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With the accession to the throne of the child of the Duke of Kent—that strange epitome of the faults and virtues embodied in the century which was past, that foreshadowing of the century which, during his lifetime, had only begun—a new age (which had, it is true, been preparing for almost eighty years past) sprang into being—an era of the middle class and of middle-class virtues and vices, an age of capitalism and of commercial values, a world inhabited by machinery, engines supplanting horses, spinning-jennies supplanting men. This, indeed, was to be the age of the industrial era which, according to Friedrich Engels, was of the same importance for England as had been the political revolution for France, the philosophical revolution for Germany. “The Reform Bill of 1831”, wrote the same authority, in The Conditions of the Working Class in England in 1844, “had been the victory of the capitalist class over the landed aristocracy,” and the reign of Victoria was to see the complete triumph of the capitalist class and its ideals, mingled, strangely enough, with exaggerated ideals of personal virtue, exalting domestic misery, of no matter how degraded a character, as long as that misery and degradation could be supposed to be the result of a sense of duty.

With the invention of steamboats, with the forming of canals and the building of railways, began the industrial age, already foreshadowed seventy-eight years ago, when the first grand canal in England—that reaching from Manchester and the coal-mines of the district to the mouth of the Mersey—was constructed by James Brindle. Then the steamboat (this new invention had appeared first on the Hudson River in 1807) was launched in Britain, on the Clyde, in 1811. Finally, the first great railway, that which ran from Liverpool to Manchester, was opened in 1830.

It was not, actually, until the revival of trade after the crisis of 1847 that the industrial epoch was in full flower.^[44] Then, after the repeal of the corn laws and the subsequent financial reforms, there was a great growth of commerce. The Californian and Australian gold-fields were discovered; the Colonial markets were developed with extraordinary rapidity, and consequently English manufactured goods were absorbed. In India, millions of hand-weavers were crushed out by the Lancashire power-loom. China was opened up. But, above all, the spinning-jenny, and the new means of communication introduced at the close of the preceding period, the railways and ocean steamers, were now worked out on an international scale.

The great and glorious industrial revolution had begun; and each ragged and hungry scarecrow, who stood for fourteen or sixteen hours a day, or sometimes for as long as from thirty-six to forty hours at a stretch, in a dingy hell of steam and fetid odours for the sum of one penny an hour, each huddled bundle of rags and bones that stalked through the slums without even the blessing of that meaningless toil (since machines had replaced, to a great extent, the labour of men), must bless these great inventions.

But these were early days. Twelve years before the accession of the young Queen had seen the earliest appearance in Parliament of the great Railway Movement, and old Mr Creevey had been appointed a member of the committee to deal with the bill of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway Company. On this occasion, he found that his friends, Lord Derby and Lord Sefton, “like most territorial magnates, reviewed the designs of the railway engineers with the utmost apprehension and abhorrence”. “I have come to the conclusion,” he told Mr Ord, on March the 16th 1828, “that Ferguson is insane. He quite foamed at the mouth with rage in our Railway Committee in support of this infernal nuisance—the loco-motive monster, carrying eighty tons of goods, and navigated by a tail of smoke and sulphur, coming thro’ every man’s grounds between Manchester and Liverpool. He was supported by Scotchmen only, except a son of Sir Robert Peel’s, and against every landed gentleman of the country, his own particular friends, who were all present, such as Lord Stanley, Lord Sefton, Lord George Cavendish, etc.” It is pleasant to know that on June the 1st Mr Creevey was able to announce that “this devil of a railway is strangled at last”.

Nine years after this time, however, a certain difference had taken place in the attitude of even such men of the world as Mr Greville, who was unable to resist succumbing to the excitement of travelling in this strange newfangled invention. “Tired of doing nothing,” he wrote on July the 18th, “and of hearing about the Queen and the elections, I resolved to vary the scene and run down here to see the Birmingham railroad, Liverpool, and the Liverpool races. So I started out at 5 o’clock on Sunday evening, got to Birmingham at 5.30 on Monday morning, and got upon the railroad at 7.30. Nothing can be more comfortable than the vehicle in which I was put, a sort of chariot with two places, and there is nothing disagreeable about it but the sudden whiff of stinking air which it is impossible to exclude altogether. The first sensation is a slight degree of nervousness and a feeling of being run away with, but a sense of security soon supervenes, and the velocity is delightful. Town after town, one park and château after another, are left behind with the rapid variety of a moving panorama, and the continual bustle and animation of the changes and stoppages make the journey very entertaining. The train was very long, and heads were continually popping out of the several carriages attracted by well-known voices, and then came the greetings and exclamations of surprise, the ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘How on earth came you here?’ Considering the novelty of the establishment, there is very little embarrassment, and it certainly renders all other travelling irksome and tedious in comparison. It was peculiarly gay at this time, because there was so much going on.”

