The Living age ... / Volume 103, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0103 /moa/livn/livn0103/

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The Living age ... / Volume 103, Note on Digital Production 0103 000
The Living age ... / Volume 103, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1322 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0103 /moa/livn/livn0103/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1322 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 2, 1869 0103 1322
The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1322, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTELLS LJYJNG AGE. CONDUCTED BY E. LITTELL. E PLuRIntrs U~tnr.. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change Artd plea.~ed with novelty, may be indulged. FOURTH SERIES, VOLUME XV. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CIII. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER. 1869. BOSTON: LIT TELL AND GAY. L194- TABLE OF TIlE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CuT. THE FI5~rEENTII QUARTERLY VOLUME OF TIlE POUP.TII SERIES. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 1869. EDINOFROR REVIEW. The ecumenical Council, Lives of the Condos, Travels in the Caucasus, Mushroom Culture on a Large Scale, QUARTERLY REVIEW. The Argument of Design, The Byron Mystery, Islam Hi~hor and Lower Animals, Lady Byrons Letters to Mrs. Leigh, WESTMINSTER REVIEW. 643 797 721 781 323 ThU 540 579 638 The Quakers, 38 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. The Training of the Io%ination, . . 131 Religious Poetry and Scientific Criticism, . 14) The Battle of the PhiLsophies Physical and MetapliysicJ, . . . 451 BLwttwOOt;s MAGAZINE. John Earls Done FRASERS MAGAZINE. Of Unconsciousness and Annihilation, Little Miss Deane GENTLEMENS MAGAZINE. 683 742 67 352 Wild Cats 291 The Picturesque in Literature,. . 374 The Great Cheshire Political Chcese, . 414 COENHILL MAGAZINE. Henri Quatre and the Princess of Condo, 33 Mrs. Merridews Fortune, . 76 Against Time 432, 590 The Execution by Hara-Kiri, . . . 620 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. Roman Imperialism, . The Legend of the Princess Tarakanoff, Lady Dnfl~Gordon and her Works, Childrens Literature, 3, 300 21 71 96 GOOD WORDS. On the Colour of Aerial Blue, ST. PAuas. Olivias Favour, Life of a Scotch Metaphysician, The Count do Buffon, The November c;ooIit~ Stars,. The Chevaliers Conversion, The Turki5h Bath, TEMPLE BAR. The Anatomy of Quarrelling, BELORAVIA. Does the Earth grow Sick? FORTN IG [ITLY REVIEW. Ileinrich Ileine REVUE DES DEUX MONDES. An Enigma of Ilistory, EXAMINER. Mrs. Stowos Story Lud 01 DLspotlsm Iloix I Inn s look in the United States, X 1~(onet ~ rantord n It o~ lin~ late Secretary of War, I tha l1)a~ntlbe L n ly X c ~rs ci Alexander Smith, 62 139, 297 31:) (334 631 897 413 7(3 159 515 112 171 172 215 285 346 766 SPECTATOR. A GImce back at a Presidency, 30 Mrs Stowe and Lady Byron, . 110 The Public Prepossession for Byron, 166 Arthur ilu~l Clough 197 A Trio to the Shetlands ,...201, 296 The Political Importance of Trees, . . 235 Lancsshire: its Puritanism and Noncon foimity 236 The Byronizers 210 The Philosophy of Catholic Infallibility, 250 A Trip in a Trawler 253 The Globe Edition of Pope, . . . 277 III Iv CONTENTS. The French Political Play Tragic or Tragi-Comic, . The Spanish Crisis Pills against the Earthquake,. . The Secret of the Aurora, Northern Victories in the Civil War, The Mflhionaires of New York,. The Pope and Modern Civilization, Italian Industry, . . Lifc of Sir William Hamilton, A Stone-Age Pompeii, The Worship of Children, EcONOMIST. Recent Danger of Napoleon, Spain and the United States, SATURDAY REVIEW. The Byron Mystery, The Emperors Health, Gushiog Men,. . Art-Notes in Holland, Lady Palmerston, . First Love Mountain Architecture, The Empcrors Hesitation, Old Spain, . . The Round Game of Speculation, The Channel Islands, Hypocrisy The Servant of Fact and Experience, The American Colonies, CHAMBERS JOURNAL. A County Family, . 13, 103, Byron at Work Our Lady-Bird Friends, Walter Scott at Work, ALL THE YEAR ROUND. The Death of th Owd Squire, A Confession and Apology, 879 381 383 407 458 461 509 756 759 761 191 195 115 122 169 177 242 245 247 259 267 271 273 279 281 288 157, 230 464 473 818 ONCE A WEEK. The Cornet of a Season 470 PALL MALL GAZETTE.. The Secret of Lady Byrons Life, . 29 The Future for France, . . . . 124 Forthcoming changes in European Politics, 127 British United States, 163 Goethes Literary Remains, 165 Closed Doors 173 Heresy in Scotland 175 Torture of British Citizens in Paraguay, 219 The Situation in France 261 Essays on Women 262 Alpine Accidents 265 Australian Meat 286 Charles Lamb in the Temple, 289 The Science of Shooting 298 Councils and Pilgrimages in the Nineteenth Century 405 The Future Capital of the American Union, 411 Latter-Day Dolls 511 Mademoiselle Tinne, . . . . 764 TELEGRAPH. The Byron Scandal THE ACADEMY. The Pope and the Council, THE FIELD. Wonders of the Gibraltar Caverns, DAILY NEWS. The Murder of Fraulein Tinne, 168 ~73 767 192 BOSTON DAILY ADVERTISER, Humboldts Centennial Celebration, . 47 N. Y. TIMES. 350 Win. II. Seward, 108 INDEX TO VOLUME CIII. Annihilation and Unconsciousness, Of, . 67 I European Politics, Forthcoming Changes in, ArtNotes in Holland ,....177 Epitaphs, Censorship of Arctic Journey, Halls 203 Electric Photographs Alpine Accidents 265 Enigma of History, An, . Australian Meat 286 Eu~enie in Constantinople, American Colonies 88 E~ Trade, The Argument of Design, The, . 323 Earl s Dene Aurora, The Secret of the, . 383 Earth, The, Does it grow Sick? Against Time 432, 590 Animals, Higher and Lower, . 579 France, The Future for Arizona, Curious Ancient Dwellin ~s in, 630 France. The Situation in, French Political Play, The, Byrons, Lady, Life, The Secret of, 29, 110, 168 Blue, Aerial, On the Colour of, 62 British United States 162 Byron, The Public Prepossession for, 166 Byronizers, The 40 Buffon, The Count de 310 Burnside and the Ninth Army Corps, 407 Byron at Work 464 Byron Mystery, The 486 Byrons, Lady, Letters to Mrs. Leigh, 638 Burns Recollections of 640 County Family, A, . . 13, 103, Conde, Princess of, and Henri Quatre, Childrens Literature, Closed Doors, . . Clough. Arthur Hugh, Channel Islands Cats, Wild Councils and Pilgrimages in the nineteenth Century Cheshire Political Cheese, The Great, Comet of a Season Coal Tar Colours Clernence D Orville, . 608, 664, 726, Chevaliers, The, Conversion, Council, The and the Pope, Council, The ~IEcumenical, Condes, Lives of the Children, The Worship of, Caucasus, Travels in the, Duff-Gordon, Lady, and her Works, Despotism, End of Design, The Argument of, Diammiomi 1. An Enormous Australian, Dolls, LattcrD~y, . Dragon, Flying, Fossil Remains of, 157, 230 33 96 173 197 273 291 405 444 470 576 783 631 573 643 707 761 771 71 171 323 418 512 574 Goethes Literary Remains, Gushing Men Gibraltar Caverns, Wonders of the, Henri Quatre and the Princess of Conde, Humboldt, Centennial Anniversary of his Birth humboldt, Whittier on Heresy in Scotland Holland, Art-Notes in Heinrich Heine Halls Arctic Journey Hamilton, Sir William Hypocrisy Hyacinthe, Father Hera-Kin, The Execution by,. Hamilton, Sir William, Life of, Ipsambul, A Night in the Temple of, Imagination, Training of the, Infallibility, The Philosophy of Catholic, Italian Industry Islam Joanna of Castile, Captivity of, John Knowledge, Fallacy as to Useful, Lancashire: its Puritanism and Noncon- formity, . Love, First Lamb, Charles, in the Temple, Little Miss Deane Literature, The Picturesque in, Lady-Bird Friends, Our, Livingatone, Dr. V 127 820 514 515 576 725 742 798 124 261 379 165 169 767 33 47 148 175 177 180 203 2.2 27. 34 621 75? 46 181 250 509 540 515 683 755 236 245 28.) 35 ~ 874 473 ti98 INDEX. Mrs. Merridews Fortune, . . 76 Riwlins, Secretary, . . 285 Meteors, Influence of, on Health, . 95 Rome, Ex~xLvatiuns at, . 623 Moons Heat 162 Mountain Architecture 47 Sky, Colour of the 62 Meat, Australian 286 Stowe, Mrs. and Lady Byron, . 110 Metaphysical and Physical Philosophies, Scotland, Heresy in 175 The Battle of 451 Spa~o, and the United States, 1 4 Millionaires of New York, . . 458 Shetlands, A Trip to the,. . 201, 2 Moving Buildings 97 Strangford, Viscount, . Mushroom Culture on a Large Scale, 781 Spain, Old 2~ 7 Speculation, The Round Game of, . 2 Napoleon, Louis, A Glance hack at a Pres- Sorvant, The, of Fact and Experience, 2~) idency ,...30S hooting, The Science of, . 2 8 Health of,...122 Spanish Crisis, The u~1 Recent Danger of,. 191 Scotch Savages 4i) Hesitation of, . . 259 Spanish Politician, Perils of, 5 Northern Victories in the Rebellion, 407 Silooting Stars, November, . 621 Seward, William H.,...~,3 Olivias Favour 139. 207 Smith, Alexander, Early Years of, . 766 Oliphants Colony on Lake Erie, . 320 Sick, Does the Earth grow? . 498 Scott, Walter, at Work, . . 818 Paraguay, Torture of British Citizens in, 219, 309 Tarakanoff, Princess, Legend of the, 21 Planchette,......239~Table at, 12 Palmerston, Lady ,.....242 Tinne, Miss. Murder of 192 Pope, The Globe Edition of 77 Torture of British Citizens in Paraguay, . 219 Portrait, The, in my Uncles Dining Room, Trees, The Political Importance ot; . . 285 362, 419, 476, 531 Trip in a Trawler, ~ Picturesque in Literature, . . . 374 Theists of Calcutta 4~i) Philosophies, The Battle of Physical and Tinne, Mademoiselle 761 Metaphysical, . . . 451 Tobacco Smoking Pope, The and Modern Civilization, 461 Turkish Bath, The, . . . . 807 Pope, The and the Council, . 573 Pompeii, A Stone-Age 759 United States, How Things look in the, . 172 Plagues 798 and Spain, . . . 195 Quakers, The, 387 Whittier on Humboldt 148 Quarrelling, The Anatomy of, . 413 Women, Essays on, 2 Washington, Removal of the Capital from, 411 Roman Imperialism 3, 300 Waterproofs 481 Religions Poetry and Scientific Criticism, 14) Wharton, Philip, Duke of, 470 Reporting Machine 162 POETRY. Ales Diei Nuntius, Autumn, . At Last ~ Autumn of Life, Autumn Evening, All Saints and All Souls,. Belshazzar, The Feast of, Berne Below the Heights,. Carmina Nuptiale, Croquet Confession. A, and Apology, Contrast, . Disappointment, Days that are no more, Death of th Owd Squire, Dog, Highly Intelligent, 348 Emancipation, . 361 Epitaph in a Devonshire Church, 448 Edolweis 463 Echo and Silence 642: 706 Forsaken Fashion, Witchery of, 93 Fishing Town, A 373~Fa reweil to Summer, 406 Garibaldi 66{ 256 Israel Freyers Bid for Gold, 350: Infuriated Spaniards, 578~ In the Fall 229 Kevlaar, The Pilgrimage to, 349 Lament of the Colonnade, 448~Lost 70 295 o86 450 190 418 431 450 156 194 373 642 189 13) 180 INDEX. VII Low Flying 162 Sacred 299 Lyric 256 Song by Barry Cornwall, . , 348 Last Words 514 Spring,. . . . . 380 448 Lines 514 Song of the Mill, 450 Moon, To the 214 Sinunenthal 578 Monk in the Belfry 822 Mystic, The 378 To-Day, 706 Nice Correspondent, A 386 Virelai 234 October Thoughts 351 Waiting 2 Wood Notes 109 Peabody, George 642 Wheat and Wedlock 206 Wifes Crucifix~ The 258 Sick Man and the Birds, 2 Watering-Place, At a 386 Servitude 70 Wallis Picture of Chatterton, . 475 Summer Pool, The, 126 Wayfarer, Songs of, . 706, 76~ Shakspeare Superseded 190 Song 2q52 Youthful Fellow Traveller, . 418 TALES. Against Time, . . . . 432, 590 Mrs. Merridews Fortune, . . . 76 County Family, A, . . 13, 103, 157, 230 Clemence DOrville, . 608, 664, 726, 783 Olivias Favour 139, 207 Earls Dene 742 / Portrait in my Uncles Dining Room, 302, 419. John . 683 476, Little Miss Deane,. . . . 352 Turkish Bath, The,

The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1322 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1322.October 2, 1869. CONTENTS. 1. ROMAN IMPERIALISM. H. 2. A COUNTY FAMILY. Part X. 3. THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF, 4. Tin~ SECRET OF LADY BYRONS LIFE, 5. A GLANCE BACK AT A PRESIDENCY, 6. HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE,. 7. HUMBOLDTS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, 8. ON THE COLOR OF AERIAL BLUE, Macmillans Magazine, Chambers Journal, Macmillans Magazine, Pall Mali Gazette, Spectator, Cornhill Magazine, Prof Agasslz. Good Words, SHORT ARTICLES. AT TABLE 12 A NIGHT IN THE TEMPLE OF IPSAMBTJL, LORD PAL3IERSTONS DL& RY, . . 28 I THE SICK M~ue AND THE BIRDS, PG ETRY. 2 WAITING, PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION AT THIS OFFICE: HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II. These very interesting and valuable sketches of Queen Caroline, Sir Robert Walpole, Lord Chesterfield, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, The Young Chevalier, Pope, John Wesley, Commodore Anson, Bishop Berkeley, and other celebrated characters of the time of George H., several of which have already appeared in the LIVING AGE, reprinted from Blackwoods Magazine, will be issued from this office, in book form, as soon as completed. A COUNTY FAMILY, by the author of A Perfect Treasure. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 SO The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 5 new subscribers ($40.), a sixth copy; or a set of HORNES INTRODUcTION TO THE BIBLE, un- abridged; in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in num- bers, price $10. 3 13 21 29 30 33 47 62 46 2 2 THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS, ETC. THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. ~GR0TU5. SPRING, art thou come, 0 Spring! I am too sick for words How hast thou heart to sing, O Spring, with all thy birds? MERULA. I sing for joy, to see again The merry leaves along the lane, The little bud grown ripe, And look, my love, upon the bough! Hark, how she calleth to me now, Pipe ! pipe ! ~GROTU5. Ah! weary is the sun: Love is an idle thing. But, bird, thou restless one, What ails thee, wandering? HIRIJNDO. By shore and sea, I come and go, To seek I know not what ; and lo! On no mans eaves I sit, But voices hid me rise once more, To flit a0ain by sea and shore, Flit! flit! AOROTU5. This is earths bitter cup : Only to seek, not know. But thou, that strivest up, Why dost thou carol so? ALAUDA. A secret spirit gifteth me With song, and wing that lifteth me, A S~irit for whose sake, Striving amain to reach the sky, Still on the old dark earth I cry Wake! wake! AOROTUS. My hope has lost its wing. Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing, Thy tears made musical? PHIaoMETA. Alas for me ! a dry desire Is all my song, a waste of fire That will not fade nor fail To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time, Wail ! wail ~GROTUS. Thine is the sick mans song, Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries How long? And the night answers it. St. Paula. A. D. WAITING. Mors janna vitR. I HArE waited till Springs first breath came over the rippling streams, And kissed the opening flower as it lightly skimmed along; Till the woodland lilies waved all white in the morning beams, And the deep dells echoed again to the sound of the wild-birds song. I have waited till Summer came forth all wreathed in a thousand flowers, Shedding a luscious balm oer the meadows, and glades, and hills, Twining the daffodil sweet with the rose in her fragrant bowers, And fringing, with verdant moss, the sides of the bubbling rills. I have waited till Autumn has gone from the woods waning sigh, Leaving the half-dead trees. of t.heir emerald tresses all shorn When the branches revealed in the night the stars in the far-off sky, Or shook in a tremulous chill at the sob of the early morn. I have waited through dreary Decembers hours of darkness an(i gloom, Till the Old Year, weary and worn, had passed away to his rest Till his midnight knell had rung in the dark with a tongue of doom, And floated above the snow that lay like a shroud on his breast. I have waited a dreary time on the verge of the Border Land, Consumed by languishing pain, and shadowed by grief profound; Living again in the thrill of the grasp of a long- loved hand, Lingering over the tones of a voice of the ten- derest sound. I wait in the balmy hours of the twilight soft and still, Watching the crimson flecks in an azured west- ern sky; Lulled by the vesper chimes from the church on the far-off hill, Borne on the softest wings of the night-winds tenderest sigh. I linger here on the verge of thi.3 shadowy Bor- der Land, How long, Lord, yet to stay, from the Land I have seen afar? Thine own time, Lord, then lead me up with a gentle hand! And open Thou wide the gates that have stood so h~ng a,jar Chambers Journal. ROMAN IMPERIALISM. S From Macmillans Magazine. ROMAN IMPERIALISM. BY PROFESSOR SEELEY. II. Tnz FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. WHAT was the cause of the fall of the Roman Empire? That after a few centuries a fabric so artificial should fall to pieces is not in itself surprising. Great empires seldom last long; they are by their very nature liable to special evils to which in time they suc- cumb, and so the process of their downfall is commonly the same. Rome was by no means exempt from these special causes of weakness, but we shall find that Rome did not, like other empires, succumb to them. We shall find that she weathered these most obvious dangers, and that the history of her fall is as unique as that of her great- ness. The difficulty which has been found in- surmountable in most great empires is their unwieldy size, aud the obstinate anti- pathy of the conquered nationalities to their conquerors. Government must necessarily become diflicult in proportion to the extent of the territory governed and the disloyalty of the inhabitants. It follows that in a great empire founded upon conquest the difficulties of government are the greatest possible. To cope with them it is found necessary to create pashas or viceroys of particular provinces, with full monarchical power. Sooner or later government breaks (lown, overborne partly by its insurcrent subjects, partly by these viceroys shaking off its authority. This, then, is the regular process of dissolution in empires. Subject nation- alities succeed at last in recovering their independence, and subordinate governors throw off their allegiance and become kings. Sometimes the two solvents help each other, as Ali Pasha of Janina helped the early attempts of the Greek patriots. Let us take some of the more conspicuous exam- ples which history affords. Alexanders empire was dissolved by his officers making themselves kings, and the kingdom of Pontus was formed out of it by the effort of one of the conquered nationalities. The Saracen Empire split into three inde- pendent chalifates. The Seljukian Em- pire of Malek Shah was divided in a few generations among independent sultans of Persia, Syria, Roum, & c. The Great Mogul lost his dominion partly to the insur- gent Mahrattas, partly to his own viceroys of the Deccan and of Bengal. The German Empire became a nullity when the electors began to raise themselves to the rank of kings. In the Ottoman Empire the process of dissolution shows itself in Greece and Servia recovering their independence, and the Egyptian viceroy making himself a sov- ereign. If we look for similar symptoms in the dis- solution of the Roman Empire we are disap- pointed. The subject nationalities do not recover their independence. It is true that they make their separate influence felt long after they have been politically merged. The Greeks, for example, maintained, not only the independence, but the superiority of their language and culture. Although the greatest writers of this period are Ro- man, yet, within half a century after the death of Tacitus and Juvenal, Greek not only prevailed in the eastern half of the Empire, but had so far superseded Latin in Rome itself, that the Emperor Aurelius uses it in meditations intended for his own private use. The Asiatic part of the Em- pire preserved its peculiar ways of thinking. Its religions entered into a competition both with the religions of the West and with Greek philosophy, the religion of the culti- vated classes among the Romans. In this contest between the Western conquerors and the Eastern subjects the conquered races had at last the better, and imposed a religion upon their masters. Nor were the African nationalities without their influence. They gave to the Empire, in Severus, the master who first gave unlimited power to the army; and they contributed to the religious reformation its greatest rhetorician, Tertullian; its most influential politician, Cyprian; and, later, its greatest theologian, Augustine. But though the nationalities retained so much intellectual independence, they never became dangerous to the Empire. There were indeed, in the first century, four con- si(lerable wars of independence the rising of the Germans under Arminius, that of the Britons under Boadicea, that of the Germans and Gauls under Civilis, and that of the Jews. 4 ROMAN IMPERIALISM. Bst the first two were not rebellions of na- culties with which the Imperial system had tions already conquered, but of nations to cope. And among these difficulties is in the process of being conquered. In the certainly to be reckoned the unlikeness ef case of the Germans it was the effort by the nations composing the Empire. The which they saved their independence; in the Empire shows a constant ten(lency to break case of the Britons it was the last convul- into large fragments, each held together in- sion of despair. The other two revolts ternally by national sympathies, and sepa- were, no doubt, precisely of the kind which rated from the others by national differences. occur so frequently in great empires, and The Greek-speaking world tends to sepa- are so frequently fatal to them. But to the rate its~elf from the Latin-speaking world. Roman Empire they were not fatal, and can Gaul, Britain, and Spain tend to separate hardly be said to have seriously endangered themselves from Italy and Africa. These it. It was owing to the confusion of a revo- tendencies were recognized when the revo- lutionarv time that Civilis was able for a lutionar period closed in Diocletians par- moment to sever the Rhenish provinces from tition of the Empire between two Augusti Rome, but his success only made it more and two C~sars, and, afterwards, in the evident that his appeal to national feeling four great pr~fectures of Constantine. The came too late, and was addressed to that division between East and West, after being which had no existence. As soon as the several times drawn and again effaced, was vi our of the central government revived, a permanently recognized in the time of the single army, not very well commanded, cx- sons of Theodosius, and is written in large tinguished the feeble spark. Far different, characters in the history of the modern certainly, was the vigour and enthusiasm with which the Jews took arms. But the result was not different. The rebellious nationality only earned by the fierceness of its rising a ranre overwhelming ruin. If we reckon the Jewish war of the reign of Vespasian and that of the reign of Ha- drian as constituting together one great national rebellion, then the history of the Empire affords no other considerable ex- ample besides those I have mentioned of the rising of a conquered nationality. There appear, indeed, in the third and fourth centuries, some phenomena not altogether different. The third century was an age of revolution. I have spoken already of the great Roman Revolution which began with the tribunate of Gracchus and ended with the battle of Actium. It would be a convenient thing if we could accustom our- selves to the notion of a second Roman Revolution, beginning with the death of Marcus Aurelius, in A.D. 180, and ending with the accession of Diocletian, in AD. 285. During this period the imperial system struggled for its life, and suffered a trans- formation of character which enabled it to support itself over the whole extent of the Empire for more than another century, and in the eastern half for many centuries. In the fearful convulsions of this revolution- ary period we are able to discern the diffi world. The tendency then to division certainly existed, and might at times be dangerous. But it is not to be confounded with that working of the spirit of nationality which I have spoken of as the commonest cause of the ruin of great empires. In most great em- pires the subject nations have not only a want of sympathy, or it may be a positive antipathy, towards each other; they are in- fluenced still more by an undying hostility towards their conquerors, and an undying recollection of the independence they have lost. Out of these feelings springs a fixed determination, handed down through suc- cessive generations, and shared by every individual member of the conquered race, to throw off the yoke at the first opportu- nity. Where this fixed determination ex- ists, the conquerors have in the long run but a poor chance of retaining their con- quest; for their energy is more likely to be corrupted by success than their victims fixed hatred to be extinguished by delay. And this was the difficulty which, almost alone among conquering nations, the Ro- mans were not called upon to meet. By some means or other they succeeded in de-. stroying in the mind of Gaul, African, and Greek the remembrance of their past inde- pendence and the remembrance of the re- lentless cruelty with which they had been ROMAN IMPERIALISM. 5 enslaved. Rome destroyed patriotism in its subject races, though it left in them a certain hlind instinct of kindred. When the Empire grew wcak, the atoms showed a tendency to chrystallize again in the old forms, but while it continued vigorous it satisfied the nationalities that it had ab- sorbed. Whether by its imposing gran- deur, or the material happiness it hestowed, or the free career it offered, particufarly to military merit, or the hopelessness of resist- ance, or more particularly in the West by the civilization it brought with it; by some of these means, or by some combina- tion of them, the Roman Empire succeeded in giving an equivalent to those who had been deprived of everything by its relent- less sword. As Tecmessa to Ajax, the world said to Rome aV )ep FIOL irarpi6 ~aruaag & ipes ,ca (Lip-ep a2~ar ~toipa rbv ~VaavTa re icaOei2~sv AZdov Oavauiuovg oilcifropag rig (I7jT i1io~ yivotr & v (Lv7-i aoi~ warpig; rig ir~oi3rog; tv aoi w& a iy6~e a6Q~acu. Thou didst destroy my country with thy spear; My mother and begetter eyeless Fate Took to be tenants of the house of death. Now then what country can I find but thee, What household? on thee all my fortune hangs. Of all the conquered nations, that which had the noblest past was Greece. It is a striking fact that even a hundred years ago there existed among the Greeks no proud remembrance of their heroic ancestors. Leonidas and Miltiades were names which had no magic sonnd to them. But they were proud of two things, of their relig- ions orthodoxy and of their being the legit- imate representatives of the Roman Em- pire. The Roman Empire, then, did not fall as, for example, the Parthian Empire fell, by the rebellion of the conquered nationalities. But neither again did it fall by the rebellion of its great officers and viceroys, as the empire of Alexander. It was, indeed, con- stantly exposed to this danger. It felt, as other empires have felt, the necessity of creating these great officers. The Legati of the Rhine and Danube, the Lagatus of Syria, possessed the power of independent sovereigns. They often seemed likely to use, and sometimes did use, this power against the government. In the first two centuries, Galba, Vitellius, Vespasian, 5ev- erus, were successful usurpers; Vindex, Avidius Cassius, Pescennius Niger were unsuccessful ones; Corbulo, and perhaps Agricola, paid with their lives for the great- ness which made them capable of becoming usurpers. But these men usurped, or en- deavoured to usurp, or were thought likely to usurp, the whole Empire, not parts of it. The danger of the Empires being divided among its great generals, did not appear till near the end of that revolutionary period of which I have spoken. Then, however, it semmed for a time very imminent. We might rather say that for some years the Empire was actually divided in this way. In what is commonly called the time of the Thirty Tyrants, Gaul and Spain were governed for some years by independ- ent emperors, while Syria and part of Asia Minor formed the kingdom of Odenathus. In other parts of the Empire, at the same time, the authority of Rome was thrown off by several less successful adventurers. At this moment, then, the Roman Empire pre- sented the same spectacle of dissolution which other great empires have sooner or later almost always presented. It seemed likely to run the usual course, and to illus- trate the insurmountable difficulty of at once concentrating great power at a number of different points, and preserving the supre- macy of the centre of the whole system. But the Roman Empire rallied, and by an extraordinary display of energy proved the difficulty not to be insurmountable. It es- caped this danger also, and that not only for a time, but permanently. The disease of which it died at last was not this, but another. Of the first Roman Revolution, Marius, Cn~sar, and Augustus are the heroes. The first of these organized the military system, the second gave the military power predom- inance over the civil, the third arranged the relations of the military to the civil power, so as to make them as little oppressive and as durable as possible. The second Roman Revolution, that of the third century after Christ, had for its heroes Diocletian and Constantine. The problem for them was to give to the military power, now absolutely 6 ROMAN IMPERIALISM. predominant, unity within itself. Before, fled her subject nationalities. Yet in a the question had been of the relations he- century and a half from the time of Con- tween the Imperator and the Senate; now it stantine, the Western Empire fell, and the was of the relations between the Imperator Eastern Empire in the course of three ceo- and his Legati and his army. But now, as tunes lost many of its fariest provinces, then, the only hope of the Empire was in des- and saw its capital besieged by foreign iti- potism; the one study of all statesmen was vaders. Having escaped the two principal how to diminish liberty still further, and con- maladies incident to great empires, she centrate power still more absolutely in a succumbed to some others, the nature of single hand. As Rome had been saved from which we have now to consider. barbaric invasion by Cresar, so it was saved The simple facts of the fall of the Empire by Diocletian from partition among viceroys. are these. The imperial system had been But as it was saved the first time at the cx- established, as I have shown, to protect the pense of its republican liberties, it was frontier. This it did for two centuries with saved the second time by the sacrifice of eminent success. But in the reign of Mar- those vestiges of freedom which Cmsar had ens Aurelius, whose reign I have noted as left it. The military dictator now becanie marking the commencement of the second a sultan. The little finger of Constantine revolutionary period, there occurred an in- was thickerthan the loins of Augustus; arid vasion of the Marcomanni, xvliich was riot if Tiberius had chastised his subjects with repulsed without great difficulty, and which whips, Valentinian chastised them with scor- excited a deep alarm and foreboding pious. throughout the Empire. In the third cen The Revolution now effected had two tory the hostile powers on every frontier stages. First caine the temporary arrange- begin to appear more formidable. The merit of Diocletian, who, in order to German tribes, in whose discoid Tacitus strengthen the Imperial power against the saw the safety of the Empire, present them- unwieldy army, created, as it weic, a cab- selves now no longer in separate feebleness, met of emperors. He shared his power brit in powerful confederations. We hear with three other generals, whom he sue- no more the insignificant names of Chatti ceeded in attaching firmly to himself. Such and Chauci; the history of the third ceo- an arrangement could not last, for only a tory is full of Alemanni, Franks, and Goths. superior genius could suspend the opera- On the eastermi frontier, the long decayed tion of the laws, Nulla fides regni sociis; power of the Parthians now gives place to but so long as it lasted the Imperial power a revived and vigorous Persian Empire. was quadrupled, arid the Empire was firmly The forces of the Empire are more and ruled, not from one centre, but from four: more taxed to defend it from these power- from Nicomedia, Antioch, Milan, and Tr~- ml enemies. One emperor is killed in bat- yes. This plan had all the advantages of tle with the Goths, another is taken prisoner partition, while in the undisputed ascen- by the Persians. But strengthened by in- dancy of Diocletian it retained all the ad- ternal reforms, the Empire is found still vantages of unity. This temporary arrange- capable of making head against its assail- ment in due time gave place to the perma- ants. In the middle of the fourth century nent institution of Constar~ine, who broke it is visibly stronger and safer than it had the power of the Legati by dividing military been in the middle of the third. Then power fi-om the civil. Up to that time, the follows the greatest convulsion to which Legatos of a province had been an empe- human society is liable, that which is to the ror in miniature at the same time gov- world of man what an earthquake is to ernor of a nation and commander of an nature,l mean an invasion of Tartars. army. Now, the two offices were divided, The Huns emerge from Asia, and (Irive be- and there remained to the emperor an im- fore them the populations of Cemitral Europe. mense superiority over every subject, The fugitive Goths crave admuission into the the prerogative that in him alone civil and Empire. Admitted, they engage in war military power met. And at the same timne with their entertainers. They defeat and that by disarming all inferior greatness he kill an emperor at Adrianople. But again made himself master of the bodies, the lives, time Emnipire is avenged by Theodosius. In and fortunes of his subjects, he subdued time age of his degenerate Sons the barbaric their inmaginations and hearts by his assump- world decisively emicroaches on the Roman. tion of Asiatic state and by his alliance There is a constant influx of Gothis. Goths with the Christian Church. fill the Roman armies, and plunder the Thins was the second danger successfully Empire under cover of a commission from encountered. Rome disarmed her formid- the emperor himself. Rome is sacked by able viceroys, as she had subdued and paci- I Alaric. Then most of Gaul, Spain, and ROMAN IMPERIALISM. 7 afterwards Africa are torn from the empire ceived two considerable accessions of force. by an invasion half-Teutonic, haif-Slavonic. It had gained considerably, through what Barbaric chieftains make and unmake the influences we can only conjecture, in the emperors of the West. At last they as- power and habit of co-operation. As I have sume sovereignty in Italy to themselves, said before, in the third century we meet and the Ostrogothic kingdom is founded. with large confederations of Germans, The East, too, suffers gradually a great whereas before we read only of isolated change of population. Greece is almost tribes. Together with this capacity of con- repeopled with Slaves and Wallachians. federation we can easily believe that the New kingdoms are founded on the Lower Germans had acquired new intelligence, Danube. In the seventh century, Egypt civilization, and military skill. Moreover, and Syria are wrested from the Empire by it is practically to be considered as a great the Saracens. increase of aggressive force, that in the This is what we commonly understand by middle of the fourth century they were the fall of the Empire. It was matched in threatened in their original settlements by war with the barbaric world beyond the the Huns. The impulse of desperation frontier, and the ~barbaric world was victori- which drove them against the Roman fron- ous. But it would be very thoughtless to tier was felt by the Romans as a new force suppose that this is a sufficient account of acquired by the enemy. But we shall soon the matter, and that the fortune of war will see that other and more considerable mo- explain such a vast phenomenon. What menta must have been required to turn the we call fortune may decide a battle, not so scale. For in the first place, if in three easily the shortest war; and it is evident centuries the barbaric world made a con- that the Roman world would not have siderable advance in power, how was it that steadily receded through centuries before the Roman world did not make an immensely the barbaric had it not been decidedly greater advance in the same time? A bar- inferior in force. To explain, then, the fall bane society is commonly almost stationary of the Empire, it is necessary to explain a civilized society is indefinitely progressive. the inferiority in force of the Romans to the How many advantages had a vast and well- barbarians, ordered empire like the Roman over bar- This inferiority of the Romans, it is to barismn! What a step towards material be remembered, was a new thing. At an wealth and increase of population would earlier time they had been manifestly su- seem to be necessarily made when the bars perior. When the region of barbarism was to intercourse are removed between a num- much larger; when it included warlike and her of countries, and when war between aggressive nations now lost to it, such as the those countries is abolished! If in the first Gauls; and when, on the other hand, t.he two centuries of the Empire there were Romans drew their armies from a much bloody wars within the Empire, yet they smaller area, and organized them much less were both short and very infrequent; the elaborately, the balance had inclined deci- permanent condmtion of international hos- dedly the other way. In those times the tihity between the nations surrounding the Romnan world, in spite of occasional rever- Mediterranean Sea, which had preceded the ses, had on the whole steadily encroached Roman conquests, was a tradition of the on the barbaric. The Gauls were such good past. Never since has there been over the soldiers, that the Romans themselves ac- samne area so long a, period of internal knowledged their superiority in valour: yet peace. If we were guided by modern an- the Romans not only held their own against alogies, we should certainly expect that, them, but conquered them, and annexed while barbarism made its first tottering Gaul to the Empire. If we use the word steps in the path of iruprovemnent, the Em- force in its most comprehensive sense, pire would have made gigantic strides; that as including all the different forces, material, its population and wealth would have in- intellectual, and moral, which can contri- creased enormously; that instead of failing bute to the military success of a nation, it to defend the frontier it would have over- is evident that the Roman world in the time flowed it at all points; and that it would of Pompey and C~esar was as much su- have annexed and romnanized Germany with perior iii force to the barbaric world as it far greater ease than in Ctesars time it had ~vas inferior to it in the time of Arcadius absorbed Gaul. and Honorius. Either, therefore, a vast In the second place, the balance had increase of power must have taken place in already begun to turn before any new the barbaric world, or a vast internal decay weights were put into the scale of barbarism. in the Roman. A long period intervened between the time Now the barbaric world had actually re- when Rome was a conquering state, and the 8 ROMAN IMPERIALISM. time when it began to be conquered. Durino this interval barbarism had acquired no new strength, and yet the Romans had ceased to conquer. And this must have been owing, not to any want of will, but to a conscious- ness of the want of power. For when Rome ceased to conquer, it was far more completely organized for militar and governed niore exclusively y purposes by military men than in its period of conquest. With a citizen soldiery, summoned from farms and commanded often by civilians, Rome extended her boundaries widely; but with a magnificent standing army, with a crowd of experienced officers, and with an Imperator at the head of affairs, Rome ceased, except at long intervals, to conquer. The maxim of Augustus, that the Empire was large enough, can only mean that the limit of its resources had been reached, and that those resources, for some reason or oth- er, did not grow. And that the maxim was sound, and continued to be sound, is shown by Hadrians re-assertion of it when he gave up the Parthian conquests of Trajan, and later by Aurelians evacuation of Dacia. Aurelian was a great general, Hadrian was an active and enterprising man. Both of them must have known that the easiest way to obtain popularity was to carry on wars of conquest. Both must have known that to give up conquests was the readiest way to offend the pride of the Romans, and to excite disaffection towards the government. We may therefore feel sure that it was neither love of ease nor a mere blind re- spect for a traditionary maxim that induced these two emperors deliberately to iiarrow the boundaries of the Empire. They must have had a knowledge of the weakness and exhaustion of the State, and of its inade- quacy to new conquests, so certain and clear as t~ silence all the suggestions of ambition and interest. We are forced, then, to the conclusion that the Roman Empire, in the midst of its greatness and civilization, must have been in a stationary and unprogressive, if not a decaying condition. Now what can have been the cause of this unproductiveness or decay? It has been common to suppose a moral degeneration in the Romans, caused by luxury and excessive good fortune. To support this it is easy to quote the satirists and cynics of the Imperial time, and to re- fer to such accounts as Ammianus gives of the mingled effeminacy and brutality of the aristocracy of the capital in the fourth cen- tury. But the history of the wars between Rome and the barbaric world does not show us the proofs we might expect of this de- cay of spirit. We do not find the Romans ceasing to be victorious in the field, and be- ginning to show themselves inferior in valour to their enemies. The luxury of the capital could not affect the army, which had no connexion with the capital, but was levied from the peasantry of the whole Em- pire, a class into which luxury can never penetrate. Nor can it be said that luxury corrupted the generals, and through them the army. On the contrary, the Empire produced a remarkable series of capable generals. From Claudius Gothicus to the patrician Aetius, a period of two centuries, the series is scarcely interrupted, and for the greater part of that time the govern- ment of the Empire itself was in the hands of men bred to war and a~customed to great commands. And as in better times, the Roman arms were still commonly victori- ous. Julian, fighting at great odds, de- feated the Alemanni; Theodosius quelled the intruding Goths; Stilicho checked Alaric and crushed Rhadagaisus; the great Tartar himself, the genius of destruction, Attila, met his match in Aetius, and re- treated before the arms of Rome. Whatever the remote and ultimate cause may have been, the immediate cause to which the fall of the Empire can be traced is a physical, not a moral decay. In valour, discipline, and science, the Roman armies remained what they had always been, and the peasant-emperors of Illyricum were worthy successors of Cincinnatus ahd Ca- ius Marius. But the problem was how to replcnish those armies. Men were wanting; the Empire perished for want of men. The proof of this is in the fact that the contest with barbarism was carried on by the help of barbarian soldiers. The Em- peror Probus began this system, and under his successors it came more and more into use. As the danger of it could not be over- looked, we must suppose that the necessity of it was still more uninistakeable. It must have been because the Empire could not furnish soldiers for its own defence, that it was driven to the strange expedient of turn- ing its enemies and plunderers into its de- fenders. Yet on these scarcely disguised enemies it came to depend so exclusively that in the end the Western Empire was de- stroyed, not by the hostile army, but by its own. The Roman army had become a bar- barian horde, and for some years the Ro- man commander-in-chief was a barbarian prince, Ricimer, who created and deposed emperors at his pleasure. Soon after his fall, another barbarian occupying the same position, Odoacer, terminated the line of emperors, and assumed the government into his own hands. ROMAN IMPERIALISM. 9 Nor was it only in the army that the Em- pire was compelled to borrow men from barbarism. To cultivate the fields, whole tribes were borrowed. From the time of Marcus Aurelius, it was a practice to grant lands within the Empire sometimes to pris- oners of war, sometimes to tribes applying for admission. Thus the Vandals received settlements in Pannonia, the Goths of Ulfi- las in Miesia, the Salian Franks along the Rhine. In these cases the Romans were not forced to admit the barbarians. If they were partially influenced by the wish to pacify them, it is certain also that there must have been a vast extent of unoccupied land which the Emperor was glad to people in this way. However much disposed we may be to reject as rhetorical the descrip- tions of utter devastation along the frontier in which our authorities abound, it seems at least to be clear that, howcvcr many bar- baric tribes might knock for admission, there was room for them within the Empire. Nor did these large loans of men suffice the Empire. It was perpetually borrowing smaller amounts. Under the name of Lieti and Coloni, there seems reason to believe that the Empire was already full of Ger- mans before the great immigrations began. It is easy to discover symptoms of every kind of decay in the Roman Empire. We may talk of oppressive taxation and the ra- pacity of officials; of the tyranny by which the curiales, or respectable middle class, of provincial towns were crushed; of the de- cline of warlike spirit shown by the high price of volunteers and the extensive prac- tice of self-mutilation to avoid the conscrip- tion; of the general decline of warlike spirit. But, however visible these symp- toms may be, they must not divert our at- tention from the great symptom of all, the immediate and patent cause of the fall of the Empire that want of population which made it impossible to keep a native army on foot, and which caused a perpetual and irrepressible stream of barbaric immi- gration. The barbarian occupied the Ro- man Empire almost as the Anglo-Saxon is occupying North America: he settled and peopled rather than conquered it. The want of any principle of increase in the Roman population is attested at a much earlier time. In the second century before Christ, Polybius bears witness to it, and the returns of the census from the Second Punic War to the time of Augustus show no steady increase in the number of citizens that cannot be accounted for by the exten- sion of the citizenship to new classes. A stationary population suffers from war or any other destructive plague far more and more permanently than a progressive one. Accordingly we are told that Julius Ciesar, when he attained to supreme power, found an alarming thinness of population (6etvi)v o2utyavm5~poirtav). Both he and his succes- sor struggled earnestly against this evil. The grave maxim of Metellus Macedonicus, that Inarriage was a duty which, however painful, every citizen ought manfully to dis- charge, acquired great importance in the eyes of Augustus. lie caused the speech in which it was contained to be read in the Senate: had he lived in our days, he would have reprinted it with a preface. To ad- monition he added legislation. The Lex Julia is the irrefragable proof of the exist- ence at the beginning of the Imperial time of that very disease of which, four centu- ries after, the Empire died. How alarming the symptoms already were may be measured by the determined resolution with which Augustus Ibreed his enactment upon the people, in spite of the most strenuous resistance. The enactuient consisted of a number of privileges and precedences given to marriage, it was in flict a handsome bribe offered by the State to induce the citizens to marry. How strange, according to our notions, the con- dition of society must have been; how di- rectly opposite from the present one, the view taken by statesmen of the question of population; and how unlike the present one, the view taken by people in general of marriage, may be judged from this law. Precisely as we think of marriage, the Roman of imperial times thought of celi- bacy that is, as the most comfortable but the most expensive condition of life. Mar- riage with us is a pleasure for which a man must be content to pay; with the Romans it was an excellent pecuniary investment,* but an intolerably disagreeable one. Here lay, at least in the judgment of Augustus, the root of the evil. To inquire into the causes of this aversion to marriage in this place would lead me too far. We must be content to assume that, owing partly to this cause and partly to the prudential check of infanticide, the Roman population seems to have been in ordinary times almost stationary. The same phe- nomenon had shown itself in Greece before its conquest by the Romans. There the population had even greatly declined, and the shrewd observer Polybius explains that it was not owing to war or plague, but mainly to the general reluctance of his countrymen to rear families, If we can suppose a similar temper to have become * Plutarch: irepi 4e?Loaroytc~, C. 2. 10 ROMAN IMPERIALISM. common among the Roman citizens, it may still seem at first sight unlikely that the newly-conquered barbarians of Gaul or Britain would fall into an effeminacy inci- dent rather to excessive civilization. But there is reason to think, on the contrary, that the newly-conquered barbarians were especially liable to it. We know how dan- gerous is the sudden introduction of civil- ized habits aud manners aluono barbarians. We know how fatally the cont~ct of Anglo- Saxons has worked upon Indians, Austra- lians, and New Zealanders. The effect of Roman civilization upon Gauls and Britons was similar, if we may take the evidence of Tacitus. They exchanged too swldenly a life of rude and violent adventure for the Roman baths and schools of rhetoric. The etlhct upon these races was an unnatural lethargy, and apparently also a tendency to decline in numbers. The Ilelvetians are spoken of by Taci tus as already almost ex- tinct; and the Batavians who distinguish themselves by their high spirit in the wars of Vitellius and Vespasian, have entirely disappeared whQn their territory is occu- pied in the fourth century by the Franks. it remains to point out that the circum- stances of the Thnpire between the times of C~sar and Constantine were such as rather to aggravate than mitigate the disease. One main reason why civilization in mod- ern times is favourable to the growth of population is that it is industrial. The Anglo-Saxon subdues physical nature to his interest and convenience. Wherever he comes he introduces new industries. He contrives first to prosper, and next he increases. By his side the barbarian, skilled only in destruction, and without the inclination or talent to create anything, feels himself gro~ving weaker and weaker, despairs, and then disappears. But Roman civilization was not of this creative kind. It was military, that is, destructive. The eliormous wealth of the Romnans had not been created by them, but simply appropri- ated. It had been gained not by manufac- ture or commerce, but by war. And it had been gained by the concentrated effort of many successive oenerations. Probably such a great national effort cannot be main- tained for so long a time without giving to the national character a fixed warp or hias. The military inclination would remain to the Romnans even when they had lost the power to gratify it. The aversion to all the arts of creation would remain even when nothimmcr but those arts could save them. In the most successful conquering race that has appeared since the Romans, in the Turks, the same phenomenon appears. They have lost the power to conquer, hut they cannot acquire hahits of industry and accumulation. Their nature has no versatility; it enjoys nothing be- tween fighting and torpid inaction. They could win an empire, but having won it they allow it to fall into ruin. In a less degree the Romans seem to have had the same defect. There runs through their literature the brigands and the barbarian s contempt for honest industry, at least when that industry is not agricultural. To make wealth appears to them sordid; to take it admirable. And accordingly, when the limit of conquest and spoilation had been reached, a torpor, a Turkish helpless- ness, fell on them. They lived on what should have been their capital. Their wealth went to Asia in exchange for perish- able luxuries, a general poverty spread through the Empire, and the unwillingness to multiply must have become stronger and stron(~er. Perhaps enough has now been said to ex- plain that great enigma, which so much be- wilders the reader of Gibbon; namely, the sharp contrast between tLe age of the An- tonines and the age which followed it. A century of unparalleled tranquillity and vir- tuous government is followed immediately by a period of hopeless ruin and dissolu- tion. A century of rest is followed not by renewed vigour, but by incurable ex- haustion. Some principle of decay must clearly have been at work, but what prin- ciple I We answer: it was a period of sterility or barrenness in human beings; the human harvest was bad. And among the causes of this barrenness we find, in the more barbarous nations, the enfeeble- ment produced by the too abrupt introduc- tion of civilization, and universally the absence of industrial habits, and the dispo- sition to listlessness which belongs to the military character. A society in such a critical position as this can ill bear a sudden shock. The sudden shock caine; a swift destruction winged from God! Aurelius, whose reign I have marked as the end of an age, saw the flash. We might say that Heaven, pitying the long death-struggle of the Roman world, sent down the Angel Azrael to cut matters short. In A.D. 166 broke out the plague. It spread from Persia to Gaul, and, according to the historians, car- ried off a majority of the population. It was the first of a long series of similar visitations. Niebuhr has said that the an- never recovered from the blow inflicted upon it by tIme plague which vis- ited it in the reign of Aurelius. We are in ROMAN IMPERIALISM. 11 danger of attaching too little importance to occurrences of this kind. The historian devotes but a few lines to them because they do not often admit of being related in detail. The battle of Cressy occupies the historian more than the Black Death, yet we now know that the Black Death is a turning-point in medi~val English history. Our knowledge of the series of plagues which fell on the Roman world during the Revolutionary period from Aurelius to Dio- cletian, is extremely fra0mentary. But the vastness of the calamity seems not doubt- ful, and it seems also clear that the condi- tion of the empire was just such as to make the blow mortal. It is also plain that the reconstructe(l Empire over which, when the Revolutionary period was past, Diocletian and Constantine reigned, was different in its whole character from the Empire of the Antonines, and that a new age began then which resembled the Middle Ages as much as it resembled Antiquity. As the population dwindled, a new evil made its appearance. The expenses of government had always been great: when complete Oriental sultanism was intro- duced by Diocletian, they became enor- mous. And the demands of government reached their highest point when the popu- lation had been decimated (the word is probably much too weak) by the plague. The fiscus, which had always been burden- some, became now a millstone round the neck of the sinking Empire. The demand for money became as urgent as the demand for men. A leading characteristic of the later Empire is grinding taxation. The government being overwhelmingly power- ful, there was no limit to its power of ex- tortion, and the army of officials which had now been created plundered for themselves as well as for the government. What the plague had been to the population, that the fiscus was to industry. It broke the bruised reed; it converted feebleness into utter and incurable debility. Roman fi- nance had no conception of the im~)olicy of laying taxation so as to depress enterprise and trade. The fiscus destroyed capital in the Roman Empire. The desire of accumu- lation withered where government lay in wait for all savings locupletissimus quis- que in prwdam correptus. All the intri- cate combinations by which man is con- nected to man in a progressive society dis- appeared. The diminished population lived once more as a~rovpyoi, procuring from the soil as much as their own individ- ual needs required; each man alone, and all alike in bondage to an omnipotent, all- grasping government. For safety they had given omnipotence to their government, but they could not give it the knowledge of political economy, nor the power to cure subtle moral evils. Accordingly all the omnipotence of government was turned to increasing the poverty, and consequently the sterility, of the population. I have not left myself space to describe in detail the pressure of the fiscus and the conscription upon the different classes of the people. It is related in many books with what malignant ingenuity the men of property were, so to speak, chained to the spot where they lived, that the vulture of taxation might prey upon their vitals; and how the peasantry were in like manner appropriated ~nd enslaved to military ser- vice. But this oppression, to which gov- ernment in its helplessness was driven, filled the cup. 1 conceive that the down- fall of the Empire is thus accounte.d for. Barbarians might enter freely and take possession. Vandal corsairs from Carthage might outdo the work of 1-lannibal, and Germany avenge at her leisure the inva- sions of Ctesar and Drusus, for the invin- cible power had been tamed by a slow dis- ease. Rome had stopped, from a misgiv- ing she could not explain to herself, in the career of victory. A century of repose had only left her weaker than before. She was able to conquer her nationalities. She cen- tralized herself successfully, and created a government of mighty efficieticy and sta- bility. But against this disease she was powerless; and the disease was sterility. Already enfeebled by it she passed through a century of plague, atid when the plague handed her over to the fiscus there re- mained nothing for the sufferer but gradu- ally to sink. But the causes from which the disease itself had sprung were such as we can but imperfoetly ascertain, causes deeply involved in the constitution of soci- ety itself, and such as no statesmanship or philosophy then in the world could hope to contend with. NOTE. The Spectator, in a flattering notice of the first of these papers, asks for an explanation of the statement that the Senate was an assembly of life peers freely chosen. The magistrates were chosen by popular election, and election to the hi~her magistracies carried with it a permanent seat in the Senate. This is what I meant by calling it an assembly of life peers. I ROMAN IMPERIALISM. call it freely elected because every full citi- I do not think this influence had much co- zen wal eligible and had a vote. No ercion in it. The great families were doubt the great houses had such over- really reverenced by the people, and were whelming influence that they could in ordi- considered to have a sort of moral right to nary times monopolize the magistracies. office. But until the Revolutionary period began, J. R. S. AT TABLR THE custom of frog-eating in Prance seems to date from the end of the fifteenth century. Champier, writing in 1504, complains of the strange taste of people who eat frogs, and can- not conceive how persons of de~licacy can eat insects hred in marshes and stagnant ponds. I have seen the time in which people eat only frogs thighs, hut now they actually eat the whole body except the head; and, moreover, serve them fried with a little parsley. Yet, that the practice was not universal we gather from Palissy, who, in his Treatise on Stones, says, It is a thing that one sees every day now, that men eat articles which formerly no one would have eaten for anything in the world. In my time I have known when you could have found very few men who could have eaten either tortoises or frogs. The custom, like that of eating heavers, and that great delicacy, their big, flat tails, probably took its rise in the de- sire of the fasting, or no n-flesh-eating monks to get something as near flesh as possible; and they, therefore, always reckoned amphibious animals as fish, not flesh. In like manlier, though certain monks would not eat pork, they flavoured their vegetables with lard, and many monasteries kept pigs for this purpose. Other monasteries got so far as to eat hashed meat, saying that when meat. was so disguised it was no longer meat. Gregory the Ninth condemned this artifice in the Constitution he gave to the Benedictines, and declared that not only was meat forhidden to them, hut also hashes and stuffing made of meat. We thought ton~ue a comparatively mod- ern dish, but. there is a full recipe for roasting and saucing it in the curious Liher Cure Coco- rum, of about 1460 A.D., edited by Mr. Richard Morris; and be Grand (lAussy, in his History of the Home Life of the French, informs us that there are extant several charters of the 12th century, in which French lords reserve, as a rent from butchers domiciled on their es- tates, the tongues of all oxen killed by the said butchers. Have our readers ever asked themselves why their dinner-knives, or rather those of their grandfathers, are and were made round at the point? M. be Grand dAussy will tell them. He finds the first mention of forks in an inven- tory of Charles the Fifths plate in 1370 AD., quarante-trois cuilleres et fourchettes (gold and jewelled), and says that, apparently up to that time, when men began to use forks, the knife was employed to convey pieces cut ofi, into the mouth, just as the English do now (an., 1782), who have for this purpose knives whose blade is round and very large at the end. But, as fingers were made before forks,~ so were they before knives; and there is no doubt that, in the middle ages in England, finders, and not knives, were the tools for put- ting solids into the mouth. Is it known when milk and sugar were first used with tea in England? Was it before the French use of them in 1680, when Madame de Sdvignd noticed the Marquise de La Sabli~res invention of the custom? In 1687 a French doc- tor, Bldgny, notices that some people smoked tea like others did tobacco, while he had made of it a preserve, a distilled water, two sorts of sirup, and a febrifuge. Lemonade was sold publicly in Paris in 1630, and its makers were formed into a guild in 1676, with the exclusive right of selling lemonade. Punch was borrowed from England by the French late in the eigh- teenth century; but, says Le Grand dAussy, as the ladies do not like the strong scent that the brandy in punch leaves behind, the drink can never succeed in France, a gallant nation whose first and only pleasure is to please 1cm femsacs. But gallantry notwithstanding ponclie is still to be had in France, Athenaum. Tema correspondence about the morality of Formosa is suspected by wicked people to be a part of the play. We, of course, do not share in the suspicion. The letters, however, could not have been deliberately penned to better issue that of increasing the attraction of the piece. They do remind us of Sternes letter to Garrick, in 1752, written in Paris. Crebil ion has made an invention with me which, if he is not too lazy, will be no had persejiage. As soon as I get to Toulouse, he has agreed to write to me an expostulatory letter on the iride- corousness of Tristram Shandy, which is to be answered by recriminations upon the liber- ties in his own works. These are to be printed together, Crebillon against Sterno, Sterno against Crebillon ; the copy to be sold, and the money equally divided. This, says Sterne, is good Swiss policy. A COUNTY FAMILY. 13 CHAPTER XXXV. KNOWING THE WORST. I AM sorry you and Mr. Denton did not agree this morning, said Lucy to her father as they sat in their home at Mosedale on the evening of the day on which we last saw her: he seems a very straightforward and unselfish young man. Does he? returned Mr. Wailer va- cantly, and passing his hand wearily across his forehead. I really paid hut little attention to him in other respects, except that he seemed to be very fidgety and im- poitunate. Thats because he feels everything that he saxs, papa; his every word seems to come from his heart. It wonld be better if it caine from his head when he talks about business matters, observed Mr. Waller drily. Did he say anything more about that confounded reser- voir, Lucy, this afternoon? No, papa; but I met him on horseback, and I fancy he was riding out to Redmoor, to take another look at the embankment. I hope and trust you are right in the mat- ter, papa, dear: it would be so terrible if what Mr. Denton is so apprehensive of should come to pass. Yes, yes; I am right enough, Lucy; I must be right, for did not Flywheel tell me so himself. This Mr. Dentons Report, he said, made far too much of the matter last year; and I have no doubt he is again alarming himself unnecessarily. A young man always likes to make out a serious case out of anything in which he first gets employment; it is only iiatural; and I bear no grudge against him whatever on account of the fuss be made. His throwing his ap- pointment in my face, indeed, was petulant enough; it looked very fine, but it was not much of a sacrifice. He has a good salary from the railway company, I am told; and is likely to get on in the world. I daresay, so far as means go, he will soon be quite as good a match for your friend Ellen as Mr. Stanhope. I dont wonder that a sensible girl like her should prefer a man with a steadily increasing income to one who has scarcely anything but his good blood to recommend him. It is not every young lady who has the chance of securing a man who is rich and also well born. This was a subject not pleasing to Lucy, and she made an effort to avert its con- tinuance. But if all Mr. Denton wants is to have the embankment thoroughly inspected, why should it not be done, papa? Cross-ex amination, as I have heard you say, is the key that lets out the truth; and is it not something the same with inanimate objects as with human beings ? It cant be done, my dear, sighed Mi:. Wailer, for, to be candid with you, I cant afford it. Is it so very expensive, then? Mr. Denton said it would cost only a few pounds. Nor would it, Lucy, so far as the mere work was concerned; and my share of the expense would indeed be insignificant enough. But once let the folks here know that the reservoir needs repair, and down go the shares, as they did last year. Since you have pressed me on this matter, my darling, I will take the opportunity to tell you exactly how my affairs stand if those can be said to stand at all, which the breath of rumour might topple over in utter ruin. I am quite aware, dear papa, you are in sad straits, said Lucy faintly. I have always entreated you to let us live more in accordance with our actual means. The luxuries with which we are surrounded have given me no pleasure since licame to know the shifts to which you have been put to maintain us in them. I would rather give up everything to-morrow, and live ever so plainly, than remain in our present false position. You dont know what giving up every- thing means, Lucy, said Mr. Wailer gloomily, nor can any one guess, who has not put it into practice: no rich man, and certainly no rich woman, has any real con- ception of actual poverty. You have the same idea of it as your would-43 Sister of Mercy has of tending the sick in hospital; she fancies only wasted features with grate- ful looks on them; she has no idea of what would really meet her eye and her nose. I dont know about abject poverty, papa, said Lucy simply; that is, I dont know so much as I ought to know, though it always seemed to me, even in that case, that a little care and taste Mr. Wailer cut her short with a bitter smile. Taste! cried he; yes, that would mend matters indeed; you would have cut flowers and a musical-box in every two-roomed house, I daresay. Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls. You and the man who wrote those lines had much the same conception of cottage- life. Well, papa, I know at least how our lodge-keeper and his daughter live; and 14 A COUNTY FAMILY. Heaven knows that I would gladly exchange places with them. Yes, Lucy; but even if I were adapted for a lodge-kceper (which I confess I do pot think I am), that is unfortunately not the question. There is no middle course for us left; there is no alternative for us but this either the life we are now living, or positive beggary destitution. There is not one brick of this house, nor one article which it contains, that we can with strictness call our own. I thought that I had hinted as much to you already. No, papa, I did not know that. Lucy was very white, but her voice was firm. It was ill news indeed, but she was preparing herself for worse tidings which she saw by her fathers face were on the way. Yes, dear Lucy, the time has come when I must use plain wor(ls. Those reservoir shares are all absolutely all that I now possess in the world; and I must sell them to-morrow to meet a bill which will then fall due, unless it is met by some one else. By some one else? I do not under- stand. William Blackburns name is on the back of it. Oh papa, did you persuade him to do that on, my through any hope She leaned back breathless in her chair, and gazed upon him with terrified eyes. I made no promise, darling, certainly not. But I did say, as indeed I thought, that time might have its influence upon you in his favour. He was very reasonable he said that he was content to wait. He did not wish to press matters at all, and I am sure he will not do so; and in time, who knows but that fortune may befriend us. I have many an iron in the fire, and though I have been unfortunate of late, that cannot last for ever. On the other hand, what is it makes this match so repug- nant to you, which many a young girl in the county Do you ask me that, papa, who know this man P Mr. WaIler cast down his eyes, and fum- bled with trembling fingers at his watch- chain. You cannot have a husband made to order, Lucy: there is something to be said against every man, if you come to that. And (10 you really ask me, father, to take William Blackburn for my husband, for my companion for my master all my life? No; only for all his life, returned Mr. WaIler boldly. I would fain have kept silence upon this matter, but, afler all, it is a mere conventional reticence. We take into account the chance of death in every marriage settle~nent, and why not in our considerations of a match, as now? Wil- ham Blackburns life is not worth five years purchase: Mr. Allease told inc so himself. He has undermined I mean, when he was abroad, and isolated, as it were, poor fel- low! from his family and friends, he was (Iriven to take more to drink than was good for him; and though he sees the evil of it now you must yourself have noticed a marked change in him of late for the better in all respects; he has certainly grown more social and pleasant in his manners well, as I was saying, though he is so im- proved in his habits, the mischief has been done: he is bound to be a short-lived moan. And how many years, father, asked Lucy in hollow tones,. would it take a man like that to break a heart like mine, think you? lie shall never do it, my girl; he shall never have the chance of doing it, replied Mr. Waller vehemently. If you are not happy with him, you shall come back to me. Do you think that I could not manage that and him? I tell you I could wind that fellow round my finger, compel him into doing what I pleased, and become his master wholly, if only I once got free from the meshes of this net. I feel like some stron(~ swimmer whose limbs are caught by 0 the lithe weed beneath, and rendered use- less: if it be but severed, he rises to the surface buoyant as ever; but else he is dragged down and drowned. Nay, worse than he, for the (Irowned man is buried, and theres an end; hut of dishonoured bankrupt me, they will make a shameful spectacle, and at their shouts and jeers my daughter may well shudder, since one word of hers might have saved me, and yet she would not speak it Then I will speak it, father cried Lucy suddenly. You shall never say that I hesitated to make the choice between my happiness and yours I will tell this man that since you have sold me to him, I will ratit~ my part of the bar0ain. My dear Lucy, said Mr. Waller, tak- mn~ his daughters icy hand within his own and smoothing it fondly, this is really a most unpleasant view to take of the matter. You must forgive me but it is not (rood taste and it is also most painful to myself. I have ommly done what any moan in time county would have been glad to have done in Se- curin0 you this good position, although I confess I was impelled to it by cruel necess A COUNTY FAMILY. 15 ity. If I were a rich man, I would afford you the indulgence of wedding whom you pleased, and welcome; but as it is, the lux- ury is not within my means. 1 sincerely wish, for both our sakes, that it were, my dear. Then it is not. as if 1 were tearing you from the arms of one on whom you have set your heart; you know that I was far from offering the least obstacle when She held her hand up for a moment plead- in(rlv. Pray, spare me that, papa, since I have promised to do your bidding. Why torture me further? Torture you, my child? Heaven for- bid! said Mr. Waller earnestly. Deeply moved by his daughters wretchedness, he was now characteristically bent upon show- ing her that, after all, matters might not turn out as she feared. 1 was obliged to put the whole mnatt~r before you to let you see the extent of the sacrifice (as you persist in viewing it) which might possibly be de- mamm(led, but to tell the worst is always to ex- clude much that is hopeful, something that is even probable. As I said before, William Blackburn is in no hurry to wed; nor, iii- deed, would it be fitting that he should be. Six months at the very least must elapse out of respect for his late wife. ishould insist, even if it were not his own desire, upon so much of delay myself. And in six months, why, you domit know what a man like me can compass, if he has but room to turn about in; you dont know what time can do, my child. 1 know what time has done for me, papa, sai(l Lucy bitterly, but fifteen months of time! Heaven help me! and then at last the silent tears began to foil. Mr. WaIler rose, stooped over her white face, and kissing her forehead, left the room without a word. He understood what his daughter felt, and perhaps even sympa- thized with her more than many a less sel- fish man would have done. The faculty of insight, untrammelled by the weakness of sentiment, had made Mr. Waller a strong man, and armed him for the battle of life. If in every case he did not know exactly what should be said, he always knew when he had said enough. Lucy sat where she was for hours, gazing vacantly before her, through eyes now tear- dimmed with the memories of the past, now coldly fixed in contemplation of the future; busy with the dream of what might have been, and with the harsh realities of what might be. One circumstance only, to which indeed her hither had alluded, though really with no other intention than to diminish her sor- row, by placing it at a distance from her view, gave her some spark of comfort. There was still time before her. William Black- burn had never actually proposed to her; and she knew him far too well to suppose that any delicate feeling with regard to his late wife had caused this reticence. There was doubtless some material reason which turned the scale with him in favour of delay; perhaps he was waiting to see in what posi- tion he would be left by his hithers will, and desired to hold himself in a condition to cry off, should circumstances induce him to look for a bride elsewhere. Never was reflection, so wounding to a young ladys self-esteem, so gladly entertained and cher- ished. CHAPTER XXXVI. MR. WILLIAMS AUTOGRAPH. SCARCELY had the young engineer passed out of sight upon his way to Curlew Mill, when the carriage bringing Mr. Waller and his dau~hter to spend the promised long day at the cottage made its appearance on tIme bridge. Stanhope saw it with satisfac- tion, as he stood at the dinin -room window ~iondering in his mind the communication he had just received, and in some doubt as to the course he should pursue in conse- quence. While his late visitor had been with him, Dentons earnest manner and pleading words had had more or less of weight with him, but his laissez aller nature was antagonistic to all press and prompti- tude, and now that he was alone, he al- ready began to think that the other might have overstated his case, through profes- sional enthusiasm, if not through pique, at his advice having been disregarded by his superiors, it was a serious thimmg to terrify the little household, with its prostrate head, by fears that after all might be without foundation, and he gladly welcomed the ar- rival of astute and practical Mr. Waller, as one who could give him good advice in such an emergency. 1 did not expect Miss Lucy would have inveigled you so early, said lie, when that young lady had gone up-stairs with Ellen to take off her out-side gear; but, as it hap- in the very nick oft pens, you are comne mine, for I want you to help me out of a difficultx. Everything of difficulty took with Mr. Waller a pecuniary shape; was it possible that this young man was so hard pos lied for money that he was going to ask a loan evemi of him, of ~vhmose emnbarrassmiments lie wmms doubtless not altogether ignorant? Of course he could have lent himn nothing; but it was disagreeable to him to have to refuse anything point blank. lIe therefore at once 16 A COUNTY FAMILY. began more suo to anticipate the catastrophe. Yes, 1 am earlier than I thought to be but the fact is there was a confounded fellow worrying me about a claim, which, just at present, it would be very inconvenient to Inc to satisfy; and I was really glad to get bodily away from him. There are some creditors who seem to be quite cannibalish, an(I readx to eat up one alive. The real explanation of his early visit was that he did not wish Lucy to come without him; notwithstanding her promise of the pre- vious night, he mistrusted her fortitude, and thought it best that she should have his per- sonal support in the society of Mr. William, whom she was now to meet for the first time as her acknowledged suitor. The business he had to arrange with that gentleman in the course of the day was exceedingly likely to bring matters to a head, and would in- deed have necessitated his yesterdays plain speaking to Lucy, had not the discussion about Denton led to the question by another channel. Dont talk to me of creditors, my good friend, said Stanhope laughing; its like speaking of ropes in the house of a gentleman who is to be hanged. But that reminds me we are not to be hanged in this house, but drowned, it seems. The em- bankmnent on Redmoor is far from safe, I hear; and the reservoir But there what a fool I am about all these business matters; why, now I remember, you are connected with that thing yourself. Connected with it, sir? said Mr. Wal- 1cr with a smile upon his shrewd face, that masked considerable trepidation; for if this news had really got about, it might have the same ill effect as the official inspection he had refused to permit. I am very glad to say I am connected with it, since the shares are at a high premium, and I hold a good sheaf of them. The reservoir, sir? Why, Le r~servoir cest moi. I am myself the chairman of the Board. Of course you are; I remember hearing you say so last year. An indifferent joke about the information having only gone in at one year to go out at another, was Mr. WaIlers reply. Ah, but I can tell you it is no laughing matter, WTaller. I do really believe theres something wrong. I never saw a man more earnest and confident in his manner in my life than Mr. Denton was this morning. Oh, Mr. Denton was your informant, was he? returned the other with irritation, yet secretly well pleased to find that the news had come from a source he was al- ready prepared for. You are not aware, I suppose, that that very young gentleman, who at best was only the locum tenens of a much abler and wiser man, now holds no official appointment with us whatever? He told me so much as that, said Stanhope; but I understood him to say he had resigned the post. it Well, ~ suppose he has a right to call a resignation, if he so l)leases, said Mr. Wailer coldly. But we should certainly not have retained him, even if he had wished it. I dont say that he is not an able young fellow enough, but he is too full of fancies for a profession so practical as he has chosen. Flywheel, who has a European reputation, (bite laughed at his Report last year; and I dont imagine that the six months iimterval has rendered him more logical and judicious. So he has been down here already, has lie, with that cock-and-bull story which lie told me yesterday? Well, ccsnsidering he is no longer in our employment, I think it would have been better taste in him to hold his ton(rue. What the deuce business is it of his, I should like to know? Nay, but surely it is his business, con- si(lering we live here in this swans nest upon the river itself; to let us know if he thinks the reservoir may come down upon us any morning, or even at night, which would be less agreeable still. My dear Starihope, said Mr. Waller, throwing his palms outwards an action which he had always found of service in con- vincing the mercantile community do. pray, let us take a reasonable view of this matter. Am I a practical man, and yet, I hope, not without some human feeling the sort of person likely to let life and prop- erty be endangered to the frightful extent to which it would be exposed if there was really any fear of such a catastrophe as you hint at? Why, my own place at Mosedale let alone this cottage, with its little host of friends would be among the first to suffer, for it lies low, and close to the river; and you will at least grant that I have a sharp eye to my own interests. Perhaps it is insured, answered Stan- hope laughing. I wish my mill was. There, now, you are treating the mat- ter as it deserves to be treated, said Mr. Wailer approvingly. The danger, I do solemnly assure you (and it must be added that the speaker believed what he said, be- cause he wished to believe it), has no exist- ence whatever, except in the brain of this sucking engineer. Still, it must have taken very firm root there, observed Stanhope, not quite con- vinced, for him to have ridden down here this morning, with no other purpose than to put us on our guard. A COUNTY FAMILY. 17 Are you quite sure he had no other pur- Yes, upon his own business. Moffat, pose, as he certainly had some other attrac- who cant get on with him, asks me occa- tion to this spot ? said Mr.Waller shrewdly. sionally to put this and that hefore him. For my part though, he added hurried- This was true; and Mr. Wailer knew that ly, of course there are exceptions I Stanhope was aware of it. For my part, dont believe in the disinterestedness of continued the former, I find little difficul young men. ty with our friend. And certainly of late Stanhopes colour heightened. Disin- he seems to me to be getting more practic- terestedness you think,then, is only a product able and like other people dont you of mature years, Mr. Waller P Well, that think so? is as it may be; but certainly men of your Within the last day or two there has, age have a better reputation for sagacity without douht, been a noticeable change in than your juniors. I suppose we must place him, answered Stanhope coldly, other- ourselves in your hands, and disregard this ~vise I should not call his manners concilia- young fellows warning altogether; else I had tory. certainly meant to speak to Mrs. Blackburn Mr. Waller smiled: he knew that his on the subjcct. companion was making reprisals for his late Mv good sir,, you would surely not allusion. have been so injudicious; it ,would have put Manners, rejoined he, are, after all, her beside herself with foolish terrors ; she but the result of early training, which is in would have been for getting her husband no case within ones own power. They may and the whole household out of the cottage make the man; but it is birth and acres at once, and placing them on the most dc- provided only that they are unencumbered vated spot in the conntry. She is far from which make the country gentleman. well, my daughter tells me, as it is; and, in- Talk of the devil, said Stanhope with deed, we are planning to take her away with irritation; here is Mr. William coming us to Mosedale for a day or two, if she through the bridge. could only be persuaded to leave Miss El- How are you, Blackburn? Good-morn- len in the sole charge of our sick friend. ing to you, cried Mr. WaIler cheerily. But one must give some reason for What sport have you had? What have Mr. Dentons having called this mornino you got? Yes, yes; but you may leave that to Nothing, grunted Mr. William, awak- me, Stanhope. It will be much better so; ing desponding echoes. because, you see, any reference to his visit Not even an appetite for luncheon P places you considering this gentlemans laughed Mr. WaIler. Come, let us hope pretensions in a certain quarter in a yoWve got that. Stanhope, here, was just somewhat delicate position. I will tell my remarking you would be pretty sure to be daughter, who is already acquainted with back at feeding-time. It is then that one Dentons ideas upon the reservoir matter, has best chance of fish. to inform Miss Ellen of the whole afThir. Oh, fishing is all rubbish. This old Then I wash my hands of the whole fool here took me to a place which lie said matter altogether, said the other, glad to would be like a stew-pond, and where he close the question. Never before had Mr. had dropped four quarts of worms, for Waller made dim ect reference to his young which lie charged two shillings; and there friends matrimonial schemehe was too wasnt a blessed fin. well-bred, or rather too much man of the Its all them poachers, Mr. William, world to do so, unless his own interest pleaded the professional amigler; they seemed, as now, to urgently demand it; comes up from Mosedale every other night and the allusion made Stanhope wince. Mr. in the week. Waller was made of sterner stuff. Its your business to catch em, sir, Where is our young friend, Mr. Wil- returned his master, or, at all events, to ham, to-day? in(luired he gaily. see that I catch fish. He is gone fishing down Mosedale way; But themi you broke the rod, Mr. Wil- I wonder you did not see him as you came ham, remonstrated the other, Mr. Rich- along. lie talked of being out all day; but ards rod, as has whipped Curlew for five I fancy hell be back at luiicheon-time. years, and killed ainost a ton of trout! I hope so, indeed, said Mr. Waller in- Never mind, Blackburn; spare the rod voluntarily, and taking out his watch. I and spoil the stream, says Solomon, oh- rather wanted to have a word with him be- served Mr. Waller encouragingly. fore the post goes out. Oh, I dont mind, said William sulk- Upon business? inquired Stanhope ily, whether Solomon said so or not. drily. Come, put me ashore here, old Ground- UVIG AGE. VOL. XIV. 628 I8 A COUNTY FAMILY. bait; which was done accordingly. Mr. Williams time was of course much too vale uable to be consumed in the foolish habit of hand-shaking, but he nodded graciously to both his friends. The idea, said he, appealing to their sympathies, of that fellows charging six- pence a quart for worms! Frogs are much dearer, my good sir, in France, said Mr. Wailer, who, notwith- standing his boast of getting on so well with his country gentleman, was always shooting over his head, and irritating him by opposition, when intending to conciliate him by badinage. Then all I can say is fools must be plentiful in France; and I never want to ~ro tI crc, growled Mr. William. Oh, then, he never has been in France, after all, thought Mr. Waller. Come, Ive pieked up something. A day will come, my young friend, yet, when I shall have von entirely under my thumb and he smiled upon him in the most genial and un affected manner. You have not come without Miss Lucy, have you P inquired Mr. William suddenly, and in a manner which, if complimentary to the person sought for, was certainly not courteous to the person found. No, no, said Mr. WaIler, smiling; I know too well nhat sort of welcome an 01(1 fellow like tue would receive at the hands of you young gentlemen, unless 1)0 brought some one else to recommend him. ,Ju~t so, said Mr. William bluntly. Where is she, then? The young ladies are up-stairs with your mother, observed Stanhope, speak- tug for the first time. Perhaps, before they come down, von had better get that business over, Waller, with Blackburn at least, I mean, don~t mind me: I can stay here among the roses. A proper place for such a pretty fel- low! said Mr. Waller. I am much obliged to you for reminding me of the mat- ter, which else I do believe I should have clean forgotten. Yes, I want to have a few words with you, Blackburn. Just come into the dining-room for five minutes, will you. Well, he alive, said William, when they had stepped within, and the other had carefully closed the glass door, for the fact is Iwant a cigar; and if I have ~one in any room of this wretched hovel, they make such a fuss about the smoke getting up- stairs. I hope you are going to tell me that that fellow Moffat is inclined to be less pig-headed? Well, yes; I think I shall be able to bring him round; though, without doubt, your fkthers condition makes matters un- commonly embarrassing. You have not got the money, then? said the other in a tone of disappointment. No, I have not got the money at pres- ent, said I1\Ir. Waller quietly. It is not about that that I wished to speak to you. It is about that bill. What! your bill? Oh, that explains matters. I thought you showed yourself deucedly interested in my affairs. Well, it fulls due to-morrow. You do not expect me to meet it, I hope? Well, I am afraid I must, Blackburn. And how the devil am I to (10 it? I tell you, if I gave you every fim.rthing I could scrape together, including the purse Ive saved for a little tling in London, which I am sure I deserve, after havin~ beemi moped up in a sick-house for half a year I say, even in that case (which I promise von is not very likely to happen), I could not muster such a sum. Mv dear Blackburn, said Mr. Waller, smiling, you could muster ten such sums with as many strokes of your pen. What! by signing my name? Oh, I daresay. Yotu have had one of my auto- graphs already, and that is enough. I tell you once for all that I will not lend myself to help you to another shilling unless I see my way to the quid pro quo. There was a long pause, during which the last speaker looked at the other significantly. The security you ask for is up-stairs, said Mr. Waller at last. I know that well enough, answered William; but I must have it here if not in my hand, at all events assured to inc. I have spoken to Lucy for you, Wil- liam I pleaded your cause with her only last night; upon my word and honour, I did. I dont doubt it, said the other coolly. I know you are upon my side in the mat- ter, because it is the side on which your bread is buttered; but it is not to gain you for a father-in-law that I am so particularly anxious, but to gain your daughter for a wife. When she herself has said to me, Ask papa, then I shall be satisfied. And that she shall do so some day, saiti Mr. WaIler cheerfully. Indeed, between ourselves, she has promised as much al- ready. Some day means nothin~, said Wil- liam resolutely. Lucy herself must tell me to-day that she is ready to become Mrs. William Blackburn. To-day! That is impossible, sir, cried Mr. WaIler. A COUNTY FAMILY. 19 Then I shall find it equally impossible to-day to put my name to paper, said the other with determination; and it seems to me that you cant wait. Mr. Wailers usually tranquil face was greatly agitated; anxiety and rage alike made prey of him. It was true that he could not wait; but he had had no idea that William also would be so urgent. When- ever the subject of his marriage had been hinted at beibre, he had shown no sign of impatience. It is a harsh thing, Blackburn, to de- mand to have my daughters answer from her own lips, under circumstances like yours, so soon. But my necessity, as you observe, is great and pressing. if you are really fixed in your resolve You need not say if. lam. Then I will ask Lucy, as a favour to myself, to waive those feelipgs of delicacy, which, though you do not seem to possess them, should actuate you far more than her. William stared at him with dogged won- der; he had no idea to what he was ailud- in~ the recollection of how short a time had elapsed since his supposed bereave- ment, did not even occur to him. I say I ~vill ask my daughter to forget what you have not chosen to remember; and to give you her promise, that when the fit tune comes, she will become your wife. The fit time returned the other fiercely; what the deuce do you mean by that? I think I have been put off and put off sufficiently long as it is ; but its no use iniuc- ing matters with v ou, I find. When she says yes, she must also name the day, sir: any day she pleases, of course; but it must be a pretty early one, I can tell her within six weeks at farthest. Six weeks? exclaimed Mr. Wailer angrily, for every moment of this mans companionship made the idea of his daugh- ters marriage with him more hateful, and the sense of his own helplessness more ail- ing. You must have lost your wits, Blackburn, as you have surely lost your memory. Do you know how many days it is since you were free to wed P William had risen from his chair, in to- ken that~ he had given his ultimatum, but he now sat hurriedly down again ; his face had turned deadly pale, and his brow was overspread with dew ; his tongue dave to the roe f of his mouth, and when he got it free, it was only to moisten his sudderdv parched lips. As he sat there, damp and venomous-looking, with protruding eyes, it come involuntarily into the mind of his father-in-law elect how like he was to that order of reptiles which is called Batrachian. I am glad to see at least that the re- collection of your late bereavement moves you, said Mr. Wailer gravely. Doubt- less your affection for Lucy may be some excuse for your oblivion of the past; but still, sir, these common decencies of life, or at least of good society, should never be forgotten. Your proposal shocked me as you saw; nor could it, believe me, fail to shock others also. To marry so soon after your wifes death, would not only provoke antagonism to yourself, but to Lucy, and would prevent her from being of that so- cial service to you with your neighbours, of which you stand so much in need. Nay, sir, I do not hesitate to say, that any such hasty marriage would provoke the most in- jurious reflections and inquiries respecting your late wife. How, it will be asked, did he treat her, and when and where But there, I see I have said enough, William. I am sorry to have pained you so, but your most injudlicious proposition left inc no al- ternative. See, there are the young ladies in the garden. Now, if you still wish to see Lucy Mr. William shook his head, No, no; not now another time. I dont feel well; the sun upon the river has made me faint and shaky. It always has the same effect upon me, said 1\Ir. Waller cheerfully. If you dont feel quite equal to run your eye over this little mlocumnent, Ill read it over to you. There; if you will be so good as to put your name where my finger is, in your usual handwriting, as much as you can, please. Dear me, you are shaky ! Thank you. And now, lets go out and join the ladies; I shall be glad to discuss that other little umatter with you whenever you please. But Mr. William was in no mood to join the ladies, and withdrew himself to his own room, perhaps for horizontal, more proba- bly for spirituous, refreshment; and Mr. Wailer himself remaine(l where he was, busy with his own reflections. Its my i)elief that fellows half-cracked, soliloquized he. If his heart was not soft enc(l just now, it must be his brain thats going. Alic ase is right enough: he wont last long. Gad, I almost think it would have been better to let him have his way, for, after six weeks time, there is no saving whether he may be alive. And yet I dont think I could ever let my dear girl marry such a creature even for a day. I am sure he treate(l that wife of his ill very ill, or his conscience would never have stung himn as it did just now. lies a bad fellow, and a deuced ugly one too, sometimes: he looked more like a toad than a man when I begami 20 A COUNTY FAMILY. to talk to him. Yes, my dear, Im corn- Theres something wrong about his late ing; and he kissed his hand to Lucy, wife, thats clear. I wonder whether the who was looking furtively towards the diii- screw lies there, after all, to which Master ing-room window. Well, ive got his Stanhope yonder applies his chisel with such name here for a thousand pounds, if they effect? What a lovely day you have pro- will only believe it is his name, arid thats vided for us, Miss Ellen, and how charm- a good mornings work, at all events. ingly your little bower on Curlew looks! WE have to record one of the pleasantest lit- erary discoveries that could have been made that of the private diary of Lord Palmerston. All his great contemporaries fi~ure iii it, and they are said to be drawn by a bold and mas- terly hand. This discovery will, no doubt, be turned to profitable use by Sir Henry Bulwer, who has been known for some time to have been occupied (with family sanction and assistance) on the bio,,raphy of the late statesman, which will be published by Mr. Bently. A little more than half a century has elapsed since Jane Austen died at Winchester, in her native county. This beautiful and accomplished woman was before the world as a novelist only from 1811 to 1817, whe~m she died, at the com- paratively early age of forty-two. But in those half-dozen years she became a leader in her pe- culiar class of fiction, beginning with Sense and Sensibility. After her death, her friends published her Northan0er Abbey a girlish effort which barely gave promise of something better. A Life of this once celebrated lady will be one of the biographies of the season. It will be in the very at~eptable form of a single vol- ume, and have for author the novelists nephew, the Rev. J. Austin-Leigh, Vicar of Bray, near Maidenhead. He will, probably, add to the fame of a lady whose last words were, I only want death. Sir Henry James has received orders to copy the Black Letter Prayer-Book, 1638, with its marginal MS. notes, by his photo-zincographic process. One hundred copies of this Prayer- Book will be printed for the Ritual Commission- ers, and sold by them. Gustave Dor6 and Blanchard Jerrold have been making a systematic exploration of London from the Isle of Dogs to Kensington with a view to a joint work on the metropolis. A graceful and accomplished writer has passed away in the person of the Hon. Emily Eden, sister to the late Earl of, and to the present Baron, Auckland (Bishop of Bath and Wells). To romantic literature Miss Eden contributed The Semi-detached House and The Semi-at- tached Couple. Her more recent work, Up the Country, showed that when travelling Miss Eden could see what she saw, which many trav- ellers fail to do. This lady was united with a far-back epoch, for she was the sister of Eleanor Eden, Pitts love, the object of his first and last passion. There really is nothing new under the sun. The paddle-wheel for boats is seen on the Assyi- ian slabs, and in more than one old European fresco. The bicycle seems to have been known in China more than two centuries ago, and the velocipede was probably seen even before that in Europe. Among the ancient painted glass in and about the once noble church at Stoke Pogis m~iy be seen the representation of a youn~ fel- low who is astride the mute but active horse: lie is working his way along with the air of a rider who has introduced a novelty, and is being looked at by admiring spectators. It is one of the most curious illustrations of ancient times iii the painted glass windows of this interesting church. The death is reported from Constantinople of the wife of KiaiThl Bey. This lady (the sister of two other remarkable women, the wives of the late Fund Pasha and of Cabouli Pasha) was considered the leader of the French party in Turkish female society. She spoke French flu- ently, and was a good musician: her daughters were brought up with the same accomplish- ments, and before marriage used to accept in- vitations to European balls, where they danced with young gentlemen. The wife of Cabouli Pasha is also distinguished for her accomplish- ments, and was the first Turkish lady who con- sented to be photographed, not only with the yaihmnah, but without. There is no reason to suppose that the example of these ladies and their few associates has any material influence on the opinions of men or women. There is, among many, a desire to profit by western im- provements ; but there is a strong desire to re- vive the glory of the empire on its ancient found ations. AthenHum. WHAT we may call the British Associations half-sister, the French Scientific Congress, will meet at Chartres from the 5th to the 14th of September. The attendance of Englishmen of science, and also students, is earnestly desired. There will be five sections of Natural History, Agriculture, Antiquities, Literature and Medi- cine. Papers on other subjects will be admis- sible. The President is M. de Caumont, of Caen, Normandy. Letters may be addressed to him, or to M. le Secrdtaire Gdu6rale du Congr~s Scientifique de France, Chartres. THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. 21 From Macmillans Magazine. THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TAtIA KANOF. BY W. R. 5. RALSTOx. MANY of the visitors to the Paris Exhi- bition of 1867 will remember a striking picture in the Russian section, representing the interior of a cell in the Petropavlovsky Fortress at St. Petersburg, during the great inundation of 1777. It is a picture which cannot fail to produce a strong and a very painful impression on all who see it. Through the broken window of the cell the turbid water is pouring in a great wave: the room is already half flooded, and will soon be completely subnierged. On the bed a young girl is standing, pale and evidently half fainting with fear, aud a number of mice are swimming towards it, or, like her, have already taken refuge upon it. The bare aspect of the dreary prison-chamber contrasts strongly with the richness of the yonng girls dress, worn and faded as it is, and so does the wild look of despair upon her face with the beauty of the features and the grace of the form of one who seems to have been fitted for far other scenes, for a widely different fate. Few of the spectators who saw this picture of Flavitskys turned away from it without a wish to know some- thing about the story which it illustrated, and which the catalogue informed them was known as The Legend of the Princess Tarakanof. That story we now purpose to tell. It has often been told before, but as far as English narrators are concerned always wrongly, and yet it is well worthy of being told aright. But its true nature has not very long been made known even in Russia. It was not till Alexander II. came to the throne that the papers were allowed to be examined on which the book is founded, and from which we are about to take our facts.* It is not wonderful, there- fore, that the old legend should not yet have been displaced in England by a true version of the story. The legend runs as follows. After the Empress Catharine II. had mounted the throne, she discovered that a rival, whose claims might become dangerous to her, ex- isted in the person of a Princess Tarakanof. This princess was the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth by her marriage with * The book was published last year at St. Peters. burg, under the title of Knyajna Tarakanova Printeessa Vladimirskaya. P. Melnikova [Priucsss Tarakanova and the Princess of Vladimir. By P. Melnikofl, but its substance had already appeared in some of the Russian periodicals. A (~erman translation of part of it has been published at Ber. un, under the title of Die vergebliche Tocliter der Kaiserin Elisabeth Petrowna. Count Razumovaky. She had been brought up abroad in great seclusion, and was living at the time in Italy. Catharine determined to get hold of her, and sent Count Alexis Orlof to Italy, on purpose to entrap her. He contrived to gain the confidence and to win the heart of the young girl, who was very beautiful and exceedingly charmino-. Having deluded her by a false marriage, he got her entirely into his power, indtscing her to believe that he was going to espouse her cause and make her Empress of Russia.. One day she went on board his ship at Leg- horn. At first she was treated with the honours proper to royalty, but was sud- denly arrested, loaded with irons, confined in the hold, and carried off to Russia. On arriving there she was thrown into a fort- ress, and treated in the most barbarous manner. Six years afterwards she perished in her prison, during an inundation of the Neva. Such is the legend. We pass on now to the true story. The Empress Elizabeth was of a very impressionable character. Early in life, some time before she caine to the throne, she fell desperately in love with a young officer named Shubine, and wished to marry him. But before the marriage could be brought about, he was suddenly arrested, and ban- ished to Kamschatka, by the reigning Em- press Anne. Elizabeth consoled herself as best she could, but she did not forget her former lover, and after her accession sent a confidential agent all over Kamschatka in search of him. For many months that officer travelled about the country seeking him in vain; all his inquiries were fruitless. No one had ever heard of such a name as Shubine. But at last one day, while he was talking to a group of exiles, he hap- pened to mention the name of the Empress Elizabeth. Is Elizaveta Petrovna now on the throne? asked one of them. The officer replied in the affirmative, but the exile seemed to doubt the fact, until he was shown an official document in which Eliza- beth was named as Empress. If that is the case, said the convict, the Shtsbine whom you are asking about is standing be- fore you. Elizabeths long-lost lover was found at last. On his arrival at St. I~etersA burg Elizabeth received him very kindly, matle him a major-general, aiid conferred various other honours upon him. But the years he had passed in exile had produced a great change in him. Ilis bodily health was shatteretl, and his thouahts had turned to religion, and especially to its ascetic side. He soon retired from the cotirt, and before long he died. Ilis last days were spent in the country, on an estate which the Empress 22 THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. bad given him. There, in the village church, are preserved to this day a costly picture of the Saviour and a precious relic, both presented by Elizabeth to her former lover in remembrance of her early attach- ment. After Shubines banishment Elizabeth had turned her attention to another lover. In the same year with herself, in 1709, a certain Alexis Razum had conic into the world, the son of a simple Cossack in Little Russia. As the young Alexis grew up, it was discovered that he had a magnificent VOice. an(l he became one of the choristers in the village church. There he was heard one day by an agent collectin~ singers for the ilul)erial chapel, by whom he was at once transfi~rred to St. Petersburg, where Eliza- beth saw him, and took a fancy to him. As soon as she mounted the throne she began to confer on him the first of a long series of honours. Tue young Cossack Razuin soon became the great noble Razumovsky, Count of the Roman as ~vell as of the Russian Em- pire. in the year 1744 the Empress first made him a field-marshal and then married him. From that time till the end of her life he bore himself very discreetly, and never lost his influence over her. After Eliza- beths death, the Empress Catharine II. sent Count Vorontsof to ask Razumovsky to produce the papers bearing on his mar- riage with her predecessor, and offering to confer on him the title of Imperial Highness. Yorontsof went to Razumovskys house, and found him sitting in an armchair by the fire, and reading the Bible. After the usual compliments Vorontsof explained the cause of his visit. Razumovsky did not utter a word, hut silently rose and opened a cabinet, from a secret drawer in which he produced a packet of papers enveloped in rose-coloured satin. These he began to read, still keeping silence; when he had finished reading them he raised his eves, which were swimming in tears, to the sacred pictures which hung overhead, crossed him- self devoutly, and threw the papers into the fire. Then he resum d his seat and began to speak. According to his account the late Empress had never had any relations with him beyond those of a monarch with a devoted subject, and the story of the mar- riage was nothina but an idle leaend. For himself, he wished no more than to end his days in prayerful seclusion. There can be no doubt, however, that the marriage really took place, and that two children were the fruit of it. Of these, one was a son of whom nothing certain is known, but tradition relates that he lived till the beginning of the present century, shut up in a distant monastery, and always bitterly lamenting his unhappy lot. Of the daughter more has heemi ascertained. Of her early life nothing is known, but in 1785, when forty years old, she was sent by the Empress Catharine II. to the Ivan- ovsky convent at Moscow. There she lived for some five-and-twenty years, leading so secluded a life as to see scarcely any one b~ond a few priests. A private corridor and staircase led directly from her cell into the convent church, and so she could go into it unseen. When there, mass used to be said privately for her, and on such occa- sions the church (loors were closed and no strangers were admitted. The curtains behind the windows of her cell were always drawn; and if any of the passers-by loitered near and tried to look in, they were imnmne- diately driven away. There has been some slight dispute as to the date of her decease, but her tombstone states that she died on February 4, 1810, in the sixty-fourth year of her age. The Governor of Moscow and the other great officials attended at her funeral in full uniform, and the crowd of lookers-on was enormous. She was not buried in the cemetery of the convent in which she had lived, but in that of the Novospassky monastery. It is a fitting resting-place for one who had led a quiet life, for it is a very quiet spot, although lying close to one of the large streets in the outskirts of Moscow. The graves seem somewhat huddled up together, and have rather a neglected look, but there are trees which throw a pleasant shade on them, and in the fine weather of spring and early summer the birds sing pleasantly and flow- ers grow around in profusion. Even an acknowledged l)rincess might find a worse place to sleep in. So much as regards the real Princess Tarakanof, of whom but little has been written. Now for the pretender to the title, on whom much ink and sympathy have been expended. Abodt the year 1771, a certain Van Toers, the son of a 1)utch merchant, fled from Ghent, where he left a wili.i and several creditors, and took up his residence in London. With hiumi caine a Madame Tremonille a lady who had been living in Berlin under the name of Franek, and in (ihent under that of Schdll. She is said to have been very beautiful, although with a slight cast in one eye ; and as she was both clever and accomplished, and had a singu- larlv fascinating mnanner, she succeeded in charming most of the persons with whom she was brought into contact. She and THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. Van Toers lived in great style in London, but before long fresh creditors obliged him to leave Eugland. In the spring of 1772 be appeared in Paris, under the title of the Baron iEmbs, and thither he was followed, a few months later, by Madame Tremouille, who now began to call herself the Princess of Vladimir. Her story was that her parents, with whose name she was unac- quainted, had died while she was very young, and that she had been brought up in Persia by an uncle. This uncle was taking care of her property, which was of fabulous value, and she herself had come to Europe for the purpose of looking after a rich inheritance which had accrued to her in Russia. Alma, as she called herself, spent the winter of 1772 very pleasantly in Paris, where she added greatly to the number of her admirers and of her creditors, promi- nent among the former being Ogiuski, the Polish Ambassador, with whom she became closely allied. But before long Van Toers again became crippled by debts, and in 1773 he had to fly with Alma and some of her friends to Frankfort. Even there his creditors persecuted him, anti he was put in prison. Fortunately for Alma, there arrived just then in the city a very foolish sovereign, Prince Philip Ferdinand of Liin- burg. The fair foreigner was introduced to him, and almost at the first interview completely won his heart. He paid her debts, and treated her with such royal Inag- nificence that she soon deserted her other admirers for him, and in the beginning of June 1773 she left Frankfort and went with him to his castle in Franconia. There she led a life of luxury and ex- travagance which exactly suited her, and there she discovered for herself a new family history and provided herself with a new title. She became now the Sultana Alma, an(I as the daughter of a Turkish Sultan was styled Princess of Azof; moreover she founded the Order of the Asiatic Cross. A little later, however, she explained that she was only a lady of Azof, not the princess of that country, and that she would soon be recognized in Russia as sole heiress to the property of the house of Vladimir. Meanwhile the Prince of Limburg became more and more infatu- ate(l with her, and at last asked her to marry him. She consented, and it seemed as if after all her wanderings and adven- tures a quiet and enviable life was about to open before her. But about this time a young Pole named Domauski began to make his appearance at Oberstein, where the Princess of Vladi mir was then holding a kind of court, and before long she was in close correspondence with several of the Polish nobles, especially with Prince Charles Radziwill. Poland was then smarting under the injustice of the First Partition, and Ra(lziwill was taking an active part in the proceedings of the Polish committee into which the leading members of the late Confederation of Bar had formed themselves. The ~uccesses gaine(l in the east of Russia by Pugachef the insurgent chief who pretended to be the Lmperor Peter III. had raised the hopes of the Poles, and they were anxious to take advantage of them in order to set a western insurrection on foot. how far their advice may have swaye(l the action of the Princess of Vladimir is not known, but before long rumours began to spread abroad to the effect that she was no less than rightful heiress to the throne of Russia, being the legitimate daughter of the late Empress El~abeth by her marriage with Count Razumovsky; and that Pugachef, who was the Counts son by an earlier mar riage, was her half-brother. XVith an imperial crown in view no wonder that she disdained the merely pri.~cely coronet of the ruler of Limburg, and in the spring of 1774 she left him, never to return. From Germany she went into Italy, set- tling down for a time at Venice, where, under the name of the Countess Pinneberg, she set up a kind of little court. She lived in the house of the French Resident, spent her money freely, and allowed herself every indulgence. 11cr principal visitors were Poles, but the captains of two Turkish fri- gates, Hassan and Muhammad by name, were often at her receptions, and so was a well-known English traveller who had a strong taste for all manner of eccentricities Edward Wortley Montago. After a time she determined to go to Constantino- pIe, with the idea of trying to persuade the Sultan to support her claim to tIme Russian throne. Accordingly she and all her~court embarked on board one of the Turkish ves- sels, the commander receiving her with the greatest respect, and treating her as a royal personage. The ship set sail, but contrary winds drove it to Corfu, whence its captain determined to return to Venice. Several of the followers of the Princess went back in it, entreating her to accompany them; but she would not do so. They left her, and she embarked on boamd another Turk- ishi vessel, and a second tinie set sail fom~ Constaiitinople. But a second time a storm arose and the ship was obliged to take re- fuge in the harbour of Ragusa. In that city the Princess took up her habitation 24 THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. being lodged there, as before at Venice, in ess whose cause he had pretended to es~ the house of the French consul. The pouse so long as she seemed likely to be French king was said to look with no un- useful to him. But when asked to betray friendly eyes on her opposition to the Em- her, he utterly refused. That act of base- press Catharine. ness he left for Orlof to perform. But he At Ragusa the Princess matured her did not shrink from leavin her at Ragusa plans. By way of confirmation of her alone and without resources. story, she now produced certain documents From Ragusa the Princess went to Na- of a very suspicious nature, amongst them ples, where she made acquaintance with the the wills.of Peter the Great and the Em- English ambassador, Sir William Hamilton, press Elizabeth, on which she founded her through whose influence she was enabled to claim to the throne of Russia. She also obtain a passport, witls which she ijumnedi- wrote a letter to the Sultan, suggesting an ately set off for Rome. There she lived for alliance with him against Catharine, and some time, giving herself out to be a noble saying that Sweden and Poland were willing Polish lady, and professing to wish to lead to take part in it; and she sent the Grand a life of great seclusion, making few ac- Vizier a copy of the letter, which she asked quaintances, and never going out except in him to forward to her half-brother, Pugachef. a carriage with closed windows. The truth She did not know that Pugachef was at that was, her health had bcgun to give way, and moment a fugitive, soon to be betrayed to for a time she really did lead a quiet life in the Russian general; nor did she suspect acquIescence with her doctors advice; but that her friend Radziwill had given secret so uncongenial a mode of passing her time or(lers to his agent at Constantinople not to did not long satisfy her. Meanwhile, she forward the letters she sent to his care for was not unmindful of her interests. An- the Sultan and the Grand Vizier. nouncing herself as a penitent schismatic In her letter to the Sultan, the Princess desirous of entering the Roman Commun- spoke of an address which she had coinmu- ion, she tried to make friends at the Vati- nicated to the Russian fleet at Leghorn, can. At this time there was no Pope at That fleet was commanded by Count Alexis Rome, for a successor to Clement XLV. had Orlof, and it was to him that she addressed not yet been elected. Cardinal Albani was herself, sending a letter to him which she talked of as likely to be chosen, and the entrusteil to the care of Mr. XVortley Mon- Princess was very anxious to obtain an in- tagu. Iii it she called upon Orlof to es- terview with him. At last, on January 1, pouse her cause, styling herself Elizabeth 177,3, one of her Polish companions managed II., Princess of Russia, and distinctly claim- to convey a letter from her to the Cardinal, ing the throne as hers by right. Orlof re- who sent an abb6, named Roccotani, to ceived the letter with delight, and immedi- confer with her. On him she produced a ately seIlt it on to the Empress Catharine, very favourable impression, and even the telling her that he intended to enter into CardiImal, in spite of the state of pre-ocen- communication with his correspondent, and pation in which he then naturally was, that as soon as he could get her on board could not help being interested in the fair his ship he would sail straight away with convert, who explained that she was likely her to Cronstadt. to become the Enipress of Russia, and Catharmne sent word to Orlof to get hold would do her best in that case to wean back of the pretender at all risks, even telling her subjects from the errors of schism. But him if his own account of the matter may she succeeded only in getting a sismall amount be taken as correct that he was to bomn- of niomicy from him. Further assistance he bard Ragusa in case the senate of that re- would not give, nor would tIme Polish Resi- public rethsed to give her up. On the re- dent at Rome, who treated her with marked ceipt of this letter, Orlof sent an agent ~o coldness. As she had taken once more to make inquiries at Ragusa about the Princess leading an extravagant life, keeping some Elizabeth, and was about to proceed there fifty servants, arel opening her rooms to a himself with his squadron, when he learned large circle, chiefly persons of artistic tastes, that she was no longer there. By this time she was soon in want of umoney. In her dis- her affairs were in disorder, and her pros- tress she bethought herself of Sir William pects sadly overelouded. Peace had been Hamilton, and wrote him a long letter ex- concluded between Russia and Turkey, and plaining her claims to the throne of Russia Pugachef had been taken prisoner and ex- lie r present impecunious position, and the ecuted, so that Catharine was freed from absolute necessity of her borrowing a little her most serious apprehensions. Radziwill, money. This letter alarmed the English seeing that his l)lans were no longer practi- ambassador, who had imo wish to comprom- cable, abandoned the unfortunate adventur- ise himself in the eyes of the Russian au THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. 25 thorities, and he determined to make amends for his error in obtaining her passport. So he sent on the letter to the English consul at Leghorn, Sir John Dick. Throughout the whole of this story our countrymen figure to little advantage. Sir John Dick plays a very sorry part indeed, but he had always been on very friendly terms with the Russian authorities, and es- pecially with Orlof, who procured for him the much valued decoration of the Order of St. Anne the only instance of a Russian decoration being conferred on an English subject in the eighteenth century. Sir John Dick seems to have been ready to do anvthin,~, for Orlof, and at once handed over to him Sir William Hamiltons letter. Up to this moment Orlof had been unable to trace the movements of the victim he was hunting down. Now he knew where to find her. A few days later he was able to send word to the Empress Catharine that one of his officers, Khristenek by name, had been sent to Rome to try and induce the pretended Princess to leave that city, and to place herself within reach of the arm of Russia. A few days later an English banker named Jenkins introduced himself to the Princess, and offered to open an unlimited credit at his bank for her. At first she thought he came from Sir William Hamilton, but he explained that his employer was Orlof, to whom he had been recommended by Sir John Dick. A vague suspicion flitted across her mind, and at first she refused the tempt- ing offer. About the same time a stranger had been observed curiously gazing at the house she occupied, and asking questions about its inmates. She immediately sus- pected that he was a Russian agent, and she sent to Cardinal Albani to ask for pro- tection. But the stranger presented him- self to her, and explained that he had been sent by Orlof to proffer her his services. At first she told him, as she had told Jenk- ins, that she did not require them. She justly suspected danger, and she kept her- self aloof from the toils. But, unfortunately, it was only for a time. A few days later she yielded to the temptation, listened to Khristeneks advice, and, in accordance with it, set out to meet her doom. About the middle of February, after having had her debts paid by Jenkins, from whom she also borrowed 2,000 ducats on her own account, she set out for Pisa, where Orlof was anx- iously awaiting her. On her arrival, he re- ceived her with the greatest respect, had her magnificently lodged and entertained, and treated her as a royal personage. The suspicion she had felt at first with regard to his sincerity soon vanished, and before long she believed in him implicitly. A little later she learnt to love him also. Nor is that to be wondered at, for Orlof was one of the finest and handsomest men of his day, and a consummate master of the art of mak- ing love. Intriguer and adventuress as she was, the Princess was entirely taken in by his feigned attachment, and abandoned her- self to him with as enthusiastic a devotion as if she had been an artless and inexperi- enced girl. Orlof played his part well, and refused her nothing. Rely ing on this, Khris- tenek was guilty of the unexampled base- ness of asking her to obtain for him his pro- motion to the rank of colonel. She con- sented at once, and he received his com- mission from the hands of the unfortunate woman whom he had helped to betray, and whose doom he now felt was sealed. After a few days, which she passed very happily, Orlof told her that he must leave her for a time. His useful ally, Sir John Dick, had written to tell him that his pres- ence at Leghorn was absolutely necessary. The Princess tried to induce him to stay in Pisa, but he told her that it was imnpo~sible. In that case, she said, I will go to Leghorn with you. Orlof wished for noth- ing better. At last, he felt, she was on the point of being in his grasp. The morning after her arrival at Leghorn, Orlof sent a message to Sir John Dick, to say that he was coming to dine with him; and in the afternoon lie appeared with Admiral Greig and several other friends. With him came the Princess, who was re- ceived with the greatest apparent respect by the consul and his wife. In the evening she appeared at the opera, where she was naturally the centre of attraction. Every eye was turned towards her, and to almost every spectator her position must have seemed a most enviable one. They little knew that she was then standing on the threshold of a dungeon. The next morning the English consul en- tertained his Russian friends at breakfast. The Princess was the queen of the feast, every one striving to do her honour, and none, it is said, moore than Lady Dick and the wife of Admiral Greig. After break- fast the conversation turned on the subject of the Russian ships, and the Princess ex- pressed a desire to see them. Orlof sug- gested that she should pay his vessel a visit, and she consented at once. The Admirals barge was got ready, and the whole party embarked in it. In a short time Orlof had the delight of seeing his victim set foot up- on the deck of his flag-ship. It was a beautiful day. The waters of 26 THE LEG~END OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. the bay were calm and bright, and the whole spectacle offered to the poor adventuress was very gay and enlivening. The people flocked to the shore in crowds expecting to see the fleet execute some of the man- ~uvres to which Orlof had accustomed them, and pleasure-boats came off to the ships in numbers. The Russian vessels were decked out with flags, their officers appeared on deck in full uniform, their crews manned the yards, and, amidst the roar of cannon and the cheering of the sailors, the doomed woman was received on board the vessel of her betrayer. She was in high spirits, and thoroughly enjoyed the brilliant spectacle got up in her honour. A little time passed, and then the vessels be- gan to maneuvre. The Princess stood looking on in silence. Suddenly she heard a harsh voice dem~ uding from her Polish followers their swords. She turned, and saw that Orlof and Greig ha(l disappeared, and that in their place stood a tile of soldiers under arms, whose commanding officer was in the act of arresting her friends. What is the meaning of this? she asked. You are arrested by order of the Em- press, was the reply. The terrible truth suddenly flashed upon her mind. She fitinted away, and during her state of insensibility she was carried down to the cabin. 