Moliere - "The Bores"

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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




"Your opinion is your own, Mrs. Clifford, but I beg to set you right
on the subject of mine. I did not say anything against Mr. Perkins."

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I'm sure you did. You said he was nothing
of a lawyer, and something more."

Was there ever a more perverse and evil and silly woman! I contented
myself with assuring her that she was mistaken and had very much
misunderstood me--took pains to repeat what I had really said, and
then cut short an interview that had been painful and humbling to
me on many grounds. I left the happy pair tête-à-tête, in their
princely parlor together, little fancying that there was another
argument which had been prepared to overthrow my feeble virtue.
But all this had been arranged by the small cunning of this really
witless couple. I was left to find my way down stairs as I might;
and just when I was about to leave the dwelling--vexed to the heart
at the desperate stolidity of the miserable man, whom avarice and
weakness were about to expose to a loss which might be averted in
part, and an exposure to infamy which might wholly be avoided--I
was encountered by the attenuated form and wan countenance of his
suffering but still lovely daughter.






CHAPTER VIII.

LOVE FINDS NO SMOOTH WATER IN THE SEA OF LAW





"Julia!" I exclaimed, with a start which betrayed, I am sure, quite
as much surprise as pleasure. My mood was singularly inflexible.
My character was not easily shaken, and, once wrought upon by any
leading influence, my mind preserved the tone which it acquired
beneath it, long after the cause of provocation had been withdrawn.
This earnestness of character--amounting to intensity--gave me an
habitual sternness of look and expression, and I found it hard to
acquire, of a sudden, that command of muscle which would permit
me to mould the stubborn lineaments, at pleasure, to suit the
moment. Not even where my heart was most deeply interested--thus
aroused--could I look the feelings of the lover, which, nevertheless,
were most truly the predominant ones within my bosom.

"Julia," I exclaimed, "I did not think to see you."

"Ah, Edward, did you wish it?" she replied in very mournful accents,
gently reproachful, as she suffered me to take her hand in mine,
and lead her back to the parlor in the basement story. I seated
her upon the sofa, and took a place at her side.

"Why should I not wish to see you, Julia? What should lead you to
fancy now that I could wish otherwise?"

"Alas!" she replied, "I know not what to think--I scarcely know
what I say. I am very miserable. What is this they tell me? Can it
be true, Edward, that you are acting against my father--that you
are trying to bring him to shame and poverty?"

I released her hand. I fixed my eyes keenly upon hers.

"Julia, you have your instructions what to say. You are sent here
for this. They have set you in waiting to meet me here, and speak
things which you do not understand, and assert things which I know
you can not believe."

"Edward, I believe YOU!" she exclaimed with emphasis, but with
downcast eyes; "but it does not matter whether I was sent here, or
sought you of my own free will. They tell me other things--there
is more--but I have not the heart to say it, and it needs not much."

"If you believe me, Julia, it certainly does not need that you
should repeat to me what is said of me by enemies, equally unjust
to me, and hostile to themselves. Yet I can readily conjecture some
things which they have told you. Did they not tell you that your
hand had been proffered me, and that I had refused it?"

She hung her head in silence.

"You do not answer."

"Spare me; ask me not."

"Nay, tell me, Julia, that I may see how far you hold me worthy
of your love, your confidence. Speak to me--have they not told you
some such story?"

"Something of this; but I did not heed it, Edward."

"Julia--nay!--did you not?"

"And if I did, Edward--"

"It surely was not to believe it?"

"No! no! no! I had no fears of you--have none, dear Edward! I knew
that it was not, could not be true."

"Julia, it was true!"

"Ah!"

"True, indeed! There was more truth in THAT than in any other part
of the story. Nay, more--had they told you all the truth, dearest
Julia, that part, strange as it may appear, would have given you
less pain than pleasure."

"How! Can it be so?"

