untiring labour and patience.

I have told this story in order to ill.u.s.trate definitely the initial weakness in his lifelong policy, call it folly if you like, or even imbecility, but I prefer to a.s.sign to it the one all embracing word--"Generosity." He was too generous, all through his career he sacrificed everything through his generous capacity for seeing and sympathising with both sides of every question. Many, many times he would shelve the carefully formulated schemes of months on the sudden realisation of what the Opposition would suffer if he carried them through.

Think--as I sometimes think--what a sad thing, what a vortex of conflicting emotions the heart of Amy Snurge must have been during those hard years, knowing her husband's strength and resource, deploring yet loving his weakness, encouraging, aiding and abetting his every act with the feminine pertinacity which has characterized the world's greatest heroines. Poor woman, no wonder the grave claimed her so soon, for like the ba.s.s--like Democracy, her vitality was exhausted by the destructive and constructive force of Snurge. Only unlike the ba.s.s she couldn't swim well, and unlike Democracy she had the man to contend with as well as the politician.

Snurge was by no means a revolutionary; he possessed too many ideals and too little pa.s.sion, he was essentially a pa.s.sionless man--except of course the one historic occasion during his campaign against prohibition when he completely lost control, and flying low in a government aeroplane broke a bottle of green chartreuse over the head of the Statue of Liberty.

The uproar which was the natural outcome of this defiant protest, was abruptly stemmed by the sudden reversal of his tactics on the day following the event, when he made a spirited appeal in West Forty-Second Street _for_ prohibition! This resulted in a hopeless gloom enveloping the metropolis. The populace commenced to realise in a measure the unreliability of Snurge as a saviour of the state, while at the same time fully appreciating his many sterling qualities.

Dark things were whispered in the White House.

One need not go far then to seek the reason for his fall from grace, his utter failure as a Republican candidate for the presidency--it was his generosity, his innate humanity, and his extraordinary breadth and clarity of vision.

If this man had but been president in 1914 there might not have been any war. Had he been president in 1776 there might not have been any revolution, and had he but been president in 1491 G.o.d knows what there might not have been.

REFERENCE

America in Sunshine and Shadow _B. F. Bramp_. 2 Vols.

The Roguish Royalist _Anonymous_ Mirrors of Salt Lake City _By the Gentleman with the Cuspidor. 5 Vols._ Amy Snurge, a Grand Woman _Ernest Frapple_. 2 Vols.

"Columbia Beware!" _Weedheim._

_I am also deeply indebted to Esther Throtch for her unlimited energy and devoted a.s.sistance._

BIANCA DI PIANNO-FORTI

[Ill.u.s.tration: BIANCA DI PIANNO-FORTI

_After an engraving by Vittorio Campanele_]

Mediaeval Italy has in its time boasted many beautiful women, but there is one who must take her place before them all, one whose name is a byword to this day in every corner of that sun-washed country--Bianca di Pianno-Forti. One shudders at that name--so radiant was she, and yet so incredibly evil. Her tragic death somehow seems a fitting ending to a life such as hers--a life so without mercy, so without pity, and yet so amazingly vivid that it seems to be emblazoned on Italy's very heart.

She first saw the light in Florence. Her father, Allegro, of the celebrated house of Andante Caprioso, married at the age of fourteen Giulia Presto, of Verona, at the age of nine. At the birth of Bianca her mother died, leaving her to the care of her broken-hearted father and brother Pizzicato (destined later on to make the world ring with his music). Perhaps the only thing to be said in excuse of Bianca's later conduct is the fact that she never knew a mother's love. The nuns at the convent wherein she spent her ripening childhood were kind; but, alas!

they were not mothers--at least, not all of them. Bianca left the convent when she was sixteen. Slim, lissom, sinuous, with those arresting eyes that seemed, so Fibinio tells us, to search out the very souls of all who came near her. Her first love affair occured about a week after her arrival in her home in Florence. She was in the habit of walking to ma.s.s at the cathedral with her maid Vivace. One morning, so Poliolioli relates, a handsome soldier stepped out of the shadows of an adjoining b.u.t.tress and looked at her. Bianca at once swooned. The same thing happened again--and again--and yet again. One night she heard the shutters of her bedchamber rattle! "Who is there?" she cried, yet not too loudly, because her woman's instinct warned her to be wary. The shutters were flung open, and the young soldier stepped flamboyantly into the room. "I am here, _cara, cara mia_!" he cried. "I, Vibrato Adagio!" With a sibilant cry she fell into his out-stretched arms.