11cr followers were re- moved to another vessel. When she recovered her senses, and ask- ed for Orlof, she was told that he also was a prisoner, and was thus induced to believe that he was sharing her fate. She fully trusted in him and in his love for her, and he was anxious that she should not be un- deceived, for he foared that she might coin- mit suicide if she lost all hope, and he was very desirous of gratifying Catharine by providing her with a living victim. Mean- while the news of her imprisonment had spread far and wide., and the greatest in- dignation was produced by it in Leghorn. Some of the boats which surrounded the Russian ships, in spite of the threats of the sentries, got near enough to the Admirals vessel to enable their occupants to see the pale hee of the unfortunate prisoner at one of the cabin windows. The story of Orlofs audacity and treachery became known at Pisa an(l at Florence, and the Grand Duke of Tuscany protested vigorously against the act of violence committed within his realm. But tIme hessian Court paid no attention to his protests. The day after her arrest Orlof went to see Sir John Dick, and asked for some books for the Princess to read. He looked pale and excited, said the English consul afterwards and he well might be. The next day the Russian fleet put off to sea, but Orlof set off for St. Petersburg by land. This was in the second week of March 1775. Before very long the fleet arrived off Plymouth, and remained at anchor there for some little time. It was during this stay in Encrlish waters that the poor woman whom Orlof had betrayed first learned his perfidy. Up to that moment she had remained toler- ably calm, always hoping that he would manage to rescue her. But at last, while the vessel lay in Plymouth harbour, the full truth was revealed to her, and she was made aware that Orlofs love for her had been feigned throughout; that lie had all along been merely leading her on to her fate, and that he had now gone to Russia in order to claim his reward for having ensnared her. And this was the man who had professed such devotion to her, whom she had so fondly, so blindly loved. After the first stunning influence of the shock had passed away, she made a desperate attempt to es- cape. An English vessel was lying along- si(le the Russian man-of-war on board of which she was confined, and she tried, but tried in vain, to get to it. Then she at- tempted to fling herself into the sea, and was only withheld from doing so by force. On two or three different occasions she tried to drown herself, and at last Admiral Greig was obliged to quit Plymouth Roads sooner than he had intended, so nervous was he about the proceedings of his now desp~rate prisommer. On the 29th of April the Russian fleet reached the Sound, and on the 22d of May cast anchor off Cronstadt. On the 4th of June an officer named Tolstoi was sent for by the Governor of St. Petersburg, Field- Marshal Gahitsin, and, having been sworn to eternal secrecy on a copy of the Gospels, was sent to Cronstadt to receive Admiral Greigs prisoner, and to convey her to the Petropavlovsky fortress at St. Petersburg. Silently, by night, the vessel which bore Tolstoi on his errand dropat down to Cron- stadt. During the ensuing day that officer remained in concealment on board the Ad- mirals flag- ship. The following night, while all on board the surrounding shipping and all the inhabitants of the neighbouring shores were fast asleep, his vessel silently made its way back up the stream to St. Petersburg. Before tIme sun rose on the 6th of June Tolstoi had handed his prisoner over to the commandant of the Petropav- lovsky fortress, who conducted her to one of the casemates in the Alexief ravelin. During the month of June the nights are 27 THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. delicious as St. Petersburg. The air is full of a kind of magic light, and long after the sun has sunk beneath the horizon, and long before it reappears, the sky is tinged with delicate pink and amber hues on which the eve is never tired of gazing. Seen from tfine opposite side of the river, the waters of which are bright with reflected li~ht and colour, the fortrcss, with its long, low walls, and its tall and graccful spire, rises dark against the eastcrn sky. Very dark and dreary it must have seemed then to that un- fortunate woman, who, just as the sunlight began to Ml on the gilded domes and spires of the sleeping city, passed within the gran- ite walls of that prison-house from which she was destined never to emerge. As soon as Catharine heard that her enemy was at last in her power, she ordered her to be subjected to a close examination, in hopes that some light might be thrown upon the intrigues with which she had been connected, and the stipposed conspirators of whom she had been the tool or the ally. Accordingly Prince Galitsin examined and cross-examined her and her fellow-prison- ers for her Polish followers were also lodged in the fortress, though not allowed access to her but without arriving at any satisfactory result. She maintained that she did not know who her parents were, that she had been at first brought up in Kiel, but at nine years old was taken away into the interior of Russia, where some one gave her poison, from the effects of which she suffered for more than a year; that she was then sent to Bagdad, where a rich Per- sian took charge of her till she was eleven, when she was removed to Ispa- han, where she passed under the care of a Persian prince, who told her that sl~ was the daughter of the late Empress Elizabeth of Russia. That at the age of seventeen the Prince took her to Russia, and thence to Germany and England. That she spent two years with him in Lon- don, and afterwards ~vent to Paris, anml that she soon afterwards met the Prince of Lim- burg, to whom she became betrothed. All these statements she repeated many times, and it was found impossible to obtain any other story from her. This obstinacy on her part so greatly irritated the Empress that she wrote to Gahitsin, telling him to have recourse to rigorous measures in his treatment of the prisoner. Accordingly he gave orders that she should be put upon prison fare, and have only just as much of that as was necessary to sustain life; that her servant-maid should be denied access to her, and that an officer and two soldiers should be stationed day and nim,ht in her cell. These orders were carried into ef- fect. For two days and two nights she un- derwent the indignity of being continually watched by guards, who never quitted her for a moment. All that tune, too, she passed without taking food; for the gruel and cabbage-soup, which were served up to her in wooden bowls, were so revolting that she could not touch them. Meantime her health became rapidly worse, the cough from which she had been suffering for some time increased, and she began to spit blood. At last, by signs, she managed to explain that she wished to send a letter to the Gov- ernor, and writing materials were supplied to her. On receiving her letter, which commtaiimed a pathetic appeal to his feelings an(l those of the Empress, Gahitsin p id her a visit, and again t.ried to extract some in- forimiation from her as to her accomplices, hut without success, although lie went so Ear as to threaten her witii extreme ~ueas tires. On leaving her cell lie told her that she must not expect any mnitirations of the hardships she had lately emidured, though in reality his heart was touched by her sufferings. Galitsin was a man of more than usual kindliness, and could not bear to see a young and attractive woman one, more- over, accustomed to an easy and luxurious life exposed to such sufferings and sueh indignities as she had to undergo. She was also evidently in a state of such physi- cal and mental prostration, that her life did not seem likely to be much prolonged; and so, in spite of the distinct coimimamids of the Empress, he found himmiseif incapable of continuing the rigorous mneasures which had proved so fruitless. Before quitting the fortress he gave orders that the severity of her treatment should be mitigated, amid that the sentries should no longer be sta- tioned inside her roomn. Meantime her two Polish fellow-prison- ers had been examnimmed by Gahitsin, and every means taken to obtain some useful confbssion from them. One of them, Domnanski by name, declared that it was merely love for her that had made him fol- low in her train, and that even now, if she would marry him, lie should comisider him- self the happiest of mcmi ; even though he had to spend the rest of his liEs in a prison. Some hope seems to have beemi held out to him of the possibility of such marriage, and Gahitsin suggested the idea to time Princess if ~ve may be ahlowed still to give her that title but she treated it with contempt, saying that Domamiski was far too con- temptible and uneducated a man for her to think of as a husband even if she were not 28 THE LEGEND OF THE PRINCESS TARAKANOF. bound by her plighted troth to the Prince of Limburg. Galitsin then tried to obtain I a confession from her by promising that, if I she would say what her origin really was, she should be allowed to go hack to her be- trothed in Germany. For a time she seemed to waver in her denial of all knowl- edge of her history, and promised to send Galitsin a full account of herself; hut when the paper which he thought would contain it arrived, there was no new information in it. Whether she really h~d none to give, or whether she distrusted Galitsins prom- ises, is not known. All that is certain is that nothin, more was ever learned from her respecting her former career. Ahout this time, tradition states, Orlof came to see her, and a stormy interview ensued. The story is not at all prohahle, and it is to be hoped that it is not true. But what is certain is, that a little later, in the month of Novemher, she bore her be- trayer a son. The child was christened in the prison, and it is said that it thrived, and eventually grew up to mans estate, and became an officer of rank in the Russian service. Anyhow, its mother did not long survive its birth. Her strength had alto- gether given way under her sufferings. For she had suffered much, and yet had been treated with much of the old severity. The soldiers had been brought back into her room, in spite of the pathetic appeals she made to the Empress, saying, as she well might, that the constant presence of men beside her shocked her womanly na- ture. The consumption which had seized on her made rapid progress, her cough be- came worse and worse, and at last she lay (lown to die. A priest was sent for, who exhorted her, as upon the threshold of the grave, to make full confession of her sins against the Empress. But she still main- tained that in this respect she was not to blame, and the priest at last left her without giving her absolution. On the 15th of December, 1775, she died, carrying with her to the grave the se- cret of her birth. Tbe next day the sol diers, some of whom had stood by her bed- side till she drew her last breath, dug a deep hole in the ground within the walls of the fortress, and buried in it the body of the unfortunate adventuress. No funeral rites were performed over her grave. Catharines revenge was complete. Two years later occurred the terrible in- undation of 1777, when the Neva rose to such a height that the casements of the Petropavlovsky Fortress were submerged under its waters. In spite of the secrecy which had been preserved with respect to the so-called Princess, rumours had got about that a daughter of the Empress Eliza- beth was kept in confinement in the for- tress, and after the inundation a story gained credence that she had been for~otten or intentionally deserted in her cell, and so had been drowned by the rising tide. Two years more passed by, and the cell in which the adventuress died received an- other inmate. This was a young Guards- man named Vinsky, who had become com- promised in some political conspiracy, and who was ultimately exiled to Orenburg. While occupying his prison-quarters in the fortress, he amused himself by deciphering the inscriptions which previous inmates had left on the walls. One day he observed some writing on one of the panes in the window, and on closer inspection he made out the words, 0 mio Dio! which had evidently been scratched with a diamond on the glass. The warder told him that they must have been the handiwork of a young and beautiful lady, who had occupied the cell four years before. This was the last trace which remained of her existence, un- less a little mound be taken into considera- tion, which, as late as the year 1828, was still visible in the garden of the fortress, and which was said to mark the spot where, at the end of her restless and wasted ca- reer, Orlofs victim found repose. Who she really was, and what was the secret of her early life, are problems which to this day remain unsolved. LORD PALMERSTONS Diary iswritten inahand besides, something more. A scene between the only a little less firm and graceful than Wal- writer and the Duke of Wellington, when Mr. pol& s, but it is quite as legible. It is not a Huskissons dismissal or his being retained was mere record of facts, but a gallery of pictures in dispute, is of the very highest and finest style and sketches, in all of which are clearly to be of serious comedy: graphic, dramatic, and so seen the style of an accomplished master. It is, life-like that the actors seem bodily before us. THE SECRET OF LADY BYRONS LIFE. 29 From The Pall Mall Gazette. THE SECRET OF LADY BYRONS LIFE. TILE new number of Macmillans 1lJiag- azine contains an article of deep and pain- ful interest, in which Mrs. Beecher Stowe undertakes to explain the mystery of Lady Byrons married life and the cause of her final and absolute separation from her bus- hand. As is well known, Lady Byron re- fused to make any specific public statement on the subject during her life, or, indeed, any jiublic statement whatever, beyond that wrung from her in defence rather of her hiarents than of herself by the harsh and ungenerous perversions of Moores biogra- phy. In h~r brief letter to Moore she said simply that her father and mother had noth- in(~ whatever to do with her departure from her husbands roof; that she left him by his own express desire, conveyed in writing, and under the impression that he was in- sane; that his sanity being attested on evidence she could not doubt, she felt that his conduct rendered it impossible for her to return to him. Indeed, all that she told her family, when imparted to Sir Samuel Romilly and Dr. Lushington, led her legal advisers to the conclusion that Lord Byrons errors might be condoned and a reconcilia- tion eflected. It was only when, upon Lord Byrons refusal to agree to a separation, Lady Byron herself went to Dr. Lushington, and told him the whole story without reserve, that he assented to her view that duty to God and man alike demanded a separation, and declared it to be impossible for him, either professionally or otherwise, to take any part in again bringing together wife and husband after what had taken place. Lord Byron, for reasons which have been variously construed, was equally vague. While confessing in general terms transgressions on his own part, he en(lea- voured, at first by innuendo and afterwards more openly, to ascribe his rftin to the cold treason of the heart, the harsh fixed rules and principles of his moral Clvtemnestra. lie died with an inarticu- late message to his wife upon his lips. Although the drift of opinion has been on the whole against the poet, Lady Byrons nobly patient and pious life exercising a iiatural intluence in her favour, it is obvious that the slender facts which alone were known were callable of very various inter- pretations, and left abundant scope for con- troversy of every kind. Macaulay prob- ably summed up the judgment of most impartial men when lie said that there was not before the world, substantiated by credible or even by tangible evidence, a single fact indicating that Lord Byron was more to blame than any other man on had terms with his wife. Lady Byrons legal advisers had no doubt pronounced against her return to her husband, but then they had heard only one side of the story, and, without impugning Lady Byrons veracity, it was not difficult to conceive the possibili- ty of misconception on her part. It cannot be said that the various letters and memoirs which have since been published throw any additional light upon the subject. The Countess of Guicciolis hook is only the special pleading of a mistress for her lover, and the biographies which have been given with the poe~~ have in the main a(lhere(l to the line of Moores defence. Dr. Lushing- ton, till now the only known depositary of Lady Byrons disclosures who snrvives, has always ~naintained a rigid silence; and it seemed as though t.he secret would be kept at least for soiiie time longer, if niot for ever. For our own part we do not know that if it had never been divulged there would have been any reason for regret. The question is one which might willingly have been let die but for the indiscretion of the poets a(hinirers, who could not refrain from spreading ernel insinuations and im- liutations against others in their eagerness to vindicate his character. In 1856 a cheap edition of Byroiis works was in preparation. It was to be accom- panied by a biography of the poet, giving the story of his domestic life in the version of his friends. This was brought under Lady Byrons notice, and she was urged by some of her friends to consider whether she had not a responsibility to society for the truth, and whether she did right to allow these writings to gain influence over the popular mind by giving a silent consent to what she knew to be utter falsehoods. In her perplexity and embarrassment Lady Byron bethought her of taking counsel with Mrs. Beecher Stowe, who was then on her second visit to England, and with whom she had previously formed an intimate acquaint- ance. It was her desire, we are told, to recount the whole history to a person of another country and entirely out of the whole sphere of personal and local feelings which might be supposed to influence those in the country and station in life where the events really happened, in order that she mi(rlit be assisted in determining whether a it was her duty to declare the full and abso- lute truth, at whatever expense to her own feelings. The interview had almost the solemnity of death-bed avowal. Lady Byron recounted the miserable experiences of her married life, her husbands alternate moods of gentleness and fury, and then the 30 A GLANCE BACK AT A PRESIDENCY. terrible hour of revelation an hour when, in a manner which left no kind of room for doubt, she saw the full depth of the abyss of infamy which her marriage was expected to cover, and understood that she was expected to be the cloak and the ac- coml)lice of this infamy. Previous to his marriage he had fallen into the depths of a secret, adulterous intrigue with a blood relation, so near in consanguinity that dis- covery must have been utter ruin and ex- pulsion from civilized society. Even when Lady Byron knew all she would neither leave nor betray him. Hence two years of passionate convulsive struggle, in which sometimes the o od angel seemed for a mo- ment to gain ground, and then the evil one returned with seven-fold vehemence. The wretchedness of this period was attended with perpetual pecuniary troubles. Ten executions for debt were levie(l in the house, and each time settled by the wifes fortune. Lord Byron argued his case with himself arid her, with all the sophistries of his powerihi mind, repudiating Chris- tianitv as authority, and asserting the right of every human being to follow out what he called the impulses of nature. 11cr answer to his corrupting theories of marriage as a friendly alliance to cover licence on both sides was simply, I am too trnlx- your friend for this. Thus rose in his breast impatience of his wife as a restraint, hatred of her as conscience. The on manIc brutality with which he treated her just be- fore the birth of her child, and afterwards, telling her, for instance, suddenly of her mothers death a falsehood invented on the moment and finally, ordering her (leparture as soon as she was fit to quit the house, seemed to justify suspicions of his sanity. For a long time before this she had seen little of him. On the day of her departure she passed by the door of his room and stopped to caress his favourite spaniel which was lying there ; and she confessed to a friend the weak- ness of feeling a willingness even to be some- thing as humble as that poor little creature, might she only be allowed to remain and watch over him. She went into the room where he and the partner of his sins were sitting to~ether, and end, Byron, I come to say good-by, of ferina at tIme same time her hand. Lord Byron put his hands behind him, retreated to the man- telpiece, and, lookin~ round on the three that stood there, with a sarcastic smile, said, When shall we three meet again? Lady Byron an- swered In heaven, II trust. And those were her last words to him on earth. only her own Ada, but the offspring of this hideous intrigue. Even the partner of her husbands guilt afterwards experienced her gracious and loving influences, and from a death-bed looked to her for help and conso- lation. In Byron himself she had unshaken faith through all. How could you love him? some one asked. Mv dear, she said, there was the angel in him. One day she was sure the angel would conquer. She made allowance for his defects of con- stitution anil training, and especially fbr his gloomy Calvinistic proclivities, and had no doubt of his repentance and re(leml)tion. Such is the story which Lady Byron con- fided to Mrs. Stowe, and which the latter now feels hound to publish in answer to calumnies lately revived and multiplieti. That we have here the reason which caused Lady Byron to refuse all communication with her husband cannot he doubted, but how far her belief in the story was justified by facts or was a mere hallucination we are as far from knowing as ever. Dr. Lushing- ton, perhaps, knows more, and some day mmiay choose to tell it. From The Spectator. 1848-1851: A GLANCE BACK AT A PIIESI- DENCY. * THERE is not a more obscure or forgotten period of modern history though it is not a quarter of a century behind us than, in the life of the leading Continental nation, that of the three years all but ten days which extend from 1)eceinber 10, 1848, to I)eceinber 2, 1851, the period of Louis Napoleons constitntional Presidency. The coup d~tat itself and its surroundings have beemi shown in lurid light by writers such as Victor lingo and Mr. Kinglake, but it would seem as if the very glare of that light threw into shade both the preceding and following years, but more especially the for- mner. Every one remembers the February revolution, the Provisional Government, the ,Jnne slaughter, the Cavaignac dictatorship, the vote of December 10, amid yet all these events fall within less than ten mouths of time. The three following years are for maux- almost a blank. A vague imupres smon has remained that the Reds were xciv fierce and dangerous, the Parliamimentary headers very small and incompetent that the Par hiamnent meant to have upset time President, and the President upset the Parliamnemit. Yet to the last the good woman was full * Der Achf ce/i etc Brumaire (1cm Louis llommapcmrte. Von Karl Marx. Zweite Ausgabe. llammibmmrg of faith and love. She tended fondly not Meissner. lt~9. A GLANCE BACK AT A PRESIDENCY. 31 In the absence of a more detailed history (the materials for which are hardly yet ac- cessible), Dr. Karl Marx has rendered the political student a real service in reprinting his Louis Bonapartes Dixhuit Brumaire, originally, as he tells us in the preface, published in 1852 in a German-American maga zinc, and now reissued in its original shape, with only a few corrections of the press, and with the excision of a few no longer intelligible allusions. At a time when Louis Napoleon is apparently return- ing to the practice of a constitutional poli- ty, nothing can be more apposite than the exhibition of the mode in which he formerly carried out such practice. The exhibition, is, indeed, one by no friendly band. Dr. Karl Marx, since those days of 1848 when he edited the Neuc Bhiein- isehe Zeitung, with Engels, Freiligrath, Las- salle amongst his fellow-workers, has been a leader of the German Social-Democratic party, and especially since the publication of his (cruelly unreadable) work Das Capital, has been looked upon as its most learned thinker. In a note to the latter work lie asserts, indeed, that Lassalle bor- rowed from his writings, without indicating the source, all the general theoretical posi- tions containe(I in the economic works of the latter, adopting even Dr. Marxs termin- ology. An able, laborious, sharp-witted sharp-tongued man; bitter in thought, hit- ter in words; never blinded by favourable prejudice towards any; too really learned to bc merely cynical; too cynically-minded to make a really fruitful use of his learning; altogether a characteristic, clear-cut spe cm- men of the modern German Reds, in whom righteous disbelief in the worlds idols is not yet completed by righteous belief in aught higher ; whose only capacity therefore, whose only task is destructive; whips and scourges in the hand of One whom, and whose wor- ship, they seldom, if ever, name but to sneer at. It would give, however, an altogether false impression of the value of Dr. Marxs work, if what has been said above led the reader only to look upon it as a virulent pamphlet. It is real history, full of thought, and with all the leading facts ably and clearly massed, whilst the absence, as above nOtO(l of all favourable prejudice, whether as respects parties or individuals, gives to it a positive, though acrid impartiality. Though in his Miadre de la Philosophie Dr. Marx did his best long years ago to quench the then growin~ fame of Proudhon, he now readily t1uotes the insult which the lat- ter flung at Ledru Rollin and his exiled friends : Vous ndtcs que des blagucurs. Exchange banks and co-operative associa- tions are alike contemptuously dismissed as doctrinaire experiments, and nothing can exceed the bitter disdain with which the writer repeatedly speaks of the Mon- tagne. And the importance of Dr. Marxs work as contrasted with such pieces of rhet- oric as Napol6on he Petit consists (as the writer himself indicates in his preface) in the fact that whilst V. lingo represents the coup ddat almost as a thunderclap from a clear sky, Dr. Marx seeks to show how the struggles of classes created circumstan- ces and relations which enabled a mediocre and grotesque personage to play the part of a hero.~ As the Bourbons, he says elsewhere, were the dynasty of a large land-ownership, as the Orleans were the dy- nasty of money, so are the Bonapartes the dynasty of the peasants Not the Bonaparte who submitted to the Bourgeois Parliament. but the Bonaparte who drove it asunder, is the elect of the peasants. Dr. Marx divides the nearly four years which elapsed between the February revo- lution and the coup d~tat into three periods: 1st, the February period proper, lasting till the meeting of the Constituent Assem- bly (February 24 to May 4,1848); 2nd, the period of the Constitution of the Repub- lic, or of the Constituent Assembly (May 4, 1848, to May 29, 1849) ; 3rd, the period of the Constitutional Republic, or of the Leg- islative Assembly (May 29, 1849, to De- cember 2, 1851.) At first the President has nothing to do but to let others work for him. Under the Barrot-Falloux ministry the Roman expedition is undertaken, be- hind the back of the Assembly and in the teeth of the Constitution. The party of order shows him how to appeal to the people against the Parliament by organizing a sys- tem of petitions throughout the country praying the Constituent Assembly to dis- solve itself speedily, how to overawe the Parliament itself by a display of military force. Amongst the organic laws of which it procures the postponement is one for the enforcement of the responsibility of the President, which, by a (livine irony, the Legislative Assembly was only engaged in discussing in 1851, when the coup d~tat cut short its babble for ever. By May 8, 1849, he feels himself already strong enough to reply to a vote of censure on the Ministry for Oudinots occul)atiOn of CivitiX Veechia, by a complimentary letter to the General, inserted the same evening in the Moniteur. When the Legislative Assembly meets, the first direct attack upon the President is warded off by the party of order itselfi. e., Ledru Rolhins proposal to impeach him and 32 A GLANCE BACK AT A PRESIDENCY. his Ministers for the Roman expedition is removed from Paris, and throws up bi~ (June 11, 1849), followed on its rejection new appointment in disgust, whilst Chan. by various impotent demonstrations on the gamier only replies by a solemn order of part of the Mountain, the flight of Ledru the day. Rollin and some other leaders, the trial of On the 12th of November the President others before the High Court of Bourges, sends to the Assembly a long message, and the renewal of the state of sie~e in Pa- warning them that France desires, above ris, Lyons, and five departments whilst all things, rest ; declaring that, hound Bonaparte profits by the occasion to post a by one oath only, he will keep within its Pecksniffian proclamation on the walls of Pa- narrow~7 hounds, hut suggesting a rev is- ris, complaining of the calumnies of his op- ion of the Constitution. Towards the end ponents. During the recess, from August of the year, the Assembly, on the applica- to October, 1848, he begins those tours tion of the minister of justice, dismisses the through the departments which lie has since too zealous Yon. In January, the hul- so often used to restore the prestige of his wark of order, the renowned Changarnier, rule. By Novem her 1 he surprises the As- is himself dismissed by a new ministry. In sembly through the sudden dismissal of the vain the party of order combines tempo- Barrot-Falloux Ministry, as having failed rarily with the Mountain in a vote of want in proper consideration for him, and forms of confidence in the Ministry in rejecting a cacinet of all hut non-entities, one only a new civil list. The new majority is again excepted, whose acceptance of office Se- broken up through the proposal for the re- cured the favour of the haute finance, vision of the Constitution, resolved almost Fould. Still, he lets the dominant party of into its elements through the fusion man~u- order rule pretty nearly at its will, bidding vres between Orleanists and Legitiinists, only for personal popularity by proposals and the l)roposed candidateship of the Prince for increasing the pay of non-commissioned de Joinvihle. The announcement by the officers, or for gratuitous loan-banks for President (10th October, 1851) of his eso- the workmen, allowing without complaint lution to restore universal suffrage estab- the passing of the law of May 31, 1850, lishes an open breach on a popular questiun which, by requiring three years domicile as between him and the Assembly, which, by a condition of the franchise, to he proved a fatal vote of 355 to 348, rejects a bill by the employer for the employed, struck brought in for the purpose by the Ministry, off three millions of voters, and accepting a thus finally alienating the masses. rebuff in the reduction by nearly a third of On the 25th November, at the giving- a civil list of three millions of francs which away of the prizes won by French exhihi- he had applied for, the grant itself being tors at the first London Exhibition, the limited to one year. But in the recess, the President inveighs, amidst thunders of ap- President hetakes himself once more to his plause, against demagogues on the one departmental tours, this time in greater hand, and monarchical hallucinations on the state, and surrounded by members of the other, and promises rest for the future Society of the 10th December, founded amidst an equal storm of bravoes. This the previous year in honour of his election, was the last warning of the catastrophe now now organized with a Bonapartist General near at hand, of which Dr. Marx truly oh- for its head, evidently a standing menace serves that if any event ever cast its again st republican freedom. He dissolves shadow before long prior to its coining, it mt indeed on paper, on a denunciation by was Bonapartes coup d~f at, proposed by Yon, the Assemblys police commissary, of him to Chargarnier in ,January, 1849, de- a section of the society as having plotted the nounced obscurely by Odillon Barrot in the murder of General Changarnier, and of Dim- summer of that year, openly by Thiers in pin, the President of the Assembly. But the winter of 1850, proposed again to Chan- he has already taken the first steps towards gamier by Persigny, in May, 1851; threat- the corruption of the Army, by treats of ci- ened over and over again at every new gars, champagne, cold fowl, and sausages, storm in Parliament by the Bonapartist first to officers, and non-commissioned ofli- journals, the talk of all Paris in September cers at the ElysSe, then to soldiers at St. and October which preceded it. Maur, at Satorv. To the cry of Vive Dr. Marx is right. The coup detat of lEmpereur! already raised on his pas- December 2, 1851, was hut the logical re- sage in the departments by the Decembrists sult of the years preceding. And if under responds that of Vive Napoleon vivent les the new r~gime of the Parliamentary Em- saucissons! from the cavalry, at the Satory pire, the struggles of parties are as barren, review (10th of October); and General as impotent, as insincere as those which ate Neumever, whose infantry defiles in silence, out of the soul of the Parliamentary Repub HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. lie, they will end in like manner by a blow, but scarcely, next time, from above. Sausages and champagne may prepare a despotism; they cannot restore one. From The Coruhull Magazine. HENRr QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. IN tbe days of Henri Quatre, the nobles were everything in France, and nearly all of them were discontented. The Leaguers were vanquished and suspected, and conse- quently turbulent; the Huguenots consid- ered themselves abandoned, perhaps be- trayed, and were, therefore, indignant; and the Feudalists the Epernons, Mont- mnorenevs, and Bonillons those men who had played precisely the pam~s of the old Dukes of Burgundy and Bretagne during the religious wars, were restrained and dis- gusted. henri could depend on none but the men he had made, and, as l3iron proved, not always on these. here were excellent materials, then, for sedition. While Spanish policy provided one skilful to organize the mischief, in the person of its ambassador, the quarrels between the Queen and the great mistress the Mar- chioness of Vernenil supplied the oppor- tunities. Mary de Medici was a bitter, jealous woman; nor did she find any lack of busy- bodies to keep these qualities from rustino. In fact, she made the King wretched at home; and his mistress did not fail to render him just as miserable abroad. The Marchioness had drawn a ridiculous prom- ise of marriage from Henri during his bach- elor days, and though she had herself failed to fulfil its one queer condition, she insisted that the King should be bound by it just the same. Affecting, therefore, to consider herself as the rightful Queen of France, she omitted no opportunity of denouncing Mary de Medici as the usurper; and the Florentine, well in- formed of this, retorted with right good- will on the insolent pretender. Each lady bewailed her wrongs, asserted her rights, and scolded the King in terms so coarse and offensive that the chivalrous henri confessed more than once to a strong inclination for boxing both their ears; and as neither could obtain the repudiation of her rival, each concentrated her wrath on the head of the unfortunate monarch. Now, as both the one and the other had her knots of devoted and unscrupulous adher- ents, and used them pretty freely, too, in LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. 629 intrigue and plot, Henri was kept for the rest of his life in a very lively state of corn- motion. Thanks to her children, the Queen retained her position to the last; but the Marchioness became at length so intolerable that her children were with- drawn from her control, arid herself in a great measure disgraced an event which merely unbridled the dangerous qualities of the most dangerous woman in Europe. Henri, however, could not exist without a mistress, and there were innumerable candidates for the place, and munch excite- ment among the supporters. There was no politician of any standing, no dowager of any pretence, no intriguer of any note who had not a beauty to arlvance. The brother of the Chancellor, Sillery, brought out one, and Mesdames L{agny and Chain- livet, near relatives of Sully, paraded others; but the courtiers generally dis- dained to offer even this slender sacrifice to decency. Montinorencys and Tr~mouilhes, Turcnnes and Rochefoucaulds they en- gaged in the dishonouring compctition with as munch effrontery as La Varenne himself. Among the crowd of pretty starters, Jac- queline de Benil, representative of the boudoir of the Dowager Princess of Cond6, was for a long time the favourite. And for a time she looked as certain to win as favourite ever did. But on thmis, as on many another celebrated occasion, a com- plete outsider upset all calculation; and this was how it happened: Madame de Sourdis, aunt of Gabrielle dEstr6es, had gathered great wealth as the chaperone of that lady. Since her nieces death, she had never ceased prowling about in search of another such proteg6e. While thus employed, she ninarked the rare prom- ise of Mademoiselle de Montmorency, the youngest daughter of time rough old Con- stable, and quietly took measures for secur- mug this child of fifteen as her daughter-in- law. The Constable the best rider, most unlettered gentlemarm, and, in some re- spects, greatest sinner then in France was easily persuaded; and, had the Coun- tess been anything less notorious, she might not have fimihed. But, as it hap- pened, the courtiers were soon aware of her proceedings. There was no mistaking her design; and all were virtuously indig- nant; but nobody more so than the Mont- morency dames. And the chief of these the veteran l)uchess dAngonl~nie who, by the way, had long been at her wits end for a beauty capable of holding her own against Jacqueline de Benil promptly in- terfered. The arrangements were nearly completed between the Constable and the 3a 34 HENRI QUATRE AND TilE PRINCESS OF CONDE. Countess when the Duchess appeared on the scene. Haughtily chiding her relative, who had not a word to say for himself, and the intrignante, who had a great deal, Madame d Angou l~me tore up the docu- inents, distributed a little lady-like abuse, and carried off her niece to court. The new belle was altogether peerless. Some were as graceful, others as perfect in form, and one or two of even brighter in- telligence but there was not one so be- witchingly natural. Not that the purely natural is always bewitching. Society, in- deed, would hardly be tolerable were it not so largely artificial. Still there are individ- uals to be met with, from time to time, whose unrestraint is the perfection of love- liness l)COPle whose looks, reflectincr their teml)erament, realize at all ages Dantes conception: La bella creatura, Bianca vestita, e nella faccia quale Par tremolando mattutina stella. The creature fair, The white-robed one, within whose features shone The tremulous beauty of the morning star. And Charlotte Marguerite de Montmuorency was one of these. Sons le cid ii nq avait lors rien de si beau (under heaven there was nothing so exquisite), says Bas- sompierre, and there could not have been a better judge. Early in the winter of 1608 the Queen gave one of those splendid entertainments half banquet, half spectacle so corn moii in the palaces of the period. The ballet was, as usual, a bewildering jumble of Pagan, Jewish, and Christian mythology; hut it was none the less effective, seeing that it was got up regardless of expense, and that the characters were supported by the choicest beauties of the court. In as- signi rig the parts the King wished to include one of two ladies of light repute an(l ex- clude the other; so did the Qneen. But as the one detested the individual that the other favoured, and neither would give way, there resulted a serious quarrel. The Queen, of course, carried her point, and Henri ab- sented himself from the pageant. In re- taliation, his amiable consort persisted in repeating her ballet much oftener than was requisite, and, of all places in the world, in her lords ante-chamber. To show his ap- preciation of this delicate attention, Ilenri carefully averted his eyes whenever lie .was compelled to pass the performers. Delight- ed with this, and determined to be as mis- chievous as possible, the latter ranged themselves one day in close order right across the passage; Henri, in spite of him~ self, was brought to a halt vis4t-vis with the Montmorency. After some very pretty mockery of military exercise, the damsels, attired as Amazons, raised their javelins and attitudinized as if about to hurl them. This, of course, they did not; but the exe- cution was none the less. henri was pierced to the heart, and, to use his own words, pensa sevanouir on the spot. lie was led away and deposited in his fiantenil; but whether overcome by love or gout to both of which he was very subject is a matter that we shall not attempt to determine. Whatever thc cause, lie cer- tainly was laid up for several weeks. The ladies crowded to comfort the interesting invalid, and among the most assiduous was Madanie dAngoul~mae, attende(l, of course, by her beautiful niece. henri was the best talker of the day full of racy anecdote, shre~vd remark, and hearty wit with un- cqualled experience of heady fights and hairbreadth escapes, and the capacity of a Scott for describing them; and lie did his ntiiiost to entertain the pair succeedino so effectually that, to her dying day, some forty years later, the younger lady delight- ed to review these conversations with a hero. Not long before Henri had very seriously resolved to abandon gallantry for ever. In return his confessor, Father Cotton, pro- raised him a fair share of heaven, and Sully a very tolerable slice of earth. The great Minister had long devoted himself to the moulding of France into a formidable engine of war; and now that the thing was (lone France being protentously strong, while all the States around were lamentably weak the calm powerful intellect drew henri from his dissipation, much as a skilful hand an- sheaths a trusty blade; and, showing him the means and the opportunity, laid before himii a plan of conquest contrived and calcu- lated to the minutest detail. Of inca, stores, money, and allies, there was more than enough; gold by the ton lay iii the treasury; the magazines were overflowing; one army was even now gathering under the Alps, another beneath the Pyre noes, an(1 a third along the llhim ie ; tire Pope was bribed from open opnosntiori; all the Pro- testant I~owers were warm allies ; there was nothing wanted but a reasonable excuse a thing soon to be expected or easily made and then Woe to the vanquished Ilabsburgs henri kindled at the l)rospect of such muagnificent war and triumph. Glory for the time assumed the sway; and under its influence lie forswore rather hastily dogs, dice, building, and beauties. HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. 35 But this good resolution lasted no longer he always fleeced the right man, as in this than the interval between the old love and instance and never betrayed the wrong the new, and evaporated under the glances woman, not even in the case of the younger of the Moutmorency. At first, indeed, sister of Madame de Vernenil. True, she Henri talked of platonics, fatherly affection, made noise enough about it, courting pub- and that sort of thing; hut his deeds told lie sympathy, engaging in lawsuit after law- quite another story. Tailors, jewellers, I suit, and, though defeated, calling her.~lf poets, and painters were soon at work by Madame Bassompierre to the end of the royal order as they had never heen before. chapter. But this affairone that would Court life became a ceaseless revel in honour have ruined any other gallant merely ad- of the new divinity. And equally in her ded to Bassompierres renown. Lie had, honour the white plume was reset, and the indeed, a way of doing ugly things that was threadbare grey of Henri heretofore the infinitely engagino; and he ruined people most slovenly monarch in Europe ex- with such well-bred ease and graceful mag- changed for all the glitter that had charac- nanimity that the very victims could not terized the costume of the gallant Fr ncis. help admiring. So adroit was he in pluck- In a week or less he was all his old self, and ing his flower, and so successful in avoiding platonics were thrown to the winds. By the thorns; so clever in shunning awkward this, too, Malherbe had produced an ode, scenes, and still more awkward meetings - every line of it a days work for he was seldom or never figuring in a duel or as the the most fi~stidious of word-builders ; and butt of a bravos aim, things that cut short the King and a chosen few that is to sax, so many promising careers in those days four or five score went to sing it under the that he hecame quite proverbial; every man ladys window. It was late, but she rose; that (Iressed or duped in neater style than and in reco~nition of the honour, appeared his neighbours being pronounced a Bassom- on the balcony tout ~ckevel~e, with torches pierre. And yet this social meteor would blazing at either side. The King looked have been as duly and as utterly forgotten up and saw her more beautiful than ever, by this time as the rest of his worthless tribe, and swooned away. Jesus, quil est had he not had th~ fortune to be connected fou! muttered the lady. Rather more of with people who distinguished themselves a rogue, say we, xvho have no faith at all in otherwise than by repartee and raking. this swoonng of a greybeard, and, as slang After all Mademoiselle de Montinorency has it, 50 01(1 a hand. The trick, hoxvever, did not wed Bassompierre. The thing was served its purpose, and it was well seconded arranged, indeed; but certain jealous churls by a thousand others. Glittering presents, notably the J)uke of Bouillon, uncle of too, fell around her in some such shower the lady wakened the monarchs jealousy as overwhelmed Danae; and, in no long of the dashino gallant, and pointed out a time, a sufficient impression was made to more eligible ~arty. This was the young warrant the first great step in this all-absorb- Prince of Conde, and no greater contrast ing affair the ladys marriage. This xvas to Bassompierre could well he found. The rather a delicate business. A Montmorency one was everything that the other was not. could not be treated like a Benil and xved Bassompierre was large, handsome, good- to time first need~ scamp that offered. No: humoured, and hearty; the Prince was hit- her husband must be, as our neighbours the, meagre, sullen, and fierce, with sharp across the channel phrase it, nobhe and pinched features, and un blond ardent. The respectable qualities rather (hifficult to former was a superficial debauchee; the find in unison with certain others, not less latter was strictly moral, and had solid essential in this instance. But fortune, knowledge enough for a professor. Unlike always favourable to Henri, had already Bassompierre, time Prince was a good horse- 1woviled him with the requisite paradox in man, a first-rate shot, and an ardent chas- tIme person of Bassomupierre. seur; aiid equally unlike Bassompierre, lie Bas~onmpierre, then a young and favour- was shy and awkward in society, amid had ite courtier, was essentially a man of not a particle of gallantry in his composi- pleasu~e. lie h:md a fine person, (lresse(1 tion. Besides this, line was notoriously \V( 11 ~d good things, and was remarkably I poor, arid dependent on the Crown ; xvhmihe I u t play a luck, by time way, that mis mother, who exercised much influence xx m m1rerougblx- appreciated by himself as over him, was ready to (10 everything to U utr(rs. Come, said the T)uchmess of secure the royal favour. Just the man one (la~, take lOOU() hivres a year, said Henry eagerly. He will occupy m 1 1)1 y no more within time i)nke. Not hinmself within time chase, and heave liner to be I in ( plied the exquisite, 1 should lose too the consol tiomi an(l amusement of uin~ age. munch by the bargain. He had tact, for But Condb was in no haste to wed the 36 HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. beauty; and when he did consent it was only in accordance with the advice of his friends, especially thc historian 1)e Thou, and swayed by weighty reasons. Though first prince of the blood, his title was not undisputed. A frightful scandal had cloud- ed.his birth. The previous Cond~ was as- serted to have died a double victim; and the preseut Prince had been I)orn in prison and brought up there, a nameless child until his seventh year until, in fact, chiefly through the ceaseless and most disinterested efforts of De Thou, he had been pronounced a true Bourbon. This had taken place in 1.595, and the Prince was now twenty-one; and his uncles, Conti and Soisons, were ready at the first fkvourable opportunity to contest the award which rendered him head of their house. Nor, as things stood, was such an opportunity at all unlikely to pre- sent itself. An alliance, however, with the powerful Montmorencys would place him beyond their reach. United to a daughter of that great house, even the Crown itself would hardly venture to revive attainst him the scandal of the page Belcastel. As to the perils that attended the union these were not small. Nobody attached much value to Henris declaration when Condo questioned him on the point: You may wed her without any suspicion on my ac- count. Had there been no better guaran- tee, one romantic episode would have been lost to the history of France. But De Thou, the chief adviser in this matter, knew the stubborn temper of his prot6g6 that he would never play the facile husband. And he knew, too, that however the Montmor- encys and their haughty kindred might ap- pear to bow before their monarch, their frelings would be all in revolt, and indi- rectly they would aid the right. Nor was this all. Coronation was in those days as indispensable to King and Queen as bap- tism to Christians. Now Mary de Medici had never been crowned. Each new pas- sion of Henris, therefore, shook her on her uncertain throne; and she was continually in apprehension of the grand one that was to topple her out of it. Dc Thou was sure of her. And he was equally sure of the vindictive mistress. Besides, there were Huguenots, Spaniards, and Jesuits, all very powerful, all apprehensive of the projects of the monarch and Sully, and all eager for such an opportunity to thwart these projects as a broil between Henri and the Prince on such a delicate point would be sure to fur- nish. On the whole, great as was the power, small the scruple, and strong the passion of the King, De Thou considered it possible to baffle him should things come to the worst; and as the object was worth risk, the marriage proceeded. it took place on the 17th of May, 1609, and before a fortnight had passed all I rance was in uproar. Henri, says the 1)uc d Aumale, in his recent book, forgot all that he owed to himself, all that he owed to a prince of the blood, his own near relative, and to whom he should have stood in the place of a father. This love, which every- thing commanded him to stifle, was exhiib- ited before all the world. Unable to sepa- rate himself from its object, lie sought to please her in a thousand ways. F bough heretofore so simple, almost negligent, in his costume, he became the veriest fop of the day. Nay, further, to decoy this young wife, he did not scruple to resort to dis- creditable manmuvres. Great was the scandal. Coarse pheasantries flew about among the populace, who as lEtoile re- ports spoke only too freely of his Ma- jesty, and of the corruptions and the vil- lammies of his court. The pulpit, too, adopted the theme virorousl~~ Every preacher became a Nathan fur the nonce; and sermons on the text of David and Uriab transmitted the scandal to the re- motest districts. Nor was this domme merely on the spur of the minute, or with a view to the interests of faith and morality. Three-fourths of the French clergy were bitterly hostile to henri. They distrusted his conversion, and dreaded his relapse to the last; and they devoted themselves, heart and soul, to the Spanish King, whom they regarded as the champion of the Church. The League had awakened these loyal gentleman to a sense of the power they might exercise over affairs of State, and they did not soon forget the lesson. During the whole of Henris reign, they were ready to exhibit his vices and himself to the contempt and hatred of all good Christians, on the slightest signal from Rome or Madrid. And that signal was not now withheld. Nor while they pandered thus to the gross tastes, and stimulated the angry passions of the mob, did they neg- lect the parties chiefly concerned. Every present the King made, every attention he paid, every tortuous step lie took in this matter, was minutely reporte(l to the Queen. Sully endeavoured to calm her, but without success she was quite furious. The Prince, too, was indignant, and showed it; but as yet made no violent display. So long as careful surveillance could suffice, he confined himself to it. The obsessions, however, quickly at- tained such dimensions that he felt himself compelled to demand his conge. The HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. 37 request was badly received. Then fol- lowed a warm discussion, in the course of which Condf~m happened to drop the word tyranny. Henri seized the excuse. Tyranny! he cried: tyranny! Yes, I have perpetrated one such act in my life when I caused you to be recognized for what you are not. Cond~ withdrew in wrath. Meeting Villeroy on the stairs, he was detained and questioned concerning his excitement by that remarkable cunning Minister. The Prince gave a short ex- planation, adding with natural warmth, Rather than submit to such treatment, I will be divorced. This was duly re- ported in the proper quarter, where it was manufactured into a formidable aux- iliary at the proper time. For a day or two Henri did much to justify the remark that had excited his fury. He wrote to the Constable, informing him that son gendre fasoit le diable: a piece of news that in nowise disturbed old Montmorency. And he informed Sully, in a simii~ar note, that the Prince was certainly possessed; adding that the Minister was to withhold the next quarters payment of the demoniacs pension. Henri, however, was not the man to play such a spiteful part for any length of time. In a few days the financial order was can- celled, and the Prince allowed to retire to his Chateau of Valery, near Sens, without hindrance. The Kings infatuation now displayed itself more glaringly than ever. Henri be- took himself to violet robes and long faces, indulged in sighs, threw himself by the hour under melancholy boughs, and kept poor Malherbe employed day and night in the manufacture of doleful ditties. He manifested, indeed, all the signs and tokens of extravagant affection; and he took good care that every item should be told to the Princess. All the world thought him de- mented; and Spain, especially, took mali- cious pleasure in calculating that this last worst passion would withhold him from en- teprises dangerous to his neighbours, until he had degenerated into absolute (lotage. But Henri was not quite so bewitched as most people fancied. In the midst of all this foolery, Sullys great plans were pushed vigorously. The newly-opened German difficulty concerning the Duchies of Juliers and Berg was made the most of. Clever diplomatists were busied, like moles, every- where across the frontiers, and the last touches were given to internal arrange- ments. Henri had even ordered the armour in which he intended to take the field. And all this passed well nigh un- noticed under cover of the great scandal. Nor was it thus only that Venus played in- to the hands of Mars. Henri burned to present himself before the Princess decorat- ed with glories of the freshest hue. For, to say nothing of those gathered at Cahors and Coutras, the laurels of Amiens, Arques, and Ivry were growing sere. And thus, far from paralyzing his ambition, this mad passion was stimulating it to the most dan- gerous activity. The Condbs reappeare(l among the court- iers at the marriage of the Due (10 Von- d6me, but or~v for a f~~v (lays. The pas- sion of the King was as lively, his proceed- ings as unscrupulous, and the pleasantries as impertinent as ever. The Prince there- fore retreated quickly with his wife to his hold at Valery. Thence the King did his utmost to tempt them, and not without effect, though not precisely of the kind in- tended. They left Valery, but it was to take up their quarters at Muret, rather farther off, and suspiciously convenient to the frontier, in Picardy. Long as was the rotite, Condb contrivetl to lengthen it by at least one half. Aware that his movements were closely watched, and perpetually apprehensive of being intercepted, he took his measures accordingly, modifying his itinerary at every stage, striking off into all sorts of byways and bridle-paths, and taking a thousand other precautions, but not a single one too many, against surprise. He reached Picardy in safety towards the end of September, just as the hunting sea- son fairly opened; and he made his well- known inclination for vinerie a pretext for frequent change of residence. French sportsmen of that era were wont to hold high festival on St. Huberts day, and M. de Traigny, governor of Autiens, was, or assumed to be, an ardent upholder of such good old customs. To his chateau, then, in the neighbourhood of Bretenil, gathered for the fete all the noble chasseurs of the province, and among thorn Condb, accompanied of course by his Princess. His mother, whom some new rebuff had disgusted with the court, looked after the latter while the Prince was at the chase; and her charge would have needed all her eyes had she possesse(l as many as Argus. For at every turn, and under a hundred different disguises, they encountered henri. Why, thats the King! exclaimed the dowager, penetrating the mas(luera(le at last. Mon Dieu, so it is! replied her charge, from whom propriety at once de- manded a scream, and got it. The Prince hastened home in extreme perplexity, for there was no longer a spot in the kingdom where he could hope for security. 38 HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. A royal birth being expected, Cond6 was summoned to be present thereat, as was usual with Princes of the blood; and he came but alone. hardly had he reached Paris when he was sent for by the Queen, and his secretary by the King. Mary ~varned, nay besought, the Prince to look ~vell and closely to his wife, and gave him clearly to understand that things had gone too far for the Princess to be trusted to other surveillance than his own. As for the King, he received the secretary with unu- sual harshness. Your master, said Henri, has informed M. de Yilleroy that. he desires to be divorced. Very well. Tell him from me, that I no longer oppose his wish, and that I will even undertake to procure for him the consent of all other par- ties concerned. This gave a new aspect to the affair. It was clear that Henri relied no more on mere seductive WiICS that he had found other and more effective aids. But what were these? An indiscreet re- mark was always an ugly weapon in despotic hands. Yet even during the worst ages the one in question would hardly have sufficed as the ground for such a proceeding. There was something else in reserve, it was pos- sible that the Princess had been gained. The prospect of a throne was a strong temp- tation, and she might reiterate the royal de- mand. To repudiate, then, the sentence dropped to Villeroy, and to refuse the prof- fer of divorce point blank, would be to play the monarchs game. In that case he would instantly appeal to the Princess, who doubt- less would answer as he wished, and Coud6 would be ruined; for behind the divorce lay the old process the Belcastel slander and the one must infallibly set the other in motion. Nothing could tend to precipi- tate the divorce like the success of the slan- der; and nothing could so effectually aid the slander as the bitterness generated by the divorce. The situation was an awkward one for Cond& But at present it was with Dc Thou rather than the Prince that henri had to do; and Dc Thou was fully as astute as any of the royal advisers. Next day Virey bore a formal reply to the King. Nor was it every secretary that would wil- lingly have undertaken so much. For Hen- ri in anger, aiid angry he was sure to be, was not just the man to be crossed with impunity. Virey, however, was mio com- mnonlilace secretary. He was a singular compound of the daring soldier, erudite scholar, shrewd man of the world, and de- voted adherent. After distin~uishino him- self on the right side at Coutras and Jvry, lie had won a doctors degree at Padna and he was now the trusty and trusted friend rather than servant of Cond6. The Princes reply avowed the remark made to Villeroy; declared tIme writer ready to take advantage of his Majestys permission in the matter of divorce: requested to be allowed the necessary legal assistance; and as- sume(1 as granted that accordiur to ens tom in these cases, the lady was to await the decisi6n in her husbands house. Thus the Princess was, for the present at least, withheld from taking a h)rinicip:d part in the suit. This was not quite the reply the King expected, ann certaium!v not the one lie desired ; he would have preferred inure heat and less submission. In this particu- lar shape it deranged all his I)lans, and of- fered not a line that could turn to his ad- vantage. It was so well drawn ul), indeed, that he could iiot he] p remarking as lie read, A i~ight legal docunient this, Comid& s hand, but not his head, smells all over of the president (i)e Thou) . Lie was beaten ; there was no help for it, nothing left him but the poor comfort of bullying the secretaty, and that he took at once, accusing Virey of giving bad counsel, aimd coinmuandimig him to change his conduct under pain of the severest displeas:ire. I am an honest man, said Virey, hooki ngtlie King straight in the face, and an honest man I intend to remain. Ab, said Bassompierre, in a stage whisper, what a jewel of a man adding with a significant look round, Quite a pearl before swine. Henri laughed, and went off on another tack, afibeted to speak with indignation of time bad treatment which time P. incess re- ceived from her husband ; regretted that he was not still Kiiig of Navarre, and therefore precluded from declaring himself the ladys champion, amid defying Cond6 to mortal combat ; and fiimalhy dismnm~smd Viny with this message for his muastci I et him conform speedily to my wishes, and take good care that lie (hoes not no. to, least vioheuce to Ids wife, or While this was going on at thu. p rh ice, the Prince was closeted with c,ullx rt the Ar- senal. Nearly evcrvbodx had an nYc t to prom~ote in this niatter, ami(l thu. 4 itesmnan was not without his. The thina huh served him well hitherto as a cloal f )r lie, hostile preparations ; amid he saw thm.t it mmoht still be made to mystify tile Spamim tids md the Austrians, blind them to tbt athierimig storm of war, arid hold thin mm mu Id us e to the very last. Sully was, in his sphere a sort of political destiny. Men and their pIssions were his instrmimnents. lit uscd them as the exigencies of the State required. He would have flayed his dearest friend, amid made a drum of his skin, had such a pro- HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. 39 ceeding been requisite for the good of France. He would have pandered to Henri, or supported Cond~, had policy exacted either course. And he acted now, neither as a courtier, nor a moralist, nor a man of honour; but solely and strictly as a states- man. He neither warned nor threatened, nor besought nor advised, nor even remon- strated. He displayed with sardonic clear- ness the resistless might of the King and the utter helplessness of the Prince. And he showed how greatly existing laws, usages, and prejudices favoured the design of the former, and tended to disable the resistance of the latter, until Cond~ felt that he had no resource but flight, There goes a man who wont be eight days longer in France, muttered the Minister, as the Prince with- drew. The latter ~vent straight to court, put on a subdued, even a penitential de- meanour, signified entire submission to the royal will, requested, and graciously ob- tained permission to escort his wife to Paris, and departed immediately, November 25th, 1609. On the evening of the 29th the King was deep in his favourite nightly occupation play. He was surrounded by a crowd of reckless gamblers and not a few sharpers. Conspicuous among the latter were the Portuguese Piemental, notorious for using loaded dice, and the Florentine Zanetti, who delighted to term himse~ lord of seventeen hundred thousand livres. The tables were heaped with gold, and the pis- toles changed hands by the thousand. Henri was a remarkably poor player, timid to venture, eager to win, very excitable, and easily disconcerted; nor was he above a little cheatin~ when luck ~vent hard against him; he would, indeed, have been rather an unpleasant antagonist, but for the pallia- tive that he generally contrived to lose largely, sometimes to a startling amount. it might have been on this evening, as well as any other, that Bassompierre, playing against him, found a number of half-pistolcs among the stakes. How came these here? said Bassompierre, picking them out. Oh, you must have put them down yourself, replied the King. Ah, said the beau, and instantly substituting whole pistoles, he flung the half ones out of the window among the valets who waited below. About eleven oclock, when the excitement ran highest, the Chevalier Duguet entered, made his way through the press, and whis- pered to the King. All this was nothing unusual; indifibrent characters often found their way to these revels, and the watch had frequently to exercise their office at the elbow of majesty. But it was an evasion, and not an arrest, that was now in question. Bassompierre my friend, said Henri, rising in great agitation, I am un(lOne ruined lost! She is gone! lie has car- ried her off taken her into a wood per- haps to kill her! Who knows! Look after the game I must learn the particulars. Just then a weary maii, besplashed from head to foot, was led forward. The play ceased every one rose. The new-coiner s tale was soon told: he was an archer of the guard, on furlough, and had started that morning from Muret the Prince arid Princess flying about the same hour for Flanders, with his father for guide. The latter, to shelter himself from the royal wrath for his share in the business, had sped his son to court with the news. The King was overwhelmed, the Queen radiant; and the courtiers horrowed and exaggerated the looks of King or Queen according to their leaning. Concini and one or two others grinned, w liile Sillery and La Varenne, grey-headed intriguers both, fell into each others arms and sobbed outright. It was very touching, or would have been had Messire Guillaume the Jester refrained, as lie ought to have (lone, from bobbing their heads together. The squabble that ensued roused Henri from his woeful abstraction, the Jester was transmitted to the kitchen to be whipped the usual reward of an untimely jest and the palace cleared of all but the confidants and the Ministers. Messemigers too were hurried over Paris after such as were absent, and in fact for everybody, friend or foe, who was likely to know anything. De Thou and the Princes 01(1 tutor, Lethvre, were soon on the spot: the former, caIrn and collected, denied all knowledge of the Princes movements, which at the same time lie did not hesitate to justify. As to Lefevre a simple-mind- ed, unworldly old hookworm what with his attachment to the Prince, his profound awe of the King, the strangemiess of the scene, the suddenness of the event, and his lively apprehensions, lie was completely beside himself, and wept like a child. They could not (Iraw a word from him. So irresistibly comic was his distress that even henri had to laugh; a mid, all things con- si(lered, the latter was little, if at all, less ridiculous, lie paced the chamber with irregular steps, his head down, and his hands behind his back, stamping and giving vent to all sorts of exclamations. The Queen and courtiers ranged themnsclvcs the while close against the wall, not daring to speak. Councillors arrived evey moment, most of them half asleep, and one after another their opinions were commanded. 40 IIENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. No time was allowed them for reflection; And, before morning broke, Rodelle, dEl- speak they must; and whatever advice they bore, and half a score others were flying in hazarded was followed at once, no matter the same direction, on precisely the same how contradictory to what had preceded. errand. The broad day hrought a little so- Couriers were hurried off with orders for her reflection. Even the King himself felt the governors of the various frontier-posts rather uneasy concerning the liberties which and other couriers to countermand these he had taken overnight with international orders; officers were despatched on every laws and rights; and the too-ready advisers track that the fugitives might have taken, were at their wits end for devices to rectify and other officers sped in directions that by their very clumsy mistakes. However, as no possibility they could have taken. neither Chauss6e, Rodelle, nor the others One wiseacre recommended that they could now he recalled or disavowed, there should close the gates of the city, another was nothing for it but to back them up, and that they should sound the tocsin, and a this was done by despatching Praslain, cap- third that they should take measures to se- tam of the Royal Guards, to the Archdukes, cure all the Hibernian beggars, who, as with explanations, and an official demand lEtoile tells us, were then very numerous, for the extradition of the fiigitives. Mean- and not particularly popular, in Paris. Not while, Sully found pleasure in showing Henri a thought was given to the futility of even clearly what a coil he had made by his pre- the best of these measures, to the great start cipitation. that the Prince had obtained, and the im- As for Cond6, he soon covered the dis- possibility of overtaking him. Just then tance between Paris and Muret, then, bor- came Sully. He was the hardest-working rowing 4,000 livres from the Marchioness and most regular man in France; rose early, de Roucy, and making a few hasty prepara- went to bed betimes, and when couched tions, he fled with the Princess two hours showed himself, as his countrymen say, before daybreak on the 29th. His retinue the friend of sleep. He was very angry was rather slender, consisting merely of at having been disturbed at such an hour his inseparable companion, the Marquis de and for such a purpose. Whats to be Rochefort, the secretary Virey, two waitino- done? questioned Henri. Nothing, women, and three valets. The gentlemen grumbled Sully. It was the best advice of being mounted, and the ladies in a car- the night, but it was not followed. Next riage, the party took the nearest way to the entered henris honest man he who Flemish fr~tiers. These were seventy mniles drew up the oath of 1593, pledging all true off, as the crow flies, and probably ninety, Catholics never to recognize the Bourbon when the windings were taken imito consid- as King, even though he should make a sin- eration. The route was not a pleasant one cere recantation, and who, five years after- at the best of seasons: it was always in wards, rendered the Edict of Nantes too wretched order, a great part of it tray- favourable to the Calvinists he who de- ersed forest-land, and it was rendered ad- voted himself to the economic r5gime of ditionally dangerous at this time of year by Sully, and who became the humble agent of inundations. Besides, those were the palmy tIme extravagance adopted by the regency days of people who seldom figure anywhere of Mary de Medici the man always erni- now except in romance time banditti. nenthy faithful to the ruler in posse, that Scarce a year had elapsed since the exter- singular retlux of the passions of the hour mination of the Guilleris, four noble broth- the President Jeannin. Hitherto advice ers, who had long been levying black- had observed sonie bounds; but Jeannins mail in the ~vest of France, at tIme head of was as wild as violence could desire. By 500 cut-throats. And there was imo suitable his recomumnendation, Chauss6e, exempt of cover in ammy part of the country which did the Guards, was hurried away, with orders not shelter similar pests, especially near to cross the frontiers in pursuit of the Prince, the borders, where the simple device of On findimig CondS in any town out of tIme changing kingdoms could always secure a kingdomn, the said Chauss6e was to address knave from the consequences of his last himself to the governor and magistrates, crime. The great lumbering vehicle proved and, explaining his commission, and dis- such an impediment in the miry ways that playing his credentials, require them to ar- they were compelled to abandon it at night rest the Prince and his suite, a service which fall. And though the rain fell as it con- his Majesty undertook to assure the said tinned to fall during the rest of the flight magistrates would be very acceptable to in torrents, the ladies were mnounted en the sovereigns of the Low Countries. Hardhy croupe, and the jourmme~ resumed. Nor did bad Chauss6e departed, when the Chevalier they pause for the next fifteen hours. The Duguet fohlowediwith identical instructions, guide did afl he could to emharrass them, HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. 41 went wrong several times, and would as- suredly have lost them altogether, had not Virey, ever on the alert, taken care to re- fresh his memory occasionally with the point of his sword or the muzzle of his pistol. But however acceptable to the Prince, Vireys zeal was anything but agreeable to the Princess. She would have given much for a good accident, though not quite on ac- count of the hardships of the journey. The beauties of that day were not dainty in mat- ters of travel. They would defy the weather, risk their necks, and tire their horses on oc- casion with the boldest cavaliers. But the Princess being no willing fugitive, the pelt- ing rain an(l her high-trotting horse hardly tended to reconcile her to the path. Shun- ning every place where there was any risk of zealous officials recognizing and stopping them, the party pushed on through the dreary winter night, stumbling over fallen trees, plunging to the girths in roadside pools, and running considerable risk in ford- ing the innumerable swollen torrents. At last they crossed the frontier, and pulled up at Landrecies about seven oclock on the morning of the 30th. They were in a wretched plight; the Princess especially be- ing monilUe jusqu aux Os, spent with fa- tigue, and quite incapable of further exer- tion. Considering himself in safety, Cond~ determined to pause here for the next twenty- four hours. But when about to resume his route next day he found the gates closed against him. The exempt, Chauss6e, with the instinct of a first-rate policeman, had hit at once upon the track of the fugitives, and following it steadily through all its windings, had reached Landrecies not many hours after them. Nor did he delay to exe- cute his commission, to the consternation of the civic authorities, whom he placed in the position that, of all others, such people most detest. They dared not accede to his demand. They saw what an awkward thing it would be to allow a French police- man to exercise his craft upon Spanish soil. On the other hand, they dreaded to refuse him, and thus precipitate a great war be- tween the Crowns. The one course was just as likely as the other to shake their heads off their shoulders. And they could not take refuge in the usual resource of irresolute spirits procrastination. The ten provinces were then under the government of the Archdukes Isabella and Albert, a childless pair, the one in his fiftieth year and the other approaching hers. Albert had never been more than an average prince. As for Dame Clara Isa- bella, she is chiefly known to history as hav- ing made a vow at the siege of Ostend, which originated a dingy hue, known then, and loncr afterwards, as the Isabella col- our. The court of the Archdukes was strictly moral, their policy as strictly Span- ish; and having not long before extricated themselves from one harassing ~var, they manifested extreme repugnance towards everything that could by any chance involve them in another. To these princes the inag- istrates of Landrecies referred the matter of Cond6, and with their messengers went Rochefort, hearing a short letter from his master, soliciting shelter and T)rotection in rather humble terms. But their Ilighoesses wer~ just as embarrassed as the magis- trates; they refused to sce Rochefort, and referred himself and his errand to the gov- ernor of the province. This nobleman, the Duke of Aersehot, in his turn could not risk the responsibility of (lcalin, with a matter so grave, and referred it back to their llighnesses. Thus three days passed. Meanwhile Cond6 was in no pleasant po- sition atLandrecies. The magistrates would not give him up indeed; but neither would they let him escape. And every hour French officers and soldiers continued to flock in, each new comer more pressing towards the officials than his predecessors. And soon threats began to be mingled with their re- quests. Nor were these arguments confined to the syndics. Both menaces and entrea- ties were addressed to the Prince himself. Fortunately there was a singular lack of daring spirits among these messengers. A Trenck or even a Virey on that other side would have laid hold of the fugitives and settled the matter in a trice. But as it was, matters looked so threatening that Cond6 began to waver, and required all his secre- tarys firmness to eke out his own. On the night of 2nd of I)ecembcr Rochefort re- turned with the anxiously expected decis- ion. This proved but a half measure that satisfied nobody. The Princess of Cond6 was granted an asylum at Brussels with her sister-in-law the Princess of Orange, so much was done for honour. The preten- sions of the French King were rcjected, so much was dared for the law of nations. And Condo was directed to quit the coun- try in three days, as a sacrifice to that ad- mairable principle, conciliation, a princi- ple, by the way, which generally means truckling. The moment the decision was communicated to the magistrates of Landre- cies they got out of bed, hastened to the Prince, and besought him to observe it. CoudiS quitted their inhospitable walls that very imight, and took the road to Cologne,. which he reached on the 8th. A few hours afterwards the-Princess quitted Landrecies 42 HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. for Brussels in charge of Virey and a very Europe had penetrated Sullys project~s, and feeble escort. They reached Brussels that he alone, of all henrys probable antago-. evening, but the Prince of Orange was yet nists, exulted in the prospect of the sting at Breda, and his palace was deserted. Vi- gle that these projects portended. There rey had an anxious time of it for the next must be no truckling here, said the high- few days. Praslain he found at Brussels, hearted Italian, in reference to Cond~ and and knowing him well, he looked from one in the Low Country Spinolas voice had all moment to another for an attempt at abduc- the weight of destiny. tion. Nor was he far wrong. The idea Cond6 was summoned from Coloane and really did occur to the captain of the Guards. entered Brussels on the 21st of December. He cared not indeed to put it in practice A brilliant company was assembled to meet without some slight countenance. That, him. Their Highuesses received him gra- however, he hoped to gain, from no less a ciously, and his sister with affection. Spi- person than Philip William, the Prince of nola met him with the frankness of a sol- Orange, and with this view he started at dier, and the sympathy of a mind to which once for Breda. Instead of Philip XVilliam, honour was everything. BentivoAio, not however, he met the Princess Eleonore, his yet a Cardinal, greeted h witi im I the perfect wife, the sister of Cond6, a proud, haughty, politeness, and searched him through with and energetic woman, who gave the supple the cold piercing glance peculiar to the cc- Frenchman such a reception that he was clesiastical diplomatists of the day. Gan- glad to hasten back to Brussels. A sudden dalete, the Spanish Ambassador, placed, in stroke was no longer possible. Virev had words at least, all the resources uf Spain put himself in communication with the stew- and the Indies at his disposal. And Ber- ard of tue Orange family, and a strong body nay, the French representative, carefully of their retainers now garrisoned the hotel, observed the scene, and exulted in the Immediately after the Prince came up from marked coldness with which the Princess Breda, amid their Highnesses were expected greeted her husband. Never was there a hourly. Praslain understood that his mis- pair the subject of so much attention. Span- sion was at an end, and returned to Paris. ish and ecclesiastical intrigmiers thronged By this time the policy of the Archdukes about Cond& French agents surrounded had undergone an honourable change. The his wife, except when they were elbowed insolent demeanour of the French at Landre- aside by admiration. And this was often, cies, an(l the tone of their despatches, had for everywhere her beauty received invol- excited the indignation of the Flemish and untary homage. It warmed even the Castihian nobles at the court of Brussels. guarded churchman into something of a Spanish diplomacy, too, was glad of such a Catullus. She was most fair, wrote he, means of auncyance as Cond6s case pre- full of grace, had sweet eyes, and so on sented. But above all there was then a man in very unclerical strain. The Archduchess in high command who would be no party to pronounced her angelic in everything cx- a truckling policy. This was the valiant cept her passion for the King, which she and skilful Spinola, one of the few brilliant excused as sortil& re Amid the Arch- characters at once energetic and intehlec- duke, dreading to be dazzled by this dan- tual, which, appearimug from time to time, gerous beauty, closed his eyes, or fixed showed that Italy, degraded as she was thcmn on the ground when he found himself through those dark centuries, could still be in her vicinity. As for Spinola, Mon the mother of Men. A Genoese mnerchant etoihe, said the Princess, speaking of him, up to his thirtieth year, Spinola made Ids me destinoit A ~tre aim6e par des vieux. first essay in war at tIme head of an army Master and Ministers at Paris had now raiseul at his own expense, amid without subsided into a settled systemn on this par- training or experience, arid with all the dis- ticular point. The Princess must be won advantages of fighting on the losing side, back, no matter how. The casus belli also he met the foremost captain of the age on a must be maintained as it stood umutil the fair field and beat him. And Spinoha was campaigning season had fairly opened, but no less a statesman than a soldier. There so maintained as to comiceal the real pur- is no stroke of modern statesmanship supe- pose of the warlike preparations, and ren- nor to that which erected Dunkirk into a der the war itself apparently uncertain to counterpoise of the Dutch navy building the last. A gm-eat cry then was raised the nest and nurturing the brood of rovers about Cond& s flight; his anxiety commeern- who did mno~e mischief to Ilolland than all ing the Princess was denounced as mere the migTht of Spain. The recent truce had pretence but in such terms as to inupose thrown the Marquis idle at an age when on nobody and his real motive declared great spirits abhor repose. He alone of all to be restless ambition. This was stated to HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. the various ambassadors, and reiterated in warfare against its enemies, followed by numerous despatches. The Arcbdukes and numerous signatures inscribed in blood. the Spanish King wcre rebuked for shelter- There some deeply-contrived treachery was ing the fugitive. Cond6 himself was sum- unexpectedly brought to light, and every- moned to return, and war was menaced, as where suspicious couriers went and came if such a thing had been unthought of hith- between external hostility and internal dis- erto, against all his aiders and abettors affection. In this corner Concini, Guidi, But, as was intended, the Spaniards ha dl andJ oanmni all Mary de Medicis Floren- little dread of the threatened hostilities, tines were almost openly conspiring; in henri as their agents, reminded them, was the other, the Marchiomiess of Vernenil was a Gascon, and greatly given to bluster ; be- in communication with the Spanish amid sides, he was too deeply immersed in pleas Flemish ambassadors, and with the eiiiissa ure for serious exertions; too fond of his ries of Fuentes, Henris sworn and deadly vices to rise above them and devote himself foe. Epernon, too, amid the other surviv- through the hardships and perils of war to imig chieI~ of the League, were puttimir their the attainment of a great object. The Kimig heads together with rio very good intent. himself did his part to fix them in the ilIn And that school of murder, tIme Debating sion. Yes, said he to the Spanish Am- Society, established at Rome not mnafl~ bassador, as if disdaining the flimsy subter- years before by the Cardinal oh St. George, fniges of his Ministers, and rising to a was again active, arid its agents worthy strength of interjection very ummusual with successors of I3arriAre arid Ch~teh in Inmo- him, Yes, by , I will have time Prin- tion. Nor were the usual moral weapons cess back, cost what it may! And his neglected. Due care was taken to prpare confessor, Father Cotton, devoted Jesuit the national mimind for a catastrophe. Every and staunch Spanish partizan though he day brought its portents, meteors, mons- was, had even a greater share in luring his trous births, or physical convulsions. friends into fatal security, lie wrote again Prophecy, that powerful engine of mischief and again to the Archdukes deploring the in superstitious times, was biouglit largely infatuation of his royal penitent; he re- imito requisition; the dark sayimigs of the gretted, denounced, anathematized it. But, past were hunted up and repointed; and in view of the impending war, wherein the Nostradamus, the Abbot Joachiim, and even might of Catholic France was to be mar- Merlin himself, became once mnore authori- shalied side by side with German heresy, to ties. Nor was astrology neglected: dismal the great detriment of apostolic truth, he horoscopes (Irawn up by such masters of the besought their lli~hnesses to terminate the art as Le Brosse and Thiomnassin were in difficulty by vie fling up this Helen, urging every hand. Even demonmacs were revived in justification of the act all those subtle ar- for the occasion that is to sax, scoundrels guments which his order had invented to of both sexes were instructed to coumiterfeit xvarrant convenient rascality. Ab, said possession, and when sufficiently prepared, the members of tIme Spanish Council, there exorcised in pubEc, beimig artfully ques- is no mistake then ; the Princess is indeed tioned during the process conceriming the the cause of all these preparations. Very King, his designs, arid his ultimate fate; well. We can stave off the contest when- every word of reply being accepted by the ever we think fit: there is nothing necessary credulous multitude as tIme utterances of but to yield her up. Meanwhile the scan- the father of lies; and, therefore, according dal is workin~ shrewdly for us in France. to the odd reasoning of our ancestors, in- To say nothing of plotting factions, there is fallible truth. a chance that Cond~ may turn out a second What with sernions, gossip, and inter- Con~table; and there is a certainty that time ested reports, the affair was depreciating orthodox emithusiasm now being roused by tIme King terribly in popular estimatmomi. the clergy, will miot pass away without some Nor (lid it spare either Commd~ or the starthimig, and, so far as we are concerned, Princess. The scandals comicerning them-n favourable result. For the present then we were hardly less biting and not a particle wihh keep the Princess. less skilful. henris conduct could mint iii And the Spanish calculations, were, to a deed be justified, but a good deal was done great extent, correct. The religious mind to excuse it. And the process adopted was of France was in powerful fermentation, tIme good old one of blackenimig all mound. and threw innumerable warning bHbbles to 1-lenri, it was urged, was not altogether in the surface. I-here accident revealed the the wrong. He might possibly be too pas- minute-book of a knot of enthusiastic con- siormate, but then tIme Princess was far from spirators, containing a fearful oath of devo- being obdurate. And, while she was not tion to the orthodox faith, and of implacable i unfavourable to the monarchs suit, she was 44 HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. manifestly discontented with her husband, his guard; and he had good reason. even anxious for a divorce. And it was Every one of these twenty-one days brought whispered, not without sufficient reason, its neat little plan of evasion, to he q.uietly that the Prince was that odious domestic defeated by the secretary: for Virey grievance, a brute jealous, stingy, seemed to have eyes in the inmost recesses nagging, and not hesitating to use even of the plenipotentiarys cabinet, and he personal violence. In confirmation of the certainly had vary watchful ones in most worst of these whispers, the Montmorencys corners of the French court. Billets were induced to put forward formal coin- reached him hourly, some from the Queen, plaints a thing which gave rise to one others from the Montmorencvs, and a great very curious scene in full court. Old Mont- many from anonvmomps correspondents, but morency hobbled up to Pecquius, the Ilem- nearly all containing valuable information: ish Ambassador, weeping an(l wailing his and so dEstr~es. without undcrstantlinrr daughters unhappy lot. He maltreats how the thing was done, found himself her, sobbed the old man, drawing his traversed at all points except one. Un- sleeves across his eyes; he scolds her be- der these little schemes he was hatching cause she wont caress Spinola. His gentle- rather a big one; but, unfortunately for his man, Rochefort, swaggers into her chain- success, he happened to employ, among ber with his pocket full of pistols, fires other loose agents, a certain fugitive from them off to her great terror, and swears French justice, the Sieur de Vallobre, a that he will riddle any one he finds working man over whom the ubiquitous Virey by ill to his master. Having thus conscienti- some means or other had acquired consid- ously discharged a public duty, the Con- erable influence. Vallobre was not indeed stable wiped his eyes, drew Pecquius, aside, taken into the confidence of the Marquis; and whispered cautiously That was all but he was a shrewd knave, kept his eves very fine, but, between you and me, I and his ears open, and from one and greatly prefer my daughter where she is to another, a bit here and a hit there, picked having her at home with me at Chantilly. up a good deal of the plot, and communi- As another step in deception, a formal em- cated it to Virey. The latter laid it before bassy was sent to Cond6. Fran~ois Annibal Spinola, and Spinola consulted their High- dEstr6es, brother of Gabrielle. Marquis nesses: it was decided to act discreetly, de Cceuvres, and afterwards Marshal of and Cond~ therefore was not taken into the France, an able and unscrupulous man, secret. But Spinola dropped a hint that was chosen for the mission. It is unneces- the Princess would be saf~.r in the palace: sary to say more of his proffers than that it was taken at once, the necessary applica- they were quite insincere. He urged them, tion made and of course granted, and the however, for three weeks from January next day, February the 14th, fixed for the the 23d to Valentines day with all the removal. This was early on the 13th: earnestness of good faith; so well indeed great was the alarm of the plotters; once did he play his part as to deceive every- an inmate of the palace there could be no body but Virey: the faithful servant was abduction. Nor could they procure (lelay. well aware that the Princess was in con- The Princess declared herself ill, but the stant communication with the French court, court physician pronounced her indisposi- that through the wife of the French tion too slight to interfere with the arrange- Ambassador, her waiting-women, and a ment. She then caused it to be intimQted hundred other agents she continually re- to Spinola that a certain entertainment, ceived letters from Henri, and sent back frequently got up by ardent gallants, and replies. lIe might have heard too since called The Violins, would not be un- Henri was an inveterate chatterer, and inva- welcome from him. Had the Marquis riably took all the world into the secret of seized the suggestion, as his attentions his at/hires dint cwur that the King signed gave some reasons to hope, several days those letters as the Shepherd Celadon, would be gained; but Spinola was not to anml that the Princess subscribed herself the be duped, smiled sourly, says the recordino Nymph (4alatea; that she addressed the gossip, and evaded the request. As a final monarch as her dear heart and her cava- resource, dEstr~es determined, however her, and that he replied with sweet incomplete his arrangeirments, to carry off angel, divinity, and all the other high- the lady that night. And hail the secret flown terms of endearment in the pas- only been kept, the plan was a very prom- sionate lovers handbook. Be this as it ising one. The Princess, who had already may, Viree had heard and seen enough to entrusted her letters and trinkets to Ber- keep Isis fidelity watchful: besides he knew nay, was to issue from the HOtel dOrange the Marquis, and was therefore doubly on in the dress of a Fleming which, as it HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. 45 happened to include a large and thick veil, was remarkably adapted to the purpose. DEstr6es would be close at hand, and fif- teen soldiers, concealed in the neighbouring alehouses, would secure her passage down the street that led to the ramparts. In these, a hole had been already bored; lad- ders, too, had been placed in the ditch; and Mannicamp, a daring captain, at the head of five and twenty troopers picked men an(l horses was ~vaitin~ on the other side. A ride of six leagues en croupe would bring them upon the garrison of l{ocrov, which was to cross the frontiers at nightfall. And if the pursuit should press befbre this great aid could be reached, why then the escort woul(l undertake to bar the ~vav with their swords quite long enough for the Princess to get clear off. It was not until lat.e in the afternoon that Virey heard of this. Time pressed: measures had to be taken at once; nor was it longer l)ossible to withhold the secret from Condd. And no sooner was it communicated than he acted like one beside himself. The Prince of Orange, little less exasperated, gathered his friends in arms to take and kill all. Spinola also laid his J)lans ; but rather more soberly. A lively night was that in Brussels. Sentinels pace(l up and down on all sides; large fires blazed, and troops bivouacked around the Hotel of Orange; and cavalry-pickets, preceded by torches, patrolled the streets. Indeed, the whole city was in uproar, for it was re- ported, and widely believed, that the French King was at the gates; and so he would have been, but for the strenuous op- position of his Ministers. Fully confident, however, of Cmuvres success, he had not scrupled to announce openly that, by a cer- tain hour on a set day, the Princess would reach Paris. As for the plotters, Cceuvres was actually in the chamber of the Princess when the outburst of the tumult apprised them of their failure. He managed to escape undiscov- ered; and, next day, with a face of brass, lie appeared before the Archdukes to (le- nounce the proceedings of the night as un- called-for, scandalous, and offensive in the extreme to the majesty of France; and to close his mission, by summoning Cond~ in due and solemn form to return to his duty. He was soon back again in Paris, where be was saluted as a sot, because his edi- tion of the raptus IIelen~ after all his flourish of trumpets, had proved an utter failure. A week subsequently to this stirring night, Cond6 started for Italy, in company with Virey and Rochefort, the Archdukes binding themselve by oath not to give up the Prin- cess without his consent. Why he took this cause w~ need not speculate, since it led to no particular result. lie may have retired in confidence, for, after the last glaring scan- dal, abduction was no longer to be appre- hended; or in disgust, caring little what further steps might be taken by King or Princess; or to weave a web of vengeance, in conjunction with his future host, Fu- entes the deadliest of 1-Jenris numerous foes. The alert of Valentines day was the last open effort of the King. LAubespine, afterwards Chancellor of France, appeared indeed at Brussels, to (lemnan(l the Princess in the name of her kin(ired ; ~imd the lady, whose situation watched, distrusted, and scorne(l as she found herself must by this time been well nigh intolerable, seconded lAubespine with all her might; bmt, as the Montruorencys took good care to repudiate in private all that was urged in their name in public, this mission also came to nothing. May was now at hand, and with it the season for aetion. The magnitude of Henris warlike preparations, and still more the nature of his arrangements for the government of France during the strife, showing clearly that he meditated no mere military promenade, but a long and serious conflict, alarmed the Spaniards. They lost no time in declaring th:it the Princess could no longer be allowed to stand in the way of an accommodation; but to their dismay the offer was refused with contempt. Nothing delayed the war but the coronation of the Queen, to which henri had at last sub- mitted, in order to give the necessary weight to her prospective regency. Two or three days more would bring that to a close, and then, completely unprepared, the Ilabsburgs would have to encounter France thriqe more powerful than under Francis 1., all Protestant Germany, Savoy, Venice, the Scandinavian powers, Holland, probably England, and possibly the Pope himself. What was to be anticipated but destruction. There was no force to with- stan(l the French Kino submission could not conciliate him, nor the wiles of diplo- macy delay him. Nothing could arrest his projected march but the assassins knife; and precisely, in the nick of time, Ra- vaillac dealt the blow! The trial of Ravaillac was a mockery. The more important Spanish (lespatchies of that week have disappeared. The death of Henri was succeeded by none of that inert astonishment which invariably results from an unexpected catastrophe. Within a few hours the government and policy of France 46 HENRI QUATRE AND THE PRINCESS OF CONDE. was rearranged to the satisfaction of all ter the death of Henri they fell out of the those who had so much to dread from the worlds notice into comparative obscurity. continuance of the old regime. What a He, naturally indignant at her previous con- change from the day preceding. Then the duct, in his turn took up the quest.ion of Ilabsburgs were shuddering on the brink divorce; but, as was shown by his stern re- ef ruin; the Queen felt her new crown melt- sistance to his great relative, and even more ing from her brow; the great seigneurs saw by his fury at the alert of St. Valentine, no escape from absolute submission; the the all-con(~uering beauty had not failed to Jesuits (Ireaded the repetition on a grander vanquish him. And she her mischievous scale of the part of Ilenry VIII.; and the parasites removed, and her romantic illusion vindictive mistress saw a more fortunate tlispersed was too winning to remain long ihir rising to the position which herself had a discarded wife. Friends, too, interfered: struggled so strenuously and so vainly to De Thou, Spinola, and Virey,the faithful attain. Yes, say Cotton, Epernon, Con- Virey, who lived long in the honour and cmi, Fuentes, Medici, Habsburg, and Ver- prosperity he merited not least. And acuil, the stroke was suspicious, we con- finally, a change of fimetion having thrown fess, and fearfully opportui~e. But for all the Prince into the Bastille, the Princess that, believe us, it was wholly and solely completed the reconciliation by insistino on the interposition of Providence. All very well, mesdames and messieurs, sharing his long, and otherwise dreary cap- tivity, during which their children, the beau- The Princess of Cond~ was not yet seven- tiful Duchess of Longuevihle and the Great teen, her husband scarce twenty-two. Af- Cond~, were born. A NIGHT IN THE TEMPLE OF IPSAMBUL. We slept in the inaermost adytum a small square sanctuary crowded with sculpture, havin~ a a rough-hewn altar growing from the live rock in the midst, and four carved statues of life-size, seated on thrones behind, facing the door. Two beds were laid for us on a thick carpet spread on the sand. The professor soon drifted off into the land of sleep. He needed no rocking. For me, neither poppy nor mandragora distilled their Lethean dews. Lone ~me I tumbled aud tossed feverishly, vainly wooin~ the lull of thought that never came. Then half-dreamy slumber-clouds swept over me, gapped with in- tervals of weary consciousness. All at once I fancied I saw a pale light playing on the face of one of the statues behind the altar. It is the wihl-o-the-wisps dancing. I dreamed ; and then, with that odd kind of reasoning that one perpetrates in dreams, I reckoned on the possi- bility of those serene and dignihed deities do scendin~ from their thrones to take part in the revel. It struck me as incon~ rue us, rather, that igoes flit ui should come gadding into the temuples to flirt with the gods. But then we were in iEjpt, I remembered, and customus Whatever airbuilt fantasies my tired brain was thus weavino th no eve could be mistake about the light. I saw it creeping over the lips of Amium Ri., and falling behind him on the painted glory of a cherubims wing on the wall. Uneasy consciousness of this woke me fairly. What could it be ? I listened ; but no sound save the slumbering professors measured music stirred the deep silence of that ancient saactu ary. I rose rather nervously, felt in my coat for a candle, and struck a light. Somehow my foot stumbled over the altar, and laid me pros- trate on the floor. For a moment the moatch flickered, and then went out ; I was again in darkness. Much ruffled in spirit and temper, I picked myself up, and at that instant, turning to feel for my bed, the pale ray which had puz- zled me fell full in my face. It was the moon. The moon how came she in hither? Looking outward I saw her silvery li~ht glinting through the whole vista of the temple. A glimmer on the columns of the inner courts, a sheen run nimig alomig the salient sculptures of gallery, doorpost, lintel, osiride on all, in fact, that lay in the track of that ripplin~ wave-line of light ; and beyond, framned imi the dark sand choked porch, a small patch of deep pure sky islanding a fuil-orbed nioon. Thus, gradually I came to understand how a gleam from without would penctvate through intervening halls and transepts, and reach to this inner chamber where the gods sat 1mm state. Probably the arch- itect had ordered it so. Probably he had ar ranged an~le and gradient so that, omi certain days of the year, the sun should for a minute or two shine on the faces of the assembled con- clave. The moon likewise every mouth. For the sun-god and the mnoon-~od sat there ; and proud Pharaoh too, mantled as a (leity, and cm blazoned with his full-sounding legends, De- scendant of the sun, lord of Egypt, sat cosily sheltered in their illustrious conipanionship. Leisare Hour. ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 47 From The Boston Daily Advertiser, 15 Sept. ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. CELEBRATION OF THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH. TuE centennial anniversary of the birth of Alexander von Humboldt was celebrated in this city yesterday, under the auspices and management of the Boston Society of Natural history, in a manner worthy of the memory of so illustrious a man. At half- past three oclock the Music Hall was filled with a brilliant audience, comprising many persons of the highest culture and distinc- tion in New England. Among them were Professors Longfellow, Lowell and Pierce. the lion. Charles Sumner, thfi Hon. Henry Wilson, and many others. In front of the organ were displayed a number of maps and dingrams illustrating various points in physical geography and showing the belts of vegetation in moun- tain ranges. Two original portraits of Hum- boldt were conspicuouly placed in front of the Platform. One was taken by a Spanish artist in Mexico in 1803, when humboldt was thirty-four years of age, and the other by H. Wight in Berlin in 1852, when Hum- boldt was eighty-three years of age. The post of honor was filled by professor AgassiE, who was the appointed orator of the day. On either side of him were His Excellency Governor Claflin, Mayor Shurt- leff, the Rev. James Walker, D.D., and Dr. Jeifries Wyman, the president of the Boston Society of Natural History, together with some other prominent citizens of Bos- ton. The platform was filled with the members of the Germania Band and those of the Or- pheus Musical Society, aided by delega- tions from various German clubs. Carl Zerrahn presided with his usual skill. The following was the programme Organ Prelude: Toccata in F. . J. S. Bach. J. K. Paine. Chorus Hymn to Music, . . V. Lacbner. Orpheus Musical Society, aided by other German Clubs Prayer by Rev. James Walker, D.D. Overture Macic Flute, . . Mozart. Address by Professor Agassiz. Syniphony, No. 7. Introduction and Allegro, . . . Beethoven. Orchestra. (a). Chorus of Priests: 0 Isis and Osiris, with Orchestra, from Mozarts Magic Flute. The splendor of the sun scatters the gloom of night. Soon feels the noble youth new life. Soon will he be wholly dedicated to the science of Truth. His spirit is bold, his heart is pure, etc. (6). Part Song: Wem Gott will rechte Gunst erweisen, . Mendelssohn. To whom God special fkvor grants, Him sends he out into the wide world, Shows him the wonders of Creation In mountain and forest, stream and field, etc. The music was every way noble and wor- thy of so great an occasion, both in the character of the selections and in the quality of the performance. No musical composi- tions have been written in praise of pure science, but the best works of the best mas- ters are in harmony with any occasion in- trinsically dignified and grand; an(l Bachs wonderful Toccata in F. whose chords can be compared only to the tumultuous sweep of the ocean waves, the beautiful hymn to Music by Lackner, with all its variety and richness of melody, and the splendid selections from Beethoven and Mozart, were found to be in perfect keeping with the spirit of the times. The exquisite four-part song by Mendelssohn. Wem Gott will rechte Gunst erweisen, which stood last upon the programme, was even mnore pe- culiarly apt and appropriate. The singing of the Orpheus Glee Club an(I their friends was very brilliant, spirited an(l effective; and the orchestra, though gathered for the first time in public this season, performed with nearly unexceptionable excellence. After the prelude on the organ and the succeeding chorus had been given, the Rev. James Walker, D. D., of Cambridge, offered the following prayer: 0 thou infinite source of life and light, we invoke thy blessing on tlmese services in the memories they awaken and the hopes they inspire. We acknowledge an(l a(lOre that Providence by which gifted men are raised up from time to timne, to make us bet- ter acquainted with the heavens which tie dare thy glory and with the e:lmth which shows thy handiwork. Impress, we beseech thee, upon the great masters of science, that they also are prophets sent to reveal the thoughts and the ways of the living God. Suffer not the rapid increase of natural lirht to dazzle our eyes, or obscure or confuse that divine light which comes 1ioiu thy word, and from the instincts and aspirations of the humnan soul; so that science and fiiith may 48 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. reverently work together for the good of To what degree we Americans are in- man and the glory of God, through Christ debted to him, no one knows who is not our Lord. Amen, familiar with the history of learning and ed- ucation in the last century. All the funda ADDRESS ~ PROFESSOR AGASSLZ. mental facts of popular education in physi- cal science, beyond the merest elementary After the rendering of the overture of the instruction, we owe to him. We are reap- Magic Flute, Professor Agassiz rose and ing daily in every school throughout the was received with fervent applause, which broad land, where education is the heritage was repeated two or three times. lie then even of the poorest child, the intellectual read the following address in a firm, ear- harvest sown by him. See this map of the nest and well-sustained voice United States all its important features are based upon his investigations fhr lie Mr. Presmdent, Ladies and Gentlemen: first recognized time great relations of the I am invited to an unwonted task. Thus earths ~ilmysieal features, time laws of climate far I have appeared before the public only on which time whole systema of isothermnal as a teacher of natural histery. fo-dav, lines is based, the relative height of mount- for the first timne in my life, I leave a field am chains andtable-lands, the distribution of mu which ~ am at home, to take upon myself vegetation omi time whole earth. There is not time (luties of a bio~rapher. If I succeed at a text-book of geography or a school-atlas all, it will be becamise I so loved and honored in the hands of our children to-day, which the man whose memory brings us together. does not bear, however blurred and defaced, Alexander von Humboldt was born in time impress of his great mnind. But for hmimn Berlin in 1769, one hundred years ago our geographies would be mere enumera- this day, in that fertile year which gave tions of localities and statistics. lie first birth to Napoleon, Wehhiim~ton, Canning, suggested time graphic methods of represent- Ctmvier, Walter Scott, Chateaubriand, and ing natural phenomena which are now unm- so nian other remarkable men. All Amer- veisahly adopted. TIme first geological see- ica was then the property of European ~ion- tions, the first sections across ami emmtire con- arPhs. The first throb of the Anmerican Rev- tinemit, the first averages of chinmate illus- ohution had not yet disturbed the relations trated by lines, were his. Every schoolboy of the mother country and her colonies, is familiar with his methods miow, but he Spain held Florida, Mexico, and the greater does miot know that Humboldt is his teacher. part of South America; France owned Lou- The fertilizing power of a great mind is isiana: and all Brazil was tributary to Por- wonderful; but as we travel farther from the tugal. XVhat stupendous changes have taken sources, it is hidden from us by time very place since that time in the political world! abundance and productiveness it has caused. Divine right of possession was then the rec- How few of us remember that time tidal ognized law on which governments were lines, the presemit mode of registering mag- based. A misrhty republic has since been netic phenomena and oceanme currents, are born, the fundamn~ntal principle of which is but the application of Humboldts researches, self-government. Progress in the intellect- and of his ~r uah world, the world of thought, has kept ~ aphic mode of recordinrr them! pace with the advance of civil liberty; ref- THE YOUTH OF HUMBOLDT. erence to authority has been superseded by This great man was a feeble child, and free inquiry; and Humboldt was one of the had less facility in his studies than most great leaders in thus onward movement. children. For this reasoms his early educa- He has bravely fought time battle of mdc- tion was intrusted to private teachers, his pendence of thought against the tyranny of parents being wealthy, and of a class whose authority. No man impressed his century means and positmon commnand the advan-. iutehhectmmallv more powerfully, perhaps no tages denied to so many. It is worthy of man so powerfiuily as he. Therefore lie is note that when he was a little fellow not so dear to the Germans, with whom many mnore than seven years old, his teacher was nations unite to do hmimn honor to-day. Nor Campe, author of the German Robinson is it alone because of what he has done for Crusoe. We can fancy how he amused the science, or for any one department of re- boy with the ever fresh story of Crusoe on search, that we feel grateful to himn, but his desert island, and inspired him, even at rather because of that breadth and compre- that early age, with the passionate love of hensiveness of knowledge which lifts whole travel and adventure which was to bear communities to higher levels of culture, and such fruit in later years. Neither should we inipresses itself upon the unlearned as well omit, in recalling memories of his childhood, as upon students and scholars, his tender relation to his elder brother Wil ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 49 Ham. These two brothers, so renowned in their different departments of learning, the elder as a statesman and philologist, the youngest as a student of nature, were united from their earliest years by an inti- mate sympathy which grew with their growth and strengthened with their strength. They went together to the University of Frankfort, the younger being then seven- teen, William nineteen. Alter two years at Frankfort, they went to the University of Gdttingen, where they passed the two following years. In these four pregnant years of student-life, Alexander already sketched the plans which occupied his ac- tive mind for more than three-score years and ten. The character of the German universities is so different from ours, that a word upon his student life may not he on t of place here. Untrammelled hy prescription and routine, every branch of learning was open to him. Instead of being led through a prescribed course of study, an absolute free- dom of selection, in accordance with his nat- ural predilections, was allowed him. The effect of this is felt through his whole lith; there was a universality, a coin prehensive- ness, in his culture, which could not he ob- tained under a less liberal system of educa- tion. Leaving the University at the age of twenty-one, he hegan to make serious prep- arations for the great journeys toward which all his hopes tended. Nothing has impressed me more in reviewing Humboldts life, than the harmony between the aspirations of his youth and the fulfilment of his riper age. A letter to Pfaff, written in his twenty-tourth year contains the first outline of the Cosmos; its last sheets were forwarded to the pub- lisher in his ninetieth year, two months be- fore his death. Tie had thus been an origi- nal investigator for nearly seventy years. His first journey after leaving the universi- ty was important rather for the circumstance under which it was made than for any local interest. lie went ti the Rhine with George Forster, who had accompanied Cook in his second journey round the world. He could hardly have been thrown with any one more likely to stimulate his desire to travel than this man, who had visited the South Seas, had seen the savages of the Pacific Islands, and had Inade valuable contributions to ge- ographical science. Nor was this their only point of sympathy. George Forster was a warm republican; he had espoused the ideas of the French Revolution, and when May- ence became united to the French Republic, he was sent as deputy to the National As- sesnbly in Paris. Humboldt was too ardent UVING AGI~. VOL. XIV. 630 and too independent to be a laggard in the great public questions of the day. He also believed, like Forster, in the Republic of France, and in the dawn of civil liberty for Europe. TIus, both in political and scien- tific preferences, although so different in age, he and Forster were sympathetic trav- elling companions. This excursion was by no means a pleasure trip. Young as he was, humboldt had knowledge enough to justify him in approaching the most difficult scien- tific questions of the day. At that time the great war was waging between the Neptun- isis and Plutonists, that is, between the two great schools in geology, one attribut- ing the rocks to fire as the great construc- tive agent, the other asserting that all rocks were the results of water deposits. The young student brought to these ques- tions the truthfulness and patience which marked all his later investigations. Carried away neither by theories nor by leaders, lie left in abeyance the problem which seemed to him not yet solved. his interest in the subject carried him to Freiberg, where he studied geology with Werner, and where he made acquaintance with Leopold von Buch, who became the greatest geologist of the age, and was through life his trusted friend. lie also applied himself to anatomy and physiology, and made physical investigations on the irritability of the muscular fibre, which he afterwards extended to the elec- tric fishes during his American journey. All the while he brooded over his schemes of travel, gathering materials in every di- rection, in order that his mind niight be prepared to understand nature in all her as- pects. His desires turned especially toward In(lia. He wished to visit the East, and reaching India by way of Egypt, Syria and Persia, to cross the Pacific and return to Europe through America. In this he was foiled; but to his latest day he felt the same longing for a sight of that antique ground of civilization. At this moment all Europe was in a blaze; between contendino~ armies there was little room for peacefu~i travel and investigation. We find him, therefore, floating between various plans. He ~vent to Paris with the hope of joining Baudins contemplated expe(lition to Aus- tralia. In this he was again baffled, for the breaking out of the war between France an(l Austria postponed the undertaking in- definitely. His next hope was Spain; he might obtain permission to visit her trans- atlantic possessions, and study tropical na- ture under the equator. Here he was suc- cessful. The scientific discoverer of Amer- ica, as the Germans like to call him, was destined to start from the same shore as 50 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. Christopher Columbus. He not only re- ceived permission to visit the colonies, but special facilitiesfor his investigation were of- fered him. This liberality was unexampled on the part of the Spanish government, for in those days S pain guarded her colonies with jealous exclusiveness. His enthusiasm disarmed suspicion, however, and the king cordially sustained his undertaking. Nearly ten years had passed in maturing his plans, preparing himself for their exe- cution, and obtaining the means for carry- ing them out. lie was about thirty years of age when he sailed from the harbor of Corunna, running out in a dark and stormy night, and so evading the English cruisers which then blockaded the Spanish coast. IllS AMERICAN JOURNEY. There is, perhaps, no part of Humboldts life better known to the public, especially in this country, than his American journey. His fascinating Personal Narrative is known to all, and I need not, therefore, describe his course, or dwell upon the de- tails of his personal experience. No period of his life, however, has had a more power- ful influence upon knowledge and education than these five years of travel, and therefore I will speak at some length of their scien- tific results. In the very glory of his youth, and yet with an intellectual maturity which belongs to later manhood, his physical ac- tivity and endurance kept pace with the fer- tility and comprehensiveness of his mind. Never was the 01(1 proverbial wish, Si jeunesse savait, si vicillesse pouvait, so near fulfilment; never were the strength of youth and the knowledge of age so closely com- bined. At the first step of the journey, namely, his pause at the Canary Islands and ascen- sion of the Peak of Teneriffe, he has left us a graphic picture of the place, of its vol- canic phenomena, its geological character, and the distribution of its vegetation, in which are foreshadowed all his later gener- alizations. Landing in Cumana, he made his first long station there. His explora- tions of the mountains, valleys and sea- shore in that neighborhood, his geological researches, his astronomical observations by which the exact position of various local- ities was determined, his meteorological investigations, and his collections of every kind, were of vast scientific importance. Lie had already begun his studies upon averages of climate, the result of which, known as the isothermal lines, was one of his most original contributions to science. With the intuition of genius, he saw that the distribu- tion of temperature obeyed certain laws. He collected, both from his own observa tion and from report, all that could be learned of the average temperatures in va- rious localities; and combining all these facts, he first taught geographers how to trace upon their maps those curves which give in one undulating line the varying laws of temperature across a whole hemisphere. his physical experiments upon animals and plants, and his collections, were also of grcat value. At Paris he had made the ac- quaintance of a young botanist, equally de- termined with himself to see distant lands. Bonpland accompanied him in his journey to South America; and when Humboldt was en~ared so exclusively in physical experi- merits as to prevent him from joining the botanical researches, they were neverthe less not intervupted, for Bonpland was un- remitting in the study of plants and in mak- ing collections. After months thus spent in the neighbor- hood of the coast, Humboldt crossed the Llanos, the great plains which divide the basin of the Orinoco from the sea-shore. Here, again, every step of his journey is marked by original research. He has turned those desert plains into enchanted land by the power of his thought, and left us de- scril)tions as fascinating from their beauty as they are valuable for their novelty and precision. In his long and painful journey through the valley of the Orinoco, he traced the singular network of rivers by which this great stream connects through the Cassi- quiare and the Rio Negro with the Amazons, a fresh-water route which is, no doubt, yet to become one of the highways of the world. Had it not been for the illiberality of the Portuguese government, he would. probably have gone down the Rio Negro to the Amazons, and would, perhaps, have changed completely the course which he ultimately took. He was, however, turned. back from the mighty river by a prohibition which made it dangerous to proceed farther; on pain of imprisonment and the possible renunciation of all his cherished plans. When, in my late exploration of the Ama- zonian Valley, I read his narrative again, on the spot, I could not but contrast the cordial liberality which smoothed every dif- ficulty in my path with the dangers, obstacles an(1 suffering which beset his. I approached, however, so near the scenes of his labors that I was constantly able to compare my results with his, and to recognize the extent of his knowledge and the comprehensiveness of his views, even where the progress of science led to a different interpretation of the facts. I omit all notice of his visit to Cuba, and his journey through. Mexico, in ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 51 teresting as they were, remarking only that to him we owe the first accurate maps of those regions. So imperfect were those published before him, that even towards the close of the last century the position of Mexico differed by about three hundred miles in the maps published by different geographers. Humboldts is the first gen- eral map of Mexico and Cuba, based upon astronomical observations. The next great stage of the American journey is along the ridge of the Andes. There is a picturesque charm about this part of the undertaking which is irresistible. At that time travelling in those mountains was infinitely more difficult than it is now. We follow him with his train of mules, bearing the most delicate instruments, the most precious scientific apparatus, through the passes of the great chain. Measuring the mountains, sounding the valleys as hc ~vent, tracing the distribution of vegeta- tion on slopes 20,000 feet high, examining extinct and active volcanoes, collecting and drawing animals and plants, he brought away an incredible amount of in- formation, which has since filtered into all our scientific records, remodelled popular education, and become the common pro- perty of the civilized world. Many of these ascensions were attended with infinite dan- ger and difficulty. He climbed the Chiam- borazo to a height of 18,000 feet, at a time when no other man had ever ascended so far above the level of the sea, and was only prevented from reaching the summit by an impassable chasm, in which he nearly lost his life. When, a few years later, Gay-Lus- sac made his famous ascent in a balloon, for the sake of studying atmospheric phenom- ena, lie rose only 1200 feet higher.