"Your hand was proffered me by your father, and I refused it.
Nay, look not from me, dearest--fear not for my affection--fear
nothing. I should have no fear that you could suppose me false to
you, though the whole world should come and tell you so. True love
is always secured by a just confidence in the beloved object; and,
without this confidence, the whole life is a series of long doubts,
struggles, griefs, and apprehensions, which break down the strength,
and lay the spirit in the dust. I will now tell you, in few words,
what is the relation in which I stand to your father and his family.
He, many years ago, committed an error in business, which the laws
distinguish by a harsher name. By this error he became rich. Until
recently, the proofs of this error were unknown. They have lately
been discovered by certain claimants, who are demanding reparation.
In the difficulty of your father, he came to me. I examined the
business, and have given it as my opinion that he should stifle
the legal process by endeavoring to make a private arrangement with
the creditors."

"Could he do this?"

"He could. The creditors were willing, and at first he consented
that I should arrange it with them. He now rejects the arrangement."

"But why?"

"Because it involves the surrender of the entire amount of property
which they claim--a sum of forty thousand dollars."

"But, dear Edward, is it due?--does my father owe this money? If
he does, surely he can not refuse. Perhaps he thinks that he owes
nothing."

"Nay, Julia, unhappily he knows it, and the offer of your hand, and
half of the sum mentioned, was made to me, on the express condition
that I should exert my influence as a man, and my ingenuity as a
lawyer, in baffling the creditors and stifling the claim."

The poor girl was silent and hung her head, her eyes fixed upon
the carpet, and the big tears slowly gathering, dropping from them,
one, by one. Meanwhile, I explained, as tenderly as I could, the
evil consequences which threatened Mr. Clifford in consequence of
his contumacy.

"Alas" she exclaimed, "it is not his fault. He would be willing--I
heard him say as much last night--but mother--she will not consent.
She refused positively the moment father said it would be necessary
to sell out, and move to a cheaper house. Oh, Edward, is there no
way that you can save us? Save my father from shame, though he
gives up all the money."

"Would I not do this, Julia? Nay, were I owner of the necessary
amount myself, believe me, it should not be withheld."

"I do believe you, Edward; but"--and here her voice sunk to a
whisper--"you must try again, try again and again--for I think that
father knows the danger, though mother does not; and I think--I
hope--he will be firm enough, when you press him, and warn him of
the danger, to do as you wish him."

"I am afraid not, Julia. Your mother--"

"Do not fear; hope--hope all, dear Edward; for, to confess to you,
I KNOW that they are anxious to have your support--they said as
much. Nay, why should I hide anything from you? They sent me here
to see--to speak with you, and--"

"To see what your charms could do to persuade me to be a villain.
Julia! Julia! did you think to do this--to have me be the thing
which they would make me?"

"No! no!--Heaven forbid, dear Edward, that you should fancy that
any such desire had a place, even for a moment, in my mind. No! I
knew not that the case involved any but mere money considerations.
I knew not that--"

"Enough! Say no more, Julia! I do not think that you would counsel
me to my own shame."

"No! no! You do me only justice. But, Edward, you will save my
father! You will try--you will see him again--"

"What! to suffer again the open scorn, the declared doubts of my
friendship and integrity, which is the constant language of your
mother? Can it be that you would desire that I should do this--nay,
seek it?"

"For my poor father's sake!" she cried, gaspingly.

But I shook my head sternly.

"For mine, then--for mine! for mine!"

She threw herself into my arms, and clung to me until I promised
all that she required. And as I promised her, so I strove with her
father. I used every argument, resorted to every mode of persuasion,
hut all was of no avail. Mr. Clifford was under the rigid, the iron
government of his fate! His wife was one of those miserably silly
women--born, according to Iago--

"To suckle fools and chronicle small beer"--

who, raised to the sudden control of unexpected wealth, becomes
insane upon it, and is blind, deaf, and dumb, to all counsel or
reason which suggests the possibility of its loss. From the very
moment when Mr. Clifford spoke of selling out house, horses, and
carriage, as the inevitable result which must follow his adoption of
my recommendation, she declared herself against it at all hazards,
particularly when her husband assured her that "the glorious uncertainties
of the law" afforded a possibility of his escape with less loss.
The loss of money was, with her, the item of most consideration;
her mind was totally insensible to that of reputation. She was
willing to make this compromise with me, as a sort of alternative,
for, in that case, there would be no diminution of attendance
and expense--no loss of rank and equipage. We should all live
together--how harmoniously, one may imagine--but the grandeur and
the state would still be intact and unimpaired. Even for this,
however, she was not prepared, when she discovered that there was
no certainty that my alliance would bring immunity to her husband.
How this notion got even partially into his head, I know not;
unless in consequence of a growing imbecility of intellect, which
in a short time after betrayed itself more strikingly. But of this
in its own place.