Soon after this time, however, Mr Greville was to be involved in a moving panorama of quite a different kind, and one which he found by no means gay or agreeable. The panorama in question was that of her eighteen-year-old Majesty’s Court at Windsor, where Mr Greville, clerk of the Privy Council, was a visitor. There was no room, it seems, in which the guests might assemble, where they could sit or lounge, remain silent or talk as they pleased and to whom they pleased. It was true that a billiard-table existed, but this was in such a distant and inaccessible part of the Castle that it was never discovered by a guest. Then again, there was a large library, and this was crowded with books, but no human being was ever to be found there excepting the librarian, the lighting was bad, and the room seemed to have none of the furniture of one that had ever been inhabited. There were two breakfast-rooms, one for the ladies of the Court and the guests, the other for the equerries, but these again were uncomfortable. In short, Windsor Castle was a wilderness of ennui, and comfortless ennui at that. It must be admitted that there was a certain relaxation of etiquette until it was time for luncheon and Her Majesty appeared (she breakfasted in her room, and transacted business throughout the morning), but after luncheon there was a long ride to be gone through, with the young Queen leading the procession, Lord Melbourne invariably riding beside her, and then, on the return of the cavalcade, Her Majesty would play the piano or the harp, sing, play battledore and shuttlecock, romp with children. It was all very tiresome, very boring for a middle-aged man of the world who was used to the conversation of Mr Macaulay, the brilliance of the society at Holland House. And then there were the evenings to be gone through, the interminable hours after dinner—for the gentlemen were not permitted to sit over their wine. Mr Greville sighed wearily. “When the company was reassembled in the drawing-room,” says Mr Strachey, “the etiquette was stiff. For a few minutes the Queen spoke in turn to each one of her guests; and during these short uneasy colloquies the aridity of royalty was apt to become painfully evident.” ... On the night of his arrival, when Mr Greville’s turn came, and “the middle-aged, hard-faced viveur was addressed by his young hostess: ‘Have you been riding today, Mr Greville?’ asked the Queen. ‘No, Madam, I have not,’ replied Mr Greville. ‘It was a fine day,’ continued the Queen. ‘Yes, Madam, a very fine day,’ said Mr Greville. ‘It was rather cold, though,’ said the Queen. ‘It was rather cold, Madam,’ said Mr Greville. ‘Your sister, Lady Frances Egerton, rides, I think, doesn’t she?’ said the Queen. ‘She does ride sometimes, Madam,’ said Mr Greville. There was a pause, after which Mr Greville ventured to take the lead, though he did not venture to change the subject. ‘Has Your Majesty been riding today?’ asked Mr Greville. ‘Oh yes, a very long ride,’ answered the Queen with animation. ‘Has Your Majesty got a nice horse?’ said Mr Greville. ‘Oh, a very nice horse,’ said the Queen. It was over. Her Majesty gave a smile and an inclination of the head, Mr Greville a profound bow, and the next conversation began with the next gentleman.”^[45]

Soon, reflected Her Majesty, these tiresome duties would be over, and she would be free to chatter to Lord Melbourne, and to elicit his opinions on all kinds of interesting subjects. And what a happy day it had been—full of excitements. That long gallop in the sparkling cold weather, with Lord Melbourne by her side—that wonderful two hours she had spent with her dearest, most lovely Cousin Victoire, showing her all the wonders of her house, her own house—oh yes, down to the very kitchens. How wonderful it was to have a household of one’s own—kitchens, stillrooms, billiard-rooms, breakfast-rooms, libraries.

