The Living age ... / Volume 120, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0120 /moa/livn/livn0120/

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The Living age ... / Volume 120, Note on Digital Production 0120 000
The Living age ... / Volume 120, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1543 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0120 /moa/livn/livn0120/

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The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1543 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 3, 1874 0120 1543
The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1543, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTE LLS LIVING AGE. E PLtxxtlsus UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, an~ the chaff thrown 5W5y~~ Made up of every creatures ~ Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And please wit novelty, may be indulged. FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME V. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL CXX. 7AATUARY, FEBRUARY~ MARCIJI. 18 74. BOSTON: LITTELL AND GAY. z AQad cIj TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS op THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CXX. THE FIFTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE FIFTH SERIES JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, 1874. EDINBURGH REVIEW,, Kew Gardens, . . Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge, QUARTERLY REVIEW. The English Pulpit, Mary Somerville, . Winekelmaun, . John Stuart Mills Autobiography,. BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. Sources of Pleasure in Landscape, The Ballad: its Nature and Literary Affinities Henry Thoreau, The Poet-Naturalist, NEW QUARTERLY REVIEW. Rare Pottery and Porcelain, Sully: Soldier and Statesman, MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. 259 Spanish Life and Character in the lute- 515 nor, . . 115, 168, 307, 433, 612 Lincolnshire Scenery and Character as Illustrated by Mr. Tennyson, . 236 67 Mendelssohn, . . . . . 323, 673 451 Little Jack, . . . . 423, 489 707 COENHILL MAGAZINE. 771 Parisian Journalists of To-Day, . . 13 Historical Photographs of Old Rome, . 195 Far from the Madding Crowd, 299, 335, 597 Sir Edwin Landseer, . . 343 The French Press. Third Period,. 662 643 Mrs. Gaskell and her Novels,. . 787 TEMPLE BAR. Madame de Sta~l and her Times, . 27 Richard Steele, . . . . 157 Sir Robert Strange, . . . 414 Chateaubriand and his Times, . 480 Berthes Wedding-Day, . . . . 547 Recollections of Visits to Ashistiel and 535 Abbotsford 689 SAINT PAULS. A Gold Coast Tragedy 697 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. .496 558 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. Letters from Elizabeth Barrett Brown- ing 281, FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. Popular Songs of Tuscany, . . . 290 BLACEWOODS MAGAZINE. The Parisians, iS, 355 International Vanities. Ceremonial, 101 Forms, . 387 The Story of Valentine; and his Brother, 528, 6~o, 748 738 762 801 The Two Speransky, The Philosophers Baby, Disorder in Dreamland, FRASERS MAGAZINE. Jonathan Edwards,. The Restoration of the Moghul Buildings at Agra, Three Days in Sark A Christmas in India, . Sukies Boy, 38, 467 GRA PIIIC. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, 203, 273, 401, 621 GOOD CHEER. Robert Holts Illusion, . . . 86, 143 POPULAR SCIENCE REVIEW. House Martins as Builders, On Name and Race in England, SPECTATOR. - 219 The Sentence on Marshal Bazaine, 445 The Prussian Reformation, - 682 Universal Suffrage, . 757 Mr. Gladstone as a Force, GENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. ECONOMIST. Some Letters of Charles Lamb, . . 49 Prince Bismarcks Interference in France, ~ Ix 378 439 124 125 380 702 Iv CONTENTS. How far Have our Working Classes Benefited by the Increase of our Wealth? 632 The Advantages and Disadvantages of Becoming a Member of Parlia ment 636 Gladstones Ministry 766 The New Government 820 SATURDAY REVIEW. Bengal Past and Present, i8o Weather Wisdom 251 France and Italy 382 France, Italy, and Germany, . . . 573 PALL MALL GAZETTE. Conservative Opportunities, . . . 8 i8 ATHENAEUM. Archibald Constable, CHAMBERS JOURNAL. Sham-Jewellery, Odds and Ends from Dr. Scrap-Book, A Disease-Destroying Tree, To Marry Again or Not, Chambers 57 59 63 74 Migratory Bogs About States English, Amber, . Principal Forbes and his Glacial plorations ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. Curious Wills, . ONCE A WEEK. Indiaa Police ALL THE YEAR ROUND. A Terrible Adventure in the Tyrol, .190 240 244 Ex- 247 254 318 NATURE. Elliss Life of Count Rumford, . . 315 The Acoustic Transparency and Opacity of the Atmosphere, . . 69~, 8i~ Autobiography, John Stuart Mills. . 771 OUR OWN FIRESIDE. The Food of London Centurics Ago, HIOGO NEWS. A Japanese Workhouse 255 5 INDEX TO VOLUME CXX. AMBER, About Agra, Restoration of the Moghul Build- ings at Ashistiel and Abbotsford, Recollections of Visits to Acoustic Transparency and Opacity of the Atmosphere, . . . 692, BAZAINE, Marshal, The Sentence on Bengal Past and Present, Bogs, Migratory Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, Letters from 281, Berthes Wedding-Day Bismarcks Interference in France, Ballad, The: Its Nature and Literary Affinities CEREMONIAL Constable, Archibald . Chateaubriand and his Times, Coleridge, Sara, Memoir and Letters of. Constantinople, Patriarch of Christmas in India, . Conservative Opportunities, DISEASE-DESTROYING Tree, A Disorder in Dreamland ENGLISH Pulpit, The Edwards, Jonathan Elliss Life of Count Rumford, England, Name and Race in FORBES, Principal, and his Glacial Ex- plorations Food of London Centuries Ago, Far from the Madding Crowd, 299, 335, France and Italy France, Italy, and Germany, Francc, Bismarcks Interference in French Press, The GERMANY, Italy, and France,. Gold Coast Tragedy,A . Gladstone as a Force Gladstones Ministry Gaskell, Mrs., and her Novels, Government, The New . 244 445 689 124 i8o 190 535 547 575 579 I0I 480 515 640 757 8i8 63 Soi 67 219 315 439 247 255 597 382 573 575 662 573 697 702 766 787 820 HARRY HEATHCOTE of Gangoil, 203, 273, 401, 621 House Martins as Builders, . . . 378 INTERNATIONAL Vanities, . 101, 387 Indian Police 255 Italy and France 382 Italy, France, and Germany, . 573 India, Christmas in . - - - 757 JOURNALISTS, Parisian, of To-Day, - 131 Japanese Workhouse, A - 511 KEW Gardens, 259 LANDSCAPE, Sources of Pleasure in . 3 Lamb, Charles, Some Letters of . . 49 Lincolnshire Scenery and Character as Illustrated by Mr. Tennyson, . 236 London, Food of, Centuries Ago, - - 255 Landseer, Sir Edwin . . 343 Little Jack 423, 489 Landon, L. E 697 MIGRATORY Bogs 190 Mendelssohn 323, 673 Martins, House, as Builders, - . 378 Moghul Buildings at Agra, The Restora tion of 445 Mills, John Stuart, Autobiography, . 771 NAME and Race in England, . . . 439 New Government, The - . - . 820 ODDS and Ends from Dr. Chambers Scrap Book 59 PLEASURE, Sources of, in Landscape, - 3 Parisians, The 18, 355 Pulpit, The English - . . - 67 Prussian Reformation, The - . Parisian Journalists of To-Day, . 131 Pottery and Porcelain, Rare - - 496 Parliament, The Advantages and Disad vantages of becoming a Member of 636 Potato Bug, The 639 Patriarch of Constantinople, The . 640 Press, The French 66z Philosophers Baby, The . - - 762 ROBERT Holts Illusion, - . . 86, 143 Reformation, The Prussian - - 125 Rome, Old, Historical Photographs of - 195 Rumford, Count, Elliss Life of - . 315 Race and Name in England, - . . 439 STAEL, Madame de, and her Times, . 27 V VI Sukies Boy 38, Sham-Jewellery Spanish Life and Character in the Inte- rior, . . 115, i68, 307, 433, Steele, Richard Songs, Popular, of Tuscany, Suffrage, Universal . Strange, Sir Robert . Somerville, Mary Sully: Soldier and Statesman, Sheriffs and their Duties in the Olden Time Sark, Three Days in . Speransky, The Two . To Marry Again or Not, Tennysons Illustrations of Lincolnshire Scenery and Character, INDEX. 