My attempts to convince my unfortunate uncle were all rendered
unavailing, and shown to be so to Julia herself in a very short
time afterward. The insolence of Mrs. Clifford, when I did seek
an interview with her husband, was so offensive and unqualified,
that Julia herself, with a degree of indignation which she could
not entirely suppress, begged me to quit the house, and relieve
myself from such undeserved insult and abuse. I did so, but with
no unfriendly wishes for the wretched woman who presided over its
destinies, and the no less wretched husband whom she helped to
make so; and my place as consulting friend and counsellor was soon
supplied by Mr. Perkins--one of those young barristers, to be
found in every community, who regard the "penny fee" as the sine
qua non, and obey implicitly the injunction of the scoundrel in
the play "Make money--honestly if you can, but--make money!" He was
one of those creatures who set people at loggerheads, goad foolish
and petulant clients into lawsuits, stir up commotions in little sets,
and invariably comfort the suit-bringer with the most satisfactory
assurances of success. It was the confident assurances of this
person which had determined Mr. Clifford--his wife rather--to
resist to the last the suit in question. Through the sheer force
of impudence, this man had obtained a tolerable share of practice.
His clients, as may be supposed, lay chiefly among such persons
as, having no power or standard for judging, necessarily look upon
him who is most bold and pushing as the most able and trustworthy.
The bullies of the law--and, unhappily, the profession has quite
too many--are very commanding persons among the multitude. Mr.
Clifford knew this fellow's mental reputation very well, and was
not deceived by the confidence of his assurances; nay, to the last,
he showed a hankering desire to give me the entire control of the
subject; but the hostility of Mrs. Clifford overruled his more
prudent if not more honorable purposes; and, as he was compelled to
seek a lawyer, the questionable moral standing of Perkins decided
his choice. He wished one, in short, to do a certain piece of
dirty work: and, as if in anticipation of the future, he dreaded
to unfold the case to any of the veterans, the old-time gentlemen
and worthies of the bar. I proposed this to him. I offered to
make a supposititious relation of the facts for the opinion of Mr.
Edgerton and others--nay, pledged myself to procure a confidential
consultation--anything, sooner than that he should resort to a mode
of extrication which, I assured him, would only the more deeply
involve him in the meshes of disgrace and loss. But there was a
fatality about this gentleman--a doom that would not be baffled,
and could not be stayed. The wilful mind always precipitates
itself down the abyss; and, whether acting by his own, or under
the influence of another's judgment, such was, most certainly, the
case with him. He was not to be saved. Mr. Perkins was regularly
installed as his defender--his counsellor, private and public--and
I was compelled, though with humiliating reluctance, to admit to
the plaintiffs, Banks & Tressell, that there was no longer any hope
of compromise. The issue on which hung equally his fortune and his
reputation was insanely challenged by my uncle.






CHAPTER IX.

DUELLO.





But my share in the troubles of this affair was not to end, though
I was no longer my uncle's counsellor. An event now took place
which gave the proceedings a new and not less unpleasing aspect
than they had worn before. Mrs. Clifford, it appears, in her
communications to her husband's lawyer, did not confine herself to
the mere business of the lawsuit. Her voluminous discourse involved
her opinions of her neighbors, friends, and relatives; and, one
day, a few weeks after, I was suddenly surprised by a visit from
a gentleman--one of the members of the bar--who placed a letter
in my hands from Mr. Perkins. I read this billet with no small
astonishment. It briefly stated that certain reports had reached his
ears, that I had expressed myself contemptuously of his abilities
and character, and concluded with an explicit demand, not for an
explanation, but an apology. My answer was immediate.