The days were too short for all the happiness they must contain; though there had been sorrow, too. There was, for instance, that sad day in April 1838, when the Queen was told that good old Mrs Louis, Princess Charlotte’s devoted attendant, and one of the Queen’s earliest friends, had died. She had written in her diary: “I felt very unhappy at dinner, in spite of my being gay when I spoke, and I could have cried almost at every moment; so much so, that when I got into bed, my nerves (which had been more shaken by the loss of dearest Louis than I can express, and by the struggle when in company to overcome grief which I felt so acutely) could resist no longer, and more than half an hour elapsed, in tears, before I fell asleep, and before I was asleep I saw her, in my imagination, before me, dressed in her neat white morning gown, setting out her breakfast in her room at Claremont, again, standing in my room of an evening, dressed in her best, holding herself so erect, as she always did, and making the low dignified curtsey so peculiar to herself; and lastly on her death-bed, pale and emaciated, but the expression the same, and the mind vigorous and firm as ever! These were the images I beheld as I lay in bed! Yet, mingled with my grief, were feelings of thankfulness that her end was so peaceful—so happy!”

The Queen could never think of her faithful old friend without a pang at her heart; but Mr Greville, as he encountered the equine conversation I have just chronicled, could not be blamed for not seeing into the real nature of this young creature, with her curious inability to express her thoughts.

She stopped before the next gentleman.

Then, when each gentleman in turn had undergone this experience, the Duchess of Kent sat down to her whist, the Queen looked at drawings in a portfolio and chattered to Lord Melbourne, who invariably sat beside her, and the rest of the company amused themselves as best they could—being rewarded with a haughty glare from Her Majesty’s eyes if they relaxed from the slightest rule of etiquette—and so the long hours passed till half past eleven struck, and Her Majesty retired to bed^[46].

The Duchess of Kent enjoyed her whist with nearly her usual gusto, but there was yet a vaguely forlorn expression on her face as she looked at her daughter; and Sir John Conroy, her major-domo, though he still remained in that post, was not a visitor at Windsor. For on her accession to the throne, the Queen, with her innate generosity and justice, rewarded Sir John for his services to her mother with a baronetcy and a pension of £3000 a year; but she could not overcome her dislike of him, and she made it clear that these rewards marked the end of any personal relations with him. The hour of Lehzen’s triumph had come, and Sir John Conroy’s discomfiture was but another sign of this. “The person she” (the Queen) “loves best in the world,” wrote Mr Greville, “is the Baroness Lehzen, and Lehzen and Conroy were enemies. There was formerly a Baroness Spaeth at Kensington, lady-in-waiting to the Duchess, and Lehzen and Spaeth were intimate friends. Conroy quarrelled with the latter and got her dismissed, and this Lehzen never forgave. She may have instilled into the Princess a dislike and bad opinion of Conroy, and the evidence of these sentiments, which probably escaped neither the Duchess nor him, may have influenced their conduct towards her, for strange as it is, there is good reason to believe that she thinks she has been ill-used by them both for some years past. Her manner to the Duchess is, however, irreproachable, and they appear to be on cordial and affectionate terms. Madame de Lehzen is the only person who is constantly with her” (the Queen). Her Majesty, it seemed as well, “never gives an immediate answer to applications. At first it was thought that this was because she wanted to consult Lord Melbourne, but he says this is her habit with him. The person consulted, therefore, is Lehzen.”

It was the hour of Lehzen’s triumph. The floods of caraway seeds, of conversation, became more copious; the watchfulness grew sharper, was less disguised. Lord Melbourne, that odd, rather eccentric, but urbane and experienced man of the world, recognized her influence, and set out to win her confidence and liking. He teased her flatteringly, until she relaxed a little from her natural stiffness. Her volubility never cast even a shadow of boredom over his frank countenance. He complimented her in a discreet manner. The Baroness pursed her lips, but secretly she was charmed, a faint flowering appeared in her cheeks, her gestures, though they could scarcely be called free, became less restricted, and a certain mature opulence of shoulders was no longer concealed.