"_Mio, mio,_" she echoed in ecstasy, "I am yours and you are mine!" So lightly was the first stepping-stone pa.s.sed on her reckless path of immorality and vice. Her fickle heart soon tired of the debonair Vibrato, and in a fit of satiated pique she had his ears cut off and his tongue removed and tied to his big toe. Thus was her ever-increasing l.u.s.t for bloodshed apparent even at that early age. Her next _affaire_ occured when she was travelling to Rome with her brother Pizzicato, who was to become a chorister at the Vatican. On stopping for refreshment at a wayside tavern, Bianca was struck by the arresting looks of the ostler who was tending their steaming steeds. Beckoning to him, she asked of him his name; he turned his vacant eyes round and round wonderingly for a moment. "Crescendo," he replied. Bianca's eyes flashed fire.

"_Accelerato!_" she cried imperiously, and, hypnotised into submission, the scared man fled upstairs, Bianca following.

Upon arriving in Rome, Bianca and Pizzicato repaired to their father's brother-in-law, who was well known as a lavish entertainer. He was one Rapidamente Tempo di Valse, a widower, living with his two sons, Lento and Comprino, handsome lads both in the first flush of manhood, and both destined to fall victims to Bianca's compelling attractions.

Contemporary history informs us that Bianca stayed in the Palazzo Tempo di Valse for seven years, visiting Pizzicato from time to time, and employing herself with various love affairs.

In June she became betrothed to Duke Crazioso di Pianno-Forti, of the famous family of Moderato e Diminuendo--indirectly descended from the Cardinal Appa.s.sionato Tutti. Tutti was the great-uncle of the infamous Con Spirito, well known to posterity as the lover of the lovely but pa.s.sionate Violenza Allargando, destined to become the mother of Largo con Craviata, the fearless captain of Dolcissimo's light horse under General Lamento Agitato, whose grandmother, Sempre Calando, was notorious for her illicit liaison with Pesante e Stentato, a union which was to bear fruit in the shape of Lusingando Molto.

Bianca's wedding was celebrated with enormous rejoicing in Venice, where was situated the ducal palace of the Pianno-Fortis. Mention should be made of the life led by Bianca during the first years of her marriage, of her pet staghounds, of her tapestried bedchamber with bloodthirsty scenes of the chase depicted thereon--how she loved blood, this beautiful girl!

Her portrait herein reproduced is after an engraving by Campanele; note the sinister line of the cheek-bone and the pa.s.sionate beauty of the nethermost lip! One can visualise her--radiant at the head of crowded dining-tables, drinking from gem-encrusted goblets, accepting glances fraught with ardent desire from one or other of the male guests.

All the world knows of her famous visit to the Pope, and how he died a few hours later; while it would be mere repet.i.tion of general knowledge to enlarge on her sojourn with the Doge, and his subsequent demise. Let us touch ever so lightly on her three children, Poco, Confuoco, and Strepitoso. How could they help being beautiful with such a mother, poor mites, branded from birth with the sense of their impending fate! After a while Bianca became aware that tongues were a-wag in Venice, sullying her name with foul calumnies. Her decision for their downfall was swift and terrible. She persuaded her easy-going husband to ride to Naples; then, free of his c.u.mbersome authority, she set to work on the preparations for her world-famous supper party. Picture it if you will: five hundred and eighty-three guests[7] all seated laughingly in the immense banqueting-hall--Bianca at the head of the table, superb, incomparable, her corsage a glittering ma.s.s of gems, her breast chilled by the countless diamonds on her camisole, her smile radiant and a peach-like flush on the ivory pallor of her face. This was indeed her hour--her triumph--her subtle revenge. Her heart thrilled with the knowledge of that inward secret that was hers immutably, for every morsel of food and drink upon that festive board was impregnated with the deadliest poison--all except the two pieces of toast with which she regaled herself, having dined earlier and alone.