"You will do me the favor to say, Mr. Carter, that Mr. Perkins has
been misinformed. I never uttered anything in my life which could
disparage either his moral or legal reputation."

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Clifford," was the reply, "that denial is
unnecessary, and can not be received. Mr. Perkins has his information
from the lips of a lady; and, as a lady is not responsible, she can
not be allowed to err. I am required, sir to insist on an apology.
I have already framed it, and it only needs your signature."

He drew a short, folded letter, from his pocket, and placed it
before me. There was so much cool impertinence in this proceeding,
and in the fellow's manner, that I could with difficulty refrain
from flinging the paper in his face. He was one of the little and
vulgar clique of which Perkins was a sort of centre. The whole set
were conscious enough of the low estimate which was put upon them
by the gentlemen of the bar. Denied caste, they were disposed to
force their way to recognition by the bully's process, and stung
by some recent discouragements, Mr. Perkins was, perhaps, rather
glad than otherwise, of the silly, and no less malicious than
silly, tattle of Mrs. Clifford for I did not doubt that the gross
perversion of the truth which formed the basis of his note, had
originated with her, which enabled him to single out a victim, who,
as the times went, had suddenly risen to a comparative elevation
which is not often accorded to a young beginner. I readily conjectured
his object from his character and that of the man he sent. My own
nature was passionate; and the rude school through which my boyhood
had gone, had made me as tenacious of my position as the grave.
That I should be chafed by reptiles such as these, stung me to
vexation; and though I kept from any violence of action, my words
did not lack of it.

"Mr. Perkins is, permit me to say, a very impertinent fellow; and,
if you please, our conference will cease from this moment."

He was a little astounded--rose, and then recovering himself,
proceeded to reply with the air of a veteran martinet.

"I am glad, sir, that you give me an opportunity of proceeding
with this business without delay. My friend, Mr. Perkins, prepared
me for some such answer. Oblige me, sir, by reading this paper."
He handed me the challenge for which his preliminaries had prepared
me.

"Accepted, sir; I will send my friend to you in the course of the
morning."

As I uttered this reply, I bowed and waved him to the door. He
did not answer, other than by a bow, and took his departure. The
promptness which I had shown impressed him with respect. Baffled,
in his first spring, the bully, like the tiger, is very apt to slink
back to his jungle. His departure gave me a brief opportunity for
reflection, in which I slightly turned over in my mind the arguments
for and against duelling. But these were now too late--even were
they to decide me against the practice--to affect the present
transaction; and I sallied out to seek a friend--a friend!

Here was the first difficulty. I had precious little choice among
friends. My temper was not one calculated to make or keep friends.
My earnestness of character, and intensity of mood, made me dictatorial;
and where self-esteem is a large and active development, as it must
be in an old aristocratic community, such qualities are continually
provoking popular hostility. My friends, too, were not of the kind
to whom such scrapes as the present were congenial. I was unwilling
to go to young Edgerton, as I did not wish to annoy his parents
by my novel anxieties. But where else could I turn? To him I went.
When he heard my story, he began by endeavoring to dissuade me from
the meeting.

"I am pledged to it, William," was my only answer.

"But, Edward, I am opposed to duelling myself, and should not
promote or encourage, in another, a practice which I would not be
willing myself to adopt."

"A good and sufficient reason, William. You certainly should not.
I will go to Frank Kingsley."

"He will serve you, I know; but, Edward, this duelling is a bad
business. It does no sort of good. Kill Perkins, and it does not
prove to him, even if he were then able to hear, that Mrs. Clifford
spoke a falsehood; and if he kills you, you are even still farther
from convincing him.

"I have no such desire, William; and your argument, by the way,
is one of those beggings of the question which the opponents of
duelling continually fall into when discussing the subject. The
object of the man, who, in a case like mine, fights a duel, is
not to prove his truth, but to protect himself from persecution.
Perkins seeks to bully and drive me out of the community. Public
opinion here approves of this mode of protecting one's self;--may,
if I do not avail myself of its agency, the same public opinion
would assist my assailant in my expulsion. I fight on the same
ground that a nation fights when it goes to war. It is the most
obvious and easy mode to protect myself from injury and insult. So
long as I submit, Perkins will insult and bully, and the city will
encourage him, If I resist, I silence this fellow, and perhaps
protect other young beginners. I have not the most distant idea of
convincing him of my truth by fighting him--may, the idea of giving
him satisfaction is an idea that never entered my brain. I simply
take a popular mode of securing myself from outrage and persecution."

