by Edward Cline
“The French seem to be after our colonies,” said Hugh. “One can only wonder how the colonists would fare under the French Crown. There is France, with twenty millions of people, and an estimated revenue of twenty millions of pounds per annum, and it is all at the uncontested disposal of the Crown. I believe that if the French tore the colonies from us, the colonists would revolt against France.”
The Earl blinked at this statement. “Why do you think that, nephew?”
Hugh shrugged. “I do not believe the colonists would tolerate the terms of conquest which the French ministry would likely impose, nor long put up with being treated like cattle, as much of the French populace are.”
The Earl did not wish to pursue this line of conversation. He himself believed that the colonists ought to be at the absolute disposal of his own Crown, and that they were merely extraordinary servants of it. However, he did not want to seem reluctant to discuss the subject. “Yes, of course,” he said. “So we must establish a policy that will retain the colonies, and see to it that the French are removed from Canada, and from the Indies. Then we shall enjoy peace again.” He paused. “Your father reports that you are excelling in your studies here,” he broached.
Hugh knew that his uncle had changed the subject, but did not understand why. “It is a good school,” he replied. “The instructors are sound. One is left alone to master the subjects, and not much required to engage in social distractions or sports, as pupils are at other schools.”
The Earl, so adept at conversation with his peers, and with men like Crispin Hillier, found himself helpless from that point on to raise any subject that would elicit the interest of his nephew. Secretly he hoped to incite Hugh to make some outrageous, offensive statement that would give him an excuse to punish him or exert some kind of control over him. Checking this wish was a curiosity about the boy’s new manner. As they ate, their conversation continued in fits and starts, the Earl introducing mundane subjects, and Hugh responding with frigid courtesy.
The Earl, after one long silence, raised the subject of his brother’s new project. “The Earl of Uxbridge, as you know, has had some troubles with the villagers and cottars around his park who wish to destroy his rabbits. That is because he regularly prosecutes poachers of them, and will not allow free ingress on his lands for any reason. Your father does not anticipate such trouble.”
On this subject, Hugh agreed. The villagers and tenants in and around Danvers had a certain affection for his father, who treated them fairly and generously. This affection, he knew, did not extend to his uncle. “Yes,” he replied. “Father wrote to me about the conies. He expects them to be a profitable venture.” He changed the subject. “Do you expect to attend any concerts or plays while you are here, sire?”
The Earl almost smiled, so pleased was he with this diplomatic tack, and grateful, for he knew what his nephew, brother, and the villagers thought of him. “Perhaps,” he said, “if time allows, and if it is not tiring.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “Have you been to Lords?” he asked.
Hugh shook his head. “No, but I have been to the Commons, and heard speeches made. Our neighbor, Sir Henoch, gave one on the colonies that roused the benches and the galleries.”
The Earl regarded his nephew with new interest. “Oh? Mr. Hillier was here earlier, and told me about it. What did you think of it?”
“It was a heartfelt address, moved by a curious enmity toward the colonies.” Hugh paused in what his uncle sensed was the first instance this evening of genuine interest. “I would say that he cozened the House into sharing this enmity, except that I do not believe that the House was entirely a dupe of his artifice.”
“Perhaps it was not,” remarked the Earl. “But…you were not persuaded by his artifice?”
“No, sire. It seemed to be a speech without purpose, as another member rose and pointed out, but there is always a purpose to such well-laid ranting. I have learned that in my rhetoric lessons.” Hugh sighed and pushed his half-finished plate away, and a servant whisked it from the table. “And then the House debated some election grievances, which were postponed, and turned to some minor, silly-sounding bills. I did not hear what was said about Mr. Pitt’s cause, or whether the Crown’s war chest was deep enough to oppose the French, because I had promised Mr. Worley I would assist him in the afternoon and left before anything else was said. But I met Sir Henoch in the Yard, and had a cordial exchange with him.”