* Re- turning from th~ Andes, Humboldt skirted the Pacific from Truxillo to Acapulco, and paused in Mexico again. There he ascend- ed all the great mountains in that neighbor- hood, continuing and completing the same investigations which he had pursued with such persistency through this whole labori- ous journey. He studied volcanic action, mines, the production of precious metals, their influence upon civilization and com- muerce, latitudes and longitudes, averages of climate, relative heights of mountains, distribution of vegetation, astronomical and inetoorological phenomena. From Mexico he ~vent to Havana, and from havana sailed for Philadelphia. ihis stay in this couiitry * The ascension of Mont Blanc by De Saussure was time only exploit of that kind on record before. Even IateaslS42theascent of the Jungfrau at- tracted some attention. Nowadays tourists may run up the highest summits of the Alps to drink the health of their friends. was short. He was cordially received by Jefferson on his visit to Washington, and warmly welcomed by scientific men in Phil- adelphia. But he made no ilnportant re- searches in the United States, and sailed for Europe soon after his arrival. HIS RETURN TO EUROPE SUBSEQUENT ACHIEVEMENTS. He returned to Paris in 1804, having been five years absent from Europe. It was a brilliant period in science, letters and politics in the great capital. The republic was still in existence; the throes of the re- volution were over, and the reaction toward monarchical ideas had hardly begun. La- Place, Gay-Lussac, Cuvier, Desfontaines, Delambre, Oltmanas, Foureroy, Berthollet, Biot, Delomnien, Lamarek and Lacep~de were leaders then in the learned world. The young traveller, bringing intellectual and material treasures even to men who had grown old in research, was welcomed by all, and in this great centre of social and intellectual life he made his home, for the most part, from 1805 to 1827: from the brightest days of the republic, through the rise and fall of the empire, to the restora- tion of the Bourbons. lie devoted himself to the publication of his results, and secured as his collaborators in this work the ablest men of the day. Cuvier, Latreille, and Valenciennes worked up the zoiilogieal col- lections, Bonpland and Kuiith directed the publication of the botanical treasures, Olt- manns undertook the reduction of the astro- nomical and barometrical observations, while he himself, jointly with Gay-Lussac arid Provencal made investigations upon the respiration of fishes and upon the chemical couistitution of the atmosphere and the composition of water, which have left their mark in the annals of chemistry. While, of course, superintendin~ more or less all the publications, Humboldt himself was cnga~ed especially with those upon physical geogra- phy, meteorology, and zoiilogy. The mere enumeration of the volumes resulting from this great expedition is impressive. It em- braces three folio volumes of geographical, physical and botanical maps, including scenery, antiquities, and the aboriginal races: twelve quarto volumes of letter- press, three of which contain the personal narrative, two are devoted to New Spain, two to Cuba, two to zo6logy and compara- t~ve anatomy, two to astronomy and one to a physical description of the tropics. The botanical results of the journey occupy not less than thirteen folio volumes, ornamented with magnificent colored plates. As all these works are in our Public Library, in 52 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. Boston, I would invite my hearers to a gaged, comparing notes, assisting at new real intellectual treat and a gratification of experiments, suggesting further inquiries, their ~sthetic tastes, in urging them to de- ever active, ever inventive, ever su~gestive, vote some leisure hour to turning over the ever fertile in resource, neither disturbed leaves of these magnificent volumes. A by the great political commotions which he walk through the hot-houses of the largest witnessed, nor tempted from his engrossing botanical garden and unfortunately we labors by the most brilliant offers of public have no such on this continent could service or exalted position. It was during hardly be more impressive than an cx- one of his first visits to Berlin, where he amnination of these beautiful l)lates. Add went to consult about the organization of to these a special work on the position of the University with his brother William, rocks in the two hemispheres, one on the then minister of state in Prussia, that he isothermal lines, his innumerable smaller published those fascinating Views of Na- I)apers, and lastly, five volumes on the his- ture, in which he has given pictures of the tory of geography and the progress of tropics as vivid and as exciting to the ima- nautical astronomy during the fifteenth and gination as if they lived on the canvass of sixteenth centuries, more or less directly some great artist. connected with Humboldts own journey, The question naturally arises, Who pro- though published in later years. His in- vided for the expenses of these extensive vestigations into the history of the discovery literary undertakings P Ilumnboldt him- of America have a special interest for us. self. No one knows exactly what he has We learn from him that the name of our spent in the publication of his works. continent was first introduced into the Some approach to an estimate may, how- learned world by Waltzeemiiller, a German ever, be made, by computing the cost of professor, settled at St. Didi~, in Lorraine, printing, paper, and engraving, which can- Hylacomylus, as he called himself, at a not have amounted to less than $2~U,OOO. time when scholars were wont to translate No doubt the sale indemimified him in some their names into the dead languages and degree, but all know that such publications thought it more dignified to appear under a do not pay. The price of a single copy of Greek or Latin garb. This cosmographer the complete work on America is $2000, published the first map of the New World, double that of the great national work pub- with an account of the journeys of Amen- lished by France upon Egypt, for the pub- cus Vespucci, whose namne he affixed to the lication of which the governmnent spent lands recently discovered. Humboldt shows about $800.000. Of course very few us also that Columbuss discovery was no copies can be sold of a work of this magni- accident, but grew naturally out of the tude. But from his youth upward, Hum- speculations of the time, themselves the boldt spent his private means liberally, not echo of a far-off dream, which he follows only for the carrying out and subsequent back into the dimness of Grecian antiquity. publication of his own scientific undertak- ~ recognize again here the characteristic ings, but to forward the work of yoummger features of Humboldts mind, in his con- and poorer men. In his old age he lived stant endeavour to trace discoveries through upon a smnall pension granted to him by the all the stages of their progress. King of Prussia. His many-sidedness is Although he made his headquarters in remarkable. He touched life at all points. Paris, it became necessary for Humboldt, He was the friend of artists, no less than during the preparation of so many extensive of scientific and literary mcmi. His desire works, to undertake journeys in various to make his illustrations worthy of the parts of Europe to examine and re- great objects they were to represent examine Vesuvius, and compare its mode brought him into constant and intimate re- of action, its geological constitution, and lation with the draughtsmen and painters the plmenomena of its eruptions, with what of his day. Even David did not think it he had seen of the volcanoes of South below his dignity to draw an allegoric title- America. On one of these occasions he page for the great work. He valued ascended Vesuvius in company with Gay- equally the society of intelligent and culti- Lussac and Leopold von Buch. That single vated women, such as Madame de Stael, excursion, undertaken by such men, was Madame R6camnier, Rahel, Bettina, and fruitful in valuable additions to knowledge. many others less known to fame. He was At other times he went to consult rare intimate with statesmen, politicians, and books in the great libraries of Germany and men of the world. The familiarity of Hum- Emigland, or to discuss with his brother in boldt with the natural resources of the Berlin, or with trusted friends in other parts countries he had visited, with their mm- of Europe, the work in which he was en- eral products and precious metals, made ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. his opinion valuable, not only in matters of commerce, but important to th~ govern- ments of Europe; and after the colonies of South America had achieved their inde- pendence, the allied powers of Europe in- vited him to make a report upon the politi- cal condition of the new republics. In 1822 he attended the Congress of Verona, and visited the south of Italy with the King of Prussia. Thus his life was associated with the political growth and independence of the New World, as it was intimately allied with the literary, scientific and ar- tistic interests of the Old. He never, how- ever, took an active part in politics at home, and yet all Germany looked upon him as identified with the aspirations of the liberal party, of which his brother William was the most prominent represen- tative. RESULTS OF THE AMERICAN JOURNEY. Before closing this period of Humboldts life I would add a few words more in de- tail upon the works published by him after his return from South America. One of the first fruits in the rich harvest reaped from this expedition was the successful attempt, to which I have already alluded, at representing graphically the physical feat- ures of that continent. Thus far such rep- resentations had mainly consisted in maps and the delineation of the characteristic plants and animals. Humboldt devised a new method, equally impressive to the eye and comprehensive in its outlines. Im- pressed by the fact that vegetation changes its character as it ascends upon the side of high mountains, thus presenting succes- sive terraces upon their slopes, he con- ceived the idea, already suggested by his examination of the Peak of Teneriffe, of drawing upon the outline of a conical mountain the different aspects of its sur- face, from the level of the sea to its highest peak. Thus he could exhibit at a glance all those successive zones of vegetation, represented upon the diagram before you, and drawn by him at Guayaquil in 1803. It is copied from his work on the physical aspect of the tropics and the geographical distribution of plants. Explanations from the diagram. Afterwards he extended these comparisons to the temperate and arctic zones, and ascertained that, as we proceed farther north, the gradation of the vegetation, at the level of the ocean, corre- s ponds to its succession upon mountain slopes, until towards the Arctics it as- sumes a remarkable resemblance to the plants found near the line of perpetual snows under the Tropics. But this is not all. The intervening expanse from North to South, as far as the equator, and then in reverse order to the Antarctic regions, also exhibits, in proportion to the elevation of the land, a vegetation characterized by intermediate forms. In the same way he reproduced the gen- eral appearance of the inequalities of the earths surface by drawing ideal sections across the regions described. In the first place, through Spain, afterwards from La Guayra to Caraccas across tl~e Cumbre, and from Carthagena to Santa F~ de Bogota, through the whole Continent of America, from Acapulco to Vera Cruz, as represented in another diagram before you. And this is not by mere approximations, but founding his profiles upon his own baro- metic and astronomical observations, which he multiplied to such an extent that his works are to this day the chief source of in- formation concerning the physical geog- raphy of the regions visited by him. Not satisfied with this, he undertook to represent, in like manner, the internal structure of the earth, by drawing similar charts upon which the relative position of the rocks, with signs to indicate their min- eralogical character, is faithfully portrayed. The first chart of this kind was drawn by him in Mexico in 1804, and presented to the School of Mines of that city. It was afterwards published in the Atlas of the American Journey. We are thus indebted to him for the whole of that graphic method which has made it possible to delineate, in visible outlines, the true characteristics of physical phenomena; for afterwards this method was applied to the representation of the oceanic currents, the direction of the prevalent winds, the tidal waves, the rise and fall of our lakes and rivers, the amount of rain falling upon different parts of the earths surface, the magnetic phenomena, the lines of equal average temperature, the relative height of our plains, table-lands and mountain chains, their internal struc- ture, and the distribution of plants and animals. Even the characteristic features of the History of Mankind are now tabu- lated in the same way upon our ethno- graphical maps, in which the distribution of the raccs, the highways of navigation and commerce, the difference among men as to language, culture, creeds, nay, even the records of our census, the estimates of the wealth of nations, down to the statistics of agriculture and tIme averages of virtue and vice, are represented. In short, every branch of mental activity has been vivified by this process and undergone an entire transformation under its influence. 63 64 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. his paper upon the isothermal lines was published in the M6moires do la Soci6t6 dArcueil, a scientific club to which in the beginning of this century the most eminent men of the age belonged. Though a mere sketch, the first delineation of the curves uniting those different points of the earths surface, which, though under ditibrent lati- tudes, l)O55~55 the same average annual temperature, exhibits already the charac- teristic features in tbe irregular distribution of the temperature of our globe, which myriads of observations of a later date have only confirmed. No other series of investigations shows morep lainly than this, to what accurate results an observer may arrive who understands how to weigh criti- cally the meaning of his facts, however few they may be. This other diagram before you represents the isothermal line as con- trasted with the degrees of latitude. The barometical and astronomical obser- vations upon which his numerous maps are based were computed and reduced to their final form by his friend Oltmanns. They fill two large quarto volumes, and amount to the accurate determination of nearly one thousand localities. They are not taken at random, but embrace points of the highest importance, with reference to the geograph- ical distribution of plants arid animals and the range of agricultural products. Hum- boldt has himself added an introduction to this work, in which he gives an account of the instruments used in his observations and the methods pursued by him in his ex- periments, and discusses the astronomical refractions in the torrid zone. Thus the philosophical geography of our days is based upon Liumboldt~s investiga- tions. lie is, indeed, the founder of com- parative geography, that all embracing sci- ence of our globe, unfolded with a master hand by Karl litter, and which has now its ablest representative in our own Guyot, the author of the maps before you. his corre- spondence with Berghaus testifies his in- tense interest in the progress of geograph- ical knowledge. To Humboldt this world of ours is indeed not only the abode of man, it is a growth in the history of the universe, shaped accor(ling to laws; by a long process of successive chan es, which have resulted in its present configuration with its mutually dependent features. The work upon the Position of Rocks in the two hemispheres tells the history of that growth as it conld be told in 1823, and is of course full of gross anachronisms; but at the same time it exhibits the wonderful power of generalization and combination which Hum- boldt possessed, as for instance where he says, in a few beautiful words, fertile in con- sequences, not yet fully appreciated by the naturalists of our days When we ex- amine the solid mass of our l)lanet, we per- ceive that the simple minerals are found in associations which are everywhere the same, and that the rocks do not vary as organized beings do, according to the dif- ferences of latitude or the isothermal lines under which they occur; thus contrastin in one single phrase the whole organic world with the inorganic in their essential character. In practical geology we owe to him the first recognition of the Jurassic formation. It was lie also who introduced into our science those happy expressions, geological horizon, arid ~indcpendence of geological formations. lIe also paved die way for Elle de Beaumonts determina- tion of the relative age of mountain chains, by his discussion upon the directiomi of stra- tified rocks and the parallels he drew be- tween the age of pintonic an(l sedimentary formations: nor had it escaped him that distant dorm and faunm, though of the same age, may be entirely different. The collection of zo6logical and anatomi- cal papers in two quarto volumes, with nu- inerous colored plates, is full of valuable contributions to the Natural History of Ani- mnals from his own pen, as well as that of his collaborators. The most remarkable are his description of the Condor, which must have ilelighted the French Zodlogists, who could not fail to compare it with the glowing pages of their own Buffon; liisSyn- opsis of the South American Monkeys, riv- alling the works of Audebert and GeofVroy St. Ililaire; his account of the electric Eel and the Catfish thrown out by the burning volcanoes of the Andes, contrasted with the Great Natural history of Fishes, by Lac6- pede: his paper on the Respiration of Croco- diles arid the Larynx of Birds arid Croco- diles, daring upon his own ground the greatest anatomist of the age, the immortal Cuvier. Indeed, it must have created a profound sensation in the learned world when a naturalist, all whose previous pub- lications rohateti to physical subjects, sud- demily came forward asa master among mas- ters, in the treatment of zofllogleal and an- atoinical questions. The botanical works have appeared under several titles. XVe have first the Plantes Equinoxiales, in two folio volumes, with 140 plates, by Bouplaud; the i\Ionograph of the M6lastom6es and that of the Rh6xi6es, in two folio volumes, with 120 plates, also by Boupland; then the Mimose~s by Knuth, in one folio volume with 60 plates; the revision of the Gramiu~es in one folio vol ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 55 ume with 220 plates, by Kunth, and finally the Nova Genera and Species Plantarum by Kunth in seven folio volumes with 700 plates. Altogether thirteen folio volumes with 1240 plates, most of which are beauti- fully colored and remain unsurpassed for fidelity of description and fullness of illus- tration. But though the descriptive part of these splendid volumes is from the pen of his fellow-traveller Boupland, and his young friend Kunth, it would be a mistake to suppose that Humboldt had no share in their preparation. Not only did he assid- uously collect specimens during the journey, but it was he who made, on the spot, from the living plant, drawings and analyses of the most remarkable and characteristic trees, the general aspect of which could not be preserved in the specimens gathered for the herbarium. Beside this, there are en- tire chapters concerning the geographical distribution of the most remarkable families of plants, their properties, their uses, & c., entirely written by Humboldt himself, it was he also who for the first time divided the areas of the regions he had explored into botanical provinces, according to their natural physical features: thus distinguish- ing the flora of New Andalusia and Venezu- ela from that of the Orinoco basin, that of New Grenada, that of Quito, that of the Peruvian Andes, and that of Mexico and Cuba. It was he also who first showed that the whole vegetable kingdom contains, after all, but a few distinct types, which charac- terize the vegetable carpet of the earths surface, in different parts of the world, under different latitudes, and at different heiohts. He closes one of these expositions with a few words, which I cannot pass by without quoting them. Such investiga- tions, he says, afford an intellectual en- joyment, and foster a moral strength which fortify us against misfortunes and which no human power can overcome. HIS LATER YEARS AND ACHIEVEMENTS. The last period of his life was spent in Berlin, and while there, to the end of his long and laborious career, he was en~aged with the publication of his Cosmos, and also in editing the great work on the Kavi language, left by his brother William, who died in 1835. Besides these important un- dertakings, he was unceasingly engaged in fostering magnetic observations and the establishment of magnetic observatories. He likewise felt a lively interest in the pro- j o sed inter-oceanic canal between the At- antic and Pacific oceans, the lines for which he had carefully considered in earlier years. Surrounded by loving and admiting friends, covered with honors and distinctions, these days were rich in peaceful enjoyment. One of the most prominent features of Humboldts mind as a philosopher and stu- dent of nature, consists in the keenness with which he perceives the most remote relations of the phenomena under consider- ation, and the felicity with which he com- bines his facts so as to dra~v the niost corn- prehensive pictures. The faculty is more particularly 3xhibited in the Cosmos, the crowning effort of his mature lit~. With a grasp transcending the most profound gen- eralizations of the philosophers of all ages, he draws at first in broad outlines a sketch of the whole Universe. With an eye sharp- ened by the most improved instruments of the Observatory, and exalted by the ex- perience of all his predecessors, he pene- trates into the remotest recesses of space, to seek for the faintest ray of light that may furnish any information concerning the ex- panse of the heavenly vault and the age of the celestial bodies. lie thus makes the rapidity with which light is propagated a measure of the distance which separates the visible parts of the whole system from one another, as well as a means of approximately estimating the duration of their existence. He next considers the various appearances of the celestial bodies, the different kinds of nebulme, their form and relations to one an- other and to the so-called fixed stars; de- scribes in graphic and fascinating language the landscape-like loveliness of their coinbi- nations in the Milky Way and the various constellations; discusses the nature of the double stars, and gradually approaching our own system by a comparison of our sun to other suns, rises, by a sublime effort of the imagination, to a conception of the form of their united systems in space. in the description of our solar system, one might have expected an exposition similar to the methods adopted by astronomers but the object of our great physicist is not to write a synopsis of Astronomy. I-k plunges without hesitation into the earliest history of the formation of our earth, the better to illustrate the relations to one another of the sun and the planets, with their satellites, the comets, amid the hosts of meteors of all kinds which come flashing, like luminous showers, through the atmos- phere. Our globe is reviewed in its turn. First, its structure, the density of its mass, in the estimation of which the oscillations of the pendulum become a plummet-line with which to fathom the inapproachable deep; and the volcanoes are made to re- veal the everlasting conflict between the interior caldron of melted materials and the 56 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. consolidation of the ruffled surface; the dis- tribution of heat and light, the climates, as depending upon the inequalities of form and relief, the currents of the ocean, as modify- ing the temperature, the magnetic phenom- ena, the aurora borealis. The changes which our globe has undergone in course of ages are next described. how the lands gradually rose above the level of the sea, how they first formed disconnected archi- pelagoes, how mountains grew up in suc- cession, their relative age, the form and ex- tent of successively larger continental isl- ands, their plants and animals, nothing escaped his attention. Everything is rep- resented in its true place and relation to the whole. Especially attractive are his de- lineations of the distribution of the plants and animals upon the present surface of the earth, of which an account has already been given. This mode of treating his subjects, em- phatically his own, has led many specialists to underrate Humboldts familiarity with different branches of science: as if knowl- edge could only be recorded in pedantic forms and a set phraseology. But Humboldt is not only an observer, not only a physicist, a geo~,rapher, a geol- ogist of matchless power and erudition; he knows that nature has its attraction for the soul of man: that, however uncultivated, man is impressed by the great phenomena amid which he lives; that he is dependent for his comforts and the progress of civili- zation upon the world that surrounds him. This leads to an appreciative analysis of the enjoyment derived from the contempla- tion of nature, and to considerations of the highest order respecting the influence which natural highways have had upon the races of men, in their distribution upon the whole surface of the globe. teacher, he combined immense knowledge with simplicity of expression, avoiding all technicalities not absolutely essential to the subject. In the midst of his lectures there came to him an invitation from the Russian govern- ment to visit the Russian provinces of Asia. Nothino could be more oratifying to a scien- b tific man than the terms in which this propo- sition was made. It was exprershy stip- ulated by the Emperor, that he wished the material advantages which might accrue from the expedition to be a secondary consid- eration. Humboldt was to make the scien- tific research and the advancement of knowledge, his first aim, and lie might turn his steps in whatever direction he chose. Never before had any government organ- ~zed an expedition with so little regard to purely utilitarian considerations. This second great journey of humboldt is connected with a hope and disappoint- ment of my own. I was then a student in Munich. That University had opened under the most brilliant auspices. Almost every name on the list of professors was also prominent in some department of cience or literature. They were not men who taught from text-books, or even read lectures made from extracts of original works. They were themselves original in- vestigators, daily contributing to the sum of human knowledge. Martius, Ok~n, D6l- linger, Schelhing, Fr. von Baader, Wagler, Zuccarini, Fuchs, Vogel, Von Kobell, were our teachers. And they were not only our teachers but our friends. The best spirit prevailed among the professors and stu- dents. We were often the companions of their walks, often present at their discus- sions, and when we met for conversation or to give lectures among ourselves, as we constantly did, our professors were often among ~ur listeners, cheering and stimulat- PERSONAL RECOLLEcTIONS. ing us in all our efforts after independent In 1827, at the urgent solicitation of his research. brother, Humboldt transferred his residence My room was our meeting-place bed- from Paris to Berlin. With this step there room, study, museum, library, lecture- opens a new phase in his life. Thus far he room, fencing-room, all in one. Students had been absolutely independent of public and professors used to call it the little or official position. Conducting his re- academy. here Schimper and Braun for searches as a private individual, if he ap- the first time discussed the laws of phyllo- peared before the public at all, it was only taxis, that marvellous rhythmical arrange- in reading his papers to learned academies. ment of the leaves in plants which our great Now he began to lecture in the University. mathematician in Cambridge has found to In his first course, consisting of sixty-one agree with the periods of the rotation of lectures, he sketched the physical history our planets. Aniong thieir listeners were of the world in its broadest outline, it was, Professors Martins and Zuccarini; and in truth, the programme of the Cosmos. even Robert Brown, while in Munich dur- Since I shall give an analysis of the Cosmos ing a journey through Germany, sought the in its fitting place, I will say nothimmo of acquaintance of these young botanists. these lectures here, except that, a~s a I Here for the first time did Michahelles lay ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 57 before us the results of his exploration of the Adriatic and adjoining regions. Here Born exhibited his wonderful preparations of the anatomy of the Lamper-eci. Here Rudolphi made us acquainted with his ex- ploration of the Bavarian Alps and the shores of the Baltic. These my fellow-stu- dents in Munich were a bright, promising set boys then in age, many of whom did not live to make their names famous in the annals of science. It was in our little academy that D6llinger, the great master in physiology and embryology, showed to us, his students, before he had even given them to the scientific world, his wonderful prepara- tions exhibiting the vessels of the vil- losities of the alimentary canal; and here he taught us the use of the microscope in embryological investigation. And here also the great German anatomist, Meckel, came to see my collection of fish skeletons, of which he had heard from Dollinger. Such associations, of course, made us acquainted with everything of importance which was going on in the scientific world. The preparation of Humboldt for his Asiatic journey excited our deepest interest, and I was filled with a passionate desire to accom- pany the expedition as an assistant. General La Harpe, then residing at Lan- sanne, who had been the preceptor of both the Emperors Alexander and Nicholas of Russia, and who knew Humboldt person- ally, was a friend of my family, and he wrote to Humboldt in my behalf, asking that I might join the expedition as an assis- tant. But it was not to be. The prepara- tions for the journey were already made, and Ehrenberg and Gustav Rose, then pro- fessors at the Berlin University, were to be his travelling companions. I should not mention the incident here, but that, slight as it was, it marks the beginning of my perT sonal relation with Humboldt. LIFE IN PARIS IN 1830. In 1830, after his return to Berlin, he was chosen as the fitting messenger from one great nation to another. The restora- tion which followed the downfall of Napo- leon had been overturned by the July revo- lution, and he who had lived through the glory of the Republic and the most brilliant days of the Empire, was appointed by the King of Prussia to carry an official greeting to Louis Philippe and the new dynasty. He had, indeed, the most friendly relations with the Orleans family, and was, from pri- vate as well as public considerations, a suitable ambassador on this occasion. Paris had greatly changed since his return from his first great journey. Many of those who had made the glory of the Academy of Sciences, in the beginning of the century, had passed away, and a new generation had come up. Elie de Beaumont, Dufr~noy, the younger Brongniart, Adrien do Jussieu, Isidore Geoffroy, Milne Edwards, Audouiii, Flouiens, Guillemain, Pouillet, Duperrey, Babinet, Decaisne, and others had risen to distinction, while the oldcr A~np~re, the older Brongniart, Valenciennes, de Blain- ville, Arago, Geoffroy St. Hilaire, had come forward as leaders in science. Cuvier, just the age of Humboldt himself, was still active and ardent in research. His salon, frequented by statesmen, scholars, and ar- tists, was, at the same time, the gathering- place of all the most original thinkers in Paris; and the pleasure of these delightful meetings was unclouded, for none dreamed how soon they were to end forever, how soon that bright and vivid mind was to pass away from among us. In those days a fierce discussion was car- ried on before the Academy, as well as in public lectures. Goethe had declared the unity of structure in the bony frame of all the vertebrates, and had laid the foundation of the morphology of plants. These new views had awakened the interests and pas- sions of the whole world of science to a de- gree hitherto unknown in her peaceful halls. Cuvier, strange to say, had taken ground in opposition to Goethes views upon the vertebrate type, while Geoffroy St. Hilaire, a devoted adherent of Goethes ideas, had expressed his convictions in words not always courteous towards Cuvier. The latter had retorted with an overwhelm- ing display of special knowledge, under which the brilliant generalizations of St. Hilaire seemed to he crushed. Cuvier was then giving a course of lectures in the College de France, on the history of sci- ence, into which he wove with passionate animation his objections to the new doctrine. Humboldt attended these lectures re~ularly, and I had frequently the l)leasure of sitting by his side and being the recipient of his passing criticism. While be was impressed by the objections of the inaster-anatomist, he could not conceal his sympathy for the conception of the great poet, his country- man. Seeing more clearly than Cuvier himself the logic of his investigations, in whispered coniments during the lectures, he constantly declared that whatever defici- ences the doctrine of unity might still con- tain, it must be essentially true, and Cuvier ought to be its expounder instead of its op- ponent. The great French naturalist did not live to complete these lectures, but the view expressed by his friend was prophetic. 58 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. Cuviers own researches, especially those hearing upon the characteristics of the four different plans of structure of the animal kingdom, have helpcd to prove in his own despite, though in a modified form, the truth of the doctrine he so bitterly opposed. The life which Humboldt now led was less exclusively that of a student than it had been during his former Paris life. He was the ambassador of a foreign court. His official position and his rank in society, as well as his great celebrity, made him everywhere a cherished guest, and Hum- boldt had the gift of making himself ubiquitous. He was as familiar with the gossips of the fashionable and dramatic world as with the higher walks of life and the abstruse researches of science. He had nt this time two residences in Paris; his lodging at the Hotel des Princes, where he saw the great world, and his working-room in the Rue de la Ilarpe, where he received with less formality his scientific friends. It is with the latter place I associate him; for there it was my privilege to visit him fre- quently. There he gave me leave to come to talk with him about my work, and con- sult him in my difficulties. I am unwilling to speak of myself on this occasion, and yet I do not know how else I can do justice to one of the most beautiful sides of Hum- boldts character. His sympathy for all young students of nature was one of the noblest traits of his long life. It may truly he said that towards the close of his career there was hardly one prominent or aspiring scientific man in the world who was not under some obligation to him. His sympathy touched not only the work of those in whom he was interested, but ex- tended also to their material wants and em- barrassments. At this period I was twenty- four; he was sixty-two. I had recently taken nmy degree as Doctor of Medicine, and was struggling riot only for a scientific position, but for the means of existence also. I have said that he gave me permission to come as often as I pleased to his room, opening to me freely the inesti- mable advantages which intercourse with such a man gave to a young investigator like myself. But he did far more than this. Occupied aiid surrounded as he was, he sought inc out in my own lodging. The first visit he paid rue at my narrow quarters in the Qoartier Latin, where I occupied a small room in the Hotel du Jardin des Plantes, was characteristic of the man. After a ~ordial greeting, he walked straight to what was then my library, a small book-shelf containing a few classics, the meanest editions bought for a trifle along the quays, some works on philosophy and history, chemistry and physics, his own Views of Nature, Aristotles Zoiilo~y, Lin- nmuss Systema Natura~, in several editions, Cuviers R6gne Animal, and quite a num- ber of manuscript quartos copies which, with the assistance of my brother, I had made of works I was too poor to buy, though they cost but a few francs a volume. Most conspicuous of all were twelve vol- uines of the new German Cyclopedia pre- sented to me by the publisher. I shall never forget, after his look of mingled in- terest and surprise at my little collection, his half-sarcastic question as he pounced upon the great Encyclopedia, Was machen Sie denn mit dieser Eselsbriicke, What are you doing with this asss bridge? the somewhat contemptuous name given in Ger- many to similar compilations. I have not had time, I said, to study the original sources of learning, and I need a prompt and easy answer to a thousand questions I have as yet no other means of solving. It was no doubt apparent to him that I was not over familiar with the good things of this world, for I shortly afterward re- ceived an invitation to meet him at six oclock in the Gallerie Yitrbe of the Palais Royal, whence he led me into one of those restaurants, the tempting windows of which I had occasionally passed by. When we were seated, he half laughingly, half in- quiringly, asked me whether I would order the dinner. I declined the invitation, say- ing that we would fare better if he would take the trouble. And for three hours, which passed like a dream, I had him all to myself. How he examined me, and how much I learned in that short time! How to work, what to do, and what to avoid; how to live; how to distribute my time; what methods of study to pursu~, these were the things of.which he talked to me on that delightful evening, I do not mention this trivial incident without feeling that it may seem too familiar for the occasion; nor should I give it all, except that it shows the sweetness and kindliness of Humboldts nature. It was not enough for him to cheer and stimulate the student; he cared also to give a rare indulgence to a young man who could allow himself few luxuries~ THE ASIATIC JOURNEY. The incidents of Humboldts Asiatic journey are less known to the public at large than those of his longer American ramblings. Short as it was, however, for he was absent only nine months, he brought to the undertaking such an amount of collateral knowledge that its scientific ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 59 results are of the utmost importance, and three hundred feet below the level of the may be considered as the culmination of his sea, suggested to him its former coinmuni- mature research and comprehensiveness of cation with the Artic Ocean, when the views. His success was insurcd also by the steppes of the Kirghis formed an open gulf ample preparations of the Russian govern- and the northern waters poured over those merit, orders having heen given along the extensive plains. After examining the whole road to grant him every facility. German settlements about the Caspian Sea, Descending the Volga to Kasan, and thence he returned to St. Petersburg by way of crossing to Ikaterinenhurg over the Ural Orenburg and Moscow. The scientific Mountains, he passed thaough Tobolsk, on results of this journey are recorded in two the Jrtish to Barnaul, on the Obi, and separate works, the first of which, tinder reached the Altai Mountains, on the borders the title of Asiatic Fragments of Climat- of China, thus penetrating into the heart ology and Geology, is chiefly devoted to an of Asia. Ijis researches into the physical account of the inland volcanoes which he constitution of what was considered the had had an opporbunity of studying during high table-land of Asia revealed the true this journey. He had now examined the features of that vast range of mountains, volcanic phenomena upon three continents, Touched by his cultivated genius, the most and had gained an insight more penetrating insignificant facts became fruitful, and gave and more comprehensive than was possessed him at oiice a clew to the real character of by any other geologist into their deep con- the land. The presence of fruit-trees and nection with all the changes our globe has other plants, belonging to families not undergone. Volcanoes are no longer to known to occur in elevated regions, led him mere local manifestations of a limited him to distrust the existence of an un- focus of eruption; he perceived their rela- broken, high, cold table-land, extending tion to earthquakes and to all the phenomena over the whole of Central Asia, and by a coincident with the formation of the inequal- diligent comparison of all existing docu- i ties of the earths surface. The contrast ments on the subject, combined with his between the Siberian winter and the great own observations, he showed that four great fertility of the neighborhood of Astracan, parallel mountain ridges, separated by where he found the finest vineyards he had gradually higher and higher level grounds, ever seen, led him to consider anew the extend in an east-westerly direction. First causes of the irregularities of temperature the Altai, bordering on the plains of under corresponding latitudes, and then to Siberia, from the northern slope of which I enlarge his knowledge of the isothermal descend all the great rivers flowing into the lines, which he had first sketched in his Arctic Ocean, the Irtisch with the Obi, the younger years, and the rationale of which Jennisei and the Lena, then the Thian- he now clearly set forth. In one compre- Shan, south of the plateau of Soongaria; hensive view he showed the con nection be- next the Kuenlun, south of the plateau of tween the rotation of the earth, the radiation Tartary; miext the Himalaya range, of its surface, the currents of the ocean, arid separating the plateau of Thibet from the especially among the latter the Gulf Stream, plains of the Ganges. He showed the con- in their combined influence upon conditions nection of the Himalaya Mountains through of temperature, producing under identical the Hindoo-koo and the Demavend with the latitudes such contrasts of climate as exist far-off range of the Caucasus. These east- between Boston, Madrid, Naples, Constan- westerly ranges, giving form and character tinople, Tiflis on the Caucasus, Ilakodadi, to the continent of Asia, are then contrast- and that part of our own coast in California, ed with the ncrth southerly direction of the where stands the city which bears his own Ghants, the Soliman and Bolor range and venerated name. the Ural Mountains, dividing Europe from The second work relating to the Asiatic Asia. Approaching the great highways, journey appeared under the title of Cen- over which the caravans of the East from tral Asia, being an account of his re- Delhi and Lahore reach the northern marts searches into the mountain systems and the of Samarcand, Bokhara and Orenburg, he climate of that continent. The broadest opens to us the most striking vistas of the ocuerahizations relating to the physics of early communication between the Arian the globe, showing humboldts wonderful civilization and the western lands lying j familiarity with all its external features, are then in the darkness of savage life. He in- here introduced in a short paper upomi the quired also into the course of the old Oxus average elevation of the continents above and the former channels between Lake the level of the sea, as compared with the Aral and the Caspian Sea. The level of average depths of the ocean. LaPlace, that great inland salt lake, between two and the great geometer, had already considered 60 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. the subject; but Humboldt brought to the discussion an amount of facts which showed conclusively that the purely mathematical consideration of the inquiry, as handled by LaPlace, had been premature. Taking separately into consideration the space oc- cupied on the earths surface by mountain ridges with that occupied by high table- lands, and the far more extensive tracts of low plains, Humboldt showed that the aver- age elevation of the earth, estimated by LaPlace at more than 1000 m~tres, could in fact he scarcely one third Ihat amount, a great deal less indeed than the average depth of the sea. HIS PRIVATE LIFE AND CHARACTER. In speaking of his later days, I cannot omit some allusion to a painful fact con- nected with his residence at Berlin. The publication of a private correspondence be- tween Varuhagen von Ense and Humboldt has led to many unfriendly criticisms upon the latter. He has been blamed for hold- ing his place at court, while in private he criticized and even satirized severely every- thing connected with it. It is not easy to place oneself in the right point of view, with reference to these confidential letters. It must be remembered that Humboldt was a republican at heart. His most intimate friends, from Forster, in his early youth, to Arago, in his mature years, were ardent republicans. He shared their enthusiasm for the establishment of self-government among men. An anecdote preserved to us by Lieber shows that he did not conceal his sympathies, even before the king who honored him so highly. Lieber, who was present at the conversation, gives the following account of it: The King of Prussia, Humboldt and Niebuhr were talk- ing of the affairs of the day, and the latter spoke in no flattering terms of the political views and antecedents of Arago, who, it is well known, was a very advanced republican of the Gallican school, an uncompromising French democrat. Frederic William the third simply abominated republicanism; vet when Niehuhr had finished, Humboldt said, with a sweetness which I vividly re- member: Still, this monster is the dearest friend I have in France.~~~ Can ~ve, therefore, be surprised that, in his confidential letters to a sympathsing friend, he should not refrain from expressing his dislike of the petty intrigues and low sentiments which he met among courtiers. 1 received, myself, a letter from Humboldt, written in the days when the reactionary movements were at their height in Prussia, in which, in a strain of deep sadness and despondence, he expresses his regret at the turn political affairs had taken in Europe, and his disappointment at the failure of those aspirations for freedom with which he had felt the deepest sympathy in his youth. We may wish that this great man had been wholly consistent that no shadow had rested upon the loyalty of his character that he had not accepted the friendship and affection of a King whose court he did not respect and whose weaknesses he keenly felt. But let us remember that his official station there gave him the means of influencing culture and education in his native country in a way which he could not otherwise have done, and that in this respect he made the noblest use of his position. His sympathy with the oppressed in every land was pro- found. XVe see it in his feeling for the aborigines in South America in his ab- horrence of slavery. I believe that he would have experienced one of the purest and deepest joys of his life had he lived to hear of the abolition of slavery in the United States. His dislike of all subserviency and flattery, whether toward himself or others, was always openly expressed, and was unquestionably genuine. The philosophical views of Humboldt, his position with reference to the gravest and most important questions concerning mans destiny and the origin of all things, have been often discussed, and the most opposite opinions have been expressed re- specting them, by men who seem equally competent to appreciate the meaning of his writings. The modern school of Atheists claims him as their leader; as such we find him represented by Burmneister in his scien- tific letters. Others bring forward his sym- pathy with Christian culture as evidence of his adherence to Christianity in its broadest sense. It is difficult to find in Humboldts own writings any clew to the exact nature of his convictions. He had too great regard for truth, and he knew too well the Arian origin of the traditions collected by the Jews, to give his countenance to any creed based upon them. Indeed, it was o ne of his aims to free our civilization from the pressure of Jewish tradition: but it is impossible to become familiar with his writ- ings without feeling that if Humboldt was not a believer, he was no scoffer. A rever- ential spirit for everything great and good breathes through all his pages. Like a true philosopher, he knew that the time had not yet come for a scientific investigation into the origin of all things. Before he at- tempted to discuss the direct action of a Creator in bringing about the present con- dition of the universe, he knew that the ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 61 physical laws which govern the material dirge. In his own words: Es war Gottes, world must he first understood; that it nicht Mensehenhand die hier zum GrabgeULute would be a mistake to ascribe to the agency swang. of a Supreme Power occurrences and phe- nomena which could be deduced from the continued agency of natural causes. Until some limit to the action of these causes has been found, there is no place in a scicntific discussion, as such, for the consideration of the intervention of a Creator. But the time is fast approaching, and indeed some daring thinkcrs have actually entered upon the question, Where is the line between the inevitable action of law and the intervention of a higher power? where is the limit? And here we find the most opposite views propounded. There are those who affirm that inasmuch as force and matter are found to be a sufficient ground for so many physi- cal phenomena, we are justified in assuming that the whole universe, including organic life, has no further origin. To these, I ven- ture to say, Humboldt did not belong. He had too logical a mind to assume that a har- moniouslY combined whole coLild he the re- sult of accidental occurrences. In the few instances where, in his works, he uses the name of God, it appears plainly that he be- lieves in a Creator as the law-giver and pri.. mary originator of all things. There are two passages in his writings especially sig- nificant in this respect. In the 2nd volume of the Cosmos, when speaking of the im- pression man receives from the contempla- tion of the physical world, he called nature Gods majestic realm. Gottes erhabenes Reich. In his allusion to the fearful catas- trophe of Caraccas, destroyed by an earth- quake in 1812, the critical inquirer may even infer that Humboldt believed in a spe- cial Providence. For he says with much feeling: Our friends are no more; the house we lived in is a pile of ruins; the city I have described no longer exists. The day had been very hot, the air was calm, the sky without a cloud. It was Holy Thurs- day; the people were mostly assembled in the churches. Nothing seemed to fore- shadow the threatening misfortune. Sud- denly at four oclock in the afternoon, the bells which were struck mute that day be- gan to toll. It was the hand of God, and not the hand of man, which rang that funeral CONCLUSION. One word more before I close. I have appeared before you as the representative of the Boston Natural history Society. It was their proposition to celebrate this menv. orable anniversary. I feel grateful for their invitation, for the honor they have done me. I feel still more grateful for the generous impulse which has prompted them to con- nect a humboldt scholarship as a memorial of this occasion with the Museum of Com- parative Zo6logy at Cambridge. I trust this token of good will may only be another expression of that emulation for progress which I earnestly hope may forever be the only rivalry between these kindred institu- tions and their younger sister in Salem. We have all a great task to perform. It should be our effort, as far as it lies in our power, to raise the standard of culture of our people, as Humboldt has elevated that of the world. May the community at large feel with equal keenness the importance of each step now taken for the expansion in every direction of all the means of the high- est culture. The physical suffering of hu- manity, the wants of the poor, the craving of the hungry and naked, appeal to the sym- pathy of every one who has a human heart. But there are necessities which only the des- titute student knows; there is a hunger and thirst which only the highest charity can un- derstand and relieve; and on this solemn occasion let me say that every dollar given for higher education, in whatever special department of knowledge, is likely to have a greater influence upon the future charac- ter of our nation than even the thousands atA hundreds of thousands and millions which have already been spent and are daily spending to raise the many to material ease and comfort. In the hope of this coming golden age, let us rejoice together that Humboldts name will be permanently connected with education and learning in this country, with the prospects and institutions of which he felt so deep and so affectionate a sympathy. An unenumerated source of contributions to tions in the Cape of Good Hope provinces. In Netherlands ballad-poetry in the present day these all the quaintness of the old country may consists of the broadsides and squibs of the elec- be found. Athenmsum. 62 ON THE COLOUR OF AERIAL BLUE. From Good Words, soothing to the mind and eye. This bene- ON THE COLOUR OF AERIAL BLUE.* ficent quality we possess in our atmosphere, IT may be supposed that in considerincr constituted as it is to transmit light pure the conditions upon which, as it seems to and white as it comes from the sun. rue, the aerial blue of the sky and land- Atmosphere, without vapour, and with scape depends, I ought also to refer to such the sun at noon, is full of white light. collateral subjects as the colour of blue in Various examples show this. If, for in- the sea, or in the region of clouds; but stance, we range our eyes from the zenith this I must do ver y briefly, as in both these to the horizon, the azure blue, so deep cases, colour is dependent upon many cir- overhead, gradually becomes paler as the cumstances, the consideration of each of eye moves downwards, until in the extreme which would require to be entered upon distance it has merged nearly all its colour separately, while it is not so with the colour in whiteness. Were the blue of the sky of blue in the sky and the landscape, the resident in our atmosphere, we should ex- occurrence in these latter cases being uni- pect to find that where the atmosphere was formly referible to the same cause, most compressed which it is on the sur- Such bodies as rain, mist, escaped steam, face of the earth the colour would be or aqueous vapours, do not meet the condi- deepest; hut the reverse of this is the case, tions under which the colour of aerial blue as the blue nearly all disappears from it as is formed, but smoke of the more gaseous it nears the horizon. kimmds, and free from sooty admixture, being Directino our view to a range of moun- to a certain extent transparent, does so, tamns capped with snow, and distant twenty, and, as we shall see, is fitted to serve as an thirty, or forty miles such as the Ober- illustration, though imperfectly, of the sub- land seen from the terrace at Berne we ject of the following remarks, find that, though the space through which What light is, has not, I believe, been we look is so great in extent, and com- fully discovered, but whence it is derived posed of the densest part of our atmno- we know in so far as our system is 6on- sphere, the whmte of the snow when the ccrned. Streaming from the sun, it travels sun shines upon it seems entirely unchanged unseen through space, dark as night, until in its purity, while the parts of the moun- comimig in contact with matter, it is revealed tam range uncovered with snow, and the in its power to illuminate to gemierate and shadows on the snow-clad parts them- support life and as the agent by whose selves, are of an azure blue. potent ministry is produced all that we now Further: No white object, seen at what- rejoice in as pleasant to the sight and good ever distance, is, with the sunlight upon for food, it, at all affected in its purity as white, Light is the source of colour, and when while every other colour in the same rela- decomuposed is seen to consist of three ele- tion is more or less so, we are thus led to mentary constituents, namely, red, blue, the conclusion that, as whitQ alone remains arid yellow, the infinite variety of local ummehanged under the comiditions we have tints which we see in the world around stated, the atmospheric medium, through being but modifications of these three as which all things are seen must be white. they more or less influence each other, Alpine climbers tell us that the higher singly or in combination, they ascend toward the mountamn-top the No surface in the absence of light pos- deeper the colour of the sky becomes, until, sesses colour, and the complexion of any arriving at a hemght where respiration has substance when exposed to the sun shows become difficult, they find that tIme vault what amount of power it has to absorb or above, which at the base of the mountain reject certain rays: where this power is seemed of so lovely a blue, now appears great we have intemisity of colour, where it to the eye of an oppressive black, the is weak we have paleness; and were there charmge beimig due to this, that, the higher no other element influencing the aspect of the traveller ascen(ls the less is tIme amount external nature we should fin(l ourselves in of atmuosphere interposed between him and a world hard and sharply defined, having the absolute darkness outside this thin veil objects mm the most distant parts pronounced encircling our globe. in all their details of form and colour with The colour of azure blue is not peculiar equal force to those which are near; and to the regions of the sky, as t.he same cause the whole devoid of that sweetly modifying produces the same effect through the whole middle timit which we see prevailing every- of external nature, giving rise to those where, harmonizing all, and so gently sweet gradations and harmonizing tints, which, like charity in the relations of 1db * 1~ead before the Royal Society of Edinburgh. bring all discordant thinos into a softened ON THE COLOUR OF AERIAL BLUE. 63 unity, seen by all, and felt by all, though as a cause recognized perhaps by few. Let us look to yonder mountain-range we left but a few hours ago, after wander- ing over steps of trap, and among braes of heather and fern, where the musical stream sings in the deep gorge its song to the wakeful aspen; and what do we see there? Nothing but a mantle of blue enveloping those varied features which in the morning gave such a charm to the rough hill-side, while we wandered over it. Now, however, tweuty miles of atmosphere intervene, and the change we see is due to this cause. Suppose we travel back and examine the gradual unrobing. First, as we return, shortening our distance, comes out from the mautle of blue the lightest of the local colours grass withered on the steep slopes, and bleached rocks lightened by the sun. Next, as we a(lvance, those of a more positive kind; the purple heather, the bright orange of the withered fern, the de- composed ruck with its hues of russet and chrome, while the grim trap, and the darkly- shaded ravines maintain their hold of their azure investment until we reach within a mile or so, when, gradually, they too are unveiled, and we wander once more among lichen-covered rocks, and crisp oak woods, with all that charm of rich and varied under- growth which gave us so much pleasure be- fore. From the stand-point let us cast our eyes along the long range of retreating hills, with their edgy crests and softened bases, and, as they retire, mark the gradu- ally increasing shade of blue tinging the darker portions of their rugged structure; the scarps, and clefts, and shady hollows, until, in the distance, the whole has mel- lowed into one uniform hue, and dark mountain masses are seen to assume the colour and the filmy, impalpable look of the bright blue sky, rivalling, sometimes, the latter in its cerulean lustre. Suppose we leave the mountain spur on which, in thought. we now stand, and fancy ourselves transported to those blue hills seen far away. What shall we find there? Nothing but surfaces jagged and rough, and clothed in all respects like those we have left, while, seen from thence, these latter have as- sume(l in their turn the radiant hue of the bright blue sky. The (larker the local colour of the land- scape is. the more speedily and decidedly is its colour affected by the interposing air. In the Isle of Skye, for example, the range of the Cuchullins shows this strikingly in the black h~persthene formations compos- mn~ the mountains in that wild district. standing at Scurn-a-Gillean and. looking towards Blabbein, the dark, rugged mass of the latter appears of the deepest blue. Two hours walk transfers the point of view to Blabbein, from whence looking back towards Scurn-a-Gillean, we find that this has now assumed the azure tint; the inter- vening eight miles of air being sufficient to change, in either case, the black corrugated mountain mass into a form of deepest blue. In countries where the air is dry, and free from vapour, the vault above looks vastly expanded, while objects below look hard in their outline, and very delusive as to their seeming distance. The pure air being thin in body, is comparatively weak in overcoming the darkness of far-off space, or modifying the sharp details of fbrmns on the earth beneath. This other appearance may be often seen. A grey, unbroken cloud, over-arching like a roof, stretches away into the distance, throwing the remote mountains into deepest shadow, which the intervening air and sun- light beyond change into intense aerial blue. Such an effect is not unfrequently seen from the castle at Stirling. Looking across the level plain towards the Grampians, the pic- turesque range from Benlomoud to Ben- voirlich seems, in such circumstances, a belt of blue clipped from the summer sky, while in the lift above no blue is to be seen, but below and between, the undulatin~, land has the look of the billowy sea, each dark retreating curve having its quota of rela- tive blue, until merged in the flickering, palpitating bases of the shadowy hills, thirty miles away. The blue of the sea is due mainly to the cause we have been considering, though perhaps also to others in particular circum- stances. Still, as a rule, it will be found that the colour in this, as in the instances we have referred to, is to be attributed not to the colour as residing in the water, but as an effect produced upon the waters sur- face, under the conditions I shall now specify. When undisturbed by wind, the face of the sea is simply a mirros reflecting the as- pect of the sky at the time, but, when broken up by a passing breeze, the conse- luent ripl)hin~ motion is composed of an in- finite number of waves, or wavelets, each having several distinct facets, with some of which it reflects the light aIi(I colour of the sky, while in others the light is refracted so as to show a tint darkish in line, and deep- ening towards the crest, where it liecoines sharply black. The infinite multiplicity of these tiny and varied forms (lilbised on the broad surface of the ocean appear to the eye one uniform shadow, increased, sometimes, 64 ON THE COLOUR OF AERIAL BLUE. by a passing cloud, and when seen from the 1 coast margin, the horizon in this case be ing limited, as to distance, from the dip of the sea, th~ colour is merely a bluish gray; but when the horizon is extended by increasing the altitude of the point of view, this bluish gray becomes more distinctly blue, and if seen from a still greater height of a tender azure, the increase of interven- ing air through which the eye now looks be- ing suffleicut to produce these various re- sults. The level horizon of the sea has not the range of space which mountains tower- ing above this level possess; consequently we seldom see, even when looking from an elevated l)osition, the colour of the sea so blue as that of mountains farther removed when under the same conditions of air and weather. In the region of clouds this colour like- wise prevails; not, however, in the bur- nished cirri, nor in those of diaphanous text- ure, with the light shining through, is it seen: but on the shady side of the massive cumuli when the evening sun light falls slanting upon their snowy and seeniingly solid forms. The gorgeous shapes of cloud- land gigantic cliffs, castles in the air grotesque suggestions of sublunary things, tluctuating and fleeting, receive light aiid give shadow with the apparent compactness of substance belonging to their prototypes on earth; each shadow having, according to its depth and distance, its amount of rela- tive blue; and as layer after layer retires into the distance, so great in proportion does the likeness in hue and tone of the shadow become to that of the sky itself. Analogous to this, but with smoke as a medium,we find similar results proceeding from less perfect causes, namely, a dark body seen through a white and seini-trans- parent one, producing in sun-light the col- our of aerial blue. Observe this smoke, not the murky discharge from the coal-fires of busy factories, offending the sight and polluting the air with clouds of unconsumed carbon, but the gaseous exhalations rising on quiet moorlands, when the cottagers fire of wood or of peat has been lit for prepar- ing the morning meal. As it rises from the chimney embowered in its dark greenwood, the smoke seems white and partially opaque: but, gradually diffusing itself in filmy ex- pansion, it becomes bluer and bluer as its body becomes thinner, until, widely spread, it covers as with a veil of azure gauze the softeiimed texture of the landscape. Look also for a moment at this fire smouldering on the moor itself, and mark what takes place. While the smoke has for its background the dark-brown turf, it is blue; rising higher, it is seen against the white-washed wall of a cotta~e, an(l it is of a palish brown. Then, again, as it mounts upwards and is seen ag~ inst the dark hill-side, the blue is re- stored; and, finally, the sky, against which it is ul~imately seen, brings back the deli- cate brown. here the smoke rises against four sepa- rate back~,rounds, two dark and two light; against the dark it seems blue, and against the light a delicate brown, while the smoke itself remains unchanged in everything ex- cept its relation to the foil, or background against which it is seen. Without multiplying examples which might easily be adduced, we come to th~ conclusion that this intangible aerial blue, which forms our sky, and is so important an element in givin~ harmony to the landscape, is a relative colour, owiiig its existence, not, like those which are local and positive, to the breaking up of the suns light and ap- propriation or rejection of certain portions of its rays, but, as it seems to me, solely to the mingling of the whiteness of light with the darkness of space of the (leep black- ness of the latter as seen through the clear transparency of the former. These two ele- ments, thus simply combined, reveal to our loving gaze the body of heaven in its clear- ness the sapphire radiance enveloping the throne of Him who dwehleth in light, and who hath made all these things. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy-work. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard. GEORGE 1-IARvEY. Tan public has lost, we fear, an expected I of nearly 16,000 feet, they were attacked by record of travel, by an accident which shows Puna, rapid inflammation of the lungs, that South America has its deadly perils as Af- cansed by rarifled air. Capt. Webber speedily rica has. Two artillery officers, Capt. Webber succumbed; his body is buried on the moun- and Lieut. Wallace, from Gibraltar, were on tam side. The Lieutenant has returned to their way from Buenos Ayres to Peru. While Gibraltar. crossing the Cordilleras, and when at a height.

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The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1323 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 9, 1869 0103 1323
The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1323 65-128

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1323.October 9, 1869. CONTENTS. 1. Os UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND ANNIHILATION, 2. LADY DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKS, 8. MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE 4. THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR, A Prize Poem, 5. CHILDRENS LITERATURE. IlL By Miss Yonge, 6. A COUNTY FAMILY. Part XI., 7. MRS. BEECHER STOWE AND LADY BYRON, S. MRS. STOWES STORY 9. THE BYRON MYSTERY 10. THE EMPERORS HEALTH 11. THE FUTURE FOR FRANCE 12. FORTHCOMING CHANGES IN EUROPEAN POLITICS, Frasers .Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Cornhill Magazine, Edwin Arnold, Macmillans Magazine, Chambers Journal, Spectator, Examiner, Saturday Review, Saturday Review, Pall Mall Gazelle, Pall Mall Gazette, CARHINA NUPTIALE, SERVITUDE EMANCIPATION, THE FEAST OF BELSHAEEAR,I POETRY. 66 WOOD NOTES,. 70 THE SUMMER POOL, 93 109 6 SHORT ARTICLES. BROMIDE OF POTASH IN DENTITION, . 75 COUNTERFEIT WILD BEASTS, INFLUENCE OF METEORS UPON HEALTH, . 95 A FIELD TRANSFORMED INTO A LAKE, 102 121 PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION AT THIS OFFICE: HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II. These very interesting and valuable sketches of Queen Caroline, Sir Robert Walpole, Lord Chesterfield, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, The Young Chevalier, Pope, John Wesley, Commodore AnSon, Bishop Berkeley, and other celebrated characters of the time of George II., several of which have already appeared in fhe LIVING AGE, reprinted from Blackwoods Magazine, will be issued from this office, in book form, as soon as Completed. A COUNTY FAMILY, by the author of A Perfect Treasure. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OP SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free ofpostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 82 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will he sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 6 new subscribers ($40.1, a sixth copy; or a set of HORNES INTRODUCTION TO THE BIBLE, tm- abridged, in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 6 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in nUns.- bers, price $10. 67 71 76 93 96 103 110 112 115 122 124 127 66 From Good Words. CARMINA NUPTIALE.* PART I. WEDDED LOVE. Tins little spring of life that feeds the root Of Englands greatness, giveth, underground, Bloont to tIle Flower, freshness to the Fruit; Then wells and spreads, with golden ripples round, In circling glory to a sea of might, Embracing Home and Country of our love: Half.mirroring the beauty beyond sight Taking some likeness of the abode above. THE WEDDING. All Women love a Welding old Or youthful; Mother, Widow, or Wife: It lights with precious gleam of gold The river of poorest life: For one, the gold is far and dim; For one, a glimpse of things to be; But here it sparkles, at the brim Of full felicity And they will cluster by the way; Crowd at this Eden-gate, with eyes That run, and pray that this pair may Keep their new Paradise. Green is the garden, as at first; As smiling-blue the happy skies, Where float the bubble-worlds that burst, And leave us smarting eyes. They seem to think that these must clasp The jewel turned to dew or mist The glamour they could never grasp, Tho wedded lips have kissed; That this gold Apple of promise, crownd With redness on the sunny side, Will gradually grow ripe all round That this new Lover and Bride Must reach the breathing Magic Bose Such cunning Spirits hold in air, On which our fingers could not close, Even when we knew twas there! This nest of hopes shall bring forth young Unto the brooding hearts low call Not merely pret.ty birds-eggs, strung To hide a naked wall! Ah! many start thus, hand-in-hand Few only reach the blessed goal; But these shall surely see the land Hid somewhere in the soul? Arid delicate airs creep sweetly through Old bridal-chambers dusty and dim: Down from a far heaven warm and blue, The mellow splendours swim. * These lyrics forming part of a sort of Musical Marriage Service are from a forth.coming volume, by Gerald Massey; to be published by Messrs. Stra- ihan & Co. The Womans eyes grow loving wet; They dazzle with the morning ray: The Womans longing will beget Her own dear wedding-day! In his network of wrinkles, Age May veil their virgin beauties now Faces be furrowed a strange page Of writing on the brow: The smiling soul cannot erase The sad life-lines it shines above Yet imaged in the dear old face, You see their own young love The sleeping Beauty wakes anew Beneath the touch of tender tears The Flower unfolds to drink the dew, That seemdd dead for years. All hearts are as a grove of birds Spring-toucht and chirruping every one; And each will set the Wedding-Words To a music of her own. Some withered remnant of old bliss Flushing on faded cheeks they bring, Telling of times when Loves young kiss Was a fire-offering; And spirits walk in white, as starts This bridal-tint that blooms anew And so, with all their Woman-hearts, They fling Good Lucks old shoe! SERENADE. Awake, sweet Love, for Heaven is awake! And waiting to be gracious for thy sake! All night I saw thy fairness gleam afar With fresh, pure sparkle of the Mornlng.Star: Awake, my Love, and let the veil be drawn From Beauty batli6d at the springs of Dawn. Awake, sweet Love, for heaven is awake, And waiting to be gracious for thy sake. A touch upon some silver-sounding string, As all the harps of bliss were vibrating Within me, woke me, bade me rise and say Awake, my Love, this is our wedding-day. Awake, sweet Love, for heaven is a~vake, And waiting to be gracious for thy sake. It is the tender time when turtle-doves Begin to murmur of their vernal loves: Spirits that all night nestled In the flowers, Shake perfume from their wings this hour of hours. Awake, sweet Love, for I-leaven is awake, And waiting to be gracious for thy sake, To feel thee mine my faith is largeenough, And yet the miracle needs continual proof One minute satisfied, the next I pine For just one more assurance thou art mine. Awake, sweet Love, for I-leaven is awake, And waiting to be gracious for thy sake. Thy presence sets my cloudland round about Glowing as heaven were turning inside out: And all the mists that darkued me erewbile Are smitten into splendours at thy smile. Awake, sweet Love, for Heaven is awake, And- waiting to be gracious for thy sake. Our great sunrise of life begiiis to glow, And all the buds of love are ripe to blow; And all the Birds of Bliss are gaily singing, And all the bridal-Bells of Heaven are ringing. CARMINA NIIPTIALE. OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND ANNIHILATION. 67 From Frasers Magazine. OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND ANNIHILA TION. THERE was a piece of poetry, or at least of verse, which I was constrained to com- mit to memory, and publicly repeat, with appropriate gesticulation, before a large as- semblage. It was Catos soliloquy about the immortality of the soul. School-books are much changed: I think this old, favourite piece has now disappeared from them. I inwardly rebelled against that piece, even as I repeated it. In that piece, the accom- plished author makes Cato speak of human nature as shrinking from annihilation: Whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This lon~,ing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror Of falling into naught? I quote no more: that is the idea, and then it is beaten out thin. This is accepted by many without due thought. Is there in human nature this shrinking from annihilation? I doubted it as a iittle boy. I doubt it more now. There are some certain facts which look another way. What is the most prevalent vice of human. itv? It is the use of intoxicating liquors or drugs. Find human beings where you may, savage and civilized, they have found out something that can intoxicate; and a great many habitually use that to excess. And what is the great end of all intoxicat- ing liquors or drugs? Why, it is uncon- sciousness. It is to get away from ones self: in fact, it is annihilation for the time. On a (lay of drenching rain and storm like this, you give a few pence to the poor, soaked, starved, hopeless beggar; and the beggar hurries to spend the pence on a glass of drugged and poisono us whiskey, seeking therein oblivion of his cares. And it is a sorrowful fact, that many educated persons, both men and woman, pressed by a load of anxiety and misery, do by like means get away from it. Even the trouble which rises no higher than the rank of worry, sometimes has driven to the same wretched relief: which is some way down the inclined plane that conducts to utter perdition. But you see, that far from being the universal dread, and inward horror, of falling into naught, there is nothing more longed for by a considerable portion of the race. Every one has known, when terrible physi- cal agony was pressing, the blessed relief of t:i e powerful opiate, under which the iron claw of pain relaxes, and you feel yourself floating away into rest. The most benefi- cent discovery of modern times is assuredly of that anmsthetic, which makes human be- ings unconscions through critical times of their life, in which consciousness would be agony. Are there not some who have made such a wretched thing of life, that its pres- ence is hopeless misery: and the best they wish for is to be relieved of its intolerable load? Poor Burns was perfectly sincere, when he wrote, 0 life, thou art a weary load, Along a thorny, wretched road, To wretches such as I. And Sophocles meant it, when he wrote the famous chorus in the ~Edipus Coloneus, of which the first lines mean this: Not to be, is best of all: but when one hath appeared, then to return with swiftest foot to whence he came, is next. fhe sum of the matter is, that to many people, life is pain: and it is natural to wish to get away from pain, anywhere, anyhow. Of course you will say, that I am speak- ing of a very deplorable section of mankind, the forlorn hope of humanity. Yet it is cu- rious how from the higher view, the relig- ious point of view, you will find things said which virtually come to the same thing. Mrs. Barrett Browning thought there was no text, even in the Psalms, that sounded so de~ghtful as the renowned one, So (it ought to be surely) He giveth his beloved sleep. I remember a sermon by that great preacher Mr. Melvill, in which, after quot- ing the words, the preacher burst out, What could He give them better? That is, what could He give that is better than unconsciousness, which is annihilation? To have a being of which you are not aware, is exactly the same thing as to have no be- ing at all. Nirvana is .the thing which millions of human beings think the best thing: and nirvana is annihilation. For absorption into the Deity, or into nature, is to all intents annihilation. The final loss of individual consciousness is annihilation. The little drop of being, falling into the 68 OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND ANNIHILATION. great ocean, and ceasing to have any sep- arate conscious existence, is annihilated as the little drop. It may be worked up again into something else; but it is not that any more. And to me, to my sense and con- viction, to say that my soul at death will go out like the extinguished flame that goes nowhere, and to say that it will go back to the great ocean of Being it caine from, mean exactly the same thing; and mean annihil- ation. In either case, I myself should cease to be. I have heard it maintained, with some ingenuity, that the highest idea of a Chris- tian life is a pantheistic idea; that the high- est attainment in holiness is to have ones will so subordinated to the will of God, that one ceases, in fact, to be a separate being. No doubt it is a grand attainment when the creature can really look up to the Creator, and say, Fiat voluntas Tua, meaning what is said. But this is quite different from ab- sorption. There is no loss of individual con- sciousness here. There is no loss of individ- ual will here; though the individual will is so thoroughly in harmony with the Divine will, that they shall always pull the same way. To go on through life, willing what God wills, and consciously happy in willing so, is anything but absorbtion in the Deity anything rather than annihilation. Con- sciousness, will, individuality, are all in vivid existence. It is not Henceforth I go out and am extinguished : it is Hence- forth I live. But, to go hack to the assertion that great numbers of human beings, far from shrinking from annihilation, do in fact regard it as a great blessing. Let me record what was once said to me by a thoughtful and devout friend, lie said, that he believed that times come to every one, in which he would willingly sink into nothingness. It is sometimes said with sincerity, I wish I was in my grave; and when that is said, the idea vaguely present is that of annihila- tion. That was in Jobs mind, when he spoke of the sleep he longed for. There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest. But my friend said he believed the thing which kept many from seriously desiring annihilation, is the fear that life could not be quenched with- out most awful pain. There is that to be snuffed out, which will not go out easily. Now we know that consciousness may be got rid of in both ways, painfully and pain- lessly. No one can tell with what amount of feeling, either in mind or body, life under the falling axe of the guillotine flashes away. It is momentary, the great change; though indeed even that has been questioned; but how much agony may be concentrated in a moment, not many know. But we know of a poison which quenches life with appalling rapidity. Less than a moment is enough. Yet that moment is long enough for the dy- ing person to begin an unearthly cry of agony, which is cut short in the middle. Once I had a dog, a young Newfoundland, a great, big creature. He became terribly ill, of a disease which caused him great suf- fering, and after months of doctoring the case was declared hopeless. I resolved the poor thing should die with the least possi- ble pain. So I got a vial, containing as much prussic acid as would kill several elephants, and while my dear 01(1 dog pain- fully climbed up and put his great paws upon my shoulders, I opened his mouth and poured the whole vial into it. The dog, in half a minute, began to utter a strange howl, but the howl suddenly stopped, and he rolled on his side stone-dead. It was one of the saddest sights I ever saw. But I was far from clear that my poor fellow- creature had the easy end I had hoped. The pain was short, but it was plainly very sharp. And we all remember the fable of the Eastern king, who dipped his head in a vessel of water and lifted it up again, yet in the interval lived a long and anxious life. But there are ways of extinguishing consciousness without any pain. Opiates float you away. Even the coarse means of alcohol, as people learn who have sleepless nights, soothes into nothingness without the least pain. If the quenching of animal life were all that is meant by annihilation, then annihilation might be painless. It is when one thinks of a spiritual principle within, of whose nature we know absolutely nothing, which may be essentially incapable of death, or which may have that tenacity of life that it shall be capable of death only through unutterable suffering, that one looks a little way into the awful possibilities of hu- manity. Archbishop Whately suggested OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND ANNIHILATION, 69 that the day may come when only good shall remain in the universe, not through the reclamation of evil, but the stamping of it out. But awful thoughts present them- selves in relation to the actual destruction of a souls conscious individuality. I suppdse we are all agreed that this life would not do to go on for ever. Auxius vixi: and anxiety is not the worst. If you are placed in a responsible position, it is~ weary work to think, every morning before you get up, that on this day you may fail in temper or in judgment in a way which may do much harm, and which plenty of ill-set people will be ready to pounce upon and make the worst of. And you cannot he always on your guard, with all your wits about you. The moment comes in which the habituated and cautious crosser of the London streets finds himself full in the way of the fatal Hansom, and is crippled or killed. Yet with all detractions from the enjoyment of this life, there was once an aged professor who declared that he wanted nothing more. He was content, through illimitable ages, that he might rise and breakfast, walk away to his class-room and give his lecture, come home and dine and read the reviews. But in the little company in which he said all this, no other agreed with him. It must be something away from these weary worries. The way in which we manage to bear up, is by vaguely fancying that the future will be entirely different from what the past has been. And with all, going on, the load gathers on the heart: the foot grows weary. The day comes when you can no longer have your children all under your roof as it used to be: they musthe away, far away, with thousands of miles between them, and between them and you; andl do not just now see how, unless you be a vilely selfish being, you can after that ever have a light heart any more. There is something very touching, when you see on the faces of those you know the plain signs that life is just a little too hard and heavy for them; is wearing them out and breaking them down. And this is so with most. If there be easy-minded people now, who daff the world aside and let it pass, I do not know any of them. A little while since I beheld a large assembly of clergymen, most of them country clergymen. None of them had been disestablished or disendowed: none were likely immediately to be so. I saw many faces there, some of which I can remember for a good many years; seen at intervals through that time. The faces were aging: that is nothing, for with ad- vancing years all things must age. But the lines of care and thought on many of them were much deeper than when I saw them last. They were worn faces, most of them. One could not but think upon the slow and weary struggle, year after year, to make the ends meet: of many depressing calcula- tions. Then the religious perplexities of these days weigh very heavily upon some; and the political aspect is to some a very sad one. It is difficult to get rid of the convictions of all ones life; specially diffi- cult for those who have nothing to gain by so doing. The better world would need to be something exceedingly different from this world. One could not face the old thing over again. And what the better world is, we are not told. We have not the faintest clear conception of what the place, and the life, can be, in their details. It will be all good and happy, no doubt: but everything we used to know will have passed away. In my youth, I knew a worthy country parson, old and gray. Just in front of his house spread 4the churchyard: an ancient churchyard of large extent, with innumera- ble graves. Beyond the churchyard rose noble hills, richly clad with noble trees. And the venerable mans one joke was to point the visitor from the sombre fore- ground to the lovely background of the picture, and to say, You see, I can show you a beautiful prospect beyond the grave. What should we give to the man, priest or prophet, who could indeed let us look for a few moments behind the veil Every dili- gent student of the New Testament knows the solemn reserve it holds as to what is there. Brief, general, without detail, mani- festly figurative, are the notices of revela- tion as to the other world. And those who have been there and returned seem to have kept silence. Where wert thou, brother, those four days? There lives no record of reply. It has long appeared to me, that (apart from a sanction which this is not the place 70 OF UNOONSCIOUSI~ESS AND AN~IllILATIO~. to name) the great disproof of annihilation, and the great consideration which con- strains human beings to shrink from annihi- lation for themselves and others, is found in the realm of the affections. Of a truth there is in human nature Addisons hor- ror of falling into naught, when we think of those very dear to us who are dead, who are dying. Here it is that .the natural be- lief in immortality has its foundation. And it is very remarkable to see how some, who have shaken themselves pretty nearly free of all other (logmatic belief, have clung to the belief of the immortality of the soul. It was Mr. Buckle, of the History of Oiril- ization, who wrote that the belief in a fu- ture state approached certainty nearer than any other belief; and it is one which, if eradicated, would drive most of us to de- spair. And the eloquent but sceptical writer founds his belief just on this, that iv MUST BE TRUE. In what I shall venture to call an unfortunate paper published in Era- ser ten years since, and which he wrote im- mediately after the death of a mother, to whom he was attached with entire devotion, he speaks thus : To note the slow but inevitable march of dis- ease, to watch the enemy stealing in at the gate, to see the strength gradually waning, the limbs tottering more and more, the noble faculties dwindling by degrees, the eye paling and losing its lustre, the tongue faltering as it vainly tries to utter its words of endearment, the very lips hardly able to smile with their wonted tender- ness to see this is hard indeed to bear, and many of the strongest natures have sunk under it. But when even this is gone, when the very elgus of life are mute, when the last faint tie is severed, and there lies before us naught save the shell and husk of what we loved too well, then truly, if we believed the separation to be final, how could we stand up and live? There is something touching and striking in this moan, wrung from the heart of the sceptic, by the pure misery of his first great bereavement. You cannot read the essay in which the passage stands, without feeling that it was written at a very white-heat of feverish passion. The man felt that a cer- tain dogmatic belief was absolutely needful to hinder his going mad or killing himself; and he judged that a belief which he found was absolutely necessary must 1)0 certainly true. Now that he is gone, and so many years have passed, there is no harm in say- ing that when lie brought his essay to the good and never-forgotten man who then edited this magazine, lie was in such a state of nervous agitation that he was unable to count the pages of it. The subject greatens on me: and this lit- tle dissertation, which was immtend~d to do no more than question one little point in re- lation to a grand and awful subject, must either come to an end, or go upon a tack not suited to the pages of a magazine. Wherefore, let it end. Let it end by my saying that unless man be intended for a life after death, all this amid which we live is a miserable mockery. All religion: all religions that have ever been; all the churches and temples which overspread the earth; all that worship of Something which is a pure necessity of humanity: all are meaningless. And Sophocles would be right: Not to be, is best of all. A. K. II. B. OCCASIONAL SONNETS. SERVITUDE. Mv comrades go to warfare with the grouse Now crowin,, on the hills and heathery moors, To various foreign climes on forei~ tours, To croqi~et parties at the Manor House; Or, in the emerald sea to plunge and play, Prone, with a curious eye, to watch at night The waves lit up with phosphorescent light, And the great fleet of co~iers under way Whilst I sit opposite this green-baize door, And all day long frame letters from My Lords, Or wade through Minutes made by weekly Boards, Glad, when the well-watched clock announces four, To change my coat and range the lonely Park, A wistful, wearied, Departmental Clerk. EMANCIPATION. The manumitted slave is not more glad Than I to-day. For six delicious weeks I leave my desk, my diary, and my pad, To cruise the seas, to conquer snowy peaks To hear the music of the foaming fall, To bask beneath the blue Italian sky, To mami the covey down, to troll and trawl, To lure the salmon with the mimic fly, Or lingering long on mount, and niere, and isle, To dress the salad and dispense the pie, Asking but one remuneratiiig smile, Seeking but one reciprocatimig sigh? Not so niy CELIA and her girls shall share Thy dear delights, with me, Boulogne-sur-Mer. Thuch. LADY DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKS. 71 From Macmillans Magazine. LADY DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKS. BY THE HOE. MRS. RORTON. IF I live till September, I will go up to Esneb, where the air is softest and I cough less. These words, written so lately as the latest days of our vanished summer, are among the last which friends and relatives can treasure up from the many eloquently simple letters of Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon. She did not live till September; and the month which opens blank for all those who valued the charm of her correspond- ence and companionship, cannot be better consecrated, in the pages of a Magazine which has so often been enriched by her contributions, than by some notice of her life and literary labours. The only child of very intellectual parents, Lady Gordon had the advantage not only of hereditary abilities but of edu- cational training. From the earliest dawn of her young days the impression must have been received that some use was to be made of human faculties; some harvest gar- nered from the rich sheaves of the hours allotted to man, even though his life be counted but as a span in length. Her father was the celebrated writer and lecturer on Jurisprudence, of which science he was Professor at the London University; and his published lectures (to the second edition of which is prefixed a preface by his talented wife, Sarah Austin) have taken their place as a standard authority in legal libraries. Her mother, descended from the Taylors of Norwich, may be said to have left a European reputation for ability. Ac- quainted with, and welcomed by, most of the distinguished persons of her time, in the chief continental cities as well as in her own country; endowed also with the more fleeting femninin~ advantage of great personal beauty, Mrs. Austin attracted wherever she went a circle of friends and admirers; fit associates for her studious and intellectual husband, and fit companions in her own literary pursuits. Mr. Austins health, and a certain ner- vousness of constitution, making the legal profession burdensome to him, he changed that career, and became officially employed in Malta and elsewhere. Indefatigable in her endeavours to share his labours and improve his successes while he lived, Mrs. Austin, after his decease, edited and published the collected lectures of which we have already made mention; and filled in, from abridged memoranda, portions of the difficult work which he had died with- out completing. Such was the parentage of Lucy Austin. She married young, the husband of her choice, Sir Alexander Duff-Gordon, Bart, of an ancient and distinguished Scottish race. Her childhood was singularly loneW. Days and days passed by without com- panions of her own age or of any other age. Alone by herself she mused and roamed, unchecked, unquestioned, and unamused by the usual occupations of girlish existence. Once, as she described it, standing in the garden, gazing d;eamily at some sunflowers, with vague recollections of mythical stories, such perhaps as her mother has translated for us in the fascinating Story without an End, a friend of her parents accosted her. My face must have been very sad, she said, for he asked me what was the matter? I answered, Nothing was the mat- ter, only I was wishing the sunflowers could talk to me! From this early and intense loneliness probably sprung much of that independence and concentration of tbougbt which marked the progressive stages of her rapidly maturing intellect. A great reader, a great thinker, very original in her conclusions, very eager in impressing her opinions, her mind was not like those of many women, filled with echoes of other folks sayings, and chapters folded down from other folks commonplace books. The sunflowers may have talked to her at last, for aught we know, for from the aspect of nature, and the study of human nature such as she found it, she drew her unassisted lessons of knowledge. As life advanced, as the field of her experience widened, many of those conclusions became modified; the angles of sharp decision were rounded off; and commerce with her kind taught her the wide indulgence and sympathy she after- wards showed for all who suffered or strug- gled in the up-hill labour of life. It is not too much to say, of this feature in her character, that from the hours of her lone childhood to the hours of her lonelier death, the idea of not lending a helping hand when help of any sort was in her power, never appears even to have crossed her imagination. She died, as she had lived, endeavouring to help. Such endeavour had been her chief pleasure in younger and hap- pier days; it became her one absorbing occupation in days of sickness, suffering, and exile. Great energy she showed in that, as in all her pursuits. Nothing was left slack or incomplete in work undertaken by her. Her literary tasks were no flighty nor hurried 72 LADY DUFF-GORDoN AND HER WORKS. strokes of cleverness, but the result of patient and careful study. When the fire was out in the forge of her labours, and the sparks off the anvil were dead, the solid welded work remained; for use, for per- manence, and for the behoof of others.-~Jn the preparation of one of her books, The Amber Witch (a single volume, appar- ently a mere romance), she read through j in order, as she said, to familiarize her mind with the subject a mass of narra- tives relating to that bygone soperstition, and such trials as have survived in printed records. One of these especially struck her. A woman aged thirty-six or there- abouts, with a husband and many children, was accused of witchcraft. It was the law of the time not to execute till after con- fession. This woman was contumacious; not only she would not confess, but she de- clared that to the best of her belief there was no such thing as witchcraft. She was remanded again and again to torture and to prison. At length she announced her con- fession, and was led to die with others under a like sentence. She got leave to speak a few words to the crowd of specta- tors, and suddenly reiterated to them her utter disbelief in witchcraft and her inno- cence. But, said she. since even my husband and children hold me to be a witch, I am content to die rather than to live this day. Lady Gordon laid down the book and said, I feel with that woman. The patience necessary for translated work is far greater than that requisite for original composition; in which, to those who really have the gift, there must always be a certain degree of pleasure. Such patience Lady Gordon possessed in a high degree. Her earliest task was the transla- tion from Niebuhr of the Greek Legends. Rankes History of Prussia, in three volumes, was rendered by her into excellent English. She selected and compiled the most remarkable of Feuerbachs Crimi- nal Trials with singular ability and judg- bent; Rankes Ferdinand and Maxi- milian, Moltkes Russian Campaigns, and The French in Algiers, were also products of her industry; and among her lighter labours (if lighter they may be called, rendering from a language which has so little analogy with our own) we count a translation from the French of Madame dArbouvilles Village Doctor, and the Stella and Vanessa of L6ori de Waillv. This latter story which originally appeared as a feuilleton in a newspaper, fell still-born from the press, and re- mained unnoticed till after Lady Gordons tsanslation had appeared. It was then pub- lished in France as a separate volume, with very great success, which the author complimentarily declared he owed in the first instance to his English translator. In the midst of this busy, intellectual life, varied by much mingling with the best and brightest of social circles, and rendered pre- cious by many friendships firmly clung to and warmly reciprocated, Lady Gordons health suddenly failed. Physicians were consulted. She was to give up all these habitual delights and occupations, and be- gin that long exile, from which there has been no return beyond brief and perilous visits to her native country, which she had again to forsake more discouraged and in- valided than before. At first, like most English patients whose lungs are affected or threatened, she was ad- vised to try the climate of the Cape of Good Hope, and she set out for that distant colo- ny with something of the spirit of its name brightening her mind. Her invalided con- dition neither altered the cheerfulness of her temper nor abated her keen interest in all surrounding objects, animate or inani- mate. Her Letters from the Cape ob- tained a wide and universal popularity. Readers to whom the dry subjects or diffi- cult. details of her German historical and political translations were unknown or dis- tasteful, eagerly perused the graphic pages, so full of life, earnestness, quick observa- tion, and playful humour. The letters were real letters, written to her mother and hus- band, and all the more charming from their want of formality, and indulgence in little narrations of personal feeling and every-day adventure. She sailed to the Cape in very varying weather, but, with her, all feminine alarm or distress seems to have been merged in a strong feeling for the picturesque. It is thus she speaks of a storm which would have sent many a woman trembling to her cabin ~ That glorious South Atlantic in all its ma- jestic fury! The intense blue waves, crowned with fantastic crests of bright emeralds, and with the spray blowing about like wild di- shevelled hair, came after us to swallow us up at a mouthful, but took us up on their backs, and hurried us along as if our ship were a cork. Letters from the Cape. Equally graphic is her account of the people she meets with on her landing; who does not see the picture as she draws it of the Hotteiitot driver P As we drive home we see a span of sixteen noble oxen in the market-place, and on the ground squats the Hottentot driver. His face, LADY DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKL 78 no words can describe! his cheekbones are up under his hat, and his meagre, pointed chin halfway down to his waist; his eyes have the dull look of a vipers, and his skin is dirty and sallow, but not darker than a dirty Euro- peans. Who does not also feel a certain sympa- thy going out of the heart such as often arises during the contemplation of old works of art, in which the grotesque mm- gles with what is touching and tender on reading her account of the last of a race which the so-called spread of civilization is sweeping away? I asked one of the Herrenhut brethren whether there were any real Hottentots, and he said, Yes, one. And next morning as I sat waiting for early prayers under the big oak- trees in the plant (square), he came up, followed by a tiny little man hobbling along with a long stick to support him. Here, said he, is the last Hottentot; he is 107 years old, and lives all alone. I looked on the little wizened, yellow face, and was shocked that he should be dragged up like a wild beast to be stared at. A feeling of pity which felt like remorse fell upon me, and my eyes filled as I rose and stood before him (so tall and like a tyrant and oppressor), while he uncovered his poor little old snow- white head, and peered up in my face. L led him to the seat, and helped him to sit down, and said in Dutch, Father, I hope you are not tired; you are old. He saw and heard as well as ever, and spoke good Dutch in a firm voice, Yes, I am above a hundred years old, and alone quite alone. 1 sat beside him, and he put his bead on one side, and looked curiously up at me with his faded, but still piercing little wlld eyes. That feeling of sympathy with humanity, above all, suffering humanity, which is here evidenced, was a distinctive feature in Lady Gordons mind. What she felt for the poor Hottentot she afterwards expresses yet more strongly for the Arabs she dwelt amongst in her subsequent change of resi- dence from the Cape to Egypt. She her- self spoke of pity becoming a passion in the heart at sight of such daily distress; and, no doubt, pity does become a passion in the heart of the best class of women, as the thirst and desire for justice becomes a pas- sion with the best class of men. The Cape did not agree with Lady Gor- don. Death, who hunts slowly but surely this class of his victims, was once more avoided in vain. She tried the climates of Cairo, of Luxor, and of Thebes; at which latter l)lace she resided some time in a half- ruined house, formerly occupied by French engineers employed to raise and transport an Egyptian obelisk. She learnt the lan- guage and the wants of the people; associ- at~d with the natives, both of the higher and lower ranks; and became a favourite and a power amongst them. One thing she mentions, which may sur- prise those whose habitual ideas of Eastern females are of their languor and stupidity. She says, The energy of many women here is amazing ; and she narrates how the mother of her servant Omar had once car- ried her old Inother in a basket on her head from Damietta to Alexandria; dragging Ginar, then a very little boy, by the hand This Omar, who is frequently mentioned in the Letters from Egypt, and whose true-hearted and simple devotion to his dy- ing mistress well deserved such reward, is now appointed dragoman to the Prince of Wales; the Prince and Princess having vis- ited Lady Gordon a short time before her death, in her dahabeeyeh, or Nile-boat, on which occasion she says, My sailors were so proud at having the honour of rowing him in our own boat, and of singing to him. I had a very good singer in the boat. She also assures us, on another occasion, of the courtesy practised in the East between dif- ferent classes. You see how the Thou- sand and One Nights are quite true and real; how great Beys sit with grocers, and carpenters have no hesitation in offering ci- vility to naas omra (noble people) . Sheykh Yussuf was one of her firmest friends from first to last, and her instructor in Arabic. The Nazir, the Maohn, Ahim, Cadi, Pasha, and all grades and dignities and obscurities, unknown to English discourse, united however else they may have differed in respect and at- tachment to that strange settler among them; that dying English lady, who apparently combined the learning of the male sex with the kindliness of her own. Speaking of Yussuf, she says he reminds her of one who, like herself, has been cut off from a life of great promise in the full exercise of intellectual ability the late Philip Stanhope Worsley, translator of the Odyssey, and author of many fragmen- tary poems of singular merit. She describes her Egyptian friends as mad to learn languages ; beseeching her to teach even the children English; and nothing is more droll or interesting than the account she gives of her little servant Ach- met, who runs to her call from the river Nile, the water running down his inno- cent nose, looking just like a little bronze Triton off a Renaissance fountain, with a blue shirt and a white skull-cap added. As to his accomplishments, What would an English respectable cook say to seeiimg two LA1Y~ DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKS. dishes and a sweet tooked over a little old wood on a few bricks, by a baby in a single blue shirt P and very well cooked too, and followed by incomparable coffee. Certainly, for general readers, the Let- teis from Egypt are the most interesting of all Lady Gordons published composi- tions. They describe a life utterly new to us, and a people very imperfectly known or studied by European travellers; a people who have hitherto had but slender hold on our sympathies. Is it too much to expect that the popular letters of this gifted woman may do more towards awakening that sym- pathy and increasing interest than even the visits of a Viceroy who sends his son to be educated in our country? They may, at least, teach such travellers as are com- pelled, like herself, to exile for recovery of health, how steadfastly and unselfishly such a destiny may be met! How willing to look to the sufferings of others instead of being absorbed in the fact of failing powers and fading life a vigorous mind may be; how the spirit may look upon the perishing body, in Longfellows beautiful words, as A worn-out fetter, which the soul Had broken and flung away! Small is the thought of self, and cheery and animated as in her first letters from the Cape of Good Hope her account of a return to Cairo. The very morning I landed I was seized with violent illness ; however. I am now bet.ter. I arrived at Cairo on Wednesday night, the 4th of November, slept in the boat, and went ashore next morning. The passage under the railway bridge at Tant (which is opened once in two days) was most exciting and pretty. Such a scramble and dash of boats, two or three hundred at least! Old Zeydfin the steersman slid under the noses of the big boats with my little cangia, and through the gates before they were well open, and we saw the rush and confu- sion behind us at our ease, and headed the whole fleet for a few miles. Then we stuck, and Zey- d~n raged, but we got off in an hour, and again overtook and passed all; and then we saw the spectacle of devastation, whole villages gone, submerged and melted, mud to mud; and the people, with their beasts, encamped on spits of sand or on the dykes, in long rows of ragged makeshift tents, while we sailed over the places ,vhere they had lived; cotton rotting in all di- rections, and the dry tops crackling under the bows of the boat. Then, moving from Cairo to Thebes: I have sent a request to the French Consul- General, M. Tastu, to let me live in the French house over the temple at Thebes. It is quite empty, and would be the most comfortable, in- deed the only comfortable one there. M. Tastu is the son of the charming poetess of that natne, whom my mother knew in Paris. . . . I have brought divans, tables, prayer ~arpets, blankets, a cupboard, a lovely old copper hand- basin and ewer, and shall live in Arab style. The tables and four chairs are the only conces- sion to European infirmity. In the earliest opening of the succeeding year she writes thus hopefully of the appar- ent result of such a residence in the East : We are now in the full enjoyment of sum- mer weather ; there has been no cold for fully a fortnight, and I am getting better every day. If the heat does not overpower me, I feel sure it will be very healing to my lungs. I sit out on my glorious balcony, and drink the air from early morning till noon, when the sun comes upon it and drives me under cover. A little later: The glory of the climate now is beyond de~. scription. and I feel better every day. I go out as early as seven or eight oclock on my tiny black donkey, come in to breakfast at about ten, and go out again at four. The sun is very hot in the middle of the day, and the people in boats say it is still cold at night. In this large house I feel neither heat nor cold How I wish I were going, instead of my letter, to see you all ; but it is evident that this heat is the thing that does me good, if anything will. Later yet, still enjoying, still uneomplain We sat and drank new milk in a lodge in a garden of cucumbers (the lodge is a neat hut of palm branches)~ and saw the moon rise over the mountains and light up everything like a softer sun. Here you see all colours as well by moonlight as by day ; hence it does not look so brilliant as the Cape moon or even as I have seen it in Paris, where it throws sharp black shadows and white light. The night here is a tender, subdued, dreamy sort of enchanted- looking day. And the praise of these days and nights j5 continued: The mornings and evenings are delicious lam shedding my clothes by degrees; stockings are ,enbeara.ble. I feel much stronger, too; the horrible feeling of exhaustion has left me: I suppose I must have salamander blood in my body, to be made lively by such heat. Some apparent improvement in health took place : The weather is glorious this year, and spite of some fatigue and a good deal of anxiety, I think I am really better. I never have felt the cold so little as this winter since my illness the chilly mornings and nights dont seem to signify at all now, and the climate seems more delicious than ever. 74 LADY DUFF-GORDON AND HER WORKS. 75 Then comes the change; the fading away of that hope of recovery: the doubt and the evident impression that she, too, may die among strangers : Since I wrote last I have been rather poorly more cough, and most wearing sleeplessness! A poor young Englishman has died here, at the house of the Austrian consular agent. I was too ill to go to h~m ; but a kind, dear young En~lishwoman, Mrs. Walker, who was here with her family in a boat, sat up with him three nights and nursed him like a sister. He was buried on the first day of Ramadan, in the place where they bury strangers, on the site of a former Coptic church. Archdeacon Moore read the service ; Omar and I spread my old English flag over the bier, and Copts and Mus- lims helped to carry the poor stranger. It was a most impressive sight: the party of Euro- peans, all strangers to the dead, but all deeply moved; the group of black-robed and turbaned Copts, the sailors from the boats, the gaily- dressed dragomans, several brown-shirted Fell- hheen, and the thick crowd of children all the little Ababdeh stark naked, and all behav- ing so well ; the expression on their little faces touched me most of alL As Muslims, Omar and the boatmen laid him down in the grave; while the English prayer was read the sun went down in a glorious flood of light over the distant bend of the Nile. Had he a mother? he was young! said an Ababdeh woman to me, with tears in her eyes, and pressing my hand in sym- pathy for that poor far-off mother of such a dif- ferent race. Till at length this mournful sentence oc- curs (April 1868), in one of her letters from Thebes, published in the June number of this Magazine last year: I dont like to think too much about seeing you and M. next winter, for fear I should be disappointed. If I am too sick and wretched I can hardly wish ycu to come, because I know what a nuisance it is to be with one always BROMIDE OF POTASH IN DENTITION. Dr. Salvatore Cam, in an interesting paper read be- fore the New York County Medical Society on the use of this remedy in summer com- plaints, remarks, in connection with the dis- turbances arising from dentition: In the most severe cases of odontitis, either with or without ulcerated gums or loose bowels, I have never failed to relieve the child by the local applica- tion of the bromide of potassium. Almost im- mediately after the first rubbing, the gums, from being turgid, swollen, and red, assume their natural colour, and a certain amount of coughing and panting, and unable to do like other people. But if I pick up tolerably this summer, I shall be very glad to see you and him once more. And once again, when the imminent ap- proach of death seemed falling like a visible shadow on her path: Indeed, it would be almost too painful to me to part from you again; and, as it is, I can wait patiently for the end, among people who are kind and loving enough to be comfortable without too much feeling of the pain of part- ing. At that time her son had been with her; her husband had planned to rejoin her; her daughter also thought to meet her. in those accustomed scenes. But it was otherwise ordained. The poor Arabs, in whose un- provement both of condition and education she had taken so vivid an interest, were to lose her, and those to whom she was near- est and dearest were to see her face no more. Lady Gordon died alone, after much final sufl~ring, at Cairo. Her p~ttience and good- ness were strong to the last: and her thoughts for others survived till she herself was no more. She was followed to the grave by her sailors, by her friend, Hekekyan Bey, and Dr. Mistrovacehi the faithful Omar and her maid being chief mourners. She lies among strangers; but it will be long before her memory is forgotten in the land of her birth; where her monument is not of marble, or stone, or brass, but of thought; and where those who read her works, and the brief transcript of her life in exile, will comprehend the long regret that lies like a slant shadow across the scenes once brightened by her presence, and dark- ens the hearts of friends who heard of her premature death instead of recovery, as bitter news from a foreign land. ease is felt. Saliva commences to dribble; and, as if by enchantment, agitation, carpopedal in- voluntary motion, vomiting and looseness of the bowels disappear. As the vomiting and diarrhma in this case case are not the conse- quence of gastro-enteritis, but an excitement of the stomach and the intestinal mucous mem- brane, owing to the inflamed condition of the gums, I suppose ~ will never be cured either by the scarification of the gums or by the use of astringents or anodynes; but, as I shall hereafter prove, simply by the use of the brom- ide of potassium.~~ 76 MRS. MERRIDEW S FORTUNE. From The Cornhull Magazine. MRS. MERRLDEWS FORTUNE. CHAPTER I. THERE are two houses in my neighbour- hood which illustrate so curiously two phases of life, that everybody on the Green, as well as myself, has been led into the habit of classing them together. The first reason of this of course is, that they stand together; the second, that they are as unlike in every way as it is possible to conceive. They are about the same size, with the same as- pect, the same green circle of garden sur- rounding them; and yet as dissimilar as if they had been brought out of two different worlds. They are not on the Green, though they are undeniably a part of Dinglefleld, but stand on the Mercot Road, a broad country road with a verdant border of turf and fine trees shadowing over the hedge- rows. The Merridews live in the one, and in the other are Mrs. Spencer and Lady Jsa- bella. The house of the two ladies is as perfect in all its arrangements as if it were a palace: a silent, soft, fragrant, dainty place, surrounded by lawns like velvet; full of flowers in perfect bloom, the finest kinds, succeeding each other as the seasons change. Even in autumn, when the winds are blowing, you never see a fallen leaf about, or the least symptom of untidiness. They have enough servants for everything that is wanted, and the servants are as per- fect as the flowers noiseless maids, and soft-voiced men, Everything goes like ma- chinery, with an infallible regularity, but like machinery oiled and deadened, which emits no creak nor groan. This is one of the things upon which Mrs. Spencer spe- cially prides herself. The two ladies of the house are not related; they are united only by that closest bond of friendship which of- ten, in despite of all popular fallacies, binds two women. Mrs. Spencer is very well off; Lady Isabella not so rich. Thcy never make any great demonstration of their at- tachinent for each other, but are as sisters in their house. Yet, perhaps, not precisely as sisters; rather, if the reader will not laugh like husband and wife. And just across two green, luxuriant hedges, over a lawn which is not like velvet, you come to the Merridews. It is possible, if you passe(I it on a summer day, that, not- withstanding the amazing superiority of the other, you would pause lom~ger, and he more amused with a glance into the enclosure of the latter house. The lawn is not the least like velvet; probably it has not been mown for three weeks at least, and the daisies are irrepressible. But there, tumbled down in the midst of it, are a bunch of little children in pinafores all the little ones, as Janet Merridew, the eldest daughter, expresses herself, with a certain soft exasperation. I would rather not undertake to number them or record their names, but there they are, a knot of rosy, round-limbed, bright-eyed, living things, some dark and some fair, with an amazing impartiality; but all chattering as best they can in nursery language, with rings of baby laughter, and baby quarrels, and musings of infinite solemnity. Once tumbled out here, where no harm can come to them, nobody takes any notice of the lit- tle ones. Nurse, sitting by serenely under a tree, works all the morning through, and there is so much going on indoors to occupy the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Merridew, I need not add, had a large family so large that their house overflowed, and when the big boys were at home from school, was scarcely hab- itable. Janet, indeed, did not hesitate to express her sentiments very plainly on the subject. She was just sixteen, and a good child, but full of the restless longing for something, she did not know what, arid vis- ionary discontent with her surroundings, which is not uncommon at her age. She had a way of paying me visits, especially during the holidays, and speaking more frankly on domestic subjects than was at all expedient. She would come in, in summer, with a tap on the glass which always startled me, through the open window, and sink down on a sofa and utter a long sigh of re- lief. Oh, Mrs. Musgrave! she would say, what a good thing you never had any children: taking off, as she spoke, the large hat which it was one of her grievances to be compelled to wear. Is that because you have too many at home? I said. Oh, yes, far too many; fancy, ten! Why should poor papa be burdened with ten of us, and so little money to keep us all on? And then a house gets so untidy with so many about. Mamma does all she can, and I do all I can; but how is it possible to kee~it in order? When I look across the hedges to Mrs. Spencer and Lads Isabellas, and see everything so nice and so neat, I could die of envy. And you are always so shady, and so cool, and so pleasant here. It is easy to be neat and nice when there is nobody to put things out of order, said I; hut when you are as old as I am, Janet, you will get to think that one may buy ones neatness too dear. Oh, I delight in it ! cried the girl. I should like to have everything nice, like you; all the hooks and papers just where MRS. MERRIDEW S FORTUNE. one wants them, and paper-knives on every table, and ink in the ink-bottles, and no dust anywhere. You are not so dreadfully particular as Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isa- bella. I think I should like to see some lit- ter on the carpet or on the lawn now and then for a change. But oh, if you could only see our house! And then our things are so shabby; the drawing-room carpet is all faded with the sun, and mamma will never have the blinds properly pulled down. And Selina, the housemaid, has so much to (10. When I scold her, mamma always stops me, and bids me recollect we cant be as nice as you other people, were we to try ever so much. There is so much to do in our house. And then those dreadful big boys! Mv dear, said I, ring the bell, and we will have some tea; and you can tell Jane to bring you some of that strawberry jam you are so fond of and forget the boys As if one could, said Janet, when they are all over the place into ones very room, if one did not mind; their boots al- ways either dusty or muddy, and oh, the noise they make! Mamma wont make them dress in the evenings, as I am sure she should. How are they ever to learn to behave like Christians, Mrs. Musgrave, if they are not obliged to dress and come into the drawing-room at night? I daresay they would run out again and spoil their evening clothes, my dear, I said. That is just what mamma says, cried Janet; but isnt it dreadful to have al- ways to consider everything like that? Poor mamma, too, often I am quite angry, and then I think perhaps she would like a house like Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabel- las as well as I should, if we had money enough. I suppose in a nice, big house with heaps of maids and heaps of money, and everything kept tidy for you, one would not mind even the big boys. I think under those circumstances most people would be glad to have them, said I. I dont understand how anybody can like boys, said Janet, with reflective yet contemptuous emphasis. A baby-boy is different. When they are just the age of little Ilarry, I adore them ; but those great long-legged creatures in their big boots! And yet, when theyre nicely dressed in their evening things, she went on, suddenly changing her tone, and with a flower in their coats Jack has actually got an even- ing-coat, Mrs. Musgrave, he is so tall for his age, they look quite nice; they look such gentlemen, Janet concluded, with a 77 little sisterly enthusiasm. Oh, how dread- ful it is to be so poor! I am sure you are very fond of them all the same, said I, and would break your heart if anything should happen to them. Oh, well, of course, now they are there, one would not wish anything to happen, Sai(l Janet. What did you say I was to tell Jane, Mrs. Musgrav e, about the tea? There now! Seli~~a has never the time to be as nice as that, and Richards, you know, our man Dont you think, really, it would be better to have a nice, clean par- lour-maid than a man that looks like a cob- bler ? Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella are always going on about servants, that you should send them away directly when they do anything wrong. But, you know, it makes a great difference having a separate servant for everything. Mamma always says, They are good to the children, Janet, or, They are so useful and dont mind what they do. We put up with Selina because, though shes not a goo(i housemaid, she is quite willing to help in the nursery; and we put up with nui~se because she gets through so much sewing; and even the cook Oh, dear, dear! it is so disagreeable. I wish I was anybody but myself. Just at this moment my maid ushered in Mrs. Merridew, hastily attired in a hat she wore in the garden, and a light shawl wrapped round her. There was an anxious look in her face, which indeed was not very unusual there. She was a little flushed, either by walking in the sunshine or by some- thing on her mind. You here, Janet, she said, when she had shaken hands with me, when you promised me to practise an hour after lun- cheon? Go, my dear, and do it now. It is so hot. I never can play in the middle of the day; and oh, mamma, please it is so pleasant here, pleaded Janet, nest- ling herself close into the corner of the sofa. Let her stay till we have had some tea, I said. I know she likes my strawberry jam. Mrs. Merridew consented, but with a sigh; and then it was that I saw clearly she must have something on her mind. She did not smile, as usual, with the indulgent mothers smile, half disapproving, yet un- willing to thwart the child. On the con- trary, there was a little constraint in her air as she sat down, and Janets enjoyment of the jam vexed her, and brought a little wrinkle to her brow. One would think you had not eaten anything all day, she said, with a vexed tone, and evidently was impatient of her daughters presence, and wished her away. 78 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. Nothing so nice as this, said Janet, with the frank satisfaction of her age; and she went on eating her bread and jam quite composedly, until Mrs. Merridews patience was exhausted. I cannot have you stay any longer, she said, at length. Go and practise now, while there is no one in the house Oh, manuna! said Janet, beginning to expostulate; but was stopped short by a look in her mothers eye. Then she gath- ered herself up reluctantly, and left the par- adise of my little tea-table with the jam. She went out pouting, trailing her great hat after her; and had to be stopped as she stepped into the blazing sunshine, and com- manded to put it on. It is only a step, sai(l the provoking girl, pouting more and more. And poor Mrs. Merridew looked so worried, and heated, and uncomfortable, as she ~vent Out and said a few energetic words to her naughty child. Poor soul! Ten different wills to manage and keep in sub- jection to her own, besides all the other cares she had upon her shoulders. And that big girl who should have been a help to her, standing pouting and disobedient be- tween the piano she did not care for, and the jam she loved. Sometimes such a little altercation gives one a glimpse into an entire life. She is such a child, Mrs. Merridew said, coIning in with an apologetic, anxious smile on her face. She had been fretted and vexed, and yet she would not show it to lessen my opinion of her girl. Then she sank down wearily into that corner of the sofa from which Janethad been so unwillingly ex- pelled. The truth is, I wanted to speak to you, she said, and I could not when she was here. Poor Janet! I am afraid I was cross, hut I could not help it. Something has occurred to-day which has put me out. I hope it is something I can help you in, I said. That is why I have come: you are al- ways so kind; but it is a strange thing I am going to ask you this time, she said,, with a wistful glance at me. I want to go to town for a day on business of my own; and I want it to be supposed that it is busi- ness of yours. The fkct was it did startle me for the mo- ment and then I reflected like lightning, so quick was the process (I say this that no- body may think my first feeling hard), what kind of woman she was, and how impossible that she ~should want to do anything that one need be ashamed of. That is very simple, I said. Then she rose hastily and came up to me and gave me a sudden kiss, though she was not a demonstrative woman. You are always so understanding, she said, with the tears in her eyes; and thus I was coin- mitted to stand by her, whatever her diffi- culty might be. But you shant do it in the dark, she went on; I am going to tell you all about it. 1 dont want Mr. Merridew to know, and in our house it is quite impossible to keep anything secret, lie is on circuit now; but he would hear of the day mamma went to town before he had been five minutes in the house. And so I want von to go with me, you dear soul, and to let me say I went with you. That is quite simple, I said again; but I did feel that I should like to know what the object of the expedition was. It is a long story, she said, and I must go back and tell you ever so much about myself before you will understand. I have had the most dreadful temptation put before me to-day. Oh, such a temptation! resisting it is like tearing ones heart in two; and yet I know I ought to resist. Think of our large family, and poor Charles s many disappointments, and then, dear Mrs. Musgrave, read that. It was a letter written on a large, square sheet of thin paper which she thrust into my hand: one of those letters one knows a mile off, and recognizes as lawyers letters, painful or pleasant, as the case may be; but more painful than pleasant generally. I read it, and you may judge of my astonish- ment to find that it ran thus : DEAM MADAM: We have the pleasure to in form you that our late client, Mr. John Babing- ton, deceased on the 10th of May last, has ap- pointed you by his will his residuary legatee. After all his special bequests are paid, including an annuity of a hundred a year to his mother, with remainder to Miss Babingtou, his only sur- viving sister, there4wiil remain a sum of about 10,0001., at present excellently invested on landed security, and bearing interest at four-and-a-half per cent. By Mr. Babingtons desire, precau- tions have been taken to bind it strictly to your separate use, so that you may dispose of it by will or otberwise, according to your pleasure, for which purpose we have accepted the office of your trustees, akd will be happy to enter fully into the subject, and put you into possession of the legacy, as soon as you can favour us with a private interview. We are~~ ~Iadam, your obedient servan FOGGY, FEATHERHEAD & DowN. A temptation ! I cried ; hut my dear, it is a fortune; and it is (lclightful: it will make you quite comfortable. Why, it will be nearly five hundred a year. I feel always safe in the way of calculat MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. 79 ing interest when it is anything approaching five per cent.; five per cent. is so easily counted, and of course four and a half can- not be much different: it took away my breath. But Mrs. Merridew shook her head. It looks so at the first glance, she said; but when you hear my story you will think dif- ferently. And then she made a little un- comfortable pause. I dont know whether you ever guessed it, she added, looking down, and doubling a new hem upon her handkerchief, but I was not Charless equal when we were married: perhaps you may have heard? Of course I had heard: but t.he expression of her countenance was such that I put on a look of great amazement, and pretended to be much astonished, which I could see was a comfort to her mind. I am glad of that, she said, for you know I could not speak so plainly to you if I did not feel that, though you are so quiet now, you must have seen a great deal of the world you know what a man is. He may be capable of marrying you, if he loves you, whatever your condition is but afterwards he does not like people to know. I- dont mean I was his inferior in education, or anythin~ of that sort, she added, look- ing up at inc with a sudden, uneasy blush. You need not tell me that, I said; and then another uneasiness took possession of her, lest I should think less highly than was right of her husband. Poor Charles! she said; it is scarce- ly fitir to judge him as he is now. We have had so many cares and disappointments, and he has had to deny himself so many things and you may say, Here is his wife, whom he has been so good to, plotting to take away from him what might give him a little ease, But oh, dear Mrs. Musgrave, you must hear me before you judge! I do not judge, I said; I am sure you must have some very good reason; tell me what it is. Then she paused, and gave a long sigh. She must have been about forty, I think; a comely, simple woman, not in any way a heroine of romance; and yet she was as in- teresting to me as if she had been only half the age, and deep in some pretty crisis of romantic distress. I dont object to the love-stories either: but middle age has its romances too. When I was a girl, said Mrs. Merri- dew, I went to the Babingtons as Ellens governess. She was about fifteen and I was not more than twenty, and I believe people thought me pretty. You will laugh at we, hut I declare I have always been so busy all my life, that I have never had any time to think whether it was true: but one thing I know, that I was a very good gov- erness. I often wish, she added, pausing, with a half comic look amid her trouble, that I could find as good a governess as I was, for the girls. There was one brother, John, and one other sister, Matilda; and Mr. Merridew was one of the visitors at the house, and was supposed to be paying her attention. I never could see it, for my part, and Charles declares he never had any such idea; but they thought so, I know. It is quite a long story. John had just come home from the University, and was pretending to read for the bar, and was always about the house; and the end was that he fell in love with me Of course, said I. I dont know that it was of course. I was so very shy, and dreaded the sound of my own voice; hut he used to come after us everywhere by way of talking to Ellen, and so got to know me. Poor John! he was the nicest, fitithfnl fellow the sort of man one would trust anything to~ and believe in, and respect, and be fond of but not love. Of course Charles was there toot It went on for about a year, such a curious, confused, pleasant, painful I cannot describe it to you but you know what I mean. The Babingtons had always been kind to me; of course they were angry when they found out about John, but then when they knew I would not marry him, they were kinder than ever, and said I had behaved so very well about it. I was a very lonely poor girl; my mother was dead, and I had nowhere to go; and in- stead of sending me away, Mrs. Babington sent him away her own son, which was very good of her, you know. To be sure I was a good governess, and they never suspected Charles of coming for me, nor did I. Suddenly, all at once, without the least warning, he found me by myself one day, and told me. I was a little shocked, thinking of Matilda Babington; but then he declared he had meant nothing. And so When the Babingtons heard o fit, they were all furious; even Ellen, my pupil, turned against inc. They sent me away as if I had done something wicked. It was very, very hard upon me; but yet I scarcely wonder, now I think of it. That was why we married so early and so im- prudently. Mrs. Musgrave, I daresay yoU have often wondered why it was I had to put on such looks of wonder and satisfied curiosity as I could; for the truth was, I had known the outlines of the story for years, just as every one knows the out- 80 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. lines of every one elses story; especially away this chance of comfort? And poor such parts of it as people might like tu be C h aries working himself out. But it could concealed. I cannot understand how any- not bring a blessing. It would bring a body, at least in society, or oi~ the verge curse; I cannot take t1~e bread out of the of society, can for a moment hope to have mouth of the old woman who was good to any secrets. Charles Merridew was a me, even to put it into that of my own cousin of Mr. Justice Merridew, and very child. well connected, and of course it was known And here two tears fell out of Mrs. Mer- that he married a governess; which was ridews eves. At her age people do not one reason why people were so shy of them weep abundantly. She gave a little start at first when they came to the Green. as they fell, and brushed theni off her dress, I begin to perceive now why this letter with, I dont doubt, a sensation of shame. should be a temptation to you, I said; She to cry like a baby, who had so much you think Mr. Merridew would not to do! She left me shortly after, with an like engagement to meet at the station for the Oh, it is not that, she said. Poor twelve-oclock train next (lay. I was going Charles! I dont think he would mind, to town on business, and had asked her to The world is so hard, and one makes so go with me this was what was to be said little head against it. No, it is because of to all the world. I explained myself elabo- Mrs. Babington. I heard she lost all her ratelv that very evening to Mrs. Spencer money some years ago, and was dependent and Lady Isabella, when I met them taking on her son. And what can she do on a their walk after dinner. hundred a year? A hundred a year! Mrs. Merridew is so kind as to go with Only think of it, for an old lady always me, I said; she knows so much more accustomed to have her own way. It is about business than I do. And I made horribly unjust, you know, to take it from up mx mind that I would go to the Bank her, his mother, who was always so good to and leave my book to be made up, that it him; and to give it to me, whom he has might not be quite untrue. not seen for nearly twenty years, and who Fancy Mrs. Musgrav e having any busi- gave him a sore heart when he did know ness! said Lady Isabella. Why dont me. I could not take advantage of it. It you write to some man, and make him do is a great temptation, but it would be a it, instead of all the trouble of going to great sin. And that is why, she added, town? with a sudden flush on her face, looking at But Mrs. Merridew is going with me, me, I should rather manage it myself my dear, I said; and nobody doubted that under cover of you, and not let the barristers wife, with so much experi- Charles know. ence as she had, and so many things to do, She looked at me, and held me with her would be an efficient help to inc in my little eye, demanding of me that I should under- affairs. stand her, and yet defying me to think any the worse of Charles. She was afraid of CHAPTER II. her husband, afraid that he would clutch THE house we went to was a house in St. at the money without any consideration of Johns Wood. Everybody knows the kind the wrong, afraid to trust him with the of place. A garden wall, with lilacs and decision. She would have me understand larburnums, all out of blossom by this time, her without words, and yet she would not and beginning to look brown and dusty, have me blame Mr. Merridew. She in- waving over it; inside, a little bright sub- Bisted on the one and defied me to the urban garden, full of scarlet geraniums, other: an inconsistent, unreasonable wo- divided by a white line of pavement, daz- man! But I did my best to look as if I zlingly clean, from the door in the wall to saw, and yet did not see. the door of the house; and a stand full of Then you want to see the lawyers ? I more scarlet geraniums in the little square said. ball. Mrs. Merridew became very much I want ~) see Mrs. Babington, was agitated as we approached. It was all that her answer. ~ I must go to them and ex- I could do to keep her up when we had rung plain. They are proud people, and proba- the bell at the door. I think she would bly would resist or they may be otherwise have turned and gone back even then had provided for. If that was the case I should it been possible, but fortunately, we were not hesitate to take it. Oh, Mrs. Mus- admitted without delay. grave, when I look at all the children, and We were shown into a pretty shady draw- Janet there murmuring and grumbling, ing-room, full of old furniture, which looked dont you think it wrings my heart to put like the remnants of something greater, and MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. at which she gazed with eyes of almost wild recognition, unconsciously pressing my arm, which she still held, Everything surround- ing her woke afresh the tumult of recollec- tions. She was not able to speak when the maid asked our names, and I was about to give them simply, and had already named my own, when she pressed my arm closer to her, and interposed all at once, Say two ladies from the country, anxious to speak-with her about business. She might not know our names. is it business about the house, maam? said the maid, with some eagerness. Yes, yes; it is about the house, said Mrs. Merridew, hastily. And then the door closed, and we sat waiting, listening to the soft, subdued sounds in the quiet house, and the rustle of the leaves in the garden. She must be going to let it, my companion said hoarsely; and then rose from the chair on which she had placed her- self. and began to move about the room with agitation, looking at everything, touch- ing the things with her hands, with now and then a stifled exclamation. There is where we used to sit, Ellen and I, she said, standing by a sofa, before which a small table was placed, when there was com- pany in the evenings. And there Matilda oh, what ghosts there are about! Matil- da is married, thank Heaven! but if Ellen comes, I shall never be able to face her. Oh, Mrs. Musgrave, if you would but speak for me! At this moment the door was opened. Mrs. Merridew shrank back instinctively, and sat down, resting her hand on the table she had just pointed out to me. The new- comer was a tall, full figure, in deep mourn- ing, a handsome woman of five-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with bright hair, which looked all the brighter from comparison with the black depths of her dress, and a colourless clear complexion. All the colour about her was in her hair. Though she had no appearance of unhealthiness, her very lips were pale, and she came in with a noise- less, quiet dignity, and the air of one who felt she had pain to encounter, yet felt able to bear it. Pardon me for keeping you waiting, she said; and then, with a somewhat startled glance, I understood you wanted to see the house. My companion was trembling violently; and I cleared my throat, and tried to clear up my ideas (which was less easy) to say some- thing in reply. But before I had stam- mered out a half-a-dozen words Mrs. Mer- ridew rose, and made one or two unsteady steps towards the stranger. LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. 632 81 Ellen, she cried, dont you know me? and stopped there, standing in the centre of the room, holding out appealing hands. Miss Babingtons face changed in the strangest way. i could see that she recog- nized her in a moment, and then that she pretended to herself not to recognize her. There was the first, startled, vivid, indignant glance, and then a voluntary mist came over her eyes. She gazed at the agitated woman with an obstinately blank gaze, and then turned to inc with a little bow. Your friend has the advantage of me, she said; but you were saying something. I should be glad, if that was what you want- ed, to show you over the house. it would be hard to imagine a more dif- ficult position than that in which I found Inyself; seated between two people who were thus strangely connected with each other by bonds of mutual injury, and ap- pealed to for something meaningless and tranquillizing, to make the intercourse pos- sible. i did the best I could, omi the spur of the moment. it is not so much the house, i said, though, if you wish to let it, t have a friend who is looking for a house; but I think there was some other business Mrs. Merridew had; something to say M~s. Merridew! said Miss Babington, suffering the light once more to come into her eyes; and then she gave her an indignant look. I think this might have been spared, us at least. Ellen, said Mrs. Merri(lew, speaking very low and humbly Ellen, i have never done anything to you, to make you so hard against me. If i injured your sis- ter, it was unwittingly. She is better off than i am now. You were once fond of me, as i was of you. Why should you have turned so completely against me? i have come in desperation to ask a hearing from you, and from your mother, Ellen. God knows i mean nothing but good. And oh, what have I ever done ? what harm? Miss Babington had seated herself, still preserving her air of dignity, but without an invitation by look or gesture to her visitor to be seated; and in tIme silent room, all so dainty and so sweet with flow- ers, with the old furniture in it, which. re- minded her of the past, the culprit of twenty years ago stood pleading between. one of those whom she was 5upPOse(I to have wronged, and myself, a most ignorant. and uneasy spectator. Twenty years ago! in the meantime youth had passed, and the hard burdens of middle a~,e bad come doubled and manifold upon her shoulders.. 82 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. Had she done nothing in the meantime that would tell more heavily against her than that girlish inadvertence of the past? Yet here she stood not knowing, I believe, for the moment, whether she was the young governess in her first trouble, or the mother of all those children, acquainted with troubles so much more bitter among the ghosts of the past. I would much rather not discuss the question, said Miss Babington, still seated, and struggling hard to preserve her calm. All the grief and vexation we have owed to you in this house cannot be summed up in a moment. The only policy, I think, is to be silent. Your very presence here is an offence to us. What else could it be? I should never have come, said Mrs. Meyridew, moved by a natural prick of re- sentment, but for what I have just heard I should never have returned to ask for par(lon where I had done no wrong had it not heen for this this, that I feel to be unjust. Your poor brother John Stop! cried the other, her reserve failing. Stop, oh, stop! you cruel woman! He was nothing to you but a toy to be played with but he was my brother, my only brother; and you have made him an undutiful son in his very grave. The tears were in her eyes, her colourless face bad flushed, her soft voice was raised; and Mrs. Merridew, still standing, listened to her with looks as agitated when all at once the door was again opened softly. The aspect of affairs changed in a moment. To my utter amazement, Mrs. Merridew, who was standing with her face to the door, made a quick, imperative, familiar gesture to her antagonist, and looked towards an easy-chair which stood near the open win- dow. Miss Babington rose quickly to her feet, and composed herself into a sudden appearance of calm. Mamma, she said, going forward to meet the old lady, who came slowly in, here are some ladies come upon business. This is Mrs. Merridew. She said the name very low, as Mrs. Babington made her way to her chair, and Mrs. Merridew sank trembling into her seat, unable, I think, to hear up longer. The old lady seated herself before she spoke. She was a little old woman, with a pretty, softly- coloured old face, and had the air of having been petted and cared for all her life. The sudden change of her daughter~ s manner the accumulation of every kind of con- venmence and prettiness, as I now remarked round that chair; the careful way in which it had been placed out of the sun and the draught, yet in the air and in sight of the garden, told a whole history of themselves. And now Mrs. Merridews passionate sense that the alienation of the sons fortune from the mother was a thing impossible, was made clear to me at once. Whom did you say, Ellen? said the old lady, when she was comfortably settled in her chair. Mrs. ? I never catch names. I hope you have explained to the ladies that I am rather infirm, and cant stand. What did you say was your friends name, my dear? 11cr friends name! Ellen Babingtons face lightened all over as with a pale light of indig~ation. I said Mrs. Merridew, she repeated, with a little emphasis on the name. Then there was a pause; and the culprit who was at the bar trembled visibly, and hid her face in her hands. Mrs. Merridew ! Do you mean ? Turn me round, Ellen, and let me look at her, said the old lady, with a curious catching of her breath. It was a change which could not be done in a moment. While the (laughter turned the mothers chair, poor Mrs. Merridew must have gone through the torture of an age; her hands trembled in which she had hidden herself. But as the chair creaked and turned slowly roumid, and all was silent again, she raised her white face, and un- covered herself, as it were, to meet the in- quisitors eye. It migfit have been a dif- forent woman, so chan ed was she: her eyes withdrawn into caves, the lines of her mouth drawn down, two hollows clearly marked in her cheeks, and every particle of her usual colour gone. She looked up appallcd and overcome, confronting, but not meeting, the keen, critical look which old Mrs. Babington fixed upon her; and then there was again a pause; and the leaves fluttered outside, and tIme white cur- tains within, and a gay childs voice, pass- ing in the road without, suddenly fell among us like a bird. Ah! said the old lady, that crea- ture! Do you mean to tell me, Ellen, that she has had the assurance to come here? Now look at her and tell me what a mans sense is worth. That womans face turned my poor boys head, and drove Charles Merridew out of his wits. Only look at her: is there anything there to turn any- bodys head now? She has lost her figure too; but to be sure that is not so wonder- ful, for she is forty if she is a day. But there are you, my dear, as straight as a rush, and your sister Matilda as well. So that is Janet Singleton, our governess: I wonder what Charles thinks of his bargain MRS. MERRIDEW S FORTUNE. 83 now? I never saw a woman so gone off. very poor. Poor Johns fortune will be a Oh, Ellen, Ellen, why didnt she come and godsend to them. Go away! I suppose show herself, such a figure as she is, before you mean to mock me after all the rest you my poor, dear boy was taken from us? have done, I dont understand what you My poor boy! And to thinkhe should~say. have gone to his grave in a delusion about Yet she looked up with a certain eager- such a creature! Ellen, I would rather ness on her pretty, old face a certain now that you sent her away. sharp look of greed and longing came into Oh, mamma, dont speak like this, the blue eyes, which retained their colour cried Ellen, red with shame and distress; as pure as that of youth. Her daughter what is about her figure? if that were all! towered above her, pale with emotion, but but she is going away. still indignant, yielding not a jot. Yes, yes, send her away, said the old Mamma, pay no attention, she said; lady. You liked her once, but I dont Mrs. Merridew may pity us, but what is suppose even you can think there could be that? surely we can take back nothing any intercourse now. My son left all his from her hands. money to her, she added, turning to me Pity! I dont see how Janet Merridew past his mother and his sister. You will can pity me. But I should like, Mrs. admit that was a strange thing to do. I Babington ~vent on, with a little tremble dont know who the other lady is, Ellen, of eagerness, to know at least what she but I conclude she is a friend of yours. He means. left everything past us, everything but some This is what I mean, said Mrs. Mer- poor pittance. Perhaps you may know ridew, sinking on her knees by the old some one who wants a house in this neigh- ladys chair: that I will not take your bourhood? It is a very nice little house, money. It is your money. We are poor, and much better furnished than most. I as you say; but we can struggle on as we should be very glad to let it, now that I have done for twenty years; and poor cant afford to occupy it myself, by the Johns money is yours, and not mine. It year. is not mine. .1 will not take it. It must Mamma, the other lady is with Mrs have been some mistake. If he had known Merridew, said Ellen; I do riot know what he was doing he never would have left her and she cast a glance at me, almost it to any one but you. appealing to my pity. I rose up, not know- So I think myself, said the old lady, ing what to do. I musino; and then was silent, taking no no- Perhaps, niy dear, I said, I confess tice of any one looking into the air. with timidity, we had better go away. Mamma, said Ellen, behind her chair, Unless you will stay to luncheon, said I can work for you, and Matilda will help the old lady. But I forgot I dont us. It cannot be. It may be kind of want to look at that woman any more, Ellen. her but it cannot, cannot be. Are we to She has done enough of harm to satisfy any take charity; to live on charity? Mamma, one. Turn me round again to niy usual she has no right to disturb you place, and send her away. She is not disturbing me, my dear, Mrs. Merridew had risen to her feet, too. said the old lady; on the contrary. She had regained her senses after the fiust Whatever I might think of her, she used to frightful shock. She was still ghastly l)ale, be a girl of sense. And Matilda always but she was herself. She went up firmly carried things with a very high hand, and I and swiftly to the old lady, put Ellen aside never was fond of her husband. But I am by a movement which she was unconscious very fond of my house, she added, after a of in her agitation, and replaced the chair pause; it i~ such a nice house, Ellen. I in its former place with the air of one to think I should die if we were to leave it. I whom such an office was habitual. You shall die very soon, niost likely, and be a used to say I always did it best, she said. burden on nobody; but still, Ellen, if she Oh, is it possible you can have forgotten meant it, you know everything! Did not I give him up when Mamma, what does it matter what she you asked me, and do you think I will take means? you iicver can think of accepting his nioney now? Oh, never, never! It charity. It will break m~ heart. ought to be yours, and it shall be. Oh, That is all very well to say, said Mrs. take it hack, and forgive me, and say, God Babington. But I have lived a great deal bless you once again. longer than you have done, mx- dear, and I Eb, what was that you said ? Ellen, know that hearts are not broken so easily. what does she say ? said the old woman. It would break lily heart to leave mnv nice I have always heard the Merridews were house. Janet, come here, and look me in 84 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. the face. I dont think you were true to us in the old times. Matilda did carry things with a very high hand. I told her so at the time, and I have often told her so since; but I dont think you were true to us, all the same. I did not knowI did notmean faltered Mrs. Merridew, leaning her head on the arm of the old ladys chair. It was clear to inc that the story had two sides, and that my friend was perhaps not so innocent as she made herself out to be. But there was something very pitiful in the comparison between the passion of anxiety in her half-hidden face, and the calm of the old woman who was thus deciding on her fate. My dear, I am afraid you knew, said Mrs. Babington. You accepted my poor boy, and then, when I spoke to you, you gave him up, and took Charles Merridew instead. If I had not interfered, perhaps it would have been better; though, to be sure, I dont know what we should have done with a heap of children. And as for poor Johns money, you know you have no more real right to it, no more than that other lady, who never saw him in her life, She has the best possible right to it, mammahe left it to her, said Ellen, anxiously over her shoulder. Oh, why did you come here to vex us, when we were not interfering with you? I beg of you not to disturb my mother any more, but go away. Then there was a moment of hesitation. Mrs. Merridew rose slowly from her knees. She turned round to me, not looking me in the face. She said in a hoarse voice, Let us go, and made a step towards the door. She was shaking as if she had had a fever; but she was glad. Was that possible? She had delivered her conscience and now might she not go and keep the money which would make her children happy? But she could not look me in the face. She moved as slowly as a funeral. And yet she would have flown, if she could, to get safely away. Janet, my dear, said the old lady, come back, and let us end our talk. Mrs. i~tIerridew stopped short, with a start, as if a shot had arrested her. This time she looked me full in the face. Her momentary hope was over, and now she felt for the first time the poignancy of the sacri- fice which it had been her own will to make. Come back, Janet, said Mrs. Babing- ton. As you say, it is not your money. Nothing could make it your money. You were always right-feeling when you were not aggravated. I am much obliged to you, my dear. Come and sit down here, and tell me all about yourself. Now poor John is dead, sho went on, falling suddenly into soft weeping, like a child, we ought to be friends. To think he should die before me, and I should be heir to my owo boy isnt is sad? And such a fine young fellow as he was! You remember when he came back from the University? XVhat a nice colour he h~id! And always so straight and slim, like a rush. All my children have a good carriage. You have lost your figure, Janet; and you used to have a nice little figure. When a girl is so round and plump, she is apt to get stout as she gets older. Look at Ellen, how nice she is. But then, to be sure, children make a difference. Sit down by me here, and tell me how many you have. And, Ellen, send word to the house- agent, and tell him we dont want now to let the house; and tell Parker to get lun- cheon ready a little earlier. You must want something, if you have come from the coun- try. Where are you living now? and how is Charles Merridew? Dear, dear, to think I should not have seen either of you for nearly twenty years! But, mamuma, surely, surely, cried Ellen Babington, you dont think things can be settled like this? Dont speak nonsense, Ellen; every- thing is settled, said the old lady. You know I always had the greatest confidence in Janets good sense. Now, my dear, hold your tongue. A girl like you has no right to meddle. I always manage my own business. Go and look after luncheon that is your affair. I do not remember ever to have seen a more curious group in my life. There was the old lady in the centre, quite calm, and sweet, and pleasant. A tear was still lin- gering on her eyelash; but it represented nothing more than a childs transitory grief, and underneath there was nothing but smiles, and satisfaction, and content. She looked so pretty, so pleased, so glad to find that her comforts were not to be impaired, and yet took it all so lightly, as a matter of course, as completely unconscious of the struggle going on in the mind of her bene- factress as if she had been a creature from a different world. As for Mrs. Merridew, she stood speechless, choked by feelings that were too bitter and conflicting for words. I am sure that all the advantages this money could have procured for her children were surging up before her as she stood and list- ened. She held her hands helplessly half stretched out, as if something had been taken out of them. her e)-es were blank with thinking, seeing nothing that we saw, but a whole world of the invisible. Her breast heaved with a breath half drawn, MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. 85 which seemed suspended half-way, as if dismay and disappointmenL hindered its completion. It was all over then her sacrifice made and accepted, and no more about it; and herself sent back to the mo- notonous struggle of life. On the other side of the pretty old lady stood Ellen Babing- ton, pale and miserable, struggling with shame and pride, casting sudden glances at Mrs. Merridew, and then appealing looks at me, who had nothing to do with it. Tell her, oh, tell her it cant be! she cried at last, coming to me. Tell her the lawyers will not permit it. It cannot be. And Mrs. Merridew, too ,gave me one pitiful look not repenting, but yet Then she went forward, and laid her hand upon the old ladys hand, which was like ivory, with all the veins delicately carved upon it. Say, God bless us, at least. Say, God bless you and your children, once before I go. To be sure, said the old lady cheer- fully. God bless you, my dear, and all the children. Matilda has no children, you know. I should like to see them, if you think it would not be too much for inc. But you are not going, Janet, when it is the first time we have met for nearly twenty years? I must go, said Mrs. Merridew. She could not trust herself to speak, I could see. She put down her face and kissed the ivory hand, and then she turned and went past me to the door, without an- other word. I think she had forgotten my very existence. When she had reached the door she turned round suddenly, and fixed her eyes upon Ellen. She was going away, having given them back their living, without as much acknowledgment as if she had brought a nosegay. There was in her look a mute remonstrance and appeal and protest. Ellen Babington trembled all over; her lips quivered as if with words which pride or pain would not permit her to say; but she held, with hands immovable, to the back of her mothers chair, who, for her part, was kissing her hand to the departing visitor. Good-by :, come and see us soon, the old lady was saying cheerfhlly. And Ellen gazed, and trembled, and said nothing. Thus this strangest of visits came to an end. She had forgotten me, as I thought; but when I caine to her side and put my arm within her reach, she clutched at it and tot- tercd so that it was all I could do to sup- port hicr. I was very thankful to get her into the cab, fbr I thought she would have fainted on the way. But yet she roused herself when I told the man to drive back to the station. We must go to the lawyers first, she said; and then we turned and drove through the busy London streets, towards the City, The clerks looked nearly baked in the office when we reached it, and the crowd crow(led on, indiscriminate and monotonous. One feels one has no right to go to such a place and take any of the air away, of which they have so little. And to think of the sweet air blowing over our lawns and lanes, and all the unoccupied, silent, shady places we had left behind us! Such vain thoughts were not in Mrs. Merridews head. She was turning over and over instead, a very different kind of vision. She was counting up all she had sacrificed, and how little she had got by it; and yet was going to~coinplete the sacrifice, unmoved even by her thoughts. I confess I was surprised at the tone she took with the lawyer. She said Mr. Merridew and myself with a composure which made me, who knew Mr. Merridew had no hand in it, absolutely speechless. The lawyer remonstrated as he was in duty bound, and spoke about his chieiits will; but Mrs. Merridew made very little account of the will. She quoted her husband with a confidence so assured that even I, though I knew her better, began to be persuaded that she had communicated with him. And thus the business was finally settled. She had recovered herself by the time we got into the cab again. It is true that her face was worn and livid with the exertions of the day, but still, pale and weary as she was, she was herselL But, my dear, I said, you quoted Mr. Merridew, as if he knew all about it; and what if he should not approve? You must not think 1 have no confi- dence in my husband, she said, quickly; far from that. Perhaps he would not see as I do now, lie would think of our own wants first. But if it comes to his ears afterward, Charles is not the nian to dis- own his wifes actions. Oh, no, no; we have gone through a great deal together, and lie would no more bring shame upon me, as if I acted when I had no right to act, than I would bring shame upon him; and I think that is as much as could be said. And then we made our way back to the station; but she said nothing more till we got into the railway-carriage, which was not quite so noisy as our cTh. It would have been such a thing for us, she said then, half to herself. Poor Charles! Oh, if I could but have said to him, Dont be so anxious; here is so 86 MRS. MKt~RIDEWS FORTUNE. much for the children. And Jack should have gone to the University. And there would have been Wills premium at once. (i.e. to Mr. Willoughby, the engineer). The only thing that I am glad of is that they dont know. And then, Janet; she breaks my heart when she talks. It is so bad for her, knowing the Fortises and all those girls who have everything that heart can desire. I never had that to worry me when I was young. I was only the govern- ess. Janets talk will be the worst of all. I could have made the house so nice too, and everything. Well but than I never should have had a moments peace. You dont regret? I said. No, said Mrs. Merridew, with a long sigh. And then, Do you think I have been a traitor to my children? she cried suddenly, taking away their money from them in the dark~ Would Charles think me a traitor, as they do P Is it always to be my part P always to be my part P No, no, I said, soothing her as best I could; but I was very glad to find my pony-carriage at the station, and to drive her home to my house and give her some tea, and strengthen her for her duties. Thus poor John Babingtons fortune was disposed of, and no one was the wiser, ex- cept, indeed, the old lady and her daughter, who were not likely to talk much on the subject. And Mrs. Merridew walked caIrn- ly across to her house in the dusk as if this strange episode of agitation and passion had been nothing more solid than a dream. CHAPTER III. WE did not meet again for some days after this, and the next time I saw her, which was on Sunday at church with her children, it seemed impossible to me to be- lieve in the reality of the strange scene we had so recently passed through together. The calm curtain of ordinary decorums and ordinary friendliness had risen for a moment from Mrs. Merridews unexcited existence, revealing a woman distracted by a primitive sense of justice, rending her own soul, as it were, asunder, and doing, in spite of herself and all her best instincts, what she felt was right. That she should have any existence separate from her children had never occurred to anybody befire. Yet, for one day, I had seen her resist and ignore the claims of her children, an(l act like an individual being. When I saw her again she was once more the mother and nothing more, casting her eyes over her lit- tle flock, cognizant, one could see, of the perfection or imperfection of every fold an(11 line in their dresses, keeping her attention upon each, from little Matty, who was rest- less and coufti not be kept quiet, up to Janet, who sat demure, and already caught the eye of visitors as one of the prettiest girls of Dinglefield. Mrs. Merridew re- marked all with a vigilant mothers eye, and as I gazed across at her in her pew, it was all but impossible for me to believe that this was the same woman who had clung so convulsively to my arm, whose face had been so worn an(l hollowed out with suffering, how could it be the same woman? She who had suffered poor John Babington to love her arid then had cast him off, and married her friends lover in- stead ; who had established so firm an em- pire over a mans heart, that, after tweiity years, lie had remembered her still with such intensity of feeling. How Janet would have opened her big eyes had it been su(Nreste(l to her that her mother could. have any power over mens hearts; or, in deed, could be occupied with anything more touching or important than her childrens frocks or her but~hiers bills I fear I did not p y much attention to the service that morning. I could not but gaze at them, arid wonder whether, for instance, 1\Ir. Merridew himself, who had come back fi-om cii-cuit, and was seated respectably with his family in church, yawning discreetly over Mr. Damnerels sermon, remembered any- thing at all, for his part, of Matilda Bab- ington or her brother. Probably lie pre- ferred to ignore the subject altogether or, perhaps, would laugh with a sense of (rrati- lied vanity that there had been a row, when the transference of his affections was discovered. And there she sat by his side, who had bad she betrayed his confidence P was she untrue to him in beiiig this tiiue true to her friends P The (luestiori bexvil- dered nine so that miiy mind went groping about it arid about it. Once, I feam, she hiad been false to those whose bread she eat, arid chosen love instead of fr~enidship. Now was she false to the nearest of ties, the closest of relationships, sitting calmly there beside him with a secret in her mmiimi(l of which he knew nothing P Falsely tine was that what the woman was who looked to the outside world a mere pattern of all dommiestic virtues, without any spenial inter- est about her, a wife (levoted to her fins- bands interest, a mother wrapt up, as i)eoPle say, in her chiil(lremi P 1 could riot make up my mind what to think. I hope you got through your business comfbrtably, Mrs Spencer said to rue, as we walked home from church. With Mrs. Mermidews assistance, said Lady Isabella, who was rather satirical. MRS. MERRIDEW S FORTUNE. 87 And the Merridews beard their own name, and stopped to join in the conversation. What is that about my wife? he said. Did Mrs. Musgrave have Mrs. Merri- dews assistance about something? I hope it was only shopping. When you have business you should consult me. She is a goose, and knows nothing about it. I dont think she is a goose, said I. No, perhaps not in her own way, said the serene husband, laughing; but every woman is a goose about businessI beg your pardon, ladies, but I assure you I mean it as a compliment. I hate a woman of business. Shopping is quite a different matter, he added, and laughed. Good heavens! if he had only known what a fool he looked, beside the silent woman, who gave me a little warning glance and col- oured a little, and turned away her head to speak to little Matty, who was clinging to her skirts. A perfect mother! thinking more (you would have said) of Mattys little frills and Janets bonnet-strings than of anything else in life. And that was all about it. The summer went on and turned to autumn and to win- ter and to spring again, with that serene progression of nature which nothing ob- structs; and the children grew, and the Merridews were as poor as ever, managing & peu pr~s to make both ends meet, but always just a little short somewhere, with their servants chosen on the same princi- ple of supplementing each others imperfect service as that Janet had announced to me. For one thing, they kept their servants a long time, which I have noticed is charac- teristic of households not very rich nor very particular. When you allow such pleas to tell in favour of an imperfect housemaid as that she is good to the children, or does not mind helping the cook, there is no rea- son why Mary, if she does not marry in the meantime, should not stay with you a hundred years. And the Merridewss ser- vants accordingly stayed, and looked very friendly at you when you went to call, and did their work not very well, with much su- pervision and exasperation (respectively) on the part of the mother and daughter. But the family was no poorer, though it was no richer. The only evidence of our expedition to town which I could note was, that it had produced a new pucker on Mrs. Merridews brow. She had looked suffi- ciently anxious by times before, but the new pucker had something more than anxiety in it. There was a sense of something better that might have been; a sense of something lost, a suspicion of bitterness. How all this could be expressed by one line on a smooth, white forehead I cannot explain; but to me it was so. Now and then, too, a chance allusion would be made which recalled what had happened still more plainly. For instance, I chanced to be calling one afternoon, when Mr. Merridew came home earlier than usual from town. We were sitting over our five- oclock tea, with a few of the children scrambling about the floor and Janet work- ing in the corner. He took up the or- dinary position of a man who has just come home, with his back to the fire, and re- garded us with that benevolent contempt which men generally think it right to exhibit for women over their tea; and everything was so or(linary and pleasant, that I for one was taken entirely by surprise, and nearly let fall the cup in my hand when he spoke. I dont know whether you saw John Babingtons death in The Times three or four months ago, Janet, he said, did you? Why did you never mention it? It is odd that I should not have heard. I met Ellen to-day coining out of the Am- yotts, where I lunched, in such prodigious mourning that I was quite startled. All the world might have been dead to look at her. And do you know she gave me a look as if she would have spoken. All that is so long past that its ridiculous keeping up malice. I wish you would call next time you are in town to ask for the old lady. Poor Johns death must have been a sad loss to them. I bear there was some fbar that he had left his property away from his mother and sister. But it turned out a false report. I did not dare to look at Mrs. Merridew to see how she bore it; but her voice re- plied quite calmly without any break, as if the conversation was on the most ordinary subject: Where did you manage to get so much news? Oh, from the Amvotts, he said, who knew all about it. Matilda, you know, poor girl (with that half laugh of odious masculine vanity which I knew in my heart he would be guilty of) marrie(l a cousin of Amyotts, and is getting on very well, they say. But think over my surge stion, Janet. I think at this distance of time it would be graceful on your part to go and call I cannot think they wQuld like to see me, now, she said in a low voice. Then I ventured to look at her. She was seated in an angular, rigid way, with her shoulders and elbows squared to her work, and the corners of her mouth pursed up, which would have given to any cursory observ 88 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. er the same impression it did to her hus- hand. How hard you women are! he said. Trust you for never forgiving or for- getting. Poor old lady, I should have thou,ht anybody would have pitied her. Bat, however, it is none of my business. As for Ellen, she is a very handsome woman, though she is not so young as she once was. I should not wonder if she were to make a good marriage even now. Is it possible, Janet, after being so fond of her or pre- tending to be, how can I tell? that you would not like to say a kind word to Ellen now? She would not think it kind from me, said Mrs. Merridew, still rigid, never rais- ing her eyes from her work. I think she would, but at all events you might try, he said. All her answer was to shake her head, and he went away to his dressing-room shrugging his shoulders and nodding his head in bewildered comments to himself on what he considered the hard- heartedness of woman. As for me, I kept looking at her with sympathetic eyes, think- ing that at least she would give herself the comfort of a confidential glance. But she did not. It seemed that she was deter- mined to ignore the whole matter, even to me. I wish papa would take as much inter- est in us poor girls at home as he does in people that dont belong to him, said Janet. Mamma, I never can piece this to make it long enough. It may do for Marian (who was her next sister), but it will never do for me. You are so easily discouraged, said Mrs. Merridew. Let me look at it. You girls are always making difficulties. Under the flounce, your piecing, as you call it, will never be seen. Those flounces, she added, with a little laugh, which I knew was hysterical, are blessings to poor folks. I am sure I dont think there is any- thing to laugh at, said poor Janet, almost crying: when you think of Nelly Fortis and all the other girls, with their nice dresses all new and fresh from the dress- makers, and no trouble: while I have only mammas old gown, that she wore when she was twenty, to turn, and patch, and piece, ~arid not long enough after all! Then you should not grow so, said her mother, and you ought to be thankful that the old fashion has come in again, and my 01(1 gown can be of use. But as she spoke she turned round and gave inc a look. The tears were in her eyes, amid that pucker, oh, so deeply marked, in her fore- head. I felt she would have sobbed had she dared. And then before my eyes, as, I am sure, before hers, there glided a vision of Ellen Babington in her profound mourn- ing, rustling past Mrs. Merridew on the stkirs, with heaps of costly crape, no doubt, and that rich, black silk with which people console themselves in their first mourning. Ilow could they take it all without a word? The after-pang that comes almost inevitably at the back of a sacrifice, was tearing Mrs. Merridews heart. I felt it go through my own, and so I knew. She had done it nobly, but she could not forget that she had done it. Does one ever forget? And then as I went home I fell into a maze again. Had she a right to do it? To sit at table with that unsuspicious man, and put her arm in his, and be at his side con- tinually, and all the time be false to him. Falsely true! I could not get the words out of my mind. cHAPTER IV. I ~o not remember how long it was till I saw in The Times the intimation of old Mrs. Babingtons death. I think it must have been about two years: for Janet was eighteen, and less discontented wi~h things in general, besides being a great deal more contented than either her friends or his de- sired, with the civilities of young Biseham from the Priory, who was always coming over to see his aunt, and always throwing himself in the girls way. He had nothing except his commission and a hundred and fifty a year which his father allowed him, an(l she had nothing at all; and, naturally, they took to each other. It is this that makes me recollect what year it was. We had never referred to the matter in our fre- quent talks, Mrs. Merridew and I. But after the intimation in The Times, she her- self hroke the silence. She came to Inc the very next day. Did you see it in the papers? she asked, plunging without pre- fkce into the heart of the subject, and I could not pretend not to understand. Yes, I said, I saw it; and then stopped short, not knowing what to say. She had been wearing herself in these two years, as all the previous years in which I had known her had not worn her. The pucker was more developed on her forehead; she was less patient and more easily fretted. She had grown thin, and somnethimig of a sharp tone had come into her soft, motherly voice. By times she would be almost querulous; and nobody but myself knew in the least whence the drop of gall came that had so suddenly shown itself in her natume. She had fret- MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. 89 ted under her secret, and over her sacri- fice, the sacrifice which had never been taken any notice of, but had been calmly accepted as a right. Now she came to me half wild, with the look of a creature driven to bay. It was for her I did it, she said; she had always been so petted and cared for all her life. She did not know how to deny herself; I did it for her, not for Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Musgrave, I cannot tell you how fond I was of that girl! And you saw how she looked at me. Never one word, never even a glance of response: and I sup- pose now My dear, I said, you cannot tell yet; let us wait and and see; now that her mother is gone her heart may be softened. Do not take any steps just yet. Steps! she cried. What steps can I take now? I have thrown altogether away from me what might have been of such use to the children. I have been false to my own children. Poor John meant it to be of use to us And then she turned away, wrought to such a point that nothing but tears could relieve her. XVhen she had cried she was better: and went home to all her little monotonous cares again, to think and thii~k, and mingle that drop of gall more and more in the family cup. Mr. Merridew was again absent on circuit at this time, which was at once a relief and a trouble to his wife. And everybody remarked the change upon her. She is going to have a bad illness, Mrs. Spencer said. Poor thing, I dont wonder, with all those children, and infe- rior servants, and so much to do. I have seen it corning on for a long time. A seri- ous illness is a dangerous thing at her age. All her strength has been drained out of her; and whether she will be able to re- sist . Dont be so funereal, said Lady Isa- bella; she has something on her mind. I think it is her health, said Mrs. Spencer; and we all shook our heads over her altered looks. I had a fhrther fright, too, some days after, when Janet came to me, looking very pale. She crept in with an air of seeresy which was very strange to the girl. She looked scared, and her hair was pushed up wildly from her forehead, and her light sum- mer dress all dusty and dragging, which was unlike Janet, for she had begun by this time to be tidy, and feel herself a woman. She caine in by the window as usual, but closed it after her, though it was very hot. May I come and speak to you? she said in a whisper, creeping quite close to my side. Of course, my dear; but why .do you shut the window? said I; we shall be suffocated if you shut out the air. It is because it is a secret, she said. Mrs. Musgrave, tell me, is there anything wrong with mamma? Wrong? I said, turning upon her in dismay. I cant help it, cried Janet, bursting into tears. I dont believe mamma ever did anything wrong. I cant believe it: but there has been a woman questioning inc so, I dont know what to think. A woman questioning you? Listen, said ,Janet, hastily. This is how it was: I was walking down to the Dingle across the fields oh! Mrs. Mus- grave dear, dont say anything; it was only poor Willie Bisehamn, who wanted to say good-by to me and all at once I saw a tall lady in mourning looking at us as we passed. She came up to us just at the stile at Goodmans farm, and I thought she want- ed to ask the way; but instead of that, she stopped and looked at me. I heard you called Janet, she said; I had once a friend who was called Janet, and it is not a common name. Do you live here? is your mother living? and how many children are there? I should like to know if you belong to my old friend. And what did you say? What could I say, Mrs. Musgrave? She did not look cross or disagreeable, and she was a lady. I said who I was, and that mamma was not quite well, and that there were ten of us; and then she began to question me about mamma. Did she go out a great deal; and was she tall or short; an(l had she pretty eyes like mine, she said; and was her name Janet like mine; and then, when I had answered her as well as I could, she said, I was not to say a word to mamma; perhaps it is not the Ja- net I once knew, she said; dont say any- thing to her; and then she went away. I was so frightened, I ran home directly all the way. I knew I might tell you, Mrs. Musgrave; it is like something in a book, is it not, when people are trying to find out oh, you (lont think I can have done any harm to mamma? Janet was so much agitated that it was all I could do to quiet her down. ~And I never said good-by to poor Willie, after all, she said, with more tears when she had rallied a little. I thought it better she should not tell her mother, though one is very reluctant to say Si) to a girl ; hr Willie Bischam was a secret too. But he was go- 90 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. ing away, poor fellow, and probably noth- ing would ever come of it. I made a little ~ompromise with my own sense of right. Forget it, Janet, and say nothing about it; perhaps it was some one else after all; and if you will promise not to meet Mr. Bischam again He goes to-night, said Janet, with a rueful look; and thus it was evident that on that point there was nothing more to he said. This was in the middle of the week, and on Saturday Mr. Merridew was expected home. His wife was ill, though she never had been ill hefore in her life; she had headaches, which were things unknown to her; she was out of temper, irritable, and wretched. I think she had made certain that Ellen would write, and make some pro- prosal to her; and as the days went on, one hy one, and no letter came Besides it was just the moment when they had decided agai rist sending Jack to Oxford. To pay Willies premium and do that at the same time was iinpossihle. Mrs. Merridew had struggled long, hut at last she was obliged to give in; and Jack was going to his fath- er s office with a heavy heart, poor boy; and his mother was half wild. All might have been so different; and she had sacritied her boys interests, and her girlss interests, and her own happiness, all for the selfish comfort of Ellen Babington, who took no notice of her. I began to thin.k she would have a brain-fever if this went on. She was not at church on Sunday morn- ing, and I went with the children, as soon as service was over, to ask for her. She was lying on the sofa when I went in, and Mr. Merridew, who had arrived late on Saturday, was in his dressing-gown, walk- ing ahout the room. He was tired and ir- ritahle with his journey, and his work, and perennial cares. And she, with her sacri- fice, and her secret, and perennial cares, was like tinder, ready in a moment to catch fire. I know nothing more disagreeable than to go in upon married people when they are in this state of mind, which can neither he ignored, nor concealed. I dont understand you, Janet, he was saying, as I entered; women are vindic- tive, I know; but at least you may be sorry, as I am, that the poor old lady has died without a word of kindness passing hetween us; after all, we might he to blame. One changes ones opinions as one gets on in life. With our own children growing up round us, I dont feel quite so sure that we were not to blame. I have not heen to blame, she said, with an emphasis which sounded sullen, and which only I could understand. Of no, of course: you never are ; he said, with masculine disdain. Catch a woman acknowledging herself to be in fault! The sun may go wrong in his course sooner than she. Mrs. Musgrave, pray dont go away; you have seen my wife in an unrea- sonable mood before. I am in no unreasonable mood, she cried. Mrs. Musgrave, stay. You know oh, how am I to go on hearing this, and never answer a word? My dear, dont deceive yourself, he said, with a mans provoking calm; you answer a great many words. I dont call you at all a meek sufferer. Fortunately the children are out of the way. Confound it, Janet, what do you mean hy talking of what you have to bear? I have not been such a harsh husband to you as all that; and when all I asked was that you should make the most innocent advances to a poor, old woman who was once very kind to us hoth Charles! said Mrs. Merridew, rising suddenly from her sofa, I cant hear it any longer. You think me hard, and vindictive, and I dont know what. You, who ought to know me. Look here! I got that letter, you will see by the date, more than two years ago; you were absent, and I went and saw her; there there! now I have con- fessed it; Mrs. Musgrave knows I have had a secret from you for two years. It was not a moment for inc to interfere. She sat, holding herself hysterically rigid, and upright on the sofa. Whether she had intended to hetray herself or not, I cannot tell. She had taken the letter out of her writing-desk, which stood close by; but I dont know whether she had resolved on this step, or whether it was the impulse of the moment. Now that she had done it a dread- ful calm of expectation took possession of her. She was afraid. lie might turn upon her furious. He might upbraid her with (lespoiling her family, deceiving himself, be- ing fhise, as she had been before. Such a thing was possible. Two souls may live side hy side for years, and be as one, and yet have no notion how each will act in sud- den or unusual emergency, lie was her husband, and they had no interest, scarcely any thought, that one did not share with the other; and yet she sat gazing at him rigid with terror, not knowing what he might do or say. He read the letter without a word; then he tossed it upon the table; then he walked all the length of the room, up and down, with his hands thrust very deeply into his MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. 91 pockets; then he took up the letter again. He had a struggle with himself. If he was angry, if he was touched, I cannot tell. His first emotions, whatever they were, he gulped down without a word. Of all sounds to strike into the silence of such a moment, the first thing we heard in our intense listen- ing was the abrupt ring of a short, excited laugh. How did you venture to take any steps in it without consulting me? he said. I thought I thought she stain- mered under her breath. You thought I might have been tempted hy the money, he said, taking another walk through the room, while she sat erect in her terror, afraid of him. It was some tune before he spoke again. No douht he was vexed hy her want of trust, and wounded by the long silence. But I have no clue to the thoughts that were passing through his mind. At last he came to a sudden pause before her. And perhaps you were right, Janet, he said, drawing a long breath. I am glad now to have been free of the temptation. It was wrong not to tell me and yet I think you did well. Mrs. Merridew gave a little, choked cry, and then she fell back on the sofa fell into my arms. I had felt she might do it, so strange was her look, and had placed myself there on purpose. But she had not fainted, as I expected. She lay silent for a moment, with her eyes closed, and then she burst into tears. I had no right to be there: hut they hoth detained me, both the husband and wife, and I could not get away until she had recovered herself, and then it was evident that what had been a tragical barrier between them was now hecome a matter of business, to be discussed as affecting them both. It was quite right the old lady should have i~ Mr. Merridew said, as he went with me to the door, quite right. Janet did only what was right; but now I must take it into my own hands. And annul what she has done ?I asked. We must consult over that, he said. Ellen Babington, who has been so un- grateful to my wife, is quite a different per- son from her mother. But I will do nothing against Mrs. Merridews will. And so I left them to consult over their own affairs. I had been thrust into it against my own will; but still it was entirely their affair, and no business of mine. Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella called to me from their lawn as I went out, to ask how Mrs. Merridew was, and shook their heads over her. She should have the doctor, said Mrs. Spencer. But the doctor would not pay her hills for her, said Lady Isabella. And I had to ansxver meekly, as if I knew nothing about it, 1 dont think it is her bills. This conversation detained inc some time from my own house; arid when I reached my cottage, my maid stood by the gate, looking out for me, shading her eyes with her hands. It was to tell inc thare was a lady waiting for me in the drawing room: A tall lady in mourning. And in a moment my heart smote me for some hard thoughts, and I knew who my visitor was. I found her seated by my table, very pale, but quite self-possessed. She rose when 1 went in, and began to explain. You dont know me, she said. I have no right to come to you; hut once you came to us with Mrs. Merridew. Per- haps you remember me now? I am Ellen Babington. I want to speak to you about my brothers will. You may have heard that I have just lost Yes, I said. I ani very sorry. If there is anything I can do You can do all that I want from any one, she said. Janet will never believe that I wanted to keep the morie now. I have seen all her children to-day at church; and I think, if she had been there, I should perhaps have been able but never mind. Tell her I should like if she would give her daughter Janet some- thing out of the money from me. She is a little like what her mother was. I am sure you are kind to them. I dont even know your name Mrs. Musgrave, I said; an(I she gave a little bow. She was very comn1)osed, very well-bred, terribly sad; with the look of a woman who had no more to do in the world, and who yet was, heaven help her! in the middle of her life, full of vigour, and capability and strength. Will you tell Janet, please, that it is all settled? she said. I mean, mint the girl Janet, but her mother. Tell her I have settled everything. I believe she will hear from the lawyers to-morrow ; but I could not let it come only from the lawyers. I cannot forgive her, even now. She thinks it is Matilda she has wronged; but it is me she has wronged, taking my brother from me, my only brother, after all these years. But never mind. I kissed tIme little child instead to-day the quite little one, with the golden hair. I suppose she is the young- est. Tell her I came on purpose to see them before I went away. 92 MRS. MERRIDEWS FORTUNE. But why send this message through I am afraid it did not make Mrs. Merri- me? I said; come and see her. I will dew much happier just at first. She wrote take you; it is close by. And the sight of letters wildly, far and near, to everybody you will do her more goodmore good than who could be supposed to know anything the money. Comc, and let her explain. about Ellen; and wanted to have her to live I thought she hesitated for a moment, but with them, and to share the money with her only answer was a shake of her head. her, and I dont know how many other wild What could she explain? she cried, fancies. But all that could be found out with strange impetuosity. He and I had was that Ellen had gone abroad. And by been together all our lives, and yet all the degrees the signs of this strange tempest while he cared nothing for his sister and began to disappear smoothed out and everything for her. Do you think I can filled up as Nature smooths all traces of ever forgive her? but I never forgot her. combat. The scars heal, new verdure coy- I dont think I ever loved any one so well ers the sudden precipice the old gets in my life. assimilated with the new. By degrees an Oh, come and tell her so, said I. air of superior comfort stole over the house, Again she shook he head. I loved her which was very consolatory. Selina, the as well as I loved him; and yet I hate her, housemaid, married, and Richards retired she said. But tell her I spoke to her to the inevitable greengrocery. And with Janet, and I kissed her baby; and that I a new man and new maids, and so much have arranged everything with the lawyers less difficulty about the bills, it is astonish- about poor Johns will. I am sure you are ing how the puckers died away from Mrs. a good woman. Will you shake hands with Merridews forehead first one line went, me for the childrens sake before I go? and then another, and she grew younger in Her voice went to my heart. I had only spite of herself. And with everything thus seen her once in my life before, but. I could conspiring in her favour, and habit calmly not help it. I went up to her and took her settling to confirm all, is it wonderful if by- two hands, and kissed her; and then she, and-by she forgot that any wonderful acci- the stranger, broke down, and put her head dent had ever happened, and that all had on my shoulder and wept. It was only for a not come in the most natural way, and with moment, but it bound us as if for our lives, the most pleasant consequences in the Where are you going? I asked, when world? she went away. The other day I saw in a chance copy of I am going abroad with some friends, Galignani, which caine to me in a parcel she said hurriedly, from Paris, the marriage of Ellen Babing- But you will come to us, my dear, when ton to a Frenchman there; but that is all you come back? we have ever heard of her. Whether it is Most likely I shall never come back, a good marriage or a bad one I dont know; she said hastily; and then went away alone but I hope, at least, it is better for her than out of my door, alone across the green, with being all alone, as she was when she left her veil over her face, and her black dress my house that day in June, having made repulsing the sunshine. Ones syInpathies her sacrifice in her turn. If things had but move and change about like the winds. I taken their natural course, how much un- had been so sorry for Mrs. Merridew an necessary suffering would have been spared: hour ago; but it was not her I was most Mrs. Merridew is, perhaps, happier now sorry for now, than she would have been without that five And this was how it all ended. I was hundred a year but of course they spend always glad that Mrs. Merridew had told more; and I dont know that they are to her husband before the letter came next call richer on the whole; but for two years morning. And they got the money; and she was wretched, sacrificing and grudging John went to the University, and Janet had the sacrifice, and making herself very un- new dresses and new pleasures, and a ring, happy. And though I dont believe Ellen of which she was intensely proud, according Babington care(I for the money, her heart to Ellens desire. I daresay Ellens inten- will never be healed of that pang of bitter- tion was that something much more iinpor- ness which her brothers desertion gave her. tant should have been given to the child in His companion for twenty years! aumh to her name ; but then Ellen Babiugton, being think his best thoughts should have been an unmarried woman, did not know how given all that time to a woman who had much a large family costs, nor what urgent only slighted him, and refused his love. occasion there is for every farthiing, even Mrs. Merridew does not see the sting of with an addition so great as five hundred a this herself she thinks it natural. And year. so I daresay would half the world beside. THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR. 93 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR. A PRIZE POEM. BY EDWIN ARNOLD. NOT by one portal or one path alone, Gods holy messages to men are known Waiting the lances of his awful eyes, Silver-winged seraphs do him embassies And stirs, interpreting his high behest, Guide tile lone foot and glad the falling breast. Tile roll~n~ thunder and the raging sea Speak the stern purpose of tile Deity, And storms beneath and rainbow hues above herald his anger and proclaim his love The still, small voices of the summer day, The red sirocco and the breatil of May, The lin~ering harmony in Oceans shells, The fairy music of the meadow bells, Earth, and void air, water, and wasting flame, Have words to whisper ton~ues to tell his name. Once, with no cloak of careful mystery, Himself was herald of his own decree; Tile hand that edicts on the marble drew, Graved the stern sentence of their scorner too. Listen and learn Tyrants have beard the tale, And turned from hearing, terror-struck and pale; Spiritless captives, sinking with their chain, Have read this page and taken heart again. From sunlight unto starlight trumpets told Her Klng s command in Babylon the old, From sunlight unto starlight, west and east A thousand 5ff raps girt them for the feast, And reined their chargers to the palace-hall, Where Kin~ Belahazzar held high festival. A pleasant palace, under pleasant skies, With cloistered courts and gilded galleries, And gay kiosk and painted balustrade, For winter terraces and summer shade, By court and terrace, minaret and dome, Euphrates, rushing from his mountain home, Rested his rage and curbed his crested pride, To belt that palace with his bluest tide; Broad-fronted bulls, with chiseled feathers barred, In silent vigil keeping watch and ward. Giants of granite wrought with cunning hand, Guard in the gate, and frown upon the land. Not summers glow, nor yellow autumns glare, Pierced tile broad tamarisks that blossomed there; The moonbeam, darting through their leafy screen, Lost half its silver in the softened green, And fell with lessened lustre, broken light, Tracing quaint arabesque of dark and white, Or dimly tinting, on the graven stones, The pictural annals of Chaldean thrones. There, from the rising to the setting day, Birds of bright feather sang the light away, And fountain waters on the palace-floor Made even answer to the rivers roar, Rising in silver from the crystal well, And breaking into spangles as they fell, Though now ye heard them not; for, far along, Rang the brdad chorus of the banquet song, And songs as gentle, echoes soft as these, Died out of hearing from the revelries. High on a throne of ivory and gold, From crown to footstool clad in purple fold, Lord of the East from sea to distant sea, The King, Beishazzar, feasteth royally. And not that dreamer in the desert cave Peopled his paradise with pomp as brave Vessels of silver, cups of crusted gold, Blush with a brighter red than all they hold Pendulous lamps, like planets of the night, Flung on tile diadems a fragrant light, Or, slowly swinging in the midnight sky, Gilded the ripples as they glided by And sweet and sweeter rang the cittern string, Soft as the beating of a seraphs win~ And swift and swifter, in the nleasured dance. The tresses gather and the sandals glallee And bright and brighter, at the festal board, The flaggons bubble and the wines are poured. No lack of goodly company was there, No lack of laughing eyes to light the cheer: From Dara trouped they ; from Daeemma s grove, The suns of battle and the moons of love ; From where Arsissas silver waters sleep, From Ilnias marshes, and tile inland deep, From pleasant Calah, and from Sittacene, The horsemans captain, and the Harems queen. It seemed no summer cloud of passing woe Could fling its shadow on so fair a show It seemed tile gallant forms that feasted there Were all too grand for woe, too great for care. Whence caine the anxious eye, the altered tone, The dull presentiment no heart would own, That ever changed the smiling toasigh, Sudden as sea-bird flashing from the sky? It is not that they know the spoiler waits, Harnessed for battle, at the brazen gates, It is not that they hear the watchmans call Mark the slow minutes on the leaguered wall: The clash of quivers and the ring of spears Make pleasant music in a soldiers ears And not a scabbard hideth sword, to-night, That bath not glimmered in the front of fight. May not the blood in every beating vein Have quick foreknowledge of the coming pain, Even as the prisoned silver, dead and dumb, Shrinks at cold Winters footfall ere he come? The King bath felt it, and the hearts unrest Heaved the broad purple of his belted breast Sudden he speaks : What! doth the beaded juice Savor like hyssop, that ye scorn its use? Wear ye so pitiful and sad a soul Tilat tramp of foeman scare ye from the bowl? Think ye the gods on yonder starry floor Tremble for terror when the thunders roar? Are we not gods? Have we not fought with God? And shall we shiver at a robbers nod? No, let them batter till the brazen bars Ring merry mocking of their idle wars Their fall is fated for to-morrows sun, The lion rouses when his feast is done. 94 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR. Crown me a cup, and fill the bowls we brought From Judahs temple, when the fight was fought. Drink till the merry madness fill the soul, To Salems conqueror, in Salems bowl. Each from the goblet of a god shall sip, And Judahs gold tread heavy on the lip. The last loud answer dies along the line. The last light bubble bursts upon the wine His eager lips are on the jeweled brink? 1-lath the cup poison, that he doubts to drink? Is there a spell upon the sparkling gold, That so his fevered fingers quit their hold? Whoni seus lie where lie gazes? what is there, Freezing his vision into fearful stare? Follow his lifted arm and lighted eye, And watch with them the wondrous mystery. There cometh forth a hand upon the stone, Graving the symbols of a speech unknown Fin e is like mortal fingers, leaving there The blink wall flashing characters of fear. And still it glideth silently and slow, And still beneath the spectral letters grow. Now the scroll endeth, now the seal is set: The hand is gone, the record tarries yet. As one who waits the warrant of his death, With pale lips parted, and with bridled breath, They watch the si~n, and dare not turn to seek Their foa~ reaected in their fellows cheek But stand as statues where the life is none, Half the jest uttered, half the laughter done, half the flask empty, half the flagon poured, Each where the phantom found him at his board, Struck into silence, as Decembers arm Curbs the quick ripples into crystal calm. With wand of ebony, and sable stole, Chaldeas wisest scan the spectral scroll Strong in the lessons of a lying art, Each conies to gaze, but gazes to depart And still, for mystic sign and muttered spell, The graven letters guard their secret well, Gleam they for warning? glare they to con- (lenin? God speakeeb, but he speaketh not for them. Oh! ever when the happy laugh is dunib, All the jey gone, and all the anguish come, When strong adversity and subtle pain Wriiig the sad soul and rack the throbbing brain, When friends once faithful, hearts once all our own, Leave us to weep, to bleed, to die alone, When fe us and cares the lonely thou~ht employ, And clouds of sorrow hide the sun of joy, When weary life, breathing reluctant breath, Ilath lie hope sweeter than the hope of death, Then the best counsel and the last relief, To cheer the spirit or to elmat the grief, The oniy calm, the only comfort heard. Conies in Jie music of a womans word, Like beacon-boll, on some wild island shore, Silvery riugin0 in the tempests roar, Whose sound, borne shipward, through the mid- night gloom, Tells of the path, and turns her from her doom So, in the silence of that awful hour, When baffled magic owned its parted power, When kings were pale, and satraps shook with fear, A woman speaketh, and the wisest hear; She, the high daughter of a thousand thrones, Telling with trembling lip and timid tones, Of hiinm, the captive in the feast forgot, Who readethi visions him whose woudrous lot Sends him to lighten doubt and lessen gloom, And gaze und azzled on the days to come, Daniel the Hebrew (such his name and race), Held by a monarch highest in his grace. He may declare? Oh ! bid them quickly send So may the mystery have happy end! Calmly, and silent as the fair, full moon Comes sailing upward in the sky of June, Fearfully as the troubled clouds of night Shrink from before the coming of its light, So, through the hall the prophet passed along, So, from before him fell the festal throng; By broken wassail-cup and wine oerflown! Pressed lie still onward for the monarchs throne. His spirit failed him not, his quiet eye Lost not its look for earthly majesty His lip was steady, and his accent clear, The King hath needed me, and I am here. Art thou the prophet? read me yonder scroll, Whose undeciphered horror daunts my souL There shall be guerdon for the grateful task, Fitted for me to give, for thee to ask, A chain to deck thee, and a robe to grace,. Thine the third throne, and thou the third in place. He heard, and turned him where .the lighted wall Dimmed the red torches of the festival, Gazed on the sun with steady gaze and set; And he who quahled not at a kingly threat Bent the true knee, and bowed the silver hair, For that he knew the King of Kings was there, Then nerved his soul the sentence to unfold, While his tongue trembled at the talk it told And never tongue shall echo tale as strange Till that change cometh which must never change. Keep for thyself the guerdon and the gold: What God bath graved, Gods prophet must un- fold. Could not thy fathers crime, thy fathers fate, Teach thee the terror thou hast learnt too late? Hast thou not read the lesson of his life, Who wars with God shall strive a hosing strife? His was a kingdom mighty as thine own, The sword his sceptre, amid the earth his throne The nations trembled when his awful eye Gave to them leave to live, or doom to die: THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR. 95 The Lord of life, the keeper of the grave, f Woe for the sign unseen, the sin forgot His frown could wither, and his smile could God was among you, and ye knew it not! save; Hear what he sayeth now, Thy race is run Yet when his heart was hard, his spirit high, Thy years are numbered, and thy days are done God drove him from his kingly majesty, Thy soul bath mounted in the scale of fate, Far from the brotherhood of fellowmen, The Lord hath weighed thee, and thou lackest To seek a dwelling in the desert den, weight. Where the wild asses feed and oxen roam, Now in thy palace-porch the spoilers stand, He sought his pasture, and he made his home; To seize the sceptre, to divide the land. And bitter-biting frost, and dews of night, Schooled him in sorrow till he knew the right. He ended, and his passing foot was heard that God is ruler of the rulers still, But none made answer, not a lip was stirred. And setteth up the sovereign that he will. Mute the free tongue, and bent the fearless brow, 0 ! hadst thou treasured in repentant breast The mystic letters had their meaning now His pride and fidi, his penitence and rest, Soon came there other sounds, the clash of And bowed submissive to Jehovahs will, steel, Then had thy sceptre been a sceptre still. The heavy ringing of the iron heel, But thou hast mocked the majesty of heaven, The curse in dying, and the cry for life, And shamed the vessels to its service given ; The bloody voices of the battle strife. And thou hast fashioned idols of thine own, Idols of gold, of silver and of stone. That night they slew him on his fathers throne, To them hast bowed the knee and breathed the The deed unnoticed, and the hand unknown. breath, Crownless and sceptreless Belshazzar lay, And they must keep thee in the hour of death. A robe of purple round a form of clay. ulations and hypotheses of this kind, no doubt, make up some interesting reading; but they are, it appears to us, quite barren of all utility. We need not go to interplanetary spaces as the source of sodium compounds in tlae atmosphere. The spray of every wave that dashes itself against a rock, or becomes beaten into surf, causes the dissipation of a certain amount of salt into the atmosphere; and I~rofessor Roscoe goes so far as to conjecture that the soda, which all accustomed to work at all with the spectro- scope know to be present everywhere, may, by its antiseptic properties, exert a considerable influence in maintaining the public health. The invigorating and beneficial effects of sea breezes may be due to the large amount of soda in a minute state of subdivision, which they con- tain. When invalids go to tlae seaside which, indeed, all the world seems bent on doing just now they little think that they are possibly being cured in more senses than one. INFLUENCE OF METEORS ON HEALTH. Here is a subject for medical philosophers and those fond of abstruse questions. In an article on The August Meteors in the Spectator, the possible influence of meteoric matter on the ani- mal life of the earth is touched upon. Profes- sor Herschel has succeeded in examining and analyzing, by means of the spectroscope, the light of seventeen of these bodies; and he has detected the well-known yellow bands produced by sodium in combustion. It is strange to con- sider what beccnes of all the sodium thus dis- persed throughout the upper regions of air, as there can he no doubt that, in some form or other, mixed or in combination, it reaches the earth. The very air we breathe must at all times contain, according to our contemporary, in however minute a proportion, the cosmical dust thus hrought to us from out the interplane- tary spaces. As the different meteoric systems are differently constituted, the air we breathe is continually being impregnated with various forms of metallic dust. It is not certain that ____________ deleterious results do not occasionally flow from an overdose of some of the elements contained in meteors. As far as facts and dates are con- SOME very novel points occasionally come be- cerned, it might be plausibly maintained that fore the law courts, but one raised in an action a meteoric sy~tem has brought plague and pes- tried at the Liverpool assizes last week may be tilence with it. The swe~ ting sickness has considered as unique. The cause had reference been as& ~ci~tcd (though not very satisfactorily, to the non-delivery of a cargo of nitrate of soda, it must be allowed) with the thirty-third year and it was pleaded in answer to the claim that return ot great displays of November stars. A the cargo in question had been destroye(l by an notion his even been entertained, remarks the earthquake off the Peruvian coast. Then arose Lcesmcet, that the destruction of Sodom and the knotty point whether the earthquake was an Gomorrah was brought about by an unusually accident or a circumstance, and this has heavy downfall of sodium-laden meteors. Spec- been left for the judges to decide. 96 CHILDRENS LITERATURE. From Macmillans Magazine. CHILDRENS LITERATURE. BY MISS YOFGE. PART LII. CLASS LITERATURE OF THE LAST THIRTY YEARS. JUST as the Tracts for the Times were moving the thinking world, there ap- peared a little book called The Fairx Bower, ostensibly a mere childs story, but written with a peculiar suggestiveness of portraiture that rendered it a somewhat puzzling study to heads of families. The plot is briefly this: Grace Leslie, the only child of a widowed inoth~r, is, at ten years old, taken to spend a month among a gay family named Ward, who have a large number of exceedingly strict and precise cousins called Duff. Grace chances, iii conversation about an intended Christmas party with Mary Anne Duff, to suggest decorating a little ante-room with paper flowers, and calling it a Fairy Bower; and this idea is taken up by Mary Anne, and announced as her own. The plan turns out a success: the grown people admire it ex- tremely, and the inventor is called for and crowned Queen of the Fairy Bower; Grace, in consternation, and half incredulity of her companions baseness, holding back while Mary Anne, in a sort of dull complacency, accepts the triumph. Suspicion that all is not right arises, bot lights upon the inno- cent Grace, and finally the whole is cleared up by her godfather, a sort of original, who comes out with downright truths in the Johnsonian style. He forces a confession from Mary Anne, and rectifles the injustice. This is the plot, weak chiefly in the unnatu- ral importance which this childish affair ob- tains in the nei~hbourhood, but quite enough for the unfolding of much remarka- ble thought and character, with the more curious cleverness, because, with the excep- tion of a few conversations among the elders, the whole is treated from among the children. The book does not, like most of those for the young, work out a proposi- tion; it rather states a problem, and then leaves it. And that seems to be, What are our systems of education making of our children? So we have them all vividly set before us. The Evangelical governess who never punishes, but only touches the feelings, presents us with four pupils the callous, self-satisfied Mary Anne, dull of conscience, and impervious to treatment invented for finer natures; the model Con- stance, sincerely pious, pragmatical, and interfering; the romantic, sentimental Fanny, with her poetical instincts undirected and quiet, good, undemonstrative, and therefore neglected, Charlotte. Besides these, there is the pretentious young lady from a fashionable boarding-school, and three boys the merry, clever, unthinking George; Cambell Duff, for whom the real religion of his home has been redeemed from narrowness in the wholesome public- school atmosphere; and one sadly signifi- cant likeness of the good-for-nothing son of a pious mother whom he deceives. ilien there is Emily, a brie lit, sweet picture of a well- natured school-girl, far from faultless, but with true instincts~ and there is her thoughtful little sister Ellen, soundly brought up by a quiet, old, orthodox grand- mamnia in the country; with sparkling, sensitive little Grace, wondering among them all, as each acts and speaks according to his or her nature, and leaves us questiOn- mo Who has found the right way? What will this come to? Nor does the second part, the Lost Brooch, fully answer the question. it is quite as clever, and as full of a certain re- strained irony~ as is its predecessor. but in some measure less sparkling, arid it con- cermis the same parties in the early years of youth instead of childhood. All are here met at Hastings for a month of holiday, and in a like manner develop their several characters. Mary Anne is, perhaps, the cleverest picture of all, with her outward condemnation of everything fashionable as worldly, and her real worship of money; her caught-up phrases and genuine selfish- ness, her conceit and power of availing her- self of other peoples service, and alto- gether the thin varnish caught from her clever, strong, puritanical, consistent sister Constance, laid over a naturally slow, selfish nature; Constance perfect up to her own standard as ever, rigid and tyrannical, and utterly blind to all that does not agree with her preconceived ideas; and Fanny, snore and more alienated from her family by their utter want of sympathy for her imaginative nature, which runs further and further into sentiment and folly for want of guidance. While, on the other hand, the cousins Emily and Ellen Ward have grown up, the one into a bright, clever, lively woman, the other into a wise, grave, pensive looker-on; and Grace Leslie, sunny and deep, and ready to love, sympathize with, and admire all, moves about them, as Emily says, as though her motto were, Prove all things: hold fast that which is good. The humour of the plot lies in the two great errors into which the Duffs fall. They meet with an adventurer who succeeds in severally persuding Mary AnnQ and Fanny that he is deeply attached to each, and Con- CHILDRENS LITERATURE. 97 stance that he has been converted and made a Christian through her instrumentality, while at the same time Constances lost brooch becomes the occasion of a vehe- ment persecution of an innocent servant- girl, who is beset with exhortations and threats, all with the beneficent intention of securing an inmate fhr a new reformatory. Even when the fascinating Osmond Guppy proves to be a thorough scapegrace, about to retrieve his fortunes by marrying a cheese- mongers widow, and the brooch comes to light in Constances own dressing-box, that consistent lady and Mary Anne remain of the same opinion still, and contend that, the one being a converted character and the other unconverte(l, they have not been guilty of the slightest injustice in either in- stance. The whole sounds exaggerated, but in reality is brought about in such a~ manner that we believe in almost every step as we go, and are provoked just as we should be by real people. The conversations, whether deop or gay, are wonderfully interestin~, and contain many valuable little bits of thought, and remarks or queries not easily forgotten. There are humorous bits of description, too, such as when Mr. Duffs chief interest in Battle Abbey lies in turning up the cover of the table in the living rooms, and estimating the cost of the mahogany; such too as the Duffs extremely heavy dinner- party; and the domineering power of Con- stance over her family and neighbourhood. Altogether these two are memorable books, and though nowhere inculcating any dis- tinctively High Church doctrines, yet there can be no doubt that they did their part towards the Church movement by maui- festing the unloveliness and unsatisfac- toriness of this particular phase of suburban Evangelicahismn. Another work done by them was the creation of the class of litera- ture now termed books for the young, standing between the childs story and the full-grown novel. We do not mean that there were no such books before, but as a school they seemed to rise up either in imi- tation of, or almost in rivalry to, the Fairy Bower and Lost Brooch. Most people who had any power of writing felt that though anything so curiously clever and covertlx satirical as these was impossi- ble, yet that something more distinctly un- proving could be produced upon the same field. The worst of it is, that the multitude of tales certainly do prevent the reading of books requiring more attention. Young people grow up from the story-book to the tale period, and while there is undeniably LIVING AGE. VOL. XV. 633 harmless food within th~ir reach, they are interdicted from the study of that which would stretch their minds lest they should meet with anything objectionable; and thus the mind absolutely becomes cramped, and there is no power of turning for recreation to reading that stretches the faculties. No one has protested more strongly against this custom than Miss Sewell in her Principles of Education. The system that keeps girls in the school-room reading siiiil)le easy stories, without touching Scott, Shakespeare, or Spenser, and then hands them over to the unexplored recesses of Mudies boxes, has been shown by her to be the most frivolizing that can be devised; and she has set forward the result of her experience that a good novel, especially a romantic one, read at twelve or fourteen, is a really beneficial thing. We have said that children have no sym- patliy with the sentiment of love, but they have plenty with the romance, and these are very different things. The tender feel- ings of the hero and heroine are utterly un- interesting, but the adventures and (hisas- ters they undergo, their bravery and con- stancy, are dele~htful, and raise the whole tone of the imminid. And there is infinitely less danger of putting foolish fisneics into a girls head by letting her enjoy the esca- pades of Catharine Seyton, or weep for Lucy Ashton, thami by letting her turn over the good little book where a child like her- self flirts with her brotherly first cousin, and marries him at last. Nay, even the objectionable characters that mothers shrink from leaving before girls eyes are unlikely to do harm in creatures so unlike themselves. Brian de Bois Guilbert or Julian Avenel are as unlikely to taint their minds as Jupiter or Mars, Henry II. or Louis XIV. ; and if a girl at eighteen can plunge into a book-box, or meet on a drawing-room table with Beatrice or Cometh up as a Flower, surely it is well that at sixteen she should have seen crime treated with loaf hing and abhorrence. There is a prodigious amount of what may be called class literature. Every one writes booksfor some one: books for chil- dren, books for servants, books for poor men, poor women, poor boys, and poor girls. It is not enough to say, Thou. shalt not steal, but the merchant must be edified by the tale of a fraudulent banker, the school-boy by hearing how seven cher- ries were stolen, the servant must be told how the wicked cook hid her mistresss ring in the innocent scullery-maids box; time poor man has a pig stolen for his benefit, the poor boy a sovereign, the poor girl a. 9S CHILDRENS LITERATURE. silk handkerchief.~ Why is not one broad, I for them, considering the cheapness of nov- well-taught principle better than so much I els, and their easy access to all we have iii applicatior~ in detail? the house. We believe the best treatment We must not be misunderstood. It is is to keep out of the way whatever we think well to picture any one class or way of life absolutely deleterious, and to lend freely thoroughly; a vivid scene well painted is anything good or interesting, such, for in- sure to be worth having, and real like- stance, as Mrs. Craiks Noble Life, which nesses arc ,general ly speaking u seful studies: is exceedingly relished. but it is the endeavour to hold up a mirror One or two of Mrs. Gaskells lesser tales to each variety of reader of his or her way deserve mention, as standing out as well of life, as if there were no interest beyond thcy may fi~r above the average of the lit- it, and nothing else could be understood or erature usually supposed appropriate to the cared for, that we think narrowing and Lending Library. They arc to be found in weakening. If it be true that imagination a volume of her lesser works, so ingeniously is really needful to give the power of doing put together by Messrs. Chapman and Ilall as we would be done by, surely t is better as to make it impossible to give it to the in- to have models set before us not itumnedi- tended readers of fi~ll a third of the stories. ately within our own range. A good book Lizzie Leigh, and other Stories, is the is a good hook to whosoever can under- title. The first is a piteous tale of the sin stand it, and there is often a power of we most carefully keep from childrens grasping a part of the meaning when there knowledge, and it is presently followed by is no power of explanation. Moreover, a terrihle ghost story from House/told Words. there is a habit now abroad in the world of Then comes Mr. harrisons Confessions, supposing that any writing is good enono-hm one of the authors most delicious bits of for children and for the poor. Never h?ss! humour, but such as only tree lovers of her this fallacy beemi better exposed than by the delicate aroma can appreciate; and after author of Mx- Life, and What shall I do this her unrivalled Libbie Marslfs Three with it? She points out, that while the Eras, a most beautiful and touching Maim clever mechanic can borrow highly-spiced chester story, fit for any rank, amid almost newspapers and pamphlets adverse to all any age; and the Sextons Hero, a grand religion, be finds his wife and children sup- sketch of the tide on the Morecombe Sands. plied with meek, mawkish, ill-argued tracts N.B.Whenever any of our readers chances and story-books, xvho~e dulness and want to be pressed into the service of that dis- of point he sets down to their subject in tressing institution, a Penny Reading, we stead of to their authors, and he becomes recommend him to the Sextons I-hero, contemptuous when he might have been if he desires to be pathetic; or its comnpan- touched. Nothin~ ought to be more dili- iou, Christian Storms and Sunshine, if gently selected than books sent forth among he goes in for the comnic. The two last sto- the town-poor, and mmothing more diligently ries, Hand and Heart, and Betsys weeded from among tlmem than the feeble little Troubles at Hommie, are capital for chil- tales of seraphic children who regularly dren, but they are no doubt early produc- meet with an accident, or break a blood-yes- tions; they are not the real Mary Gaskell, sel, the whole genus of tales written be- hut a clever pupil of the Edgexvorth and cause the atithor wanted the money for so Martineau style. good a purpose that no one had the heart to If, hoxvever, we were to dwell on the nip her aspirations in the bud. hooks about or for the poor, or their chil- As a rule, what poor people and servants dren, that we have a kindness for, or have really like is a story within what more edtmca- found successful, we should siumphy become ted persons timink rather an over-amount of a catalogue, anil we will timerefore only re- pathos, going to the verge if not over it peat our strong conviction that skim-milk, of sentimentality. Uncle Toms Cabin innocent fluid as it may secum, is apt to turn is the type of time style they love. Attend- sour, and that nobody ought to attempt to rissernent to borrow a French word write for the poor (any more than for time must he a strong sensation with them. Miss rich) who cannot do so with sense ammd spir- Sewehls Earls Daughter, timotigh far it, as well as with a good moral. As a pat- from the best of her works, is delightful to tern of what such a book ouglmt to be, let us the maid-servant and the dressmaker class, muention Helpful Sam, a tale that first who are the chief readers among time grown- caine out in Mozlcys Magazine Jbr the up poor, excepting, of course, invalids, and Young (whicim, by the by, wonderfully con- ~he clever mechanics, of whom, having no trives to avoid flabby stories). Time hero is knowledge, we say nothin~. As t.o servants, a lad who makes his first appearance at a it really is needless to try to select books Sunday-school in such a gorgeous waistcoat CHILDRENS LITERATURE. as to distract the attention of his companions, and who turns out to be a workhouse-boy apprenticed to a brutal chimney-sweeper with a good, meek wife. The quaint con- trasts and droll sayings of the actors in the story are so thoroughly life-like, that we be- lieve no one could take up the little book without becoming interested; and the writer has been content, not to transgress all possi- bilities, by bringing in those dreadful long- winded, highly moral fathers and mothers, wOo are still extant in the cottages of the venerable S.P.C.K. We remember our own youthful horror of such excellent mouthpieces of wisdom, though we used to consider them a neces- sary qualification in a story. I believe the horrid old prosiness is the mother, said a young friend to us, while relating her hasty glimpse of a new story. And yet while we are sure that it is a mistake to put preacuinents such as no mortal can be sup- posed to make into the mouths of the dra- owtis personce, we think that the notion that a book is really better as mere literature and more amusing for not having a moral is an erior. Very brief sportive sketches vitliont a purpose may be endurable, but if proloiiged they need pith. The 01(1 fairy- tales were, as we know, remnants of mighty inyl hs, the Arabian Nights are the growth ofancicutfaucies dealing with dream- ily-apprehended truths; and the very few modern inventions that can, even while in the forefront of the scene, class with such, have some earnestness and solidity in their mould, and are shado~vs of something great- er. Such are Undine and Sintram ; such are the best of hans Christian Ander- sen s, a man who has immensely over-writ- ten himself, but whose Ugly Duckling, Tiue Princess, Emperor of Chinas Clothes, and Lark, have already ac- (juired a sort of force, like a proverb, by theji wonderful terseness of irony and truth. Who recollects more than a queer phrase or two iii such of his stories as have not a defi- nite purpose, or are not, like ~ The Little Mermaid and the Seven Swans grace -, n ful versions of old popular legends? Per- haps there have been three really original fairv-W les (~ve call them so for want of a better naIne) produced within the last twenty years we mneami tIme ~\Vater-Babies, Alices Adventures in ~Vonderland, and the Light Princess, though we hesitate in naming the latter because it (Iwells in the hackneyed world of kings an(i princesses and Purr go(~iiiothers while tIme other two have the immark of originality they deal with creatures of our own inlay, aiid just dip them into the realms of Dreamland. Of these two, we confess that the latent though not consistent meanings that run through tIme Water-Babies seem to us to render it more attractive than even the exquisite hits of fun in Alice. The one seems a book to chain the interest, the other one to take up by chance. To be overdone with moral is a fatal thing. To force events, even imaginary, to illustrate some maxim is ruinous; yet it seems to us that a book so written has really a better chance of getting a permanent hold on the mind than the whipped syllabub of fiction. (}arry, a Holiday Story is a lit- tle modern tale that boasts of no moral, and certainly it has none, for the child (a detes- table, forward, saucy child) really acts tIme part of a dog-stealer, carries the creatur~i to the sea-side in defiance of a much-bullied aunt, and finally gets it given to her. There is a good deal of a sort ofhiteetiousness in the hooa, but we cannot believe it would gain the affections of any child. And to take its very opposite Uncle Peters Fairy Tale. ~lie idea is not nov- cl: it is the oft-told story of the fulfilment of wishes; but in this case they are the wishes of a party of amiable, bemmeficent la- dies and gentlemen, such as may be met with in any country-house; and the literal accomplishment of them produces the. niost ludicrous and delicious situations, told with such humour that no one can help being amused, whether young or old. For mn- stance, tIme amiable head of the family wishes all lawyers in Nova Zeinbla, and the respec- table solicitor is instantly transported thither in shaving costume. The romantic young lady wishes to be borne aloft on a cloud, and finds herself in a dismal bank of fog. She also wishes her friend to be regaled with continual music, whereupon tIme speech of tIme whole household becomes song. But there is a strong purpose through the whole; and though tIme graver conversations, and sometimes the ironical ones, which are interspersed, are too lon~ and sometimes too heavy, they save the book from being mere froth and buffoonery, arid the under- lying earnestness is the real cause of its ex- ceeding drollery. We do riot believe that there can be sparkle where there is riot depth. A liking for buhlbomiery is one of tIme tastes to be especially discoura~cd. Fun is a very dilibrent matter. Fun amid play fulness may , I join crop out everywhere amic with liathiOs, imobihity, and earnestness, just as Shakespeare and Cervantes umingled them; but arm exclusive preference for cx- tmavarance is mimost unwholesome, and even pervertmmig. It becomes destructive of rev- eremice, and soon degenerates imito coarse- 100 CHILDREN~ S LITERATURE. ness; it permits nothing poetical or imagina- tive, nothing sweet or pathetic to exist; and there is a certain self-satisfaction and supe- riority in making game of what others re- gard with enthusiasm or sentiment, which absolutely bars the way against a higher or softer tone. Perhaps those who remember the published letters of young officers dur- ing the Indian and Jamaica mutinies, may perceive ~viix it is ~vell to keep boys from thinking it the thing to talk slangcome dv over a terrific real-life tragedy. Most works with that pretix (jomnic Comic History of England, Comic Latin Gram- mar, & c. are mere catch-pennies for boys, and can only teach them the love of burlesque out of place. We do not mean to stigmatize all parody and drollery. Some of the poems we love best will perfectly stand a clever parody, but there must be a certain quality of gait~ de cwur and light delicacy to make such things charming. Pre- meditated conventional fun is the unhappy commodity. Who can measure out wit by the yard? Exaggeration is the great error of the books that are written avowedly fbr boy- taste, such as the whole Mayne Reid school, which stimulate the appetite for the marvellous by a series of adventures not absolutely impossible individually, but mon- strously improbable in rapid succession. The love of sensation is thus fed, so that boys lose their interest in all that is real. In truth, we have little liking for books for boys. If boys have healthy, intelligent minds, they would be doing much better if they were reading books for men. Many boys really care not at all for stories, but have a vehement affection for some branch of natural history, for mechanics, or phy- sical science, and will take infinite trouble of their own accord to follow the study, which they have qnite the power to do, out of any popular manual. Others are tIe- lighted with real travels (i.e. if they are not spoilt with false ones), and such hooks as Franklin, Kane, Livingstone, Erskine, and the Alpine Club give us are full of charms for them; and those who do love a story will not, after eleven or twelve years old, be put off with Robert and Frederick: a Book for Boys, and the like; but, unless they are wholesomely fed on the real sound romance, they will fall upon some trash that their friends have never thought of warn- ing theIn against. School-boy literature is thus more read by mothers, sisters, and lit- tle boys longing to be at school, than by the boys themselves. A very clever one, Herberts Holidays, a capital portrait of a very fresh Etonian, was evidently re garded as an insult by his congeners, who, like him, had instantly written home for leave to buy a new hat, engaging to wear out the old one at church in the holidays, or who had made strong endeavours to bring the Isaternal mansion up to the stand- ard of gentility supposed to be worthy of the bosom friend. A Ilero: Philips Book, by Mrs. Craik, has never seemed to us to be known nearly so well as it de- serves. It purports to be the narrative of an English boy who had been sent to spend a half-year in the fitmily ofan uncle, a pro- fessor at Glasgow, having been told before- hand that one of his cousins was some- what of a hero. how lie selected as this hero, this big, haiidsome, good-nature(l bully Hector, worshipped him abjectly, and become gradually undeceived, is told in his own words, and with some (lelicions de- scriptions of mnountain-climbings, and of boating on the Clyde. Whether boys like it or not we do not know; we are sure that men and women must do so The Crof- ton Boys, again, by Harriet Martineaam, is full of life and cleverness. It was suggest- ed, she tells us, by the story of the good tutor who had the honour of sitting for Dominic Sampson. The generous manner mu which he concealed the author of the ac- cident that maimed him is imitated in little IIn(~h a truly boyish iiei.u, all Miss Martineaus charm of humorous simplicity. Perhaps Mr. Ilopes Stories of School-life is more a book for masters thami for boys. lt is clever and amusing, but does not so much attain the creatures own point of view as make a study of him, arid of the effects of certain treatnient upon him. It just falls short of what the unap- proachable Tom Brown really does, and is, in fact, too palpably trying to tread in his steps, though at a far less distance than does that morbid dismal tale, Erics School-days, which we hope no mother or boy ever reads, since it really can answer no purpose but to make them unhappy and suspicious, besides that it enforces by nu- merous telling examples, that the sure re- ward of virtue is a fatal accident. Another and much wider field is the tale for girls; a much more convenient one, in- asmuch as those for whom they are written really do read them, and like them. There are so many hours of a girls life when she must sit still, that a book is her natural re- source, and reading becomes to her like breathing. TI~e real difficulty is how to prevent the childish reading of story-books from becoming a preparation for unmiti- gated novel-reading in after-life; and we confess that this is a serious difficulty when CIIILDREN S LITERATURE. 101 education is so straining the powers that real relaxation of the mind is absolutely needed in play-hours. Our own private theory is that we ought to teach girls less, while we should encourage them to learn more. However, this is a branch on which we do not feel competent to enter, and we had better return to our more immediate object of noting the styles we think most or least successful. Some few people have a won- derful art of writing about children from a childs point of view. It is a rare power. We know some clever little books that are really charming studies for the lovcrs of childhood, but that somehow do not suit the real children. We mean Read inc a Story, Little People, and above all Little Maggie and her Brother. In all three instances the portraits are genuine, and the two last are of extremely clever children. Now the unfailing characteristic of children of any ability is that they are continually growing on unexpected sides of their mind, and saying things extraordin- arily queer, either in their acuteness, ob- servation, or simplicity, and utterly unlike the conventional child. At the same time the entire being is childish, and is general- ly incapable of tolerating the follies or un- derstanding the precociousness of its con- temporary. So when the dreamy fancies of its fellow-child in their undeveloped state are set before it without censure, it is be- wildered by the took not treating them as either naughty or silly, and feels out of its element. A study such as Dr. John Brown made of Marjorie Fleming, is exquisite for parents, but the child cannot understand the point of view. Nor can it (happily) understand the manner in which reflective grown-up people view the faults of child- hood. For them things must be always positively good or naughty. Thus Mrs. Bosss Niece which is to us as good as a comedy, so wonderful is the humour of the description of the troubles of two good old aunts of the retired shop-keeping class, with a little harum-scarum Irish niece sud- denly left on their hands fails when given to children. They are entirely unconscious of the admirable drawing of the nervous, anxious, broken-spirited widow, who, though wearing the gayest colours, fidget- ing intolerably, and going out to tea on the hottest day of June in a huge fur tippet, had yet the wonderful true judgment of simplicity and humility; and though they are amused for a moment at the Irish girls wonderful romancing about riding a pig, and shc~ting an arrow that broke the leg of the majors macaw, they are shocked and dissatisfied that no condign punishment falls on such monstrous untruths, and they miss the delicate touch that shows how in reality all trust is forfeited. Another remarkable study of character is to be found in a tiny brochure, one of Groombridges Magnet Stories, by name Dear Charlottes Boys. A pair of schoolhoys have the audacity to borrow from another couple of brothers a superfluous invitation from some friends of their parents to whom they were personally unknown. The predicaments are very amusing, but the point of the story is the remarkable manner in which a fault, even uncoufessed, sometimes becomes the turn- ing-point of the character. It is a matter of experience and consolation, curious as hei~ig unlike the conventional moral, and yet in many cases true. It is not an exam- ple to children, but it may serve to encour- age the love, hope, and patience,? that Coleridge introduces as the sister graces of education. Some of the tales that strike us as best winning a childs affection by viewing the world really with its own eyes, yet without puerility, are a little square book now seine five and twenty years old, called Little Alice and her Sister; a pair on the list of the Society for Promoting Chris- tian Knowledge named Little Lucy and Sally Rainbows Stories; and lastly The Vendale Lost Property Office, where the child grown-up relates her expe- riences on being sent from India to live in an uncles family with a charming naive hu- mour and tenderness. It is remarkable how the author has contrived to indicate every character most distinctly while making the narrator herself appear to have only a childs indistinct consciousness of the na- tures of those around her. The Copse- ley Annals, by the same author, have something of the same charm, but they suit elders better than children. Some of the childrens stories written by the author of Janets Home, such as Mia and Charlie and Bliudmans Holiday, have a great charm of childlikeness. So has her The Cousins and their Friends, one of the best things that have been in Aunt Judys Maqazine. J. H. Gs own stories in Melehiors Home, i.e. the Vis- counts Friend and Friedrichs Ballad, are exquisitely felt and told, but not chil- drens. Mrs. Gattys Parables of Na- ture are exquisite works of thought. Her Worlds not Realized we rank still higher; but we ~egard most of hers as fit for grown people, or for such dreamy, thoughtful children as read full-grown books. They are above the ordinary child- 102 CHILDRENS LITERATURE. ish mind, though all the better for that. And we must not pass without mention Gwynfruns fresh and delightful Friends in Fur and Feathers, real animal stories, told with a free light-handed touch of frolic and pathos, that is like the soft spring wind breathing lightly over the moorland. Stories intended to teach history or dramatize travels are generally a failure; the information sits like the Old Man of the Sea upon the poor characters, and strangles them. Yet a few of the late Dr. J. M. Neales tales were wonderfully vivid and touching. We will just specify among his lriumphs of the Cross the story called Erics Grave, of the man who leapt (lown among the wolves to call them off from his masters escape in his carriage, and a shil- ling book named The Exiles of the Qe- venna, a journal of the adventures of a party of early Christians fleeing from per- secution and taking refuge in the hollow of a gigantic tree, whither their persecutors follow them, but are beset by the wolves. One soldier is saved by being dropped in among the Christians, and therm ensues a grisly blockade by the wolves, ended at last by a chase coining out from the next village. Miss Martineaus Feats on the Fiord a very different style is delight- ful, though only by, we are afraid, a sort of Arcadian treatment of the bonders of Nor- way, whom she has made very unlike real life. In general, history and travels stand best on their own merits, without being made into pap, thou~h it is necessary to write some history for children, because educa- tion now requires a knowledge of names and facts to be acquired before the longer his- tory can be grasped. Mythology likewise must be treated expressly for childhood. This has been done playfully by Nathaniel Hawthorne in his Tanglewood Tales, earnestly by Kingsley in his Heroes, and scientifically in Cox s various volumes, all of which are delightful to a child, and with which should always be joined (wben re- printed, as we trust it will be) The He- roes of Asgard, by the author of Janets Home. This ladys Letters on Early Egyptian History, with Miss Sewells his- tories of Greece and of Rome, supply nearly all that is wanted in Ancient history. Modern History is worse off, but in real truth, after a girl has read a series of abridged histories sufficient to oive the chain of events, good biographies, and good selections from standard books, such as par- ents or teachers ought to understand provid- ing would be infinitely more beneficial than oiis of babyish Stories from Froissart Stories of Cavaliers and Roundheads, & e., all for the most l)art sheer bookmalc- lug, all the raciness taken away, and fool- ish explanations weakening the point. After all, our conclusion as to childrens literature is a somewhat Irish one, for it is use it as little as possible; and then only what is really substantially clever and good. I3ring children as soon as possible no stretch up to books above them, provided those books are noble and good. Do not give up such books on account of passages on which it would be inconvenient to be ques- tioned on. If the child is in the habit of meeting things beyond comprehension it will pass such matters unheeded with the rest. We believe no child was ever con- taminated by The Fairy Queen, Don Quixote, The Vicar of Wakefield, or The Arabian Nights. The only things to put out of its way are those that nobody ought to read, certainly not its mother. And if father or mother will take the pains to lead and sympathise with the (flilds tastes, encouraging but miot overruling, they will find their palate curiously adapting it- self to judge for and with the child, and will enjoy a fresh feast of all the old favour- ites of their lives. It seems like a sacri- fice, but it is one worth making, and it proves all pleasure. FRAUD in India has now gone so far as the the real tiger or bear is dispensed with, and the manufacture of wild beasts, for the purpose of skull of a hog or jackal is tendered, provided cheating the Government. Our readers know with false teeth, and covered with pigskin, that premiums are paid by the Indian Govern- moulded on a real tigers head. We must ment for slaying wild beasts; so tigers, bears therefore have had trustworthy statistics of the and leopards are made to go as far as they can. abundance of wild beasts iii India. Some of First, the skin is sent in, with a skull of woo(l the monsters were be sts of straw. TIme skulls fitted into the head ; sccondly, the real skull is are now ordered to be smashed and the skins to brought forward; and sometimes, as a resource, be sold. A. COUNTY FAMILY. 