"But, do you secure yourself? Has duelling this result?"

"Not invariably, perhaps; simply because the condition of humanity
does not recognise invariable results. If it is shown to be the
probable, the frequent result, it is all that can be expected of
any human agency or law."

"But, is it probable--frequent?"

"Yes, almost certain, almost invariable. Look at the general manners,
the deportment, the forbearance, of all communities where duelling
is recognised as an agent of society. See the superior deference
paid to females, the unfrequency of bullying, the absence of
blackguarding, the higher tone of this public press, and of society
in general, from which the public press takes its tone, and which
it represents in our country, but does not often inform. Even
seduction is a rare offence, and a matter of general exclamation,
where this extra-judicial agent is recognised."

And so forth. It is not necessary to repeat our discussion
on this vexed question, of its uses and abuses. I did not succeed
in convincing him, and, under existing circumstances, it is not
reasonable to imagine that his arguments had any influent over me.
To Frank Kingsley I went, and found him in better mood to take up
the cudgels, and even make my cause his own. He was one of those
ardent bloods, who liked nothing better than the excitement of such
an affair; whether as principal or assistant, it mattered little.
To him I expressed my wish that his arrangements should bring the
matter to an issue, if possible, within the next twenty-four hours.

"Prime!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "That's what I like. If
you shoot as quickly now, and as much to the point, you may count
any button on Perkins's coat."

He proceeded to confer with the friend of my opponent, while, with
a meditative mind, I went to my office, necessarily oppressed with
the strange feelings belonging to my situation. In less than two
hours after Kingsley brought me the carte, by which I found that
the meeting was to take place two miles out of town, by sunrise
the day after the one ensuing--the weapons, pistols--distance, as
customary, ten paces!

"You are a shot, of course?" said Kingsley.

My answer, in the negative, astonished him.

"Why, you will have little or no time for practice."

"I do not intend it. My object is not to kill this man; but to make
him and all others see that the dread of what may be done, either
by him or them, will never reconcile me to submit to injury or
insult. I shall as effectually secure this object by going out, as
I do, without preparation, as if I were the best shot in America.
He does not know that I am not; and a pistol is always a source of
danger when in the grasp of a determined man."

"You are a queer fellow in your notions, Clifford, and I can not
say that I altogether understand you; but you must certainly ride
out with me this afternoon, and bark a tree. It will do no hurt to
a determined man to be a skilful one also."

"I see no use in it."

"Why--what if you should wish to wing him?"

"I think I can do it without practice. But I have no such desire."

"Really you are unnecessarily magnanimous. You may be put to it,
however. Should the first shot be ineffectual and he should demand
a second, would you throw away that also?"

"No! I should then try to shoot him. As my simple aim is to secure
myself from persecution, which is usually the most effectual mode
of destroying a young man in this country, I should resort only to
such a course as would be likely to yield me this security. That
failing, I should employ stronger measures; precisely as a nation
would do in a similar conflict with another nation. One must not
suffer himself to be destroyed or driven into exile. This is the
first law of nature--this of self-preservation. In maintaining
this law, a man must do any or all things which in his deliberate
judgment, will be effectual for the end proposed. Were I fighting
with savages, for example, and knew that they regarded their scalps
with more reverence than their lives, I should certainly scalp as
well as slay."

"They would call that barbarous?"

"Ay, no doubt; particularly in those countries where they paid
from five to fifty, and even one hundred pounds to one Indian for
the scalp of his brother, until they rid themselves of both. But see
you not that the scalping process, as it produces the most terror
and annoyance, is decidedly the most merciful, as being most likely
to discourage and deter from war. If the scalp could bo taken from
the head of every Seminole shot down, be sure the survivors never
after would have come within range of rifle-shot."