The Earl made up his mind. “I am pleased to hear this, nephew. I am having him and Hillier here tomorrow evening for supper. You will have occasion to exchange pleasantries with Sir Henoch again, as I wish you to attend, also. As a kind of ally, you see. Then you will witness some true politicking.”
“We did not exchange pleasantries, begging your pardon, sire,” said Hugh. “I scored him on his artifice, but he is quite a resilient sophist.”
“So much the better,” said the Earl. He paused. “A word of caution, though. At tomorrow evening’s table, speak from true motives, but never talk sententiously. Keep your wisdom with your pocket watch, and produce it only when you think it necessary.”
The request was a demand, Hugh realized, and could not be refused. “Yes, sire,” he replied without enthusiasm.
A servant set a large glass of syllabub topped with strawberries in front of him. It was a favorite of his, but now he had lost what little appetite he had. The supper and conversation droned on, and an hour later his uncle dismissed him. Hugh went to his room and fell upon his bed, drained of energy. He had not known, until now, how exhausting self-control could be.
* * *
“What is the nature of your borough, Sir Henoch?” asked the Earl the next evening.
There were five settings now at the richly appointed table. Crispin Hillier and Sir Henoch sat across from each other along a length of it; the positions of their chairs had been minutely adjusted so that they sat at a subtle distance from the Earl at the head of the table.
At the Earl’s right sat Hugh, who had resumed his rigid formality. To the Earl’s left sat an elderly man who did not seem to know why he was here. This was Andrew, Viscount of Wilbourne, another close neighbor of the Kenricks. He was an amateur botanist who grew flowers in his small garden that overlooked the Thames. He also bred racing dogs. He had once served as proxy Lord Chancellor in Lords—a position analogous to that of Speaker in the Commons—three long Parliaments ago, standing in briefly for a peer who had taken ill. It was the only time he had ever spoken in that House; he had not missed a single session there in thirty years. Wilbourne wavered between lucidity and absent-mindedness. He could be convinced of opposing views on any subject within the space of a minute, and some peers practiced this cruelty on him for their own amusement. He was small, thin, and fragile-looking. When he entered Lords his colleagues often wondered if his robes weighed more than did he, and if they were too much of a burden for him to wear. He listened to this evening’s talk with an expression that may have been either cool comprehension or utter bafflement. Basil Kenrick had invited him to the supper “for balance,” as he had explained to Hugh, and not because he expected the Viscount to contribute much to the conversation.
“Well, your lordship,” answered Sir Henoch with a marked jauntiness, “in truth, it is a mongrel franchise. I own Canovan and all the property in it, and as I am the sole householder and payer of the poor rate and other assessments, the place is a burgage. And, as I am its only legal inhabitant, and its only enfranchised voter, it is also a scot and lot borough.” He laughed once. “I nominate myself, entertain myself, vote for myself, elect myself, and represent myself in the Commons.” He laughed again, hoping that the Earl would see the humor in the irony, too.
“A very salubrious arrangement, Sir Henoch,” remarked the Earl, refusing to smile. “May you always have such a faithful and captive constituency.”
“Thank you, your lordship. It compensates in no little way for the fact that neither Marsden nor my country estate has representati
on.”
“And many happy returns, Sir Henoch,” interjected Crispin Hillier.
Sir Henoch beamed at him. “Thank you, Mr. Hillier.”
Hillier had not warned his fellow member of the purpose of this supper. He had simply delivered the Earl’s summons, confessing to Sir Henoch only that he had reported his speech. Sir Henoch knew that Hillier was the Earl’s voice in the Commons, and Hillier presumed that Sir Henoch had offered to speak at some time on the Earl’s behalf against the relaxation of the duties on finished hats of French, Dutch, or colonial origin, by way of another thread of connection between the two Houses. He knew that the two had met before, but did not know the nature or depth of their former association. Hillier had come this evening in a state of dour, morbid expectancy; he could have been attending a hanging at Tyburn Tree.
Sir Henoch was in a buoyant mood; he had never imagined that the Earl would thank him in this manner. He had even cleaned his teeth for a second time this day, and doused himself with rose water for the occasion, as he had for his interview with the king many years ago.