103 CIXAPTER XXXW THE TEMPTATION. tht~, sentimental en~ation e7okeU in i& . William Blackourn with reference to his late wi~7e were more powerful than we might have been led to expect, they were not, on the other hand, lasting, for, after a very brief retirement, he came forth and joined the rest of the party in the garden without the least sign of his recent depression; nay, he was even in high spirits clumsily brisk, grotesquely genial, like some wild ani- mal whose vagaries would not he unamus- ing, if one could only be certain how they would end. Is this, now, thought Mr. WaIler, smiling encouragingly at his young friend, merely the effect of his favourite stimulant, or does he wish to show me that what I have just seen in him was only a momentary weakness? Lucy also secretly regarded him with a shuddering interest she had never ex- perienced before. She had long been in possession of her fathers scheme, of course, but he had not directly confided it to her. She had not pictured to herself the actual possibility of this mans being her lord and master. Doubtless, the reader has seen a parallel case, for there are many such in good society (indeed they are most numer- ous in the best); but if not, let him imagine how much more noteworthy the gambols of the Greater Ape would appear to him in its cage in the Regents Park, if it were enacted that, after a certain time, the crea- ture should exercise a personal authority over him. She wondered what arrangement had just been made by her father with this man in yonder room, and augured ill for herself from Mr. Williams boisterous mirth, Ellen, on her part, was scarcely in brighter mood than her friend; she had told Lucy of Dentons visit that morning but that young lady was at present unable to en- lighten her as to its cause, and this filled her with vague alarms. Stanhope was, for some reason best known to himself, by no means at his ease nor had he been so of late when Ellen and Lucy were present, so that on Mr. XValler and William devolved the task that day of making conveNation, and what is vulgarly called doing the agreeable. It was as though for some evening party too fashionable to amuse themselves, the most accomplished singer or elegant pianist had been engaged, and also a gentleman whose only art was to stick pins into the fleshy part of his legs, or draw yards of tape out of his mouth al- though it must be granted that Mr. Wil- liam was certainly no conjurer. It would have been much more difficult, however, ev2n u~der less adverse circumstances, to m~kc time pass at the Fishery than at the Manor. There was not room and verge enough in their ~resen t picturesque but contracted pc~ition to do as they pleased; all were thrown iogether in that narrow space, and except for the malady of the sea, might almost as well have been fellow-~pass- engers shipboard, compared with whom all companies ashore, even in their (juarter of an hour before dinner, or when enjoying a little music afterwards, are hilarity itself. XVhen the postman came that afternoon, who took away with him a letter (with an enclosure) in iNIr. WaIlers tine flowing and yet business hand, he brought one of a different appearance for Stanhope. To judge by its superscription, which was Mr. Stanhope, Esq., care of Mr. Black- burn, Esq., it had been written with a skewer, and excited, in that dearth of sub- jects of interest, quite a topic of conversa- tion as to whom such an eccentric corres- pondent might be. Mr. Waller opined that it was a love-let- ter from some young lady of rank whose education had been neglected. More likely, observed dull William cunningly, its from one of his turf friends. Who uses, characteristically, a horses shoe-nail, instead of a steel pen, added Stanhope good humnouredly. He read it and crumpled it up in his pocket, carelessly saying that Blackburn was so far right that it was a begging- letter from poor old Jerry the card-seller, who had come to grief. Why, you dont mean to say that any one begs of you? was Mr. Williams course rejoinder; and so the matter ended. But when the long afternoon caine to it~ close at last, and tIme visitors had departed, taking Mrs. Blackburn with them whom they had persuaded with difficulty to be their guest for the next day at least Stanhope took no further pains to hide that something had annoyed him deeply; and the more he showed it, the higher Mr. XVilliams spirits rose. As he watched him involuntarily take out again and again the missive he had received, only to thrust it back into his pocket with a muttered curse, he chuckled to himself and whistled merrily. Uncle Dean has done tIme trick, thought he. Oh yes, its a begging-letter, right enough; but it has none of old Jerrys whine on it. Its a stand-and-deliver affair, from one of his Goodwood friends, Ill take my davy. 104 A COUNTY FAMILY. And for once in his life, at least, Mr. with him? And yet four thousand pounds William might have made a statement upon is a large sum to have to pay all of a sud- oath and yet not committed perjury. It den. was a letter of the You-call-yourself-a~ To me at least it is, said Stanhope gentleman sort, which those who owe sternly. Indeed, I have riot got the dehts of honour to persons of no honour, money. and which they are unahie to pay, ought to Not got the money? exclaimed the make up their mind not to wince at; hut it other, raising his bushy evehrows. Dear galled its present recipient to the quick. me! What will you do, then? Bolt? As for your heing ahroad, I know its all No; it has not come to that yct, I hope. Dawlishs gammon, ran one of its sen- I must raise this sum how I can. Redn-moor tences, and I for one am not going to be Firgrove is still mine to sell, and that will fobbed off with promises. Its true that I fetch it; and in the meantime I must cant get my rights by law; hut if Stokes trouble you to advance it to me. and Ifor hes my pardnerdont get The trouble would be a pleasure, said our cool four thousand within the week, William coolly, hut, upon my life, I have mind this, ill post you. not fifty pounds I can call my own. If you Presently, as they sat in the twilight over had asked me at breakfast-time, I might their brandy-and-water and cigars, at the have lent you a little more, but my father- open window, a boat glided slowly by up in-law that is to he was so very pressing the stream. this morning, that I had to lend it to him. Now, Ill stake my life, cried William, Is this really true, Blackburn? Can who was always offering this tremendous you not help me in this strait at all? If wager (as in his own idea at least it was) you will only make the advance, I will pay upon the most trifling events, those two you ten twenty per cent. You know youn0 rogues there, are after night-poach- that I am one to keep my word. ino. This gentleman here does not seem to Very likely, answered Stanhope curt- know it, said William carelessly, pointing ly. I dont care a fkrthiug whether they to the letter; although I daresay what he are or not. writes is all lies. But its my river, sir; every yard of it, No; its true, said Stanhope hoarsely, from here to Mosedale. taking no notice, in his fierce excitement, Then I wish em luck, said Stanhope, of the others irritating manner. I be- draining his glass, and mixing himself lieve I have been the greatest fool alive; another, and he ground his teeth so, that the cigar I say, what the deuce is the matter with fell from his lips bitten clean through. you, old fellow ? inquired William. always I know one way, an(l only one, by which conciliatory, when another showed signs of you may still be a rich man, said WI- fight. You seem uncommon down upon ham slowly. your luck to-night. To-morrow? cried the other bitterly. Well, my luck is rather down upon me, Yes, to-morrow; that is as soon as you returned the other bitterly my usual like. luck, that is. Stanhope shook his head. Bosh! what have you got to CoIflplain It is not, continued the other, the of? a handsome, gentlemanly young fel- way which you have in your mind, but low, whore all the girls are wild for, with a another way. fine house and an old name, and whose What do you mean? There was some- estate, if it is a little dipped thing in Blackburns voice which, wretched Mr William stopped; he could torturing Stanhope felt, gave him a thrill of hor- conceal the delight he took in thus not quite as ror. his friend, and the others eyes flashed Well, Ill tell you, upon two conditions. fire. First, that you dont fly into one of your I have no estate, sir, as perhaps you foolish passions enough to make a fel- know, said he desperately. Read that, lows blood run cold to look at you; and and he tossed him over Mr. Stokess pard- secondly, that, whether you agree to my ners letter. oroposal or not, youll k~ep it a secret What an impudent scoundrel! ejacu- never breathe it to any human l)eing lated the other, when he had mastered the never speak about it again, even to myself, contents. Of course and here he lit unless I ask you. a fresh cigar, as an excuse fbr not meeting You are mystery itself, sir, said Stan- his companions gaze of course youll hope, foreiiig a laugh but I have rio oh- pay the beggar off at once, and have done jection to agree to both your terms. It is A COUNTY FAMILY. 105 impossible to make me more savage than I am I am not so sure of that, interrupted William. When you happen to take a different view of a thing from what another man takes, who is perhaps as good as your- self; only without the same finical notions, I have seen you burst out at him like a like an unchained bull-doo~ Oh, you are afraid of wounding my honour, Mr. Blackburn, I perceive. Well, I think, after that infernal letter, I can bear most things. Pray, dont consider my feelings. Very good. And youll keep it quiet P Certainly. Why not P Secret as the dead who lie in their graves Never you mind them, interrupted the other hastily. Youll never speak about the matter, even to me, whether it is agreed to or not, an(l you wont fly at my throat like a bull-dog P Good. I know a way, then, and here lie sank his voice, by which you may get four thousand pounds within the week, and five times as much, and even more, when the old governor yon- der, and lie jerked his thumb towards the ceiling, hops the twig. What do you think of that for a prospect P And yet it all lies within rcach of your hand. Cant you guess the riddle now What with his caution and his excitement, Mr. William had brought himself so close to his companion that his cunning face was almost touching his, his brandied breath pervading him, his whole being anxious, as it seemed, to become one with his in ras- caldom and fraud. I feel as if I were being tempted by the devil in person, observed Stanhope frank- ly; and yet Ive no conception of what youre driving at, or how what you suggest is to be effected. As for what may occur after your fathers death, it would be idle, in talk with such a man as you, to conceal from motives of delicacy and yet, not- withstanding his words, the speaker hesi- tated. Mr. William nodded and rubbed his hand, as though he was being overwhehned with compliments. I say, of course I am well aware that in the event of a certain contingency, which, however, may, after all, never take place And which you have no desire should take place, struck in the other vehemently; which you had rather did not happen, if only the desired consequence could be insured without it. Oh, I know all that: I have watched you, I have marked you. my friend. I am not such a fool as I look, not such a fool as you and some othors have been in the habit of taking me for. And as Mr. William spoke those words, he really did not look like a fool, but resem- bled a sharp and exceptionally malignant Satyr. WThen a chaps sweet upon a gal himself, continued lie, with his finger at his iiose, to impart a(lditional simificance to his philosophy, then his eves are sharpest to see through other chaps as have their fancies. Really, Mr. Blackburn, these sagacious reflections are entirely thrown away upon me, said Stanhope carelessly, but with his face scarlet to the brow, nevertheless. What I was about to observe is this; that, supposing the contingency to which no more direct allusion need be made, sir, since it is not only an impertinence to me, but an insult to one whose feelings are much more worthy of consi(leration sup- posing the contingency to take place, then I understand as well as you do that I shall have considerable command of money. But as for these four thousand pounds with- in the weQk, I should like to know where, in the Fiends name, are they to be found P I will find them, said Mr. William triumphantly. When I told you I had not got them, I told you truth; but Mr. Waller let fall a word to-day which assures me that I could raise them for an inti- mate friend in his last extremity, that is. The speaker wore a look so very much out of keeping with the benevolence of his words, that Stanhope involuntarily ejacu- lated: Yes, he is the devil, and I shall presently have to sign his bond with my hearts blood. You will have to sign nothing at all, my good sir, returned the other persua- sively. 1 am only about to ask you to give up something to which you have really no just claim. IT you refer to any hope I may enter- tain of securing your nieces baud, Black- burn, I promise on the terms you men- tionto fore~o at once all pretensions. Bah! you may marry Ellen to-morrow for all I care, supposing, that is, we agree beforehand upon this little mnatter. 1 sim- ply require of you to place in my hands which are certainly the properest to 1101(1 it that bit of paper which you took away with you to Curlew hall the other day. What! your fathers will P Yes, may fathers will. 106 A OQUNTY FAMILY. CHAPTER XXXVIII. AFTER NIGHT-POACHERS. As William Blackburn uttered those last words, it seemed that Stanhope had clean forgotten his promise to keep his temper. lie leaped fioii~ his chair with a great oath, and (lashed his open palm against the table. But the next moment he moved slowly to the unshuttered window, and leaning his hot brow against the pane, looked out into the moonlit night in silence. Surely, thought he in the hitterness of his soul, my degradation is now com- plcte. For six months have I been fortune- hunting, despised by all lookers-on, and discouraged by the girl that I have made pretence to love; for six months have I been in hiding from men, such as he who has written to me to-day, and who believes me to be a liar and a thief; and now this villain here has asked my price for betray- ing a sick mans trust. Six months ago, I would have struck him to the earth for dar- in~ to hint as much, but now I have no such dainty sense of my own honour, and yet I am only twenty-five: I wonder what I shall be when I reach this mans age. Well, Stanhope, what say you ?in- quired Mr. William, whose greed~~ eyes had fbllowed his every movement, and were fixed upon him still, though he had to twist his own neck half round for that purpose. Come and sit down again, and let us talk over it quietly. I cant sit down, said Stanhope, open- ing the glass door as he spoke letting in the cool night-air, and the sweep and swirl of the stream: he fWt as if he needed air. space, movement, to save him from suffoca- tion. I dont like that, said XVilliam peevish- ly; you must shut the door one does not know who may be at some open window listening. But the secrets out, isnt it? asked Stanhope with a harsh laugh. You have no other piece of roguery to propose, have you? Roguery! who said it was roguery? Its only natural, I suppose, that a mans only son should wish to be the custodian of the thing I spoke of, instead of a stranger. Oh, its merely aquestion of sentiment, is it? rejoined the other carelessly. I had no idea you set so high a value upon such delicate ware. Four thousand pounds down, did you not say, and twenty or twenty-five thousand to follow? Say twenty-five, said William, and one more. Upon the whole, then, you will Clear thirty thousand pounds by riding home to-morrow, and bringing hack with you you know what: afler that, you have only to hold your tongue. It is really princely munificence, said Stanhope in tones that mocked himself at least as much as his companion. it is worth my while, or else I shouldnt give it, said the other coolly. Youre not such a fool as to suppose I have not read the thing, and made my calculations accordingly; and indeed, I have no doubt you have done the same. No sir; curiously enough, I have omitted that precaution; and 1 should like to know, before giving you a final answer, how you propose to recoup yourself? You had much better ask no questions, said William significantly. It you are disturhed at my giving too large a sum for so slight a service, take less; or comfort yourself with the assurance that it is not I who shall have to pay it. Lie is telling iiie now, thought Stao- hope, that he means to destroy the will, thereby making himself sole heir, and to pay inc out of what is in fact his nieces money. I-Ic has made up his mind to beg- gar her, to begin with; and Herbert Stan- hispe, whom she has refused to listen to as a lover, is, he thinks, the very man to acquiesce in the arrangement. Thirty thousand pounds! in another minute he will he proposing to make it guineas, if I will only smother the old man up-stairs. And yet, scoundrel as he is, he must have at least as bad an opinion of me as I of him. He an(l that imperative gentleman whose letter I have here in my pocket, have (lone me a good turn so far: they have made me for the first time see myself as others see me. From this night, I am no longer Squire Stanhope of Curlew Hall shall no longer wear borrowed plumes. As this is the villain of this melodrama, let me he that less interesting character who is poor hut honest. Ill mlispose of the Firgrove at once no matter at what loss, and the rest of the property shall he advertised for sale. Ill take that will, and put it into Moffats hands to-morrow morning for safe keeping. In the meantime, and since this is the last night I shall ever pass beneath his roof, why should I perplex this gentleman with a show of virtue? My good sir, broke forth William impatiently, you have not given me your answer? There is no frar hut that you will keep a whole skin in the matter; it is only my mother who knows that you have the thing in your possession, and I can an- swer for her silence. Your hesitation is altogether without reason. A COUNTY FAMILY. 107 I daresay it does seem so, said Stan- hope gravely. However, the will shall pass from my keeping to-morrow, that I promise you. Thats good! cried William excitedly, holding out his hand, which the other took. lEo-morrow you shall have my bond for the four thousand, and for the rest; I thought we should come to a mutual under- standin~ when once I could make up my mind to speak; but the hct is, you were so devilish high and mighty about that unlucky affair at Chester, that (although of course I knew it was all put on) I was almost afraid to trust you with my little plan. Ho~vever, I knew von were a man of hon- our not to blab if you passed your word to keep anything dark; and so I risked it. I am sure I am much obliged to you for ~our good opinion, said Stanhope curtly but truth is only to be expected in a man in liquor, and Im sorry to see you dont drink. I never drink when I have business in hand, answered the other with a cunning wink albeit he had already taken half a bottle of brandy but when its satisfac- torily concluded, I will soak with the best man alive. Come, fill your glass, and lets make a night of it we two. I hate the night, and like to kill it. The sentiment does you the greatest credit, Mr. Blackburn, as indeed all your sentiments do. If you dont like darkness, let us set fire to the house, and have a good blaze. What is a little arson more or less, when one is determined to have things as we wish them? and Stanhope burst into a fierce shout of laughter. I say, what the deuce is the matter with you? inquired Mr. William apprehensive- ly. They will be sure up-stairs to think it s me, and that Im drunk. Impossible! exclaimed Stanhope mockingly; that is only your modest no- tion of what other people think of you. And again he laughed so that the rafters shook again, lie was really getting ex- cited, not with drink, but with the very tu- mult of his thoughts, which found a natural vent in this bitter raillery. It was impos- sible to converse soberly with such a man as his companion had showed himself to be, and his scorn and loathing of him seemed to lonr for utterance in some shape. I do wish you would make less noise, said William petulantly; you will really cause people to suspect something by such unusual behaviour. Even as it is, your obstinacy in keeping the door open may have done mischief. I heard something stirring in the garden just now, I thought, but of course that must be fancy. Why, I heard something too. Look there ! Mr. William dragged his chair from where it was, and placed it behind St.anhopes. What ! where? cried he, looking with horror over the others shoulder. I wish youd lock that windo~v, and close the shutters, else whats the use oftlme candles ? Why, my good friend, ~vhy ? I am sure, with your admirable sentiments, von cannot but be an admirer of the pictIesqum~. II was only calling your attention to that sudden splendour of the moonbeams ; a moment ago it was all gloom, and now it is as light as day, look you. So beautiful, and yet so c old and ghastly , like the Ikee of some dead woman. Be quiet, cant you; I hate such talk,. cried Mr. William nervously. But its only moonshine, my good sim, said the other, grimly pleased to find an unexpected weapon of annoyance so ready at hand. You dont macan to tell mime that an intellect like yours is capable of super- stition? That this gutter in the candle, for instance, which some would call a winding sheet Its that infernal windows being open that does that, said William hastily. Of course it is; there speaks the prac- tical philosopher. But I know men that is, who call themselves such who would consider it an omen a sign that some- thing ugly was about to hanpen that death itself was hovering about us even now. Do you know, Blackburn, Im almost ashamed to say it, but I feel a little all-overish myself to-night. I think I shall go out into the air, and have a row in the skill; to shake it off. What! and leave me? You wouldnt be such a beast as that, surely, when you have promised to sit up with me all night ? Very well, why not sit in the boat ? I shall immost certainly have a row; and Stan- hope rose from his chair. No, no, implored the other; I cant be left alone to-night ; and the skiff wont hold us that is, it is never safe when any- body rocks it, and I know youll rock it, because youre drunk. If we must go, lets take the punt. Very well, then, the punt let it be; and look you, although I ama sober as a judge, I ama ripe for anything to-night, except go- ing to sleep; so lets go after those poach- ers. They must be some~vhere between here and the mill for certain. Stanhope, although, as lie protested, quite sober, was in that state of mental ex 108 A COUNTY FAMILY. citement to which inaction is hateful, and the ordinary surroundings of life seem bur- (lensome and oppressive. The blind, wild beast of force that lies within the sinews of a man, was roused in him, and he would have welcomed fight and peril. Mr. Wil- liams case afraid to start on such a dan- gerons errand, and still more averse to be left alone, a prey to nameless terrors was pitiable indeed; but eventually he got a cap and coat, and seated himself with as much of courage as his brandy-flask would hold, in the stern of the punt, while the other used the pole. It was, as Stanhope had said, as light as day; every jut and coign of the cottage, every stone of the bridge, stood out in strong relief as they slid up stream. The wind had chopped to the east, and was blow- ing sharply, so that the trees that fringed the steep right bank of the river shivered and swayed; but down in the sheltered channel it was scarcely felt, though the streani bore here and there a silver curl that marked a wavelet, and against the broad flat prow of the punt, the water chafed and whitened angrily. It was hard work push- ing against wind and stream, and Stanhope enjoyed it; and when he ceased from his exertion, it was never to rest, but to gaze eagerly about in search of those who had preceded them. I see nothing of those rascals, ex- claimed he presently; I am afraid they have done their work, and put their boat up at the mill; in that case they will es- cape us, confound them, for I suppose one must catch them in the very act, eh ? thats the law, isnt it? Of course it is, replied the would-be county mna(ristrate . thonob I must savl should have rather enjoyed a tussle myself) Hush! be quiet we shall have them yet; I hear somethinct And Stanhope noislesslx pushed the boat beneath a bluff of the right bank, where it could lie in shadow; above thens the steep bank rose sheer, with one strong sapling growing from it almost at right angles, so that the branches dipped to within a few feet of them. What a stran0e noise that is, Blackburn. If it were warmer weather, 1 should have said that it was distant thunder. his companion, who did not care what it was, so long as it was not poachers engaged in breaking the law, and thereby inviting deeds of violence, expressed his opinion that whether warm enough or not, it was thunder, and deuced near thunder too. A storm is brewing, said he, and its my idea we had better get home at once, with dry skimis. A storm, with a sky like that! non- sense! Hark! theres a horse coming down the gorge, and at full gallop too; it must have got loose, arid been frightened at the noise; and I dont wonder. How it swells and roars! God of heaven! can the reser- voir have burst? The what! cried William, starting from his seat with such a piercing yell, that, even in that moment of anxiety, Stanhope stared at him speechless with sheer amaze- ment. His face, though in shadow, showed as white as though the moonlight were full on it, and his eves seemed to be starting from their sockets. But at that same in- stant another spectacle presented itself a horse and rider at full speed came routid an angle of the opposite bank, and thundered down the road. it was John Denton, riding as if for life. What has happened? cried Stanhope; for Gods sake tell us. The embankments gone, and the water is coining down, roared the other. Up the bank, or you are dead men! And he did not even turn his head, but was out of sight before the echo of his words had died away. Then, for the first time, the thunder of the torrent broke unmistakably on their ears. Stanhope sprung at the drooping sapling, seized a branch, and swung him- s~lf a few feet up the bank, riot nearly far enon ~ h, as he well knew, for safety; but then he stopped, for William did not stir. Up, up, Blackburn; ther& s not an instant to lose. Dont you hear the flood coming down? Yes, he both heard and saw; for, follow- ing the direction of his eyes, the other be- held, just in the act of rounding the next reach of the little river, a huge wall of water, forty feet high as it looked, and crowned with foam, which came on em masse with incredible swiftness, and the roar of a hundred seas. Stanhope turne(l, and dio- ging feet and fingers into the hard cliff, struggled desperately upwards to the sum- mit. Though even then scarce feeling se- cure, he could not resist the terrible attm~ac- tion of the spectacle, but lying at full length upon the cli fr-top, peered down upon the ruin beneath. His late comimpanion was standing in the same spot, not, as lie had expected to see him, paralysed with terror, but gesticulating vehemently, an(l aI)l)arent ly (though nothing now could be hearml but the fury of the flood) ejaculating sommiething at the top of his voice. lie was poimmtmrmg. to the creaming top of the hurrying ~vahl, where he seemed to see somne object visible only to himuself. Then, as time imuiglity mumass A COUNTY FAMILY. 109 swept by him, and him along with it, he where Stanhope lay, and at the rate of some suddenly threw up his hands, and once twenty miles an hour, in place of the bab- more, ere he was whelmed in the wave, that bling little Curlew. piercing shriek rang out above its thunder- Thank God, she is safe at Mosedale ! ous roar. The next instant, a river was ejaculated Stanhope; but alas! for poor rushing by, nearly on a level with the spot Ellen. WOOD NOTES. AMID a world of wealth I dwelt That summer season at the Hall A world of wealth and rank I felt That I was lost among them all: For there was Lady Margaret, And Lady Blanche, and Lady Mary, Aud Lord Fitz Howard Sarcenet, The drawing-rooms chief luminary And Lady Jane with golden hair, Who swept the ground with robes all rip- pling; And Philip Strong, the millionaire, Who swept the office when a stripling; And that curled darling Archie Brown, Right Hononrable, and gay, and witty, Who did the maddest things bout town, And (lid some bills, too, in the city A great M.P., whose words would flow On taxes, highways, husbandry; A lawyer shrewd, sharp-sighted, though He had the woolsack in his eye A noble duke, a judge of hosses; A sleek archdeacon and his wife; A count, whose breast showed all the crosses That he had met with in his life And Lady this and Lady tother, And lords and knights and men of rank ThQre only was one younger brother, And he was partner in a bank, Poor I alone, amid the throng, Could boast no title to my name, Or fortune that will cure the wrong, Andgilditwit~pleasantfame. lime was a solitary case, I felt that I had left my groove My proper track was out of place Yes, out of place, but, ah in love! For one face, fiuirer than the rest, Had looked on me, and I was bound One voice had spoken, and my breast Had thrilled and fluttered at the sound Had thrilled and fluttered and was saddened By after pangs of hopelessness That tortured me till I was maddened Such love as mine was sore distress. For all things now b~it showed more plainly how wide the difference of our states; And if I dreamed, I dreamed but vainly Of strife gainst unpropitious fates. The talk I heard, of costly pleasure, Of luxury that knew no stint, Troubled my morbid mind past measure, There was the ring of money int! So, when the master-sadness held me, I crept away into the woods Shunning the light words that repelled me, And striving after happier moods. Amid the solitary glades, The fern-clad hollows by the trees, The leafy nooks and chequered shades, My spirits lightened and found ease. The song of birds was sharp and cheery, And gladdened all my woodland haunt; For, never flag~ing, never weary, It carried no unconscious taunt Of my unworth And as I lay, My heart in foolish fancies steeping, My waking visions stole away And melted into dreamy sleeping. The sun was down behind the trees When I awoke from out my dreaming; The topmost bou,,hs, swayed by the breeze, Were shining in the last lights gleaming And voices sounded in my ear, Two voices one I knew full well, The voice that I loved best to hear. So, lying in that dreamy spell That follows slumber, I oerheard No matter what the words might be, But sweeter than the song of birds, And filling me with ecstacy A soft confession simply spoken And days of doubt were past and gone, The spell of hopelessness was broken, I knew the future would atone. So, rising softly from my lair, I crept away unto the stile Where they must pass, and standing there, Awaited patiently a while. I heard their footsteps as they came, I saw white dresses through the green, I saw the blushes mount like flame Into their cheeks when I was seen, And conscious glances interchanged Twixt her and her confessor kind, Who, as we oer the meadow ranged, Still kindly let us walk behind. The sweetest wood-notes ever heard Were those that roused me in the grove Sweet notes that all my being stirred, And gave me hope and life and love That night I thought tis strange to find How people alter that they all Were wise and witty, free and kind, Who were assembled at the HalL Once A Week. 110 MRS. BEEOH]~R SPOWE ANfl LADY BYRON. From The Spectator. MRS. BEECLIER STOWE AND LADY BYRON. IN common with most of our countrymen, we have long bad a very genuine admiration of the peculiar genius of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. She spoke the slaves par- able, and perhaps did more, by Uncle Torns Cabin, to precipitate the final victory of the Abolitionists than could be assigned to the single agency of any other individual. When, accordingly, the gifted authoress vis- ited this country, she was welcomed by many friends of~ the Negro population of America with unfeigned cordiality as the spokeswoman of a holy cause. By none, probably, was a more loyal and sympathiz- ing recel)tion accorded to her than by Lady B~- ron, who in this respect at least at one with her husband had from her earliest years cherished a profound antipathy to op- pression in its varied forms, whether of a caste or of a creed. It would appear, how- ever, from the appalling article we use the adjective of the editor of Macmillan which has just been published in that maga zin~ by Mrs. 11. Beecher Stowe, that she was not only honoured by Lady Bxron as the representative of a sacred mission which lay vcr~ close to her ladyships heart, but was made the depositary of those secrets of her married life concerning which she main- tained towards the outer world so inexorable a silence. With Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe the present writer has no acquaintance whatever, but to judge from what she has written in this months Macmillan, we are obliged., however painfully to ourselves, to conclude that she is just the last person in the world to whom we could commit the cus- tody of a confidential communication. Whether the paper in question is, or is not, the true story of Lady Byrons life, the world can only learn authoritatively, and we hope at no distant day will learn, from Lady Byrons own manuscripts; but it seems to us that a lady of ordinary courtesy, and possessed with but a common sense of lite- rarv (lecorrim, would have made it her first duty to consult with Lady Byrons literary executors, and with her two surviving grand- children, whom Mrs. Stowe calls some of the best and noblest of mankind (sic), be- fore scattering broadcast over the planet the ~painful details as they are well named to which she has put her name. Again and we write the sentence after the most careful reperusals of Mrs. Stowes article she has not only failed in courtesy and (le(oruin and in proper consideration for the fi~elings of those who are surely far more (leeply interested in the fame of Lady Byron than a mere casual acquaintance can possibly be, but her statements are made without the least shadow of sanction from any competent source. And to this fact we beg very emphatically to call the attention of our readers On both sides of the Atlantic, because it is one which Mrs. Stowe has wrapped up, apparently, rather carefully, in words which have, to say the least, a very equivocal significance. Mrs. Stowe writes as follows : It has been thought by some friends [friends of Lady Byron in this country?] who have read the proof sheets of the above, that the author should state more specifically her au- thority for the above narration. Now, clearly the only possible authority which would justify Mrs. Stowe in writing and publishing what she calls the true story of Lady Byrons life would be. first, either a written statement, in Lady Byrons hand- writing, instructing her after a certain time to make known to the world certain facts; or, second, a similar statement, issuing from Lady Bvro ns grandchildren or her literary executors. Mrs. Stowe does not possess any such instruction. But her language might cause the hasty reader to imagine that she did. She thus speaks, for instance, on p. 383, By a singular concurrence of circumstan- ces, all the facts of the case [i.e., of the sep- aration of Lord and Lady Byron] in the most undeniable and authentic form were at one time placed in the hands of the writer of this sketch, leaving to her judgment the use which should be made of them. On first reading these words, we own to havirm~ been misled by them, as if their meaning had been that Lady Byron had left a discre- tionary power with Mrs. Beecher Stowe as to the use she, Mrs. Stowe, might make of a certain document which, she asserts, had been placed in her hands. Nay, more, Mrs. Stowes phraseology~ so careful as to warrant the inference that ~h e ma t erials at one time placed in her hands were still in her possession. In the very next sen- tence, however, the reader will note that our authoress tlocs not pretentl to have ac- cess toanv written evidence for her asser- tions. She lays claim to merely this knowledge, of which, she says, sha would have made no public rise but for tIre aplrear- ance of the work of Lord Byrons .~ inns- tress, the Countess Guicciohi. Still, tIre impression might remain that Mrs. Storve was in reality not merely drawing upou her memory or fancy, but copying from an undeniable and authentic fbraf before her. But, in the first place, she is proba hlv aware, and the editor of Macmillan i~ still more likely to be aware, that riot a sin gle line of any manuscript of La(ly Byrons MRS. BEECIIER STOWE AND LADY BYRON. 111 could be printed in this country without the direct sanction of her representatives; and secondly, Mrs. Stowes own statement at the close of her article, though lacking in explicitness, places the matter beyond all doubt. She will not, in so many words, avow that the paper which Lady Byron, in the sacredness of confidence, permitted her to see was returned by her, but she, in her own peculiar manner, reports that after two or three days deliberation she wrote to Lady Byron that her ladyship would be entirely justifiable in leaving the truth to be disclosed after her death, and recom- mended that all the facts necessary should be put in the hands of some persons, to be so published. Now, we venture to submit that the inev- itable deductions to be drawn from all this circumlocution are none other than these: (1) That Mrs. Stowe writes without au- thority ; (2) that for her story she has no written testimony ; (3) that in publishing this article she has departed from the letter of her own recommendation, which was that the necessary facts should be placed in the hands of some persons, to be so pub- lished; (4) that she has either written a narrative as fictitious as it is sensational, or she has been guilty of a breach of conti- dence. We may add here what was stated in the Times of Thursday last by the solicitors of the representatives of Lady Byron, that by her latest will, Lady Byron left all her papers in the hands of three literary ex- ecutors, assignin, to them exclusive and absolute control over all her manuscripts, suggesting, however, that in any use they might make of the documents entrusted to them, a primary re,ard was to be paid to the feelings of her grandchildren; but Mrs. Stowe is not oiie of these executors, and by her heedless rushin, into print this author- ess has acted in opposition to the dying in- junctions of the persoii whom yet she affl~cts to reverence as almost more than mortal. And what is Mrs. Beecher Stowes ex- cuse, for justification there is none, for ex- hibiting to the world a statement which she might be sure would shock the moral sense of thousands of readers, and in certain cases inflict not a little pain? The only excuse alleged is that the mistress of Lord Byron has the ear of the public! We beg entirely to dissent from Mrs. Stowes estimate of the influence of the work which bears, in its Engli sIt edition, the name of the Countess Guiccioli. What does Mrs. Stowe imagine to be the moral worth of the hysterical screams of the mistress against the wife? We must confess that we scarcely ever found it so hard a task to keep our gravity as we did when reviewing the so-called Re- collections of the Guiccioli in this journal. But even if it were true, which we do not for an instant allow, that this Italian coun- tess has the ear of the public, would the fact vindicate Mrs. Stowe from the charge of a public endeavour we use her own wordsto violate the sanctuary of a si- lence where Lady Byron so long abode? Indeed, Mrs. Stowes assumed champion- ship of outraged virtue reminds us of noth- ing so much as of the 01(1 Arabian legend which tells us how Abraham, in the night- watches, was rebuked by the great God for turning the unbeliever out of his tent in the words, If I have borne with him for seven- ty years, eouldst thou not tolerate him for a few brief hours ? For thirty-six years of widowhood, for eight of wifehood, Lady By- ron kept her secret from the world; but poor Mrs. Stowe so burns to blurt out her knowledge, that nine years after Lady Byrons death she becomes utterly inconti- nent. Mrs. Stowe is curiously inconsistent in the presentment of her own defence. First of all, she writes, though still in a hesitating way, that no person in England, we think, would, as yet, take the responsibility of re- lating the true history which is to clear La(ly Byrons memory. Of course, no reliable individuals in England, who were in the confidence of Lady Byron and there are a few such persons known to us would take the responsibility either of publicly re~ vealing that they were unworthy of the trust reposed in them, or of acting in disregard of the express terms of Lady Byrons will, or of the feelings of those for whose sakes, as well as from consideration of the dead, she maintained what the editor of Macmillan designates very properly a religious si- lence. But Mrs. Stowe, in spite of her thinking that no one in England would as yet rise up to tell Lady Byrons history, all the same infornis us that after Lady Byrons death, she looked anxiously hoping to see a memoir of the person whom she con- sidered the most remarkable woman that England had produced in this (~ ntury. We must leave it to Mrs. Stowe to recon- cile, as best she can, thc~e ontm olictory mimodes of thinking aIld exp ( tatmon, hut we would suggest to her that ii i clx B~ rons English friends could keep sil u~ uid bide their time, it would have been i vood thing if she had followed their exaiuph In conclusion, we caniiot but i ci kon it as an assuiiiption of authority, when the editor of Macmillan endorses this paper as a complete and authentic account of Lady 112 MRS. STOWES STORY. Byrons married life, it is neither the one nor the other. It is at most the recollec- tions of what Mrs. Stowe alleges was told her or read by her thirteen years ago, the recollections, moreover, of a writer who speaks of thefew years of Lady Byrons widowhood, who makes her live with her husband for two years, instead of thirteen months, and who cannot even spell properly Lady Byrons maiden surname. Mrs. Stowe affirms of the interview with Lady Byron from which she professes to have learned what she now makes public, that it had almost the solemnity of a death- bed avowal. Did it not occur to Mrs. Stowe, as she wrote this sentence, that the only ac- cordant conduct on her l)art with the death- bed avowal of Lady Byron would have been a silence like that of the grave? From The Examiner. MRS. STOWES STORY. WE are no less surprised than grieved to observe the indecorous haste with which several of our contemporaries have taken for granted the truth of the story which Mrs. Stowe has published in Macmillans ]liagaziue relative to the cause of the sepa- ration between Lord and Lady Byron. In a matter which touches the reputation of one of Englands greatest poets involving a charge which, if proved, brands him for ever as a mean and contemptible coward, sneak, and hypocrite, as well as a criminal we should have thought that at least some show of prudence and caution would have been desirable. here is a statement which is supposed to he dictated by a woman so weak that physicians think she is dying; her amenuensis is another woman of considerable strength of imagination the narrative itself is incorect in certain most important facts: it is without a shadow of corroboration or proof and it is, as we shall endeavour to show, highly im- probable. Surely this is not the sort of story which is to be gulped down, as it were, without the faintest effort at inquiry, or the least suoxestion of doubt. The cause that drove Lord and Lady I3yron asunder has always been a mystery; and peolile do not like to be kept in the dark with regar(I to the domestic affairs of celebrated persons. Their curiosity with regard to such details is as large as their charity is small. They forget that the writer may have spent the best of his system, mental and physical, on his books, an(l reserve(l for himself the rags and tatters of it, which he would fain hide from the public gaze. Goethe said of Balzac, that each of his stories was dug out of a womans heart. Very often tIme poet digs his poems out of his own heart; andit is not very becoming that we should pry into the exhausted quarry that we should laugh at the orange we have sucked and thrown away. But Byron had a histrionic trick of exhibiting himself which provoked curiosity; and for many years there was no man in England whose private affairs were more narrowly scanned and criticized. On this one point of the separation no authentic knowlcdge has ever been obtained; and it is perhaps only natural that, when a state- ment professing to be an authoritative solu- tion of the mystery was published, it should have been accepted with more haste than discretion. We must beg of our readers, however, to remember that Mrs. Stowes statement, while saying a great mical, proves absolutely nothing. Her story taken apart from the useless verbiage and riot very profound moralizings with which she has surrounded it, is briefly as follows. Byron, haviwr made the ac- quaiiitance of Miss Milbanke, was so im- pressed by her beauty, her refined and graceful manners, and her general mental superiority, that he made her an oflbr of marriage. He was, as we know, refused. They continued to correspond, however; and reInained on terms of friendship. in fact, says Mrs. Stowe, sue already loved lAin, but had that doubt of her power to be to him all that a wife should be, which would be likely to arise in a mind so sensi- tively constituted and unworldly. Two years elapsed between this refusal arid Byrons Inarriage with Miss Milbanke. it was during this interval, according to the present legend, that lie full into that horri- ble gulf of crime which was to poison the whole of his after lifb. From tIme heights which might have Inade him happy as the husband of a noble woman lie foIl into the depths of a secret, adulterous intrigue with a blood relation, so near in consanguinity that discovery must have been utter ruin arid expulsion from civilized society. From henceforth this (lamning, guilty secret be- canie time ruling force of his life, holding hima with a morbid fascination, yet filling him with remorse and unquiet, and insane dread of detection. The name of the partner of his guilt is not actually men- tioned; but the reference is unmistakeable. Byrons friends insisted on Iris muarrying. In a moment of recklessness, line sat down and wrote two offers of marriage, which he sent off to two ladies. One lady dechimied; time other, Miss Milbanke, accepted. They MRS. STOWE S STORY. 113 were married. The moment the carriage doors were shut upon the bridegroom and bride, the paroxysm of remorse and de- spair unrepentant remorse and angry despair broke forth upon her gentle head. You might have saved me from this, Madam! You had it all in your own power when I offered myself to you first. Then you might have made me what you pleased; but now you will find that you have married a devil. Lady Byron now knew that her husband was tormented by some dreadful remorse; but it was not until some time afterwards that she learned the real horror that underlay his consciousness of guilt, and also that he had married her in order that she might be a cloak for his sin. He reasoned with her about the affair; pointed out the amicable arrangements occasionally made on the Continent for the mutual infi- delity of husband and wife; he repudiated Christianity as an authority, asserting the right of every human being to follow out what he called the impulses of nature; and subsequently lie introduced into one of his dramas the reasoning by which he justified himself in incest, Mrs. Stowe here refers to Cain, and quotes certain passages. On making the discovery, Lady Byron (lid not quit his house; but con- tinued for two years to struggle with her husbands morbid infatuation. This is clearly a mistake, as they only lived to- gether for about one year. llowever Lady Byron failed; and Byron began to use her with the grossest cruelty, especially about the time when her daughter was born. Lady Byron did not quit her husband, but was driven from him. Lord Byron, ter- rified by the indignation which society ex- pressed over the rupture between husband and wife, broke up his incestuous intrigue, and fled from England, a prey to the wild- est despair and remorse. Hence Man- fred, which, according to Mrs. Stowe, was merely a picture of his own state of mind at this time. Lady Byron kept the secret, on the condition that the partner of his crimes should be left in England. Lord Byron now employed his whole time, and all the brilliant powers of his invention, to conceal his guilt by throwing the blame of the separation upon his wife. All his poems addressed to her are pieces of the blackest hypocrisy. I have had many foes, but none like thee, he wrote to the woman who had sufl~red so much to con- ceal his sin. Finally, under Lady Byrons care, the person whose connexion with Lord Byron had been so disastrous was reformed and ennobled; while a daughter by the criminal union was watched with a LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. 634 mothers tenderness, until she died, by the erring husbands wife. This is the story which Mrs. Stowe tells; and we mean to use very plain language in speaking of it. We cannot reject Mrs. Stowes statement that she received certain communications from Lady Byron, as well as a paper containing a brief memorandum of the whole. It is a pity that these memoranda were not published. The story, as it stands, has a good deal of what actors call gag in it. There is a good deal of guessiPg, and interpretation, and reflection, with no small degree of vagueness and inac- curacy about the details, which are of pri- mary importance. Conceding, however, that Mrs. Stowe did really receive the nar- rative from Lady Byron as it now stands, look at the circumstances under which it was given to her. Lady Byron was in such a state of health that her physicians had warned her that she had very little time to live. For some time before this she had greatly withdrawn from society. Her mind was of a serious and contempla- tive cast; and without doubt she spent many and many an hour in her sick-room in brooding over her husbands history. For some years ~he had not seen him; but she had read his ccessive poems, and must have connected the writer with his writing in that fashion which is common to the rela- tives of every author who ever published a poem or a romance. What if she saw in the story of Astarte and Manfred an inter- pretation of conduct otherwise unintelli- gible, and applied this theory to various ~vehl-remembered incidents and persons? We have already spoken, says Mrs. Stowe, of that singular sense of the reality of the spiritual world which seemed to encompass Lady Byron during the last part of her life, and which made her words and actions seem more like those of a blessed being detached from earth than of an ordinary niortal. Under these mental and physical conditions, stranger stories than the one before us have been invented and narrated with every circumstance of detail. But there are other considerations which should induce us to pause before accepting the authenticity of Mrs. Stowes narrative. It is, as we have said, highly improbable, and it is wholly uncorroborated by any kind of proof. Mrs. Stowe states that this whole history of Lord arid Lady Byron in its reality has long been per- fectly understood in many circles in Eng- land, but the facts were of a nature that could not be told. Now Mrs. Stowe shows that the facts were not of such a nature that they could not be told, because 114 MRS. STOWES STORY~ she tells them. Moreover, is it creditable that numbers of people in England knew this story, and wilfully remained silent, when Lady Byrons heroic abnegation was earning for her only misrepresentation and blame? On the other hand, it is as little credible that the story could be true with- out several persons becoming aware of it. The career of the persons implicated with Lord Byron was open to public criticism; while the fact of Lady Byron taking charge of the daughter could not have escaped the knowledge and inquiry of her friends. We repeat, that every one is bound to reject this story until it finds corroboration and proof. Let us have the memorandum pro- duced. It is presumably in Lady Byrons handwriting, which can be authenticated. Let us have some precise information about the daughter whom Lady Byron tended. Let the circles in England who are cog- nisant of the affairs make a declaration on the subject, and exhibit something in the way of evidence. We are not of those who say that the publication of this charge was, in any case, an error. If the story is true, it ought to be known. If Byron was the vile and debased creature which this narrative represents him to be, by all means let the tale of his unparalleled meanness and scoundrelism with regard to his wife be made public, that we may not through igno- rance be disposed to condone the faults of a hypocrite so utterly despicable. It seems to us that this story, if true, is capable of easy proof; and until it is fully proved, it is mere idle wind. SOLICITORS CARD. SIR, As the solicitors of the descend- ants and representatives of the late Lady Noel Byron, for whose family we have acted for up~vards of half a century, we request your permission to publish in the columns of the Examiner the followin~ observations relative to an article which has just appeared in Macmillans Magazine. The article in question is entitled The e Story of Lady Byrons Lfe, and Mrs. 11. B. Stowe is announced to be the writer of it. Of the paper itself we should probably have abstained from taking any public notice if it had appeared in a less respectable journal than Macmillan, or if even in this periodical the authoress had been allowed to tell her story without editorial preface or comment. The editor of Macmillan, however, has not only admitted Mrs. Stowes article, but he has prefixed to it a note in which he authoritatively proclaims to the world that the paper on Lady Byrons life and relations to Lord Byron is the complete and authentic statement of the whole circumstances of that disastrous affair. Nay, more that this paper is in fact Lady Byrons own statement of the reasons which forced her to the separation which she so long resisted. Again, the editor states that the contribution of Mrs. Stowe supplies evidence at once new and direct on Lady Byrons history. We, as the family solicitors, beg most dis- tinctly to state that the article is not a complete or authentic statement of the facts connected with the separation, and that it cannot be regarded as Lady Byrons own statement, and that it does not involve any direct evidence on Lady Byrons his- tory. Instead of direct evidence, Mrs. Stowe has nothing to communicate but her recol- lections of a conversation which took place thirteen years ago, and her impressions of a manuscript which she states that Lady Byron at that time gave her to peruse, and which, according to her own showing, she read under very great excitement. These circumstances probably account for several obvious errors into which Mrs. Stowe has fallen, such as assigning two years instead of thirteen months as the period during which Lady Byron resided under the same roof with her husband, and similar inaccu- racies, to which, for the present purpose, it is unnecessary to allude. Without for a moment conceding that Mrs. Stowes narrative contains a complete account of Lady Byrons relations with her husband, we must protest against it as being professedly 1st. A most gross breach of the trust and confidence stated to have been reposed in her; 2nd. As inconsistent with her own recommendation to Lady Byron: and, 3rd. As an ignorant violation (at least we shall in charity suppose Mrs. Stowe to be ignorant) of the express terms of Lady Byrons last Will and Testament. First, As relates to a breach of trust, Mrs. Stowe states that she was consulted in an interview which, to use her own words had almost the solemnity of a deathbed, not as to whether she would undertake a redaction of Lady Byrons marricil history, but only as to the policy of publishing such a history at all. Second, Mrs. Slowe, on her own admission, returned to Lady Byron the brief memorandum paper which has been entrusted to her, with the statement of her opinion that Lady Byron would be entirely justifiable in leaving the truth to be THE BYRON MYSTERY. 115 disclosed after her death, and recommended that all facts necessary should be put in the hands of some persons to be so published. Thirdly, Lady Byron did, by her last Will and Testament, executed a few days only before her decease, bequeath to three per- sons, as trustees, all her manuscripts, to be by them first sealed up, afterwards deposited in a bank in the names of such trustees, and she directed that no one else, however nearly connected with her, should, upon any plea whatever, be allowed to have access to or inspect such documents, which the trustees thereof were alone to make use of as they might judge to be bestfor the inter- ests of her grandchildren. Mrs. Stowe is not one of these three. Her paper is en- tirely gratuitous and unauthorized. It is, as we have said, not consistent with her own counsel it is an offence against Lady Byro n~s dying wishes, and the authoress has written in utter disregard of the feelings of those grandchildren, of whom she speaks in a vague fulsome way as SOME of the best and noblest of mankind. The appearance of the volumes about Lord Byron by the Countess Guiccioli is alleged by Mrs. Stowe as the main reason which induced her to publish her story; but if Lady Byrons descendants, her personal and trusted friends in this country, suffer the slanders of the Countess Guiccioli to pass uneontradicted (for to use Mrs. Stowe~s own expression, of what value was the outcry of the mistress against the wife), their silence should surely have led Mrs. Stowe to hesitate before giving to the world a statement which, however it may affect the memories of the dead, must inevitably inflict much pain on the living. Lad)- Byrons own statement is in the possession of those who love her memory too well to make a rash use of it; and if the world is ever to learn the true story of Lady Byrons life, it will learn it from theni. It would have been in better taste if Mrs. Stowe and the Editor of Macmillans Maga- zine had imitated the religious silence which the latter so much commends in the case of Lad) Byron. Meanwhile Lady By- rons descendants and representatives entire- ly aiid absolutely disclaim all countenance of Mrs. Stowes article, which has been pub- lished without their privity or consent. We are, & c., WhARTON AND FORDS. 8 Lincolns-Inn Fields, 1st Sept., 1869. [\Ve willingly give insertion to this letter, comment upon which would be unnecessary after what we have said elsewhere. We have only to remark, however, that there is no mention in Mrs. Stowes statement of her having returned Lady Byrons memoran- dum, the production of which would settle the matter. ED. EXAMINER AND LONDON REVIEW.] From The Saturday Review. THE BYRON MYSTERY. THE great Byron mystery has been re- vealed on authority which, not so much by reason of any confidence which we give to the authenticator of the history as on the intrinsic and internal evidence of the history itself, we are compelled, though not with- out some natural misgiving and reluctance, to accept. Mrs. Beecher Stowe tells us her ghastly story in the pages of Macmil- lans Magazine, the editor of which con- gratulates himself upon being selected as the organ of gratifying the curiosity and interest of the world. We envy neither this gentleman nor his contributor their very peculiar topics of congratulation. We shall not be at the trouble of giving an abstract or abridgment of Mrs. Stowe s story. Not one of our readers can be ignorant of its substance, which is that the cause of the separation of Lord and Lady Byron was the discovery by the wife of an adulterous and incestuous connexion exist- ing between her husband and the only woman in the world with whom he could commit that crime. Her position towards Lord Byron was as that of Tamar to her half-brother Amnon. Mrs. Stowe tells us that the whole history of Lord and Lady Byron in its reality has long been perfectly understood in many circles in England. Mrs. Stowe always writes in a loose, care- less, inaccurate way, and in this instance she moreover indulges in very bad taste in telling her story. But we take the liberty of doubting this particular assertion. Per- haps a score of hideous tales were invented as the real histor) of Lord and Lady Byron, at the time of the separation; and we can- not say that Mrs. Stowes version was not one among many. We are sorry to say that we believe it to be the true one. But that it has long been known, or generally or even specially known in well-informed or an) other circles, we doubt. The very first time it was ever announced in print was three months before Mrs. Stowes publication. In an able and interesting paper published in the Temple Bar Maga- zine of Juno last on Lord Byrons Mar- ried Life, as far as we know this crime of 116 THE BYRON MYSTERY. incest was first publicly charged on Lord Byron, and we are bound to say that that article, remarkable for ability, good taste, and right feeling, has had far more effect in compelling us to the conclusion that this is the true solution of the mystery than Mrs. Stowes ~erv unpleasant narrative, or any confidence which we repose in a writer so inaccurate, and in other ways so positively repellent, as the authoress of Uncle Toms Cabin. Again, we sax-, we accept this version, not on acconnt of the external evi- dence which is brought to support it, so much as on its internal probability. And, first, we will endeavour to explain why our first impressions were against the authoritative disclosure published in iliac -inillans Magazine. Mrs. Stowe says, in substance, that Lady Byron was the most Christ-like person whom this later world has seen; that her whole object in life, between the years 1816 and 1860, was, with one exception made in the person of Mrs. Stowe, to keep to herself the great and dreadful secret of her life; that in spite of every taunt, challenge, insult, and pro- vocation on her husbands part, Lady By- ron maintained an inflexible silence during his life; that after his death the intense faithfulness and love to her hushand which survived private wrongs of the deepest kind to use the sentimental talk of the editor of Macmillans Magazine still com- pelled her to bear any misconstructions and misrepresentations rather than divulge the hideous truth. This conduct Lady Byron justified to herself on various grounds; some of them creditable, some nearly unin- telligible, or at most of very doubtful obli- gation, and some to which, as far as we can make out, any publication of the story under any circumstances is utterly opposed. If, as Mrs. Stowe tells us, one of Lady Byrons motives for screening her husband and sparing his memory was that she be- lieved in his ultimate salvation, and that the good angel would in the long run and in the next world expel the devil, we should say that this practical application of the Universalist doctrine, which it is well known Lady Byron after her youth adopted, estab- lishes a reason which, though we do not profess quite to understand its force, is as good now in 1869 as Lady Byron found it to be up to 1856 indeed to the day of her death in 1860. If again it was only to spare the feelings of Ada Lady Lovelace that her mother, Lady Byron, was so long and so mercifully silent, her daughters death in 1852 removed this reason. Again, when we are told that while there were other persons [living] on whom the dis closure of the real truth would have been crushing as an avalanche, Lady Byrons only course was the perfect silence in which she took refuge, we must remeiuber that, as early as 1851, the year before Lady Lovelaces death, the person who would have been most compromised by an) dis- closure had died. The fact remains that, from 1816 to 1860, Lad) Byron never gave this revelation to the world, nor commis- sioned any one else to give it. Moores Memoir was published in 1830. Lady By- ron on its publication corrected, explained, and vindicated herself on certain not ver) mnatem~al points ; but the truth that is, the whole truth she still declined to make publicly known. But twenty-six years afterwards, in 1856, four years before her death, and with her faculties not what they were, Lady Byron made Mrs. Stowes acquaintance. There was then an intention to publish a cheap edition of Byrons works; and Mrs. Stowe tells us that this circumn- stance induced some friends, whose names are not mentioned, but who we are to sup- pose were privy to the whole histor), to urge Lad)- Byron to ive for real version of her sad married life. We can hardly make head or tail of Mrs. Stowes vague and irrelevant story, but she asks us to be- lieve that Lady Byron partly assented and partly declined to make this revelation. It was her desire to recount the whole hstorv to a person of another country, and entirely out of the whole sphere of personal and local feelimigs . . . in order that she might be helped by such a persons views in making up an opinion as to her own duty. The person selected by Lady Byron for this purpose was Mrs. Beccher Stowe, and into her hands was placed a paper composed by Lady B)ron, contain- mo a brief memorandum of the whole, with the dates affixed. We pass by the obvi- ous objection that to choose Mrs. Beecher Stowe for her confidante and oracle can only be accounted for by the fact that Lady Byron was in extreme old age; and a gain that Mrs. Beecher Stowe got into Lady Byrons intimate confidence, and was niade the depositar) of a secret which had so religiously and for such religious reasons been concealed from the very best and highest people in England, only increases our admiration of or wonder at Mrs. Stowes very remarkable and peculiar qualities for recommending herself to great folks. Ac- cording to her own account, Mrs. Stowe advised her noble frietid that while this great act of justice did seem to be called for, and to be in some respects most desir- able, yet Lady Byron would be certainly THE BYRON MYSTERY. 11 justifiable in leaving the truth to be dis- reason which, if true, is quite inadequate to closed after her death, ending with a re- the occasion; and, further, as far as we can commendation that all the facts necessary make out, without the slightest justification should he put into the hands of some per- arising from any request on Lady Byrons sons to be published after Lady Byrons part. Stripped of its verbiage and sensa death. tionalism, Mrs. Stowes authentication and Now it is obvious to remark that, on authority amounts to this: That Lady Mrs. Beecher Stowes own showing, Lady Byron told her a certain history, and gave Byron never commissioned Mrs. Beecher her a memorandum of certain facts in 1856, Stowe, either before her death or after her asking for Mrs. Stowes opinicn whether death, to give to the whole world this loath- they should he then and there published by some revelation, or to write an article on Lady Byron for a certain reason in 1856. the Byron mystery in Macmillans Magazine, Mrs. Stowe advised against the publication or the Atlantic Monthly; that Mrs. Stowe in 1856; and now in 1869, thirteen years has not produced Lady Byron~s written afterwards, and suine years aftcr Lady By- memorandum, but only her own sensational rons death Mrs. Stowe publishes this his- amplification of it; and that, if Lady By- tory, authorized and empowered and corn- ron acceded and we have now a good missioned to do so by Mrs. Beecher reason for supposing that she did accede Stowe. to Mrs. Stowes own suggestion that the We have charged Mrs. Stowe with mac- facts should be put into the hands of some curacy. She is not even at the trouble of persons for publication, this intention of ascertaining Lady Byrons maiden name, Lady Byrons is rather strangely carrie(1 which she spells Milbank. Again, she says out by their publication by one person, and that Lady Byrons married life consisted of that person Mrs. Stowe, and in this very two years of convulsive struggle, & c. grotesque form. Lady Byrons solicitors Lady Byron was married on January, 2, have just told us that the very course re- 1815, and separated from her husband in commeuded by Mrs. Stowe was adopted by 1816. Again, Mrs. Stowe says, that a Lady Byron, who, in her will, executed short time after her confinement Lady By- shortly before her death, entrusted her ron wm informed by her husband, in a note, papers to certain trustees, thereby exciud- that as soon as she was able to travel she rug every other person than those trustees must go, that he could not, and would not Mrs. Beecher Stowe included from longer have her about him. Lady Byron making any use, public or private, of the herself, writing to Moore, only says, Lord great secret of her life. Byron has signified to me, in writing, his Mrs. Beecher Stowe, however, finds or absolute desire that I should leave London feigns an immediate vindication for her on the earliest day that I could convenient- contribution to Macmillans Magazine. ly fix, which lie might perhaps well do, That miserable book, the Countess Guiccio- considering that his house was full of exeen- lis Memoirs, she says, sells rapidly, and tions. But Lady Byron herself never says appears to meet with universal favour, and a word about the brutal could not and utterly misrepresents the truth. We differ, would not have her about him. Again; except in the last point, from Mrs. Beecher how does Mrs. Stowe, or we may ask, how Stowe. If the Guiccioli book is popular in could Lady Byron herself, reconcile the as- America we are sorry for American taste; sertion that after the discovery of the iiicest in Europe, we can assure her, it has only Lady Byron would neither leave him nor met with contempt, disgust and aversion. betray him with the fact, a most indis- Its barefaced impropriety has done nothing putable one, that Lady Byron made the but injure Byron even in the eyes of those first use of her liberty in consulting the who, unlike their fathers, have never been lawyers and doctors a very proper step fascinated by his genius or dazzled by his and in dictating arid compelling a separa- popularity. The fact is this, that Mrs. tion which, as the writer in Temple Bar Stowe could not keep the great secret con- observes, Lord Byron resisted as long as fidentially entrusted to her, and was burst- he could? ing for an opportunity to tell it, as much XVe proceed to the question, What is for the purpose of reviving our interest in gained by this revelation given to the world herself and of being the first to tell a horn- by Mrs. Beecher Stowe? Lord Byrons ble story, as of vindicating the memory of fame and influence have passed away. one who in the eyes of right-minded people Lady Byron was long ago vindicated. We wanted no vindicator. So she has told her knew quite enough when we knew that there ugly tale with great inaccuracy and care- was something unspeakably bad and wicked lessness, in the worst possible taste, for a which was the real cause of the separation; 118 TUE BYRON MYSTERY. and we wanted to know no more. The tarily. This is one thing, and a thing, world is generally just enough in its final whether right or wrong, very different from judgments; Byrons poetry has suffered, what has taken place namely, a revela- many think, undue depreciation, because tion made, not by Lady Byron, hut by Mrs. by a natural instinct we all knew that he Stowe, who never had the least authority to was ineffably vile and vicious. Moores make it. We may say even more than this. silly and improper hook imposed upon no- Lady Byron gave Mrs. Stowe a certain pa- body; even Macaulays vindication was per, containing certain facts and details. viewed as his one critical blunder; the Had i\lrs Stowe published this we should Countess Guicciolis nasty book has done have had something authentic, at least as far her more harm than good. In a word, is as Lady Byron is concerned. This paper the world one bit better for having its Mrs. Stowe has not published; and what- curiosity sated by the revelation of this ever the value of the article is, it is not tragic tale of incest and adultery P We Lady Byrons story. It is exactly and pre- could quite understand the other alterna- ciscly not that which the editor of Macmu- tive. Had Lady Byron fifty-three years lan describes it, Lady Byrons own state- ago, in the interests of religion and moral- inent ; it is not an authentic statement. ity, denounced the wretched husband had It is only Mrs. Stowes version of what she she, in order to avert the baleful influence says Lady Byron told her some thirteen which his specious and debasing poetry was or fourteen years ago. Its publication, as exercising over the minds of the susceptible we have said, is contrary to the spirit and in the days when the Corsair and Parisina letter of the advice which Mrs. Stowe her- and Don Juan were evil household words self; according to her own account, ten- had she, in the eternal interests of right dered to Lady Byron in 1836; and, which and truth, branded her wicked lord with his is Inost important, Lady Byrons solicitors incest and adultery, she would, in our judg- not only protest in the stroIlcrest terms ment, have done a service to society. But against Mrs. Stowes conduct as painful and now the interest in Lord Byron is much as distressing to Lady Byrons grandchildren, our interest in the sins of ~dipus or Byb- and as a gross breach of trust of the gray- lis and Caunus. A morbid and vulgar est description, and they indignantly de- curiosity is slaked, and with a baleful bev- nounce her conduct in a publication which erage. It is true that the name of Byron is simply scandalous. In this denunciation will he a hissing and a scorn to all genera- we heartily concur. tions; but if this is a gain to the world, it The more important matter, however, is to he regretted that the last generation, remains. Mrs. Beecher Stowe may have who suffered the most by Byrons popular- been guilty of bad taste, may have been in- ity, was deprived of this antidote to his fluenced by low motives, n~ty have acted poisonous influence. Southeys ghost will without authority or even in breach of thith probably rejoice that there existed so true in telling the tale as and where she has told a justification, though unkno~vn to him, of it, may have blundered in telling it, may his phrase of the Satanic school. But we have timiled in estabhishijing its authenticity, are not so sure that some foolish people nay have produced insufficient evidence for among ourselves may not he misledhy Lady it; and after all the tale, itself might pos B~rons amiable sophistry that her husband siblv, depending as it does solely on Lady after all was half angel, even though she has Bsrons assertion, be an hallucination to left ample proof that he was a fierce and which women at the time of childbirth are unmitigated devil to use his own de- occasionally subject; but the (luestion re- scription of himself, mains Is the story, through whatever un A single word more on this part of the pleasant channel it reaches us, true P have subject. The duty suggested by her we got the solution of the great mystery P friends to Lady Byron in 1856 was specific. For the truth of the story is quite independ- Mrs. Stowe thus describes it : One last cut of the particular form, which is unsatis- act of sclf-denial was required of her before factory enough, in wldch we receive it. As leaving the world namely, to declare the we have already hinted, we think, though absolute truth, no matter at what expense we think with reluctance, that the balance to her own feelings. Whether this advice of probability is on the whole much in its was sound or not is immaterial; but here fkvour. It is intrinsically probable, and was a special issue placed before Lady something iuore than probable, not only Byron, and she declined to take it. That from internal evidence but from a whole issue was that she, Lady Byron, and she cloud of small corroborative external de- alone, and in her own person, was to make tails, not one of which perhaps is in itself the revelation on her own part, and volun- conclusive, but the cumulative force of THE BYRON MYSTERY. 119 which taken together seems to he irresist- force in his life, holding him with a morbid fas- ible. The argument is of a critical nature, cination, yet filling him with remorse, anguish, and, though possibly weak in this or that and insane dread of detection. Two years after single link, becomes very impressive from his refusal by Miss Millbank [it was less than the multitude of indirect and casual illustra- two years, aiid the ladys name, as everybody but Mrs. Stowe knows, was Milbanke], his va- tions and slight confirmations of which it is rious friends, seeing that for some cause he was capaple. Lord Byron was an only child; wretched, pressed a marriage upon him. his half-sister Augusta Maria was an only child, and her mother was a divorde. It is stated by Moore that the b~rother and sister seldom, perhaps scarcely ever, met in early life. Augusta was born in 1783 or 1784, her mother, Lady Carnarvon, dying in the year of her birth; Byron was born in 1788. In 1807 Augusta Maria Byron mar- ried Colonel Leigh. It was in 1813 that Byron made his first offer to Miss Milbanke. According to Moores Memoirs it was about March, 1814, that Augusta Leighs name first occurs in Byrons Correspondence, and in the fragmentary diary which he be- gun in November, 1813, and destroyed, in some violent fit of some sort of passion, in April, 1814, concluding it with a frenzied passage, of which the last words are, 0, fool! I shall go mad. On September 15, 1814, he made his second offer to Miss Milbanke; was accepted; married January 2, 1815, and the crash came in January, 1816. Now, according to Lady Byron or rather from Lord Byrons own avowal, as quoted by Lady Byron in Mrs. Stowes narrative (Macmillan, p. 387) it was in the interval between his first and second proposals to Miss Milbanke that the great sin of his life was committed ; that is, at some time in the year 1814, and the period covered by his fragmentary diary; prob- ably in the spring or summer of 1S14. Byron on his wedding-day is reported by Mrs. Stowe and Lady Byron to have said to his bride: You might have saved me fromthis, Madam! you had all in your own power when I offered myself to you first. Then you might have made me what you pleased; but now you will find that you have married a devil. This can but mean that he had lately be- come a devil, and that this diabolical trans- formation occurred soon after, or, as he wished to infer, because Miss Milbanke had rejected him. Mrs. Stowe herself fixes this date. He made an offer of marriage to Miss Milbanke they continued a correspondence from the height which might have made him happy as the husband of a noble wo- man, he fell into the depths of a secret adulter- ous intrigue with a blood relation, so near in consanguinity, & c. . . . . from henceforth this damning guilty secret became the ruling The rest requires no repetition. We have gone through Moores Memoirs relating to this period, 1813-1815, and it is unquestionable and undeniable that it af- fords great corroboration to Mrs. Stowes or lady Byrons narrative. Byrons life up to that time had been bad enough: but now there appears something secret, mysterious, and hidden, a frequent reference to some especial guilt and agony, which shows that something had happened very different from all that had happened before, some guilt different in kind from the un- clean and coarse and drunken life of the l)revious years. It is not so much on what Byron says, as on what he hints, that we found this judgment. There is, we kn~w, in cases of great sin a strange, unnatural, or perhaps natural, dallying and playing round the fatal secret. It is concealed per- haps, but it is always on the very point of being revealed, as though, which is per- haps true, that there were some horrid fas-. cination in crime which all but compels the criminal to avow it. Read by the lurid light of Mrs. Stowes narrative, what Byron said in his letters to Moor at this time, what he inserted in his Diary, and the poems which he wrote, become of the highest in- terest and significance. Some passages from Moores book we ex- tract. The very first mention of Augusta Leigh occurs in the l)iary : March 22, 1814. She is a friend of Augustas and whatever she loves I cant help liking. March 28. Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I have refused every [sic] body else, but I cant deny her anything; so I must een do it. April 10. 1 do not kiiow that I ama happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I never am long in the society even of her I love (God knows too well, and time Devil piob- ably too) without a yearning for the company of my lamp. And a week afterward the journal was (lis- continued. We turn to the correspondence with Moore: Feb. 4, 1814. Mrs. Leigh is with meat New- stead. March 3 [after returning to Lon~1on]. I have a great mind to tell you that i a in uncom- fortable if only to make you come to town. there is no one to whom I would sooner turn for consolation . . . The truth is, I have no lack of argumeut to ponder upon of the most 120 THE BYRON MYSTERY. gloomy description, but this comes from other causes here is nothing U~3Ofl the spot either to love or hate, but I certainly have subjects for both at no very great distance. March 12. Guess darkly. . . . At pres- ent I shall say no more, and, perhaps but no matter. April 9. 1 have more or less been breaking a few of the favourite commandments but I mean to pull will have me. up and marry if any one At this moment Byron declared a sudden resolution, which, however, he did not keep, never to write again; and from other notices, the exchange of books and letters, we find that he was in daily communication with his half-sister. May 4, he sends Moore a song, which, by the way, was never published till after his death, which seems at this time significant I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame; $ $ * * 4 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours can their joy or their bitter- ness cease? We repent we abjure we will break from our chain, We will part wewill fly to unite it again Oh! thine be the gladness and mine be the guilt & c. & c. & c. As we have said, not one of these ex- pressions is conclusive, but taken together they become important. We now come to the separation. Pass- ing over the brief year of married life, Lady Byrons conduct, as we have all along known it, her consultation with Dr. Baillie, Sir Samuel Roinilly, and Dr. Lushington, are familiar to everybody. Dr. Lushing- ton, who had at first thought a reconcilia- tion probable, on further information corn- municated by Lady Byron, altered his opin- ion, declared it to be impossible, and ad- ded that if such an idea should be enter- tamed, he could not, professionally or otherwise, take any part towards effecting it. The wiiter in Temple Bar, to whose acute paper, published three months before Mrs. Stowes we have already done justice, argues with great force that whatever the offence in Lord Byrons case was, it must have been in the eyes of this great ecclesi- astical lawyer equivalent to that which the house of Lords had in a celebrated judg- ment declared to be of such an aggravated nature that duty to God and man madc reconciliation impossible. That offence was incest. No doubt it may be argued that all that Dr. Lushington had to guide him in coming to this conclusion was Lady Byrons own unsupported assertion. This is quite true; and the question narrows it- self to this, on which, everybody must form their own conclusions. Was Lady Byrons revelation to Dr. Lushington a mere crazy fancy and hallucination, or are there inde- pendent and corroborative circumstances which Lady Byron could not have invented, which iiivest her story with a high degree of internal probability? As we have said, the balance of proof in our judgment leans to the latter alternative. With that proof we proceed. As soon as Byron was clear of England, he wrote the famous verses To Augusta, which were never published till after his death, beginning My sister, my sweet sister. It is certainly open to anybody to say that it might be only frateriial love which dic- tated the very strong language of this re- markable poem; it is alsn certain, on the other hand, that, read by the light of Lady Byrons story, these strange lines are also susceptible of a very differcnt and blacker interpretation. As we have said before, taken by itself, this poem concludes noth- ing: taken in connexion with other things, it seems to mean a good deal. The person to whom they were addressed, it must not be forgotten, had a. husband, and, as the Peerage tells us, issue. Poets may ad- dress their sisters in very affectionate lan- guage, but they seldom talk of living, and living for ever, with a married woman, even though she may be a favourite half- sister: Go where I will, to me thou art the same, A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny A world to roam through, and a home with thee. The first were nothing - had I still the last, It were the haven of niy happ3ness: even at moments I would think I see Some living thing to love, but none like thee. 5 * * * * Oh! that thou wert but with me $ * * * * Had I but sooner learnt * * * * F I had been better than I now can be. The passions which have torn me would have slept, I had not suffered, and thou had not wept. * * * * * We were, and are I am, even as thou art Beings who neer each other can resign: * * * * We are entwined, let death come slow or fast. Byrons first literary work after the sepa THE BYRON MYSTERY. 121 ration was to write Manfred, a ghastly tale the interest of which centres on incest. We are quite aware that poets and drama- tists are not to be identified with the char- acters or plots which they draw. Racine wrote Phidre, but this is no proof that he or any other tragedian practised the vices of the characters which he draws. We cer- tainly cannot agree with Mrs. Stowes wild assertion that anybody who reads Man- fred with this story in his mind will see that it the story we suppose is true. But when it is said, on the other hand, as has been said by a writer in the Times, that it is impossible that a man with the secret of incest on his soul would have written Manfred, we should say, for the psychological reason to which we have already referred, this is a very likely thing for him to do. This view of the real sig- nificance of Manfred is illustrated by a re- markable passage in a letter to Murray of July 9, 1817, soon after its publication. and referring to a critique which had been sent by Murray to Byron Send me the rest; and also p. 270 where there is an account of the supposed origin of this dreadful story; in which, by the way, whatever it may be, the conjecturer is out, and knows nothin~ of the matter. I had a better origin [for Manfred] than he can de- vise or divine, for the soul of him. But this summer of 1816 was spent not only in writing Manfred but in Shelleys company; and Shelley at that very moment was en- gaged in writing the Revolt of islam, a di- rect and elaborate vindication of incest and which, if we remember rightly, in its original form as Laon and Gythna was even even more offensive than it now is. We have heard an ingenious but over-fanciful specu- tion that Astarte, the strange name of the incestuous sister in Manfred, contains a sort of anagram of the principal letters of the name of Byrons half-sister. But this is probably a casual coincidence. The drama of Gain, on which Mrs. Stowe rests so much as confirming the charge of in- cest, is of much later date. To conclude. Is it probable, or even possible, that Mrs. Stowe invented this his- tory? Most improbable all but impos- sible. Is it probable, or even possible, that Lady Byron invented this history P Most improbable all but impossible. Is it probable, or even possible, that Lady Byron, without intending to misstate or misunderstand, did take an serie some foolish and culpable affectation of vice, some swagger and boast on her husbands part of some great and secret crime, which only existed in his own morbid imagination, and was only uttered for the sake of an- noying his wife, and in his ordinary or ex- traordinary evil temper? Just possible but very improbable. Is the story an hal- lucination on Lady Byrons part? Not at all likely but of course possible. If therefore there is nothing absolutely to dis- credit Mrs. Stowes truthfulness or Lady Byrons truthfulness, and if the probabilities against illusion or misunderstanding are so great, we are driven to the conclusion that, on the whole, the history in its essence that is, as a charge of incest is more likely on all accounts to be true than not. That it ought never to have appeared in this most unsatisfactory form, and that great blame attaches to the author of the revela- tion, we make no doubt. A FIELD TRANSFORMED INTO A LAKE. at all events, there is reason to believe that the 7 NEW ADDITION TO AUSTRIAN scENERY. lake received no contribution to its waters from the river though the contrary may be possible. THE .Nbrth-German Correspondent says: I The water ofthe stream is said to be chemically A singular phenomenon has been witnessed different from that contained in the newly-dis in the vicinity of a village in Upper Austria. covered natural reservoir. On Thursday, Au~ust 19, the soil covering sev- As may be supposed, all sorts of theories eral yokes of land in the neighborhood of Moll, have been invented to explain this phenomenon. a few leagues from the town of Steyer, suddenly According to one of them, the ground had been fell in with a crasil like thunder, and wh~re the gradually undermined by the action of subter oats were waving a few seconds before, there ranean water, and the fall of the roof of the space suddenly appeared a lake. The water of this thus hollowed out occurred as a matter of course. newest addition to Upper Austrian scenery is The village of Moll is situated at a considerable clear, its temperature is very low, and it is said elevation above the level of the sea, and the to have much resemblance to that of the glacier spot where the lake is now to be found was be- lakes. Though the river Steyer passes the. fore this unexpected change a gently undulating place at no great distance, it does not appear plain. that any communication exists between them; 122 From The Saturday Review. THE EMPERORS HEALTH. AN English journalist may be excused from taking any active part in the contro- versv which has lately raged in the French newspapers upon the nature of the EM- PERORS illness. Whether he holds with the optimists that it was rheumatism, or with the alarm ists that it was exhaustion consequent upon a triflincr surgical opera- tion, does not make much difference to his estimate of the case. That the EMPERORS life has not been in any serious danger is shown by the visit of the EMPRESS and the PRINCE IMPERIAL to Corsica; that his health is less good than the Journal Ofticiel would have us believe is suggested by the extreme shortness of their stay there. The vendors of false rumours and equally false contradictions have done their utmost to mystify the public, and, in a matter on which the fears of some and the hopes of others are violently excited, it is not strange that they should have been success- ful. It is an ill wind that blows good to no one, and the most that can be said on the subject is that, after a fall of more than a franc and a half in the French funds, it will be odd if somebody does not make his fortune. Trifles will sometimes serve as well as greater events to dispel a fancied security, and if any one thought that France has no longer the capacity of becoming a Euro- pean anxiety, his confidence must have been rudely shaken by the occurrences of the past week. They have shown us how much and how little we owe to NAPOLEON 111. There are weighty items on both sides of the account. Under the Second Empire. France has ceased to be a revolu- tionary Power. She has been formidable to diplomatists and statesmen from their uncertainty as to the uses to which her great military strength might possibly be turned, but she has not been formidable to society. The Empire has always presented itself as the incarnation of order and sta- bilitv. To NAPOLEON III. must be at- tributed the calm in(lifference with which the well-to-do world has listened to the So- cialist speculations of which there has been so fruitful a crop of late years. It is he who has enabled us to take a purely literary interest in M. hUGOS novels, in M. BLANCS histories, in M. PROUDHONS p0- litical economy, in the frank admission of certain Cointist theologians that in the good time coining Christianity will be strictly proscribed in favour of the religion of hu- inanity. None of these various utterances have availed to disturb our composure, be- THE EMPERORS HEALTH. cause between us an4 the accomplishment of any one of them ha~ stood the Emperor of the FRENCH. France is the moral hot- bed in which these moral and intellectual seedlings are nursed into life and vigour, arid as long as NAPOLEON III. controls the fermentation there is no fear of their grow- ing up unchecked. If France had remained a Republic these wild theories might have been the watchwords of political parties. Since NAPOLEON III. has taken the Gov- ernment into his hands they have for the most part been relegated to the hole-and- corner discussions of obscure enthusiasts. And yet, when we turn to what the EM- PEROR has not done, and compare it with what a man with the same opportunities and different antecedents might have effected in his place, there is ground for bitter disap- pointmnent. The Second Empire has un- posed a truce on the factions which it found contending for the control of the French nation. But it is a truce which has con- tributed nothing towards the conclusion of a lasting peace. The mere hint of the possible imminence of the EMPERORS death has shown the entire absence of belief in the institutions he has founded. He has kept France quiet for eighteen years, and that is all. The forces on the ultimate ac- tion of which depends the future of the country have been hermetically sealed, but they are ready to reappear in their old strength when the stopper is removed and the free air admitted. If the EMPEROR had taught France the art of self-government she might by this time have learned the les- son so thoroughly as to be able to dispense with her teacher. A generation would have grown up accustomed to Parliamentary in.~ stitutions and Parliamentary contests. The extreme democracy would have found an arena in which to air its theories, and it might have gathered wisdom from political experience, or been discredited, by politcal failure. Even if the EMPEROR had never tried his hand at saving France from her- self, the same result might have been at- tained, though the comi(litions of the experi- ruent might have been less favourable. Let it be granted that the period between 1851 and 1869 would have been confused and violent, the political atmosphere would still have been cleared by the storm. There is nothing gained by the postponement of a struggle, unless the interval is turned to good account. It cannot be said that the condition of France the day after the EM- PERORS death will be superior in any sin- gle respect to its condition when he seized the throne. The coup d~tat, and the vote that followed it, have witnessed to the THE EMPERORS HEALTH. 123 strength of Conservatism in France, but a Conservatism which is powerless to create is of little use in a country whose institu- tions have once been revolutionized. Even in 1851 the French Conservatives would have been unable to maintain their position if they had not found in NAPOLEON IlL a leader who united in his own person an un- usual number of contradictory titles to sup- port. They have done nothing since that date to increase their hold on France. No popular institution can trace its origin to their practical wisdom; no consistent for- eign policy bears witness to their patri- otism. Like the EMPEROR, they have had their opportunity, and like him, they have been unable to profit by it. It is not probable that the EMPEROR can be blind to his failure. however strongly he may have believed in personal govern- inent before making trial of it in his own person, his faith must be singularly unrea- soning if it has survived that crucial test. Even he himself can hardly have regarded it as snore than a uselbl interlude in a peo- ples history more admirable perhaps in itself than any other part of their annals, but necessarily dependent upon the advent at the right moment of a capable personal governor, lie has hoped no doubt to leave France this essential requisite in the person of his son, but he must have felt at the same time how many adverse chances might interfere with the realization of this wish. If Napoleon III. is to be credited with any thing higher than a purely dynastic am- bition and that he is to be so credited is shown by his whole career he must have cherished some dream that France would develop new political capabilities under his paternal guidance, so that even if he died without a successor, she would be the bet- ter for the years he had governed her. lie must be strangely sanguine if he thinks this still. Personal government has had the ef- feet that fetters always have upon the limbs of grown men it has cramped and par- alySC(l them. In every essential respect France is less lit to govern herself wisely now than she was in the autumn of 1851. in a matter like this there is no medium between extremes. Either a nation must be charged with its own affairs, be held re- sponsible for its own acts, and reap the consequences of its own errrors, or it must lose by degrees the faculty of gui(ling it- self rightly. The degree of self-govern- ment that a people has once possessed measures the minimum which it can do with afterwards. It may be that the conscious- ness of ill-health has borne its share in in- ducing the EMPEROR to concede the Sena- tus Consultuin. Had he been able to promise himself a longer lease of life, he might have clung more persistently to the theory that France was being gradually educated under the Imperial systcn. The unmistakable warnings of disease iiiay have driven him to admit that he cannot count upon the time which is wanted to bring out the perfbct result; and under this convic- tion he may have decided to rear in its place some hardier and quicker-growing plant. At all events he has just received an unmistakable hint that if he shrinks Irons the experiment, there are others who will be ready to try it. The speech of Prince NAPOLEON is an ominous syin~)tonm for the stability of the Imperial dynasty in the direct line. A woman and a child would have but a poor chance against a pretender of the same blood, with unstained Demo- cratic antecedents, and a recipe in his pocket for extracting tIme good from revo- lutions. If the EMPEROR wishes the re- storation of liberty to be identified with his own name, and not his cousins, he has no time to lose. The aspect of affairs in France can hardly be called favourable to such an at- tempt. The sense of uncertainty with which everything is surrounded is I iir more lilkely to generate excitement and passion t.han the calmness and self-comitrol of which the country is in need at this moment. The party that has most faith in its own prospects, that is most assured in its pos- session of the Ibture, is naturally the one ~vhich is most likely to gather strength and confidence in such a conjuncture. It is neither the Imperialists, nor the Left Cen- tre, nor even, we fbar, the Moderate Oppo- sition, that shows most traces of this tein- per. One advantage, however, Lurope will probably gain from the EMPEISORS illness. If he has ever been tempted to cut the knot of domestic perplexities by a foreign ~var, the state of his health will be a sufli cient motive to in(luce him to lay the idea aside. A contest in which lie could bear no active part can have imo charms for NAPO- LEON III. The anxieties inseparable from its prosecution might shorten what remains to him of life, and his last hours might be embittered by the fbar that in a popular General he had been raising up a rival to his son. 124 THE FUTURE FOR FRANCE. From The Pall Mall Gazette. THE FUTURE FOR FRANCE. THE rapidity with which events are mov- ing in France, is of itself alone portentous. Unphilosophical as the feeling may be, it is impossible to witness the rush of change there, or rather the hurry of circumstance, interests, opinions, from stability to dissolu- tion and incertitude, without an apprehen- sion of some swift catastrophe. Only six months ago France was seen steadily going about its business, with no apparent doubt that any to-morrow would be different from the present day. Now it is like a man over- taken in the field by eclipse strange airs chilling him, his hands relaxed from the plough as he looks up in fear and ready to fly. That the change was inevitable, that precisely what we now see was sure to come to pass sooner or later, is a prediction which the readers of this journal were Ikmnil- iar with long ago. But we scarcely expect- ed that its fulfillment would begin so soon, or that, beginning as it did, it would hurry so fast. No prediction could be more easy or more safe, based as it was upon a more familiar certainty than any other namely, that no man lives for ever. Now, though it is never polite, it is sometimes necessary, to speak of the death of a man while he is yet living; and it is unquestionable that the French Emperor must die. Equally true it is, as a letter-writer in the fUmes said on Monday, that the true and only Constitution of the French Empire is the life of its chief and ruler. And therefore when the one ceases to be the other must dissolve. The day of the Emperors death will not necessarily leave France without a Sovereign the throne and somebody on it, the purple and somebody in it, will be there, for the time at any rate; but all the constituted means of government will drop lifeless when the Emperors own constitu- tion fails. He is the only authority France knows or has known for a generation. The seat of government is his brain, and there the legislation of the country begins and is determined; the executive power is in his hands working, even in the pers~ of the smallest mnaire of the remotest department, from his fingers. That this should be so, lit- erallv, is a necessity of successful personal government, and the explanation of its suc- cess. 1o exist, C~sarismn must be complete at all points; and in Napoleons C~sarism there has been no flaw. But it follows of necessity likewise, in such cases, that when the brain at last is darkened, down hills the seat of government; authority dies out with the extinguished will: and what are the best of tools made only for hands that are lifeless? If these considerations be just, they show that the tranquillity and good government of France have been long in jeopardy; but nothing was said of the dan- ger, nothing thought of it apparently, till advancing )Cars made that iuiiuinent which at any hour was possible. Then a little gen- tle and remote speculation arose in l)rivate about the consequences of what must hap- pen some day; then here and there (here certainly) some warnings were given as to the natural inevitable penalties of personal government under such conditions as pre- vail in France; and within a few months the nation is at a stand, looking helpless upon these same unfortunate conditions, in the midst of which the Imperialist edifice is crumbling to pieces. That a sudden general perception of the prospects of gov- ernnient in France, its immediate i)rospects, startletl the country into the agitation which forced the reforms of 1869 we do not doubt at all; and the Emperor s illness has had the double effect of exhibiting and increas- ing the general anxiety of Framice. how great that anxiety was is shown by the fict, among others, that it moved even the stolid, determined belief of f lie Times that both France and the Emperor have just begun life anew, thanks to a beneficent and mirac- ulous Senatus-Consultumn. The rumours of Saturday, the undeniable fact that phy- sicians and surgeons have beemi standiiig at the four corners of Napoleons bed, (lid at last shake the hand with which the fUmes keeps a bandage omi its eyes; but no sooner is he reported better, and the Empress off to Corsica, than our contemporary is blind- folded and at ease again. As if there were any truth or probability in what the friends of the French Court iii England have been asserting of the Emperor and his reforms ever since they were announced: Personal government, it was confessed, hail failed, and there was to be an end of it. But it was the Emperor himself who had made the dis- covery; and it was purely of his own will that France became a constitutional country at once, with a real Legislattire, imidepenlent Ministers, disciplined parties, anml all the apparatus of habit and tradit.ioii which goes to make up a parliamentary system, and which elsewhere has always beemi the slow growth of long and troubled years. Over and over again we have been told that the proposed reforms originated in tIme Linpe mrs owmm mind, that they were prepared by himn with forethought for this special tine, and that they cannot fail of their odjects namely, the safe and easy restoram on of parliamentary government to France, and the final establishment of his dvtmast v on the THE FUTURE FOR FRANCE. 125 throne. In the first place it is not true that Napoleon ever meant to give his country the liberties she now hopes she has got. There is proof of it under his own hand, in a letter to M. Ollivier written little more than a year since, in which he declared him- self resolved never to (10 what he has now done, and, what is more, justified the re- fusal of concessions by precisely the consid- erations which we are now told determined their establishment. What he said to M. Ollivier at the close of 1867 was this Believe me that what restrains me is neither incertitude nor a vain infatuation for my prerog- atives, but the fear of depriving myself of the means of re-establishing in this country, dis- turbed by so many diverse passions, that moral order which is the essential basis of liberty. Nevertheless in order to strike the public mind (pour frapper les espirits) by decisive measures, I wish at a stroke to establish what is called the crowning of the ediflee ; I wish to do it so that I need not go Iback upon it (ne pies y revenir) ; for it concerns me, and, above all, it concerns the country, that things should be definitively settled. It is necessary to trace resolutely the end I desire to attain, with- out having the appearance of being drawn on year after year into successive concessions ; for one always fails, as M. Guizot has said, on the side to which one leans, and I wish to go straight and firm, without swerving either to right or left. But now the Times, the Telegraph, and other Bonapartist papers wish us to under- stand that the concessions of 1869 were long ago determined in the Emperors own mind, and that, according to their design, they do away with all doubt as to the peace- ful continuation of the Empire and the suc- cession of Napoleons heir. It is simply a common measure of prudence, they say. A man of sixty sets his house in order, and makes due security for the future of his son. But it is not generally called prudence to postpone such a settlement till sixty, and we see that at fifty-nine Napoleon was of opinion that this particular prudential mea- sure would bring nothing but ruin. It may be that the Emperor has learned in one year that the whole policy of his rule has been a mistake, but even if so. we do not believe him capable of imagining that by reversing it now he can avert its consequen- ces. Mistake or none, he would if he could pursue it to the end, supposing that years and bodily distress still leave him his own man. For it is too late to reverse it. A political system may exist too long to be quietly taken to pieces bit by bit; and we fancy Napoleon would find that to be the case with his system by this time, even if he were assured of a dozen years of life and vigour to disestablish it with his own hand, But there is no such certainty; on the con- trary, there is great uncertainty; and, as we have seen again within the last few days, this very incertitude is sapping the founda- tions of the throne while the Emperor still sits on it. Naturally it is precisely what was to be expected from the beginning. The Emperor chose to continue, through many years of unbounded popularity, of vast, absolute, unquestioned powcr, the Cmsarian system of government; lie did it although, in the ditlereiice of his years with those of his only son, in thc knowledge that his constitution was flawed, in the con- sciousness that, though majesty and power made him many tools and servaiits, it ad- ded not oiie to the little knot of stanch, au- dacious, clever men upon whom alone he could fully rely lie jealously maintained the sxstemn, we say, though in these circum- stances he had so much reason to mistrust his chances of leaving imperial iiower unim- paired to his son. And now the conse- quences overtake him. his son is a boy, and umust remain a boy for some time to come ; the regency of his mother, should it ever happen, is expected not to be a per- sonal government, but a government of priests and marshals t.hat is to say, the most odious of all conceivable governments; the anciemit adherents of the Empire have almost all dropped into the grave, leaving to no surviving Imperialists their ability and vigour; in fine, there is no potentiality ot C~sarism, so to speak, out of the person of the.Emnperor himselL That it will flourish as long as he lives and reiuns in France and shows that he lives and reigns is to be expected; that it will cease at his death, and that therewith the whole fr~mnework of authority as then constituted will fall to pieces, is our own persuasion; that he will live and reign a long while yet, so that France may have time, if she can only find prescience and skill, to moderate and pre- pare for the confusions that must come afterward, is our hope. The death of the Emperor just now would be a catastrophe; if he lives on and governs wisely, it may be something less; and that is as much as the present aspect of ahlkirs allows us to expect. The Times seems to think that Prince Napoleon is very much to blame is, in- deed, almost criminal, in not stepping for- ward at such a juncture as this, as a new Bonapartist pillar of Imperialism; whereas lie seems (lisposed to assert his anti-Im- periahismn louder than ever. Supposing the Times to write in the interests of the family, which we cannot question, there seems to 126 THE FUTURE FOR FRANCE. be reason to doubt whether its indignation is in this case well-informed. Prince Napo- leons support would not suffice for the re- quired service. He could not delay the downfall of Imperialism for a single day. But if he cannot serve the family as an liii- perialist, he may serve it as a Republican; and, in fact, every reigning family would do well to have a known Republican mein- her in reserve for eventualities. Consider- ing the relations of the Emperor and the Prince, the peculiar public relations they have held from the beginning of the Second Empire, it has sometimes occurred to us that in Jeromes son we might behold such a reserve, more or less by agreement be- tween the august parties. This can be said for the supposition at any rate: it puts the Emn erors position and his dynastic policy in a more reasonable and hopeful light. THE SUMMER POOL. THERE is a singing in the summer air, The blue and brown moths flutter oer the grass, The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat, And percbd upon the honeysuckle-hedge Pipes the green liiinet. 0 the golden world The stir of life on every blade of grass, The motion and the joy on every bough, The glad feast everywhere, for things that love The sunshine, and for things that love the shade! Aimlessly wandering with weary feet, Watching the woolly clouds that wander by, I come upon a lovely place of shade, A still green pool where with soft sound and stir The shadows of oer-hanging branches sleep, Save where they leave one dreamy space of blue, Oer whose soft stillness ever and anon The feathery cirrus blows. Here unaware I pause, and le fling on my staff Iadd A shadow to the shadows ; and b~sold Dim (Ireams steal down upon me, with a hum Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs, The dusky stir and motion dwelling here Within the small green world. Oer shadow~d By dusky greenery, tho all around The sunshine throbs oii fields of wheat and bean, Downwai(l I gaze into the dreamy blue, And pass into a waking sleep, wherein The green bou0hs rustle, feathery wreaths of cloud Pass softly piloted by golden airs, The air is still, no bird sings any more, And, helpless as a tiny flying thing, I am alone in all the world with God. After absolutism, republicanism that is the rule generally; after republicanism, mon- archy that also holds good in France particularly. Our meaning is now trans- parent. We can well imagine the failure of Bonapartist Imperialism followed by an attempt at a Bonapartist Republicanism, and the plain principles of ~9;to be fol- lowed, in the customary bouleversement of affairs in France and the due evolution of les ideas NapoUoniennes, by monarchy under Napoleon IV., now Prince Imperial. This, however, is but a guess, a hint for rumina- tion. It is beyond the range of the immediate future which we are now discussinr, and in which we pretend to see only one thing clear the speedy utter downfall of the system of government which has dominated France for twenty years: it, and all its creatures. The wind dies not a leaf stirs in the pool The fly scarce moves ; earth seems to hold her breath Until her heart stops, listening silently For the far footsteps of the coining Rain! While thus I pause, it seems that I have gained New eyes to see ; my brain grows sensitive To trivial things that, at another hour, Had passed unheeded. Suddenly the air Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I stand Tremble and blacken ; the, blue eye o the pool Is closed and clouded; with a shrill sharp cry, Oiliiig its wings, a swallow darteth past, And weedling flowers beneath my feet thrust up Their leaves to feel the coming shower. 0 hark! The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs, And up above me, on the glistening boughs, Patters the summer rain Into a nook, Screend by thick foliage of oak and beech, I creep for shelter; and the summer shower Murmurs around me. In a dream I watch And listen. 0 the sweetness of the sounds, The pattering rain, the murmurous sighs of leaves, The deep warm breathing of the s~enited air, They sink into my soul until at last Comes the soft ceasing of the genitle fill, And ho the eye of blue withiiii the pool Opens again, while in a silvern gleimn The jewels twimikle moistly on the leaves, Or,. shaken dowmiward by the summer wind, Fall melting on the pool in rings of light All the ~iuiir Round. 127 FORTHCOMING CHANGES IN EUROPEAN POLITICS. From The Pall Mall Gazette. that of establishing a certain basis for the FORTHCOMING CHANGES IN EUROPEAN political relations of different countries. POLITICS. These treaties have given us a practical ii WHATSOVER may be the issue of the pres- lustration of the proverb, Bad rule better ent reforms in France, they must greatly than no rule ; for they kept Europe at contribute to change the course of European peace for more than thirty years, and pro- politics, at d the farther they are carried the claimed the principle of European equilib- greater will be their influence. Whether rium in critical cases even long after this the immediate results of such a change will e(1uilibrium had been disturbed and the be for better or for worse is another ques- basis of the treaties weakened by the tion; but the change must take place and we events in Poland and France in 30, and by should he prepared for it. the general conflict between peoples and The reasons for expecting such a change Governments in 48. And if during this are various, and the most important of them period Continental Governments often quite obvious. While England was the only showed an inclination to violate the balance European country with a parliamentary form of power, England had the strongest inter- of government and with a free press, all the est in preventing such violations by others important political questions of the Conti- and no good reason for attempting them it- nent, for fifty years, were practically (Ic- self. And thus it was that England became cided by the intervention or non-intervention the arbiter and regulator of European poli- of this country. And the chances of this tics, a position which was naturally strength- intervention or non-intervention could al- ened by the part the country played in the ways be calculated with considerable safety. Coalition. Such was the part we then had The various European Cabinets, receiving to play; and while it was a very advanta- our newspapers together with our official geous one to us, it was beneficial to other despatches, were perfectly able to appre- European nations, with the least offence to ciate not only the policies of the Government. their pride and the least embarrassment to but the temper and opinion of the count.ry. their designs. It was beneficial because So great, indeed, were the chances of suc- there can be no doubt we prevented many cessful calculation in this way that the only conflicts; it was comparatively inoffensive instance of a mistake since the time of the because, as we have already explained, Vienna Congress is that of the Emperor Engjand always gave fair opportunities of Nicholas when he resolved upon his last calculating beforehand the course she was war: unfortunately he did not care, as he likely to take. said, for what those patent and water- This noble and advantageous position is proof bulldogs are declaiming; he knew well no longer ours. We have now a new part that his friends Bright and Cobden would to play in Europe. The treaties of 1815 are bring them to reason. But the political dead: not by decree of the Emperor Napo- perspicacity of the late Russian Emperor leon indeed, as he himself more or less im- was peculiar; and with the single exceptioii agines, but of natural causes. All the pom- he presents to us, no European Sovereign pous declarations of the French Emperor can be accused of mistaking the position and about their decease are merely proclama- the spirit of England. Indeed, several of tions of a fait accompli. The first great their undertakings have been chiefly founded blow was inflicted on them by the events of upon our too openly proclaimed system of 1848; the second blow was afterwards in- non-intervention: of which the last Polish flicted in Italy; Poland, Sleswick-Ilolstein, and Prussian affairs are capital instances, and Sadowa finished them in such a way as This system, like every political system, to make post-mortem examination idle. consistently and therefore too exclusively Whether it is for good or harm that the old carried out, has its advantages as well as its foundation stone of European policy is skit- disadvantages; and since England has al- tered, t.o what degree we ourselves are an- ready enjoyed the former, it is probable swerable for the ills that may follow its de- that she will soon be called upon to pay the struction, we may consi(ler on some future natural penalty; but the sum of our disad- occasion ; all that we wish to sax~ now is that vantages will greatly depend upon our own there is no longer any kind of staniped po- capacity to understand what the new time litical weighing-machine in Europe. The promised for France means to other Eu- balance of power has fallen to pieces under ropean nations, and to our own in partic- i the hand that held it. The ponderative rSle, ular. so to speak, which England so long enjoyed The treaties of 1815, notwithstanding all is made impracticable in future by one the natural weakness of the primiciples in- change alone out of many. As long as the volved in them, had one incontestable merit Great European Powers were at a certain 128 FORTHCOMING CHANGES IN EUROPEAN POLITICS. geographical distance, and had no very large standing armies, there was always time for a due consideration of circumstan- ces, as well as for interference, diplomatical or military. But now, with large agglomer- ations of territory, with the frontiers of great Eu ropcan Statcs almost touching each other, with colossal armies, with swiftly de- structive guns, and with railways running in all directions, it is easy for European Pow- ers to declare war, to destroy whole armies between thcm, and altogether to change their respective positions, before England could take any resolution in the matter or any practical step. Next we have to consider the change of the govermental system in France. From the proceedings of the old French Parlia- ments in questions of war and peace, no conclusion applicable to the present time can be drawn. In the first place, all inter- national questions seemed to be pretty well fixed and settled then, which is not the case now. In the secoiid place, the French peo- ple being quite untrained for participation in a I)ariamentary form of goverment, the form continued but a form; power still re- maining in the hands of the Crown, support- ed first by the aristocracy, af~erwards by the bourgeoisie, both of them becoming so wearied and impoverished by the Revolu- tion anti the wars of Napoleon as to get sick of foreign politics. Again, the Bour- bons as well as the Orleans family were too much indebted to Europe, and too much daunted by permanent conspiracies in France itself to attempt any bold enterprise abroad, even had occasion offered. All this is changed now. The country has recov- ered its strength; the bourgeoisie as well as the aristocracy are swamped in universal suffrage; the number of pending political questions the Roman question, the East- ern question, the German question are more than considerable; and the people of France, although not much improved in its political education, is unquestionably more advanced and more interested in foreign af- fairs. And we can hardly overrate this pe- culiarity of the French nation, that every time its people has come to power one of its first steps has been to interpose in European affairs. Poland, Italy, Spain have long had a firm hold upon popular sympathies in France; and a cry for war in favour of the first of these countries was loud after the July as well as after the February revolutions. It is hardly to be expected, therefore, that the forthcoming changes in the government of France are in favour of peace. And it is still more doubtful whether a people like the French, if it resolves on war for any purpose or any idea will pay much attention to any diplomatic representations about the balance of power. And there are many dif- ficulties which invite war. Not to speak of the Polish, the Slavonian, and kindred questions, are the Roman, the Eastern, and the German questions settled P Are they likely to be settled without conflict P And has England no care or interest in their set- tlement P Unquestionably she has. But these questions are not of the kind which di- plomacy settles in a few despatelies and sl)eecl)es. They are not governmental ques- tions, but national questions; and some of them are religious too. Now it is well known that in the settlement of national ami(l religious questions Ministers have sel doni any decisive power. Generally speak- ing, questions such as these go finally into the hands of the people for solution, and continental peoples do not niuch regard the connections of Courts, the relationship of Sovereigns, or even pecuniary obliga- tions and necessities. But suppose parlia- mentary government successfully and com- fortably established in France, and the French people content to claim nothing be- yond their present borders solemnly pledged to give up all idea of reconquering its natural limits. That will not mean resignation of all interference in European sfThirs; it might not be maintained if, for instance, I3ismarck crossed the Main, as, to judge by some reports, he seems inclined to do should the new French r~gime prove favourable for such an undertaking. In such a case France would probably say to Lngland: Please stand asi(le. Wheti you had the power alone, you did nothing. You not only abstained from interference with the ruin of Poland and the aggrandizement of Prussia, but you practically sanctioned all this by preventing our interference. We are no longer under the dictatorship you approved so much; we have a Parliament like your own; and we aspire to play the part which you have abandoned. Our form of government being changed and present- ing all the guarantees of honest procedure, you have no right to mistrust us when we say we claim nothing for ourselves; and you should remember that, being more intimate- ly bound up with continental affairs, we have obviously a greater right to take up your abandoned role. ~~That answer should be given to such an address we shall not discuss to-day. Buit it is worth observing that the time ap- proaches when England will be forced either to take a larger and more active part in Eu- ropean affairs, or to declare out of them al- together.