Historians tell us that following close on that event some rather ugly rumours were noised abroad--in fact, some of the relatives of the poisoned guests even went so far as to complain to various people in authority and stir up strife in every way possible. Bianca was naturally furious. Some say that it was her sudden rage on hearing this that caused her to burn her children to death; others say her act was merely due to bad temper owing to a sick headache. Anyhow, as later events go to show, she had chosen the very worst time to murder her children. More ugly rumours were at once noised abroad by those who were jealous of her. Upon her husband's return from Naples he was immediately arrested, and a few days later hung. Too late the hapless Bianca sought to make her escape; she was caught and taken prisoner while swimming across the Grand Ca.n.a.l with her clothes and a few personal effects in a bundle in her mouth. She was carried shrieking to Milan, where she endured a mockery of a trial; on political grounds she was sentenced to being torn to pieces by she-goats at Genoa. Poor, beautiful Bianca! On the fulfilment of her unjust and barbarous sentence it is too horrible to dwell at any length. This glorious creature, this resplendent vision, this divine G.o.ddess--she-goats! Dreadful, degrading, unutterable!!!

The day for her death[8] dawned fair over the Mediterranean. Bianca, garbed in white, walked with dignity into the meadow wherein the she-goats anxiously awaited her. She bravely repressed a shudder, and fell upon her knees. History tells us that every goat turned away, as though ashamed of the part it was destined to play. Then, with a look of ineffable peace stealing over her waxen face, Bianca rose to her full height, and, flinging her arms heavenwards, she delivered that celebrated and heartrending speech which has lived after her for so long:--

"_Dio mio, concerto--concerto!_"

One by one the she-goats advanced....

SARAH, LADY TUNNELL-PENGE

("WINSOME SAL")

[Ill.u.s.tration: SARAH, LADY TUNNELL-PENGE

_From a painting by Augustus Punter_]

Ffraddle of 1643 was very different from the Ffraddle of 1789, and still more different from the Ffraddle of 1832. At a time when civil war was raging between Jacobites and Papists and Roundheads and Ironsides and everything, Ffraddle stood grey, silent and indomitable--the very spirit of peace allied with strength seemed embodied in its grim masonry. The clash of arms and the death cries from millions of rebellious throats which echoed athwart the length and breadth of young England were unable to pierce the stillness of Ffraddle's moated security. Owls murmured on its battered turrets, sparrows perched on its portcullis, cuckoos cooed all over it, heedless indeed of the turmoil and frenzied strife raging outside its feudal gates.

What a birthplace for one of history's most priceless pearls--Sarah Twig! The heart of every lover of beauty leaps and jumps and starts at the sound of that name--Sarah Twig. Why are some destined for so much while others are destined, alas! for so little? Who knows? Sarah--a rose-leaf, a crumpled atom, dropped as it were from some heavenly garden into the black times of the Merry Monarch--when, according to Bloodworthy, virtue was laughed to scorn and evil went unpunished; when, according to Follygob, virginity was a scream, and harlotry a hobby; and when, according to Sheepmeadow, homeliness was sin, and beauty but a gilded casket concealing vice and depravity unutterable.

History relates that though food was scarce and light hearts hard to find, at the birth of Sarah Twig there was no dearth of these commodities. The snow was on the ground, Follygob says--the woods and coppices and hills lay slumbering beneath a glistening white mantle.

What a mind! To have written those words! It was undoubtedly Follygob's artistic style and phraseology that branded him once and for all as the master-chronicler of his time.

Sarah Twig was born in the east wing, a lofty room which can be viewed to this day by all true lovers of historical architecture. To describe it adequately is indeed difficult. Some say there was a bed in it and an early Norman window; others have it that there was no bed but a late Gothic fireplace; while a few outstanding writers insist that there was nothing at all in the room but a very old Roman washstand.[9]

The night of Sarah's birth was indeed a wild one--snow and sleet eddied and swirled around the ma.s.sive structure destined to harbour one whose radiant beauty was to be a byword in all Europe. The wind, so Follygob with his incomparable style tells us, lashed itself to a livid fury against the st.u.r.dy Ffraddle turrets and mullions, whilst outside beyond the keep and raised drawbridge the beacons and camp fires stained the frost-laden air with vivid streaks of red and yellow--colours which formed the background of the Ffraddle coat of arms, thus presenting an omen to the startled inhabitants which history relates they were not slow to recognise.