After a spate of small talk, and when the party had nearly finished the main course, the Earl addressed the member for Canovan. “Mr. Hillier informs me that the Speaker allowed you to speak at length on an irrelevant subject the other day. Is this true?”
“It is, your lordship,” replied Sir Henoch, almost shrugging. “I believe that Mr. Onslow had had some extra helpings from his chocolate pot that morning, and so was in a sweeter mood to accommodate me. I don’t say much in the House, your lordship, but when I speak, I tend to speak in volumes.” He paused, sensing that the Earl’s question was merely an overture to another matter, which he could not guess at. “He did, afterward, take me aside to remind me to limit my remarks in future to the day’s business, and not again tumble a slumbering House from the wrong side of the bed.”
“I would agree with him on that matter, Sir Henoch.”
“Your lordship?”
“The colonies are an important appendage to this nation. It would not do to antagonize them at this particular moment.”
“The business of the day,” said Hillier, “indeed, of the war, is not yet the arrogance of the colonies, Sir Henoch, nor their miseries, concerns, or feelings of neglect.”
Sir Henoch seemed to realize then the reason he was here. For a moment, he said nothing. He was, however, wise enough to concede the Earl’s point, yet practical enough not to appear too conciliatory. “True enough,” he said. “But I am sure that treacly oration will not do the trick, nor will the malady of colonial discontent be corrected by a dose of extract of peppermint. I fully expect the matter, once the peace has been restored, to be a subject of the committee of the whole House.”
“I fear that, too, Sir Henoch,” said the Earl. “I share your sentiments, but believe that your remarks were ill-timed.” He paused. “I trust that you do not construe my words here as an attempt to breach the privilege of your House. But there are prior issues at hand. Everything in time, Sir Henoch. You will have your day again, I am sure. Please, stay your oratory on that subject. One enemy at a time. There are other things you and Mr. Hillier can work together on in the Commons.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“You know, of course,” continued the Earl, “that Mr. Hillier here sits on a committee that is considering a petition from some colonial merchants to reduce the duty on hats from their quarter.”
“And I on a committee that is considering a petition from city shopkeepers to reduce the duty on Spanish oranges, your lordship. I can say with confidence that the notion will never be debated in the House.”
The Earl hummed in approval, but said, “When, at your house some time back, you offered to speak against the reduction of duties on other commodities, you did not include hats. Is there a reason why you assumed I might be interested in those articles?”
Sir Henoch was at a loss for words. He could not openly confess that he was certain that the Earl and his brother were closely connected with the smuggling into the country of hats and other commodities along the Dorset coast, and that his certainty was bolstered by intelligence gathered through informal conversations he had had with contacts within the Customs Board bureaucracy. He could no more admit this certainty than he could propose blackmail. Of course, Sir Henoch knew that Hillier’s committee was considering hats, and that other committees were considering petitions of a similar nature. He had merely mentioned hats in his speech; he could just as well have mentioned Irish lace or French shoes. It was immaterial. So he concluded that the Earl was probing him for the depth of his knowledge of the Earl’s culpability.
After these ruminations, Sir Henoch replied, “Nothing in particular, your lordship. Only that you, together with so many others charged with the dignity of England, would consider such a reduction a threat to the Crown’s solvency, and a blow against the nation’s interest.” He spoke these words facing the Earl in the most self-righteous manner he was capable of.
The Earl seemed satisfied with this answer, and, letting the matter rest, became intent on finishing his plate. Hillier smiled approvingly at his colleague, and did the same. Viscount Wilbourne blinked at him. And the nephew, who had not said a word all evening, looked perplexed. Sir Henoch was certain, judging by the look on the boy’s expression, that he was as mystified by the exchange as was the Viscount. The young baronet looked like the perfect scion of aristocracy: he wore a spotless white wig with a green ribbon on the tail, and a pearl gray suit that was as lustrous as his uncle’s. There was a fastidious air about him that seemed directed at the company, not the table. Too much of a prig for politics, mused Sir Henoch. He decided to test the mettle of the boy, and perhaps pay him back for the encounter in the Palace Yard. He wondered if the Earl was aware of his nephew’s “republican” leanings.