467 Tuscany, Popular Songs of . . . 290 57 Terrible Adventure in the Tyrol, . . 313 Thoreau, Henry, The Poet-Naturalist, . 6i 2 157 UNITED States English 240 290 Universal Suffrage 380 380 414 VANITIES, International . 101, 387 451 Valentine, The Story of; and his Brother, 528, 5~8 6~o, 748 640 WILLS, Curious 682 Weather Wisdom 251 738 Working Classes, How far have they Benefited by the Increase in our 174 Wealth? 632 Winckelmann, 707 236 POETRY. AUT C~sar ant Nullus, All Saints Day, Cycle, A . Country Sabbath, A Dirge, A. Dawn, The Dawnlight on the Sea, Dead Days, Expectancy, Gants Glac6s, Les Hibernal Impatience, Holderness, In It Might Have Been, Infant, To an Life in Death Legend of the Forget-me-not, A New Love 386 386 66 578 3861 514 706 706 514 450 386 450 2 578 258 514 642 My Only Love, Magyar, From the Madagascar Song, Outcast Our Lost Pet, . Orphanhood, . One Flight Reply to It Might have Been, Remembrance, Requiem on the Rhinoceros, Swallows, The Song Sea, The Spring Sonnet True Love Two Robbers Winter Whitby Smack, The Years, The . Yesterday, . 66 194, 322 66 130 130 642 94 194 322 322 578 578 770 770 194 770 258 130 450 TALES. BERTHES Wedding-Day, . . . ~ Philosophers Baby, The. . . , 762 Far from the Madding Crowd, 299, 335, 597 Robert Holts Illusion, . . . 86, 143 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, 203, 273, 401, Sukies Boy 38, 467 621 To Marry Again or Not, . . . 174 Little Jack 423, 489 Parisians, The x8, ~ I Valentine, the Story of; and his Brother, 528, 650, 748

The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1543 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ J~4~ 1543 3 1874 ~ From Beginning, Volume V. ) January Vol CXX. CONTENTS. I. SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE, II. THE PARISIANS. By Lord Lytton, author of The Last Days of Pompeii, My Novel, The Caxtons, etc. Part XXII., III. MADAME DR STAEL AND HER TIMES. By the author of Mirabeau, etc., IV. SUKIES Boy. By the author of The Hu- guenot Family, etc. Part III., V. SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. With Reminiscences of Himself Awakened There- by. By Mary Cowden Clarke, SHAM-JEWELLERT ODDS AND ENDS: From Dr. Chambers Scrap-Book CURIOUS WILLS A DISEASE-DESTROYING TREE, VI. VII. VIII. IX. WINTER IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, MIScELLANY, British Quarterly Review, Blachwoods Magazine, Temple Bar,. Sunday Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Chambers ~oiernal, Chambers 7onrnal, Illustrated London News, Chambers Journal, P0 F TRY. 2 MY ONLY LOVE, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tke Publiskers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of~ostege- lint we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forwarding the money; nor when we club the LsvsNG Age with another periodical An extra copy of Tue LIVING Aoe is sent gratis to any one getGng sip a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by hank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neliher of these can be procured, the money shonld be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register lctters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. 3 - 27 33 . 49 - . 57 . 59 . 6i 63 .2 63,64 WINTER, ETC. 2 WINTER. Tnou dark-robed man with solemn pace, And mantle muffled round thy face, Like the dim vision seen by Saul, Upraised by spells from Deaths dark hall Thou sad small man face thin and old, Teeth set, and nose pinched blue with cold, Neer mind Thy coat, so long and black, And fitting round thee all so slack, Has glorious spangles, and its stars Are like a conquerors fresh from wars. Who wove it in Times awful loom, With woof of glory, warp of gloom? Joves planet gii~ters on thy breast, The morning star adorns thy crest, The waxing or the waning moon Clings to thy turban, late or soon: Orions belt is thine, thy thigh His jewelled sword hangs brightly by: The Pleiades seven, the gipsys star, Shine as thy shoulder-knots afar; And the great Dog-star, bright, unknown, Blazes beside thee like a throne. Take heart! thy coat so long and black, Sore-worn, and fitting round thee slack, Is broidered by the Northern Lights, Those silver arrows shot by sprites Is powdered by the Milky Way, With awful pearls unknown to day, Which well make up for all the hues Proud Summer, bridegroom-like, may use. Proud Summer with his roses sheen, And dress of scarlct, blue, and green, Floods us with such a sea of light, \Ve miss the faint far isles of night, And thoughtless dance, while he with lute Beguiles us, or assists to fruit But, like a shade from spirit-land Dim Winter beckons with his hand He beckons; all things darker grow, Save white-churned waves and wreathing snow: We pause ; a chill creeps through our veins; We dare not thank him for his pains; We fear to follow, and we creep To candle-light, to cards, to sleep. Yet, when we follow him how deep The secret he has got to keep How wonderful! how passing grand! For peering through his storms there stand The eternal cities of the sky, With stars like street-lamps hung on high No angel yet can sum their worth, Though angels sang when they had birth. Chambers Journal. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. A FRIENDLY bird with bosom red Is fluting near my garden seat, Your sky is fair above my head, And Tweed rejoices at my feet. The squirrels gambol in the oak, All, all is glad, but you prefer To linger on amid the smoke Of stony-hearted Westminster. Again I read your letter through, How wonderful is fates decree, How sweet is all your life to you, And 0, how sad is mine to me I know your wail, who knows it not ? HE gave, HE taketh that HE gave. Yours is the lot, the common lot, To go down weeping to the gr ye. Sad journey to a dark abyss, Meet ending of your sorrow keen, The burthen of my dirge is this, And this my woe, It might have been! Dear bird! Blythe bird that sings in frost, Forgive my friend if he is sad; He mourns what he has only lost, I weep what I have never had. Spectator. FREDERIqK LOCKER. Lees, S~y5tember 27, 1873. MY ONLY LOVE. MY only love is always near, In country or in town I see her twinkling feet, I hear The whisper of her gown. She fonts it ever fair and young, Her locks are ticd in haste, And one is oer her shoulder flung, And hangs below her waist. She ran before me in the meads; And down this world-worn track She leads me on; but while she leads She never gazes back. And yet her voice is in my dreams, To witch me more and more; That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems Less near me than of yore. Lightly I sped when hope was high, And youth beguiled the chase, I follow, follow still; but I Shall never see her face Cornhill Magazine. FREDERICK LOCKER. SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. From The British Quarterly Review. SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. THE passion for scenery of some sort seems nowadays almost universal in civ- ilized life. A point of view is an ob- ject of solicitude for a house, for a win- dow, for a garden seat, for the bench of a pothouse, for the belvedere of a mansion. People climb a gate or a mountain, just for the view They ride outside high- land coaches, and crowd the decks of lake steamers, for the same purpose. All sorts and conditions of people seem to share in the desire. If poets ensconce themselves in Cumberland dales, act- resses and dancers retire to Como. If princes fit up Rhine castles, and aban- doned monasteries, commanding the choicest prospects, the baths in many a lovely mountain nook are thronged in their season by humbler folk, to whom the waters are a secondary considera- tion; and every