Religion of the Perfect Woman having been abolished, there seemed as if nothing else would take its place. The Government for the present consisted of the titular King, who was not yet crowned, and the Council of State. There were no ministers, no departments, no Houses of Parliament. As regards the Lower House, it would have been unwise to elect it until the constituencies had learned by experience in local matters, something of the Art of Government. But the Upper? Consider that for two hundred years the title had descended through the mother to the eldest daughter. This being reversed, it became necessary to seek out the rightful heirs to the old titles by the male line. No titles were to be acknowledged except those which dated back to the old kings. These, which had been bestowed in obedience to the old laws, were to be claimed by their rightful owners. Now, it is easy to see that while a title held the female branches of the House together, because each would hope that the intervening claimants would drop out, the male branches would not be so careful to preserve their genealogies, and so a great many titles would be lost. This, indeed, proved to be the case, and out of the six hundred Peers who enjoyed their rank under Victoria of the nineteenth century, scarcely fifty were recovered. Many of these, too, were persons of quite humble rank, who had to be instructed in the simplest things before they were fit to wear a coronet. All later titles were swept away together; nor was any woman allowed a title save by marriage, unless she was the daughter of a Duke, a Marquis, or an Earl, when she might bear a courtesy-title. Of course, the late Peeresses found themselves not only deprived of their power, but even of their very names; and it was the most cruel of all the misfortunes which befell the old Duchess of Dunstanburgh, that she found herself reduced from her splendid position to plain and simple Mrs Pendlebury, which had been the name of her third husband. All her estates went from her, and she retired to a first-floor lodging at Brighton, where she lived on the allowance made her by the Relief Commission appointed by Government for such cases as hers. As regards public opinion on this and other changes, there was none, because Society was as yet not re-established; and the new daily papers were only feeling their way slowly to the expression of opinion. It remains to be told how these changes were received by the sex thus rudely set aside and deposed. It cannot be denied that among the elders there was disaffection amounting to blind hatred. Yet what could they do? They could no longer combine; they had no papers; they had no club; they had no halls; they had no theatres for meeting; they had no discussion-forums,—as of old. Even they had no churches; and although in the past days they seldom went into a church, regarding religion as a thing belonging to men, they now made it their greatest grievance, that religion had been abolished. In private houses the worship of the Perfect Woman was long continued by those who had been brought up in that faith, and in days when it was actually believed in and accepted. As for the younger women, they, too, differed: The lower orders, for a long time, regretted their ancient liberty, when they could leave the husband to work in the house, children and all, and talk together the livelong day. But in time they came round. The middle-aged women, especially those of the professional classes, no doubt suffered greatly by being deprived of the work which was to them their chief pleasure. Some compensation was made to them by a system of partnership, in which practice in their own houses and private consultations were allowed some of them for life. As for the very young, it took a short time indeed to reconcile them to the change. No more reading for professions! Hurrah! Did any girl ever really like reading law? No more drudgery in an office! Very well. Who would not prefer liberty and seeing the men work? They gave