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The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1324 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 16, 1869 0103 1324
The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1324 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1324. October 16, 1869. CONTENTS. 1. THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION, 2. OLrvsAs FAVOUR. A TALE OF HALLOWEEN, 3. RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM, 4. A CoUNTY FAMILY. Part XII 5. BRITISH UNIT D STATES 6. GOETHES LITERARY REMAINS, 7. THE PUBLIC PREPOSSESSION FOR BYRON, 8. THE BYRON SCANDAL 9. GUSHING MEN 10. END OF DESPOTISM 11. How THINGS LOOK IN THE UNITED STATES, 12. CLOSED DOORS 13. HERESY IN SCOTLAND 14. ART-NOTES IN HOLLAND, . 15. HEINRICH HEINE 16. THE RECENT DANGER OF THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH 17. THE MURDER OF FRAULEIN TINNE, POETRY. THE LAMENT OF THE COLONNADE,. . 1301 LOST . 130 GARIBALDI, by John G. Whittier, 156 J. G. WHITTIER ON HUMBOLDT, A REPORTING MACHINE, Contemporary Review, St. Pauls, Contemporary Review, Chambers Journal, Pall Mall Gazette, Pall Mall Gazette, Spectator, Telegraph, Saturday Review, Examiner, Examiner, Pall Mall Gazette, Pall Mall Gazette, Saturday Review, Fortnightly Review, Economist, Daily J$fews, LOW-FLYING, SHAKSPEARE SUPERSEDED, FORSAKEN, SHORT ARTICLES. 148 I HEAT FROM THE MOON,. 1621 PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION AT THIS OFFICE: HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II. These very interesting and valuable sketches of Queen Caroline, Sir Robert Walpole, Lord Chesterfield, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, The Young Chevalier, Pope, John Wesley, Commodore Anson, Bishop Berkeley, and other celebrated characters of the time of George II., several of which have already appeared in the LIVING AGE, reprinted from Blackwoods Magazine, will be issued from this office, in book form, as soon as completed. A COUNTY FAMILY, by the author of A Perfect Treasure. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. 131 139 149 157 163 165 166 168 169 171 172 173 175 177 150 191 192 162 190 190 162 130 THE LAMENT OF THE COLONNADE, ETC. THE LAMENT OF THE COLONNADF~. THE SUPPER COLONNADE OF VAUXIIALL GARDENS TO BE SOLD CHEAPThis remnant of the past has witnessed many a scene of merri- ment with lords and ladies of high degree. It is suitahle for the gardens of a tavern or place of amusement. From an Advertisement in a Daily Paper. AND must I thus go to the wall, Ales, alack a day! Till tune which swept away Vauxhall, Vaiks hall of us away. Ten thousand extra lamps such sights! Dowsed. broken lost degraded! Alas, those lights of other nights And other days are faded! The orchestra where SINCLAIR sung, If memory doesnt fail it, Was graced by one, a charm who flung Around it must be- Wail-it! The trees that trembled in the breeze, The festooned oil devices The waiters Give your orders, please, The famous Vauxhall Slices. To cut them as those waiters could, Thin as a muslin curtain Diaphanous most surely would Diehalf-on-us Im certain. But tis an art completely lost, As is the wondrous way In which through throngs those traitors crossed, With deftly balanced tray. To parties thirsting for a pull, Those waiters bore so well A dozen massive tumblers full, Which never tumblers felL Ah me! the vows that nothing mean, That Ive heard people say The loving looks that I have seen! The suppers put away! The teas that steady early folks Have cleared. The seas of beer Ive seen absorbed. Ah me! the jokes That I have had to hear. The imprecations I have heard From youthful waiters tricked The pockets Ive beheld absurd! Incontinently picked. The glasses sparkled on this board ; On that one to the right Sat many a gay and festive lord, Whose wine was ruby bright. That was in days ere soda fizz Sapped proud young English natures; And not of Bass or GuzNisEsss; But guineas to the waiters. I date the downfall of Vauxhall, Whatever parties thinks, I date its sad decline and fall To its decline in drinks. When soda-water folks did pour On brandy, none need trace The reason why a change came oer The Spirit of the place. Champagne in quarts, expensive Ports, Prime Sherry wines in cases Oerfiowin~ cups the dearest sorts Alone can float such places. Of Vauxhalls pomp sole remnant I By tavern gardens side That I should be permitted my Diminished head to hide! My doom is fixed, Im much afraid, Tis bootless to complain Im a despised old Colonnade, And call-on-aid in vain. Will no one philanthropic be To save me from disgrace? Ye publicans, dont purchase me: Im too old for the place. LOST. moon comes out and glimmers, The stars like diamonds gleam, And long, green boughs are waving Oer a pleasant mountain stream. And my thoughts travel backwards, Into the long, dead years, And your face comes before me, Seen through a mist of tears. We met we loved we parted: The story ever new, We lived we hoped we waited, And so the long years grew. A vast sea rolls between us, A gulf that time has made. New habits grow upon us, Old beauties faint and fade. Take one last look behind you, Into the vale of years, Does my face come before you, Seen through a mist of tears? Dublin University Magazine. Punch. Ii. C. THE TRAJI{ING OF THE IMAGINATION. 131 From The Contemporary Review, and strong, by which alone the thing signi- THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. fled can be apprehended and the impression IN attempting to discuss, from the point retained. of view of the practical teacher, to what ex- But the imagination does not merely re- tent, and in what way, the training of the ceive and retain impressions. It is distin- imagination ought to he directly aimed at guished from simple memory and prevision in education, I am anxious to keep as far by its active and plastic quality. It col- away as possible from philosophical contro- lects and arranges the ~1ata on which judg- versy. The purpose in view does not ments are to be pronounced. necessarily involve a decision on points at Of all external things issue between rival systems of mental phi- Which the five watchful senses represent, losophy. All that is requisite is to start She forms imaginations, aery shapes, with an agreement as to the sense in which Which reason, joining or disjoining, frames the term Imagination will he used. I yen- All what we affirm or what deny, and call ture to propose the following definition. Our knowledge or opinion. The Imagination is the faculty which makes It presents images to the mind which excite representations to or by an inner sense, the feelings, and so provoke to action. It whether it be the eye, the ear, or any other, is the faculty by which man looks, not mere- If it be objected that this is not what is ly sees, before and after. By its aid, to ordinarily understood by the word, I yield the session of sweet silent thought, we sum- to the objection. But I submit that at any mon up remembrance of things past. It rate there is a faculty answering to the defi- is the instrument by which we see the prom- nition a faculty essentially one, though ises afar off, and are persuaded of them. differing in the direction and in the manner In this, its highest working, it appears as of its operation and that for this faculty Faiths the substance of things hoped for, the name Imagination is convenient, and the evidence of things not seen. not inappropriate. I ask leave, therefore, According to the definition here pro- to use the name as signifying the spiritual posed, imaginative power is in a greater organs which correspond with the physical or less degree the common property of all senses, and further, as designating the human beings; it works in every branch of power which selects, combines, creates study and every department of affairs, and or which, in other words, makes images. acts in and upon our whole nature. It is The incessant recurrence in our familiar this quality of universality which constitutes discourse of the phrase to see, as equivalent its claim to primary attention in education. to clear understanding, shows the popular In what follows, therefore, I shall try sense of what the inner vision is. It im- .(l), to bring some evidence of this alleged plies a cognizance of something beyond the universality, and to show the consequences grasp of the physical sense a distinct ap- which it involves; and (2), to make a few prehension of an idea. The word seer is brief suggestions as to such means of train- the paradoxically appropriate name for one ing the imagination as may be within the who reports of unseen things. The in- scope of the teacher. ward eye is the greatest of our spiritual The imagination niay be regarded from senses. But it is not by the eye only that two points of view the intellectual and the imagination works. Tunes ring in our the moral; and though the two are closely ears; voices haunt us; scenes long past can associated, it may be convenient to consider be brought back by recalling a distinguish- them separately. ing odour; the touch of a vanished hand I proceed to speak first of its specifically can still he felt. Every outer sense has its intellectual uses. inner spiritual correlative. And just as it And here it will be at once conceded that is a good thing to have the physical senses it is an indispensable agent in the produc- quick to receive impressions from the phe- tion of works of art. The poet is one who nomena of nature, the external symbols, so creates or imagines par excellence. The it is a good perhaps even a still better painter must see something more than the thing, to have the spiritual senses keen mere surface of the scene before him; he 132 THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. must have his picture present to his mind pound note, four sovereigns, three shillings, and before he can transfer it to canvas. The half a crown in my purse. The result of the musician must first hear, with the spiritual whole operation is, that 1 am satisfied that the ear, the melody and the harmony which his state of facts actually existing in my bankers art expresses. In all departments of art book and in my purse is that which would and the necessity of imaginative power is ~ must exist if the different sets of images, pre- obvious and so universally acknowledged, viously called up, corresponded to facts. These illustrations show the nature of logic and its re- that on this point it is nee(lless to dwell. lations to proof. The great object of the logi I proceed to call attention to the less cian ought to be to train the imagination to call generally recognised uses of the imagina- up the images which the facts, as they did hap- tion in reasoning, in the pursuit of physical pen or will happen, would call up, if they were science, in the study of history, and in the actually perceived by the senses; and proof is business of social and domestic life, independent evidence that in this particular case To many persons itwill be surprising to he has succeeded in doing so. . . . . A certain hear it averred that to he logical it is ne- conclusion is a conclusion the mental image of cessary to he imaginative. But a little in- which is involved in the mental image excited vestigation demonstrates the necessity. It by the evidence. A probable or improbable con- has been said of good reasoning that it con- elusion is one of which the image is either as- sists in seeing the greatest number of things sociated with or dissociated from the image cre- in their true relations. If this be so, evi- ated by the evidence. An impossibic conclusion dently the power of seeing is essential to is one of which the image is destroyed by the good reasoning; and to see is the specific image excited by the evidence. function of the imagination. The manner If, then, the processes of reasoning are in which this faculty serves the purpose of thus actually performed by the agency of the logician has been forcibly described by the image-making faculty, it follows that to a writer in the Saturday Review assume, as is sometimes done, that there is some kind of antagonism between reason Logic, it is said, if carefully examined, and imagination, is to depart widely from will bc found at last to be a long sustainel and fact. persistent effort of the imagination the pro- Similar occasion for image-making arise duction, by the use of words, of an elaborate and in the study of the Physical Sciences. It is complicated series of mental pictures, all differ- not a case of take your choice. Be eat from, but consistent with and related to, each other, Inasmuch as words may be used dreamy and spiritual if you please; or be with little or no meaning, i.e., so as to call up rigidly scientific if your taste lies that way. indistinct and confused images ; and inasmuch On the contrary, Physical Science, though as , se., the mind often hurries over words so quickly it deals with what are called things as not to perceive the indistinctness, confusion, with concrete objects, visible and palpable or inconsistency of the images, which if fully at- by the physical senses, cannot advance a tended to they would excite, this operation is step without the aid of the spiritual organs. difficult and delicate in the highest degree, and An experimental philosopher, Mr. G. H. requires continual correction by reference to evi- Lewes, tells us that dence or proof, if the person who performs it To imagine a good experiment is as diffi- wishes his logic to be in harmony with fact, cult as to invent a good fable, for we must have Proof is to logic what the bankers book and the distinetlypresent in clear mental vision the mcney in your purse are to your account book. known qualities and relations of all the objects, I have spent so much, I have received so and must see what will be the effect of. intro- much, I have invested so much, I have lost so ducing some new qualifying agent. much, I have, therefore, (here comes in the logic) 129 5s. 6d. left. Therefore, means, And again, I have drawn in my mind (aided by figures) a From known facts, the philosopher infers picture of these operations, and the sum which I the facts that are unapparent. He does so by picture to myself as the residue is 129 5s. 6d. an effort of imagination (hypothesis) which has Here logic ends, and the process of proof, or to be subjected to verification ; he makes a testing the logic, begins. There is 110 at the mental picture of the unapparent fact, and then bank, and there are a ten-pound note, a five- sets about to prove that his picture does in some TIlE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. isa way correspond with the reality. The correct- never complete, but in a greater or less de- ness of his hypothesis and verification must de- gree it is so common as to constitute a se- pend on the clearness of his vision. Were all rious hindrance to improvement. Our slug- the qualities of things apparent to sense, there gish fancy fails to conceive anything very dif- would be no longer any mystery. A glance erent from what we see a beautiful London, would be science. But only some of the facts are visible ; and it is because we see little that we have to imagine much, If this be true of Physical Science, whose distinction it is that its facts are of the positive, sensible sort, how much more so of Moral Science, which, though it equally deals with realities, has less to do with con- crete objects, and can rarely call in the aid of the physical senses. History, for exam- ple, which has few visible facts to show, could not be studied at all without the active aid of the imagination. Tables of kings, cata- logues of battles, strings of dates, are not now regarded as the material of history. They are simply aids to the memory in re- calling, by association, the picture which the historian has presented. It is needful to know the facts of history, but we can be cognisant of past facts only through the imagination, giving life to the record and significance to the memorials which remain. The march of events is a panorama which cannot be brought before the outward eye. Still more to realize the subtle influ- ences of race, of soil, of climate, of geo- graphical position, of traditional habits, and all the still life which goes for so much in a nations history, requires a strength and tenacity of imagination not to be at- tained by ordinary minds without long and diligent exercise. And what is obviously true of past his- tory, is no less so of social and political science, of the history of the present and the future. If we had no power of getting beyond what we see around us, we could not even guess at a political future. We could not learn from other nations, because we could not compare their conditions with our own. We could not study the condi- tion of various classes among ourselves. We could read or hear lectures on political subjects, but we could not know either the actual condition of our fellow-citizens, or what it might be if the measures proposed were adopted. Our darkness would be greater than that of mere physical blind- ness. Fortunately spiritual blindness is for example or a manufacturing town with- out smoke and dirt and noise. And what we do not constantly and clearly see, we do not make much effort to attain. We need to have the ideal of perfection ever before us, that we may he alive to our shorteorn- ings, and hopefully energetic in striving after improvement. The same thing holds good of domestic life. I suppose it is commonly taken for granted that if you want to make a girl useful at home, a good manager, a treas- ure in the domestic circle, you must not let her dream. What you exactly ought to do is seldom distinctly stated; but at any rate you must aim at making her practical; not visionary, not poetical, not imaginative. I venture to submit that the well-meaning persons who give this sort of advice, begin at the wrong end. For, after all, in domes- tic life as in everything else, what is it that we want? Is it not to get as near as we can to perfection in its kind? And if we have no ideal of perfection, how can we aim at it? People who are satisfied to live in domestic discomfort, remain in that condi- tion because they have no vivid idea of the beauty and blessedness of order; no vision of a better state of things clear enough and strong enough to rouse them out of their listless state of contentment. They go on as they are, because they do not dream of anything hetter. I do not mean of course to assert that there are not idle people in the world who dream and get no farther. What I urge is that the dream must, in the natural sequence of things, come first. As M. Comte has said, In every operation that man undertakes, he must imagine be- fore he executes, as he must observe before he imagines. He can never produce a re- sult which he has not conceived first in his own mind. Image the whole, then execute the parts Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick. 134 THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. Mr. Helps, with his usual insight into the working of practical life, points out how constantly organization fails, because the end proposed is not sufilciently stated at the outset. He suggests that It would not be a bad mode of preparing to organize anything, to state in writing what would be the perfection of the plan if it could be carried out: and then, by degrees, taking into consideration all the difficulties that occur, to fine down the project, and bring it within the exact limits of what is practicable. But, at first, let there be a statement of what is wanted, in the fullest acceptation of the word what you would have if you were all powerful in the matter. To lay down this kind of plan requires a great deal of forethought and imagination; but it would be well bestowed. It is not difficult to see in how many ways a little play of the fancy might give greater variety and picturesqueness to ordi- nary life. Why are half the drawing-rooms in London of the shape of a grand piano? Why is there such a deadly uniformity in the furniture of our houses in the whole outward aspect of our social routine? Be- cause only one vivacious person here and there takes the trouble to invent a new type. Why is the dulness and coldness of our social intercourse accepted as an un- changeable law? Because women., who have the chief direction of this department of affairs, are so terribly unimaginative. It is not merely that they have not the courage though that no doubt goes for a good deal to strike out anything new it is that they do not see anything new to do. There are exceptions, of course. There are hostesses known as givers of agreeable parties, and it would probably be flhund, on investigation, that they are people who have brought their imagination into use on the question of social entertainments, if on no other. A good hostess plans her party beforehand. In no other words, she makes mental images of what she wishes to hap- pen and not to happen. She pictures be- forehand such a disposition of chairs and tables as will facilitate freedom and socia- bility. She selects and puts together in her mental vision the people who get on well together, and she asks them to meet. She sees the dejected faces of people whose taste is for talking when they are silenced by music, and she does not invite them to a concert. She can call out what is best and most harmonious in her guests, because she knows, by sympathetic insight, what is in them. 11cr designs may not always be ex- actly carried out, and it may be an import- ant feature of her plan not to plan too much to lay down outlines only, leaving the sketch to be filled up on the inspiration of the moment. But she has foreshadowed an idea, more or less distinct and detailed, of what she is aiming at, and makes her arrangements accordingly. In this familiar example I have spoken only of the persons who orders, who is on the originating side, so to speak. But a rea(ly and accurate vision on the part of those who receive orders, is also of great importance in practical life. To cite Mr. Helps once more: No man who has not commanded can ape preciate how much even the most precise orders are likely to be disobeyed. No man who has not had some practical dealin& with mankind is aware how much explanatiou is necessary to make people really comprehend anything, and how most persons will say that they understand what you tell them before they really do so. This means that most persons hear with their outward ears the words that are said, but fail to receive the inner impression which they were intended to make; so when the time comes for executing the order, the pattern on which it was to have been made is nowhere. It was never really seen, and cannot therefore be recalled. The much explanation that is necessary means reiter- ated attempts on the part of the commander to present such a picture as will be seen and remembered. It is a persevering ef- fort to induce the listener (supposing him to be listenin ~, and not thinking of some- thing else) to connect a real image in his mind with the symbols which are sounding in his ears. A tow rare people have a gift for readily comprehending ~vhat is said to them. They are the people to whom once tellin~is enough. They seize at once the idea, or the image, presented to them, and having seen it vividly, retain it. how much the despatch of business of all sorts would be facilitated if this apprehensiveness and tenacity in subordinates, an(l the cor- responding creative power in persons at the head of affairs, were more common than it is, is evi(lent cnouah. I have dwelt at a somewhat dispropor- tionate length on this use of the imagina- tion in the practical conduct of affairs, be- cause, as in the case of logic and of physi- cal science, it is often taken for granted, not only that there is no connection be- tween imagination and action, but that there is some contradiction between the two. This prevalent misconception may proba- bly have arisen from the fact that the con- templative temperament is often wanting in active energy; so that, practically, it may be said, the dreamers do nothing. TRE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. 135 / They have splendid ideals, but they might as well be without them, as far as others are concerned, as they make no effort to carry them out. This may be true, or it may not. It may be that the whole mental force has been spent, and well spent, in un- folding ideas, the practical application of which may safely be left to minds of a dif- ferent type. Such a division of labour seems to be suggested and sanctioned by differences of natural temperament. But at the worst, supposing the castle-building to be of the idlest sort, I venture to sug- gest that the true remedy is not to crush the imagination, but to give it wholesome food, and to make it strong. Languid, intermit- tent gazing at a faint and blurred picture, has not the force to stir to action. It is the strong vision which commands the soul, and makes great awe the monarch of desire.~~ And here we come upon the more direct- ly moral aspect of the question. It must, I think, be admitted that the mere exercise of the imagination, taken by itself, is as lit- tle moral as extra-moral as the exer- cise of the physical senses. It is a power which may be turned to either good or evil account. The first thing to recognise clear- ly, is that it is a power the great forma- tive agency by which character is moulded. This power acts upon the will by present- ing visions which become a motive force. The motive force will urge in one direction or another, according to the character of the vision. In cultivating the imagination, we boundlessly enlarge the range of mo- tives which can be brought to bear upon the human spirit. We awaken sensitiveness to a greater variety of impressions, and in- crease the power of retaining them. We create new desires by opening the eyes to new objects of desire. A being without imagination could not in the nature of things covet earnestly the best gifts, for such gifts cannot be understood by sense. A creature open only to sensuous promptings is shut out from all the higher influences. But the greater power and sensitiveness may be turned to evil uses. Every one knows that familiarity with crime produced by reading such hooks as Jack Sheppard and the Newgate Calendar in other words, the presentation to the mind of pictures of criminality leads directly to the commis- sion of crime. There is first the vivid real- ization of the crime, then the impulse to make a copy of it. The impulse may be re- strained by various influences. Most people do not feel tempted to commit a murder straigbtway after reading and even vividly pictuxing the story of one in the police report; that is because the power of the representation is neutralized by its coining into collision with other visions such, for example, as that of being hanged for the murder which exert a stronger in- fluence in the opposite direction. But some kind of spiritual representation is con- stantly before us, guiding our conduct, making us what we are. This being so, it is surely of the first im- portance that the unseen influences which in silence and secresy are shaping our whole natures should be of the highest order that our inward eye should re~ habitually on pure and noble objects. This cannot be without effort. The solicitations of sense continually allure to the contein- plation of petty trivialities, and we take full easily all impressions from below. It was my duty to have loved the highest: It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it. If we could see the higher visions, which once seen, poison all meaner choice for evermore, we must, with set purpose, turn away our eyes from beholding vanities. A pattern of perfect humanity has been set before us that we may grow into its likeness, but it can only be present to us by the use of our spiritual senses. The sinless years that breathed beneath the Syrian blue cannot be made real to us by the mere read- ing of the Gospel narratives. That life can only live again for each of us by our (Iwell- ing upon its conditions and circumstances, by long and close survey of the portrait handed down, by diligent effort to seize and retain the impression made upon us. The example can only become potent by our ex- ercising the power of selecting character- istic features and constructing new ideals, the same in essential qualities, but adapted to the infinitely various and ever-changing conditions of human life. I am tempted to dwell, with perhaps un- necessary insistance, upon this view of the imagination as the force which makes char- acter, because though no omie would in set terms deny the vast influence of ideals and visions, the bearing of the genend truth seems scarcely to have received due recog- nition in our moral policy. We remark the instinct of imitation in young children, and we think it important that they should have good examples always before them. We fancy, perhaps, that the instinct dies out with advancing years. It is not so. The difference is, that while children imi- tate those about them, we who are grown up imitate ourselves, from day to day re 136 THE TRAIN]NG OF THE IMAGINATION. producing, with almost mechanical accura- to cure, goes on from day to day without any cy, our own unheroic and faulty past. We effortfrom a distance to remove it, because it call it, perhaps, doing the duty that lies has not the features which produce an effec- nearest, when it is, in fact, simply doing tire picture. It requires a much higher and what comes easiest. It is undeniable that more strenuous effort to realize the de- to do to-day the same thing that we did grading effects of vice, and to devise ineas- yesterday is incomparably easier than to be ures for eradicating it, than it does to re- striking out new ideas. It is easier, and, ceive and act upon the impression pro- within limits, it is better. The reflex in- duced by a graphic account of a great dis- fluence of outr past has its good as well as aster; and the severer effort is made by its bad side. To start with a completely few. Again, the cynical contempt which new plan of life once a month would be to hardworking people are apt to feel towards forfeit the advantages of experience, and helpless ladies complaining of having nothing probably to make ourselves practically use- to do, is an example of the cruelty resulting less. In turning over a new leaf, we need from incapacity to imagine conditions lying not shrink from repeating much of what has beyond the narrow range of individual ex- gone before. But without giving way to perience. The distinctions of class, race, fickleness, most of us will feel that our language, age, sex, tend to partition off moral routine is susceptible of amendment; human beings from each other. The tend- and that if our standard of performance is ency needs to be counteracted by imagina- to be raised, it must be by a gradual nodi- tive sympathy, by the power of grasping fication of our working model. The copy the characteristic human features which is not likely to be better than the pattern, make fellowship, through all differences, If we are to be ever growing towards per- possible. fection, we must seek continually for lof- And as from the imagination we derive tier, broader, truer, conceptions of duty. on the one hand the power of sympathy, so This use of imagination, as auxiliary to on the other we obtain deliverance from spiritual growth, would seem to include all undue subjection to external influences. possible moral services to be rendered by The man whose imagination is active and it. But it may not be without interest to well under control, creates the public opin- touch briefly on specific points, and I would ion to which he choses to submit him- mention specially, as likely to be promoted self. He selects and combines the constit- by the right training of the spiritual senses, uent elements of the moral atmosphere in sympathy and independence, which he means to live, lie hears other A very little examination will show that voices besides those which are immediately sympathy, or fellow-feeling, is likely to be a round him. lie is not in helpless bond- widest, freest, most generous, in those who age to the one little world iii which he is have the largest capacity for realizing states placed, for he is aware of other worlds of f~ling outside of themselves. Tact, beyond. rightly so named as being the spiritual sense of touch, is sensitiveness to fine He that has light within his own clear breast shades of feeling The person who has May sit i the centre and enjoy bright day; is the But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, most tact person who is most keenly Benighted walks under the midday sun, alive to subtle, half-revealed variations of Himself is his own dungeon. taste and mood, and who is therefore best able to sympathize. Such an one may be One whose faculty of vision is unexercised cruel, but it will be, as Ruskin has said, by and uncontrolled has no armnoury of defence intention, not through innocent blundering, within himself. He is exposed to the ter- Sympathy may also be greatly developed rors and the allurernents of whatever im- by the exercise of the imaginative powers ages may be presented to him from without. as regards classes and races with whom we Professor Tyndall speaks of the psychologi- do not come into immediate contact. Those cal element to be dealt with in attemnpting who are experienced in such matters know feats of mountaineering reputed to be ex- how when a fire, or a colliery accident, or traordinarily difficult. The same psycho- an outbreak of cholera, or any other dra- logical element interferes with independ- matic kind of calamity, has fallen upon a ent judgment in all sorts of mnoral pr?b- place, money for the relief of the sufferers lems. It is by having the imagination flows in from all quarters. This is because effectually disciplined that the mind gains every one can realize, with tolerable vivid- the power of seeing things as they are, and ness, what the suffering is which has to be is enabled to resist the misleadimig influence dealt with, and how it can be relieved. But of fictitious representations. Bughears lose more terrible misery, and far more difficult their power to terrify in the light of day. THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. 137 It may seem that in the foregoing re- read poetry with the ear only, and the cultiva- marks I have been, in fact, simply urging tion of the musical sense by its means is one the desirableness of mental cultivation; of its uses, but we ought scarcely to be satis- that I have advocated, under the name of fled with this alone. The indiscriminate training for the imagination, substantially reading of novels similarly requires to be what is done in all true education, as train- guarded against. One of the greatest Ing of the mind and character. And no practical difficulties in teaching is the doubt good teachers do, whether deliber- absence of curiosity. The pupil does not ately and consciously or not, perpetually care to know what the teacher has to coin- appeal to the spiritual senses, and keep municate. Why? Because his attention them in exercise. But it might give greater is pre-occupied. His field of vision is directness to teaching and save some waste crowded with objects more interesting to of eflbrt, if this aim were more distinctly him than those which the teacher has to present; if the teacher, on his part, deter- present. Ordinary young people cannot be mined first clearly to see himself what he expected to prefer Hallam and Guizot, if wishes to show, and then studied the best they have the alternative of an unlimited means of depicting it; if the learner, on his, supply of Trollope and Miss Yonge. His- intead of merely listening to the teachers tory and novels both make a demand upon words, made a distinct effort to see the idea the imagination; but in the one case the presented. Obviously, this demands atten- effort is considerable and wholly disinter- tion. A pupil who is trying hard to see ested in the other, it is slight and sus- what the teacher is trying to show, cannot tamed by an agreeable excitement, not un- be glancing about with his minds eye at mixed with egotism. In this respect we half a dozen other objects which may be are, perhaps, at some disadvantage as com- hovering before him. To look steadfhstly pared with the last generation. Scotts requires concentration, and it requires also novels at least carried the reader into re- time and silence. I keep the subject, mote countries and past ages; the domestic said Sir Isaac Newton, constantly before novels of our day scarcely go beyond an me, and wait until the first dawnings open English fireside. They divert interest from by little and little into a full light. In real study with little counterbalancing gain other words, he kept steadfastly looking at in the way of stimulus to the fancy. The the mental image which he had conjured up injurious effect of novel reading in dis- before him, until he had mastered every tracting the attention is so great as almost partieular, and was able to estimate with to tempt teachers to place a ban upon it scientific accuracy the exact relations of all altogether; but as this, even if desirable, its parts. A new and difficult idea cannot is seldom possible, it only remains to try to be taken in all at once. Explaining it, or make it in some degree thoughtful and talking about it, does not make it easier, select. hut the contrary. It may be that the As regards the direct training of the teacher has failed to present the idea in an imagination, there is not much to be said. intelligible form. He may have omitted Something might, perhaps, be done by something which, though present to his own specific exercises; as, e.g., pupils might he mind, is not to that of the pupil. He may required, after readin~ a poem or a narra- learn this from the pupils bewildered ques- tive, to produce it either orally or in writ- tions, and may then rectify it. But let him ing, and it might thus be ascertained whether try to understand what is going on in the the picture has actually been seen, and pupils mind, rather than ply him with fresh scope would be given for the selective explanations, which are apt to produce instinct. In teachiiig, generally questions upon the mental vision the confusing and might be directed towards securing that fatiguing effect of a kaleidoscope. words and other symbols shall not be used It is this recognition of the imagination as mere counters, but shall liresent an image in all teaching which it appears desirable to to the mind. In the study of language, for aim at, rather than the adoption of any example, translation may be either a special studies with a view to its training, mechanical substitution of one set of arhi- Even poetry, the study which pre-eminently trary signs for another, neither meaning sets the imagination to work and gives it aimything, or it may be the representation food, may be a dead letter, or positively of the same image by different syInbols. injurious, if unwisely used. It needs selec- It is recognized as one of the advantages tion and adaptation to the age and powers of learning another language besides our of tIme student, and perhaps also watching to o wri, that it directs the attention to the ascertain what impressions are being pro thing expressed, and brings out the exact duced and retained. It is quite possible to thought which the word or phrase ought to 138 THE TRAINING OF THE IMAGINATION. convey; but this advantage can scarcely be gained if the pupil learns merely that when the German says Der Tisch, he must say The table; that when the English book says He loves, his French transla- tion must say 11 aiine. The practice of learning infiexions by repeating the foreign form with the English equivalent, seems calculated to encourage the treatment of language as a mere system of exchange. To decline nouns and to conjugate verbs with a distinct realization of the modifica- tion of the image produced by the inflexion, would perhaps be too severe an exercise for any but grown-up students; but if so, it might be well to adopt during childhood the rapid and easy process of learning by ear only, leaving the appreciation of gen- der, case, number, mood, tense, to be grown into gradually, with advancing knowledge. In arithmetic, the tendency has to be in- cessantly guarded against of dealing with figures as if they were entities having no connexion with anything signified. Mathe- matical science deals with abstractions, rather than with concrete objects; but when a student can complacently subtract five sheep from nine horses, without a sus- picion of absurdity, it seems to show that he is not occupied with abstract ideas, but using unmeaning hieroglyphics that hav- ing put down the figures 9 minus 5, he adds through the influence of association, the figure 4, without any sense of an idea, con- ci~ete or abstract, represented by the figures. The usual remedy is to tell him to try to think. And perhaps this means pretty nearly the same thing as telling him to try to realize what the figures stand for. But it seems rather a vague way of saying it. It would surely he more direct and effectual to ask what the symbols represent, and to create, if possible, the habit of looking at them and using them as meaning something, whether concrete objects or abstract ideas. In history, something might be gained by making intelligent use of every memorial within reach. In London such memorials abound, and there can scarcely be a locality in which there is not some old castle or church, field or forest or river with a story. Every neighbourhood has some object of interest which can be turned to account for historical study. The changes pro- duced by the mere lapse of time furnish sufficient occasions for practice. Tradi- tional celebrations; the history of a family, or of some individual, of local importance; the changes made within the range of living memory or personal experience; such sug- gestions as may be supplied to the fancy by living in an old house all may serve as material to work upon. The study may embrace many forms, but any kind of exer- cise of the power of substituting invisible images for those presented by Sense, will do something in preparing for efforts on a larger scale. Many other means of training the imagin- ation, many advantages to be gained from it beyond those which I have pointed out, will suggest themselves to any one who will look closely into the subject. Practical teachers will judge for themselves whether all that is desirable, or possible, is already bcing done. It rests with them to secure for this great faculty due consideration in educational policy. EMILY DAVIES. A CORRESPONDENT at Turin of the .Allge- meine Zeitung publishes an interesting account of the results of the cultivation of the island of Caprera by Garibaldi and his family. He says that Caprera has been converted by Garibaldis labour and skill from a barren rock into the richest and most beautiful of gardens. There is a vineyard with 14,000 vines, mostly Piedmon- tese and. Tuscan, though there are some magni- ficent specimens of the Malaga grape and of varions Sicilian kinds. He has successfully planted lemon trees, orange trees, cypresses, pines, almond and olive trees. Mulberries, ap- ples, pears, cherries, and peaches have proved a failure. The Indian fig (opuntia)and the lo- cust tree, on the other hand, have produced so much fruit that the pigs are fed apon it. There are also plenty of potatoes, and the General has lately taken to the cultivation of bees with great success. The island abounds with artichokes, which are used to feed the cows. The game on the island consists of quails, partridges, and wild goats; the General has also introduced pheasants and wild boars. The fishing on the coast is very valuable. In the fields are numer- ous sheep amid oxen, and these are allowed to wander all over the island, with the exception of six Cremona cows, which supply the house with milk and butter. Garibaldi also has a windmill, and a great number of agricultural machines given him by an English friend. Round his house are date trees, mimosas, pista- chio trees, and thick bushes of laurel and myrtle. OLIVIAS FAVOUR. 139 OLIVIAS FAVOUR. A TALE OF HALLOWEEN. PART I. THE Ormathwaites had been Tories and Royalists for generations. They struggled on the Royal side, in all civil commotions, whatever the conditions of the contest might be, they being for tbe most part plain coun- try gentlemen, too much engaged in the management of their property, in fox-hunt- ing, and defending their northern home from the depredations of moss-troopers, to trouble themselves much about public affairs or the particularities of politics. Ormathwaite, of Ormathwaite, espoused the Royal cause for better for worse; he asked no questions as to what made King and Parliament fall out. Parliament might be right, Parliament might be wrong; the King was the King. So he gathered his followers about him, mounted his horse, and laid his service at his Majestys feet; and after risking his life and fortune in the service of the Stuart kings, was ready to bear contentedly the neglect and ingrati- tude with which those easy monarchs usu- ally rewarded their adherents when the sunshine of prosperity was bright upon them. But even in the most Conservative fami- lies new ideas sometimes arise and changes come, and in 1715, when the Jacobite cause was beginning to show head, and the smouldering fires of rebellion were just ready to burst into flame, Mr. Calvert Ormathwaite sat in the House of Commons among the Conservative Whigs, and voted consistently on the side of the Government. And well for him that it was so. In the autumn of that year, when rumours came of the sudden appearance of the Pretender in Scotland, and the Jacobite gentlemen of the northern counties, headed by Mr. Foster and the gallant Earl of Derwent- water, took up arms in the Stuart cause, Mr. Ormathwaite was away in London. During these disturbed times, that worthy gentleman said, when the Gov- ernment totters to its overthrow, when the throne is menaced by threats abroad and conspiracies at home, it behoves every man who calls himself a Protestant or a patriot to bare his bosom in defence of the Protest- ant succession. Many a brave gentleman, as we know, who rode out to meet the Chevalier, paid for his enterprise with his life, and many a home in Cumberland was made desolate by the vengeance of the Government. But Ormathwaite flourished in security and peace. Calvert Ormathwaite had married a lady of Whig family, an heiress, and some years older than himself. She died soon after their mat riage, leaving only one child, a daughter, who was thenceforward consigned to the care of her grandmother, old Mrs. Ormathwaite, or mistress, as she was usually called through the country- side. From this good lady and the vicar, to whom a portion of her education was confided, Olivia Ormathwaite learned all that a gentlewoman of that time was ex- pected to know, besides a thousand endear- ing, womanly charms, an integrity and reverent piety of heart, which in the year of grace 1715 were more likely fo be found in a country-bred woman than among the young beauties who had tasted the seduc- tive charms of the Court and town. The mother of Calvert Ormathwaite was very far from sharing in the Whig principles of her son. She was as staunch a Jacobit.e as any man of her house. Many a tear did she shed over the defection of her son from the true cause of legitimacy and right, as she prayed for the Kings sacred majesty (thus she fondly termed the vagabond prince), then in shameful and cruel exile; and when the troubles of 15 caine, many a poor flying wretch did she shelter and help to escape from the horrors of Lancaster and Preston jail. The lives of the two ladies in the old From St. Pauls. OUVIAS FAVOUR. hall was monotonous, but not wearisome. They visited and tended their poor neigh- bours, often walking for miles across the breezy moors to some distant cottage. They sat at their needlework together in the sunny wainscoted room, the mistresss parlour, which looked down over the wild valley of Wastdale, while Miss Orma- thwaite read aloud the Psalms for the day or a chapter from some edifying book. In the evening came, perhaps, Dr. Pettigrew the vicar, or Mr. Stade the curate, to play a game at backgammon and discuss the affairs of the valley, or the latest news from London. Occasionally, too, there were visits to be paid among the neighbouring gentry. The Scropes of Bassenthwaite, who were relations of the Ormathwaites, and the Ormathwaites of Kendal, and the Ashburnhamns. Then there were the some- what more formal visits to Aseham Place, the seat of Lord Ascham, who, as every one knows, took an act.ive, though secret part, in the rising of 15, but with happy dexter- ity evaded the consequences, saving his neck at the price of his honour, and falling afterwards into the foremost ranks of the Hanoverian party. The heavy bottle-green carriage was brought out on the occasion of these visits, and pursued its way, lum- bering down the steep and rough mountain roads, almost hiding in its depths the two ladies, who, when the worst lurches came, thanked heaven that these expeditions had not to be made often, and that the usual journeys up and down the valley and to church could be made on foot or horseback. Two of the most remarkable events in the life of Olivia Ormathwaite were the visits of her great-aunt, Madame la Baronne de la Condillac, who, with her son, a boy @f fifteen, came to visit Ormathwaite when Olivia was still a child, and again in the year 1713, when Olivia had just reached her eighteenth year. Olivia remembered the first visit of her French cousin, their games and rambles together. One memo- rable day there was on which he and his friend, Harry Ashburnham, the son of a neighbouring squire, had taken her high up on the moors to see the partridge nests; and when, sitting perched on a rocky throne among the heather, she had watched the two boys as they held a mock fight below. Memorable too was the return in the even- ing, as they forded the stream, she seated on the shoulders of the boys, like Flora borne by Zephyrs. She reniembered the mixed (lelight and terror in which she sat of an evening hearing Robert recount his adventures of the day to his mother; how be and harry had climbed the church tower for birds eggs, and swam the lake, carrying their caps full of eggs in their mouths. The second visit of the young French- man, when Olivia was grown to womanhood, was not wanting in events of momentous in- terest, though the egg-hunting enterprises were over. His old companion, henry Ashburnhain, was then at Oxford, but Rob- ert scarcely seemed to miss his presence. He was quite content to loiter away his time in the wainscoted room now, or, as Olivia sat at her work in the high garden, to lie at the feet of his beautiful kinswoman, where, it is easy to suppose, the impetuous Frenchman had already laid his heart. Olivia shared in the political opinions of her cousin, and possibly her enthusiasm in the Jacobite cause had done something to seal his devo- tion to it. Olivias ardour, on the contrary, unlike that usually attributed to womens political views, was much less guided by personal motives, nay, indeed, seemed to spring from what some people are fond of calling political conviction. While she was singing her Jacobite songs with Robert, and making him white knots of ribbon to pin to his lace ruffle, her heart was innocent of any emotion but that of a sisterly sympathy with one who was united with her in the Great Cause ; while the brave captain was fondly taking the colour of his thoughts from her smiles, she was inspired alone by a lofty impersonal enthusiasm very imposing to behold. Indeed, when one is obliged to review her subsequent history, one must regret that such exceptional zeal, such purity of un- mixed political feeling as distinguished this sweet lady, should have been doomed to a lapse of such entire inconsistency as her conduct afterwards shows. But of this the reader will hear later. The education of Robert Greshamn de la Condillac had scarcely risen to the moderate standard required by a gentleman of that period, but he had a grace and gallantry of bearing, a brave and honourable heart, that Inade many overlook his very slender scho- lastic attainInents. Among the famuil an- nals, from which the particulars of this little history are mainly drawn, only one letter of this young gentlemans writing is to be found. The document may have been l)re- served more as a curiosity in the way of spelling than anything else. Unimaginable ways of rendering both French and English words, for he wrote in both languages with equal obscurity, are herein found. lt was doubtless his mother to whom he Owel mnmimh of the spirit and grace which distinguished him. She was a woman of imperious teni- per, a warm heart, and most vivaeien~ smor OLIVIAS FAVOUR. 141 it. She had been a beauty in her youth, neck, and nothing to win, he was sure to and had married the scapegrace, Baron de take part in it. He was not very clever, la Condillac, against the wishes of her and certainly had a fatal disposition to do friends who, naturally, regarded with dis- the worst for himself generally; but there favour the suit of a man who, besides being are times when Captain Robert assumes the a scapegrace, was a widower, with a son to place of a hero in the eyes of his descend- inherit his titles and estates, ant, who here narrates his modest history. Mrs. Ormathwaite had been the good an- As he pulls up his troopers boots, claps his gel to her beautiful sister all her life. She cap on his head, and springs to the saddle was, perhaps, the only person who had ever to ride from London to Dover, carrying (Ic- lived a whole week with Madame Ia Bar- spatches which would hang him a hundred onne without quarrelling with her, and to times if found upon him; when I see him the last day of her life Madame de ha Con- putting his hand into a thousand foolish dillac deferred to her sisters judgment, and quarrels, but always to bring his broad was more restrained by a look or a word of chest and gallant arm between the weak disapproval from her than by the united op- and the strong; poor Captain Robert, with position and adjurations of the rest of man- his one ill-spelt letter, his blundering gener- kind. My sister, Ann, Madame de la osity, his fierce, tender heart, seems more Condillac used to say, has led the stupid- deserving of praise than many a wiser man. ist humdrum life, shut up among the moun- In the year 1713 Robert Gresham paid, tains, and knows nothing of the world, but as we have seen, a visit to Ormathwaite, she has the manners of a princess and the and passed those sunny autumn days pleas- mind of an angel! antly enough, strolling over the moors with The married life of Madame de Ia Con- his gun, or narrating his adventures to the dillac had not been, as may be supposed, a two ladies, as they sat over their work, or happy one. The Baron had embittered her sitting by Olivia at her spinet, for he had days by his gambhings, and other villanies; a fine voice, of the kind called baritone, I and when, at his death, his estate passed to believe, singing his French songs of war his son by a former marriage, Madame de and love, and the Jacobite ditties of which la Condillac shook off from her feet the dust I have spoken. of the gloomy old Chateau de Condillac, Whether during the two following years and removed to Paris with her son, then a he again visited Ormathwaite, is not re- bo~ of twelve years old. Here she gathered corded. It is probable that at this time he about her a choice company of English, was again engaged in the Jacobite plots French, Irish, and Italians, who professed which were then brewing in England, and allegiance to the cause of King James; and if such a visit were made it was doubtless her little drawing-room in the Rue Saint a secret one. Jean was one of the principal rendezvous It was fortunate for Captain Robert that, of the Jacobites in Paris. Hither came just before the ill-starred raising of the Mr. St. John, hiding under a cynical gaiety Chevaliers standard in 1713, he was the smart of the bill of attainder that wounded in a duel in which he had foolishly tingled in his veins. Here were collected entangled himself, and was laid up in lodg- the nameless and the noteworthy, men of ings in London. It was at this time that the loftiest honour and scamps of all na- Henry Ashburnham fell in with Gresham, tions, who professed devotion to the House and renewed thie acquaintance formed as of Stuart. They sipped coffee, and whis- boys during the first visit of Madame de ha pered state secrets behind ladies fans; they Condillac and her son to Ormathwaite. flirted, and plotted, and quarrelled, and be- Chance threw them together in a London tray ed the secrets on one Tuesday night that coffeehouse, on the occasion of that same they had sworn to keep the Tuesday before, quarrel which resulted in the duel in which At nineteen young Robert received a Gresham was wounded. Mr. Ashburnham conimission in the French army, fought with recognised his old friend, and behaved with distinction under General Marsen, and soon great spirit and kindness in the affair. obtained his captaincy. He threw himself Gresham was poor, alone, and almost with enthusiasm into the Jacobite cause, friendless in London. Ashburnham, though and received heaven knows what sort of a staunch Whig himself, was fascinated promissory commission in the prospective afresh by the odd French-Englishman, and army of the Chevalier then living at St. served him as a true friend. ludeed, he Germains. Prudence was not numbered seemed never weary of sitting at the bed- among the qualities of Captain Robert; side of the sick man, whose gay temper and if ever there was an enterprise on, foot was French, and not English, and hearing in which the odds were at the risk of your him recount his adventures, as he lay puf 142 OLIVIAS FAVOUR. fing his pipe, and shouting and gesticulating with what he termed his sane arm. Ashburnham, who, though younger than Gresham, was of a somewhat sedate and dignified bearing, gave much advice to his gay companion, which, however, was little heeded. Waste not thy breath upon me, it is pearls to the swine, mon ami, Captain Robert exclaimed once, after Ashburnham had been indulging in some of his usual wise observations on the political questions of the day. You are a man of discretion; you have principles to your politics: I have none. Your head is sound, cool; you ex- amine, you weigh, I never. You would renounce your mistress to-morrow were she a Jacobite! Ashburnham stuffed some tobacco into his pipe-bowl, and smiled, perhaps a little uneasily. And you? said he, if you had the misfortune to give your heart to a lady of my opinions, what would you do? Ma foi! there would rest to me noth- ing but to conjure her to renounce them; and if in vain, well, to shoot myself in the head, voil~ tout! A happy solution, said Ashburnham. You would probably be long in argument before proceeding to such extremes, how- ever. Gresham shook his head. It would be in vain. I have not the patience to con- vert. I run always before my head. I know not whether it be angel or devil that leads, but I go. As my blood flows, so I go. Vestigia nulla retrorsum. I know that much Latin at least. Vive le roi! Hush! be quiet, Gresham, or you will bring the people of the house here to see what is the matter. Maudits! What care I for them! Listen, my friend, he cried with sudden vehemence, raising himself with a start from the pillow. Did I not hear them laughing and dancing below the very day those poor wretches were carried to Tyburn on the tumbrils, while I lay cursing and groaning here. I know, I know, said Ashburnham, it was all very bad; but lie down, Gresham, and be reasonable, it is no use raking up the past. Greshain sank back on his pillows, and puffed away in silence. I wish, said Ashburnham, after a pause, (luring which he had taken a turn through the room, I wish, Gresham, you were married, in good earnest, and had a wife to keep you safe at home, and mend your clothes, and make you respectable. You would soon give up all this. Did you ever think of this? Captain Robert lay still, and gazed up- ward to the ceiling. He shook his head, the colour rose to his sallow faee. I have had my fools dream, like any other man who has reached my age, I suppose, said he. Ashburnham shrugged his shoulders. You have thrown away your heart on some Frenchwoman, said he, with the in- sular scorn of his nation. Thrown away! cried the impetuous Captain, you say thrown away? She is of my own bloodthe best, the dearest, the sweetest! Good saints ! I could have kissed her slipper, and blessed her for a look! She threw your heart away, then, which is the same thing ! replied his friend? No, said Gresham, shaking his head. I never told her how I adored herbut; I once wrote her a letter to say Good- bye, when I went away, and Well, said Ashburnham, did you get no answer? She sent me a spelling-book, said Captain Robert, with a groan, turning his face to the pillow. I had spelt those cursed words wrong. She knew not that I was dying for a word of hope, of consola- tion, and she meant no harm. She put a white rose inside the book, and told me to wear the one and use the Qther. it was the only keepsake she ever gave me. Ashburnham was again silent, lie was meditating on the story which the few words of his friend revealed; pondering on the fidelity with which that badge of love and the Stuart cause had been worn by the brave captain. He was thinking of the tenderness and loyalty of this simple heart. And yet the woman had not cared for him, it seemed. Women never discern any- thing in a man below the surface, mused the youthful sage. She must have been of his own way of thinking, or she would not have given him the white rose; and yet this might have been read as a sign of fa- vour more than a political badge, and Robert, perhaps, was only too modest to interpret it aright. Poor Gresham! it was one of his mistakes; but a mistake th~t might be retrieved. Who was the lady? Ashburnham wondered, a Jacobite of his blood, he had said. Ashburnham suddenly sprang to his feet, and walked rapidly to and fro through the room; some startling idea had evidently interrupted his cogita- tions at this point. Greshams pale face had resumed its wonted expression, as he lay watching the fine spiral line of smoke OLIVIAS FAVOUR. 143 that rose above his head, and he was some- the Goirernment had made that fortunate what startled when, after a silence of some seizure of papers, but before the fact of the minutes Ashburnham suddenly came to discovery had been made known, Captain stand by the bedside You and I, Robert was trotting briskly over the downs Gresham, have been brought together by between London and Dover. He had strange chances, said he, God grant cleared a low hedge and was riding gaily we may never cross each others paths! along, when he perceived that two horse- He paced once or twice through the men were close behind him. Robert room, and then paused once more, looking wheeled round quickly and faced them down on Gresham with a somewhat solemn with a momentary thought of highwaymen. visage. He appeared to be on the point Captain Gresham was considerably out at of saying something of a serious nature, elbows at the time, and had little of value but the Captain, evidently fearing that he about him, unless you reckon a pair of long was about to receive some further good ad- silver-mounted spanish pistols and a pock- vice, exclaimed with a burst of laughter, et-book containing certain letters tightly Bravo, mon ami! I see thou art about to buttoned under his threadbare coat. The make me a speech on my. follies. Ah, thou gentlemen were not highwaymen, however, shalt yet be in Parliam~nt. and thy Whigs but officers of his Majestys twenty-third shall rejoice over thee but I, I compre- regiment of cavalry, then stationed at Deal. hend not speeches. Allons, done! Bring One of them rode alongside of Robert, and hither the cards, and deal. Thou art the bade him stand in the Kings name. This truest of friends, the best of Whigs, and J, was a crisis to bring out the discretion that the most contented of poor devils! Vive lay dormant in Captain Roberts nature, in- Ic Ah, I will not forget the villaine deed was only to be struck out in times of Hanoverienne en has. Vive le jeu! Vive (langer, in flashes, as it were, at a white Iamitie! heat. lie had one moment to decide No one, after hearing the foregoing con- whether to yield his sword, hand over his versation, will be surprised to learn that precious packet, and return with those gen- neither good advice nor experience of past tlemen and take his chance in an examina- failure was enough to deter Captain Robert tion in London, or Theres for your from getting entangled again in Jacobite King! shouted Captain Robert, and the plots, and that when he rose from his sick- piece of the foremost officer was struck bed it was only to join in one more desper- high in the air, descending like a spent ate attempt to overthrow the Government. rocket at the other side of the hedge, and His freedom from complicity in the rising the contents of the Captains pistol was of the year before gave him immunity from lodged in the head of his assailants horse, suspicion, and he was once more employed which fell, rolling his rider on the sand. A in a secret commission in the Jacobite in- fortunate star shone for the Captain at this terest. moment; the pistol of his other antagonist The Gyllenberg plot, which had for its missed fire, and that gentleman received a object nothing less than the interference of well-aimed blow from the butt end of Sweden in behalf of the Pretender, was in Greshams good Spanish piece that felled the autumn of 1716 ripening slowly day by him to the ground, stunned and powerless. day. Charles XII. had entered warmly After this the Captain let no grass grow into the scheme, and the Jacobites tri- under his feet, you may be sure. For rea- umphed in having released their cause from sons best known to himself he turned his the the odium of a Catholic and French al- horses head northward, and that was the liance, and in having enlisted in their fa- last heard of Captain Robert for some time. your the support of a Protestant power, and And now, kind and patient reader, we the sympathy of the most brilliant and war- will, with your leave, transfer ourselves to like prince of his times Ormathwaite, and visit it towards evening The Jacobite schemers were alert and of the last day of October, 1716, some weeks busy; the very day was fixed for the de- after we took leave of Captain Robert on scent of a Swedish squadron on the coast the downs. The rain had fallen during the of Scotland, when suddenly, in the begin- morning; but now, towards sunset, the ning of October, the bubble burst, the se- clouds were lifting and rolling over the cret correspondence between Gyllenberg great head of Scawfell Pike, and rifts of and Gortz was discovered, and the whole yellow light gleamed to the westward. A plot laid bare, soft and gusty autumn wind swept over the Among those most seriously implicated moors, purple with heather, aud touched was Captain Robert Gresham. One pleas- here and there with clumps of golden gorse. ant October evening, but two days after Never did night approach more gently, or 144 OLIVIA~ S FAVOUR. sink over a more peaceful scene. The wild valley of Wastdale was already almost in shadow, and in its bosom lay the lake, dark and unruffled. The front of its mountain- wall rose on one side, with higher peaks beyond Langdale Pikes, and, like distant beacons, catching the last signal of sunset. On the other side sloped the valley, dotted here and there with a stone farm-house, half hidden in sheltering trees, ahd looking almost like the gre~~ boulders that cropped out among the woods and heather. High on the mountain-side, commanding the wild valley, guarded by its mountain wall, built of mountain-stone, till its long line looked as if but a natural growth of the soil, stood Ormathwaite. The ruddy light of peat fire shone through the windows of the great dining-hall. Maids were passing in and out, through an outer kitchen, bear- ing dishes and tankards. The household were busy in preparations for the Halloween supper that every year, from time iinmemo- rial, had been given by the master of Or- mathwaite to his tenants and neighbours. These Halloween festivals were always somewhat important affairs, for, beside the tenantry and country folk, there usually gathered at these times some of the wealth- icr neighbours and relations of the family cousins, nephews and nieces; Scropes and Ormathwaites, from Kendal and Bassen- thwaite, who came in cavalcades attended by their grooms and servants. Mrs. Orma- thwaite and her granddaughter, who had for some unexplained reason kept much at home for several weeks that autumn, had shown a desire to omit the usual Halloween fes- tivities, but peremptory orders had come from London that the supper should be holden with all its usual cheer. More especially, Mr. Ormathwaite said, as to omit any circumstance of rejoicing would argue an indifference to the late great bless- ing vouchsafed the country in the suppres- sion of seditious risings, which were a feel- ing very far from my heart. So the usual preparations had been made. For days past there had been nothing but baking and stewiwr boilino and roastincr the ~, going on in great kitchen; and the larder shelves were crowded with stores of huge meat-pies, great cakes, bowls of sweet butter, and jars of potted meats, to say nothing of a row of ducks and moor-fowl that hung in melan- choly couples, head downwards, from the larder-hooks. And on the night of which we are speaking, the guests, as they neared the wide doors of the kitchen, were greeted by the fragrant funies of hot cider and spiced ale. The last rays of the sunset were strug gling with the light of the glowing and crackling fire of peat and logs that burnt on the gigantic hearth of the great hall. This hall was certainly the finest portion of Or- mathwaite. It ran along the whole length of the western wing of the building, and, though somewhat low, was of noble l)ropor- tions. The floor was of stone. On one side was a row of deeply-mulhioned windows. The upper end of the hall was raised above the lower by two steps, and was further di- vided by the roof being siipporte(l above the steps by a heavy stone archway. In ancient and more primitive times it had been the custom at Orrnathwaite for the family to dine in the upper hall, while at the lower a table was set for the servants and any poor wayfarers who asked hospitality. A table stood already spread in this lower hall. The long line of dishes and bright tankards gleamed iii the dying sunlight, and from the dark oak rafters the apples were already hung for the sports of the evening. The servants passed to and fro, chattering merrily among themselves, and receiving occasionally orders from the young mistress, who stood at a table near one of the win- dows of the upper hall. The soft evening light lay mellow and dim on her cheek and busy hands; but the long, stiff folds of her green brocaded dress, and her fair arms, from which the delicate lace of her sleeves was pinned back, glowed in the strengthen- ing firelight. It was much as she stands in her portrait that still hangs at Orma- thwaite, a somewhat stately figure, with dark eyes looking down upon you with a light sprung, perhaps, from the same blood that warmed the veiiis of her intrepid great- aunt the baronne, a proud, sweet face, and graced, spite of stiff bodice or powdered hair, with the freshness and bloom of a mountain maid. She was busily cutting sweetened bread, and filling dishes that the maids carried away as they were ready to the lower table. Thy baking is somewhat heavy, Alice, said the young lady to one of the maids who stood near her. Its nobbat as heavy as my heart wa~ when I baked, replied th~ girl. You canna mak ca-ak nor bre-ad light and good withoot an e-asy mind. The young lady sighed. These are sad days! she said. My heart gacs against all this merry- mackino said Alice. Last llalloween was like naa llalloween iver I saa before, and this is maist as waeful.. Those girls seem merry enough, Im sure, Alice. Hear how they are laughing! Oh, those girls would laugh, an have OLIVIAS FAVOUR. 145 their crack, th empty-headed fools ! if wi her high heels, clipping and mincing her th house was burning about their ears. words, and prying into all the closets. I Look at Betty Thwaite giggling there, and had liked to raise my hand on her to-day, poor Jim Gregg sae lately laid in a fbl,ons when I found her going along the passage grave. Its all the same to them whether to the east wing, and telling me shed lost its Whig or true loyal man they have for a her way! sweetheart. Eh! there they are, she con- Do not let the others hear thee, Alice. tinued, pointing with her knife towards the Did she seem to suspect aught? lower hall, hanging their apples, and get- I reckon not; and I scared her so she ting ready their tapers for lating, as if noth- will not venture there again! 1 told her ino had happened since last October. shed better come do~vn, unless shed a mind The young lady sighed again. She seemed to meet the ghost that walks the east wing only half to listen to the words of her coin- passage; that I wouldnt be there after dusk panion, who continued in a low but excited for a the gold of London. And Alice tone : smiled grimly. Theyre not a such fickle, wavering Thou hast a bold tongue, Alsie 2 said bodies, though. Theres that poor soul, Olivia; thou wouldst not shrink, I think, Abigail Trench; my heart fairly aches for whatever happened. her. She goes moping about, caring for Ye murs say Ive bold tongue, mistress; naught, and last year she was as gay and and when I mun tell a lie, Id as lief tell it happy a young wife as you could find in th boldly as tenderly; but I can tell von, mis- country-side; and now there she is with her tress, its inaist show, for often when im bairn alone in the world, her husband bragging it afore them here, my heart feels hanged, and her father in th plantations. I like a dish o your jellies, all shaking and thought my Lord Aseham would think hed quaking. I shall na have a minutes peace got his Devils pay for his treachery when o mind till all this suppering is over, and he saw her wild, woeful face yesterday; for the strange fblk gone. Abigail and I were standing by the well as Hast thou heard anything fresh to cause he and young Mr. Ashburnham rode by. us fear? said Olivia eagerly, reading a Mr. Ashburnham! said Olivia, quick- meaning in the womans manner she could ly. Mr. Ashburnham is in London, scarcely gather from her words. Alice. Alice drew a step nearer, and said in a Nay, nay, it were him, and no other. low voice, Id fain save you the trouble I thought it strange mysel that he sud ha and the rack of care it will give you, but its been in th north, and not have been here. better mnhappen that you knowed to-night. Hes mostly keen enough to show his face Speak out! speak out, Alice! at Ormathwaite when he gets up from Lou- Michael told me when he caine back don, said Alice, with a shrewd glance at from Kendal how last night he saw three her mistress. militiamen riding along with an officer that Mr. Asbburnham has often business they seemed to be attending. They stopped with my gran(lmOtber, said Olivia, with at th inn just outside o Strarnmon Gate, some dignity. where Michael was watering his horse. The Yes, yes, said Alice, half to herself, men were very busy talking. licaring th bees do their business where theres honey word Ormathwaite, Michael pricked his too. Then she continued quickly, as if de- ears, and drew nearer. Just then a fine siring to say her say while she had the op- young gentleman on horseback comes up portunity: Hes a brave, well-spoken and joins them with a good evening, my gentleman, and one that will always get folk inen, and falls into talk wit4m them, seeming to gae his gait for all his quiet ways; but his to give them some orders, for they soon rode back wad break afore it wad bend, and hes off together, he leading the way. a Whig every inch of him; and I wad na Did Michael say who the officer was? trust a Whig, mistress, I wad na trust a said Olivia, whose face had grown pale dur- Whig no further nor I could see him. ing the recital. Hush, Alice, said. Olivia; it matters You mind the soft-spoken Southern man not what Mr. Ashburnhams politics are to that was speering about here last year lvi thee or or to any of us. the militiamen? You have enough troubles of your own, Oh, Alice, the spy from London! mistress, said Alice. Deary me, it Alice nodded her head. Yes, from makes my heart melt in my body wi fears, what Michael said, twas surely he. when I think of to-night! All this coming Olivia dropped the knife she was holdino. and goino; the strange folk all through the We are undone ! she said in a smothered house; and the ladys maid from London, voice. Oh, my poor commsin! After a LIVING AGE. VOL. XV. 636 146 OLIVIAS FAVOUR. moment she asked, Who was the gentle- man who joined them? A), that I caiana say. Michael knowd him, or knowd summut about him, but he wouldnt name him, though Ifleyt him sore ly. He said it were a grevious accusation to bring against any man, and he would na name a name till he knew more. Michaels so mighty fanciful and religious, Ive no pa- tience wi his whimsies sometimes ! Olivia stood for a moment considering what she had just heard. Alice, she said, we must send these tidings to the East Chamber as soon as possible. I can scarcely steal away to-night without being missed. Thou wilt carry up the food to-night? Alice nodded her head. Ise warrant you the poor gentleman shall not go with- out his supper on Halloween. Ill carry it up in my apron, and cover it wi a bundle of dried herbs, just as if I were going to hang them i one of th garrets. Tell him, then, what thou hast told me, and say that I will see Michael this even- ing, and hear if there be any fresh danger on foot; and that I will find means of send- ing word to him to-nhrht when the house is quiet, or sooner if it be needful. Tell him the house is all astir; and bid him, of all things, to lie quiet, and show no light in the windows. Olivia had scarcely said these words when the (1001 opened and a young lady entered, powdered and arrayed in full evening costume, followed by a young gentleman almost as magnificent as herselL This was Miss Katherine Ormathwaite, who had just returned from London, and her cousin, John Scrope. Here ~he is! cried the young lady, running towards Olivia, here she is! she has donned an apron, the pretty housewife that she is ! Listen to me, Cinderella; whip off your apron, ma ch~rc, and make haste to the drawing-room and receive some fresh guests ! You had best keep there yourself, dear cousin, said Olivia, your dress is might- ily out of place in my kitchen. us pretty, nest-ce pas P sai(1 the young lady, spreading the shining folds of her dress and sweeping round with the flow- ing curve of a figure in a minuet. In London it was pronounced irresistible, and though I only wore it once, tis faded, I fear, already. What was that you were saying, Sir? continued she, looking over her shoulder upon the long train, and then turning to Mr. Scrope. I say nothing in the universe can be ~fresher, completer, or sweeter, replied he, looking at the young lady with glowing eyes. Pshaw! that is because you know noth- ing ~bout it, Cousin Jock, you have never been to London. Heigho! I wish you could see my white silk taffeta, Olivia, with the purple fringes to match the amethysts my aunt gave me on my birthday. Oh, tis a sweet thing! said the gay young lady, continuing to sail round and round her tall cousin, making a profound curtsey to the somewhat bewildered young man with each saucy speech. His Excellency General von Schmeichehniitze made me a mighty pretty compliment the mmight I wore it at Lady Betty Bellamys. Mr. Ilamilton prayed me to join them at cards, unless, saith he, you fear the general, madame, who is a Cmsar in piquet as he is in the field. His Excellency makes me a bow, antI says, Such charms are more powerful than the arms of Rome. I come, I see, I am vanquished! Only he said it in Latin, and my father whispered me the meaning, anti I made a curtsey, so. Do you un- derstand Latin, Cousin Jock? Tis a mighty useful tongue, they say. I can conjugate one verb, which will make as pretty a compliment as the barons, and perhaps be more true, said Mr. Scrope. Amo, Am Oh, tis a motto from a school-book! For shame, sir, to mock me! she cried, tossing up her head. My dear Kate, you are too hasty let me explain, l\Iy dear Jock, you are too slow; I will do no such thing. Come, Olivia, let us go, or you will be too late for your new guests. Indeed, I had nearly forgotten them my- self. Who are they, dear Kate? said Oli- via. What do you mean? Lydia and I were standing in the gal- lery window, and saw three gentlemen rid- ing at the farther side of the lake. We could see them plainly. They will be here anon, for they had but to ride round the head of the water. Would you like to know who they are? Nay, you shall guess. She stole behind Olivia and clapped her hands suddenly over her eyes, singing, Heres a thing, and a very fine thing, and what will you do with this fine thing? Number one, my Lord Aschamn. He honours this poor house too much, said Olivia, still blindfolded. Next comes, comitinued Katherine, booted and spurred, Colonel Hamnpden. My uncle! cried Olivia, he is very welcome. OLIVIAS FAVOUR. The third, lagging behind, stiff and straight in the saddle, and looking more Whiggish than ever, Mr. Ashburnham. What comes he to Westmoreland for when all his kin suppose him in London, eh? Oh, cease this folly, dear Kate, you hurt me! said Olivia, pulling down her cousins hands. Oh, la farouche! cried the young lady, bursting into a peal of laughter. And you are pale instead of red, my dear. Come now, Cousin Jock, let us go to the drawing-room. Oh, ciel! I would not live in the country and wear an apron and be so cross for all the world. Olivia raised her head as the door closed, arid her countenance wore anything but a tranquil or happy look. Bring hither the pies and set them there , said she to one of the maids, and, Betty, see to the jugs for the ale; and if any of my lords people come with him they are to he served with the rest. Alice had been looking through one of the long windows while Kate Ormathwaite and Mr. Scrope were talking with her young mistress. Now she turned and said, The gentlemen have come. My lord has gone up to the hall-door and alighted, and the groom is bringing his horse to the stables; but the Colonel and Mr. Ashburnham are walking up together this way. They canna, for sure, mean to enter by the kitchen place! She had scarcely spoken when the two gentlemen appeared in the doorway of the lower hall. Olivia laid down the knife she held and her arms dropped to her side; but she stood erect and still in her apron and turned-up sleeves, awaiting their ap- proach. Colonel Hampden advanced first to meet his niece. Mv dear Olivia, he cried, saluting her gallantly, I did not look for the pleasure of seein~ you here. Upon my word, your house~vifes gear is hugely becoming! I heard there was feasting going on, and came in to beg a draught of cider after our long ride. Mr. Ashburnham, whom we fell in with on the road, is here also you see, and I promised him a welcome. Those who are with von, Uncle, are always welcome, said Olivia. Mr. Ashburnham bowed so low that his hat brushed the stone floor, and the young lady responded by a curtsey as profound and cereluonious ; but as they both looked up, it was observable that while the young man bad become somewhat pale, Miss Or- mathwaite~s l)allor had given place to an ex- traordinarily becoming blush. I am glad I have fetched Ashburnham with me, said the Colonel, laughing; he will be quite at home here. He is a Lon- don beau, and has learned Heaven knows what new graces, minuets, and follies dur- ing his stay in town. I protest, said Mr. Ashburnham hastily. The London beauties have smiled on him, says Mistress Rumour, continued the Colonel without heeding the interruption; indeed, I hear they have a new style of queue in the barbers windows, called the Ashburnham queue. Ha, ha, ha! And yet he has torn himself away, for some un- known reason, and come to Westmoreland, to the astonishment of his own friends. Make him confess his mission, Olivia. I trust it is no evil tidings that have brought Mr. Ashburnham to the north, said Olivia. Not at all, said Colonel Hampden, not at all. his own mother did not look for him. It is some weighty business, be sure of that. He was mighty grave and moody as we rode along. You would have sup- posed my lord and I were the young bucks and he the gray-haired sobersides. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my honour, Ashburnham, I thought youd got a fit of the toothache, I swear I did ! The Colonel took the flagon that Olivia had just filled with the smoking ale. I drink to the Rose of Ormathwaite! he said gallantly. Come, Ashburnham, have you no compliment? What was your last couplet for your fair friends in town? I do not get such couplets by heart, said Mr. Ashburnham. I know not how to pledge Miss Ormathwaite, unless it be my service, but in that I pledge all. And he bowed low, and raised the glass to his lips. Olivia blushed, and turned to leave the room. Ah, I see you must wait till he gets to the drawing-room to hear his pretty speeches, said the Colonel, laughing. I assure you he makes toasts quite ~ ha mode sometimes. How has a country gentleman mastered so much style vy? I~~ir. - so fast, eh, Liv Ashburnham is a courtier now, I believe, replied the young lady, casting a momentary glance upon that gentleman as she swept past him through the doorway. There was something of bitterness pointing both wor(ls and look. As soon as they entered the drawing- room, Miss Ormathwaite joine(I a gropp of the guests in the deep emhrasure of a win- dow, and scarce vouchsafed the unlucky Mr. Ashburnham a glance. The Colonel 148 OLIVIAS FAVOUR. took his seat at the elbow of old Mrs. Or- inathwaites chair and spake in softened tones, subdued, as who was not, by that gentle and loving presence. The rest of the company drank coffee and played cards, or listened to the harpsichord. The young hostess, moved about the room with a face perhaps too l)ale and cold to be inspiring to her guests, for without doubt there was a shadow over the whole party. Katherine Ormathwaite, who had grown tired of Lord Aschams stories, beckoned Mr. Ashburn- ham to her side, as he stood silent and moody by the fireplace, and then whis- pered and rattled away a whole ocean of town gossip. Mr. Ashburnham bent his head to listen with a very good grace, but the gloom of his visage might have led one to suppose his mind was occupied with more serious and troublesome thoughts than could possibly have been suggested by the gay and vivacious Kate. As for the rest, the clicking of the cards on the table and the jingling of the spinet almost took the place of conversation. At last Colonel Hampden, throwing down his cards, and pushing the winnings to Mrs. Scrope, said, I am beaten, my dear madam, and I must defer my revenge, for here is Mrs. Ormathwaite, and I know she is anxious that her guests in the hail below should not be neglected. I have been waiting with impatience for the close of your game, my dear Colonel, said Mrs. Ormathwaite; then turning to Lord Ascham, my lord, will you give me your arm K 1 protest I am thankful for the change, whispered Katherine to her cousin, John Scrope, as the company rose to leave the room. For goodness sake, Cousin Jock, take me away from this man. I have talked for the last hour just to keep from yawning. I thought you seemed quite wide awake, replied Mr. Scrope with some dignity. For shame, sir, to speak so? I sup- pose if I had said Mr. Ashburnham was witty and charming, youd have flown into a passion; and when I tell you the truth that he is dull and tiresome, and that I talked to keep myself awake, you make a long face and begin to scold. Tis not possible to please you! But, dear Kate, listen to reason for one moment. As, however, listening to reason is never very pleasant, we will leave our pair, and follow the others to the hall. J. G. WHITTIER ON HUMBOLDT. AMESBURY, 9th mo. 6th, 1869. To R. C. Waterston, Jeifries Wyman, .N~. B. Shurtleff, ~c., Committee: Gentlemen I fear I shall not be able to be present at the centennial celebration of the birth of Alexander von Humboldt, to which you invite me, but I cannot let the occasion pass without expressing my entire sympathy with the object of the society which you represent. There is little danger of overestimating the worth of such a man as Humboldt, whose repu- tation, outgrowing the limits of nationality and breaking down distinction of race and language, has become universally acclimated, the common property of Science, Civilization and Human Progess. What most impresses me, in contemplating his life and character, is their symmetry and rounded completeness. He was not exception- ally great in one direction only ; wherever you touched him you felt the firm muscle of his in- tellectual strength. He saw all sides with cos mical appreciation. His mind like the wheels of Ezekiels vision was full of eyes round about. He had a broad, generous, nature, and neither Art, nor Science, nor Philosophy, could overlay and smother his humanity. The pro- foundest of all students of the laws of the uni- verse, he was never indifferent to the welfare of his fellow-men. He hated all slavery, mental, spiritual, physical. He was only intolerant of intolerance. His generous and hearty interest in the cause of freedom in the United States can never be forgotten by those of us who, in dark and evil days, were cheered by his approval and sympathy. Doubtless it is not well to set up human idols. But while judging severely of wasted and dis- honored lives, it surely becomes us to cherish gratefully and reverently those marked by no- ble aims and honorable achievement. Honor, then, to the great German, and let a common admiration of the flower and consum- mation of Teutonic genius and culture serve to unite in closer brotherhood his countrymen and ours. Very truly your friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER. THE British Association will meet next year at Liverpool, under the Presidency of Prof. Huxley. Speculation is already busy as to the subjects likely to be introduced in the Inaugu- ral Address. RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. From The Contemporary Review, from one to the other unawares. But for RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC guidance on the way, and that travellers CRITICISM.* may not separate from each other and lose IT is not so surprising as it might seem at the path, there must be symbols outward the first blush, that a period of doubt, tran- dogmatic forms or representations which sition, and sifting of evidences, such as our the intellect has had its share in shaping own undoubtedly is, should prove fruitful and setting up. There is a constant ten- in religious poetry. We cannot appeal dency in human nature to value these for back from reasoned or dogmatic forms to themselves alone, and not on account of genuine human instincts and aspirations, in that to which they point; and poetry, as order to the revivifying of these forms, with- dealing with the human and the permanent out poetry becoming virtually the most con- that which is embraced within the sky- servative of influences. Its business is to like ~rcle of feeling and emotion is at restore and re-beautify by fresh infusions of once the great reforming and the great con- spirit. Thronot cc, by keeping these en rapport tiful the ready seizing of beau- servative for analogies it relates the distant and di- with the unseen realities through suggest- verse by subtlest links of association and ed trains of hallowed associatioii. When, emotion. Probably the most poetic races therefore, a critical spirit comes, as in our are the most conservative, alike of po~~~- own day, and all the old dogmatic forms sions and of habits. The Cdt, whose lively are threatened with assault, what can the imagination and retentive memory enable intuitively religious spirit, strong in the him to see in his little bit of hog-land a might of its serene purity and joy, do to spiritualized record of his family history protect its dearest experiences, but seek to for long generations, is far more tenacious charge with new life and interest the svm- of his rights in it than the Saxon, who is bolism so intimately associated with all its held less keenly by subtle and intangible rare delights? So theie naturally arises ties. The deepest conservatism we hold, a self-conscious and reactionary school of therefore, is grounded on faith in the un- religious poetry, which will inevitably be seen; and poetry, as setting forth the in- productive, and will probably run on two visible bonds that bind, not only the differ- extreme tendencies. Either it will seek ent, but the far separated in time, is a refuge in the asceticism by which the mdi- minister of true conservatism. For what- vidual singer can escape from the insur- ever pertains to essential humanity in its gence of doubt and scepticism (and it is strivings and its wants, its longings, its inevitable from his solitude that he will losses, and ?ts joys, poetry seeks to record; often tend to select the most insubstantial and in recording this it effectively indicates, or arbitrary points in the symbols), or else though not dogmatically, the curve on it will aim at taking direct possession of which lies the worlds true path of advance- the enemys stronghold, and choose its inent. All genuine reformation is a fresh themes from the very storehouse of scepti- return upon the common or catholic which cism itself, forcing them to give testimony had been forgotten. or prostituted, and against themselves. Miss Dora Greenwells poetic impulse, in one form or other, must poetry is a specimen of the first; and Mr. have in the first instance operated power- Tennysons In Memoriam is, to a larae fully, whatever practical form it may finally extent, representative of the second. The take. one seeks, by self-seclusion, to become - And what holds true of poetry generally superior to the distractions of science, which in this respect is especially true of religious are the justifying ground of scepticism; poetry. The sorrows and joys of the reli- the other seeks, by poetizing science, to gious life are of such a sweet, secret, and discover in the varied parts a deeper unity secluded character that only poetry may than the scientific man, by a scrutiny of presume to give them an abiding voice, each, can find~, and to set that up as a kind And every spirit truly exercised in the de- of counterpole to the unity that lies behind voutest experiences is ever skirting a coun- the re-humanized and etherealized symbols try whose borders break freely into the land of the Christian faith. Out of the divided of song. There are no high walls or broad and discordant voices of nature, as inter- ditches separating the two; swift feet go preted by the near ear of science, the poet, removing himself to a distance by the kindly * 1. (7arminia Crucis. By DORA GRRR~WELL. aid of imagination, and listenino intent London. Bell and Daldy. covers a softened, thoucrh ,, , dis latent, harmony, 2. The Ministry of Song. By FA~eIeY RIDLEY and gives it utterance. HAYERnAL. The Christian Book Society. But the reactionary singers have one in 3. Hymns and Meditat is. By A. L. W. Tenth evitable disadvantage from which their Edition. London. Strahan and Co. 150 RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. brethren of simpler times were largely free. There is an atmosphere of selectness, if we may name it so, about their poetry. They each seem to feel that they are singing for a Christian people broken up into sections, and not for an undivided spiritual comiun- nity. There is an esoteric and exoteric teaching wrapped up in their song. Mr. Matthew Arnold has given most polished and philosophical expression to the feeling in those brilliant articles where he disposed so dexterously of Bishop Colenso. But other l)oets feel the burden as keenly as he feels it; and have not yet discovered the short way of getting rid of it by writing clever cynical prose essays, full of innuendo and covert irony certainly far enough in some respects from the spirit of poetry. The famous section of In Memoriam beginning 0 thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reachd a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form. Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early heaven, her happy views Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse A life that leads melodious days is a good representative specimen of the teaching we have spoken of; and there surely can be no harm in quoting it in so close a connectifin with Mr. Arnolds name. Such clear, full-hearted, undivided lays as those of Herbert or Vaughan, with their fragrant devotion and their leisurely rhyth- mic pace through quaintest avenues, hy still streams, and over green dells, are not now possible. For productions any way ap- proaching these demand culture, a knowl- edge of all the best and highest influences of the time; and how can any one who in the least keeps abreast of the intellectual progress and tendencies of our day, escape a sense of haunting suspicion and doubt hovering about the most sacred things P The gist of the whole matter seems to be tils that so long as earnest religious con- victions are covertly assailed by science and criticism, we shall have plenty of true re- ligion s poetry, but little of the very highest kind, because this is only possible where the poet sings spontaneously and in the full consciousness of giving utterance to hoino- geneous, unimpaired heliefs, or, at all events, beliefs which have either not vet been cast into the alembic of science, or have fully emerged from it, clearer, brighter, and more firmly established than ever. We have full hope that the truths of Christiaii- ity, so far as they have been imperilled by science, will triumphantly emerge, and therefore we wait expectantly. We have already referred to Miss Green- wells poems; and as her Carinina Cm- cisis the most typical of the ascetic order of religious literature which we have yet seen, perhaps we may be justified in exam- lug it for a little in connection with some of her other writings. Miss Greenwell is gift- ed with a iiiost sensitive nature, and the im pressioiis niade upon her so gain in fineness and intensity as they are retranslated into outward form, that only like sensitive and cultured minds will have patience to trace out the limiks by which they fiuid their artis- tic genesis. lt is all the more important, therefore, to try and reach her central idea, or root-conception, of religion and life. WTe have aim impression that, notwithstand- ing an over-fineness of perception which has led to much obscurity, there is in her a re- markable unity of spiritual experience and mental development, which, once realized, will add much interest to the study of her works, both prose and verse. A peculiar comitradiction, only partially reconciled as yet, we can trace from the (late of her earliest work. Perhaps this is, to some extent, unconscious on her part, but not the less is it real, more especially in its mnfinence on the form of her poetry. The necessity for a mystic asceticism be- ing associated in the Christian life with a full, simple, and direct recognition of the beauty and divinity of Nature, seems to be the underlying thought on which she is con- stantly approaching, and which yet she never openly amid plainly proclaims. In The Patience of Ilope we find her say- ing: Every development of Christs spirit within man necessarily takes a self-subduing character, making asceticism, under one form or another, inseparable from the true Chris- tian ife ....Chr ists rule O~pOSC5 itself as much to the higher, as to the lower instincts of human nature. And in the same xvork we find her quoting with appro- val, as imidirectly illustrating this law of the Christian life, some words of David Scott, although it strikes us as somewhat strange she did not see that, in the very fact of quotii)g them, she implicitly admitted that some of mans higher instincts tends at least to the same result as Christiaiiity : All that I hold worthiest, said Scott of the high i(leal objects to which his life was devoted, seems to remove me from the sphere of other men. On the other side, again, we meet with a somewhat confused but continual recurrence to nature, as though the last perfection of the Christian life was but the return to the unconscious spontaneity which RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. lies in the deepest spirit of nature. Such a life [the completed Christian life] will seem less spiritual only because it has grown more natural; the soul moves in an at- mosphere which of itself brings it into con- nection with all great and enduring things, and it has only to draw in its breath to be filled and satisfied The spirit of God, ecen as the spirit of man, works, and as far as we yet understand the conditions of our being, lives only through the body which has been prepared for it. . . . . For it is neither by that which is merely natural, nor by that which is purely spiritual, that mans complex nature is nourished and sus- tained; he lives neither by bread alone, nor yet upon angels food. The result has been that we have in Miss Greenwells case an ascetic, mystical ten- dency crossed by purely poetic impulses, leading to a kind of noble discontent, which scarcely permits full completeness or spontaneity of sensuous or imaginative forms. For the purely poetic instinct is essentially social, aiid finds its highest food only in the blessed circle of community. Withdraw it completely from that, and it withers and dies like a branch stuck in un- congenial soil. Miss Greenwell is too much of the true poet ever to be the true ascetic; but before she can realize her highest joy, she must unreservedly declare for the one or the other. For here, too, it is true, No man can serve two masters. She has drunk too deeply of the influences which Wordswortl~ generated, and from which her great exemplar, Mrs. Browning, could not escape, to be able entirely to close her eyes upon the lights it may be the low sunset lights of divine revelation in nature, and to give herself up unre- servedly to the Manichean idea, which, as setting spirit and flesh, the soul and nature in direct and absolute opposition to each other, lies at the root of the monastic tendency. At one time it is as though Miss Green- well had given herself over in a sort of despair, and taken stand once for all on this side; and, again, it is as though trouble- some doubts had arisen within her whether, after all, the mysteries of nature and the mysteries of spirit do not so shade into each other as to create a kind of middle kingdom, which alone is real and self-ex- istent, and of which Christianity is the final exponent, bringing out into clearness what before had been but dim and doubtful prophecies, viewed from the extreme verge on either side. The immediate result, at all events, is not favourable to Miss Green- wells poetry securing the wide audience which the artistic grace of its form, rather than its clearness and universality, might claim for it. A sense of retireIiient and of far-withdrawnness from the world speaks through its shell-like purity; an(l where we most admire, our religious feelings ar~ least powerfully influenced. Those experi- ences which, expressed in clear, musical words, would touch the iiimost core of the heart, are veiled sheathed, and shrouded in quaint vagaries of symbol. It is too often as if the writer was really more con- cerned with the form than the matter; as if the human experiences broken, confused, disappointing were Iliade mediums, the better for their ragged brokenness, of look- ing through upon set selected natural ob- jects. Aiid thuis gives us the key-note to Miss Greenwells main drawback as apopu- lar writer of religious verse. While the commonest human needs and sympathies aiid trials are not removed far from hei, nay, are drawn close to her (for in the motto from Luther which she is so fond of quoting, she over and over again italicizes the words, the heart preserves its natural colour, for the Cross does not extinguish nature, it does not kill, but give lfe), ther are yet viewed not so much in themselves as in relation to outward nature as some- thing which gives a key to it, sheds new lights on it, brings out its hidden purpose and significance. In her moments of truest inspiration it would seem as though she suddenly stopped short, dropped into a meditative luxury of observation, and forced the object on which her eyes first fell into a synibol of the original mood; and hence a certain quaint, laboured arbitrariness, like nothing so much as mnediwvah illuminations. It may be a tree, a bird, a flower, a seed, a rock, a moss, on which the newly-opened eye first. alights; but chains are forthwith put upon the neck of the imagination, and a sense of arbitrary and forced association seems to supervene. Often, too, the reader is in this way a little oppressed with the sense of a brooding over the s nubol for its own sake, in spite of the declared asceticism of the mood. There is a want of dircctness of connection, and of evidentuess of mean- ing. it is as if the insulatoms being de- foctive, the spiritual current became broken, and the message returmied back upon its source. Those who will folow Miss Greenwells trains of thought must follow her through solitary ways, amid at the end even descend into the deeps of mne(hi~- val theosophy. The root of this defect lies in the evil which has always, more or less, associated itself with mysticism. We all know somethimig of that peculiar kind of 152 RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. absorbing sympathy which, in some women, and in most tender, highly-strung natures, actually becomes a kind of morbid and ex- acting selfness. So in mystical poetry of the religious order. More care is given to a realization of the individual conceptions in symbol than to an effort after bringing these conceptions en rapport with common and universal forms of feeling, to the end that a more universal utterance may be attained by virtue of that disinterested sympathy which Mr. Matthew Arnold, following Sainte Beuve, finds so essential in all forms of art. This eare often results in an elaborate polish, defeating itself by an attempt after airy distinctions of feeling and of thought which the words actually will not bear. Carmina Crucis is a very skilled artis- tic renderingof Miss Greenwells religious philosophy, as expressed more or less di- rectly in her several books, and most im- inanently in The Patience of Hope. The inadequacy of nature fully to meet and interpret mans wants, and yet the need of nature as the deepest organ-stop in Gods universe, by virtue of mans intimate and indissoluble connection with it;. the minis- try of the Cross in retranslating nature and humanity into harmony and Divine consis- teucynature being removed to a distance, interpenetrated and suffused with lights struck from Christianized manhood, and lifted up at last into an enduring witness; and humanity itself, first refined from, all that in its present condition gives a kind of unity and permanence derived from stern necessity, and then reduced to separate units, eachfreely seeking individual purity and development in a kind of ascetic hu- manitarianism; such is the idea of Miss Greenwells most finished work. It has a delicate artistic flavour, and breathes of the fragile holiness and saintly aspiration of the cloister. The devout spirit is everywhere present; and the tremblingly sensitive ear for the still small voices fails not to re- port itself duly. Most sincere and careful labour is evident in every part of the work. Some of the poems are very perfect, but truth compels us to say that they are most so when the sympathies seem to go out more freely toward natural objects, and where the religious idea seems secondary, and reads into ~hese. Take the following, certainly two of the best: A MYSTERY. A bird sings clear within the darkling wood Sing sweet, oh bird, though wounded be thy breast Although thy song of few be understood, A song of love is thine a song of rest. A rose beneath it blooms a rose unfed By earthly mould, unnourished by the dew; Yet rich the roses fragrance, ruby red In every leaf; as if its heart burned through. And when the bird is silent, then the rose Gives forth no odour, yields no light nor bloom, Death-stricken pale, its petals shrink and close, And all the air grows silent as a tomb. And when the bird sings clearest most it grieves Oer its deep wound; then from its heart oerflows A crimson drop, that on the roses leaves Falls with the song, then sweetest is the rose. THE S UNFLOWER. TAl the slow daylight pale, A willing slave, fast bound to one above, I wait; he seems to speed, and change, and fail I know he will not move. I lift my golden orb To his, unsmitten when the roses die, And in my broad and burning disk absorb The splendours of his eye. His eye is like a clear Keen flame that searches through me: I must droop Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere To mine he cannot stoop. I win not my desire, And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo! A thousand flickering darts and tongues of fire Around me spread and glow. All rayed and crowned, I miss No queenly state until the summer wane, The hours flit by ; none knoweth of my bliss, And none has guessed my pain. I follow one above, I track the shadow of his steps, I grow Most like to him I love Of all that shines below. We shall only venture to give one speci- men more from Carmina Crucis, but one which illustrates pretty well what we have said with respect to the influence of science and criticism on the form of Miss Green- wells verse. Here it is: SCHOLA Curcis, SduoIA Lucis. Beneath thy cross I stand, Jesus, my Saviour, turn and look on me; Oh who are these that, one on either hand, Are crucified with Thee? The one that turns away, With sullen scoffing life, and one whose eyes Close oer the words, Yet shalt thou be this day With me in paradkm. RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. 153 Here would I fain behold This twofold mystery ! Loves battle won Its warfare ended, and its ransom told, Its conquest but begun! I say not to thee now, Come from the cross, and then will I be- lieve: Oh, lift me up to thee, and teach me how To love and how to grieve! Stay on the Cross, until Thou art of all confessed, of all adored Be there each lingring heart, each wavring will Made fast unto its Lord. I tracked thy footsteps long, For where thou wert there would thy servant be; But now methought the silence, now the throng, Would part me still from thee. I sought thee mid the leaves, Ifind thee on the dry and blasted tree; I saw thee not, until I saw the thieves There crucified with thee. We have here a simplicity quite out of har- mony with the subtlety of feeling and idea which the poem seeks, to express, and the result will inevitably he that where the idel is caught, a sense of dissatisfaction with the form as being inadequate will be felt: while on the other hand a sense of exquisite harmony, with no corresponding clearness of meaning, especially in the latter part, will persecute less acute and less cultured readers. Miss Greenwell writes true po- etry, and it is quite within her capacity to add to the wealth of our hymn literature the rarest of all in its highest form if she will but aim more at expressing common feelings through common words glorified in the music of which her poetic instincts and her delicate taste have already made her so proficient a mistress. Miss Waring stands almost at the oppo- site pole from Miss Greenwell. She is one of the few hymn writers who maintain, amid the criticism and doubt of our day, much of the sweet unconsciousness and subdued warmth of earlier singers. Thereisaquiet, self-suffieient fervour about her poems, and a pellucid flow of verse, which is the result neither of art nor polish, but seems to flow, like a spring, crystal-clear, from a disci- plined, joyfhl Christian heart. No need to quote her hymns surely! Who among us is not acquainted with Father, I know that all my life Is portioned out to me ; and In Heavenly Love abiding? Miss Waring shows little sign of the ascetic ten- dency. Her poems breathe of the congre- gation; as if, all unfelt by her, the very so- ciety and presence of others like-minded made a clear and fragrant atmosphere, in which her own light is thrown back upon her, intensified and made more pure by re- fraction. And thus she sings her best. Art has hidden art in the simple fulness of her thoughts, strung like radiant pearls on the threads of devout and holy experiences. Unconsciously she seems herself to have in- timated this in that exquisite hymn My Heart is resting, 0 my God Sometimes I long for promised bliss, But it will not come too late And the songs of patient spirits rise From the place wherein I wait While in the faith that makes no haste My soul has time to see .d kneeling host of Thy redeemed, In fellowship with me. There is a multitude around Responsive to my prayer; Ihear the voice qf my desire Resounding everywhere. But the earnest of eternal joy In every prayer I trace I see the glory of the Lord On every chastened fLce. How oft, in still communion known, These spirits have been sent To share the travail of my soul, Or show me what it meant! And I long to do some work of love No spoiling hand could touch, For the poor and suffering of Thy flock Who comfort me so much But the yearning thought is mingled now With the thankful song I sing; For Thy people know the secret source Of every precious thing. The heart that ministers for Thee In Thy own work will rest; And the subject spirit of a child Can serve Thy children best. Mine be the reverent, listening love, That waits all day on Thee, With the service of a watchful heart Which no one else can see. The faith, that in a hidden way, No other eye may know, Finds all its daily work prepared, And loves to have it so. My heart is resting, 0 my God, My heart is in Thy care I hear the voice of joy and health Resounding everywhere. Thou art my portion, saith my souL (en thousand voices say, And the music oJ their glad Amen Will never die away. 154 RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. Miss Greenwell is an exquisite artist; but not so perfect as not to be persecuted with some self-consciousness and struggle, insep- arable, indeed, from the conventual ten- dency which is perceptible in her. She is medi~eval where Miss Waring is modern; th~ one tends to he Catholic and conventu- al, the other is open-air and Protestant. The Catholic idea encourages art; but, sim- ply because it is in essence hierarchical and dogmatic, it soon stereotypes and fixes the form, proscribing free play of individual development. The Protestant idea, again, cherishes individuality, and seeks to lift it up and freshen it in the glad smile of the Whole, in which spiritual entity all distinc- tion of rank and position perishes. Protes- tantism, therefore, while it gives no fa~ti- tious excitement to art production as Cathol- icism does, yet more effectually aids poetic prodnction in the end, because it claims un- restricted freedom for individual judgment and free play of faculty; and, at the same time, provides the most natural medium in which these can breathe and grow and yield fruit. These two ladies are, therefore, to some extent typical of diverse tendencies. The one is the poet of the few cultured, yet still devout, and needing, if not an ab- solute authority, certainly a special cor- dial to a divided intellect leashed to a yearning heart and she sings ont of a safe shelter sought from the storm, feared and looked for. As yet, however, she sings with scarcely the full, firm voice of the soul which has become one with the great crowd of assured believers. There is a sense of predominating desire to escape facing the baffling winds of scepticism and infidelity. The words are rather directed to soothe and spiritualize the prepared soul, than to ex- cite to any kind of labour on behalf of other souls, or even to union with them. In Miss Warings hymns, on the other hand, there is a pervading implicit social impulse: they want to be sung by many voices; they quiver and palpitate with the resonance of a common chord; the lines express com- mon needs, and beat out their own music. Carinina Crucisis a series of exquisite poems; Miss Warings happiest productions are hymns in the best sense. There is no obtruding of special frames or feelings, no contra(lictory veiling, yet half-proud asser- tion, of remote and exceptional intellectual tendencies and habitudes. Miss Waring has sometimes written when her inspiration was below flood-mark; and the result is that we have now and again diffuse and unequal work from her hand. But how wonderful is the process by which the spiritual sense of the community, in hymns as in much else, acts as a refining fire, purging away whatever is not of the highest! Gradually the best is selected, and the inefficient is suffered to drop away; those which are worthy become household words, and the rest fall quietly aside. How little of any literature abides! It is something a distinguishing honour, indeedto have, even by a single song or hymn, incarnated oneself in the common heart, and thus become secure of a place for all time. Miss Waring has done this; and mere detailed fault-finding on what remains behind is of no avail, and of little or no profit. It is difficult to justify our opin- ions by quotations, but we give one of her more recent hymns only IT isl. Lord, it is Thou! and I can walk Upon the heaving sea, Firm in a vexed, unquiet way, Because I come to Thee. If Thou art all I hope to gain And all I fear to miss, There is a highway for my heart Through rougher seas than this. And step by step on even ground My trembling foot shall fall, Led by Thy calm inviting voice, Thou Lord and Heir of all. The very thing I cannot bear, And have not power to do, I hail the grace that could prepare For me to carry through. These waters would not hold me up If Thou wert not my end; But whom Thou callest to Thyself Even wind and waves defend. Our very perils shut us in To Thy supporting care; We venture on the awful deep, And find our courage there. When I have nothing in my hand Wherewith to serve my King, When Thy commandment finds me weak And wanting everything, My soul, upon Thy greatness cast, Shall rise divinely free Then will I serve with what Thou hast, And gird myself with Thee. It shall be strength, howeer it tend, The bidding sweet and still Which draws to one ennobling love And one benignant will. Most precious when it most demands, It brings that cheering cry Across the rolling tide of life, Take heart! for it is I. Oh, there are heavenly heights to reach Lu many a fearful place, Where the poor timid heir of God Lies blindly on his face: RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. 155 Lies languishing for life divine That he shall never see Till he go forward at Thy sign, And trust himself to Thee. Why should I halt because of sin Which Thou hast put away? Let all the truth on every side Rebuke me as it may! With Thee, my Saviour, full in view, I know it shall but bless It shall but centre all my hope In glorious righteousness. Forth from some narrow frail defence, Some rest Thyself below, Some poor content with less than all, My soul is called to go. Yes, I will come! I will not wait An outward calm to see; And, 0 my Glory! be Thou great Even in the midst of me. Miss Havergals little book, The Min- istry of Song, belongs to a different order from the productions of either of the ladies already spoken of. Not that she lacks in- dividuality, so much as well-directed disci- pline. Her muse skims over the surface of ordinary religious feeling with peculiarly pleasant, swallow-like flights; now and again, too, dipping down on the solid land of more secular topics. All her poems show much native truth, delicacy, and sweetness; but the flight is not sustaine(l; and not only is the book unequal, but the separate poems are so. Occasionally we come on a verse or a line so rugged and unworthy, that we are surprised at the au- thor of so many fine verses passing it. Here and there, too, we come on themes approached through a medium of pure log- ical distinction and definition, which leads to something mixt, as the Americans say, and induces diffuseness and want of imaginative reserve two faults against which Miss Ilavergal needs to be partic- ularly on her guard. Some of the verses in Misunderstood, Disappointment, and Faith and Reason, are specially open to this criticism. But there is a force of reality, of unconscious truthfulness and genuine simple feeling, which may well atone for such defects; and Miss I-layer- gals volume will prove a welcome addition to many a collection of sacred lyrics. We mention as being especially fine, Three- fold Praise (though generally the attempt to translate the special themes of one art into another is not successful), On the last Leaf, and Making Poetry. Not Yet is also in some respects excellent, and we quote it Not yet thou knowest what I do, O feeble child of earth, Whose life is but to angel view The morning of thy birth The smallest leaf, the simplest flower, The wild bees honey-cell, Have lessons of My love and power Too hard for thee to spell. Thou knowest not how I uphold The little thou dost scan And how much less canst thou unfold My universal plan, Where all thy mini can grasp of space Is but a grain of sand The time thy boldest thought can trace One ripple on the strand Nor yet thou knowest what I do In this wild warring world, Whose prince doth still triumphant view Confusions flag unfurled Nor how each proud end daring thought Is subject to My will, Each strong and secret purpose brought My counsel to fulfil. Not yet thou knowest how I bid Each passing hour entwine Its grief or joy, its hope or fear, In one great love-design Nor how I lead thee through the night, By many a various way, Still upward to unclouded light, And onward to the day. Nor yet thou knowest what I do Within thine own weak breast To mould thee to My image true, And fit thee for My rest. But yield thee to My loving skill The veiled work of grace, From day to day progressing still, It is not thine to trace. Yes, walk by faith and not by sight, Fast clinging to My hand Content to feel My love and might, Nor yet to understand. A little while thy course pursue, Till grace to glory grow; Then what I am, and what I do, Hereafter thou shalt know. Our authors, then, are all ladies; and there is a significance in this, too. In such a time as ours it is only to be expected that the work of restoring and confirming a sore- ly-tried faith by hmns and psalms and spiritual songs should be most successfully done by women or by feminine natures. John Keble had a dash of the feminine tens- perament, exhibiting itself chiefly in the do- mestic clinginguess and tender dependency, which, in despite of a recOgnise(l external authority, led him to make authorities of his father and family, even to the extent of 150 RELIGIOUS POETRY AND SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM. justifying one who knew him well in de- claring that he never adopted an opinion alien to those received from them, and that this implicit acceptance was a great and distinct loss to him. Of course Keble was most decided strong-headed even in his opposition to anything that in the least threatened his own cherished convictions; hut his firmness was not that of well- reasoned, tolerant, masculine assurance, hut partook rather of the querulous, exclu- sive self-sufficiency of a delicate feminine organization. Much the same has been said of J. H. Newman; and these are the only two men who, since the destructive criticism began, have done much in the way of hymn literature within the Church of England. Dr. Monsell, who exhibits great simplicity of conception and exquisite finish, has graduated in an older school, and does not impress one so much with individual force, as with poetic deliberation and med- itative delightsomeness. Many of his hap- piest things, too, are set on a plaintive mi- nor, with perhaps too definite lessons sharply looking through upon us. Across the border, iloratius Bonar has struck a sweet note that dwells long on the ear; but in him, too, there is a trembling, sensitive, tender solicitude, and a brooding over cer- tain special forms of ideas characteristics on the whole more akin to the female than to the active male disposition. While the knights xode out, redressing human wrongs, and punishing those who had done cruelly or dishonestly, the maidens sang songs, embroidered emblems, or executed sacred illuminations; so now, while the stronger members are doing battle with the enemy on his own ground, investigating the scien- tific bulwarks, and counter-working under- ground, the gentler ones are re-beautifying the sanctuary, and raising new songs of hope and exultation as they go through the glo- rious work. Like others before them, they may say or sing We may do Our Fathers business in these temples mirk, Thus swift and steadfast thus intent and strong; While thus apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high calm spheric tune and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song. Amid much sifting and shaking of the old and long-established, in spiritual things as in political, England has certainly reason to congratulate herself on the variety and worth of her religious poetry, which affords always a safe and sheltered haven, into which the vessel, battered in the stormy roadway of the world, can steer for rest and consolation. H. A. PAGE. GARIBALDL BY JOHN 0. wHITTIER. IN trance and dream of old, Gods prophet saw The casting down of thrones. Thou, watching lone The hot Sardinian coast line, hazy-hilled, Where, fringing round Capreras rocky zone With foam, the slow waves gather and with- draw, Beholdst the vision of the seer fulfilled, And hearest the sea-winds burdened with a sound Of fallin,, chains, as, one by one, unbound, The nations lift their right hands up and swear Their oath of freedom. From the Thdk-white wall Of England, from the black Carpathian range, Along the Danube and the Theiss, through all The passes of the Spanish Pyrenees, And from the Seines thronged banks, a murmur strange And glad floats to thee oer the summer seas On the salt wind that stirs thy whitening hair, The song of Freedoms bloodless victories! Rejoice, 0 Garibaldi! Though thy sword Failed at Romes gates, and blood seemed vainly poured Where, in Christs name, the crowned infidel Of France wrought murder with the arms of hell On this sad mountain slope whose ghostly dead, Unmindful of the gray exorcists ban Walk, unappeased, the chambered Vatican, And draw the curtains of Napoleons bed! Gods providence is not blind, but, full of eyes, It searches all the refuges of lies; And in His time and way, the accursed things Before whose evil feet thy battle gage Has clashed defiance from hot youth to age Shall perish. All men shall be priests and kings, One royal brotherhood, one church made free By love, which is the law of liberty! Atlantic Monthly. A COUNTY FAMILY. 