summers day a most motley crowd is tumbled out by the excur- sion train at some one or other of tlie re- puted centres of landscape beauty. When the town people go home from their tours, they hang their walls with landscape chromos. Illustrated books of travel TV upon their tables, always illustrated. The young people study landscape drawing, and some of them even follow Mr. Ruskins gorgeous word painting into all its.vagaries, and become learned in mountain outlines, and cloud chariots. What does it all mean? Whatever it means it is associated with great varieties of taste, and many degrees of appreciation~ A navvy smoking his pipe on a well-placed bench, an artisan shot out by a train among woods and rocks, a citizen sipping his glass in his little bit of an arbour, do not experi- ence the pleasures that belong to even moderate culture. And yet they like it. Taglioni liked to float in her ha~ge on the waters of Como, but could she even un- derstand the emotions which Arnold has described on thrice visiting the angle of road under chestnut shades, which coin- mands that scene of beauty? Degrees of culture, and varieties of taste to some extent disperse the crowd, when they take to travel. Some will seek the pop- ulous shore, some the lonely beach, some the moor, some the glen; some rocks and snow, some the bevillad lake. Each scene of nature finds its votaries, and all the inns are full: the bow windows at the watering place, the bothy door in the highlands, the trellis of the auberge, the balcony of the grand hotel. We have called it a passion of modern life, for its development is modern and European. Other races and other ages dif- fered from us, and from each other, in their notions of scenery. The Hebrew looked upon nature with other eyes than the Greek; the Roman could not sympathize with the Norseman ; our own immediate ancestors would be amazed at us. By the Greek mind natural scenery is char- acteristically regarded in connection with man, as reduced to order, fitness, and utility through architectural adornment, horticulture, or the lahours of the hus- bandman, and thus made subservient to his comfort or enjoyment; or, as the im- mediate background to the human figure, divine or otherwise, and the appropriate stage for its emotions. The poetry of India and Persia deals with nature more in its seductive aspect as an adjunct to scenes of luxury and love. Hebrew lit- erature, on the other hand, contrasts the littleness and feebleness of man with the beauty and majesty of nature, because connecting these always with the great- ness of God. The Roman, again, was still more utilitarian than the Greek. He looked at nature more with the eye of a wealthy land-owner; or as subserv- ing pleasures of the flesh; or as offering a field for the engineer. He laid out roads and great public works. He se- cluded himself in luxurious villas. If he liked the country, it was that he might be surrounded by a large. establishment; that his fruit and his fish might be served in perfection, that he might be fanned by soft airs, and find soft paths for his feet; where too, when so minded, he might resign himself to philosophy, or discourse with a select company of friends upon men and manners. Un- tamed nature was to him repulsive. It has been remarked that no description 3 4 SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. of the eternal snows of the Alps, when tinged in the morifing or evening with a rosy hue, of the beauty of the blue gla- cier ice, or of any part of the grandeur of Swiss scenery, has reached us from the ancients, although statesmen and generals, with men of letters in their train, were constantly passing through Helvetia into Gaul. All these travel- lers think only of complaining of the dif- ficulties of the way. Julius Qesar upon one such occasion actually beguiled the weary time by preparing a grammatical treatise Christianity introduced, though slowly, a new order of sentiment. To the Chris- tian was opened, as to the ancient He- brew, a view of nature as the express work of God, and as instinct with provi- dential care. The Christian, after a while, could be at home anywhere in Gods world; and when the necessities of persecution combined with false views of life to drive him into the wilderness, this consciousness helped to keep him there as the contemplative hermit, and gradually formed a taste fox such scenes. In the letter of St. Basil to Gregory of Nazianzus, describing his retreat among forests, upon a steep mountain side in Armenia, we find a style of feeling more akin to the romantic than in any other document of antiquity. But though the Christian recluse in a measure enjoyed his seclusion, it was probably more as a seclusion,a retreat from the vast evil of the pagan social world, than for much else; and perhaps the naked sub- lime was never agreeable tp him, except as testifying to his total renunciation of all that was pleasant to the senses. Christianity could not in such a matter affect the tastes of race. The Northern nations, Scandinavian and Germanic,possessed wholly differ- ent sympathies. Among them, for the first time, we find the spirit of man em- bracing the spirit of Nature in her wild- est moods; welcoming a contest with her wrath, rejoicing in the tumult of the elements. The classic mind confessed a pleasure only in sparkling streams, the songs of birds, the chirp of the cicada. The Gothic soul was attuned to sympa thy with the thunders, whether of sea or sky; with the roar of the torrent and the howling of the forest. The imagination of the one was stirred by Natures soft subservient beauty; that of the other kindled at the spectacle of her terrible- ness. Yet it was principally as answering to his own fierce and restless passions that the Northern loved the wildness of na- ture; and as civilization in the hands of Christianity tamed or directed these into new channels, his predilections were so far modified that the forest with its dreary dimness afforded sufficient scope to his less excited fancy. Hence it is the woodland that occupies so large a space in the tales and poetry of the Mid- dle Ages. And if the passion for sport had much to do with this delight in leafy glades, still more we believe it was due to an inherited sensibility of race to mys- tery and gloom. If the baron loved to issue from his towers with hound and horn, he loved also the still beauty of the scene when the chase was done. If the outlaw was driven to the greenwood for safety, he learnt there the secret of its wild charm. It is true that the medkeval man had always some fear of those dark shades, as peopled by he knew not what of elves and sprites ; and it is true also that his tastes sometimes to6k the opposite di- rection of a pedantic pleasure in the for- mal and trim-cut pleasaunce; but still, comparing him with his classic predeces- sors, we cannot but be struck with his heartier relish for Nature as he found her; and with the greater depth and range of his susceptibilities. His habits of life aided the tendencies of his original temperament. His castle was perched on its lonely rock for security, or perhaps for purposes little better than those of a brigand, ~ lifted up there among clouds and mountains, the occupant must needs sometimes deepen his sym- pathies with all sources of the sublime, and learn to watch the streaming shad- ows, and the sunset rays, for their beauty, as well as the distant mule track, or the winding stream, for some luckless trav- eller. And if the abbey was planted at SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. 