in with astonishing readiness to the new state of things. They ceased to grumble directly they realised what the change meant for them. First, no anxiety about study, examinations, and a profession. Next, no responsibilities. Next, unlimited time to look after dress and matters of real importance. Then, no longer having to take things gravely on account of the weaker sex,—the men, who now took things merrily—even too merrily. Lastly, whereas no one was formerly allowed to marry unless she could support a husband and family, and then one had to go through all sorts of humiliating conferences with parents and guardians,—under the new régime every man seemed making love with all his might to every girl. Could anything be more delightful? Was it not infinitely better to be wooed and made love to when one was young, than to woo for oneself when one had already passed her best? Then was born again that sweet feminine gift of coquetry: girls once more pretended to be cruel, whimsical, giddy, careless, and mischievous; the hard and anxious look vanished from their faces, and was replaced by sweet, soft smiles; flirtation was revived under another name—many names. A maiden loved to have half a dozen—yea, she did not mind half a hundred—dangling after her, or kneeling at her feet, men were taught that they must woo, not be wooed, and that a woman’s love is not a thing to be had for the mere asking: and dancing was revived—real honest dancing of sweetheart and maid. There was laughter once more in the land; and all the songs were rewritten; and such pieces were enacted upon the stage as would but a month ago have taken everybody’s breath away. And there was a general burning of silly books and bad pictures; and they began to open churches for the new Worship, and always more and more the image of the Divine Man filled woman’s heart. Finally, these things having been settled in the best way possible, it was resolved to hold the Coronation of the King at Westminster Abbey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Constance,’ he said holding her in his arms, ‘you believe that I have always loved you, do you not?’ ‘I pray your Majesty,’ she said, humbly, ‘to forgive my errors of the past.’ ‘My dear, what is there to forgive?’ ‘Nay, now I know. There is the Perfect Woman; but she lives in the shadow of the Divine Man: she has her place in the Order of the World; but it is not the highest place. We reigned for a hundred years and more, and everything fell to pieces; you return, and all begins to advance again. It is as if the foot of woman destroyed the flowers which spring up beneath the foot of man. King, if I am to become your wife, I shall also become your most faithful subject.’ ‘You are my Queen,’ he said; ‘together we will reign: it may be for the good of our people. We have little strength of ourselves, but we seek it—love——’ ‘We seek it,’ she replied, lifting her eyes to Heaven, ‘of the Divine Man.’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On the day of the Coronation, by Royal Order, all classes of the people were bidden to the ceremony; as many as could be admitted were invited to the Abbey. Along the line of march they had raised seats one above the other, covered with awnings. An innumerable crowd of people gathered at early morning, and took their places, waiting patiently for eleven, the hour of the procession. At ten the Peers began to arrive—the newly recognised Peers—the men who had been brought up in ignorance of their origin and rank. They were uneasy in their robes and coronets; they had been carefully instructed in their part of the ceremony, but they were nervous. However, the people outside did not know this, and they cheered lustily. Long before half-past ten there was not a vacant place in the Abbey; the venerable church was crowded with ladies, who were anxious to make the Coronation the point of a new departure; Society, it was said, would begin again with a King. No doubt, many ladies whispered, women were, after all, poor