But these discussions gave way to the business before me. Kingsley
left me to myself, and though sad and serious with oppressive
thoughts, I still had enough of the old habits, dominant with me,
to go to my daily concerns, and arrange my papers with considerable
industry and customary method. My professional business was set
in order, and Edgerton duly initiated in the knowledge of all such
portions as needed explanation. This done, I sat down and wrote
a long farewell letter to Julia, and one, more brief, but renewing
the counsel I had previously given to her father, in respect to the
suit against him. These letters were so disposed as to be sent in
the event of my falling in the fight. The interval which followed
was not so easy to be borne. Conscience and reflection were equally
busy, and unpleasantly so. I longed for the time of action which
should silence these unpleasant monitors.

Letter: Gender roles in the Cinderella story

Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.

My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.

There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.

The Hitch

One bottle of Babycham

One bottle of absinthe

Five shots of Angostura very bitters

Two tablespoons of bile

Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.

At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.

It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.

The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.

I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.

I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.

Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.

Q: Who will buy this?

A: No one.

The digested read digested: The old pub bore.

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Jury clears judge of libelling mother
Sales of 'misery memoirs' fall after they boomed beyond all expectations since Dave Pelzer wrote A Child Called It

Constance Briscoe wins Ugly libel case

A judge who was sued for libel by her mother over allegations of childhood cruelty and neglect in her bestselling "misery memoir" won her case yesterday.

Constance Briscoe burst into tears at the high court in London as a jury unanimously cleared her and publishers Hodder & Stoughton over the claims in Ugly, which her mother Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, had alleged were a "piece of fiction".

During the 10-day trial, Briscoe, 51, who was one of the first black women judges in the UK, told the court her mother repeatedly beat her with a stick for bed-wetting and called her a "dirty little whore", a "potato-head" and "miss piss-a-bed".

She described trying to kill herself by drinking diluted bleach after failing to get taken into care, and told the jury she used a university grant to have plastic surgery to remove the "ugliness" her mother had taunted her over.

Briscoe, of Clapham, south London, also said that when she was nine, her mother had deliberately cut her on the inside of her arm with a knife in a row over the preparation of a chicken.

Ugly, published in 2006, has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK. Briscoe and Hodder & Stoughton had denied libel and said the book was substantially true. Andrew Caldecott QC, for Briscoe, said the events occurred between 1964 and 1975.

Briscoe-Mitchell, from Southwark, south-east London, left court without making any immediate comment about her legal defeat. During the trial she had denied all the allegations of verbal and physical abuse and claimed she and her daughter had enjoyed a loving relationship within a happy family.

Her counsel, William Panton, told the jury Briscoe was "spinning a yarn", claiming his client had struggled to bring up her 11 children and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability.

Outside court, Briscoe told reporters she was "very happy" with the jury's verdict, which came after more than a day of deliberation.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me," she said. "Now I just want to get on with my career. I would like to thank all my readers who have sent me messages of support, including the very many children who provided helpful advice.

"I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors it should never be swept under the carpet."

Hodder & Stoughton said it was pleased with the verdict. "We are very proud to be Constance Briscoe's publisher," a statement said. "Her books Ugly and Beyond Ugly have touched hundreds of thousands of readers, many of them children. Sadly, as we know from the news over the past few weeks, child abuse is all too common and nothing and no one should ever stand in the way of the truth."

Asked during the trial why she wrote the book, Briscoe said: "I didn't believe for a split second that I owed my mother a bond of silence. I don't. I had a story to tell and that story really is that I, someone who from dirt poverty, from absolutely nowhere, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever, who faced adversity at every turn, could come through."

The court heard she had cleaned offices for two hours every day before school until her studies took her to Newcastle University, the criminal bar and, eventually, to become one of the country's few black women judges.

"I wanted to say to whoever read the book ... you can be whatever you want to be," Briscoe said. "You just have to believe in yourself ... you do not have to be posh or privileged to be at the Bar.

"You just need to believe in yourself and I truly, truly believe that my book has done an enormous amount of good."

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