5 first in the wooded dell mainly for seclu- to different classes among ourselves, but sion, and for the fish of the brook, those as distinctively marking different periods lovely spots must have wrought their and nations. The enjoyment of land- spell upon all gentle souls; and we can- scape must, therefore, be composed of not regard the choicely-set edifices com- various elements, and invites analysis. manding the sweetest reaches of the This diversity of taste must be connected watered glen, without admitting them as with a diversity in the sources of plea- evidences of a taste for the picturesque, sure, and these we purpose now to in- and as proof that the founders loved to vestigate. feast the eye, if also the appetite. They may be comprised under the fol- Yet the modern taste for landscape is lowing principal heads: THE UTILITA- again composed of new elements. To us RIAN, THE SCIENTIFIC, THE ARTISTIC, has been revealed for the first time the HISTORIC, POETIC, and MORAL. poetry of dreariness. It has been re- The UTILITARIAN is, perhaps, the served for us to feel the power of the un- most common ground of pleasure in land- trodden wilderness, the level desert, the scape. This point of view includes all endless prairie, the Sjberian steppe ; that conduces to the personal comfort of the glacier field; and of Arctic seas., and bodily wants of man. A well-ploughed It might seem that to us especially had or fruitful field, a high cultured farm, that invitation been addressed, Come even though all the trees be cut down, and see what desolations the Lord hath and the hedges, bright with blossom and made in the earth. Our most popular berry are destroyed, are complacent to books of travel furnish sufficient justifi- one whose regard is attracted by pro- cation for this remark. Arctic voyages, ductiveness and utility. On a larger Alpine adventures, explorations among scale, therefore, a landscape which ex- the wildest regions of the west, or the hibits rich soil and fertilizing water- scorched deserts of the east, form their courses is agreeable. Fat pastures com- staple; while again a large proportion of fort the eye (especially of the proprietor), the summer tourists who do not leave our and the political economist must needs own shores, show the same preference, be delighted with a well-tilled Country seeking the moorlands of Yorkshire, the studded with commodious farm buildings solitary lochs of Scotland, or the surf- and weather-tight cottages. A general beaten rocks of Connemara. Doubtless air of satisfaction diffuses itself over the there are many who feel no such long- countenances of the passengers in a rail- ings; we speak only of that which is dis- way train as it passes through such a dis- tinctive, and most certainly at no previ- trict. And a similar gratification is ex- ous period has any such appetite dis- perienced by certain classes at witness- played itself. It is even of very recent ing capabilities~~ of various kinds, growth, and a few generations back was water power which may feed a mill, in- entirely unknown. Read the accounts of dications of mineral wealth, and con- those who accompanied the Duke of veniences for railroads, harbours for Cumberlands. army to Culloden, or who refuge, or ports for traffic, sites for build- were afterwards quartered at Fort Wil- ing speculation; and all the various ham, and you will find the most amusing specialities which appeal to a mans busi- diatribes upon the ugliness of the ness and bosom. And under this head scenery, the great black hills, the we may include the sporting facilities of treeless moors, the horrid rocks. a country; for certainly good covers, Yet the great grandsons of those gentle- open country, and a convenient distribu-f men now rejoice to possess a shooting- tion of hedges, are elements in a view of~ lodge, some twenty miles from a road, or great importance to red coats and buck- to spend their honeymoon on the bleak- skins, and contribute to a pleased. regard. est shores of Skye. While again the angler possesses also his We have thus noticed a great variety own source of interest, difficult, perhaps~ of taste in scenery as belonging n~t only to place under its most appropri& te head~ 6 SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. We are not sure but that it has most to do with the poetic element, and that, not because of the frequently visionary na- ture of the contents of the basket, but from the deep, if somewhat dreamy pas- sion for natural scenery which often dis- tinguishes the lovers of this branch of sport. Manufacturing towns are no dis-sight in the utilitarian point of view. They fill the landscape with a desired activity. The drifting volumes of smoke indicate that the pot is boiling, literally and metaphorically; and the distant rumble of the streets, and the buzz of voices, are welcome tokens of busy life. For the same reason, nothing is so pleasant to some minds as the perspective of a great high road, and it is a coveted window which commands it; while, as may often he seen, balconies are put out, and the roof of many an ale-house made available, just to survey the bustle of a railway station. These are some of the homelier mani- festations of the principle, but it is cer- tain that utilitarian considerations affect the most cultured minds, and this apart from that moral element which we shall afterwards consider. The spectacle of an adaptation of means to an end; of ordered and well-arranged activity;of convenience and appropriateness, is a worthy spectacle. Man is a contriving and a busy animal. He has all nature put under his hands to contrive, and to be busy with ; and it is inevitable that he should delight in witnessing her subjec- tion, and the endless applications of hu- man ingenuity to that end. The Greek and Roman tastes were, as we have seen, decidedly utilitarian. The modern continental idea of a de- sirable landscape partakes very much of the Greek sentiment. It must be lively, festal, easy. The universal residence in or near towns attests this. The prome- nades, the avenues and gardens, the bal- conies and trellises, the numerous seats and tables in the open air, are all evi- dences of a social taste which likes Na- ture chiefly as she can supply soft airs and fountains, green shades and flowers, with perhaps an expanse of blue water for a boat, or a bright river for breezes. A country house, absolutely in the coun- try, would to most be intolerably dull. Amongst ourselves a practical utilita- rianism, which is neither of the Roman nor the Grecian type, is very strong. In pursuit of our practical objects we care not for the utter defacement of Nature if she stands in our way, and seem, indeed, for the most part, perfectly unconscious that we have defaced her. Perhaps in no civilized nation has disregard of the beautiful in our daily surroundings been carried to such an extent, and surely much to the detriment, both of daily hap- piness and of mental refinement. Yet we possess a strong taste for natu- ral scenery, and as we have already ob- served, at certain seasons all who can, rush away from their homes and peram- bulate Europe for a prospect. But, with certain exceptions, we have little care for the landscape about us. We only think of our towns as places to work in, not to live in, and break out consequently with periodic and frantic eagerness for a holi- day. When we return, we are a little shocked at first with the bald and dismal aspect of things, but we soon reflect that it looks business-like, and are com- forted. Utility, however, in some form or other will always have a large influence in the appreciation of scenery. Its most pleas- ing phase is habitableness, and this is quite consistent with natural beauty, nay, may be made to enhance it. The charm- ing shores of the Italian lakes are greatly indebted to thq towns, villages, and villas which glitter abng the wooded heights, and bead the blue waters like a string of pearls; and most continental prospects over plains, or broad valleys, are inter- esting on this ground. Similar pros- pects in our own country are too often