administrators; their nature was too tender, too much disposed to pity, which produced weakness. Men, who received these confessions, laughed courteously, but remembered the crowded prisons, and the prisoners, and the Convict Wardens. At eleven o’clock the procession started from Buckingham Palace. The ancient ceremonials were copied as closely as possible. After the bands came the mounted Guards; then followed heralds; then came the Venerable Bishop of London, who was to crown the King, in a carriage; then officers of State on horseback; then the King’s faithful Guards, those sturdy gamekeepers who stood by him at the beginning; and last of all, save for a regiment of cavalry which brought up the rear, the King himself on horseback—gallant, young, handsome, his face lit with the sunshine of success; and riding beside him—at sight of whom a shout went up that rent the air—no other than the beautiful Lady Carlyon herself. It appeared, when they arrived at the Abbey, that the coronation was to be preceded by another and an unexpected ceremony. For the organ pealed forth the ‘Wedding March’; there were waiting at the gates a dozen bridesmaids in white and silver; the choristers were ready with a wedding-hymn; and the Bishop, with the Very Rev. Clarence Veysey, newly appointed Dean of the Abbey, was within the altar-rails to make this illustrious pair man and wife. Then followed, without pause, the Coronation service, with the braying of trumpets, the proclamation of heralds, the King’s solemn oath, the crowning of King and Queen, and the homage of the Peers. And amid the shouts of the people, while cannon fired feux de joie , and the bells rang, and the bands played ‘God save the King,’ the newly-crowned monarch rode back to his Palace, bringing home with him the sweetheart of his childhood. Now there is so much grace and virtue in a real love match that it goes straight to the heart of all who witness it. And since such fruits as these manifestly followed with Man’s administration, not a maiden among them all but cried and waved her handkerchief, and sang ‘God save the King!’ LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS Illustrated Pocket Classics Cloth, 1/ - net. Leather, gilt edges, 2/- net ( In Great Britain only ) THIN PAPER EDITIONS AT POPULAR PRICES 2000 New Illustrations LIST OF TITLES AINSWORTH, H. 74 Windsor Castle 200 The Tower of London À KEMPIS, THOMAS 98 The Imitation of Christ ANDERSEN, HANS 175 Fairy Tales ARNOLD, MATTHEW 138 Poems AURELIUS, MARCUS 82 The Meditations of AUSTEN, JANE 53 Sense and Sensibility 103 Pride and Prejudice 190 Emma 193 Mansfield Park BACON, FRANCIS 167 Essays BARHAM, Rev. R. H. 71 The Ingoldsby Legends BEACONSFIELD, Lord 183 Vivian Grey BLACKMORE, R. D. 176 Lorna Doone BORROW, GEORGE 141 Lavengro BRONTË, ANNE 97 Tenant of Wildfell Hall BRONTË, CHARLOTTE 7 Shirley 11 Jane Eyre 64 Villette BRONTË, EMILY 31 Wuthering Heights BRONTË, The Sisters 91 Agnes Grey, The Professor, and Poems BROWNING, Mrs E. B. 67 Poems—Series I. 127 Poems—Series II. BROWTNING, ROBERT 156 Poetical Works of BUNYAN, JOHN 24 The Pilgrim's Progress BURNS, ROBERT 164 Poetical Works of CARLYLE, THOMAS 61 Heroes and Hero Worship 109 Sartor Resartus 114 French Revolution, I. 115 Do. —II. 155 Past and Present CARROLL, LEWIS 81 Alice in Wonderland COLLINS, WILKIE 18 The Woman in White 20 No Name 130 The Moonstone COOPER, FENIMORE 134 The Deerslayer 188 The Pathfinder CRAIK, Mrs 5 John Halifax, Gentleman 80 A Noble Life 137 A Life for a Life DARWIN, CHARLES 69 Voyage of the Beagle 149 On the Origin of Species DAUDET, ALPHONSE 182 Tartarin of Tarascon DE QUINCEY, THOMAS 75 The Confessions of an Opium Eater de WINDT, HARRY 129 Through Savage Europe DICKENS, CHARLES 1 David Copperfield 14 Great Expectations 29 Barnaby Rudge 33 Oliver Twist 35 A Tale of Two Cities 36 The Old Curiosity Shop 37 Nicholas Nickleby 38 Pickwick Papers 39 Sketches by Boz 40 Dombey and Son 41 American Notes 42 Hard Times 43 A Child's History of England 44 Christmas Books 45 