157 CHAPTER XXXIX. THE RIDE FOR LIFE. IT was not without reason that William had warned Stanhope that his fierce mirth would rouse the cottage, for it woke the sick man above stairs, whose eyes asked of Ellen, his night-watcher, what the noise mi ght mean, then once more wearily closed. Ellen her- self, always alert when it was her turn for duty, was rendered more wakeful by it; she knew that it was not her uncles laugh, and yet how unlike it was to Stanhopes! She had heard the two in serious talk, and then the opening door and their embarkation. Why they should have chosen such an hour for a river-trip was a mystery which excited her. They ~vent up stream was it possible to examine for themselves the state of the em- bankment at its head, about which dear John seemed so solicitous? It was much more likely to be a mere drunken frolic of her uncles; but Ellen preferred the less ob- vious solution, because it had reference to her lover. She had looked to see him re- cross the bridge that day, but he had not done so, having probably returned to Mose- dale by way of Redmoor. How beautiful the stream and garden looked! Now grand- father had dropped asleep again, and those men were gone, and all the house was still, why should she not go out into the moon- light? She was dressed, of course, and had only to put on her bonnet and shawl she would be back in a few minutes; her head ached, and the cool air would do her good. She leaned over the old man, to listen to his breathing, and to smooth his pillow ere she went. The moonbeams seemed to make his white beard whiter, and his pale face still more pallid. Poor grandfather! how long was this to last? Her thoughts were entirely of him and for him. It never crosse(l her mind, How long is he to linger on, a barrier between John and me? Then she stepped down-stairs, without a sound, through the little dining-room still reeking of spirits and tobacco, notwith- standing its open window and so out. The cottage stood between her and the quarter from whence the wind was blowing, so that she was quite in shelter; but she noticed a ghostly shiver in the willow, aAd that the rushes on the island below were all blowing one way. Presently, upon her ear too fell the weird sound which had struck on Stanhopes only a minute or so before; but it did not move her as it did him. Another and more attractive sound mixed with it, the galloping of horses feet. It must, thought she, be John coming back at last. Of the two ways home, he would surely take the one that led by her door. And yet, if it was he, what could have kept him up yonder all the hivelong day ? What a hurry he was in, now that he did come. He must be riding at full gallop as fast, so it seemed, as the horse could lay legs to ground. How foolish of him to run the risk of a fall by using such head- long speed in that uncertain moonlight! She was not going to speak to him, of course, for that was forbidden, bnt she would jnst go to the road-side, and show herself, so that he might not gallop past in his mad haste, and miss her altogether. He would, of course, imagine that at such an hour for it was just midnight she would be fast asleep, and perhaps not even cast his eyes towards the house although, in truth, he could scarcely have avoided that. A few steps brou0ht her to the little gate that opened from the garden (there was no room for carriage-sweep) immediately upon the road. There she stood and listened. Besides the horse, there now seemed to be some heavy wagon rumbling along the way, and yet it was a strange time, surely, fer carts to be coming from the null. But all other thoughts or fancies vanish as a horse- man comes round yonder bend, whom she knows well; the wind and it is no won- der, considering the pace at which he cleaves the air has taken his hat; yet he has not stopped for that, but rides on at the same mad speed bareheaded. There is peril behind him for certain; and hark! how that rumbling of the wagon increases, just as though, urged by four fleet horses, it was flying after him, and he knew there was no room on the narrow way for him and it. What with the bright sheen of the moonbeams and the silence of the mid- night, unbroken save by that weird sound, the whole scene seems to Ellen unreal and eerie. Phe translation of some German ballad which Lucy has been reading to her of late, respecting a spectre horseman who comes to claim his false bride, and carries her off from her kith and kin to his home, the grave, flashes upon her brain as Denton gallops up. She notices how pale he looks, instead of ruddy, as might have been ex- pected after such a ride, and how his horse is bathed in foam. He draws his rein and holds his arms out, as if to embrace her, and with a glad cry she rushes into them. Mount, mount! cries he; up, up! for your life. Amid by sheer force for, in the extremity of her surprise, she neither aids him nor resists he has swung her up before him, and again the horse is at full speed. 158 A COUNTY FAMILY. John, John, are you mad? exclaims she, beginning to struggle. The flood, the flood! was his reply. The reservoir has hurst ! Look yonder! But grandfather, poor grandfather! She would have struggled down, if he had not held her with a grasp of iron, even then even then, as they flew across the bridge to gain the hill beyond, and when all the horror of the scene burst on them both for the first time. The thing from which Denton had fled with such fiery speed the ting with which he had raced so far the goal herself (for whichever reached her first must needs indeed possess her), was upon them at last. The watery wall, just breast high with the bridge, dashed on to it at the same moment as they, and drenched them through and through; it was lower than it had been when it rushed past Stanhope, because the bed of the river was less narrow, otherwise both horse and riders would have been swept over the low para- pet at the first shock; but as it was, they galloped through the flood. Once on the hillside, they were safe; and Denton stopped his panting steed and gazed behind him with unspeakable awe. The spectacle was indecd sublime as well as terrible. The bridge over which they had just passed was gone: a seething, weltering mass of waters occupied its place, with only the angry waves made fierce by the vain resistance of battlement, and plank and pier to mark the place where it had been. The cottage because on the side of the main channel still stood, but through every door an(l window on the ground floor poured the mad river; and the whole house was visibly trembling to its fall. What a scene must tl)e mirrors in that upper chamber have presented to poor helpless Anthony, awakened by that inexplicable thunder! Save him, save poor grandfather! gasped Ellen, thinking of this, and scarce knowing what she said. I have saved you, dearest, God be thanked! said Denton gravely. To do more is not in human power. Even while he spoke, the pretty cottage, which but a few minutes ago had looked like a fairy bower, nestled in that quiet stream-washed nook, collapsed like a house of cards, caved in on all sides, and sank; and there were nothing to be seen but the wild waste of waters! There was no sign of human entreaty or despair the whole household, as well as its helpless master, had apparently been caught in their beds, and so, only half-con- scious, perhaps, of their terrible doom, were drowned. Ellen closed her eyes, while her white lips moved in prayer; and when she looked forth again, the river was hidden from sight Denton was pushing on for Mosedale. Where are you taking me? Let me stay here! exclaimed she wildly let me stay by poor grandfather! His body will be at Mosedale before us, answered Denton sadly. Your home is no longer here, since it does not exist. I am taking you to the Cedars; which was the name of Mr. Wallers residence. Yes, take me to grandmother; she is there, and safe, thank heaven! But surely this is not the way? It is not the shortest way, (learest, be- cause that is impassable: the road by the river must be ten feet under water by this. Alas for the poor cottagers on the marsh, sighed Ellen. They will have neither fever nor ague more, was the solemn reply. And the family at Island Grove, eon- tinue(l Ellen, as her mind rapidly travelled over the space through which the flood, at scarcely a less speed, was hurrying. Death is busy to-night both with rich and poor; and their blood is. on the heads of them who would not stay him whilst they could, returned Denton sternly. 0 John, you were right, then, after all. Lucy told me that her father Hush, dearest. Do not mention to me that mans name to-night, for I cannot bear it. Presently, they reached a suburb of the town, whither the flood itself had already brought its own evil tidings. Notwith- standing the lateness of the hour, there were lights in all the houses, most of the inhabitants of which, however, had gone down to the river-side, to behold the scene of devastation. Others, half-dressed, were running thither from all directions; and so excited were they, that they did not even notice the double burden borne by Den- tons horse. At the gate of the Cedars, from which the once pleasant garden could be seen, a tangled mass of slime and ruin, Ellen dismounted; but Denton rode on, refusing to set foot within that house. ChAPTER XL. AFTER THE FLOOD. THERE was no rest for any in Mosedale for the remainder of that night.. The pas- sion of the raging flood had indeed much abated by the time it reached the town; and the mischief it wrought was compara- tively small, by reason of the greater width of the stream ; yet its sudden rush through A COUNTY FAMILY. 159 the unsuspecting streets had not been with- out its human victims, and had smitten the place with universal terror. Almost the whole population were out upon the river- bank within half an hour of the catastrophe and while they regretted their own losses, there went forth an awful whisper of how ill it must have fared with them who lived up Curlew. Two women and four chil- dren had been drowned in their heds, within a stones throw of the very market-place, and it was almost unintelligible to those who looked upon the row of cottages where this had occurred, and then at the narrow thread of river which wound beside it, how such a mischance could he. The stream had shrunk to its usual limits; arid a hroad muddy strip on either hand was all that re- mained of its late outbreak, except the ruin it had caused. Houses were gutted as com- pletely as though that other element, which we commonly term destroying, had been at ~vork. Strong walls were swept away, and scarce one stone upon another left to mark their place; gardens were become swampy wildernesses; the town bridge had stood, but showed great gaps, where stone and iron had alike yielded to the watery shock. It would take months to repair, and years to obliterate the traces of that nights ruin. And if all this had happened at Mosedale, miles away from the spot where the waters had first burst their prison- house, what must have taken place at the marsh and the mill, the great water-wheel of which, it was rumoured the next day, was found at Bromfield, ten miles below Mosedale one human body, it may be here said, was stranded thirty miles from the spot where the flood first clutched it for a prey. It was the season, although early in it, when Mosedale folk were wont on holidays to flock up Curlew, by land or water, and feast and make merry among its woody steeps and winding gorges; but never did so great a company take that road before on the day which followed the bursting of Redmoor Reservoir, albeit bent on a very different errand. There is no need here to describe what they saw, save so far as it has connection with this story the bodies that lay stark and stiff by scores upon the muddy shore, or showed a limb above the still turbid strcam ; the shattered relics of what had Ucen human homes ; the objects of domestic care and pride, which, soiled and shattered, strewed the torn-up road and barren swamp so lately fertile fields that fringed it: you may buy photo- graphssuch pictures as the bold-faced sun alone can paint of that wreck and ruin to this day. Stanhope and Denton were in a skiff to- gether, having a common object of which they were in search. The former, whose feelings had been hitherto, if not hostile, at least unfavourable towards the latter, was in that respect, as in others, wholly changed; unfeigned admiration for this young man, who had risked his life, and, indeed, only preserved it by a hairs-breadth, to save anothers, had taken possession of him. True, he would himself, in like cir- cumstances, have hazarded as much, but the opportunity in his case could not pos- sibly have occurred. He had no knowledge of any sort that would have served him to scent out any danger which was not patent to all the world. How much more useful, much more valuable, had Denton proved himself, than he could ever have been or be! Not only Ellen, but the tenant of his own mill, together with his wife and child, had escaped death through the unselfish forethought of the young engineer. After visiting the mill on the previous morning, Denton had gone up to Redmoor, and found the crack in the embankment which had al- ready excited his apprehensions, manifestly increasing. He had remained at the reser- voir all day, examining it yet again with the utmost minuteness; and having still further convinced himself of the menaced peril, had made up his mind to lay the case before the municipal authorities of Mosedale the next day, since the Board of Directors would not listen to him. At the sanie time, al- though he still remained on the moor with only a couple of workmen for his compan- ions, he had not conceived the danger to be so alarmingly imminent as it realy was, until late at night. Then the wind still rising, and bringing the mass of water to bear directly upon the bank, certain indica- tions showed themselves which, to his prac- ticed eye, convinced him that the catastro- phe was at hand; and he had sped down the gorge, as we have seeii, but with feel- ings, not to be described, listening, as he~ urged his horse to utmost speed, for the sound behind him that should dive notice that the water-fiend was loose, arid roaring for its prey. He lost a minute or two wak- ing the sleepy miller, whom lie had not the heart, notwithstanding his own safety and that of one far dearer than himmisehf was imperilled by the (lelay, to leave to drown. Scarcely had the warning left his lips, when the thunder of the torrent gave its terrible corroboration to his words. And yet he had not now a word to say of his own ef 160 A COUNTY FAMILY. forts, except what was incidentally ex- death, and for the moment impressed by tracted from him by Stanhopes eager ques- them; hut before this ruin was wrought tions. before I heard your warning cry upon the The young engineer showed himself much river last night, Mr. Denton, which saved a more solicitous for his reputation for profes- worthless life, I had, bclieve me, formed sional sagacity than to be considered as a But there, that is no matter; let it hero. With reference to Mr. Waller, he suffice to say, that I hope you will some said: I could not get that man to believe day have cause to think better of me, since n~e, sir, simplx because his giving credit to your good opinion is one I fain would earn. my words would have cost him a few It is difficult, I know for my own con- pounds. Did he suppose I did not know duct has made it so to persuade you to my own business? No, sir. It was mere credit me wit.h an honest purpose, but in- selfishness and saving, and those are the deed I have no other in thus appealing to fruits of it; and he pointed to where some you. I saw the man whom you would pun- men were even then taking into a larger ish so harshly, but two hours ago; he is boat close beside them a sad freight the borne down to the very earth with sorrow bodies of a mother and the babe whom she and contrition. He accuses himself, as you embraced even in her last sleep. would accuse him (and, as it seems to me, Forgive me, said Stanhope humbly, with the like injustice), of all that has oc- if I venture to differ from you, Mr. Den- curred. The tremendous nature of the evil ton, who have hitherto shown yourself so that has been reaped does not make him wise and in the right throughout this sad more guilty of having sown it. No doubt, affair. But I know Waller well. He may he ought to have listened to you the have nay, he has doubtless been both ob- event has proved it but he did not fore- stinate and foolish, but I am sure that a see the event. I give you my honour (not few pounds were not the cause of his op- a very material guarantee, you may say position, even if they had anything to do perhaps, but still the best I have to offer) with it at all, lie has lost a much larger that he did not credit your scientific fore- sum than such as you hint at by the destruc- bodings. Why should you doubt it, who tion of his own property, as we have just found myself unquestionably a disbeliever seen. You are a very young man, and he in them? You were earnest, passionate, is not one to credit young men with the eloquent enough with me also, at the cot- wisdom you have shown; he judges them tage yesterday morning, and yet you see, by myself and those like mefools enough, like the wicked of 01(1, 1 did not credit you Heaven knows. Even Mr. Flywheel seems till, with overflowing evidence indeed, the to have scouted the idea of the reservoirs flood came. Forgive me, Mr. Denton, being in danger from the first. but are you quite certain that there is noth- Yes, but he had no personal knowl- ing of wounded amour propre that mingles edge of the thing, which makes all the dif- with and embitters your just wrath ? ference. Now. I had, and I pleaded with There may be something in what you Mr. Waller as I never pleaded before with say, answered Denton frankly. heaven man or woman. He is not one to under- forbid that I should feel more angry with rate genuine earnestness, though he has this man because he has underrated my in- so little of it himself. No, no, sir; repara- telligence and despised it; personally, at all tion he cannot make, but he will have to events though, I trust, in a matter of the answer for this mischief to God and man. public service in my duty as a citizen To God he must needs answer, said such a consideration would not weigh a Stanhope gravely. But I pray you, Mr. feathers weight I say, personally, it I~enton, to take counsel of your own heart would be most di~agreeable for me to act before you publicly brand him, as I fear as Mr. Wallers accuser, since even now your purpose is, with a mark compared under his roof with which that of Cain was as nothing, be- The young man hesitated then stopped. fore you make him an object of execration Mr. Denton, said Stanhope, resting to the widow and the fatherless through- on his oar, and speaking with deep feeling, out this valley for last nights work. It is this is no time for false delicacy, although not my way to talk like this. I daresay I honour you for your unwillingness to you have always thought me an unprin- speak upon a subject which might give me cipled and vicious fellow, as indeed I have pain. It is a scruple which I have not de- been nay, for all that I have shown, I served. I have no claim to be coupled in am. You see in me even now, doubtless, your thoughts with the young lady of whom a frivolous and idle nature brought for once you were about to speak. Her heart has face to face with the realities of life and always been yours; although I own with A COUNTY FAMILY. 161 shame that, after I knew that it was so, I pleasure to you to hear it, Mr. StanhGpe, I strove to win her hand. may tell you that I also am now of Miss Let us say no more about that, Mr. WaIlers opinion. And the engineer, who Stanhope, since you have at last taken the was pulling stroke, stretched his hand be- just view of the matter, said the other hind him, which Stanhope took and wrung quietly. in silence. From that moment dated a Since I have lost my own self-respect, friendship between these two young men, you would say, Mr. Denton, and yet that which distance has never weakened, and was a small part of the penalty. I lost which time has cemented. also for though I can not justify myself, The skiff had now reached the place I wish to show you that I have suffered where the Fishery had stood, and where the the respect of one in whose estimation I further progress of those on land had been now feel it is misery indeed to have thus stayed by the absence of Curlew Bridge, of fallen. which only a few jutting stones on either I think I can help you there, said side were left, it was impossible to recog- Denton good-humouredly. It is not nize the scene by any other means. The eight-and-forty hours ago since I had proof boats, where formerly Squire Richards that, notwithstanding what you say, you punt and skiff had commonly formed the are not altogether out of the pale of some- whole flotilla, were clustered so thickly that bodys good graces. A woman does not you could scarcely see the river; while defend a man in his absence with such v - masses of people lined the once solitary our as somebody then defended you with- bank, who, as though they had not already out a very sufficient cause. I ought to supped full enough of horrors, watched the know, because it was I who attacked you operations of the boatmen on the other side for indeed, I have not spared you, Mr. with feverish excitement. It was here that Stanhope, whenever you have formed the the stream began to narrow, and indeed subject of my discourse. from Curlew 1\Iill down to this point it ran I am sure that I deserved all that you through what was but a ravine veste rday could say, returned the other. I only a scene of exquisite beauty, to-day one of wish I could see how I deserve the defence ravage and desolation. For upwards of of which you speak. twenty feet in height, where a broad black I dont say you did deserve it, re- mark was to be seen, such as the tide leaves turned Denton slyly; indeed, I honestly at high water, the banks were denuded of confess that I dont think you did. But every scrap of vegetation; while the road that should give you the better ground for on the left hand, along which Denton had hope. For when Truth fails to offer a jus- spurred a few hours ago, no longer existed, tification, who is it, among the virtues at but was a mere shelving mass of mud and least, that can suggest one, save Love it- rubbish. But the river-bed itself, and what self! had once been the rose-garden, afibrded the She told me with her own lips, said strangest spectacle. In the former stood Stanhope in a low voice, and like one who vast rocks, torn from the gorge just below communes with himself it was on the Redmoor, and set up here, as if in perpetual terrace at Redcombe, and not a week ago token and indeed they long remained so that I was mean and base, a hypocrite of the waters wrath; while in the latter and a coward that, so far from having the action of the flood, which some obstruc- any longer a claim to be considered ~ gen- tion had maddened int.o a whirlpool, had dug tleman, I had not even common honesty; vast holes many feet in depth, and more or and when I strove to palliate my offence, less circular; just as in other streams with. she hinted that I was little better than a stony beds there arc found similar excava- liar. tions, which, however, it takes hundreds of Which, under the circumstances, ob- years to form. It was in these holes the boat- served Denton, in his soberest tone, was men were looking, and when they chanced to equivalent to a declaration of love. She to find what they sought, a hoarse murmur told me who bad not asked for informa- from the spectators evinced that interest tion, and, to say truth, was far from de- which horror alone can evoke, and even of sirous to hear it that she had known yon horrors only one the visible presence of from your boyhood, and that a nobler na- Death. The flood, in fact, afier slaying its ture, until idleness and its consequences victims, had, as though ashamed of its mnur- had warped it, did not exist in any man. derous work in this place, in a manner buried It is a subject with which I am incompetent them. In other parts, where its course had to deal, and far less with the eloquence been more free, it had hurried rocks and trees which the young lady used but if it is any indiscriminately with its human prey, so that LIVING AGE. VOL. XV. 637 162 the latter were in many cases so crushed and mutilated that it was almost impossible to recognize them as -men at all, far less to identify their remains; but none of the in- habitants of the cottage had been thus swept away; their bodies were all found within a few feet of the spot where death had seized them; and most of them without signs of violence. That of Anthony Blackburn, in particular, was quite uninjured both in limb I and feature, and over that still and solemn face more than one genuine mourner dropped a tear that night in a chamber at ~he Cedars, where he lay, as it almost seemed, so grand he looked when he was dead, in State his strange eventful life, with all its wear, and fret, thus strangely ended. A REPORTING MAcnINE. A stenographic press has-been invented, says the Mechanics Magazine, by M. Gensoul. The reporter sits at something like the keyboard of a pianoforte, and by applying his fingers to the keys, prints the words as they drop from the lips of the speaker, syllable by syllable, on a strip of paper which rolls along underneath. When we say this we do not of course, mean that the words are printed in letters. The keyboard appears to be divided into three parts of eight keys each. The left side, worked by the four fingers of the left hand, prints signs which represent initial con- sonants; the right, worked by the fingers of the right hand, prints final consonants; and the middle, acted on by the two thumbs, prints the medium vowels. We gather that something like a phonetic system of signs is employed. A few months practice is said to enable any operator to follow the most fluent speaker with ease. We ought to say that M Gensouls system renders it unnecessary to transcribe the copy. Just as with the phonetic sysiem, if legibly written, the compositor can set up the speech in common type from the printed slip furnished by the ma- chine. As to the comparative ease of writing characters with a pen, and printing them in - the way here described, we can give no opinion. What wc should certainly miss, if the machine came into use in the galleries of our Houses of Parliament, would be the happy skill with which the reporters condense the speeches from their notes. We have very few speakers who could bear to be reported by a machine. LORD Rosse has been measuring the heat that comes to us from the moon. Using onc of his great reflecting telescopes as a burning-mirror, he has condensed the moons rays upon one of the most delicate of heat-gau~,ers a thermo- pile. Without being able to determine by what fraction of a Fahrenheits degree the lunar warmth increases the temperature of the terres- trial atmosphere, he has found, as an approxi- mation, that the radiation from the moon is about the ninety-thousandth part of that from the sun. He conceives that the variation of heat from - one satellite follows the same law as that of its light; i. e., that we have most warmth from the full moon, and least from the nearly new. By comparison with a terrestrial source of heat, Lord Rosse estimates the actual tem- perature of the moons surface at lunar mid- day to be about 500 degrees Fahrenheit. This scorching results from the slow rotation of the moon, which makes its day equal to our month, and from the absence of any atmosphere to screen the lunar world. Years ago Sir John Herschel, who has more than once proved him- self a prophet by his sagacious inferences, re- marked that the surface of the full moon ex- posed to us must necessarily be very much heat- ed, possibly to a degree much exceeding that of boiling water. Fontenelle and his followers to the contrary notwithstanding, the moon can be no place for living beings, unless they are gal- amanders LOW-FLYING. I. Low flies the summer swallow scenting rain, Anul low my heart from prescience of pain When the clouds scatter, both will mount again. II. The summer swallow skims so low for flies, And finds in cloudy, not in sunny skies: So I, by being sad, may grow more wise. III. Nor men nor swallows can soar every day, And men and swallows should not, if they may, And well for both that skies are sometimes gray. I-v. For though this world is dull without the sun, More sweetly shines he after showers are done, And eyes are gladder when the tears have run. V. Therefore, to-day, I would not, if I could, Forego my grief, and be of merry mood; As well might swallows rise and miss their food. Frasers Magazine. A COUNTY FAMILY. BRITISH UNITED STATES. WE have stated more than once the rea- Sons which lead us to believe that there is little probability that the colonies will ever care to enter into the sort of league into which it has been suggested that they might enter with this country. We do not, how- ever, profess to be superior to the prejudice, if it be one, which dictates such scheme~. The ~cepticism which denies the possibility and the utility of great undertakings, and the ingenuity which points out t.he difficul- tics inherent in their execution, are, per- haps, the commonest and most vulgar of all accomplishments. All the great enterprises which have so deeply influenced the happi- ness of mankind, during the last century or more, have been carried out in the face of difliculties which very moderate ingenuity mi(~ht have shown to be insurmountable. Consider the ohjections which might have been made, and indeed were made, to the prosl)ect of providing a Constitution for the United States, and remember the fact that the result of resolutely encountering them was to produce a State which has trium- j)hantly endured the hardest strain ever put upon any l)Olitical creation whatever, and it will surely he necessary to confess hoth that l)olitical creations of a durable kind are possihle, and that they are capable of pro- (lucing great effects, and of exciting the most passionate attachment when the diffi- culties inseparable from their creation have been encountered and overcome. Fe~v Englishmen will like to confess that it is utterly impossible that they should do what their kinsmen have done, with certain a(lvantages, no doubt, which we English do not enjoy, but at the same time in the face of special difficulties by which we are not troubled, and at a time when all the facil- ities for collective action on a large scale were much smaller than they are now. It may he a mere dream to suppose that the dilThrent members of the British Empire can ever he incorporated into one body, so that Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa should he as much parts of one whole as England and Scotland are, and as the British Isles ought to be yet it must be owned that the (Iream, if impracticable, is at nil events splendid, and that if the diffi- culties before us cOul(I he overcome they would be well worth overcoming As time went on and the population of the different members of the empire increased, such a nnt:on, would, or at all events might., be nearly the most powerful country in the world for all purposes offensive and defen- sive. It would have fleets in the most com From The Pall Mall Gazette. manding positions in every sea in the world, BRITISH UNITED STATES. and it would have a population to draw upon for military purposes in case of need which in half a century would be fairly comparable to the populations of Russia and the United States. In these days of ready communication by sea the fact that its different members are scattered might be made an element of strength and mutual support Non ll~~dra secto corpore firm- ior. On the other hand, the management of the affairs of such a body, the adjustment of the respective interests of its different members, and the distribution amongst them of the advantages connected with their union, would afford ample employment and a maomiflcent theatre for the display of the quickest and most powerful intellects to be found in the various quarters of the globe over which our almost universal sway ex- tends. If a man of great political genius should be born in New Zealand, would it not be a splendid object of ambition for him to become an eminent member of a true Im- perial Legislature, and the representative in such a Legislature of the wishes and feel- ings of his friends and neighbours? In these days of pauperism in London, and dearth of labour elsewhere, have we no common in- terests with Canada and Australia? We do not say that all this is not a dream, we do not at present deny or even discuss the cur- rent doctrine that the best prospect open to England is that of contracting into the nar- rowest possible compass our plans, our ex- penses, our hopes, and our fears, by cutting away all connection whatever between these islands and the colonies, and by abstaining to the very utmost from every course of conduct which can possibly excite jealousy or give offence to any one whatever. It may be quite true, tho~igh our ancestors thought otherwise, that to get very rich and to enjoy our riches very quietly is the one object towards which the national policy ought to be directed; and that the wish to create if possible a vast empire, to develop, or to be in a condition to develop, great military and naval power, and to impress in various ways upon the world the leading ideas and principles which bear rule amongst us, is an idle and mischievous dream; yet whether this is so or not, it may at all events be a harmless amusement to con- sider a little in detail what are the special difficulties which stand in the way of such an enterprise as the construction of a true and effective British Empire. The first question which arises upon the subject is, for what purposes do you want this organization? What laws would it be necessary t~ make? What taxes would it 164 BRITISH UNITED STATES. be desirable to raise which are not perfectly well made and efficiently raised at present? There are several answers to this question on which we need not dwell, but the main answer no doubt must be, The object of such a union would be military and naval. Its principal effect would be to increase the military power of this country by connect- ing with it, in an indissoluble offensive and defimsive alliance, other growing States which will ultimately be very powerful. There can be no sort of doubt that if all the colonks would be taxed for military l)uiposes, the collective military force of the empire would be much increased. Such an answer to the first question naturally sug- gests an other. Suppose that you persuade the colonies to submit to taxation for mili- tary purposes, to whom do you intend to entrust the power of declaring war? Can it be supposed that the colonies would ac- cept the liability of being called upon to pay in purse and in person for wars entere(I into by the Queen of England that is to say, by the Parliament or House of Com- mons of the United Kingdom? As it is, they are liable to the dangers of war to which they have not consented, though they are free from their expense, and it is doubtful how far in the caseofa really great maritime war they might be disposed to acquiesce in such a state of things. How would it be if they had to pay as well as suffer? We do not see how any answer can be given to this question which does not go the length of admitting that the prerogative of the Crown as to declaring war must be modified. In order to get the scheme into working order at all, some sort of Imperial Assembly other than, and different from, Parliament must of course be devised. Parliament must be reduced to the position of a local Legislature for the British Islands, and the Imperial Parliament to be substituted for it must have the exclusive right of providing supplies for imperial military purposes by levying taxes upon every part of the em- pire. This naturally introduces the further question, What is this Imperial Assembly to be, how is it to be constituted, and what are to be its powers? As our present ob- ject is merely to show the nature of the questions which must arise upon such a project as the one under consideration, we will content ourselves with pointing out a few of the respects in which such a body must of necessity differ from Parliament. In the first place, the members of such a body must have some relation to the popu- lation and importance of the countries which they represented. For the sake of illustration we will suppose that it was ar ranged that go many members per million of the population at the last census should be allotted to each member of the empire. In the next place, how are they to be elected? Is there to be a member for Lon- don, another for Liverpool, another for Sydney, and another for Toronto? or are Canada, the British Isles, and the various Australian colonies to settle in what manner tl~ey will elect their representatives? Let us suppose these questions solved, and the representative body, convened at some place of meeting (letermined upon after due dis- cussion, what are to be their powers, and in particular what proportion of its theoreti- cally absolute and unlimited power is the present Imperial Parliament the Queen, Lords, and Commons of the United King- dom to cede to its partial successor? It is clear that the new assembly must be elected for a given time, and hold its sit- tings at stated intervals, as the members would otherwise be unable to attend. It could not adjust its meetings to those of the British Parliament, and if Parliament or any other Legislature invaded its province, who would decide between them? The only practicable answer to this is, We must have a written definition of the power of the new assembly, and a supreme court to interpret our definition, and imperial courts, distinct from the national courts, to admin- ister the law so interpreted, and to bring it to bear on individuals in case of need. Noth- ing less than this has established the su- premacy of the United States of America over State rights, and nothing less could effect the purpose for the British United States. To sum up this series of difficulties, those who would fuse the United Kingdom and the colonies into one body must first convince their inhabitants that it is desirable to con- struct a vast new empire, for the sake of producing the possibility of enormous mili- tary and naval force. They must next pre- vail upon Parliament to abdicate several of its most impressive prerogatives in favour of a new assembly, the constitution of which would be attended with the difficulties which we have tried to describe. They must then define with legal precision the extent of the surrendered prerogatives, which, by the way, are at present com- pletely undefined, and finally, they must erect a series of new courts of justice to interpret and administer the laws arising out of the new constitution. If all these difficulties were successfully surmounted, a new set would arise. Who are to be the members of the new United States? Many parts of the British Empire are peopled by races which have nothing in common with those which inhabit these islands. The great example is India. Is the government of British india to be com- mitted to the new Imperial Assembly, or to be left as it is, or is India to be incorpo- rated with the rest, so that the British Empire will he composed principally of Hindoos and largely of Mahometans? The answer must be that we must adapt to our circumstances the American distinction between States and Territories. We must draw a line on one side of which will stand Canada, the Cape, Australia, and New Zealand (and we must remember, by the way, that Canada is itself a composite body, and that the Australian colonies will sooner 165 or later become composite), whilst on the other are found small settlements like the West Indies, and mere fortresses like Gib- raltar and Malta. India, of course, must be treated as a question apart. Tantte molis erit Romanam condere gentem out of such materials as we have to dispose of. We do not at all mean to say that the enterprise is to be altogether renounced because of its difficulty, or that the instinct which prompts men to wish for the solution of the problem is not good and wholesome, bwt we do wish that some sort of estimate of the difficulties of the under- taking should be formed by those whom it tempts. From The Pall Mall Gazette. GOETHES LITERARY REMAINS. WHILE we have our terrible posthumous revelations true or false about Byron, Germany is alive with clamours for Goethes literary remains, which his grand- children are accused of wantonly and frivo- lously secreting, against the express wish of the poet himself. Many years before his deat.h Goethe carefully arranged his papers and correspondence, and in his will he appointed Riemer and Eckermann as editors. As to the correspondence, there was a special proviso only with regard to Zelters and Schillers letters, the former of which were to be published immediately after Goethes death, for the benefit of Zelters daughter; while the latter were to be published in 1850. Eckermanns Con- versations show that Goethe in January, 1831, had fully made up his mind to give the rest of his correspondence to the world without restrictions. To this hour, how- ever, everything remains buried, save those letters of Knebel and Count Reinhard which Chancellor von MUller arbitrarily made known an indiscretion which caused Goethes family to reject his offer of acquir- ing both Goethes house and remains for the Bundestag for the sum of 70,000 thalers. When in 1849 the executors pub- lished, through Schuchardt, a catalogue of all Goethes art and science collections, they declared their disappointment not to be able on that occasion to explain their strange reticence with regard to the delayed publication of the literary remains; but the fact was, they said, their lips were still sealed, and they begged all those who sincerely and really loved and revered their grandfather to suspend their judgment till such time when they would be able to give a full and distinct explanation, and they added, The granting of so small and a favour to the grandchildren might, perhaps, be the most natural and the truest outward sign of love towards the grand- father most mysterious words, which, since Muller was then still alive, were re- spected and acted upon. Meanwhile, twenty more years have passed, everybody who could have been in the least degree per- sonally concerned is dead and gone, and the only action taken by those dutiful exe- cutors has consisted in their steady resist- ance to their grandfathers will; and finally, worst of all, it has come to this, that these treasures are not even any longer accessi- ble. This has exhausted public patience. There are angry protestations throughout the German press. Nor is the matter thus buried out of sight of a nature to be passed over. Not only do these family archives contain Goethes diaries ever since 1775 or 1776, with endless little precious data for his still incomplete bi~graphy, but also his original letters from Italy, with the many personal passages omitted in the Italian Journey, the wealth of letters from the Ducal family, from the Duke and Prince August of Gotha, from Goethes miinother, Herder, Lavater, Schlosser, Dalberg, the two Humboldts, Voss, Reichardt, and that multitude of statesmen, artists, writers, men and women, to whom Goethe stood in long and intimate relation. GOETHE S LITERARY REMAINS. 166 THE PUBLIC PREPOSSESSION FOR BYRON. From The Spectator. THE PUBLIC PREPOSSESSION FOR BYRON. MRS. BEECHER STOWE will probably re- pent her impulsive and unjustified confes- sion, when she sees the incredulity with which her story has been received both in England and America, and that sort of wild reaction it has really caused in Byrons fi~vour. This absolute incredulity seems to us, we confess, much as we regret and blame Mrs. Stowes rashness, irrational in the extreme. If wise men must admit that a story so horrible might very possibly be plausibly accounted for, without assuming the utterly inadmuissable hypothesis of either Lady Byrons falsehood, or Mrs. Stowes I~lsehood, on the one hand, and without as- suming either of those ladies intellectual derangement on the other, yet certainly no sensible man would for a moment, while all the positive evidence is on one side, and nothing but the most ambiguous inferential evidence on the other, go to the absurd ex- treme taken up just now by English and American opinion of absolutely and obsti- nately discrediting the testimony given. Per- haps the wisest thing that Lady Byrons ex- ecutors could now do would be to publish at once the authentic documents in their posses- sion. No doubt the altum silentium, the premat nox alta policy, for which Mr. IF. Arnoid so eloquently contends in the Daily News, was the right policy, but it is possible no longer. After Mrs. Stowes terrible error terrible, we mean, in its practical re- sults, for there can be no manner of doubt (and ought to have been none in Lady 11~yrous mind, if she had really been the shrewd as well as the good woman Mrs. Beecher Stowe gives her credit for being) that the mere currency of such a story, in- stead of limiting the circulation and ditnin- ishing the morbid fascination of Byrons poems, would, whether disbelieved or be- lieved, have multiplied it tenfold after this terrible blunder of Mrs. Stowes, we say, probably the best thing to be done is to adopt the policy of frankness, and so al- lay the morbid curiosity which will never rest white the literary executors of Lady Byron preserve silence. Then, with all the evidence produced, the morbid public ex- citement would probably subside, and we should no longer have acute critics putting every promising line of Lord Byrons poetry to the rack, in order to ascertain whether it yields up what is supposed to be damning evic~nce against him, or what is held to be equally conclusive proof of his innocence. As it is, no more singularly successful de- vice could have been invented for raising to the zenith Lord Byrons literary popu lariiy than this discredited statement, con- necting his name, as it does, with a dark accusation, which is held by some not only to be still unproven, but demonstrated base- less. But, to take leave of this very disagree- able controversy, the feature of the public mind which is to us most striking and un- expected, is the extraordinary depth of the prepossession which it has revealed in fa- vour of Byron, and that not merely By- ron the poet, but Byron the man. Any- thing more irrational, as we have said, than the blamik and positive disbelief with which the only evidence, bearing on the subject that would have any value at all in a court of justice has been received on all sides, it is impossible to conceive. We do not say, we do not think for a moment, that any con- clusive evidence has yet been produced. But the rebutting evidence so passionately relied on, Lord Lindsays negative evi- dence. for instance, that Lady Byron did not hint the Ihets to Lady Anne Barnard, the Standards literary evIdence or no cvi- deuce gathered from the poems, more than outweighed by the Saturday Reviews oppo- site argument published on the same day, simply amounts to this, that all the conceiv- able sources of evidence dont yield up corroborating particulars. Mrs. Beecher Stowes version of Lady Byrons story is treated as if it were not even a capital item of evidence, at all, for this is what we want to insist on,from the passionate pre- possession for Byron which pervades both England and America. Mr. William Ilowitts vivid description of Lady Byrons liability to sudden changes from cordial to sudden icy moods which is, no doubt, truthful enough, and by no means surprms- ing in a woman who had suffered as she did, is dwelt upon as if it had the slightest tendency to prove that Lady Byron was subject to life-long illusions, and was, in fitet, deranged, a supposition for which, we, will venture to say, there never was the shadow of evidence in the mind of any one of those many friends who directly or indi- rectly have given their estimate of her to the public. The siumple truth is, that Eng hish and American opinion is obviously de- terinined not to weigh, hut to discredit, what it has heard. We all feel that Mrs. Beecher Stowe doubtless actuated by generous iinl)lilses has done a rash, aiid mischievous, anLl unjustifiable thing in coin- municating what she had heard from Lady Byron without first consulting with Lady Byromis literary executors and (lescenihalits. This has set public feeling agaimist her, hut this could certainly not have been sufficient THE PUBLIC PREPOSSESSION FOR BYRON. to lead to the hasty and absurd conclusion that her inaccurate recollection of Lady Byrons statement is wide of the mark in its main drift as it is in its minute incidental details, were not the public mind violently prejudiced in Lord Byrons favour. This is to our minds the cardinal fact of the re- cent excitement. Byron is still a pet, a darling, of the English-speaking races, not merely as a poet, hut as a man. For ourselves, we confess that, supposing Mrs. Beecher Stowes story to he in the main true, which seems to us on the evi- dence more likely than not, though the evidence is, of course, as yet quite unsifted, and open to all the contingencies of prima facie evidence in general it would not alter seriously our previous estimate of the moral character of Lord Byron. It would show, indeed, what was not before known, that he was a man who could violate not merely every moral principle that was known but the deepest natural instincts of human nature; in other words, that there was natural disease in his instincts, as well as moral disease in his will. But would any candid reader of his poems be serious- ly surprised at that? Still more, does it not almost relieve the guilt (properly so called, i.e., the responsible guilt) in- volved in the malicious audacity of his naked satire, to know that there was a radical taint, not merely in his will, as there is in all profligate men, but in the very basis of his natural instincts? Consider only the ineffable meanness of Byron in lampooning his wife before the public as he did. Say what you may of the various eloquent trib- utes paid to her in various poems, and of the partially fictitious element in those characters in the disguise of which he held her up to public ridicule, still there is no manner of question but that he did lampoon her in a way which lie intended to be intel- ligible to all the world, and that, though he himself admitted that all the wrong had been o~i his side, if not aH the suffering on hers. Now, does not this inexpressibly malicious and mean insult, this dragging of her unoffending and innocent figure into the heart of some of his most witty, profane and obscene satire, strictly imply that very absence of common natural instincts which in a stronger an(1 more concrete sense this story of Mrs. Stowes would prove? We do not mean this as any confirmation of its truth, for we well know how utterly worth- less as evidence that sort of indirect reason- ing is. We only mean this, that English and American readers must have read By- ron to very little purpose, if their moral es- timate of him would be gravely changed for i~he worse by the truth of this disclosure, supposing it to be true; and yet it seems by the chorus of angr) incredulity with which it is received, that it would make the whole difference between their regarding him merely as a man of violent natural pas- sions and perverted genius, and as a man of intrinsically distorted nature. For our- selves, with the highest estimate of his mar- vellous genius, we confess that it would make very little difference in our concep- tion of him whether this horrid story be true or false. Whether true or false, there is no manner of doubt that there was the genuine malign devil in him only too often, that malign devil, we mean, which not only bears a grudge against divine law, but which in- vites mocking insurrection against natural feelings and instincts because they are natural. Mrs. Stowes picture of Byron in his study with his half-sister, on the morn- ing when Lady Byron was leaving his roof for ever, refusing his hand to his wife, and asking mockingly, as he put his hands be- hind him and retreated to the mantle-piece, When shall we three meet again? may, no doubt, turn out to be erroneous, or falsely coloured, but it is in the very spirit of the malignant and brilliant mnockeries of Don Juan. There is moral cruelty of the most base and naked character at the very root of Byrons satire, intolerance not only of law, hut of instinct, the element, in short, which Goethe delineates so power- fully in Mephistopheles where he lures the raw and innocent student into his devilish snares. We are disposed to think that the crime attributed to him, by tending to es- tablish something like original disease of nature, should probably rather relieve our estimate of his individual responsibility, and justify us in attributing, more or less, to a taint of insanity what might otherwise be referred to mere voluntary wickedness. Lady Byrons belief that there was both angel and devil in Lord Byron was doubt- less true enough, as a popular mode of stating that there was in him far fiercer con- flicts of antagonistic principles than in or- dinary men, and one, moreover, of a kind which gave him far less chance of self-mas- tery than ordinary men even of strong pas- sions can command. The deeper you carry the root of his depravity, the more right you gain, in one sense, to judge charitably of himself, i.e., of all in him, which lie had really in his own power. It seems to us simply astonishing that the British public should fire up as it does at the mere sugges- tion of this view of Byron, though it be quite right in condemning the mode in which the view is obtained, and reserving 168 THE BYRON SCANDAL. judgment as to the facts. There is but one criminal intercourse between Lord Byron character in all fiction which seems to us and his sister was followed by the hirth~of a to hear comparison at all with the true Lord child, that the child grew up to maturity, Byron, and that is Miss Emily Bront& s and that it was tended and brought up by ileatheliff, in Wuthering Heights, who Lady Byron herself. Nay, we gather from is a savage and rustic edition of the charac- the confused narrative that the child was ter which Byron himself paints for us. In known to he an illegitimate daughter of Heathcliff, too, there is angel as well as devil, Lord Byrons, though the dreadful secret though the latter vastly preponderates. I of her parentage was revealed only to per- can hardly, says Heatheliff of his wife, and sons who, like the authoress of Uncle in her presence, regard her in the light Tons Cabin, were taken into Lady By- of a rational creature, so obstinately has rons full confidence. If this statement she persisted in forming a fabulous notion were true, there would be an end of the of my character, and acting on the false controversy. No hypothesis of jealous Impression she cherished. But at last I suspicion can account for the existence of think she begins to know me: I dont per- such a child; no argument as to antecedent ceive the silly smiles and grimaces that improbabilities can explain away so damn- provokcd me at first, and the senseless in- ing an evidence of guilt. But is it possible capability of discovering that I was in earn- that Lady Byron could have possessed that est when I gave her my opinion of her in- certainty as to the childs parentage which fatuation and herself. . . . Are you Mrs. Stowe attributes to her? In order to sure, Isabella, that you hate me? If I let appreciate the force of this question, it is you alone for half an hour, wont you come necessary to consult the dates. As several sighing and wheedling to me a~ ai n? . . . of our contemporaries have alluded by If she desired to go, she might: the nuisance name to the unhappy lady whose character of her presence outweighs the gratftcation to has been subjected, years after her death, be derived from tormenting her. That to so foul a charge, it would be mere affecta- might be an excerpt from some of Lord tion to refrain any further from mentioning Byrons outbursts against his wife. Cer- her name. A child, says Mrs. Stowe, was tainly, the English public are right in con- born with strange abnormal propensities demning the unjustified, rash, and senti- to evil, and the mother of that child, she mental inipulsiveness which has drawn the adds, was the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, the half- curtain from what may fairly be called, in sister of Lord Byron by his fathers first one of Emily Bront& s powerful and lurid marriage, and the wife of Colonel Leigh. phrases, these clouded windows of hell. According to Mrs. Stowes story, the con- Certainly, too, they are right in suspending nection between Byron and Mrs. Leigh their judgment as to the facts till further commenced after the rejection of his suit by evidence. But as certainly, their air of Miss Milbanke, that is, in the year 1813, surprise, offence, horror, and indignation and ended on his leaving England in 1816, that Byron should, even for a moment, and the one condition of Lady Byrons consent- on evidence, be supposed guilty of any in~ to keep the terrible secret being, that charge so horrible, betrays the radically Mrs. Leigh should not accompany Lord- superficial and worthless judgment with Byron abroad. This child must, therefore, which they have been born between the years 1813 and 1816. Mrs. Leigh who, by the way, Have watched the fount of fiery life was five years older than Byron was Which served for that Titanic strife. married in 1807, had several children by her husband, and was living with him as his wife during the years of her brothers court- ship and marriage. If, therefore, Mrs. Leigh had had a child within the period From The Telegraph. stated, it would have been putatively and THE BYRON SCANDAL, legally the child of her husband, Colonel THE whole story is so full of improbabili- Leigh; and there seems no conceivable ties and inconsistencies that we should reason why this child should have been summarily dismiss it as the creation of a brought up as the illegitimate offspring of jealous womans excited imagination, if it Lord Byron. Colonel Leigh attained a were not for one circumstance to which mature age; and his wife died, in 1851, in insufficient attention has been paid in the St. Jamess Palace, where apartments had various criticisms upon the article. In been assigned to her. Under these circum- words which there is no possibility of mis- stances, it is needless to say that, if Mrs. understanding, Mrs. Stowe declares that the Leigh had an illegitimate child, the fate GUSHING MEN. 169 was unknown to the world and to her harshness amounting to brutality is con- husband. Yet, taking Mrs. Stowes state- doned if the hero has a jaw of sufficient ments for granted, we are asked to believe, squareness, and mighty passions just within either that Mrs. Leigh, being the mother the limits of control, as witness Jane Eyre~ of a child by her own brother, had called Rochester, and his long line of unpleasant attention to the dreadful secret by not hay- followers; always supposing. that is, that ing the child brought up as born in lawful he loves; for, like the Russian wife who wedlock, or else, that she wantonly and wept for want of her customary thrashing, needlessly confided the tale of its true taking immunity from the stick to mean in- parentage to Lady Byron. Either supposi- difference, they would rather have brutality tion is so extravagant that we must decline with love than no love at all. But a gush- to accept it without absolute proof. There ing man, as judged by men among men ,is is, however, a third supposition entirely a being so foreign to their ideal that very inconsistent with Mrs. Stowes theory, but few understand him when they do see him. strongly confirmatory of our own. Is it And they do not call him gushing. lie is not possible, or even probable, that Lady frank, enthusiastic, unworldly, aspiring; Byron devoured as she obviously was perhaps he is labelled with that word of with a jealous passion for her faithless hus- power, high-souled; but he is not gush- band should have jumped to the conclu- ing, save when spoken of by men, who de- sion that an illegitimate child of the poets spise him. For men have an intense con- was the result of the intimacy of which she tempt for him. A woman who has no bal- had formed so dark a suspicion? If that last, and whose self-restraint goes to the were the case, the very fact that she enter- winds on every occasion, is accepted for tamed such a conclusion without proof what she is worth, and but little disappoint- would justify us in dismissing the whole ment and less annoyance is felt for what is charge against Lord Byron as the product wanting. Indeed, men in general expect so of a diseased imagination. The subject is little from women that their follies count as almost too painful for discussion. That it of course, and only what might be looked should have to be discussed at all is the for. They are like marriage, or the Eng- result of an indiscretion on the part of Mrs. lish climate, or a lottery ticket, or a dark Stowe and her publishers, for which it would horse heavily backed, and have to be taken he difficult to find too harsh a name. for better or worse as they may turn out, with the violent probability that the chances are on the side of the worse. But the gushing man is inexcusable. He is a nui- sance or a laughing-stock, and as either is From The Saturday Review, resented. In his Club, at the mess-table, GUSHING MEN. iii the City, at home, wherever he may be, THE picture of a gushing creature all and whatever he may be about, he is always heart and no brains, all impulse and no hal- plunging headlong into difficulties, and last, is familiar to most of us; and we know dragging his friends with hini; always her, either by repute or by personal ac- quarrelling for a straw, putting himself quaintance, as well as we know our alpha- grossly in the wrong, and vehemently bet. But we are not so familiar with the apologizing afterwards; hitting wild at one idea of the gushing man; and yet gushing moment and down on his knees the next, men exist, if not in such numbers as their and as absurd in the one attitude as he is sisters, still in quite sufficient force to con- abject in the other. He falls in love at first stitute a distinct type. The gushing man is sight, and makes a fool of himself on un- the furthest possible removed from the or- known ground; while with men he is ready dinary manly ideal, as women create it out to swear eternal friendship or undying en- of their own iinagina tions. Women like to mity before he has had tinie to know any- picture men as inexorably just, yet tender; thing whatever about the object of his calm, grave, restrained, yet full of passion regard or his dislike. In consequence he well mastered; Greathearts with an eye is being perpetually associated with shaky cast mnercywards if you will, else unap- names, and brought into questionaUle posm- proachable by all the world; Goethes with tions. lie is full of confidence in himself one weak corner left for Bettina, where love on every occasion, and is given to making may queen it over wisdom, but in all save the Inost positive assertion on things he love strong as Titans, powerful as gods, knows nothing abomit, which afterwards lie and unchangeable as fate. They forgive is obliged to retract and to own himself anything in a man who is manly according mistaken. But he is just as full of self- to their own pattern and ideas. Even abasement when, like vaulting ambition, he 170 GUSHING MEN. has overleaped himself, and fallen into mis- takes and failures unawares. lie makes rash bets about things of which he has the best ~information, so he says, and will not be staved off by those who know what folly he is committing, but insists on writing himself after Dogherry at the cost of just so much; he backs the worst player at bil- liards on the strength of a chance hazard, and bets on the losing hand at whist; he goes into wild speculations in the City, where he is certain to land a pot of money according to his own account, and whence he comes with empty pockets, as you fore- told and warned; he takes up with all man- ner of doubtful schemes and yet more doubtful promoters, but he will not be ad- vised. Is he not gushing? and does not the quality of gusbingness include an Ar- cadian belief in the virtue of all the world P The gushing man is the very pabulum of sharks and sharpers; and it is he whose im- pressibilitv and gullible good nature supply wind for the sails of half the rotten schemes afloat. Full of faith in his fellows, and of belief in a brilliant future to be had by good luck and not by hard work, he cannot bring himself to doubt either men or measures unless, indeed, his gushingness takes the form of suspicion, and then he goes about delivering himself of accusations not one of which he can substantiate by the weakest bul- wark of fact, and doubting the soundness of investments as safe as the Three per Cents. In manner the gushing man is familiar and caressing. lie may be patronizing or playful according to the bent of his own na- ture. If the first, he will call his superiors, My dear boy, and pat them on the back en- couragingly; if the second, he will put his arm school-boy fashion round the neck of any man of note who has the misfortune of his intimacy, and call him Old fellow, or Governor, or rex sneus, as he is inclined. With women his familiarity is excessively offensive, and he gives them pet names, or calls to them by their Christian names from one end of the room to the other, and pats them in all fraternal affectionateness, after about the same length of acquaintanceship as would bring other men from the bowing stage to that of shaking hands. His man- ners throughout are enough to compromise the toughest reputation; and one of the worst misfortunes that can befall a woman whose circumstance lay her specially open to slander and misrepresentation is to in- elude among her friend~ a gushing man of energetic ten(lencies, on the look-out to do her a good turn if he can, and anxious to let people see on what famliiar terms he stands with her. He means nothing in the least degree improper when he puts his arm round her waist, calls her My dear and Darling in a loud voice for all the world to hear, or when he seats himself at her table to write her private messages before folk, which he makes believe to be of great im- portance, and which are of none at all; he is only familiar and gushing; and he would be the first to cry out against the evil imag- ination of the world which saw harm in what he does with such innocent intent. The gushing man has one small defect he is not safe nor secret. From no bad motive, but just from the blind propulsion of gush- ingness, he cannot keep a secret, and he is sure to let out sooner or later all he knows. He holds back nothing of his friends or of his own not even when his honour is en- gaged in the trust; being essentially loose- lipped, and with his emotional life always bubbling up through the thin crust of con- ventional reserve. Not that he means to be dishonourable; he is only gushing and unrestrained. Hence every friend he has knows all about him. his latest lover learns the roll-call of all his previous loves; and there is not a man in his Club, with whom he is on speaking terms, who does not know as much. Women who trust themselves to gushing men simply trust themselves to broken reeds; and they might as well look for a sieve that will hold water as expect a man of the sieve nature to keep their secret, whatever it may cost them and him to divulge it. As a theorist the gushing man is for ever advocatiiig untenable opinions, and taking up with extreme doctrines which he an- nounces confidently, and out of which he can be argued by the first opponent he en- counters. The facility with which he can be bowled over any ground he calls it being converted is in fact one of his most strik- ing characteristics; and a gushing man rushes from the school of one professor to that of another, his zeal unabated, no mat- ter how many his reconversions. He is al- ways finding the truth, which he never re- tains; and the loudest and most active in damning a cast-off doctrine is the gushing man who once followed it. As a leader, he is irresistible to both boys and women. His enthusiastic, unreflectinig, unballasted character finds a ready response in the youthful and feminine nature, and he is the idol of a small knot of ar(lent worshippers, who believe in him as the logical and well- balanced man is never believed in. He takes them captive by a community of im- agination,. of impulsiveness, of exaggera- tion; and is followed just in proportion to his unfitness to lead. This is the kind END OF DESPOTISM. 171 of man who writes sentimental novels, with a good deal of love, laced with a vague form of pantheism, or of weak evangelical religion, to suit all tastes; or he is great in a certain k~nd of indefinite poetry which no one has yet been found to understand, save, perhaps, a special soul sister, which is the subdued version among us of the Trans- atlantic spiritual wife. He adores the feini- nine virtues, which he places far heyond all the masculine ones; and expatiates on the beauty of the female character which he thinks is to be the rule of the future. Per- haps, though, he goes off into panegyrics on the Vikings and the Berserkers, or else plunges boldly into the mists of the Arthu- nan era, and gushes in obsolete English ahout chivalry and the Round Table, Sir Launcelot and the Holy Graal, to the be- wilderment of his entranced audience, to whom he does not supply a glossary. In religion he is generally a mystic, and always in extremes. He can never he pinned dowii to logic, to facts, to reason; and to his mind the golden mean is the sin for which the Laodicean Church was cursed. Feeling and emotion and imagination do all the work of the world, according to him; and when he is asked to reason and to de- monstrate, he answers, with the lofty air of one secure of the better way, that he loves, and that love sees further and more clearly than reason. If the strong-minded woman is a mistake among women, so is the gushing man among men. Fluid, unstable, without curb to govern or rein to guide, lie hrings into the masculine world all the mental frailties of the fi~minine, and adds to them the force of his owim character and nature as a man. What- ever he may he, he is a disaster, and at all times is associated with failure. He is the revolutionary leader who gets up abortive risings the schemer whose plans run into saud the poet whose books are read only hy school-girls, or lie on the publishers shelves uncut, as his gushingness bubbles over into twaddle, or exhales itself in the smoke of obscurity the fanatic whose faith is more madness than philosophy the man of society who is the butt of his male companions and the terror of his lady ac- quaintances the father of a family which lie does his best, unintentionally, to ruin by neglect or by eccentricity of train- ing and the husband of a woman who either worships him in blind belief, or who laughs at him in secret, as heart or head preponderates in her character. In any case he is a man who never finds the fitting time or place, and who dies as he has lived, with everything about him incomplete. From The Examiner. END OF DESPOTISM. HE wont die, said my Uncle Toby; and when contradicted on the point, that excellent man grew vexed, and swore he should not die. Worthy people are every- where persuading themselves, or trying hard at least to persuade one another, that there is nothing, after all, the matter with the Emperor, except the rheumatics, which, whether in the form of toothache or luniba- go, nobody ever gets any pity for. But unlike Uncle Toby, these good folk are not disinterested. They hold consols or shares, or they are concerned sonmehow in specula- tion; and they have been told so so often, that at last they have come to believe, that the Empire in France really meamis peace and prosperity for Europe; and that upon the life of Napoleon ill, the existence of the Empire hangs. We shall not discuss the latter point just now, because, if his Maj- esty happens to live a few years Inore, as, upon the whole, we think he is likely to do, the conditions of the problem will have been essentially changed, and all discussion of such a contingency must be for the present worse than idle. But the former is a very different matter; and it is one which can hardly be affected, if at all, by the accident whether in the present year or in 1875 an- other of the Cmesars takes his place with Augustus among the gods. But have the industrious and peaceable inhabitants of this or of any other countm~y a real and substantial interest in the longevity of the Emperor? Apart from the claims which Imperialism, as a system of rule may have on the preference of t.he French peo- ple, of what benefit has his Majesty been to European communities? The Second Em- pire at its inauguration was said to be at peace, yet its author has been engaged in three wars more costly and sanguinary than those by which his Uncle won his fame as a conqueror, and built up his power as a mnon- arch. Neither has Napoleon III. prevented other States from going to war, or proved himself able to interpose as a mediator for the restoration of peace. Poland revolted, and he was urged to succour her; hut lie failed to do so, and left her to perish. When Denmark was attacked by two powerful neighbours she invoked his aid; he could not, or would not interpose, and the gallant little kingdom was rent in twain. The re- volting States of America sued to him for help, and bid him name his price. Even the decrepid and decaying Bourbons did not fear abetting Transatlantic rebellion in their day; and they reaped a splendid harvest of military renown and international sympathy 172 HOW THINGS LOOK IN THE UNITED STATES. from their intervention. His Imperial Maj- ~sty approved the cause of Secession undis- guisedly, and declared that it would be for the interests of monarchy and of France that the American Union should be broken up. Nevertheless, he shrunk from the attempt, and allowed the internecine strife to drag its slow length along. His most intimate con- tinental ally was attacked hy her rival. Mis- informed as to the strength of her military organization, he helieved, as all the world believed, that Austria could hold her own. But after Konniggratz it was clear that France, and France alone, could stay the onward course of Prussian aggrandisement. Austria retreated, and the world expected and France hoped for an order of the day to cross the Rhine; but hopes, expectations, and entreaties all proved vain, and the boasted arbiter of human destiny wavered until the carnage of Sadowa had sealed Aus- trias fate. How, then, has hem any sense proved a guarantor against war, whether waged by French arms or waged without them? We hear it senselessly and irrationally said that Napoleon III. has been not only the architect of new Paris and the adorner of all the other cities of France, and thereby the employer of labour, the patron of art, and the promoter of every sort of enter- prise, but the author of new trade, the re- viver of old manufacture, the inventor of an unlimited system of financial inflation and public credit at home and abroad, with- out parallel in the annals of industry. The prices not only of living and house-rent in Paris but of living and house-rent every- where have steadily risen since the coup d~tat of 1851; the prices of nearly every ar- tide of comfort and luxury have advanced; joint-stock enterprises modelled on schemes chartered by him have dazzled and fascinat- ed commercial men in every civilized com- inunitv to an extent and to a degree never known before. In a word, there is not a plausible and well-dressed schemer, jobber, or adventurer in public or private life throughout Christendom who has not in- stinctively learned to feel glad if not grate- fiml for the prolongation of the Napoleonic rlqime; an(l there is not a dupe whose time, whose thoughts, and whose money have been absorbed and wasted in the glittering speculations of the last eighteen years who has not been taught to regard his Imperi4al Majesty as the crowned Cagliostro of our time. But what is the net result of all to the tax-paving millions who (10 not gamble? From the day that the Presidential chair was exchanged for an Imperial throne, the naval and military expenditure of our own and of every other country in Europe has gone on steadily increasing because that of France has done so; until at length civiliza- tion and industry in Christendom totters and staggers beneath the mischievous and ruinous load. The struggle for existence has thus become more and more embittered to the mass of mankind. 5,530,000 men are at this moment under arms in Europe; and no remonstrances or expostulations in journals, pulpits, congresses, or parlia- inents, seem to have the least effect in per- suading the responsible rulers of any other country that they can dare reduce their ar- maments so long as France is armed to the teeth, and her resources are wielded by one man. How far all this might be changed, should the absolutist Emperor subside into a mere constitutional King, we know not. But in that case, would the same importance continue to attach to the life of the wearer of the Crown? The prevalent question of to-day is not one of solicitude about the health of the man, but of doubt as to the consequences that may ensue from a discon- tinuance of his despotism. Soon or late that discontinuance may occur, either by giving up of his political system, or by his giving up the ghost. We should, of course, pre- fer the less sudden transition; but, come when it may, it cannot be but a direct relief and benefit to us and the rest of mankind. From The Examiner. HOW THINGS LOOK IN THE UNITED STATES. IT is but four years since the close of the civil war, and already its deep wounds seem to be in a fair way of healing; and the recu- perative energies of the Commonwealth ap- pear to be fast effacing the traces of ruin and disaster. A good harvest satisfies the West, while a fair trade contents the East. Manufactures, if not as profitable as they used to be in New England, by reason of the higher price of labour, are nevertheless carried on at a reasonable profit; while the agriculture of the South, which, by the logic of secession, ought by this time to have been finally annihilated through the want of. bondinen to till the soil, is not only reviv- ing, but is actually to a great extent reno- vated and restored. Three million bales of cotton will, it is said, be garnered in this fall, in as good condition as that lucrative crop was wont to be. The negroes, tired with the toyship of liberty, are beginning to understand what it really means; and are taking to work for hire just the saine as CLOSED DOORS. 173 white men. Carpet-baggers are jeered, and sometimes jostled when they come South in search of bargains of land; but they bring Northern money with them, and by degrees shake down into vacant places which their energy, skill, and cash contrib- ute rapidly to fertilize. By the old theory it was impossible that men of white skins and straight hair could work in the fields in these high latitudes; but the contrary is now palpably proved. Thousands of farms and no end of gar(lens are now actually thus cultivated. The sl)ectaele is better for the negroes than all the preaching and teaching in the world; and better for the superior race likewise, as emancipating them from the cruel fear of dependence for existence upon the whim or the abasement of others. In the middle States great and important progress is likewise taking place. In Kansas, which for the two years previous to the revolt was the scene of fierce and piti- less contention between free-soilers and de- fenders of the Divine Institution, there now reigns tranquillity: and the result is seen in a form every way notable. The folIowin~ letter is extracted from the New York Times, under date Aug. 26 : ST. Louis, Aug. 26. The National Land Company completed a sale to-day, for the Kan- sas Pacific Railroad Company, of 32,000 acres of land to the representatives of an English Em- igration Society acting for a proposed colony of 1,200 familics. It is mostly rolling prairie land, and is in one body lying from four to twenty miles from tho line of the road northwest of Junction City. The average price paid was about $3.75 per acre. Eighteen members of the colony have already arrived and commenced the improvement of the lands. The colony is composed of a good class of emigrants, and each member is represented to have sufficient means to stock his farm. Most of them will reach Kansas during the coming fall and spring. This is what comes of the bubble of de- mocracy (not) having burst, as certain fo9lish politicians prognosticated it would during the war. Had Secession succeeded, the Border line would now be bristling with bayonets; and mens thoughts, instead of being fixed on works of peaceful develop- ment and progress, would have been con- centrated upon systems of strategy, works of fortification, and schemes of vengeance and destruction. What a blessed thing both for America and England it is that most of our noble and right honourable prophets prophesied foolishly. How satisfactory it is to think that in all that great continent from Greenland to Honduras there is not now man, woman, or child that quails beneath the capricious frown of a so-called owner. From The Pall Mall Gazette. CLOSED DOORS. THE open churches of the Continent have suggested the following reflections to one of our correspondents now abroad: I am writing to you very early on a Sunday morning, and as I write the bell is ringing of a little whitewashed chapel stand- ing by a wooden bridge and a rushing tor- rent, and down from the high green Alps, stream-crossed and pine-scented, the peas- ants are coming at its call. All round about this plateau are white, dazzling snow mountains and green slopes, where, on week days, the peasants are at work early and late reaping the grasses, and the gray oxen come down the precipitous sides of the mountains, dragging the sledges upon which the sweet, dry hay is piled, or it may be the household goods of some little family flitting from its high Alpine home to its ch& let in the village down below. The hus- band goes first, with his arm round the broad-horned head; the mother follows with steady step through the pine-trees, carrying a little Italian peasant baby in her arms. In the valley where we are staying there are perhaps three or four little wooden houses by the stream, but a good many seem to have flown right up out of the valley and perched upon the mountains, all about the low stone house with the stone-piled roof, which stands by the stream. It has been erected for those who come to drink the waters that flow from the iron spring in the valley. Among the company are some Milanese ladies, convent-bred, who go often to the little whitewashed chapel, and whose many questions as to the ways of our Church, its beliefs, its consolations, I sometimes find it difficult to answer. To them their Church means a religion, to us it is (or should be) but an expression of something higher. They ask me if it is to our Church we go for consolation in trouble, for sustainment and advice. Ah, no, cries the youngest of the party, your Church is not a friend to you like ours is to us. Practically, per- haps, she is in the right, if a Protestant may concede so much. Our Church is a friend once a week or so when there is a wedding or a funeral. These are days of change, of eager debate of words that do not spare reasons or prejudices; on every side people are looking out for the fall of superstructures erected by our predeces- sors, at whose traditions this impatient age not unnaturally rebels, as men of forty sometimes rebel at the professions taken for them by men of twenty-three. We see beacons destroyed or tottering, that in 174 CLOSED DOORS. truth are beacons no longer, for the bar- hour is closed and the tide is sweeping elsewhere, previsions are evaded, profes- sions turned into protests. To some con- sciences, perhaps, Faith in spiritua.l matters may be love, to others it may be hope, but to many it is Faith no longer, and such as these who would not willingly desert the an- cient edifice, hear gladly all the echoes that arise on every side, of what is being done to open wide the ways, to enlarge the spirit of a grand old community, which may be narrow-minded and inconsequent at times, but which recognizes honour as a part of its creed, and to which its votaries cling from traditions that have almost become a part of their very natures. One point after another is stretched, one tenet after another is tacitly abandoned, things are cried in the market-place now, which in my youth were scarcely whispered. I have been told of a sect now existing at Geneva so wide and comprehensive in its views that many who thought themselves excluded from all com- munities now find that they can conscien- tiously belong to this. Some of the best and wisest spirits of time are anxiously trying to do all they can to counteract the cry that the Church as a Church is no living institution, excluding as it does many of the most honest and scrupulous of its members from holy or- ders, and appealing to the uneducated in a very limited and partial degree; and while these reformers, preserving as far as they can the spirit of the Church of Eng- land, are attempting to enlarge the profes- sion of its doctrines, and allowing to every man more and more liberty to determine for himself that inscrutable point of connec- tion between the known and the unknown, the spiritual and the material, another class are in a very simple and effectual manner closing its doors (and I am speaking no metaphor) in the faces of its votaries, and doing more by that turn of the key in the too well greased lock to abolish in the minds of those who are thus excluded all realization of a living actual sympathy, than all the doubts, expressed and non-ex- pressed, of honest sceptics, or the railings of fanatics and scoffers. Why are church doors closed, bolted, and barred? why are pew-openers and sightseers the only people who arc allowed to enter from one weeks end to another P Why am I at this minute it is about nine oclock on Sunday morn- ing the member of an established church, shut, with drawn blinds, and safely covered up with brown holland, into which there is no admittance for two hours at least? Here in this little village high up among the Rhcetian Alps a bell is ringing, as I have said, and the peasants are com- ing over the mountains and down the green slopes that lead to the little chapel by the torrent. It is only a low white shed, a little larger than tlie neighbouring chMets, or baitas, as they call them here. It is quite shabby and humble, and whitewash is falling from its walls, but the bell rings evening after evening for the Aye, the people go in and come out and walk away quietly by the torrent or along the narrow mountain paths that travel by rock and waterfall and by fragrant scent of thyme and through fresh pine woods to higher Alps near the snow peaks that encirclt~ our valley; and all day long, on Sundays and week days, the worm-eaten door of the chapel is open, and one lamp burns dimly. Whenever you look into the bum- ble little place the lamp is burning, and one or other kneeling figure is there, peas- ant or traveller. On Sundays tbe country people come in full dignity of knee-breeches, and wives and sweethearts, and huge red umbrellas, and streaming out after the mass sit in a row on the low wall in front of the establishment ~vhere we are staying, while the little children run about and peep through the wooden planks of the bridge at the boiling waters below. This seems a long round-about way of entering my little protest, and petitioning for leave to enter the church to which I be- long, but the contrast between our own system and that which I see here has struck me very much. Not long ago, at Oxford, one day I remember walking from one noble old chapel to another and wondering at the barred doors: one had been left a little open, showing a glimpse of aisle and lofty arch and peaceful light, hut the other gate was safely locked, for fear any passer- by should enter. Only in one place that I know of is that permission granted at the garrison chapel at Woolwich, where no ill effects have arisen from the practice of daily prayer. I~or the working classes, it would seem to me that the chance of a few minutes quiet, that the knowledge that at all times and places their churches were open to them, would be no small boon and relief to their overhurthened lives. It seems a small thing to ask for leave to go in now and then out of the busy street of life to a quiet place hallowed by association, and to stay there for a little while among surroundings which should bring peaceful and holy things before us. To some natures and temperaments such minutes, coming, maybe, at a moment of HERESY IN SCOTLAND. doubt or difficulty, would count more than even a whole three hours service and ser- mon all complete, perhaps unsuited to their need, and coining when the stress was over and help no longer of any avail. From The Pall Mall Gazette. HERESY IN SCOTLAND. WHILE German rationalists are firing pistols at the clergy to emphasize their protest against State-prescribed belief, and while the Archbishop of York is prosecuting Mr. Voysey in order to recall that wander- ing sheep or shepherd to the limits of the fold, there has sprung up in Scotland, the land of silent and logical Calvinism, a storm of revolt against compulsory creeds. Tour- ists in that country must have noticed for the last urnuth or two that every newspaper, whether of Edinburgh, Glasgow, or the re- moter provinces, has been filled, column after column, with letters discussing the Coupar-Angus heresey case. The origi- nal thets of this case are very simple. The Free Church adopts as its doctrine, without chau~e, what are called the Stand- ards? of the Church of Scotland. These are chiefly comprised in a brief but abstruse manual, purporting to have been compiled for unlettered and simple folk, called the Shorter Catechism, and at more length in the Confession of Faith of the Westmin- ster Divines, which has been formally enacted as the law of the Church not only by her assemblies but by the Parliament. Two gentlemen members of the Free Church congregation of Coupar Angus, a small town on the borders of Perthshire and For%rshire, were alleged to have spoken of some of the questions of pre- destination, eternal punishment, & c., in a manner irreconcilable with this authority. They were cited to appear before the Kirk session, the primary judicial body of each congregation, consisting of the minister and certain elders elected by the congrega- tion, to answer as to the soundness of their faith. The minister, whom it is probably not uncharitably to consider the instigator of the proceedings, took the unusual step of calling privately on the accused and endeavouring to engage them in talk upon the topic of their faith, but they seem to have perceived the pious ruse, and not to have committed themselves. Appearing before the Kirk 5055i0Ii, they contented theniselves with protesting against its right to make such an inquiry. The Kirk ses- sion, in its difficulty, referred for instruc tions to the Presbytery, the next superior court, consisting~ of the ministers of the dis- trict, with an elder elected by each congre- gation. The Presbytery directed the Kirk session to proteed. Here stands the ques- tion as regards the two culprits. But meantime the propriety of the proceedings is vehemently debated in the press. They open up in the broadest way the question, How far the members of the Free Church, and by consequence of the Established Church (for the rights of laymen in each depend on exactly the same principles and text-books), are bound to hold in absolute strictness the doctrines of the authorized creeds? For both the Coupar-Angus gen- tlemen are laymen, and though one, being a deacon, a sort of manager of the tempor- alities of the congregation, has subscribed to a general acceptance of the Confession, the other stands as uncommitted by express act as any layman in Scotland can. What, therefore, is to be settled is whether the minister and elders of a congregation can on suspicion summon any of its members before them, examine him as to his abstract belief, and, if he is either contumacious or unsound, excommunicate him. if this be established, it must make a tremendous convulsion in the whole Scottish ecclesiastical system. The standards of the Church contain propositions laid down in the most absolute and unflinching words, froni which clergymen and laymen now-a-days almost unanimously recoil. Of the thirty-three chapters of which the Con- fession consists, there is hardly one that could be now accepted in its primitive sense. Not to multiply difficulties, who among modern divines and laymnen would like to stand up and say that, in the plain sense of the word, he believes that God created or made of nothing the world and all thimigs therein, in six days P That by the decree of God for the manifesta- tion of his glory some men and angels are foreordained to everlasting death? that after providing for the redemption of the elect, the rest of mankind God was pleased, according to the unsearchable counsel of his own will, whereby be cx- tendeth or withholdeth mercy us he pleaseth, for tIme glory of his sovereign power over his creatures, to pass by, and to ordain them to dishonour and wrath for their sins to the praise of his glorious justice? That the officers of the Church have the keys of the Kingdom of Heaveim. by virtue whereof they have power to retain and to remit sins, and to shut that kingdom against tIme impenitent? That by the Pill of Adam and Eve their descendants became 175 176 HERESY IN SCOTLAND. wholly defiled in all faculties and parts of soul and body, that the guilt of this sin was imparted, and the same death in sin and Corrupte(I nature conveyed to all their posterity, and that every sin, both origi- nal and actual, (10th in its own nature bring guilt upon the sinner, whereby he is bound over to the wrath of God and the curse of the law, with all miseries, spiritual, tem- poral, and eternal P That elect infants dying in infancy are regenerated and saved a tolerably broad damnation of unelect infants? or that the doctrine is to be detested which pretends that men not professing the Christian religion can be saved by any other way whatsoever, be they never so diligent to frame their lives accord- ing to the light of nature and the law of that religion they do profess P Nor are these shocking propositions set aside, more tacitly, than such other practical injunctions as those which direct that the whole of Sunday is to be spent in the public and private exercises of devotion and in works of necessity and mercy; or that the civil power is bound to suppress all heresies, or that such as profess the true reformed reli ion should not marry with infidels, papists, or other idolators. In short, it may be asserted that the Calvinism of the seventeenth century is not that of the nineteenth, and that the Church of Scot- land would as little enact now-a-days the Westminster Confession as the Church of England would Qrdain the Athanasian Creed. But in both cases there is the creed, and what is to be done with it, is the difficulty. In Scotland, as with us, there is one section of the Church which tries to explain away the staggering points. They say, for example, that we are not to understand days of creation as days of twenty-four hours, and that in other passages we are to give a reasonal)le construction to the words. But then comes the inquiry, Where is to ho the limit of construction if in one passage it is allowed to explain away the obvious sense in which the words were use(IP Others say that some parts of tile Confession are immaterial. But to them is given the instant reply that there are no means of discriminating which points are vit~d and which are unessential. Then again it has heen said that the laity are not concerned with what only the clergy have subscribed. But besides that this is the verc basis of the Coupar-Angus proceedings, it is obvious that the laity cannot respect a clergy who either believe what no one else tloes, or who profess a belief in which they are consciously false. So that, on the whole, the more the matter is handled, there seems to be no escaping from the necessity of facing the inquiry, What is it that members of the Church of Scotland do believe? As difficult a ques- tion for them to frame an articulate answer to, as it would be for the Convocation or for the Irish Church Body, if they had to begin it anew. On the other hand, however, it is to be kept in view that there is a very influential and growing party in all the Churches of Scotland which recommends the rejection as far as possible of all positive enunciations of doctrine on theological questions. This party, of which Principal Tulloch, one of the most eminent ministers of the Church of Scotland, and the head of the University of St. Andrews, may 1)0 considered the leader, must unquestionably gain by the stirring of such questions as the Coupar-An~us case has roused. Their argument is not that it is impossible to maintain a Church within the limits of a definite creed, nor that it would be unjust to coInpel such as do not accept the creed to retire from a commun- ion of which it forms a necessary condition, but that it is inex~edient and unchristian thus to narrow the bounds of religious brotherhood. Their ideas being thus rath- er negative than positive, they have not as yet obtained that visible position within the Church to which the real number of their adherents entitles them. But if the Coupar- Angus case shall push the dogmatic party to carry into logical action their theoretical principles, the Broad party will probably obtain a distinct preponderance in all the leading Churches of Scotland. How a Church is to be constituted without some form of agreement, and how such form is to be expressed, is indeed a matter of the very gravest difficulty. Men everywhere shrink from it, but sooner or later it must be faced. lt will not be strange if the crisis should come first in Scotland, where the fetter of creeds is at present riveted most firmly. At least it seems certain that if it be authoritatively decreed that every mem- ber of a Scottish Church must believe what the Westminster Confession sets forth, there will be such a disruption as has never yet been seen even in that country. And beyond such a disruption who can say what lies P Nor, even if the Church courts find means to stop the perilous examination into the obligatory character of their creeds, before a positive decision is compelled, is it possible that the thinking portion of the people, now roused to consider what it i~ which they and their teachers are under- stood to profess, should not feel driven to ART-NOTES IN HOLLAND. 177 decide for themselves whether they will allow their liberty to be circumscribed even in form and theory within the limits of doc- trines which in their consciences they re- pudiate? From The Saturday Review. ART-NOTES IN HOLLAND. HOLlAND has been made by wits a butt at which to shoot satire. The country, it is said, is afloat, or moored to the shore not over safely, and when she wishes to put to sea she has but to spring a leak. Some travellers have found the people so flabby or finny as to risk the conjecture that they were at one time allied to the fishes. But in sober truth the country, its inhabitants, their industries, and their arts are suffi- ciently anomalous and peculiar. Yet, for art purposes, there are few towns more pic- turesque or more prolific of materials for the sketch-book than Amsterdam and Rot- terdam. The sea is in the streets, the wa- ters come to the door of the merchants counting-house, and noble ships and quaint old craft lie along the busy mart. Canals, barges, bridges, windmills which are to be counted not by tens but by hundreds, give to these towns a character which has no parallel in Europe. Venice presents the closest analogy, but Venice is gold instead of grey, poetry in place of prose. And this much we have said by way of introduc- tion, in order to lead on to the conclusion that the closest reciprocity subsists between the country of Holland, the people of Hol- land, and the art of Holland. Given the physical condition of any country, with the ethnological character of its inhabitants, and it will generally be tolerably easy to predict the quality of the national art. Thus the student finds that the pictures at the Hague and Amsterdam, which after their kind are nowhere surpassed, are so many mirrors which reflect the sky, the sea, and the shore of the Low Countries, and no less do they respond to the manners and modes of thought of a people who trust less to imagination than to common sense, less to creation than to powers of percep- tion, less to genius than to plodding work. A Dutchman in his art never rises to the heaven of invention, his fancy does not range beyond the circuit of a canal nor soar above the elevation of a windmill.. Thus his art is as far removed from that of Raffaelle or of Phidias, as a Dutch house- wife is distant from the Venus of Milo. In the whole course of art-history no LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. 638 country exemplifies more clearly than Hol- land the law already indicated, that schools of painting, sculpture, and architecture respond to the physical geography of a country and to the character of the race who inhabit it. In this sense the arts of Holland are emphatically national. The pictures of Rembrandt and Vander Heist, of Teniers, Jan Steen, Ostade, Gerard Douw, Metzu, and Miens, involve that strict relation of cause and effect which we are accustomed to look for only- within the limits of the inductive sciences. The conditions under which Dutch art has come into the world are well defined, and the quality of the art accords with those conditions. Granted the existence of a democratic form of government, a people addicted to coin- merce and agriculture, a nation dwelling in lowlands bordering on the sea, trading towns ruled by well-to-do burgomnasters; religious communities who do not ask of the arts aids to devotion, who do not call for the intervention of saint or angel, who do not require that a picture shall give imaginative warmth to worship or permit that the work of mans hands shall come between God and the conscience; and we. almost of necessity find just that style of art which now meets the traveller at every turn in the midst of the plain, picturesque, and plodding people of Holland. T he Dutch painted no jewelled crown, no regal throne or sceptre; theirs was an art for a commercial commonwealth. Rembrandt born in a mill looked upon nature from be- neath a deep shadow; the light on his can- vas was a flash in darkness; he etched his fathers windmill, he painted that grand portrait of his friend, Burgomaster Six, which abides in the family house at Amster- dam, even to this day. In like manner Teniers and Ostade gathered materials which lay at their own doors; they walked into the streets and sketched the peasant seated on a bench, the tinker mending a kettle, the boor carousing away his ser~ses over a pot of beer; such scenes as we have recently witnessed in the fair of Rotterdam. In Holland, in fact, at every step we meet with some such picture as we have been but just before admiring in the Gallery of Amsterdam or of the Hague. Composi- tions like those of Paul Potter abound. As soon as the towns are left for the coun- try we come upon cows in meadows, rumi- nating beneath the pollard willows. We walk towards the coast an(1 discover how the painters of a former day frequented the Zuyder Zee to watch the coasting craft becalmed or beating against the breeze into shelter. Here silvery mists rise from the 178 ART-NOTES IN HOLLAND. tranquil horizon as in the calm, grey dis- tance of Vander Velde; the sails lie idle waiting for a wind. In Holland nature is sombre and shadowy, the meadow green, the sky grey, the sea silvery as the sun shines among the vapours. Shadows, too, lie in the towns among the narrow streets overhung with gables. For the golden sun of the south enters not these northern lati- tudes, neither does the broad swell of the Atlantic sweep into the narrow and chop- ping seas. And such as are these aspects of nature, such has been the phase of Dutch art, and such does its character continue even to the present day. A land which has never been known to rise into a mountain, a people guilty of a revolution about once in two centuries, is not likely to break out into heroics, or to indulge largely in the drama of historic art. The distinguishing character of Dutch landscape art has been already sufficiently indicated. Dutch pictures take in an arm of the sea, not the volume of the ocean; they delineate a tree, not a forest; they compass a meadow, not a mountain. Na- ture plays upon the canvas the part of an episode, her grand operations are reduced to small by-play. The spectator may en- counter a shower, but it is in no danger of a thunderstorm; he may be met by the spray of a tossing sea, but the artist takes care that the weather shall not grow so bad as to bring about a shipwreck. And it is not a little curious to observe how all-suffi- cient these small, mild operations of nature are for the indolent and phlegmatic Dutch intellect. German art-students at Dus- seldorf are known at the first blush of spring and the dawn of summer to be moved by a passionate love for high mnoun- tains, grand rock- girt lakes, and wild fords, and accordingly sketching parties are formed, and enterprising bands of painters start for the Tyrol, Switzerland, or the fords of Norway. But the Dutch, whether from love of their native dykes, or from mere inertia or lack of fire in imagination, stir not from the land of the frog, the eel, and the windmill. Their minds never rise above the water level, their imaginations conceive of no grander act in creation than the dividing the land from the waters; to them the finest of all sights is the wet earth as it appeared to view on the first morning after the Deluge. Thus, Dutch landscapes are verdant as the grass that grew after the subsiding of the waters) the art is essen- tially pastoral, and has not reached the stage of an arable crop. In Dutch land- scapes hay harvests abound; Wouvermans was fond of a hay cart; but we do not recall within the circuit of Dutch art pic- tures of the reaping and gathering in of corn. In fact corn is seldom grown in Hol- land, and thus Dutch panels and canvasses are dedicated to grass and hay, milk, but- ter, and cheese. Before quitting this part of the subject we may again advert to the prevalence of grey alike in Dutch nature and in Dutch art; while the browns and the reds of the naked soil are clad with verdure, even the greens are mitigated by reflected light from the sky. We have grey in the under sides of the willow leaves, as they flicker in the breeze and turn their silver edges to the sun; and grey also and of shimmering light, as among rising and flying mists, is the sky, which in Holland usurps more than its share of space. So low in- deed is the horizon in Dutch pictures, that we have just noted a landscape in the gal- lery of the Hague wherein five parts were sky and only one-sixth land. Accordingly, cloud-land sometimes constitutes the main subject of a piece, and it is hard to object to this unusual apportionment, for there is an exquisite charm in many of these studies in liquid and transparent qualities of sky, aerial perspective of clouds brimful of rain, dissolving into mists or inelting into sea. Turner, we need not say, would have gilded these greys; but neither Turner nor Titian could have been born in Amsterdam. The Dutch are too prosaic for the poetry of art, so they naturally betake them- selves to portraits; even in fancy composi- tions the heads are from the life. The Dutch accordingly have been great in por- trait-painting; indeed at one time we in England were glad to import our portrait- painters, as we did our kings, from these foreign parts. English collections give ample proof of how much our aristocracy were indebted to the pencils of Ilonthorst, Antonio More, Jansen, Kneller, and Lely. Dutch artists worked hard both at home and abroad, and it may be a question whether within the last two or three hun- dred years more portraits have been painted in England or in Holland. Certainly in tho Low Countries portraits abound, and an art which we are accustomed to decry as inferior gives to Holland her best pictures, such as Rembrandts Lesson in Ammatomy and Night Watch, and Vadmier heIsts l3anquet of the Civic Guard. Still we do not think it possible that Holland could muster a national collection of portraits comparable, at least as to numbers, to the 2,~OO portraits recently assembled at Ken- singtomm. The great portrait period was in Holland comparatively short, while in Eng- ,land we had a glorious revival under Rey ART-NOTES IN HOLLAND. 179 nolds and Gainsborough, and even to this Among the numbers brought into notice by day portraits are painted in London which exhibited models, drawings, or documents, cannot be approached by the contemporary may be enumerated the following: A art of Amsterdam. We observe that the Society for the Working-Classes, Amster- best of the portraits of the reigning King darn; A Society for the Reform of the and Queen of Holland are but third-rate Habitations of Artisans at the Hacrue. A productions. The Dutch have usually made Society for Arranging and Pror~otin~ the flesh leathery, opaque, and colourless. Recreations of the People; An Associa- Still there exists in Holland such grand tion of the People for the People; and last- heads upon canvas that we think our artists l~, among man y others, The Society for the would do well to take their summer vaca- Public Good, an institution which obtained ,tion now and then among these Galleries, recognition in the Paris Exhibition of 1862. Burgomasters some two hundred years ago This Society dates from 1786, and numbers furnished capital studies; those manly mer- 14,000 members; among other functions it chants, square in brow, firmly set in fea- promotes the education of the people, and tures, andresolute in will, were worthy of it has taken thirty schools of design under transmission to posterity. And as were its care. We may add that a law was the models, so was the art, robust and manly, passed in Holland in the year 1863 which strong in purpose and firm in hand. Nev- requires that there shall be established ertheless we cannot but feel that Dutch por- throughout the country one industrial school trait-painting suffers under the general for every 10,000 inhabitants, and that shortcomings of the national school. This linear and artistic design shall be taught literal and prosaic land gave birth to no in those schools. The drawings exhibited artist so masterly in treatment and in touch are below the standard of like works pro- as Velasquez; no Dutch painter has reached duced in France, they are also for the most the senatorial dignity of Titian, the golden part inferior to the drawings executed in colour of the Venetians, or the mental in- schools of art in England for National sight of Raffaelle and Da Vinci. The Competition. The technicalities of art. Dutch painted a subject down while the however, have been always well understood Italians raised it. The Dutch had not in Holland. No pictures last so well as the imagination to realize what could not be works of the old Dutch masters; Rem- seen or handled; they could model the brandts Lesson in Anatomy is as fresh body roundly in true Dutch-built pro- as when the colours were first laid upon portions, but the mind, with its subtle play canvas. The Dutch painted as the Romans of expression, eluded their pencil. built for eternity; and Reynolds said The Dutch have this year given one more that a painter should go to holland, as to proof that the arts do not hold a first place school, to learn the grammar of his art. It in their affections by expressly excluding will be seen from what we have said that all works of the Fine Arts from the Inter- the good people of Amsterdam at all events national Exhibition of Amsterdam. Every believe in art as a means of improving na- object, in fact, in that Exhibition had to tional manufactures, and the time may yet fulfil two conditions first, that it should come when beauty shall take the place of be cheap; and secondly, that it should be ugliness in their streets and dwellings. ugly. But, though pictures are expressly The lack of art in the Amsterdam Exhi- excluded, the stalls contain the raw ma- bition admits of compensation. We have termals out of which pictures are made; the visited in holland some seven galleries, pots and pans brought into international giving a total of about 1,300 pictures. competition are the very articles which When we come upon modern paintings, Teniers and Ostade thought most worthy of whether at home or in the International delineation. The Exhibtion may possibly Exhibitions of Paris or of Munich, in our be designed as a protest against our art- Royal Academy, or in the Foreign Gallery, loviiig age; it would seem to say, a nation Pall Mall, it is evident that Dutch artists cannot live by art alone, a thing of still cherish the old traditions of their beauty cannot sustain a people, the happi- school. Cattle-pictures which we have re ness of a man does not consist in what he cently seen by M. de Haas are riot unworthy sees, but in what he consumes; food, drink, of Paul Potter or Karl du Jardin; interior~s clothing, and comfortable dwellings make by M. Bosboom are as unexceptionable for the happiness of a people. And indeed tone, light, shade, and colour as the most this well-meant Exhibition contains much balanced of the old Dutch painters; the over which a moral philosopher might re- genre pictures of Ten Kate are not far be- joice. Few countries, in fact, are so proli- hind Teniers and Ostade. A River in fic in philanthropic institutions as Holland. Calm Weather, by M. Van Deventer, in 180 HEINRICH HEINE. the Fodor Museum, Amsterdam, is pearly in grey, liquid in rainy sky, and simple and true in the study of sandy and sedgy shore bordering on the sea. Again, in the deep pathos of M. Israels, and in the eccentric originality of M. Alma Tadema, we recog- nize something more than Dutch. But on the whole we incline to think that Dutch art, like the Dutch nation, has reached a point of stagnation and safe finality; it is barely able to maintain its renown from year to year. Indeed, the national school seems in danger of moving backwards, while art in other countries is pushing for- wards. Yet the Dutch express themselves content with their own performances. From The Fortnightly Review. HEINRICH HEINE. THIRTEEN years have now elapsed since the death of Henrich Heine, and it is scarcely yet decided what position he is en- titled to occupy in the history of European literature. These who assign him the rank of a great humorist are Nuwilling to number him amongst the first poets of Germany, in close proximity to the cycle of Lessing, Herder, Schiller, and Goethe; while those who claim for him the throne vacated by Goethe are apt to overlook the hurnoristic and political side of his character. Outside Germany he is best known as a critic, a satirist, and a humorous writer. The French admired him as an Apollo, who flayed Marsyas with a grace and dexterity that rendered the operation, if not painless to the sufferer, at least pleasant to the spec- tator. The Germans, who were best able to appreciate the music and beauty of his singing,~are only too willing to forget the bitter things he said of them beyond the Rhine, This is easily intelligible. As a poet he was German; as a humorist he was European. The many visitors who crowded to the sick-chamber at Paris, where he lay shrunk to a skeleton, with a beard that grew long as a womans hair over the cover- let, carried away stories of satire that con- quered pain, and wit whose brightness ap- proaching death could not tarnish. But the songs of the poet spread from the woods and valleys of Germany, where they were first sung, and became intelligible only through translation to those who stood around his bed. An unfortunate misunder- standing between Heines family and his publisher has hitherto prevented the excel- lent editor of his works from obtaining ac- cess to all the materials for a full biography. In the meanwhile his brother has published a few reminiscences of Ilenrichs ~outh.* Such a work could not fail to have a certain interest; in most respects it is a jejune and meagre chronicle of events scarcely worth recording. Until the fuller and piomised work appears, the best magazine for the biographer will be the works and letters of Ileine published by Messsrs. Hoffmann and Campe, and edited by Dr. Strodtmann.t ileine was born at Dusseldorf on the Rhine, December 13th, 1799. lIe himself dated his birth from the 1st January, 1800, in order that, as he laughingly said, he might be spoken of as one of the first men of the century. His father, Sigismund Heine, belonged, its did his ancestors, to the mercantile class. He was a Jew, but, unlike his brother, Solomon 1-leine, the hamburg banker, never attained to con- siderable wealth. lie married Elizabeth. von Geldern, the daughter of a medical man of some local celebrity. We do not know much of the mother of Heinrich Ileine, but we do know that she always retained the affection of her son, for in some of his latest letters to his publisher he is careful that she should be provided with early copies of his works, and that parts, which he believed could not be pleasing to her, should be removed from the copies which she received. Heinrich had two brothers and a sister, who are still alive. It is to this sister that the well-known poem, Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder, is addressed. Heinrich was entered as pupil in the I)iisseldorf Gymnasium. He has given an account of the advantages he derived from that insti- tution: Everything was to be learnt by rote: Greek, History, Geography, Chronology. And yet many benefits have come to me from such study. For if I had not known the Roman kings in or- der, it would have been afterwards perfectly in- different to me whether Niebuhr had proved or had not proved that they never existed at all. And if I had not known those dates how could I afterwards have found ray way about big Ber- lin, where one house is as like another as two rain-drops, and where you cannot find your friends unless you keep the number of their houses in your head? 1 used to allot my friends some historical event, whose date coincided with the numbers of their houses, so that I could easily know the number by thinking of the date; and thus it happened that I never saw a friend without his suggesting some his- * Erinnerun~en an Heinrich Heine und Seine Familie, von Seinem Bruder Maximilian Heiiie. Berlin: Ferd. Duminlers YerlagsbuchhandluIig. 1868. Heines Sammtliche Werke. Hamburg: Hoff. mann und (Jampe. 1865. IIEINRICII HEINE. 