obscured by clouds of smoke; or, if that is absent, it is only to display the per- verse ugliness of every roof and wall and chimney. Still there are stretches of scenery along some of our rich and popu- lous valleys, round some of our bays, or comprising distant views of our great towns, which owe much to the evidences they present of wealth, prosperity, and comfort. There is, however, a peculiar kind of scenery coming under this description, in which England is unrivalled ; this is the domestic or home landscape, scarcely to be met with, as we understand it, in any other country. Here, it is the result of our national predilection for home life, country life, and the exercise of individual rights. Under these influences every one wishes to invest his personality in a visible cir- cle of possessions, and to collect round himself (the important central unit) every adjunct of a self-contained family. A man rejoices in his own garden, his own paddock and pond, his own farm or park; SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. and quite regardless of what may be on the other side of his paling or his hedge, the other mans, his neighbours, he aims at the completeness of his own little home view. And hating a few unfortu- nate pagodas, or sham ruins, or gothic- windowed arbours, he often achieves considerable success. There is an air of neatness, cheerfulness, and often of pic- turesqueness, especially where larger properties afford greater scope; and in these the home views exhibit a happy medium between the trim and the care- less, suggesting comfort and security and peace, without sacrificing too much of the sweet abandonment of nature. Such do- mestic landscapes seem to breathe the spirit of our domestic virtues, while be- traying something also of our exclusive- ness and rigid assertion of individual right. They are closely walled in, and closely girt by guardian plantations that the vista of the property may be un- disturbed. It is only the mans 6wn that he cares to decorate. The breezy com- mon may be cut up to-morrow, or a field foot-path destroyed, for aught he cares and we may be thankful, therefore, that individualism and utilitarianism com- bined, do produce a style of home scen- ery often so delightful and unique, and of which even the passing traveller may ob- tain now and then a refreshing glimpse. The SCIENTIFIC aspect of landscape ascends from the utilitarian into higher tracts of thought. There are few, there- fore, in comparison who are competent to derive pleasure, from this point of view. It is, however, a source of interest grow- ing in importance and daily enlisting more votaries. The geographical relations of land- scape come under this head those cir- cumstances which indicate its where- abouts on the face of the globe, which associate it with known characteristics of the region to which it belongs, and which illustrate its physical conditions. Much interest is derived from recogniz- ing in this manner distinctive peculiari- ties of climate, soil, and in what is called orography, the arrangement of the moun- tain masses; the course and character of rivers, and the like; and the adaptation of all to the specialities of its flora and fauna, and to the wants of its human in- habitants. But science can open yet richer veins of thought. Let us imagine ourselves standing by the side of a Humboldt, and we shall easily perceive how potent may be the spell. The disclosure of the phys ical conditions, relations, and interactions of what we see, as a portion of the vast system of Nature reveals a new world to us. From the clouds above our heads, to the deep buried strata beneath our feet, everything assumes a new import. The clouds, with their varied heights and conformations; the winds which bear them along; the rains they carry or dis- pense, and their stores of lightning; the mountain ranges where all the phenom- ena of geological action are set in motion before us, and the everlasting hills begin to move as in a slow dance of unnum- bered ages; the upheavals and depres- sions; the tidal beat and wash of van- ished oceans; the furnace heat of hidden flame, or its bursting fury; the tortuous grinding of the glacier, and the riving of frost the wear and tear of rivers ; the accumulation or draining of lakes; each of these is a revelation under the finger of science. Under the same guidance, vegetation arrays itself in its appropriate climatic zones, and in countless orders and degrees, till to our unsealed eyes every unsuspected corner discloses its separate marvel. The very soil becomes pregnant with significance. Every boul- der stone speaks a history, and the gleam of metallic ore betrays dark secrets of the rocks. Nor does animal life partake less of the same discriminating glance. Air, earth, and water crowd with genera and species, summoned into light as by an en- chanters wand, and coming to be named anew; while air, earth, and water them- selves become but one vast and vital whole; a system of powers, a dissolving view of ordered change; a portion of the sublime and universal cosmos. Such enlargement of view it is in the power of science to bestow. And though there are few Humboldts to survey all nature with an equal eye, there are many who in some one line of scientific pur- suit enjoy a special gift of vision. The geologist with his hammer ; the botanist with his vasculum; the entomologist with his net; the conchologist with his dredg- ing apparatus ; the meteorologist with his barometer; these, and many more, walk abroad with a wondrous enhancement of perception a microscopic intensity which, while it reveals so many hidden treasures of detail, need not prevent the comprehension of its unity. The source of interest in landscape, which we have placed next in order, is the ARTISTIC. It may be the peculiar province of the artist to appreciate this but numbers are vividly susceptible to its 7 8 SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. influence who may have never touched a pencil or a brush, and who may have never analyzed the cause of their enjoy- ment. It is due to an innate pleasure in the Forms or Shapes of things; in the dispo- sition of Light and Shadow; and in the qualities and arrangement of Colour. It is evident that landscape affords a large field for the expatiation and delight of this art-faculty. The pleasure derived from form may be traced to three chief constituents Character of line, Combi- nation and Opposition of lines, and Pro- portion of parts. In all three the satis- faction is due in great measure to exact mathematical relations, of which the mind may be unconscious, but which please because a harmony or relation is felt, al- though its precise nature may not be un- derstood. Musical sounds possess simi- lar profound relations, and penetrate our being because exact numerical relation pervades all things. But our delight in form is further enhanced by its symbolic expressiveness. Lines and shapes and proportions are all felt to be inextricably associated with ideas. They utter a lan- guage which immediately awakens sen- sations. Lines of peculiar beauty or forcibleness ; lines diverse and opposed, and yet combining; parts related, yet dif- fering, please the mind from their symbolic significance. They are truths in hiero- glyphic, and we rejoice in the apt expres- siveness of the symbol. This also may be felt rather than explained. We do not say to ourselves that such a line or shape is expressive of such a truth ; that the curved line is suggestive of softness and flexibility; and the straight line of rigid- ity, strength, and directness-; but we feel it by virtue of the analo~ies between spirit and matter which pervade all na- ture; and because matter and mind are run together in the same mould, the one everlastingly answering to, and the exponent of, the other. All