Reprinted Pieces 46 Martin Chuzzlewit 47 Bleak House 48 Little Dorrit 49 Master Humphrey's Clock, etc. 50 Stories and Sketches 73 Our Mutual Friend 154 The Uncommercial Traveller DODD, WILLIAM 169 The Beauties of Shakespeare DUMAS, ALEXANDER 62 The Three Musketeers 123 Twenty Years After 132 Count of Monte-Cristo (Vol. I.) 133 Count of Monte-Cristo (Vol. II.) 160 The Black Tulip 165 Marguerite de Valois 173 Vicomte de Bragelonne 178 Louise de la Vallière 185 The Man in the Iron Mask 199 The Forty-five Guardsmen ELIOT, GEORGE 3 Adam Bede 13 The Mill on the Floss 19 Silas Marner 32 Scenes of Clerical Life 68 Romola 96 Felix Holt EMERSON, R. W. 99 Essays and Representative Men FROUDE, J. A. 125 Short Studies GASKELL, Mrs 54 North and South 57 Cranford 186 Mary Barton GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 94 The Vicar of Wakefield GRANT, JAMES 122 The Romance of War GRIMM BROS. 143 Fairy Tales HAWTHORNE, N. 17 The Scarlet Letter 28 The House of the Seven Gables HAZLITT, WILLIAM 172 Table Talk HOLMES, O. W. 59 The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 92 The Professor at the Breakfast Table 113 The Poet at the Breakfast Table 124 Elsie Venner HUGHES, THOMAS 8 Tom Brown's Schooldays HUGO, VICTOR 128 The Hunchback of Notre-Dame 142 Les Misérables 162 The Toilers of the Sea 202 Ninety-Three IRVING, WASHINGTON 107 The Sketch Book KEATS, JOHN 179 Poetical Works of KINGSLEY, HENRY 116 Ravenshoe 140 The Recollections of Geoffry Hamlyn KINGSLEY, CHARLES 4 Two Years Ago 6 Westward Ho! 86 Hypatia 89 Hereward the Wake 106 Alton Locke 108 The Heroes 161 Yeast LAMB, CHARLES 56 The Essays of Elia LAMB, CHAS. and MARY 76 Tales from Shakespeare LEVER, CHARLES 15 Charles O'Malley 148 Harry Lorrequer LLOYD, ALBERT B. 135 Uganda to Khartoum LONGFELLOW, H. W. 65 Poems LOVER, SAMUEL 60 Handy Andy LYTTON, Lord 27 The Last of the Barons 55 Last Days of Pompeii 77 Rienzi 87 Harold 126 The Caxtons 152 Eugene Aram 191 My Novel MACAULAY, Lord 118 Historical Essays 119 Miscellaneous Essays MARRYAT, Captain 84 Mr Midshipman Easy 195 The Children of the New Forest MELVILLE, HERMAN 146 Typee MELVILLE, WHYTE 85 The Gladiators 105 The Interpreter 145 The Queen's Maries 196 Cerise MILLER, HUGH 104 My Schools and Schoolmasters MORRIS, WILLIAM 197 The Life and Death of Jason OLIPHANT, Mrs 102 Miss Marjoribanks PALGRAVE, F. T. 95 The Golden Treasury PAYN, JAMES 110 Lost Sir Massingberd POE, EDGAR ALLAN 201 Tales of Mystery and Imagination PROCTER, ADELAIDE 72 Legends and Lyrics READE, CHARLES 9 It is never too Late to Mend 21 Cloister and the Hearth 52 Hard Cash 136 Peg Woffington and Christie Johnstone 150 Love Me Little, Love Me Long 170 Put Yourself in His Place RUSKIN, JOHN 70 Sesame and Lilies and The Political Economy of Art 78 Unto this Last, and The Two Paths SCOTT, Sir WALTER 2 Kenilworth 12 The Talisman 22 Ivanhoe 58 Waverley 63 Heart of Midlothian 90 Old Mortality 101 Poetical Works 112 Bride of Lammermoor 117 The Fair Maid of Perth 131 Guy Mannering 139 Rob Roy 153 The Monastery 157 The Abbot 163 The Antiquary 168 Redgauntlet 174 Fortunes of Nigel 177 Woodstock 180 The Pirate 187 Quentin Durward 194 Peveril of the Peak SHAKESPEARE, WM. 189 Tragedies SLADEN, DOUGLAS 146 A The Japs at Home SOUTHEY, ROBERT 111 The Life of Nelson TENNYSON, Lord 25 Poems THACKERAY, W. M. 23 Henry Esmond 34 Vanity Fair 66 The Newcomes 83 The Virginians 120 Adventures of Philip 121 Pendennis 144 Yellowplush Papers 151 Four Georges 158 Christmas Books 171 Lovel the Widower 181 Barry Lyndon, etc. 184 Book of Snobs 192 The Great Hoggarty Diamond 198 Paris Sketch Book TROLLOPE, ANTHONY 79 Barchester Towers 100 Framley Parsonage 147 Orley Farm 159 The Claverings WALTON, IZAAK 88 The Compleat Angler WOOD, Mrs HENRY 10 East Lynne 16 The Channings 26 Mrs Halliburton's Troubles 30 Danesbury House 51 Verner's Pride YONGE, C. M. 93 The Heir of Redclyffe 166 The Dove in the Eagle's Nest ———— London and Glasgow Collins' Clear-Type Press

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