gentle and simple—­of that virile but singularly gross and callous age.  Nevertheless to Thomas Clarkson Verity, man of peace and of ideas, Tandy’s represented—­and continued to represent through over half a century—­rescue, security, an awakening in something little short of paradise from a long-drawn nightmare of hell.  He paid an extortionate price for the property at the outset, and spent a small fortune on the enlargement of the house and improvement of the grounds, yet never regretted his bargain.

For, in good truth, when, in the spring of 1794, the soft, nimble, round-bodied, very polite, learned and loquacious little gentleman first set eyes upon its mean roofs, prick ears and vacant whitewashed countenance, he had been horribly shocked, horribly scared—­for all the inherited valour of his good breeding—­and, above all, most horribly disappointed.  History had played very dirty pranks with him, which he found it impossible as yet to forgive.

Five years earlier, fired, like many another generous spirit, by extravagant hope of the coming regeneration of mankind, he hurried off to Paris after the opening of the National Assembly and fall of the Bastille.  With the overture to the millennium in full blast, must he not be there to hear and see?  Associating himself with the Girondist party he assisted, busily enthusiastic, at the march of tremendous events, until the evil hour in which friend began to denounce friend, and heads, quite other than aristocratic—­those of men and women but yesterday the idols and chosen leaders of the people—­went daily to the filling of la veuve Guillotine’s unspeakable market-basket.  The spectacle proved too upsetting both to Mr. Verity’s amiable mind and rather queasy stomach.  Faith failed; while even the millennium seemed hardly worth purchasing at so detestable a cost.  He stood altogether too close to the terrible drama, in its later stages, to distinguish the true import or progression of it.  Too close to understand that, however blood-stained its cradle, the goodly child Democracy was veritably, here and now, in the act of being born among men.  Rather did he question whether his own fat little neck was not in lively danger of being severed; and his own head—­so full of ingenious thoughts and lively curiosity—­of being sent flying to join those of Brissot and Verginaud, of wayward explosive Camille and sweet Lucile Desmoulins, in that same unspeakable basket.

And to what end?  For could he suppose the human race would be nearer, by the veriest fraction of a millimetre, to universal liberty, equality, and prosperity, through his insignificant death?  Modesty, and a natural instinct of self-preservation alike answered, “never a jot.”  Whereupon with pertinacious, if furtive, activity he sought means of escape.  And, at length, after months of hiding and anxious flitting, found them in the shape of a doubtfully seaworthy, and undoubtedly filthy, fishing-smack bound from Le Havre to whatever port it could make on the English south coast.  The two days’ voyage was rough, the accommodation and company to match.  Mr. Verity spent a disgusting and disgusted forty-eight hours, to be eventually put ashore, a woefully bedraggled and depleted figure, in the primrose, carmine, and dove-grey of a tender April morning on the wet sand just below the sea-wall of Tandy’s Castle.