Lord Melbourne, that odd, personally charming, whimsical, benighted and heartless, yet sentimental man—heartless because he feared his own sentimentality; sentimental because he knew his heart was dead, or, perhaps, had never been born—this mixture of contradictions soon won the little eighteen-year-old Queen’s heart and confidence. Even dear precious Lehzen was, if not forgotten, at least not remembered when Her Majesty sat down to write her diary. The kindly, almost unpleasantly tolerant husband of Lady Caroline Lamb (whose lover, Lord Byron, found a confidante in the betrayed husband’s own mother), the man who, whilst his wife was making public scenes and open declarations of her intrigue with Lord Byron, spent his time in making gentle jokes, turning over the pages of the Bible in an idle manner, reading Dr Lardner’s Observations upon the Jewish Errors with respect to the Conversion of Mary Magdalene, the man who had said “You’d better try to do no good, and then you’ll get into no scrapes,” the co-respondent in the unsuccessful divorce cases brought by their husbands against Mrs Norton and Lady Brandon, the Prime Minister who, when receiving the delegates of the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment, disconcerted them by becoming suddenly absorbed in blowing a feather,^[47] and who interrupted them with silly joke after silly joke, although he had spent the night before in studying the details of their case, the heartless condemner of the martyrs of Tolpuddle—this strange mixture no longer sprawled on sofas; he did not swear, his anecdotes became almost episcopal in their propriety. And all because of an enchanting little homely creature, of whom old Mr Creevey, seeing her when she was on a fleeting visit to Brighton, had said, “A more homely little being you never beheld, when she is at her ease, and she is evidently dying to be always more so. She laughs in real earnest, opening her mouth as wide as it can go, showing not very pretty gums. She eats quite as heartily as she laughs, I think I may say she gobbles.... She blushes and laughs every instant in so natural a way as to disarm anybody.”^[48]

This innocent little schoolgirl, who was to become one of the greatest of our sovereigns, looked up at him with large, blue, rather protruding eyes, drank in his every sentence, recorded the least look, the least gesture and remark, in her diary. This indeed, for some time, was full, to the exclusion of all else, of the sayings and doings of Lord M.... Lord M. sitting beside her every evening after dinner.... Lord M.’s opinion of books and plays, his knowledge of history, his wit—speaking of red-legged partridges, he had said to Lady Normanby, “Haven’t you any of those red-legged fellows in Italy? I don’t mean Cardinals,” which made the Queen laugh very much and show her gums. Lord M. admiring the Queen’s tight sleeves (Mama might frown at the compliment if she liked, but she could do nothing about the matter), and being pleased that she had discarded her curls, and that her lovely cousin Victoire, who would soon become the Duchesse de Nemours, and who was the friend of her heart, had discarded her curls, because they had a wicked look. Lord M. saying that girls who wore blue never got married—he could not bear blue—Lord M. riding through the dim blue January weather in a green coat, and asking the Queen if she thought it was a bad colour, to which she replied “Quite on the contrary”, but she had never seen Lord M. wearing that colour before.... Lord M. sitting for an equestrian portrait, and looking so funny as he bestraddled a plaster horse, without a head, wielding an umbrella instead of a sword. Lord M. made the Queen laugh very much with his opinions about public education: “The latter he don’t like, and when I asked him if he did, he said ‘I daren’t say it in these times that I’m against it, but I am against it.... The English would not submit to such thraldom,’ and he went on to say that ‘people of great genius were educated by circumstances’, and that ‘the education of circumstances was the best’.” The Queen asked him if he didn’t think Miss Murray’s asylum for poor criminal children very good; but he shook his head and said he doubted it. The Queen ventured to say “they would else commit every atrocity and wickedness”; but her minister replied “And they will yet, you’ll see” (in which case they would be promptly dealt with; for, only two years before this time, we read in the Observer of March 15th 1835, “three prisoners under the age of fourteen were sentenced to death at the Old Bailey for burglary”). Then, as for child labour, Lord M. said, apropos of children working for fourteen hours a day in factories, “Oh, if you’d only have the goodness to leave them alone.” Yet this strange character had befriended Godwin, and, whilst telling Owen, genially, that he was one of the most foolish men he had ever met, saw no reason why “a gentleman should be prevented from entering his Sovereign’s presence by reason of any opinions he happened to hold”, and therefore presented the Duke of Kent’s old acquaintance to what the Quarterly Review called “the unsuspecting innocence of a virgin Queen”. Lord M.’s face wore often a smile half cynical, half tolerant; and how charming, how whimsical was that smile when he defended the Butcher of Cumberland in conversation with his sovereign. The Duke, it seems, was not cruel at all, or at least “only to a few rebels”. For though tears were, according to the Queen, constantly springing to Lord M.’s eyes at appropriate moments, there were times when those eyes were tearless. “After the Agricultural Riots of 1830, Melbourne” (wrote Professor G. M. Trevelyan) “was allowed to stain the reputation of the Whigs by cruelties which History, now that she knows the facts can pardon as little as Peterloo.” There should, he decided, be a new Bloody Assize. This was no time for the government to show weakness. The death-sentences, therefore, were horribly numerous, but many of the men thus sentenced were transported instead, to a living hell ruled over by devils whose final blasphemy was that they called themselves Christians. The men who were actually sentenced to transportation, leaving aside those who were reprieved from a more merciful death, numbered between four and five hundred, and the anguish of the parting between them and their wives and children, their parents, their sisters, their brothers, blackens our History to this hour. Never again would the fate of these slaves of a damnable system be known to those who loved them, and never would they, flogged to the bone, kicked, starved, brutalized, robbed of their humanity, know what had happened to those they loved and from whom they had been torn: if they lived, if they died, or to what depths of starvation, misery, and utter destitution they had fallen.