Bloodworthy describes for us the plan by which Lord Ffraddle was to acquaint the village with the s.e.x of the child. If it were a boy, red fire was to be burnt on the south turret, and if a girl, green fire was to be burnt on the north turret; but unfortunately, he goes on to tell us, owing to some misadventure blue fire was firmly burnt on all the turrets. Imagine the horror of the superst.i.tious populace! Some left the country never to return, crying aloud that a chameleon had been born to their beloved chatelaine!

Of Sarah's youth historians tell us little. She was, apart from her beauty, a very knowing child. Often when missing from the banqueting-hall she would be discovered in the library reading and studying the political works of the period.[10] Often Lord Ffraddle was known to remark in his usual witty way, "In sooth, the child will soon have as much knowledge as her father," a sally which was invariably received with shrieks of delight by the infant Sarah, whose brilliant sense of humour was plainly apparent, even at that early age.

Her adolescence was remarkable for little save the rapid development of her supple loveliness, some idea of which can be gauged from the reproduction of Punter's famous portrait on page 74. Though painted at a somewhat later date, this masterpiece still presents us with most of the leading characteristics of its ravishing model. Note the eyes--the dreamy, cognisant expression; glance at the pretty mouth and the dainty ears. Her demeanour is obviously that of a meek and modest woman, but Punter, with his true genius, has caught that glint of inward fire, that fleeting look of shy mischief that earned for her the world-famous nickname of "Winsome Sal."

It was when she was eighteen[11] that Destiny, with inhuman cunning, caught up in his net the fragile ball of her life.

The handsome, devil-may-care Julius Fenchurch-Streete applied to Lord Ffraddle for a secretaryship, which was ultimately granted to him.

Imagine the situation--this rake, this dark-eyed ne'er-do-well, notorious all down Cheapside for his relentless dalliance with the fair, placed in intimate proximity with one of England's most glorious specimens of ripening womanhood. It was, Sheepmeadow writes, like the meeting of flint and tinder--these two so widely different in the essentials and yet so akin in their physical beauty. As was inevitable, from the first they loved--he with the flaming pa.s.sion of a h.e.l.l-rake, she with the sweet, appealing purity of one whose whole life had been peculiarly virginal. There followed swiftly upon their ardent confessions the determination to elope together. The night they bade adieu to Ffraddle and all it held is well known to young and old of every generation. They crept from their rooms at midnight and met at the top of the grand staircase, down which they proceeded to crawl on all fours. A few moments later they were on a st.u.r.dy mare, she riding pillion, he riding anyhow. Not a sound had been heard, not a dog had barked, not a bird had called. Once, Sheepmeadow informs us, Lady Ffraddle turned over in her sleep.[12] Poor, unsuspecting mother! On and on through the snow rode the f.e.c.kless couple. Once Sarah rested her hand lightly on her lover's arm. "Whither are we bound?" she inquired. "Only the mare knows that," Julius replied, and in shaken silence they rode on.

History is not very enlightening as to how long Julius Fenchurch-Streete lived with Sarah Twig--poor Sarah, the bubble of her romance soon was to be p.r.i.c.ked. For three weeks they lived gloriously, radiantly, at the old sign of "The Cod and Haddock" in Egham. "My heart is a pool of ecstasy,"

she wrote in her diary. Pitiful pool, so soon to be drained of its joy!

Then the storm-clouds gathered, the sun withdrew its gold. Julius rode away--Sarah was alone, alone in Egham, her love unblessed by any sort of church, no name for the child to come--a sorry, sorry plight. The buxom proprietress of "The Cod and Haddock," little dreaming her real ident.i.ty, set her to work. Work! for those fair hands, those inexpressibly filbert nails!