“May I compliment his lordship on the excellence of his port?” he said after taking a long swallow of it. A servant immediately appeared and refilled his glass.
The Earl seemed to smile, and nodded acknowledgment.
Sir Henoch addressed Hugh. “Milord seems to be in a state of mental percolation. Have you anything to say on the subject of our Britannic flora?”
Hugh had been content to endure the conversation in silence, for it either did not interest him, or concerned matters he did not fully understand. But now he had been invited to speak his mind. “Only that I was prompted, by the talk, and also by your speech in the House, Sir Henoch, to recall an episode from my Roman studies.”
“Oh? Which episode, milord?”
“The fate of Cremona.”
“Cremona?”
Viscount Wilbourne spoke. “It is famous for its violins,” he announced.
“I was reminded,” continued Hugh, “of what happened to the citizens of that fortress town when they surrendered to Antoninus Primus’s legions.”
“Nothing disreputable, I trust,” remarked Sir Henoch, fearing that it was.
Hugh shook his head. “They were plundered and butchered. Their houses were burned, their temples razed, and their riches carted away. No man, woman, or child was spared the sword, outrage, or the fetters. The survivors were made slaves, to be sold to the highest bidders. And when the citizens of Rome heard what had happened, their probity compelled them to resolve not to purchase the new slaves. Out of spite, the captives were put to death by their captors.”
“Well,” sniffed Sir Henoch, “Roman history is quite gory. To my recollection, the reduction of the intrusive barbarians was never the stuff of bedtime stories or children’s tales.”
“Cremona was a Roman colony, sir, populated by Romans, and one of Rome’s most prosperous.”
Sir Henoch’s ignorance was not feigned. “Forgive me, milord, but I don’t see the relevance.”
Hugh asked rhetorically, “Will the scarlet of our martial tunics some day share the shame of the praetorians’ scarlet cloaks?”
Sir Henoch fell back in his chair, unable to answer. Hillier
watched the Earl’s face grow pink. And Hugh held Sir Henoch’s glance, waiting for an answer.
Hillier said, “What gives you leave, milord, to construct such a dire analogy?”
Hugh answered as though it were obvious. “Sir Henoch’s patriotism, Mr. Hillier, together with a wealth of sorry precedents in Roman history for his proposed lex Britannica.”
“And the violins?” asked Viscount Wilbourne, looking around desperately. “What happened to them?”
The Earl threw the Viscount a sharp look, then addressed Sir Henoch. “Rome was in the midst of a civil war,” he said, blandly changing the subject of the conversation, “over who would be emperor, Vettilius or Vespasian.” He paused, then waved a hand in dismissal of the subject. “Civil wars are notoriously fratricidal, Sir Henoch, and sufficiently lurid enough in their episodes to seduce the attentions of someone the age and experience of my nephew. And, anyway, my nephew’s analogy is quite erroneous.”
“And, who became emperor?” asked Viscount Wilbourne.
“Vespasian,” answered Hugh, ignoring his uncle’s slight, “the son of a tax collector. He began construction of the Coliseum for the entertainment of the masses, and banished the philosophers because their teachings caused men to think and contemplate disloyalty.”
“Very interesting pastime, the study of history,” remarked Hillier, attempting to lessen the sudden tension. “It has many uses, I am sure, but as a repository of moral guidance, I’m afraid it has nothing to offer us moderns.”
“Quite true, Mr. Hillier,” replied Hugh. “Roman history especially is a nonpareil chronicle of the absence of reason in men’s affairs. It is my earnest hope that we do not emulate the Romans in that respect. That we speak a different language, wear different clothes, and eat different foods, will not guarantee that we will not. The consequences must be the same, if we do emulate them.”