Nor was this Lord Melbourne’s only crime. Three years before the Queen’s accession to the throne, six farm-labourers of the village of Tolpuddle in Dorsetshire, humble peasant saints of a beautiful and blameless life, George and James Loveless, Thomas Standfield and his son John, James Hammett and James Brine, had been arrested and committed for trial for the crime of “holding combinations of a dangerous and alarming character”. These combinations were actually the result of Owen’s theories, and, in the case of the men of Tolpuddle, were perfectly peaceable, for these labourers had only met together to discuss their intention of asking their employers to increase their weekly wage from seven to eight or nine shillings a week. But dear whimsical Lord Melbourne at once appointed a new judge, and we are told by Mr Owen Rattenbury, in his book Flame of Freedom, that it was decided that a new Dorchester Assize was to be held which should be a fitting sequel to some of the worst experiences of the West Country under Judge Jeffreys. Therefore Baron Williams, the judge who was appointed, was told that he was expected to find these men guilty and to sentence them to as severe a sentence as possible, so that their exemplary punishment might strike terror into the hearts of other trade-unionists in other parts of the country.

It may not be out of place, at this point, to follow the fate of these men, since they are amongst the noblest martyrs of our race. In answer to the Judge at the assize, one of the Loveless brothers replied: “We have injured no man’s reputation, character, person or property; we were uniting to preserve ourselves, our wives and children from utter degradation and starvation.”^[49] Yet these saints of the people, these apostles of Christian love, were each condemned to seven years’ transportation. George Loveless, as he was sentenced, wrote these words on a scrap of paper, and tried to throw it to the crowd, but was prevented from doing so by his handcuffs:

God is our guide! From field, from wave,

From plough, from anvil, and from loom,

We come, our country’s rights to crave,

And speak a tyrant’s functions down;

We raise the watchword Liberty!

We will, we will, we will be free!

God is our guide! No swords we draw,

We kindle not war’s battle fires,

By reason, union, justice, law,

We claim the birthright of our sires;

We raise the watchword Liberty!

We will, we will, we will be free!^[50]

There was a great agitation against this monstrous sentence, but Mr Greville, who was full of admiration for Lord Melbourne’s behaviour, noted that he had, very sensibly, caused the men to be transported and out of sight before anything could be done about it.

They were transported to the penal settlements on May the 25th 1834, and in the hot and fetid hell, where they were confined in the ship, the berths measured five feet six inches for every six men, so that not one of these bundles of rags and bones enclosing a starved and aching soul could stretch himself to his full length, or lie at ease. On their arrival, they worked in chains. Some of their companions, if they turned faint under the heat of the sun, were beaten so horribly that “the flesh folded over in rolls, leaving the bare spot with no covering of either skin or shirt”. After one man had been flogged (I quote from Mr Rattenbury^[51]) “the man who had had these heavy strokes doggedly worked on, and Loveless like the others was much troubled by the flies buzzing round. He saw that it was the raw flesh that had attracted them, and one or two of them settled on this man. One of them laid its eggs in the wound and flew away. Loveless was near it and saw it and then forgot about it, until he saw the wound swelling one day.” On seeing that this lost soul was about to faint, the overseer “lashed out with his whip again, and caught the open wound. This time, hardened as the man had been, he cried out with the pain of it, and then sank down on the road in a swoon. They unchained him and turned him over to examine the wound, and saw the opening-up which the lash had caused, and the maggots crawling about in the wound. It was a hospital case, and what happened to the man Loveless never knew.”