181 torical event. For instance, if I met my tailor, I immediately thought of the battle of Mara- thon; when I saw the well-dressed banker, Gumpel, the destruction of Jerusalem occurred to me. When I met a certain insolvent Portu- guese friend, I thought of the flight of Mahom- ed; when I saw the University chancellor, a man whose severe integrity is well known, I remembered the death of Hamarl. But as regards Latin, you have no idea how involved it is. The Romans would never have found time to conquer the world if they had been first obliged to learn Latin. This hap- py people knew in their very cradles what nouns have an accusative in un. I, on the contrary, must learn them by rote in the sweat of my brow. Still, it is a grand thing that I know them. For instance, if on the 20th July, 1825, when I had to dispute publicly in the hall at Glittingen, I had said sinapenr instead of sine- pim, the undergraduates present might have detected it, and that would have been for me an eternal disgrace. Vis, buns, situ, tussis, cucu mis, ainussis, cannabis, sinapis, these words, which have made such a noise in the world, have done so by pretending to belong to a cer- tain class, and yet remaining exceptions. For this reason I esteem them highly ; and that I always have them at command, should any Un- forseen need come upon me to use them, gives me in many a gloomy hour of life much inward comfort and delight. From this Gymnasium Heine proceeded to study law at Bonn, which he seems soon to have left, and at Giittingen. Here he be- gan his tragedies, Almansor and Rat- cliffe; but having violated the university dwelling-regulations, he was compelled to leave by a consilium abeundi. He had already won something of the reputation of a poet. He had published, in 1821, a small volume of poems, and these were so successful that Rassmann included him among the celebrities whom he noticed in his year-book for 1822. The work, small as it was, attracted the attention of the Baron de la Motte Fouqui~, who wrote a poem and an affectionate letter to Heine. In 1822 he continued his studies at Ber- lin. Lie attended the lectures of Hegel, whose influence upon him was never oblit- erated; and he further had the good fortune to be admitted to the best literary circles. The friendship formed at this time were the warmest that he made, and doubtless gave the direction to his after-career. These naturally began with the mercantile class, to whom his uncle Solomon could give him an introduction, and especially with a friend of the family, Moses Moser. He was one of those men, not uncommon in Germany, who, though engaged in active business, are enthusiastic students. He was a warm admirer of Hegel, and his friendship with Heine lasted until his own death in 1838. I do not like you, said Heine, in a letter to him at this time, because you are a magazine of virtue, and know Spanish, and Syriac, and Hegelian, English, Arabic, and Hindostani, and have lent me your overcoat, and money, and have worried yourself about me, and so forth. I like you, perhaps, only for a silly trick of manner I have noticed in you, and a few absurd expressions that escape you, and stick in my memory, and haunt me pleasantly when I am in a good temper, or have money, and am sentimental. I had a Pole for a friend, for whom I would have drunk myself to death ; or rather for whom I would have stood, and would still stand to be shot, and the fellow was not worth a single penny, and was dirty, and had the most abominable principles but he had a guttural sound, with which he could say the word What? in so astounding a manner that at this very moment I cant think of it without weeping and laughing. It was perhaps to Moser that Heine owed his introduction to Varnhagen von Ense and his wife the mother of young Ger- many, as she was called. In her drawing- room Heine, whom she had named the untutored darling of the graces, met the best intellectual society of the capital. All sciences and arts were represented at her reunions. Hegel, the two Humboldts, Ranch, Schleiermacher, llit.zig, and Cha- misso met each other there, and contact with such men must have left a certain mark upon the quick and sensitive nature of Heine. But while admission to this society devel- oped the Hellenisti~ side of his character, the Hebraism in him was deepened by his close and constant familiarity with another circle which included his intimate friends. Most of the members of this society were Jews, and if their names are not so well known as those that clustered around Hegel and Von Ense, they had certainly no less influence upon the young poet. They met every Thursday evening in the house of Philipp Veit, and it was to this society that some of Heines early pieces, such as the North Sea Poems, were first submitted. Among them were, Moser, Professor Gans, the Jurist, author of a work on the De- velopment of Hereditary Right; Lessman Lehrman; better known under the name of Anselmi, a critic and life-long friend of Heine; Dr. Zung, the Orientalist; and Mendelssohn, the father of Felix, the mu- sician, who was then a boy with large dreamy poetical eyes. The two years Heine spent at Berlin s~emn 182 REINRICH HEINE. objections were upon religious grounds. You can easily infer, he says, that baptism has no meaning for me, and that even as a symbol I esteem it of little impor- tance, and that tinder the circumstances amid in the manner in which it would be per- formed in my case, it would have for others but little significance. Me, indeed, it miiight influemmee to devote myself still more to bat- tle for the rights of my unhappy race, but I think it beneath niy dignity, and a blot upon my honour, that I should be baptized in order to gaimi a civil appointment in Prussia. He yielded, however, to the solicitations of his family, and was baptized before set- timig out for G6ttingen. his uncle allowed him a year for study, and during this period he worked hard; so hard that the nervous headaches to which he was now subject se- riously affected his health. Meanwhile his uncle seems to have pursued an ilhiberal policy towards him. Perhaps we can hardly judge the circunistances fairly. Ordinarily Solomon Heine was a ~ari of strict justice, occasionally of great generosity, and sev- eral charitable institutions at hamburg still testify at once to his commercial success and his mnunificemice. But Ileine always coin- plained bitterly that his cousins poisoned the mnind of his uncle against him. This is quite possible but the pride and impetuos- it) of the poet ma) have tended iiiore to breed misu miderstandimigs between them than Heine himself would have admitted. For long periods of time lie did not write to his uncle lest he should be supposed by the famnil) at Hamburg to be attackin~ him with captationes benevolentice. But his health failed him so much that he was compelled to ask for another half-year to complete his studies, which he bad been obliged to sus- pend for some time during the first year. In this interval of rest he umidertook a walk- ing tour over the ilarz district. It is this journey which lie describes in the miow cel- ebrated hlarzreise. Upomi his return he wrote to Moser about it thus to have been his happiest. Reckless, joy- ous, keen in the pursuit of pleasure, he yet found time to write letters which reflect the careless happiness of his nature to the Rhen- ish journals, reviews of Rossmann~, Rous- seaus, Smets, Beers, and Henzels works, and to bring out his own tragedies. But as yet he was untouched hy the terrible nervous disease, to the inheritance of which he so soon succeeded. After leaving Berlin, he resided for some time with his family at Liineburg and Ham- burg. Owing to the illness of his father they seem to have been in a measure de- pendent upon the generosity of the rich Solomon Heine and the proud nature of Heinrich, who hated the bounty that his position compelled him to take, embittered the relationship between himself and his uncles family. His letters to Moser show how eagerly he looked forward to a position of independence, which, alas! he never en- tirely reached. It was, perhaps, the feel- ing of unwilling dependence that gave rise to much of the cynicism which ninark~d and marred his best works. On leaving the society of Moser, too, a strong reaction in his mind set in against the Jews, and lie was already beginning to reap the conse- quences of his free and out-spoken criti- cisms. How I despise this pack of men, he writes, the uncircumcised with the cir- cumcised! Perhaps at this time lie de- spised the circnmcised most. While at Berlin lie had joined the Jewish Union for Culture and Science, and had promised to write for a magazine which had been planned. But the early numbers offended his delicate literary taste. I have read it, he wrote to the editor, Dr.. Zung., but I must can- didly confess that the greatest part, yes, three parts of the third number, is unpleas- ant on account of the negligent style. I dont want Goethes style, but an intelligi- ble one. I have studied all forms of Ger- man Saxon German, Swabian German, and Franconian German but our Maga- zine German gives me more difficulty than any. Impress, I implore you, upon your colleagues iii the magazine the importance It did me a great deal of good, and I feel of culture in style, without which the othcr myself much stronger through the journey. I culture cannot be advanced. went on foot and mostly alone, wandered over This advice may not have been without the whole Harz, passed by fur bills and valleys, and breathed fresh air once more. I s:~w much effect. The fourth number never appeared. that was beautiful and lovely, and if jurispru- An arrangement with his uncle was shortly made by which he was enabled to dence had not followed me spectre-like, I should - have found the world very beautiful. I could proceed again to G& ittingen to read finally tell you much about this Harz journey, but I for his degree. It was also deemed advisa- have already begun to write it down, and shill ble for his subsequent employment under have it quite ready this winter. There will the Prussian Government that lie should be also appear verses in it, which will please you baptized. In this matter he was opposed fair and noble feelings, and such like senti- to the wishes of the family. Not that his mental rubbish. What can one do? Of a truth HEINRICH HEINE. 183 the opposition to effete conventionalism is a thankless business. But the Harzreise, originally intended for a magazine, and written for pecuniary reasons, did not appear until after Heine had taken his degree, in July, 1825. Later some of his literary opponents averred that he had purchased his diploma, and he used to say that he could bear any attack except that upon his academical honours. It is curious to read the name of that most high and puissant monarch George IV., King of Great Britain and Hanover, upon Heines diploma. Of Hugo, Prorector of the University, Heine spoke warmly, and the recognition of his talent, which he obtained from him, was of a nature to fill the poet with grati- tude. For some time after this he lived at Hamburg. As might have been expected from the nature of the man, he was now bit- ter against the Christians. I assure you, he says to Moser, had the laws allowed me to steal silver spoons, I would never have been baptized. In 1826 appeared the Buch le Grand, and the second volume of the Reisebil- der, and in the following year Heine vis- ited England. Much has been said of his dislike to this country, a dislike which cul- minated with his personal experience of us. He disliked the people, he disliked their mode of life, he disliked most of all the cli- mate, nothing but fog, coal-smoke, por- ter, and Canning. It is perhaps well we should learn what a man like Heine thought of our country for- ty-two years ago, especially as we may hope that our faults are not the same now as they were then. It is, at least, not true of us now that our most frequented amusements are boxing, cock-fighting, and public execu- tions, though, alas! we still bring our sim- ple vegetables to table, boiled in water, ex- actly as God made them. But it was es- pecially the hard mechanical nature of the English mind that Heine could not tolerate our lack of mental flexibility seemed to him a melancholy born of unwholesome tim and unjustifiable pride. Not only the iron, but the cold, unvarying regularity of our achinery, had entered intoomr semuk and chilled and imprisoned all intellectual life. We sometimes ask with no little self-satis- faction, What would be the feelings of a Greek, could he be transported from an- cient Athens to one of our commercial cen- tres? Perhaps we may have a sufficiently correct answer in the words of Heine The perfection of the machinery which is everywhere employed, and which has super- seded so much of human effort, seemed to me something wrong ; this artificial motion of wheels, bars, cylinders, the myriad little hooks, pegs, and teeth which circle in almost passion- ate revolution, filled me with horror. The ac- curacy, correctness, rigour, and punctuality in the life of the English troubled me in an equal decree. For as iii England the machines seem human, so too the nien appear machines. Wood, and iron, and brass, seem there to have arro- gated to themselves the intellect, awl to have gone mad through excess of it, whilst the de- mented man, like a hollow spectre, perfurnis mechanically his customary business, and at the fixed minute devours beef-steaks, speaks Parliament, brushes his nails, mounts the stage- coach, or hangs himself. Again It is when we meet them in a foreign coun- tries, he says of the English, that their de- fects are so unpleasantly prominent. They are the divinities of dullness, who hurry at full speed through all lands in brightly-lacquered chariots, and leave behind them everywhere a grey dust-cloud of gloom, To this may be added their curiosity without interest, their elaborate awkwardness, their insolent stiffness, their nar- row selfishness, and their dreary delight in all melancholy circumstances. Heines journey to England was under unfavourable circumstances. At that time, at least, he could not speak English, and, though here, he viewed things from the outside. His opinion of English society was in some measure derived from his unfa- vourable notions of the young Ilanoverian nobles whom he met at G5ttingen and Nor- dency. These outdid the English aristoc- racy in their exclusiveness and pride of pedigree, and we may reasonably hope that it was some niistaken memory that prompt- ed him to tell the verger of Westminster Abbey, as he handed him his fee, that he would willingly have given him more if the collection had been complete. At the close of this year appeared the first edition of the Buch der Lieder. All the poems had appeared before; some to which reference has already h)een made, when he was very young. lie did not an- ticipate a long life for the book. It ~vil1 sail away, he said, like a harmless me.r- chant-ship under the protection of the sec- ond volume of the Reisebilder quietly inta the sea of oblivion. But the war- spirit was on him, and he was now ready to do battle with the whole world. The third volume shall be a man-of-war, far more fearfully equipped; the cannons shall be of greater calibre, and I have di~eovered quite a new powder for them. Neither shall it carry so much ballast as the second volume. 184 IIEINRICH HEINE. To fit out this vessel with its cannon and ammunition, Heine travelled through Italy, where he spent a great part of the follow- ing year. The volume proved to he all that he had promised, and exhibited the characteristics of its author in a remarkable degree. He had now taken up the line of opposition to all restraint. The new wine was beginning to crack the old bottles. Heine declared his mission to. be the libera- tion of humanity. He meant to fight for uncompromising freedom in religion and politics. He resigned the poets laurels for the warriors sword, which he prayed might be laid upon his coffin. That sword he wielded fearlessly, indeed recklessly, in this volume. And yet the movement of later and present thought has demonstrated how much farther than his contemporaries he saw. The following passage shows, too, how tenderly, and yet how boldly, he could speak upon religious subjects: Only so long as religions have to complete with one another, and are far more persecuted than persecuting, are they noble and honoura- ble; for then alone are inspiration, sacrifice, martyrs, and palms possible. How beautiful, how serenely fair, how unutterably sweet was the Christianity of the early centuries, whilst it still resembled its divine founder in the heroism of suffering There lingered yet a beautiful story of an undeclared divinity, who wandered in the fair form of youth under the palms of Pal- estine, who preached love, and revealed the doctrines of freedom and equality, which the reason of the greatest thinkers has since recog- nized as true. Compare with that religion of Christ the several Christianities that have been established in the several countries as state re- ligions the Roman Catholic Church, or that Catholicism without poetry which we see pre- vailing in England as High Church that de- caying skeleton of belief, from which all bloom and life have passed away. The great blot which disfigures this work is the attack made upon Count von Platen. Nowhere is Heines style so masterly in invective, so glittering and incisive, as in this unjust and unwarrantable criticism. The Count von Platen is an admirable writer. He was a profound scholar in Greek, Oriental and modern literature, and a true poet. By his studies and tastes he belonged to the. Classical School, and his poems take their colour, and often their form, from the antique models. Heine at this time choose to consider himself as be- longing to the Romantic School, and had, it may be a right, on this ground to deem Von Platen his opponent. That he had any other cause is now difficult to dis- cover but he attacks the poetry, the pov erty, the person of his rival, with a viru- lence which no dissimilarity of tastes, no opposition of artistic creed could palliate. He gave his enemies and they were many just reason of complaint; he alienated some of his warmest and oldest friends; he displeased all. This defection of friends, and general rising of foes, rather than any imminent political danger, determined Heine to take up his residence in Paris, amongst the joyous, light-hearted people who contrasted so favourably with the Philistine faces of his own land. From 1831, then, Heine seldom left Paris except to make short visits to the French watering-places. He began at once a series of political letters to the Augsburg Ailgemeine Zeitung, some of which he col- lected and published with his name in the following year. To these he prefixed a bold preface, which could not fail to dis- please the Prussian Government. The German edition was much mutilated by the censor, and henceforth Heine fought for the liberty of the press in Germany with zeal, and not without success. His letters to his publisher for many years are a history of the long war between himself as the head of the Young Germany party on the one hand, and the literary censorship of the authorities on the other. if I wish to in- sert, he says, in the Hamburg journal a notice under the births: my wife has been safely delivered of a daughter, beautiful as liberty, there comes the censor with his red-pencil, and beautful as liberty is crossed out. How long is this to be pos- sible? I know not. Of his political letters little need now be said. The significance of a newspaper cor- respondence written in the heat of events is necessarily transient. In 1833, however, appeared the most important of the pr~e works he had yet published: it was a criti- cal history of modern German literature, and appeared pretty nearly at the same time in France and Germany. In both countries it attracted immense attention. Nor was it unnoticed in England. The Quarterly Review criticised it, and spoke of the luminary that had risen upon its horizon as a star malign in its influence, wavering in its orbit, and unsteady in its light. * The first volume contains a history of re- ligion and philosophvirom Luther, through Kant, to Ilegel. The design of the work is to show how the idea of Christianity and the idea of Protestantismn had to free them- selves from t.he encumbrances that grew around them, and must eventually result in * Quarterly Revieiv, No. cv., 1835. HEINRICH HEINE. 185 Pantheism. The idea itself suffers no loss, cannot be injured : Voltaire could injure only the body of Christianity. All his jests drawn from ecclesi- astical history ; all his pleasantries directed against dogma and cult; against the Bible, the most sacred book of humanity; against the Virgin Mary, the fairest flower of poesy ; the entire lexicon of philosophical arrows which he diicharged against the priestcraft of the clergy, touched only the perishable body of Christianity, not its inner reality, nor its deeper spirit not its unassailable soul. For Christianity is an idea, and, as such, inviolable and immortaL It was Luther who first broke open the prison-house of thought, and set Protestant- ism free. But Protestantism had already begun to act upon Europe. Even Leo X. was a Protestant, invirtue of his sunny, ar- tistic nature against the cold melancholy spiritual doctrines of Catholicism. As they protested at Wittemburg in Latin prose, so they protested at Rome in coloui~, in stone, and ottave rime. Or do not the power- ful marble figures of Michael Angelo, the laugh- ing faces of Giulio Romano snymphs, and the intoxicated delight in life of Ludovicos verses, make a Protestant antithesis to the languishing melancholy of Catholicism? The painters of italy engaged in far more effective polemics than did the Saxon theologians. The blooming flesh-tints upon the paintings of Titian are all Protestantism. The graces of his Venus are more real theses than those which the German monk fixed on the church door of Wittemburg. Yet Ileine is far from underrating the genius and influence of Luther. Renown, he says, eternal renown to the dear man to whom we owe the preservation of our noblest goods, and by whose merits we live to-day. It becomes us little to complain of the narrowness of his views. The dwarf who stands upon the shoulders of a giant can indeed see farther than the giant himself, especially if he puts on spectacles ; but to the higher posi- tion are lacking the lofty feeling and the giant heart, which we cannot make our own. It be- comes us still less to pass a harsh judgment upon his failings. These failings have benefited us more than the virtues of a thousand others. The sublety of Erasmus, the gentleness of Me- lancthon, would never have carried us so far as did often the divine brutality of Brother Mar- tin. He traces the rough revolutionary char- acter of the Protestant outburst still far- ther: A battle-song was that defiant hymn with which he and his companions entered Worms. The old cathedral shook with these new echoes, snd the ravens were terrified in their dark nests in the towers. That song, the .Marseillaise of the Reformation, has kept its power of inspira- tion to the present day, and it may be we shall use yet again for similar contests the old mar- tial strain : Em feste Burg ist unser Gott, Ein gute Wehr und Waffen. Heine maintained that the only faith that allowed the complete emancipation of man was Pantheism, and the remainder of the first volume is occupied in marking the growth of this under the philosophers who have been named. Deity was in every- thingin the unconscious life of plants, and in the dream-like semi-conscious ex- estence of animals. In man alone the Deity rose to self-consciousness. And this Pantheism beautified matter, whilst it ele- vated spirit. In a complete manhood, for instance, as in Luthers, both spirit and mat- ter, spiritualism and sensualism, held their proper positions. Deism, as exemplified in Judaism on the one hand, and on the other in certain forms of Christianity, as Catholicism, wronged matter; whilst ma- terialism, as it became (for example) a crowned incarnation in Frederick the Great, annulled spirit. You know this royal materialist, he said in the French edition; you know that he wrote French verses, played the flute well, that he won the battle of Rossbach, took vast quan- tities of snuff, and believed only in artillery. Some of you have surely visited Sansouci, and the old pensioner who is in charge of the castle haa shown you in the library the French novels which Frederic, when Prince Royal, read in church, and which he got bound in black mor- occo, that his father might believe he was pe- rusing the Lutheran hymn-book. You know this royal man of the world, whom you call the Solomon of the North. France was the Ophir of this Northern Solomon, and it was hence that he imported his poets and philosophers. For these he cherished a great partiality, like the Solomon of the South, who (as you may read in the Book of Kings, chap. x.) shipped from Ophir, with the assistance of his friend Hiram, whole cargoes of gold, and silver, and ivory, poets and philosophers. The Pantheism in whi~h Heine finds re- ligion is the Pantheism of Spinoza. The mathematical form, he says, gives Spinoza a hard expression. But this is like the bitter shell of the almond, the kernel is the sweeter. In reading Spinoza there seizes us a feeling as when we behold nature in vital re- pose. A forest of towering thoughts, whose green summits are in wavelike motion whilst the immovable trunks are rooted in the ever- lasting earth. There comes a certain breeze from his writings which is inexplicable. We ~ feel, as it were, the light breath of the fu. 186 HEINRICH REINE. The spirit of the Hebrew prophets rested per- haps upon the last of their descendants. But Kant, and Fichte, and Schelling w*~re not true, Ileine thinks, to the principles they initiated and advanced, and shrank away from the cause of Pantheism. How complete Heines own apostasy was we shall see later. Goethe, too, the great Panthe- istic poet, never took a decided part with regard to that philosophy. Wrapped in the serene indifference of art, he let the stormy enthusiasm of philosophy blow past him, and looked but coldly upon the ardour of Christianity. By thus remaining apart in the tranquillity of conscious power, he became the greatest artist of his time, and the least valuable partisan. Yet Heine never doubted that the time would come for a great revolution, and that the stage would be Germany. The old stone gods will arise from their forgotten tombs and rub the secular dust from their eyes, and Thor with gigantic hammer shall smite to pieces the cathedral domes of the Goths. The thought precedes the deed, as the light- ning the thunder. Our thunder is German, too, is not very lithe, and comes but slowly roll- ing on; but come it will, and when you hear it peal as it has never pealed in the worlds his- tory before, then know that the German thun- der has at length rolled home. The second volume dealt more especially with the Romantic School of poets. Less- ing, Herder, and Goethe are the objects of criticism. But the chiefs of this school at this time were the two Schlegcls, and Jena was their headquarters. As Jena was close to XVeimar, and Goethe was prime-minister of the duchy, there came about a half-alli- ance between him and the Romantic School. Schelling was their philosopher, and though he never actually belonged to the party, his personal influence was great. But Schelling became a convert to Catholicism, and there- efore lost favour with Heine, and Goethe was too great to be a party-man. The most remarkable part of the volume is Heines attack upon the two Schlegels. In abuse, as we have had occasion to see before, he was not moderate. He spared no personality, and his language almost re- calls the venomous eloquence which ~Es- chines and Demosthenes poured upon each other. Both Schlegels, with whom he was apparently once on good terms, are abused and inveighed against in all the relations of life. Frederick, the Austrian diplomatist, author of the Philosophy of History, seemed to him to be more important than his brother. But he died, says Heine, with no apparent ground for his assertion, in consequence of gastronomic excesses, after having carried off the wife of his host, and living upon the alias of the insulted husband. For A. W. Schlegel he reserves his choicest abuse. This was the great critic, rival, and literary opponent of Niebuhr. Besides his historical criticisms, A. IV. Schle~,el had translated Shakespeare, and with his brother was the initiator of Sanscrit research. In metric power Heine allows him to be second to Von Platen alone, after which covert sneer, he denies all his farther pretensions as critic or linguist. It is difficnltto determine, he s ys, what may he his rank as a poet. The violinist, Sol- omons, who gave lessons to the King of Eng- land, George LII., said once to his illustrious pupil Violinists are divided into three classes. The first class comprises those who play very badly ; the second, those who cannot play at all; to the third belong those who play well. Your most gracious Majesty has already ad- vanced to the second class. Now does Herr August Wilhelm Schlegel belong to the first or second class? Some say he is no poet, others say he is a very bad one ; I am quite certain he is no Paganini. In 1834 appeared the third and last vol- ume on Germany. in the previous vol- umes Heine had endeavoured to show that Pantheism was the true religion of Ger- many. It was a return, he urged, to the old mythology, which peopled the woods and piny mountains with gods, and made the elements their dwelling-places. The stories of fairies, pixies, demons, and (levils which Luther believed in, though he denied the spiritual power of the Pope, were traces of the former religion: they were the crumbling fragments of the northern Pan- theon. The love of the Romanticists for the middle ages, and their preference for medimval subjects, were in reality the re- sult of a secret, half-conscious love of prim- eval Pantheism, whose relics were much more abundant in medimval times. They were preserved in the stories of magic and witchcraft, and in many of the otherwise in- explicable customs and sayings of the people. The spell of the buried gods, dead, despised, but not altogether forgotten by the true children of the soil, and some day to come back and reign again, was strong upon the poetic imagination of Heine: There is surely something more than a mere fable in the belief that Kaiser Friederich, the old Barborossa, is not dead, but that he fled, when the hosts of priests pressed him, to a mount- ain called Kyffhaiiser. They say he lies con- cealed there with his whole court, until the day shall come when he will once more appear in the world to make the German people happy. HEINRICH JEIEINE. This mountain is in Thuringia, not far from Nordhausen. I have often passed it, and one fair winter night I remained there for more than an hour, and cried again and again, Come, Barbarossa, come, and my heart burned like fire in my breast, and tears rolled down my cheeks. But he came not, the beloved Kaiser Friederich, and I could only embrace the rock in which he dwells. This third volume is occupied with the history of popular belief connected with these superstitions. Kobolds, dwarfs, elves, trolls, pixies, and fairies meet with a loving historian. And it is extraordinary that these airy creatures still retain such vitality in Germany. With us the migration of the fairies took place long ago, and it was not the main body that Shakespeare saw on midsummer-nights by Warwick, but bit- erers who hung behind. Perhaps this is owing to the fact that since we are Romance as ~vell as Teutonic, these sensitive folk did not find our composite nature genial. But in some respects the German mythology agrees with ours, and Barbarossa may cor- respond to our King Arthur, who is to come again from the island of Avillion. We have happily nothing to represent the story of Tannhaiiser and the Venusberg, but that belongs to a different cycle of le- gends, and may be traced rather to classical than old German Paganism. At the close of the volume there is an original poetical version of the story. Although Ileine renounced Pantheism in the last years of his life, the work on Ger- many must ever remain a remarkable book. Open it where we will, we feel that we are breathing the air of freedom and listening to the words of genius. The air hurtles with the arrows of unsparing satire, but it is for the most part against prejudice and bigotry that they are directed, and every- where there are the two great blessings of literature light and air. In 1841 appeared the book upon Ludwig Bdrne. It was an unfortunate production. B6rne was an able critic, an older man than Heine, and had at one time shown him much kindness. The two men had at first the same political views, and Biirne, like Heine, was compelled to quit Germany. The revolution attracted him to Paris, where he welcomed his friend upon his ar- rival. But they drifted farther and farther apart, and their intimacy was broken off. The fault lay with Ileine. He had assumed the position of a democrat and a partisan, a most difficult one for an artist to keep. Already he saw, or thought he saw, that in the democracy of the future, beauty must yield to expediency, poetry to commonplace commerce. Consistent communism, the equality and fraternity for which he was fighting, would certainly dispense with the nightingale song of the lyrist and the flower-like beauty of art. And so a reac- tion in his own mind set in against his party, and their resentment was as natural as it was bitter. After Biirnes death Heine published this account of their re- lationship, in which, of course, Bdrne is made to figure ridiculously. The book aroused many slumbering hatreds in Ger- many against the author, and involved him in a duel. Some passages lie afterwards voluntarily suppressed. The really valu- able part of the volume is a kind of inter- mezzo written at the time of the revolution in Heligoland, and contains a description of the effect the Fremich news produced even at that distance from the centre of the great struggle. Before the duel Heine celebrated his marriage with a Parisian lady, Mathilde Crescentia Mirat. She had already lived some years with him as his wife, and re- niained his greatest consolation in the terri- ble misfortune of his later years. Their union was childless. Late in the same year was printed the poem of Atta Troll, and in 1844 Germany a XVinter Story. But the fatal disease which during Heines whole life had been impending was now imminent and in 1848, in the very crisis of the last revolution, he was laid upon the sick couch, never again to rise whole. his disease was a softening of the spinal marrow. The pain caused hini per- petual sleeplessness, and his nerves were so paralysed that he had to raise his eyelid with his hand. For eight years he lay al- most without power of motion, aiid had to be fed like a bird. But the finger of par- alysis which rendered his body l)owerless failed to touch his mind or dauiit his spirit. When no longer able to write, lie dictated letters and poems which had lost nothing of tIme old daring. In the couse of these eight years he published his Romancero, lie- brew Melodies, and Last Poems, amid overlooked the issuimig of a complete edition of his works. Ilowever ill he was, and however much he had sutrered during the night, each morning at a fixed time he dictated to his secretary. Afterwards came some one to read to him, and then lie was ready to receive visitors and these were many. It was in these last helpless years that he enjoyed the reputation he had made. The distinguished men of Fiance and of Germany grudged hmi~m his glory no longer, and people from many nations paid their homage in his sick-chamber to a dy 188 IJEINRICH HEINE. ing poet. After the 17th of February, 1856, they came no more. Just thirty years before, in Germany, he had drawn a picture of what his old age should be, and how he would sing his dying son{~. At last the day will come when the fervour in my veins is extinguished, when Winter reigns in my heart, and his white flakes fall but spar- ingly upon my heart, and his mist is as a veil before my eyes. My friends have long lain in their weather-beaten tombs ; I alone am left be- hind like a lonely halm which the reaper for- gets. A new race has sprung up, with new wishes and new thoughts ; with wonder I hear new names and new songs. The old names have died away, and I myself am heard no more; honoured still perhaps by few, by many despised and loved by none. And boys with rosy cheeks come to me, and put the old harp in my trembling hand, and laughingly say, Thou hast long been silent, lazy greybeard, sing us again songs of the dreams of thy youth. Then I take the harp, and the old joys and sorrows awake, the mists dissolve, tears bloom again from my dead eyes, there is spring again in my heart, tears of sweet regret tremble in the strings of my harp. I see once more the blue river, and the marble palaces, and the fair faces of women and maidens, and I sing a song of the flowers of Brenta. It will be my last day. The stars will gaze upon me as in the nights of my youth, the en- amoured moonlight kisses once more my cheeks, the spirit choirs of dead nightingales are heard in the distance, my eyes close themselves in the intoxication of sleep, my soul dies away like the music of my harp there is a perfume of the flowers of Brenta. A tree shall hang over my tombstone. I should prefer a palm; but this thrives not in the North. It shall be a linden, and lovers shall sit there of a summer evening and caress. The greenfinch who listens and rocks himself in the branches is silent, and my linden sighs sadly above the heads of the happy ones, who are so happy that they find not time to read what is written upon the white headstone. But, afterwards, when the the lover has lost his be- loved, he will come again to the well-remem- bered linden and sigh, and weep, and look long and often at the headstone, where he will read the inscription He loved the flowers of Bren- ta But it was not to be. The eight years of agony which he suffered, though they did not quench the fire of his spirit, brought many things before his mind in a different light from that in which he had seen them in happier days. The change which came over his politcal views some years before has already been referred to. ut besides this, there came another, a change in his religious opinions. In the preface to his last volume of poems he makes his recantation. The whole passage is touching; it is Heines apologia pro vitd sud: When we lie on our deathbed we become very gentle and tender-hearted, and would will- ingly make peace with God and man. I confess I have scratched many, and bitten many, and been no lamb. But since I have stood in need of Gods mercy I have made a truce with all my ftes; many beautiful poems, which were directed against very high and very low persons, are for that reason excluded from the present collection. Poems which contained in any degree personali- ties against Almighty God I have committed to the flames with the zeal of fear. It is better that the verses should burn than the versifler. Yes, I have made peace with the Creator as well as with the creature, to the great displeasure of my enlightened friends, who reproach me for my relapse into the old superstition, as they are pleased to call my return to God. Others cx. press themselves with still bitterer intolerance. Atheisms convocation has pronounced its anath- ema over me, and there are certain fanatical priests of unbelief who would willin~ly place me on the rack to make me renounce my hetero- doxy. Happily they have no instruments of torture at command except their writingr. But I will confess everything without torture. I have really returned to God like the prodigal son, after feeding swine with the Hegelians for many years. The divine home-sickness came upon me, and drove me forth, through woods and vales, over the dizziest mountain pathways of dialectic. On my way I found the god of the Pautheists, but I could make nothing of him. This poor visionary creature is interwoven with and grown into the world. Indeed, he is almost imprisoned in it, and yawns at you, without power. To have will one must have personality, and to manifest oueself one must have elbow room. In religion I admit my backsliding, but I must expressly contradict the report that it has brought me~ to the bosom or the threshold of any church whatever. No, my religions convictions and belief have remained free from all eccle~ias- tical prejudice. No music of church bells has seduced me, no splendour of altar candles has dazzled me. I have toyed with no symbolism, nor have I altogether renounced my reason. I have abjured nothing, not even my Pagan Is, from whom it is true I have parted, but only in friendship and love. Whatever fume Ileine has won, or is still to win, as a prose writer, it is by his poetry that he has gained the heart an(l the love of Germany. Few German poets, except perhaps Uhland, have won so wide and pop- ular a renown. The boatmen as they p:iss down the Rhine sing his Lorelev song, and every boy in Germany is acqn~min ted with some or other song of his. These poems it HEINRICH HEINE. 189 is difficult to characterize, not more on ac- count of their wide range of subject than be- cause of the sparkle and evanescence of the sentiment. Being in the true sense lyrical, they have little or no connection with each other. Lauteur a retire le fil du collier, mais aucune perle ne lui manque. But they have two characteristics which are sometimes thought incompatible pathos an(l humour; and so blended together that it is ~Umost impossible to say where the one l)eomns and the other ends. Ordinary minds separate the two, and fail to appreciate them in combination. Rain is frequent, sun~ shine is not rare, but a rainbow is always unusual. Heines poetry is never without something of this double nature. It is the tear and the smile together, and the reader scarcely knows whether laughter or tears will prevail. In his gayest and most care- less verses there is an undertone of sorrow and regret, whilst with the saddest songs is mingled something of humour and subtle delight. Ce nest pas un vain cliquetis dantith~ses de dire litt~rairement dHenri Heine quil est cruel et tendre, naif et per- fide, sceptique et cr6dule, lvrique et pro- saique, sentimental et railleur, passionn~ et glacial, spirituel et pittoresque, antique et moderne, rnoyen-dge et r~volutionnaire.~~* And it is so with his songs. Yet, properly speaking, he never wrote a volume of lyrical poetry. His mind caught some sudden flash of light, and a poem sprang into existence. Thus they came, and were mostly printed, one by one. It was only later that he collected these fugi- tive leaves into a book. The first was the Buch der Lieder. Its success was im- mediate. All classes accepted it, with its Hebrew mystery, its Greek beauty, its Ger- man tenderness and simplicity. The con- tradiction and inexplicable inconsistency of its music found nothing like itself except human passion and human nature. It is al- most impossible to convey into another lan- guage the grace and beauty of the original rhythm it has not been done yet but the poems have a farther beauty which may perhaps he retained. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. I. The mother stood at her lattice, the son lay upon his couch. Wilt thou not arise, Wil- helm, to see the holy procession? I am so ill, my mother, that I cannot see nor hear; I think of my dead Margaret, and my heart is heavy. Revue des Deux Mandes, July, 1848. Arise, we will go to Kevlaar, take book and rose-wreath; the Mother of God will heal thy broken heart. The church banners wave. There is chanting of church music. It is at K~iln upon the Rhine. The procession is passing. The mother follows the crowd, she leads her son. They both join in the chanting. B]essed be thou, Maria! II. The Mother of God at Kevlaar wears to-day her best robe. To-day she has munch to do, there come many sick folk. The sick people bring her as offerings limbs fashioned out of wax, many waxen feet and hands. And whoso offers her a waxen hand, his hand is straight healed of its wound, and whoso offers her a waxen foot, his foot becomes whole. To Kevlaar has gone many an one on crutches, who now dances in the dance, and many an one plays the viol now who took thither a withered hand. The mother took a wax-light, and fashioned a heart thereof. Take thou that to the Mother of God, and she will heal thy pain. The son sighed and took the waxen heart; he sighed and went to the holy image. The tears broke from his eyes, the prayer broke from his heart. 0 thou blessed one, 0 thou holy one, 0 thou Virgin Queen of heaven, let my sorrow be known unto thee. I dwelt with my mother at K6ln in the city, the city that has many hundred churches and chapels. And near us dwelt Margaret, but now she is dead. Maria, I bring thee a waxen heart, heal thou my wounded heart. Heal thou my broken heart. Late and early I will pray and sing fervently: Blessed be thou, Maria! III. The sick son and his mother slumber in the lit.. tIe chamber. Then stepped in lightly the Mother of God. She bent over the sick man, and laid her hand lightly upon his heart, and smiled and vanished. The mother saw it all in a dream; she awoke from her slumber; the dogs in the court were barking. 190 HEINRICH HEINE. There lay her son stretched out, and he was J the tears of pain and of unrest to which dead; the light of morning fell upon his death alone can bring relief. We will give pale cheeks. no specimen of these. The rest has been The mother folded her hands; she knew not found now. Heine lies in the cemetery of how she felt. She whispered low, de- Montmartre. voutly: Blessed be thou, Maria! To much of the apparent inconsistency in Heines opinions the key is to be sought in his peculiar position. AL the time he was born his father had already renounced Ju- daism, without having adopted Christianity; aud although he himself was educated at a Roman Catholic seminary, and was formally baptized, yet the mythology of Greece and Rome exercised a stronger influence upon him than any Christian teaching. His mind was the perpetual battle-field of opposing forms of thought. He was swayed alter- nately by Judaism and Jiellenism; he way- ere(l between the Romantic and the Classi- cal schools; he could not decide for the de- mocracy of science or the aristocracy of art. That from these conflicting principles he failed to evolve a clear and consistent sys- tem, should be no matter of wonder, far less of reprobation. his efforts have made ours easier. Heine preserves the characteristics to which we have referred in all his poems, even in the satiric stanzas of Atta Troll and the Winter Story. As in reading Aristophanes we come upon passages where we are surprised by a beauty alien to com- edv, so in these satires we find a wealth of poetry lavished upon an epigram and adorn- ing a jest. But the poems which show the most. sus- tained power are those which were written during his last illness those which are found in the Romancero. The story of the discovery of the body of King Harold by Edith of the Swan-neck is an illustration of this. The Hebrew Melodies are equally powerful. The Lazarus poems are the last of the series. Even yet the smile has not vanished from the face of the poet, but the tears are J. D. LESTER. SLIAKSPEARE SUPERSEDED. WHEN ON Hoaszs successful piece, Douglas, first the curtain fell; (Now-a-days, dissentient geese, Would not let it go so well.) In the pit a brother Scot, Cock-a-whoop, in triumph crew, Crying, like a patriot, Whars your WULLIE SiiAK5PuR noo? To the Tragic the Grotesque Now the multitude prefer; Wags, burlesque upon burlesque, To the public minister. Why not, when their loftier aim Would be wasted, would not do? So with Sawney we exclaim, Whars your WULLIE SHAKSPUR noo? Up to nature while buffoons On the stage the mirror hold, Collecn Bawns and Octoroons In succession we behold. Drawing, since a by-gone day, 1~iore than Hamlet ever drew. These sensensation dramas pay Whars your WULLIE SHARSPUR noo? Six long years, at Drury Lane, For the ideal Drama strove CHATTERTON,With effort vain; All that while he never throve. Says that SLIARSPEARE ruin spelt, BYRON bankruptcy in view, Wheres your BYRON, tedious felt, Whars your WULLIE SiTARsPUR noo? Now Formosa, who Jane Shore In a measure would suggest; Were the latter not a bore, Too outworn to be expressed, Fills the stalls full every night Fills choke-full the boxes too Who is Englands first Playwright? Whars your WULLIE SHARSPUR noo? Punch, FORSAKEN. WOULD God that I were dead and no more known, Forgotten underneath the deep, cold main, Freed from the thrill of joy and sting of pain; There I should be with silence all alone, To weep no more for any sweet day flown I should not see the shining summer wane, Nor feel the blasting winter come again, Nor hear the autumn winds grow strong and moan But tinie, like sea-mist screening the far deep, Should make each hated and loved object (jim, And I should gaze on both with hazy sight. God gramiting this, I should no lon~er weep, But wearied, rest beneath the clear, gieen light, And surely lose in sleep all thoughts of him! RECENT DANGER OF THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. 191 From The Economist. THE RECENT DANGER OF THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. MODERATE politicians throughout Europe may well agree to congratulate the Emperor of the French on his escape, if escape it has really been, for all Europe would have suffered from a different termination of his illness. Nothing is ready anywhere for such a catastrophe as his death would have proved. In France the state of things hut for the Emperor would he absolutely anarchical, for while the past there is dead the future is certainly not yet born. The old Constitution has been abolished, while the new one is not yet promulgated, is still in fi~ct under discus- sion by men whose only power either to ac- cept, to reject, or to amend it, is derived from the Emperors support. The heir to the throne is still a child; the Regent ap- pointed hy the Constitution a lady whose ideas are wholly at variance with the in- stincts of all France; the Legislature itself has not verified its powers, and is partially discredited by the fact that its majority was elected under a pressure from the Govern- inent inconsistent with the new r~gime. The Ministry is a new one, and is composed of servants of the Emperor, there being no single man in it of authority enough to affect the course of events. The most im- portant department, the War Ministry, is in new hands, and though the hands may be strong, General Lebmuf has not yet made his political ideas clearly known. On the other hand, the public mind is dis- turbed and heaving with a kind of emotion which any great event would suffice to render dangerous, and under which almost any movement for any end is possible in Paris. There is literally nothing in exist- ence in France and no person in power round whom the partisans of order could easily concentrate their strength, even for the period necessary to allow of a frank appeal to the people. This would he a dangerous state of affairs in any country; but in France, with its vast influence over Europe, its accessibility to sudden convic- tions, and its republican capital, such a situation would be most alarniing, might result in a momentary victory of a destruc- tive and propagandist party. At the same time, the condition of the remainder of Europe offers little to reassure those who believe that France is in some measure hemmed in. Ideas are never hemmed in, and many of the States bordering on France are just in the condition to accept any new idea propagated in Paris, as a welcome re- lief. Spain is almost in anarchy with a Government avowedly intended only as a makeshift, a bankrupt Treasury, and a population in distress. Italy is boiling over with discontent, and desires to put an end to an occupation of Rome which it attributes mainly to Napoleon himself; through it is really the work of two strong parties in France, that is, of the devout and of those who think with M. Thiers that France should be surrounded by small States. In Austria again, the nationalities only half quiet are giving so much trouble that the Imperial Government feels unable to sur- render its hope of revived power in Ger- niany, and would certainly endeavour to league itself with any new Government in France for active resistance to the I~russian advance. Even in England the shock would be severe, for not to mention our heavy investments in every kind of con- tinental security, a popular Government suddenly established in Paris would prob- ably find it needful to fall back on protec- tion, or at least to give such assurance to the protectionists as would be fatal to any development of free trade. The only scru- tiny for order of any kind for the moment is the Emperor Napoleon, and his illness will, we believe, have the effect of increasing his personal power by revealing the depth and magnitude of the vacancy his removal would cause. That the European order should he thus dependant upon the health of a single man is no doubt greatly to be regretted, but politicians must accept facts, and this un- happily is one of them. That the Emnpe- ror on his full recovery will endeavour to improve the situation to make some arrange- mnent less certain than the present to pro- duce a dangerous interregnum, we can easi- ly believe, but the difficulties in his way are very great. The Times calls upon him to grant complete liberty under Parliament- ary forms, but it is by no means certain that complete liberty would be sufficient to pacify the enemies of his dynasty, or avoid the danger of a struggle in the streets of Paris, while incomplete liberty would only excite them to still more furious efforts. Of course if Parliamentarx Government could be established for a time and com- mence working, it might ~o on but be- sides the reluctance of the ~mperor to es- tablish it, there is the difficulty that it does not provide any resource against a catas- trophe such as his own sudden death or sneapacity from sickness to give or(lCr5. There is no Vice-Emperor, no Minister, no person so highly placed or so popular that all officials might in emergency torn to him and take his orders with a certainty that 192 RECENT DANGER OF THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. those orders would at all events cover their responsibility. We cannot but think that it would be wiser in the interest not only of France but of tbe dynasty to follow Eng- lish precedent a little more closely, to abandon all plans for a nominee Regency, and to leave the appointment of the suit- able Regent absolutely to the Legislative body, which could then meet the difficulty of the hour without interfering with the claim of Napoleon the Fourth to he ulti- mately Emperor of the French. Represen tative assemhlies have repeatedly held the reins for short periods in France, and as each party would believe in its own power of convincing the Legislature, each party would abstain from a resort to violence, at least until the body of the people have been consulted. Even the Reds do not deny that, provided elections are free, the majority of the people have a right to decide on the form of Government they prefer. THE MURDER OF FRAULEIN TINNE. THE London Daily News, commenting upon the reported murder of Fraulein Tinnd, the Af- rican traveller, observes Africa has exacted another victim, another sacrifice to the fascinating but deadly mysteries of her inner secret. News comes to us from Malta that the young Dutch lady, Miss Tinn4, whose name has been so long connected with ex- plorations upon the Lybian continent, and with voyages along its coast, has been murdered while travelling in the interior beyond Tripoli. lie schooner yacht in which this enterprising gentlewoman used to sail, with its crew of dark- skinned sailors and its gay fittings, is well known among the ports of North Africa. The lady was well versed in the ways and resources of desert journeys and long, lonely expeditions by land and sea speaking Arabic and some of the Negro dialects with fluency, and in every way a mistress of her exceptional vocation. Restless and daring blood must run in her fam- ily; for she was one of a household of explorers, and we believe that her sister was lost in the lands of the Upper Nile many years ago. In spite of her sex like Ha Pfeiffer Miss Tinn~ was born a discoverer, and the allurement of Africa, which never leaves the mind on which it has once seized, possessed her wholly. With re,,ard to this last melancholy inci- dent. our details are as yet too few to warrant speculation upon the object of the journey which the courageous young lady was pursuing, or upon the manner of her assassination, All that the report states is, that Miss Tinn~ was on the soad between Ghoush and Mourzouk, with some of her yachts crew and other attendants, when she was treacherously murdered by her camel- drivers, who killed at the s:eme time two of the hapless ladys sailors. Mourzouk is a city of Fezzan, and the principal station on the road to Central Africa by way of Meshroo and Bilma. Unless the other town mentioned be Ghirzah, misspelled by the narrator of this assassination, it is not plain whether Miss Tinud was to the north or south of Mourzouk when she was at- tacked and slaughtered. It may have been her design to penetrate by this road to Timbuctoo for that was a plan which she had cherished, and there is a route to Lake Chad, and perhaps to the upper waters of the Niger or Joliba, by the tribes of the Tonariks. More probably Miss Tinnd was only mak- big a journey into the interior of the Tripoli country ; for we gather from the account that her yacht was at the port of that name ; and her friends seem to have started from Malta for the scene of the murder, to investigate and pun- ish the crime an errand likely to be futile, if the unfortunate adventuress had been to the south of Mourzouk. Of course, people who travel in these burning expanses of Africa es- pecially when they are Women go at their own peril. In Europe the person of a lady would be safe enough ; but among those black Moslems there is no chivalrous feeling about the sex the tone of the Koran arid the institution of polygamy place it out of the question, Even an Arab camel-driver, who is usually as common a scoundrel as can be found, would think it disgraceful to belong to a Kafilah commanded by a girl; and if, as is most likely, Miss Tinud displayed money or goode when she got outside the range of the Tripoli government, we can too easily comprehend how the temptation arose and was obeyed. Coming just when we are debating the reasons which keep Dr. Livingstone so long away, the new in- cident has particular elements of sadness ; but, brave as Miss Tinn~ was, she was but a woman, and it is far worse to have to do with these Tib- bons and Soudan people south of the Barbary coast than with the agricultural negroes, through whose territories we hope the famous missionary is now passing.

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The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1325 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 23, 1869 0103 1325
The Living age ... / Volume 103, Issue 1325 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. INo. 1325. October 28, 1869. CONTENTS. 1. 2. .3. 4. 0. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE, . 16. THE PHILoSOPHY OF CATHOLIC INFALLIBILITY, 17. A TRiP IN A TRAWLER, SPAIN AND THE UNITED STATES ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, A TRIP TO THE SHETLANDS II HALLS ARCTIC JOURNEY OLIVIAS FAVOUR. A TALE OF HALLOWEEN. Part II.. VISCOUNT STRANGFORD TORTURE OF BRITISH CITIZENS IN PARAGUAY, THE LIFE OF A SCOTCH METAPHYSICIAN, A COUNTY FAMILY. ConCluSion THE POLITICAL IMPORTANCE OF TREES, LANCAShIRE; ITS PURITANISM AND NONCONFORMITY, THE BYRONIZERS LADY PALMERSTON FIRST LOVE P 0 E T R V. ISRAEL FREYERS BID FOR GOLD, WHEAT AND WEDLOCK, To THE MOON, VIRELAI, . Economist, Spectator, Spectator, C. F. Hall, St. Pauls, Examiner, Pall .Ma.ll Gazette, St. Pauls, Chambers Journal, Spectator, Spectator, Spectator, Saturday Review, Saturday Review, Saturday Review, Spectator, ~~pectator, 194 A SONG, . . 206 A LYRIC, By Sophia May Eckley. 2i4~ CROQUET ENCAUSTIC TILES, THE BooK MARKET, SHORT ARTICLES. 206 j PLANCHETTE, THE DESPAIR OF SCIENCE,. 239 2061 PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION AT TIlLS OFFICE: HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II. These very intereSting and valuable sketches of Queen Caroline, Sir Robert Walpole, Lord Chesterfield, Lady Mary Wortley MontLgue, The Young Chevalier, Pope, John Wesley, Colnmodore Anson, BiShop Berkeley, and other Celebrated characters of the time of George II., several of which have already appeared in the LIVING AGE, reprinted from Blackwoods Magazine, will be issued from this office, in book form, vs soon as completed. A COUNTY FAMILY, by the author of A Perfect Treasure. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EICHY DOLLARS, ren~tted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for- warded for a year,free qf postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, In Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expeuse of the publishers. 195 197 201 203 207 215 219 222 230 235 236 240 242 245 247 250 253 252 256 256 194 From The New York Tribune. ISRAEL FREYERS BID FOR GOLD. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24. ZOUNDS! how the price went flashing through Wall street, William, Broad street, New! All the specie in all the land Held in one Ring by a giant hand For millions more it was ready to pay, And throttle the street en hangmans day, Up from the Gold Pits nether hell. While the innocent fountain rose and fell, Loud and higher the bidding rose, And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes, It seemed as if Satan himself were in it, Lifting it one per cent. a minute Through the bellowing broker, there amid, Who made the terrible, final bid! High over all, and ever higher, Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart Five millions more! and for any part Ill give One Hundred and Sixty!~ Israel Freyer the Government Jew Good as the best soaked through and through With credit gained in the year he sold Our Treasures precious hoard of gold; Now through his thankless mouth rings out The lea~uers last and cruelest shout! Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed, While a single rivals left to bleed! Down come (lealers in silks and hides, Crowdin~ the Gold Rooms rounded sides, Jostling, trampling each others feet, Uttering groans in the outer street Watchiu~, with upturned faces pale The scurrying index mark its tale Hearing the bid of Israel Frever That ominous voice, would it never tire? Five millions more! for any part (If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart) Ill give One Hundred and Sxty! One Hundred and Sixty! Cant be true! What will the bears-at-forty do? How will the merchants pay their dues? how will the country stan(l the news? Whatll the banks hut listen! hold! In screwing upward the price of gold To that dangerous, last, particular peg, They had killed their Goose with the Golden Egg! Just there the metal came pouring out, All ways at once, like a water-spout, Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood, That drenched the bulls wherever they stood! Small need to open the Washington main, Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain! It came by runners, it came by wire, To answer the bid of Israel Freyer, It poured in millions from every side, And almost strangled l~im as he cried Ill give One Hundred and Sixty!~ Like Vulcan after Jupiters kick, Or the aphoristical Rockets stick, Down, down, down, the premium fell, Faster than this rude rhyme can tell! ISRAEL FREYERS BID FOR GOLD. Thirty per cent, the index slid, Yet Freyer still kept making his bid One Hundred and Sixty for any part!~~ The sudden ruin had crazed his heart, Shattered his senses, cracked his brain, And left him crying again and again Still making his bid at the markets top (Like the Dutchmans leg that could never stop), One Hundred and SixtyFive Millions more! Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor. The very last words that seller and buyer Heard from the mouth of Israel Freyer A cry to remember long as they live Were, Ill take Five Millions Inure! Ill give Ill give One Hundred and Sixty! Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil,) Theres such a thing as a Personal Devil, It would seem that his Highness here got hold, For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold! Whether bull or bear, it wouldnt much matter Should Israel Freyer keep up his clatter On earth or under it (as, they say, He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day, When the Clerk, as lie cites him to answer fort, Shall bid him keep silence in that Court! But it matters most, as it seems to me, That my countrymen, great and strong and free, So marvel at fellows who seem to win, That if even a Clown can emily begin By stealing a railroad, and use its purse For cornering stocks and gold, or wors& For buying a Judge and Legislature, And sinking still lower poor human nature, The gaping public, whatever befdl, Will swallow him, tandem, harlots and all! While our rich men drivel and staiid amazed At the dust and pother his gang have raised, And make us reniember a nursery tale Of the four-and-twenty who feared one snail. Whats bred in the bone will breed, you know; Clowns and their trainers, high and low, Will cut such capers, long as they dare, While honest Povert.y says its prayer. But tell me what prayer or fast can save Some hoary candidate for the grave, The markets wrinkled Giant Despair, Muttering, broodiuig, schemin~ there Founding a college or building a church Lest Heaven should leave him in the lurch? Better come out in the rival way, Issue your scrip in open dy, And pour your wealth in the grimy fist Of some gross-mouthed, gunbliug pugilist; Leave toil and poverty where they lie, Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by, Your pot-house fag from his counters bring And make him into a Railway King! Between such Gentiles and such Jews Little enough one finds to choose Either the other will buy and use, Eat the meat and throw him the hone, And leave him to stand the brunt alone. Let the tempest come, thits ~atlmering near, And give us a better atmosphere! EDMUND C. STEDMAN. No. 48 Broad street, September 25, 1869. SPAIN AND THE UNITED STATES. 195 From The Economist, 18 Sept. she may desire the excuse of a nominal con- SPAIN AND THE UNITED STATES. test with a more powerful foe for the con- IF anything politically odder than the fession of her impotence. As far however war hetween Spain and the United States, as the evidence goes, this is hardly the now so generally rumoured and even ex- true aspect of the case. There seems to he pected, can he imagined, it can only he the a genuine enthusiasm in Spain for the ex- reason which is assigned as the expected pected war with the United States. Volun- casus belli. That America should think teers are arming in all parts of Spain, rush- if she does think of going to war to ac- ing in fact to support and serve a rather quire a new negro-State, i.e., a new diffi- unpopular Government. The Government culty, in her present condition of financial has ordered two iron-dads out t.o the coast depression, is perhaps not odder than the of Cuba, has despatched 3,000 regular ordinary events of ordinary history which soldiers, to be followed within a day or two are almost made up of the unexpected. by 7,000 more, and the popular feeling in That she should regard the recognition of Spain is up to boiling point. Of course the belligerency of the insurgents in Cuba this energy may end in preventing the as a natural preliminary to such a xvar, in expected contest by subduing the insurrec- the absence of any evidence that Spain will tion before the recognition threatened at be insane enough to regard it as a challenge Washington happens. But that is clearly and meet it with a declaration of ~var, can not the expectation in Spain, nor does it only be looked upon as one of those evi- seem likely that after a years unsuccessful deuces of morbid imagination on the sub- contest any spasm of energy now would ject of recognizing belligerent rights, of terminate the insurrection. Spain is arm- which there have been only too many symp- ing, if we can trust the accounts at all, for toms ever since our recognition of the a real struggle, or what at least she at belligerent rights of the South in 1861. present regards as likely to be a real But that it should be considered probable struggle with the United States, and is even antI apparently it is probable not only prepared to precipitate the struggle by tak- that Spain should be willing to fight with ing the initiative in case General Grant the United States for Cuba, but to pick a goes through a particular form of empty quarrel on apparentlx the most trivial and words which, as far as we understand the inadequate grounds, is one of those por- matter, could exercise no influence what- tents of national character which dot ever upon the contest if Spain simply human history with a series of enigmas. ignored them, except perhaps by giving a What is hardly credible, but yet what seems modicum of moral encouragement to the to be confidently alleged in quarters where insurgents. it is not easy to conceive that there can be Is there a conceivable reason why any any motive for inventing so unlikely a rational beings should consider that Gener- fable, is that if President Grant should al Grants formal atlmission on the part of recognize, as he is said to be likely to the United States that the Cuban insurgents recognize, the belligerent right~s of the are a de facto power, entitled if they can insurgents in Cuba, Spain will regard such and if they please to commission ships of a recognition as a cares belli, and go to their own, or send out armies of their own, war with the United States accordingly. which Americans would be bound to treat It is hardly possible to conceive a madder as legitimate ships and armies entitled to act, unless indeed such a war be merely the the benefit of international law, would be a form under which Spanish honour always serious blow to whatever hopes Spain may haunted by impracticable grandee traditions entertain of reconqucrimig Cuba P Even if firid~ it most convenient to acknowledge it were such a blow, nothing could be rasher (lefeat an(l give up the contest. It is con- than to make it the excuse for fighting the ceivable at least that Spain may be unwill- United States as well as Cuba, a course ing to a dmnit, and yet be compelled to recog which, had it been adopted by the Union nize, her inability to defeat so petty an when we recognized the belligerency of the enemy as the Cuban insurgents, and that. South, would in all probability have re 196 SPAIN AND THE UNITED STATES. versed the issue of the ~var. But what COflCeiVal)lC effect detrimental to Spain other than the slight moral effect which a single subsequent victory would soon oblit- erate could such a step have on the pros- pects of the struggle? We are not aware whether the Cuban insurgents hold any ports on the island. if they do, it would no doubt enable them to fit out legitimate cruisers against Spain. But then, on the other hand, the step puts it into the power of Spain to declare a blockade of such l)orts, an(l after that to stop on the high seas all ships bound thither, an advan- tage very much greater than the corre- sponding disadvantages, and much more likely than any other to deprive the insur- gents of illicit foreign help. What further harm it could do to the cause of Spain to have its Cuban opponents denominated helligerents by America we are utterly unable to conceive. Beyond this the step would he a purely verbal one, as devoid of consequence as the avowal of a deterinina- tion on the part of Lippe-Detmold for the future to write off Cuba from the empire of Spain in its almanacks, or to spell the name hackward, or to put in practice any other verbal caprice we like to imagine. The recognition of the belligerency would have no more practical effect on the war, except perhaps by giving Spain a much more effectual chance of blockade, than any ex- pression of opinion hy an influential author- itv. To make such an act the occasion for a declaration of war against a great power looks very much like the despair of a suicide. For what possible result hut one could there he to Spain from a war with the Uni- ted States? As the Times pointed out the other day, Spain could not even make any- thing of its recent war with Chili except a fussy demonstration that caused a go6d ileal of waste and bloodshed, and came to nothing in the end. What could she do with the United States? Despatch a force to raise the South? Why, she could not even find the steady supply of Armstrong guns, and rifles, and ammunition, and qui- nine, and clothing necessary for such a step even if the force could live on the country as Shermans force did, which would he no easy matter. Carry fear and destruction as the Southern cruisers once did to the mercantile marine of America? Well, she might manage that at the cost of losing not only Cuba but Porto Rico and the other \Vest India Islands, relinquishiiig ~o the United States, Majorca, Minorca, and Ivica, ai)d so giving the great Republic a perma- nent naval station in the Mediterranean, and prohably losing Cadiz and Barcelona to Farragut or some other commander as well. That would not, we take it, be a very profitable speculation. In a word, no sane Spaniard can doubt that fighting the United States would mean giving up not only Cuba, hut a great deal besides Cuba, before the peace, and gaining nothing in the world, not even barren prestige. It may be that Spanish pride is so blind to facts as to igiiore the truth. But if it he so, the sooner a little Spanish pride is beaten out of Spain, the sooner it will he- come fit to take part in the affairs of the existing world. The only gain we can imagine that can accrue to Spain from such a war would be the gain of humiliation, if that were any guarantee for clearer vision in future. But it is not for such a gain as that certainly that Spain is preparing to fight. From the American point of view, as we have already intimated, we can see exceed- ingly little to hope for in this war, though no doubt tO America it could not fail to he a war of easy conquest. Still, easy con- quest is about the most mischievous pre- scription we can imagine just at present for the existing political disease. Easy con- quest will fire the hopes arid aml~itions of the war party even more than a renewed struggle of a more equal kind. Easy con- quest always promises to be remunerative and never is. It necessarily involves a very great addition to the Public Debt already so heavy; for conquest, however easy, cannot he attained without ships, and men, and ammunition, an(l all sorts of cost- ly conditions. it involves also a great stimulus to the jobbers and the fillibusters, and the various predatory characters who weigh so heavily on the resources of the great and industrious country off which they live. It involves a great distraction of attention from the many difficult national problems which beset the Union, and, AI~TI1UR IIUGH CLOUGIT. worst of all, adds influence in the discussion and solution of those problems to the Spread Eagle party. Finally, it involves probably a considerable addition to the political diffi- culties of the Union, for whether the West Indian islands gained were simply annexed, or were confederated into a West Indian republic, or whatever might happen to be done with them, undoubtedly the old Brit- ish difficulty would arise in cvery one of them how to adjust the relations of the negroes and the whites, and would arise in an even more perplexed form, in conse- quence of the mixture of Spanish blood, than in the Southern States themselves, where the superior race is at least American enough to be plastic to American ideas. We can hardly imagine a worse misfortune for the Union than the revival just now of the annexation and war fever, before any way has been made towards reorganizing the torn and bleeding States of the South. The fillibusters were a most dangerous and mischievous element in the politics of the Union, even before the war. If they ac- quire any access of influence now, and such an une(iual contest as that with Spain could scarcely help giving them an access of influence, they may confuse and cloud every political question of real moment; and how many of pressing and urgent moment there are now, which hardly existed at all before 1860, it would indeed be difficult to say. From The Spectator. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.* MRS. CLOUGH has done wisely in giving her husbands remains so frankly to the world, and all understanding readers will thank her sincerely for the true taste, per- fect simplicity, and quiet literary skill with which she has edited them. These two vol- umes, as they now stand, contain as ade- quate a picture of the singular, but large simple, and tender nature of the Oxford poet as is now attainable; and it is one * The Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh C/on qh, wit/i a Selectiou from his Letters, aud a Memoir Edited by his Wife. 1 vols. With a Por- trait. Vol. I. Life Letters, Prose Remains. Vol. II. Poems. London; Macmillan. 197 which no one can study without much de- light and some pain, without much profit and perhaps also some loss, without feeling the high exaltation of true poetry and the keen pleasure caused by the subtlety of true scholarship, at every turn; nor with- out feeling now and again the sad infection of those blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized, which are scattered so liberally through these fine poems of buoyant ardour, disap- pointed lon~ings, and speculative suspense, and through these singular letters and re- views of reticent tenderness and rough self-satire. The new materials now for the first time published, and many of them for the first time printed, are of the highest in- terest in the contribution they give us to Mr. Cloughs intellectual autobiography. And some of them will add greatly to his fame, especially the strange and wonder- ful poem written at Naples in 1849, in which Mr. Clough starts from the precisely opposite point of view to Kebles Easter hymn, and instead of singing, Oh, day of days! shall hearts set free, No minstrel rapture find for thee? pours out the despair with which the poet infers from the multitude of servile hearts not set free from either guilt or meanness, that Christ is not risen. This poem will live, we believe, for ever in English litera- ture, as the most burning and pathetic la- ment which an ardent love of Christ, amazed and ashamed and aghast at the spectacle of an utterly un-Christian world calling itself Christian, and the despair of intellect naturally suggested by this specta- cle, ever produced. To our minds, this singular poem, short though it be, is not unlikely to he recognized as one of the greatest poems, if not in all English lite- rature, which is likely enough, certainly of our day and generation. But as we hope to say something separately upon it, we will only say of it here that it is un(1u05 tionably the authors greatest achievement, and is not less remarkable for the patient realism and almost hitter intellectual pre cision, of the style, than for the molten stream of religious passion which it pours out. As a rule, Mr. Cloughs lyrical poems are not quite so successful in delineating 198 ARTHUR THIGH CLOTJGIL the mooti which they are reilly meant to (IC- lineate, owing to the chronic state of in- trospective crit1ci~mn on Umself in which he is too apt to write, md whwh haracteristic as it is, necessarily dimini~hes the linearity and directness of the feeling expressed, refracting it, as it were, thron h mcdi of very variable density. As he himsdf no doubt in this stanza tlelineatin him elf says of one of his heroes With all his eager motions still there went A self-eorre2ting and ascetic heat, That from the obvious good still led astray, And set him travelling on the longest way. And in the same poem there are descriptive touches which verx skilfully portray the na- ture of those dispersive intluences, as we may call them, in his character which, while they may injure his lyrical, add a great wealth of criticism to his speculative an(i dist1uisitional poems Beside the wishing-gate which so they name, Mid Northern hills to me this fancy came; A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed Would I could wish my wishes all to rest, dud know to wish the wish that were the hest! Oh, for some winnowing wind to th empty air This chaff of easy sympathies to bear Far off, and leave me of myself aware! That is clearly s elf-portraiture, and it de- sciibes an element iii Mr. Cloughs nature which, no doubt, contributed greatly to di- muinish the number of his few but exquisite lyrical poems, and sometimes to confine even those to the delineation of feelings of a certain vagueness of drift, like the dim but characteristic stanzas which lie has him- self headed with Wordsworths line, blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized. Yet there was, be- side this subtle and almost over-perfect in- tellectual culture in Mr. Clough, munch also of a boyish, half-formed nature in him, even to the last, which, when fully roused, con- tributed a great deal of the amiimnation, and, when least roused, contributed not a little of the embarrassed, shy, half-articulate tone to some of the most critical passages of his finest poems. lie describes this side of boyish feeling admirably in one of his in Man Magno tales. How ill our boyhood understands Incipient manhoods strong demands! Boys have such trouble of their own As none, they fancy, eer have known, Such as to speak of, or to tell, They hold were unendurable, Religious, social, of all kinds, That tear and agitate their minds. A thousand thoughts within me stirred Of which I could not speak a word, Strange efforts after something new Which I was wretched not to do; Passions, ambitions lay and lurked, Wants, counter-wants, obscurely worked Without their names, and unexplained. And even in his latest arid most finished l)O~~5 you see the working of this half-de- veloped element of Mr Cloughs massive anti rich hut to some extent inert imaaina tion; and you see, too, how powerfully- it operated to discontent him with his own pro(luctions, to make him underrate vastly their real worth. Rapidly as his genius ripene(l at an age when, with most men, the first flush of it would have passed omer, there was something of conscious inertia, not unlike immaturity, in it to the last, which gives a tone of proud hesitation, a slowness of hand, to the litrary style of his finest poems. lie calls himself, in his Long Vacation l)astoral, the grave man, nicknamed Adam, and there is really something of the flavour of l)rimeval earth, of its ummready vigour and crmmde laborious- ness, about huis literamy nature. Even when he succeeds best, the reader seems to see him wipe his hommourable brows bedewed with toil. And yet he is impatient with himself for not succeedimig better, and de- spises his own work. lie needed external stimulus, somnethimmg of excitement in the at- mosphere, for his best success. Thus, the siege of Itommie (luring his mcsidence there in 1849 was the stimulus which gave rise to his most original and striking poem Amours de Voyage, which is bmimnful of his Oxford culture, of Di. Nemvmans umeta- physics, of classical traditions, of the polit cal enthusiasm of the time, amid of his own large, speculative liumnour, subtle hesitancy of braimi, and rich pictorial semise. Yet so illsatisfied was lie with this stmiking poem, that lie kept it imimie years in MS., amid pub- fished it apologetically at last oul in an American mimagazine, tIme Atlantic Monthly. He hinmsclf says that what he doubted anout in it was not its tmuthm of conceptiomi, but its vigour of executiomi. Yet imo executinui could have beemi muore perfect of the pic- ture, a pictmmre of ischoacy, we a(lmnit, which he immtemmded to draw. Mr. Emerson has in sommie things shown himself a fine critic; but lie never made a more egregious blunder than when he found fault with Mr. Clonghi for not making this poem en.d more satisfactorily. The whole meanimig amid drift of it would have been spoiled if it had so ended. His idea was to draw a mind so reluctamit to enter on actiomi, shmnimukimig so morbidly from the effects of the ruimmous force of the will, that even mvhmen most de- sirous of action it would fimid a hundred ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 199 trivial intellectual excuses for shrinking been spoiled, if it had ended prettily, back in spite of that desire. His own cx- like any other novel. planation of the poem is contained in the One of the most curious and original of final verse: the pieces published for the first time in this edition is that on the Mystery of the Fall, So go forth to the world, to the good report to which we regret that Mrs. Clough has and the evil, not appended any date. Most probably it Go, lktle book! thy tale, is it not evil and was earlier than The Botbie. As a poem good? it cannot rank high, for it is fragnientarv as Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer, well as unpolished; and the cautious but Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rear- masculine transcendentalism displayed by ing and age, I Adam in reserving the doubt whether his Say, I am flitting about many years from disobedience was not in some sense or other brain unto brain of divinely preordained, the feminine despair Feeble and restless youths born to inglori- of Eve, the thin saintliness of Abol, the ous days: impatient aggressiveness of Cain, are all But, so finish the word, I was writ in a somewhat grotesque, even with the most Roman chamber, liberal allowance for something of allegory, When from Janiculan heights thundered as representatives of primeval man. Still, the cannon of France. taken in connection with Dipsychus, And it is this brain of what the author and, indeed, with a whole series of scattered chooses to call feeble and restless youths hints ranging through both the letters and born to inglorious da~~s that the poem is the poems, it is a very curious indication of meant to delineate throughout, their spec- the direction in which Mr. Clough was in- ulative discontent, their passion for the ab- dined to look for a solution of the mystery stract, their dread of committing themselves of moral evil. He evidently inclined to be- to a course, their none the less eager cmv- lieve that though evil must be taken as ab- ings for action and for the life that can only solutely evil for all practical purposes, there be reached through action, their driftings is some transcemidental view in which it is and their reactions ; and all this is artist- necessary for the development of independ- ically contrasted with the great Roman ent beings, a mid a part therefore of human stage on which so many great dramas had destiny, rather than a mere product of hu- been enacted iii years gone by, and one man free-will. With the most exalted love great revolutionary drama was going for- for a pure morality, there is a slight vein ward at that very nioment. To our mninds, I of contempt for 4, as something imprac- the poem would lose half its character and ticably fhstidious and fanciful, running mneanin~ if the heros imicipiency of passion through most of Mr. Clouglis works, and had been developed into anvthmn~ hut in a tixed conviction that all actual life must cipiency, if it had not faded away, just as it be at best, in sonie sense, a conscious com- is represented as doing, with the fist diffi promise between right and wrong. That culties, into a restless hut still half relmev d is, we believe, an erroneous view, one at passiveness. The irony of the poem wth the root of whatever error there is in Mr. its back-ground of Mazzinian an(l Garib~A Cloughis philosophy, and of much of the dian achievement, would have becn utterly melamichioly of his thought; but it is ex- spoiled by amiy other conclusion how pei pressed with great power amid originality in fi~ct a picture of the paralysis caused by too this strange soliloquy of Adams as he half~ subtly speculative a nature, is there in such struggles wi thi the overpowering sense of lines as these, for example, in which the sin which overcomes him, treating his own hero declares his intention to abide by the remorse, if riot as a weakness, at least as indications of the first adverse throw of for-; belonging to a more superficial part of his tune: nature than the lowest depth of all, and recognizing in himself something deeper Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Provi- thami eit er evil or good, a personality dence partly. i above or, at least, nearer to the very centre What is ordained is right, and all that hap pens is ordered. of his being, than the sense of either good that isn~t it! But yet i retain my or evil. In a philosophical point of view at ~flh, flO~ least, and as illustrating a vein of specula conclusion. I will go where I am led, and will not dictate tion very fundamnemital iii Mr. Cloughs writ to the chances. ings, profound and eager as is his sense and 1 abhorrence of evil, we cannot help giving Amours de Voyage would indeed have a part of this remarkable soliloquy : 200 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. SCENE H. [Adam, alone.] Adam. Misery, oh my misery! 0 God, God! Row could I ever, ever, could I do it? Whither am I come? where am I? 0 me, miserable My God, my God, that I were back with Thee! ()fool! 0 fool: 0 irretrievable act Irretrievable what, L should like to know? What act, I wonder? What is it I mean? 0 Heaven! the spirit holds me; I must yield; Up in the air he lifts me, casts me down; I writhe in vain, with limbs convulsed, in the void. Well, well ! go idle words, babble your will; I think the fit will leave me ere I die. Fool, fool! where am L? 0 my God ! Fool, fool! Why did we dot? Eve, Eve! where are you? quick! His tread is in the garden ! hither it comes Hide us, 0 bush~s ! awl ye thick trees, hide He comes, on, on! Alack, and all these leaves, These petty, quivering and illusive blinds, Avail us naught: the light comes in and in: Displays us to ourselves; displaysah! shame Unto the inquisitive day our nakedness. He comes; He calls. The large eye of His truth, His full, severe, all-comprehending view, Fixes itself upon ou.c guiltiness. O God, 0 God! what are we? what shall we be? What is all this about, I wonder now? Yet I am better, too. I think it will pass. Tis going now, unless it comes again. A terrible possession while it lasts. Terrible, surely; and yet indeed tis true. Een in my utmost impotence I find A fount of strange persistence in my soul; Also, and that perchance is stronger still, A wakeful, changeless touchstone in my brain, Receiving, noting, testing all the while These passing, curious, new phenomena Painful, and yet not painful unto it. Though tortured in the crucible I lie, Myself my own experiment, yet still I, or a something that is I indeed, A livin~, central, and more inmost I, Within the scales of mere exterior mes, 1,seem eternal, 0 thou God, as Thou; Have knowledge of the evil and the good, Superior in a higher good to both. The prose writings excepting the letters now for the first time published, have not nearly the same importance as the poems. The letters, indeed, especially those written from America, are full hoth of depth of thought and of that grave simplicity ~vhich was the chief charm of Mr. Cloughs per- sonal talk. But the reviews, also chiefly written in America, are a little harum-sca- ruin, and written almost as if they were thrown off in factitious high spirits. This is especially true of the letters of Perepide inns and the review of Mr. Newmans Soul, essays the style of which was doubtless meant only to express a transient mood, though the latter, at least, contains solid convictions. But among the other criticisms, brief and unlaboured as they are, there are passages of very great beauty and critical depth, as when he describes Words- worths great poetic work as consisting in this, that he strove, not unsuccessfully, to build the lofty rhyme, to lay slowly the ponderous foundations of pillars to sustain mans moral fabric, to fix a centre around which the chaotic elements of human un pulse and desire might take solid form, and move in their ordered ellipses, to originate a spiritual vitality; or where lie thus de- scribes t.he sphere to which in some moods one is disposed to limit the subject-matter of modern poetry, TI mere are moods in which one is prone to believe timat in these last days, no longer by clear spring or I shady grove, no more on any Pindus or Parnassus, or by the side of any Castaly, are the true and lawful haunts of the poetic powers; but we could believe it, if any- where, in the blank and desolate streets, and upon the solitary bridges of the mid- night city, where Guilt is, and wild Teinp- tation, and the dire Compulsion of what has once been done, there, with these tragic sisters around him, and with Pity also, and pure Compassion, and pale Ilope that looks like Despair, and Faith in the garb of Doimbt, there walks the discrowImed Apollo, with unstrung lyre; nay, and could he sound it, those mournful Muses would scarcely be able, as of old, to respond and suing in turn with their beautifmil voices. Taken as a whole, these volumes cannot fail to be a lasting monument to one of the most original men of our age, and its most subtle, intellectual, and buoyant, though very far, of course, from its richest, and most musical and exqmmisite poet. There is a very peculiar and unique attraction about what we may call the physical and almost animal buoyancy of these subtly intellectual rhythms and verses, when once the muass of the poets mind by no means easy to get into motion is fairly under weigh. Mr. Matthew Arnold and Mr. Clough both rep- resent the stream of the umodern Oxford intellectual tradition in tlmeir poems, but how different is their genius. With all his intellectual precision there is something of the boyishness, of the simplicity, of the vascular Saxon breadth of Chaucers poetry in Mr. Clough, while Mr. Matthew Arnolds poetical ancestor is certainly no earlier than Wordsworth. There are both flesh and spirit, as well as emotion and specu A TRIP TO THE SHETLANDS. 201 lation, in Mr, Clough, while, in Mr. Ar- nold, soul and sentiment guide the emotion and the speculation. There is tenderness in both, but Mr. Cloughs is the tenderness of earthly sympathy, and Mr. Arnolds lvri- cal cry of Virgilian compassion. Both fill half their poems with the most subtle intel- lectual meditations, but Mr. Clough leaves them all but where they were, not even half settled, laughing at himself for moon- ing over them so lono~ while Mr. Arnold finds some sort of a delicate solution, or no-solution, for all of them, and sorts them with the finest nicety. Finally, when they both reach their highest poetical point, Mr. Arnold is found painting lucidly in a region of pure and exquisite sentiment, Mr. Clough singing a sort of ptean of buoyant and exultant strength: But, oh, blithe breeze, and oh, great seas, If neer that earliest parting past, On your wide plain, they join again, Together lead them home at last One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold wbereer they fare, Oh, hounding breeze, oh, rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there 1 From The Spectator. A TRIP TO THE SHETLANDS. II. LERwICK, the capital of Shetland, and its only town pronounced Ler-wick, not Lerrick literally thrust itself upon my notice as we steamed up the harbour. The town looked as if a kick from behind had pushed it into the very water of the Sound, as the houses were actually washed by the waves. Unfortunately they turne(l their backs to the harbour, and were hardly pre- sentable from that side. Above them, on a steep eminence, were churches and hand- some houses, which saved the character of the town as judged from the vessel; and the long line of habitations, and docks, and shipbuilJer~s yards that lined the shore for half a mile proved Lerwick to be a port large an(l busy, if not handsome. The St. Magnus anchors in the harbour, and we have to look for small boats to land us. These boats could not fail to attract our no- tice as soon as ever we entered the Sound. They had an unmistakable Norse character. The small ones had both ends high, sharp, and alike, and reminded us that the Norse- men called them their birds, or ea- gles; indeed the high prow resembles the birds breast, erect against the opposing air, and the stern the elevated tail of the gull or pigeon when flying. The smallest can hoist one mast and sail near the prow. The larger boats have generally two masts, with singularly white and clean sails. The boats used till recent times were actually brought from Norway; and moore lately, the cut-boards and keel have been imported thence and put together in Sl~etland. They are exceedingly light, and seem to a stramvrer ill-suited to the boisterous seas they often encounter. Yet they bound over the waves, and right themselves directly, if indeed they ever get wrong. Lerwick has much foreign commerce quite distinct from that of places further south. A large proportion of the crews of whaling vessels is taken from Shetland. The whal- ers of southern ports comae to Lerwick and stay there to comnplete their crews, amid re- turn hero after the voynge to Greenland to land the Shetlanders. I saw a large three- masted bark in the Sound, which had re- turned with 150 tons of oil, obtained, how- ever, from seals, the whales having appar- ently left their former haunts, amid no one knowing where they had gone. Then, again, the D utclm carry on a considerable trade with Shetlamid, though not with Ork- ney. One day the aspect of the Sound was suddenly so completely altered that I fkn- cied mnyself transported to I{otterdam. It was full of gaily-painted Dutch vessels some of the well-known square-prowed bulg- ing build, others of the newest clipper form the very opposite of the formimer whmch is becomning popular in Holland, and all looking smnart and clean, amid flying stream- ers at their tops. These vessels bring corn and hemup and other articles of legitimnate traffic, but also smuggle a great deal of spirits reputed to be fearfully adultrated ~vith vitriol, and tobacco. Tlmi~ they effect by going singly or imi twos to distant voes (inlets), amid amichorimig for a day or so. ihie news of their arrival 51)reads like wild- fire in the sparsely peopled districts, and miot ami hour passes durimig their stay when they are not boarded by poor people, who moake their bargains and carry oft tucir mm taxed purchases quite Of)cmily, in large par- cels or blue handkerchiefs. 11 witmiessed this scene at one of the farthest voes, Balta Sound in Unst, amid was told that evemi in that thimilypeopled arid poor islamid, the Dutch skippers had probably realized some 60 to 80. There is a revenue cut- ter at Lerwick; but it cannot be every where at once, and those VOOS are very numerous. The sight of the Dutch sailors, stalking through the narrow streets of Lerwick in 202 A TRIP TO THE SHETLANDS. their hugely wide knickerbockers and mon- lanes, recalling those of Edinburgh, New- strous sabots, was curiously foreign. They castle, or Geneva, lead steeply up to the went in groups of twos, threes, or sixes, higher part of the towu, where the churches and lulled into spirit or tobacco shops, were and some of the better houses are found. sometimes very drunk, but more often A mean appearance is given to the town by merely lazy and with nothing to do. Ler- the almost universal covering of the houses wick has also much direct trade with Spain, with whitewashed lime. The churches, whither the shetlands take salt fish (cod, however, and some of the new and l)etter for the Spaniards will not have hug) for houses are built of uncovered grey stone, the Catholic fasts. There is also a good Coin nercial Street is very narrow, crooked, deal to do in shipbuilding arid relitting. and liagged. The shops display abundant Many vessels put in disabled; I saw a fine specimeIls of articles from stockings and American ship which had narrowly escaped veils to large shawls knitted in the finest going on the rocks at Mousa, having lost Shetland wool; prevailingly pure white or a her direct route round Sumb urgh Head. white ground with dots or splashes of red But, of course, the main employment of the or violet. These are knitted by poor wo- Shetlanders generally is fishing. There is men and girls in the winter, or while they shore-fishing, voc-fishing, and haaf-flshing. drive or pull cattle or poiiies (as I often On the shore, in very shallow water, are witnessed). They often have no pattern, found small fish, which are taken by nets but invent one as they go on; and in a or lines; for the herrings, numerous bright large shawl it is of course very complicated, hooks are fixed on the line, without any and the difficulty to preserve perfect sym bait whatever. The sillock, which is tIme mnetry must be very great; yet they are up young of the coalfish, is caught here in to the emergency, though the comnphain4 is enormous quantities. In the middle of the heard that the work damages the eves. I voes, or miarrow inlets of time sea, and off was told that they are gemmerally paid by the coast in moderately deep water, other the shopkeepers not in coin, but in wool, fish are taken especially time piltock, which for their further work, and theit the shop- is the next stage of the sihlock, when two keepers mimake a very good profit out of years old. Haaf is the Shetland word for them. It is therefore charitable for visitors the deep sea, some twenty or thirty nmiles who buy this beautiful work to find out, from land, - imiteresting as a peculiarly possible, where time actual workers, and Scandinavian word. The Gerimmans call tIme pay them in cash. The real Shmetland wool, sea See or Meer; the Scandinavians Haaf; however, is fast disappearing. TIme pure and one ceuld hardly fimind a word which Shetland sheep are mmow omily to be seen in would prove inure clearly to which nation- the wilder amid distant islands, as Yell and ahitv the Slietlanders belong. Very small Unst; and tIme quantity of wool yielded by boats go evemi to the haaf-fishimmg, though them (8 ox. the fleece) does not pay the they are often out for six weeks; and I be- cost of breeding. These sheep are, there- hieve disasters are Imot unfrequent from this fore, now being crossed with other kinds, cause. TIme haaf-fishers take chiefly cod, especially with time black-faced Cheviots, hing, tusk (a peculiar fish, somewhat resem- whereby an equally hardy, but muore fleshy bhing cod, but inure solid iii flesh), and and immure woolv kind is obt.aine(l. TIme saytlie or coalfishm. Jim these islands, where Shmetlamid sheep ~re small, short-legged, and there is no inlamid, the same men who farm long-necked, and vary curiously in colour, or keep slmeep are also aequmainted with the being white, black, brown, blue, ammd pie- sea, amid are fishermmmemm in the season. balui. 0mm landing from tIme St. Magmmus, I had TIme Country about Lerwick is not espe- to select an immn, or rather to betake my- cially attractive. It is difficult to describe self to the only one worth namnin~, tIme a Slmetland landscape so as to presemmt its Queens. Time hotel acconimodation at defects fairly, and yet to give an idea of the Lerwick is mmot equal to tIme demand; but eleimments of beauty it realhx contains. Mr. E is vans, proprietor of the Queens, Tlmere is not, broadly speaking, a single enterprising, and umeditates improve- tree on any of the islands; which is re- immemit amid emmlargemnent. There are also markable, as there are plenty in many two or three lodgimmg-houses, at which tray- parts of Orkney. The attempts to rear ellers find very fair accommodation at de- trees against garden walls only seem to cidedly immoderate prices, prove that thmey will never take kindly to Lerwiek has omme long street, Commner- the soil, fur they grow not aim inch above cial Street, runimimig along the Soumid. the piOtecting wall. Heatlmer is dry and Here are all the shops, banks, post-offices, stunted; and althoughm the flora exhibits & c. At right angles with this, narrow some very interesting and some peculiar HALLS ARCTIC JOURNEY. 203 plants, yet the hillsides and waysides are not decked out with much colour from flowers. A very large proportion of the soil is peaty, and where, as about Lerwick, the peat is largely dug into, the scene in- clines to be (Ireary and black. Beauty of the softer kind is found in valleys which, under the shelter a circle of hills, are en- abled to grow barley, oats, cabbage, and potatoes, as at Quarf; and in the voes, when the sun is bright and the water rip- ples gently on the rocks, or sends a dull murmur from the interior of mysterious caves. There are two or three such rock- bound inlets close to Lerwick, which, under fiivourable conditions, are perfectly lovely. Roads, again, which run aloiig the side of a bill in full view of the ocean, as that from Lerwick to Moosa, afford varying an(l glo- rious views. We might remind southern readers of the road from Lvninouth to the Valley of Rocks, were it not that there the sea beneath is only the Bristol Channel, whereas in the Shetlands we have the blue ocean. The iiiterior of Mainland, Bressay, Whalsev, and Unst is very hilly, and there are lonely and picturesque scenes to be found among these rounded orassy or heatherv hills. But die sea it is which creates the chief beauties in Shetland. No sea view there is common or unexcitin~ and the sea is in sight from almost every where. VIKING. HALLS ARCTIC JOURNEY. REPULSE BAY, JUNE -29, 1869. Henry Grinnell 1)ear Sir: This day 1 have returnetm. from a sledge journey of 90 days to and from King Williams Land. it was my 1)urpose, and every preparation was made, to make this journey last sea- son; but my attention then having been called to Melville Peninsula, in the vicinity of Fury and ilecla Straits, where native report had it that white men had been seen, I directed my expedition there by way of Am-i-toke, Gog-lik-isle, Jg-loo-lik, with the ardent hope and expectation of rescuing alive some of Sir John Franklins last coin- panions. The result of this journey was the tinding of a tenting-place of a few white men an(l a stone pillar they had erected close by at the bottom of Parry Bay, which is some 50 miles south of the western out- let of Fury and Hecla Straits an(1 the visit- ing of several places where white men and Iheir traces had been seen by natives of lg-loo-lik, North Oog-hik-isle, and there- abouts, tlma~ confirmed the report I had heard in the winter of 1867-8, which I have already stated. And still forther proofs of this report have been also obtained on my late visit to King Williams Land. My sledge journey to the Straits of Fury and [lecla, and thence down to Parry Bay and back to Repulse Bay by the route already defined, consumed 96 days. SKELETONS OF FRANKLINS CREWS. The result of my sledge journey ~o King Williams Land may be summed up thus: None of Sir John Franklins companions ever reached or died on Montreal Island. It was late iii July, 1848, whom Crozier and his party, of about 40 or 45, passed down the ~vest coast of King Williams Land in the vicinity of Cape Hersehell. The party was dragging two sledges on the sea-ice, which was nearly in its last stages of (liSSO lution one, a large sledge laden with an awnin~-covered boat, amid the other, a small one, laden with provisions and camp ma- terial. Just before Crozier amid party ar- rived at Cape Ilersehell, they were met by four families of natives, and both parties wemit into camp near each other. Two Bs- quimaux men, who were of the native party mzave mae much sad but deeply interesting imuiorinatiomi. Some of it stirre(l my heart with sadness, intermoingietl with rage, for it was a confession that they with their coma panions did secretly and hastily abandon Crozier and his party to sutlbr and die for need of fresh provisions, when, in truth, it was in the power of the natives to save every man alive. The next trace of Crozier and his luarty is to be found in the skeleton which McCliittock discovered a little below, to the southward an(l eastward of Cape ILersehell; this was never found by the natives. The next trace is a camp- ing place on the ~easbore of Kim~ Wil hams Land, about three minis eastward of PIeiffer River, where two macn lied and re- ceived Christian burial. At this place fish bone5 were lounul by the natives which showed them that Crozier and his party had caught while there a species of hi~h ex- cellent for food, with which the sea there abounds. The next trace of this ~)arty oc- curs some five or six miles eastward, on a long, low point of King Wihtiamns Land, where one man died and was buried. Then about S.S.E., two and a half miles farther, the next trace occurs, on 1odds Islet, where the remains of five macn lie. The next certain trace of this party is on the west side of the inlet xvest of Point Richardson, on some low land that is an is- land or a part of the main-land as the tide may be. Here the awning-covered boat 204 HALLS ARCTIC JOURNEY. and the remains of about thirty or thirty- five of Croziers party were found by the native Poo-yet-ta, of whom Sir John Ross has given a description in the account of his voyage in the Victory, 1829-34. In the spring of 1840, a large tent was found by some of the natives whom I saw, the floor of which was completely covered with the remains of white men. Close by were two graves. This tent was a little way inland from the head of Terror Bay. In the spring of 1861, when the snow was nearly all gone, an Esquimaux party conducted by a native well known through- out the Northern regions, found two boats, with many skeletons in and about them. One of these boats had been previously found by MeClintock; the other was found lying from one-quarter to one-half mile (lis- tant, and must have been completely en- tombed in snow at the time McClintocks parties were there, or they most assuredly would have seen it. In and about this boat, besides the many skeletons alluded to were found many relics, most of them similar in character to those MeClintock has enumerated as having been found in the hnat he discovered. The native who conducted this native party in its search over King Williams Land is the same indi- vidual who gave Dr. Rae the first informna- tion about white men havin~ died to the we~ward of where he (Dr. Rae) was then (Pelly-Bav), in the spring of 1854. His name is In-nook-poo-zhe-jook, and he is a native of Neitchille, a very great traveller and very intelligent, lie is, in fkct, a walking history of the fate of Sir John Franklins expedition. This native I met when within one days sledge journey of King Williams Land off Point Dryden and after stopping a few days among his people, he accompanied me to tIme places 1 visited on and about King Wil- liams Land. TIlE NORTHWEST PASSAGE. The same year that the Erebus and Ter- ror were abandoned one of them consumn- mated the great northwest passage, having five men aboard. The evidence of the ex- act number is circumstantial. Everything about this northwest-passage ship of Sir John Franklins expedition was in complete order; four boats were hanging high up at the ships sides, and one was on the (luarter deck ; the vessel was in its winter housing of sail or tent cloth. This vessel was found by the Ook-joo-lik natives near OReilly Island, lat~. (38 degs. 30 mm. N., long. 99 degs. 8 ~ ~ early in the spring of 1849, it being frozen in, in the midst of a smooth and unbroken floe of ice of only one win- ters formation. From certain evidence I have gained both at Ig-lon-lik and King Williams Land, there must have been a dog of the grayhouud species belonging to one or the other of the two ships. I only know this through native testimony. It is quite likely that some one in England can tell whether there was a dog on board either of the ships when Sir John Franklin left in 1845. To complete the history of Sir John Franklins last expedition, one must spend a summer on King Williams Land with a considerable party, whose only business should be to make searches for records which beyond doubt lie buried on that island. 1 am certain from what I have beard the natives say, arid from what I saw myself, that little or nothing mnore can be gained by making searches there when the land is clothed in its winter garb, for the Esquimaux have made search after search over all the coast of King Williams Land, on either side, from its southern extreme up to Cape Felix, the northern point, for anything and everything that belonged t~o the comnpammions of Sir John Franklin; and these searches have been made when the snow had nearly all disappeared from the land. WHAT REMAINS TO BE DISCOVERED. My sledge comnpany from Repulse Bay to King Williamns Lammd consisted of eleven souls, all Esquimaux. Although they are as untarnable as eagles by nature vet by their aid alone 1 was enabled to reach points otherwise inaccessible, and when there to gain much important information relative to the fitte of Sir John Franklins expe(lition. I tried hard to accomplish fkr more than I did, but not one of the comnpa- ny would, on any accoumit whatever, con- sent to remnain with me in that country and make a summer search over that island, which, frommin informnatlon I had gained, of the hatives, I had reason to 501)1)050 ~vould be rewarded by the discoverx of the whole of the manuscript records that hal wcuri lated in that great expedition rid n deposited in a vault a little wmx mmii mud or eastward of Cape Victory. Knowmmir is I now do, tIme character of the L~ {iiiiii nix mm that part of the country in which Kmno XX il hams Land is situated, I canmiot wondcm it nor blame tPe Repulse Bay natives for their refusal to remain there as I (K ~im d It is quite probable that, had we remnaimied as I wished, rio one of us would ever have got out of the country alive. I low could we expect, if we had got into strammemmed circimurm HALL S ARCTIC JOURNEY. 205 stances, that we should receive better treatment from the Esquimaux of that country than the 105 souls who were under the command of the heroic Crozier, some time after landing on King Williams Land? Could I and my party, with reasonable safety, have remained to make a summer search on King Williams Land, it is not only 1)robable that we should have recov- ered the logs and journals of Sir John Franklins expedition, but have gathered up and entombed the remains of nearly 100 oh his companions; for they lie about the places where the three boats have been found, and at the large camping place at the head of Terror Bay, and the three other places that I have already mentioned. In the Cove, west side of Point Richardson, however, Nature herself has opened her bosom and ~iven sepulture to the remains of the immortal heroes that died there. Wherever the Esquimaux have found the graves of Franklins companions they have dug them open and robbed the dead, leav- ing them exposed to the ravages of wild beasts. On Todds Island the remains of five men were not buried, but, after the savages had robbed them of ever~ article that could be turned to any account for their use, their dogs were allowed to finish the disgusting work. Wherever I found that Sir John Frank- lins companions had died, I erected monu- rnents, then fired salutes and waved the Star Spangled Banner over them in memory and respect of the great and true discover- ers of the Northwest Passage. RELIcS OF FRANKLIN. I could have gathered great quantities a very great variety of relics of Sir John Franklins expedition, for they are now sessed by natives all over the Arctic regions that I visited 01. heard of from Ponds Bay to Mackenzie River. As it was I had to be satisfied with taking upon our sledges about 125 pounds total weight of relics from na- tives about King Williams Land. Some of those 1 will enumerate : 1st. A portion of one side (several planks and ribs fast to- gether) of a boat, clinker built and copper fastened. This part of a boat is of the one found near the boat found by McClintocks party. 2(1. A small oak sledge runner, reduced from the sledge on which the boat rested. 3d. Part of the mast of the North- west Passage ship. 4th. Chronoineterbox, with its number, name of maker, and the Queens broad arrow engraved upon it. 5th. Two long heavy sheets of copper, three and four inches wide, with counter sunk holes for screw nails. On these sheets, as well as on most everything else that came from the Northwest Passage ship,, are numerous stamps of the Queens broad arrow. 6th. Mahogany writing desk, elaborately fin- ished and bound in brass. 7th. Many pieces of silver plate forks and spoons bearing crests and initials of the owners. 8th. Parts of watches. 9th. Knives, and very niany other things, all of which you, Mr. Grinnell, and others interested in the fitte of the Franklin Expedition, will take a sad interest in inspecting on their arrival in the States. MEETING A SEAMAN SHOT. I must now tell you of the heart-rending, tragical part of my expedition before I con- clude this rapid, and I must add, iiicom- plete report, for after all it is but a drop in the bucket to giving you a full i(lea ot the vast amount of interesting aiid important in formation I have gained oh the natives about Repulse Bay, lg-loo-hik, Pelly Bay, Neit- chille, Great Fish, or Back River, and King XVihhiains Land, relative to the fhte of Sir John Franklins Expedition. In the spring of 1865 I started from Repulse Bay on a dog-sledge journey to King Williams Land. My company was entirely of natives, and on getting about two hundred inilOs on our way we met a ~)arty of Pelly Bay natives who were fleeing from their country on account of war raging there. Ihie effect on my company was that on no considera- tion could they be induced to proceed fur- ther, and therefore terrible as was the blow to my plans, I had to turn back, trusting that I could succee(l in getting a small band of faithfol white men, out of some whale ships, if they should happily make into Re- pulse Bay. Not until the fidl of 1867 was I able to get the desired miuniber of white men to accompany moe, besides my Esquimaux interpreters Joe arid hannah as an escort of defence, while making the long- delayed sledge journey to King Williams Land, and even then, it was only at the very last moment that is, while tile whaling vessels were weighing anchors and starting for the States that I was suceessful. The result of niy taking seamen that neither I mior their captains knew much about, proved as many would expect. One of the imleil, Frank Lailer, ever proved during the year I em- ployed the party of five irmen a most faithful, hard-working, and energetic man, fulhlling every position in which I placed him with ability aiid honor. Two men of the five would, I am quite confident, have proved better men than they did, had they not been ill-advised. None of the men, except noble Frank Lailer, ever accompanied me on any 206 HALLS ARCTIC JOURNEY. of my great sledge journeys. In the fall of and like a man acknowledged freely and 1868, during a mutinous attack made upon truly that he and his companions were al- me, when mx f~sithful man was absent, j together the guilty ones, and hoped that I about scven miles distant, on business, I would forgive him, which I did on thc in- was compelled, in self-defence, to call into stant. I feel that had I not taken this last requisition a revolver. Coleman, the lead- dread alternative, my fate would have er, I~ll, and died in 15 days. At once the been quite as sorrowful as that of rebellion ended, and one of the hand caine, Hudson. C. F. HALL. WHEAT AND WEDLOCK. ENCAUSTIC TILES. A novelty, observes the TilE price of wheat is falling; statistics bid ~ Builder, in the manufacture of encaustic and wed, other ornamental tiles, has just been brou~bt to FITE-EUSTAcE REGINALD ST. CLAIR to GER- our notice by the Architectural Pottery Compa- TRUDE MOwI3RAY said; pany. The patterns, which have hitherto been The price of wbeat is falling, and therefore nilaid in self-colours, have in this process been needs must we produced by an admixture of coloured materials Now celebrate our marriage, long enough on the very finely prepared, which give the appearance topis. of inlaying of granites and Florentine mosaics, according to the combinations of colours used, a The price of wheat is falling; by reason of nd may also be applied either in the ornament that fact Or as a ground. This contrast of coloured ornamei~t We ou~ht our matrimonial alliance to contract~ against the ground has a plcasin0 ef fect, and is capable of introduction in elaborate The price of wheat is falling; then let us, lady ornamentation. We are at the ssme time as fair, Meet in the Church of sweet St. George, by sured that this new process intensifies the hard hanovers high Square. ness of the surface, renderhig the pavement still more durable. We were pleased with the speci- The price of wheat is falling; a Bishop must ruens we have seen of the patent encaustic tiles be got, produced by the sanie manufacturers. The Assisted by a Canon, to tie our nuptIal knot. ornament is more deeply inlaid than is custo- The price of wheat is falling; well to thy Sires mary in tLis description of manufacture, and The away, the outlines are symmetrical. auspicious ceremony there, ensues a dijeu- ner. The price of wheat is falling; which makes it fit and meet The happy pair their honeymoon should spend at some fair seat; The price of wheat is falling, and may descend more low, But be no nioment wasted in completing the trousseau. The price of wheat is falling, though bread keeps up. What then? The loaf to even money will soon be down again. The price of wheat is falling, so thou, thou~h meat and wine, Dress, dwelling, horses, equipage, abate not, must be mine. The price of wheat is falling; it only falls to rose. We marry, notwithstanding; were wealthy, and were wise. The price of wheat is falling the masses marry too, Its future rise unheeding, quite as little as we do. runch. TIlE BOOK MARKET. THERE are plenty of new novels in promise for the libraries, so readers at the sea-side need not dread a slearth of recreation for wet days. As a rule, the titles are as catching as the influenza, an(i a sequel now so usually succeeds to a suc- cess, that we feel surprised the followin~ have not yet been announced Xear ned .Marrow, by the author of Fur and Wide. Strings of Burley-sugar: a Sequel to the thrill- ing tale of Ropes of Sand. Downy as a Decoy Dude: a fascinating Soquel to Simple as a Dove. The Gent She Jilted: a Romance of Real Life, written by the author of The Gi1l lie Married. Boiled Bloc/c-beetles: a Sensition Story, by the writer of Bstrnt Butterflies. Fatal Feverheat : a Tale of most Unreal Life, by the Author of Fatal Zero. Handley in Good Humour: a Sequel to the Story of Handley Gross. 1nnch. OLIVIAS FAVOUR. 207 PART II. IF gaiety had been wanting in the drawing- room among the gentlefoiks, it certainly was not in the hall. As Lord Aseham and Mrs. Ormathwaite, followed by the rest of the company, passed down the wide stair- case, the sounds of laughter, music and dancing grew louder and louder. They en- tered by the upper hail. The great supper- table had been pushed against the wall, though the huge kettle of mulled ale stood brewing on the great hearth. At one end of the room, on a raised seat, was perched old Tommy Thwait, the wit and fiddler of the country side. He sat fiddling away, clapping his bob-nailed shoes in time to the music, shouting out the figures of the coun- try-dances, and making sharp comments on the performers below. In the long line of the country-dance were elderly men and women, rosy-checked buxom girls, and broad-made, stalwart-lookitig youths. Near the great hearth sat a few old men and women, enjoying the warm fire-light, some of thcm smoking tranquilly, and talk- ing of jiast LIalloweens, when they too had danced and played their charms. In the lower ball there was merriment and noise enough. Men and boys were bobbing for apples that hung from the rafters by long strii~gs, others ducked for apples as they floated in great tubs of water. Now and then some unlucky wretch in his eagerness lost his balance, and when he emerged from the water dripping and half-choked, he was greeted by shouts of laughter from the by- standers. The merriment was at its height as Lord Ascham and the mistress, fol- lowed by the rest of the company entered the ball. For a few minutes there was a pause as they advanced, Lord Aseham, leading Mrs. Ormathwaite towards the great fireplace; and as she addressed the group seated on the hearth with words and looks of kindness and welcome, he turned and spoke to those about him with the win- ning grace that distinguished him. Colonel Hampden, with his fair niece on his arm, passed down the room speaking to each and all. Come, Tommy, strike up, said the Colonel, our coming has ended the mirth here seemingly; let us have a dance now, and play your best tune. The young gen- tlemen are impatient to lead out their part- ners. Ax, your honour. Ill gie yo a hal- loween tune that would make a Quaker dance. After a preliminary scrape, the old fel- low began a gay and swinging air If it is na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bob- bit, If it is na weel bobbit. well bol& bit again. Lord Ascham led out Mrs. Merriweather, the wife of the stewar(I; Mr. Ashburnham. danced with Mrs. Pettigrew; the other gen- tlemen chose themselves partners. Olivia shook her head to more than one of the young gentlemen, and gave her hand to a gray-haired aiid serious-looking man, who stood soiIiewhat apart from the others. I know you dont care for (lancing, Michael, she said, but you must be my partner to-night. The man seemed somewhat confused as the fair hand was held towards him. Pd be a big loon, mistress, if I would na dance to t foIl head if yo asked me, ~ai(1 he, and they took their places at the top of one of the eountry-(lances. Michael, said the young lady, Alice tells me you saw somne of the militiamen out in Kendal last night. This modes no good, I fear. Michael shook his head. Not when yo~ stranger was with them, Mistress Olive. Alice says the stranger looked liked the spy that was here from London last year, said Olivia, inquiringly. Ay, replied Michael, it was no other, for sure. I may misreckon a man wi mny eye; but never by my ear, and it were his voice sure, enough. And the gentleman, said Olivia, the gemitleman that joined them, did you know him? By the same token, I believe I do. I maun no speak too surely on so weighty a matter, and I did not fairly see his Lice in the dark ; but I believe I could lay my hand on him to-night. What? said Olivia sharply. Mv mind umisgies me to lay it to his charge, and hurt the honourable name he holds; hut these are strange times, and men are tempted to do the devils work some- times, and Was it Lord Aseham? said Olivia, in- terrupting him. ~Nay, nay, said Michael in a lower voice. You see the yotmng gentleman wi the sober face, yon with the purple gold- laced coat, Mr. Ashburnham! gasped Olivia, be- low her breath. Ay, him, and no other. Come, Olivia, crie(l Kate Onmnathwaite running up, we are going to try our for- tunes with the floatimig lights, and she clapped her hands as she saw a great basin set down and the walnut-shells set afloat, 208 OLIVIAS FAVOUR. each filled with oil and bearing its