objects in nature are full of expres- siveness in line and proportion every leaf, flower, and pebble but landscape offers the larger and richer field. In tree stems and branches abides an infinite va- riety; and mountain outlines, clean cut against a pure sky, present very choice examples of lines exquisite in their own immediate contour, and of lines opposed, or in combination. Quality of line is found in each separate member; a precipice in profile often yields a line of remarkable elegance; and for combina- tion compare the king slope of the hill as it falls away backward with the straibht precipitous front of the same, and it will generally present an example of expres- sive construction. Take such a range as that of the Oberland as seen from Berne, or of the Pennine Alps from the top of the Gemini; their lines are thrown up, as it were, one against another in splen- did combination, like tossing waves con- gealed. Analyze their forms, and the no- bleness of mountain outline will be ap- parent. The interior rifts and cleavages of mountains are also full of picturesque sweeps and breaks; but Mr. Ruskin was ~the first to point out the peculiar beauty of the lines of dibris, or of mountain flank as it descends into the valley; this he ingeniously compares to the profile of a birds wing, than which there is scarcely anything more elegant, composed as it is in most refined proportions of the straight and the curved.; elements which must enter more or less into the composition of every choice line. The interlacing lines of successive ranges of hills or distances, from the foreground to the horizon, are often ex- ceedingly picturesque ; and the contrast afforded by the dead flat lines of a lake, or of the sea, cutting sharp against the shore, is always highly effective. In con- tinental scenery the valleys are often of this flat character, instead of being rounded like the bottom of a bowl, as in our own smaller landscapes; and the ex- panse of a continental plain garnished by mountains, is striking from the contrast between the tossed and soaring lines above, and the level lines below. The nearer landscape affordsthis sort of beauty in abundance; rocks, cra~,s, crumbling banks, old trees, and old cot- tages, present the richest combinations of line; and particularly the interlacing boughs and stems of trees, render wood- land scenery in winter often perfectly captivating to the instructed eye. Our Welsh valleys, and many pleasing bits of English rural scenery owe their charm to the same endless complexity; a quality of which our artists are well aware, and encamp about them summer after sum- mer with amusing pertinacity. Light and Shadow derive their pictori- al value from the same qualities of con- tour and proportion, of which we have just been speaking. Shadows present themselves primarily as variously shaped patches, distributed upon an object, or throughout a landscape; exhibiting, there- fore, simply in their forms, certain rela- tions and proportions interesting and sat- SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. 9 isfactory in themselves. But shadow as- abroad, where the taste for colour dis- sumes a more important office in defining played in booths, and in dresses of the and relieving objects, and nothing tells peasantry, bright with scarlet and blue, with greater effect in scenery. It is this and the habit in rural districts of sus- which renders the presence of sunshine pending coloured mattresses from the (without which there is no shadow) so windows, add wondrously to the effect of valuable ; everything shows with a brio~ht continental scenery. Here our artists and a dark side, and stands out from its strive desperately to retain the tattered neighbour. And this is why a landscape red cloak of the invaluable old woman, looks so much better either at morning but it will soon be too antiquated for use. or evening, for then the light is lower I They may be thankful if the modern and the shadows longer, throwing out red petticoat survives. Poppies by the every feature in the strongest relief; so hedge side in this strait. are a great re- giving variety and boldness to the moun- source, lichens upon a rock or roof, and tam side or face of rock, and making even a red jug or tile to counteract our every tree, cottage, or stone of value, in plenitude of greens. By colours in com- virtue of its own particular shadow And bination, we mean that rich harmonious it is this which renders the effect of our blending of the various tints and tones April or October skies so delightful ; which natural objects display in such streams of shadow are coursing over our abundance. Rock scenery for its greys, landscapes, and not only diversifying Scottish moors for their purples, autumn their often tame surfaces by alternate woodlands for their browns, all exhibit bands of light and dark, but cutting out this harmony of colours, while a still features otherwise undistinguishabl e ; more excellent harmony is produced by separating the heights, distances, and the tender admixture of various brighter particular objects, now a tract of wood and even opposing colours, refined by is dipped in deepest purple; now a hill distance into one indescribable glow of stands boldly out; and now a building or colour. A hill side lit up by a sun-gleam a tree is printed off black againstasun- often exhibits this delightful intermin- lit background, or shines in silver upon a gling of various tints due to the bush, and distant darkness. heather, and sunburnt grass, and gorse, Mountains owe their most magnificent broken rock, and soil, which are, as it effects to shadows which pour into their were, poured over its surface in molten chasms and flood their abysses, block out streams. their large proportions, and sculpture Shadow and Reflection, however, are their details in wonderful and sharp re- 1 important agents in blending and diffus- lief. Particularly to be admired are the ing varieties of tint. Shadow breaks into shadows among the Alpine snows, so the midst of colour with cool darks, where delicate, yet so defined, and carrying a still the original tints are seen obscurely tender tint which defies imitation. But mingling, while again it prepares the way the mention of tint to which all shadow is for reflections which strike rich colours much indebted for its beauty, leads us to into the bloom, and illuminate it as with a our next element of the picturesque in hidden glow. These effects are often ex landscape, namely cellently seen among buildings, old walls, Colour. The charms of colour are re- and rocks, upon the bosom of still water, vealed to most eyes, yet not perhaps in and where careering clouds fleck with the harmonies and subdued tones which shade the glacier and the snow-field. so deliciously adorn the scenery of na- Transparency is noted for the lustre it ture. Colours are affected by various bestows on colour. The sun shining circumstances by Opposition, by Coin- through a roof of leaves, as in a wood or bination, by Shadow, Reflection, Trans- beneath the trellised vines of the south, parency, Distance, and Atmosphere, and produces a golden green under which it for all these influences landscape affo~s is delightful to repose, and the exquisite the fullest scope. Opposition of coloWrs glancing and tremulous colours which must be always sparing, and concentrated play among the waters of shallow shores, chiefly into vivid specks. Nature gives us often draw forth exclamations of delight. these in flowers, insects, and bright threads Who that has seen the glowing topaz of cloud, in an occasionally richly-coloured tints of Scotch or Yorkshire streams or rock or autumnal-tinted tree. But she the amethyst of Italian lakes, but will is principally indebted to the works and admit the beauty of transparency? ways of man in this respect, not so much