Perhaps the Victorian age was right in its belief in an inexorable and eternal hell; there are moments, indeed, when, in spite of all my pity for suffering, I can find it in my heart to believe in it—but not for the starving creature, who has stolen that he may eat and be warm—not for the poor fallible being of flesh and blood who has fallen into temptation. I think, if it exists, it was built for the righteous creators of such an earthly hell as Botany Bay. There are times when I see dear, good, kind whimsical Lord M. wearing a devil’s mask, and bearing a devil’s grin.

When, as the result of agitations in England, that noble man George Loveless, respited with his companions from this iniquitous sentence, returned to England in 1836, he wrote:

“I can assure my Lord Stanley, who boasted a few years ago that he would make transportation worse than death, that his wicked and diabolical purpose is more than accomplished; for it would be doing such unfortunate men a kindness, a favour; it would be granting them an unspeakable privilege to hang them in England, and so prevent exposure to cruelties, miseries, and wretchedness connected with the present system of transportation.

“But I have been told that it is done for the good of Society and to uphold our most holy religion. Good God! What hypocrisy, and deceit is here manifested! The most cruel, the most unjust, the most atrocious deeds are committed and carried out under the cloak of religion! If I had not learned what religion meant, such practices would make me detest and abhor the very name.

“And yet, strange as it may appear, those hypocrites, who pretend to be so scrupulous, that rather than submit to have their most holy religion endangered, they would starve hard-working honest husbands and fathers, and who have solemnly pronounced ‘What God hath joined together let no man put asunder,’ are some of the first to separate man and wife, to send some to banishment and others to the Poor Law prisons; to oppress the fatherless and the widow. From all such religion as this good Lord deliver us! ...

“Although I was sent out of the country and have been subjected to privations, to distress and wretchedness, transportation has not had the intended effect upon me, for after all, I am returned from my bondage with my views and principles strengthened. It is indelibly fixed in my mind that labour is ill-rewarded in consequence of the few tyrannizing over the millions; and that, through their oppression, thousands are now working in chains on the roads, abused by the overseers, sentenced by the commitants, and punished by flagellation; young and strong men, now emaciated and worn almost to skeletons. Is this the plan to reform men? I say, no; if they were bad before, they are tenfold more the children of Hell now!

“It has a tendency to harden the heart, stultify their feelings, make them careless and regardless of consequences, and they rush forward, plunging headlong into an abyss from which they are not able to extricate themselves. The groans and cries of the labourers ere long will bring down vengeance on the heads of those who have been, and are still, the authors of so much misery. I believe that nothing will ever be done to relieve the distress of the working classes unless they take it into their own hands; with these beliefs I left England, and with these views I am returned. Notwithstanding all that I have seen and felt, my sentiments on the subject are unchanged.

“Nothing but union can ever accomplish the great and important object: namely, the salvation of the world. Let the producers of wealth firmly and peaceably unite their energies, and what can withstand them? The power and influence of the non-producers would sink into insignificance, the conquest is won, the victory is certain.”

It was the will of such men as these that dear whimsical Lord Melbourne tried to break by his cruelty. But no doubt he had forgotten both them and the hell to which he had condemned them, as he lounged against the mantelpiece in a room at Windsor Castle: for, according to him, “the Government’s whole duty was to prevent crime and to preserve contracts”. And really life was very pleasant! The Queen was delighted with him, with his anecdotes, and with his letters when he was absent. How interesting were these, though sometimes they contained alarming and sad news, such as that of the 6th January 1839: “Your Majesty will have seen Lord Norbury was shot at in his own grounds and dangerously wounded. He is since dead. This is a shocking event, and will, of course, create a strong sensation, much stronger than the death in the same manner of several persons of inferior degree.”

[44] See Engels: The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844, translated by Florence Kelley Wischnewedzky (George Allen and Unwin, Ltd.).

[45] Strachey, op. cit., pp. 61-2. Greville, March 11, 1838 (unpublished).

[46] See Strachey, op. cit., p. 62.

[47] See Strachey, op. cit., p. 55.

[48] The Creevey Papers, Volume II, p. 326. Strachey, op. cit., p. 58.

[49] Flame of Freedom, by Owen Rattenbury, J.P. (The Epworth Press).

[50] Rattenbury, op. cit.

[51] Op. cit.