But Distance lends the highest en- in this country as almost everywhere chantment to the view. Gradation is a SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. I0 charm of great refinement, and from the foreground to the horizon, colour is grad- uated on a scale of infinite delicacy. The breaks in a landscape caused by ranges of successive elevation sometimes involve the gradation in a marked series of steps, rendering the effect of distance upon col- our more obvious ; while sometimes, as in the vast continental plains, the eye wanders delighted over the vanishing expanse. The tender blues and purples of distant mountains are full of loveliness, as are the soft ~receding azure of a sea prospect. and the upward reverse deepen- ing of the sky-tints from the horizon to the zenith. The colours of distance always clear, bright, distinct, and yet soft, often defy analysis, and confound imitation. Atmosphere is in most re- spects only another name for Distance, but it may be classed separately for the effect it produces when it becomes a col- oured medium. Two conditions of this sort are very noticeable, where it is suffused with yellow sun rays, as at morn- ing, and more especially ~evening time, glorifying the entire face of nature and, when following sunset, that crimson afterglow so well known to Alpine travellers, touches all the rocks with fire, and tinges the snow peaks with colours of the rose. We have thus reviewed with as much condensation as the nature of the subject would allow, the various elements of the pure picturesque in natural scenery that is to say, so far as it depends upon visible shape and colour so far as the art- faculty alone is concerned. Something will be gained if any are induced thereby to look for beauties of which they may have been previously unaware ; they will find a new and interesting field of observa- tion open to them, and a pleasure which will never pall. The HIsToRIc phase of landscape now demands our attention. Landscape de- lights not only as the present habitation of man, but as the scene of his bygone exploits, as moulded and modified by the bands of many generations, and as an element in the formation of national char- acter. Of this kind of interest the most vivid and universal is the personal, that which is connected with individual his- tory. No one revisits the scenes of his boyhood or youth without being more or less strongly affected with this feeling. The familiar stile and footpath, the turn of the road, the church tower, the clump of elm or oak, the outline of the shelter- ing brow, each adds a thrill to his enjoy- ment. They are part of his long-lost self, they may have been carried in his minds eye for many a year, and have visited him in vision under far-away tropics. The landscape to his eye is not what it is to other eyes, for all the soil is sacred. There are few poets who have not dwelt upon the theme, and to it we have been indebted for the most charming of their poems. It is a mood with which Nature loves to sympathize; she fosters it with her mild and quiet lights, her evening or autumnal tints, the whisper of her leaves, the ripple of her streams, the soft rever- berations she gives to distant sounds of cattle on the bill, or childrens voices on the green; in the dream-like stillness she often breathes about her How soft the music of those village bells Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet; now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still Clear, and sonorous, as the gale comes on; With easy force it opens all the cells Where memory sleeps. This influence of old memories deep- ens apparently as the features of nature with which it is associated are the more impressive. It seems to be most power- ful with inhabitants of mountainous coun- tries. The native valley is like no other valley. Its green seclusion is the one refuge which the heart seeks during all its straits and toils cares and woes are fondly supposed never to have entered there. It is just a quiet corner of the veritable paradise . and its ouardian mountains are recognized with rapture by the returning wanderer on the far-away horizon, and trod with bounding foot- steps. This sentiment of personal at- tachment has many deep and sacred sources. It is connected with the sanc- tities of home ; with early loves and friendships ; with aspirations and pro- jects; self-communings and dedications it is interwoven with the history of the soul. And we are apt to believe that with- out having experienced this early inter- course with Nature, she is never fully understood or appreciated. The born in- h~Ditant of cities may indeed enjoy with a very keen relish his occasional runs into the country, but it is short-lived. It is principally the force of contrast which strikes him. There can be no al)peal to his inner man, no delicate vibration of the chords of memory, no associations mysteriously awakened by casual sights and sounds speaking to him as voices in a dream. Nature has never been his SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. II childhoods toy-house, and he can bring to her nothing therefore of the affection of a child. But we must turn to the wider scope of history properly so-called, and our first remark is the connection which may be traced between character of scenery, and the character and development of na- tional life. It is impossible not to recob- nize this connection. Egyptian life and Greek life, Swiss life and Dutch life, the life of England ay~d of Italy, are all inti- mately coloured by their respective land- scapes. In each instance the race has breathed in more senses than one its own atmosphere ; it has shown itself the child of its soil, the inheritor of its spirit. It is as if Nature had received imper- sonation there in humanity; or as if man caught in each case the mood and tem- per of his foster-mother. In the ancient Egyptian we see, as in a glass reflected, the solemn, stern, and rigid features of his landscape rock and sand, the eter- nally flowing river life of every kind narrowed and bounded by implacable and barren death. And so he piled his pyra- mids as for eternity, and built himself round with tombs, and gave to his sculp- ture the repose of shrouded death. The Greek was surrounded by what has been well described as a joyous chorus of mountains, and he stood up and shouted with all his buoyant heart in return. His active body and agile mind responded well to the bright alternating character of his scenery now the blue dancing sea, now the grove and plain, now the stream and thymy hill. There was nothing to quell or deject, but everything to stimu- late energy, and inspire the breast. In the narrow and lofty valleys of Switzerland and Tyrol, threatened by some of the most tremendous powers of Nature, we find a people awestruck by superstitions, and partaking of the stern- ness of their mountain storms ; high couraged as befits those who are neigh- bours to the avalanche, and capable of precipitating themselves upon their foes with like resistless impetus. In the flats of Holland a people dwell who pursue their affairs, as they plod alon~ their roads, with level and persistent ener~y, while the rough baptism of ocean spray gives them nerves of iron. The ordi- nary English character is unromantic, exactly a counterpart to the tame but eminently serviceable scenery. England like Greece is the world in little. Not equal to Greece in beauty, every tool and store is provided ready to hand for the workshop. The sentimental weakness and excitability of southern continental nations seem not a little dependent upon the charms of nature by which they are surrounded. True, the influence of cli- mate and scenery upon national charac- ter has been often exaggerated, to the neglect of qualities of race and of moral training; but the curious parallelisms between the character of a landscape and that of its inhabitants are nevertheless sufficiently apparent to afford matter of much interest to the traveller. There is, however, another aspect of the same subject, and that is the association of landscape with national development. A landscape appears not only redolent of the character of a people but of its history. Its geographical relations are the first in order. We have already touched upon them as forming part of the scientific aspect of landscape ; but they have also an historical bearing, when we consider how the physical con- formations have restrained, directed, or encouraged the peculiar activities of a people ; how mountains have secluded or protected them ; deserts served as a wall of brass ; the sea become their defence and highway ; rivers their great arteries of communication and traffic; fruitful plains and valleys the hives of their in- dustry. All such points displayed in any prospect add to it a very intelligent interest, and suggest at a glance the his- tory with which it is connected. But there are traces of that history, and indications of its course spread all over its surface. The most obvious of these are the ruined buildings, and other remains of which most old countries are full. These aia as a writing which each family of man has left upon the walls of its house ; venerable and expressive characters, which time and the new occu- pants are blotting out year by year. But they are pregnant with meaning; and through them the silent scenery seems to fill with the murmurs of its dead gen- erations. The obelisks and fa~ades of the Nile valley; the columns and pedes- tals of Greece and Italy; the broken walls of the Rhine castlesare all in- stances of this breathing of history over a landscape. How many of our own landscapes are dignified and enriched by the grey abbey walls which glimmer among the trees, or by the castle turret, peering over the valley And how much interest is added to the view as we learn that Cromwell in person b~ittered the one, or that William Rufus lay dead at the other! 12 SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. The more extensive indications of na- an impression not to be effaced. The tional activity exhibited in the remains whole sweep of landscape remains a vivid or existence of public works, as of aque: picture on the memory. Their sensa- ducts, roads, embankments, and other tions at first beholding Jerusalem, or appliances of civilized life, are of similar Rome, have been recorded by many a value in imparting historical significance traveller; and in a less degree there is to scenery; especially where these are hardly a city on the continent which does particularly expressive of national char- not possess its historic charm. We say acter and habits, as in the amphitheatres I on the continent, because there the sur- and aqueducts of Rome, and the dykes rounding natural features are larger, and and canals of Holland. In the latter necessities of fortification, and habits of case these things, in themselves devoid social life, define towns to the eye much of beauty, are so eminently suggestive, more than with us. They do not melt so illustrative of Dutch life how it away so indiscriminately into the country, came to be a life at all, how it sustained through miles of characterless suburb; itself against the fury both of man and of and in consequence they can be general- the elements, and how it grew and ly recognized at once in all their histori- strengthened itself that instead of cal significance. The eye is caught im- making the dull landscape duller, they mediately with the advantages of position bestow upon it enduring interest. The which first planted them there; or of de- same may be said of the long lines of fence which made them important; or of continental roads, bordered by equally commerce which made them thriving; interminable poplars; they are so per- with the ramparts which have stood fectly continental, that we recognize sieges; the churches of venerable archi- them with pleasure. They signify to us tecture; ancient towers soaring to the that peculiarly continental feature, the sky; the bridges where the craft of their boundless. plain; and that centralized rivers cluster; the poplar lines which and systematic influence of continental mark the long converging roads, and government, which goes straight to its make the busy city look like a spider- end, without regarding local or individ- web in the plain. And as the traveller ual rights. And they bring to our stands and says So this is Cologne, thoughts the movements of great armies or This is Milan, the magic of the name at historic epochs ; of Imperialists and and spectacle together is apt to hold him Swedes, in the times of Adolphus; and long in reverie, while he ponders over Russians and French in the times of Na- pages of history, which till now had been poleon, when trains of artillery miles only pages, and never pictures. long rumbled on these roads, and corps Nor must we omit the sites of any re- darrn~e marched, and countermarched. markable historical event such espe- Such characteristic marks in a landscape cially as the scenes of great battles. It we would not willingly spare, and any is a never-failing source of interest to link it may possess with an historical recognize the formation of ground which figure, or period, is sufficient to redeem has attracted the attention and directed it from the common-place, and to coin- the manceuvres of some great captain; pensate for tediousness. The steppes of where he planted his cannon, or rallied Russia are illustrated by the Cossack; his men; a point that was held as a key the sierras of Spain by the muleteer and of position, and upon which depended the ~ipsy; the forests of Germany by the fortunes of a kingdom, or the fate of the tribes of Tacitus, and many a medi~- a nation. Imagination at such a spot val incident; the bare hills of Cornwall I speedily peoples the plain, or the pass, by the ancient British race; the fens of with contending hosts fills the air with Lincolnshire as a Saxon retreat. Even shouts and cries, darkens it with smoke Lapland and Kamschatka achieve an in- and dust, tears up the ground with shot terest, as they show to us the Lap with and shell, and flying wheels, and shakes his reindeer, and the Kamschatdale with it with the volleyed thunders ; till, sud his dogs. denly recalled to the harmless present, Naturally, however, no feature in a the peaceful sunlight, and the quiet cot- landscape can be so historically-interest- tages, the mind is startled by the almost ing as a great city, seen at sufficient dis- I unnatural silence and calmness, and re- tance to display well its site and bearing, covers itself to wonder where the buried Here history gathers itself into a focus, bones repose! Waterloo, Marengo, and and makes its most effective appeal. The many another scene of deadly strife are first sight of any City of renown leaves pilgrim spots; nor less so those of the SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. 3 antique time where only spear and shield sunk into the silence of the past, and were heard to clash, where Sparta stood which requires imagination to restore its at Thermopyke, and Athens struck at life, to evoke dead generations from their Marathon. tomb, to fill the scene again with weep- But scenes less imperative in their pre- ing or with laughter, to darken or to tensions may he fraught with even deeper brighten it, according to the human dra- sympathies. Such are the birth-places ma once enacted there? or abodes of great men, the spot where But every extensive prospect stimu- under some humble roof, the first small lates imagination. Let but a thin blue cry was heard which announced a new line of distance rim the horizon, and it voice in the world ; the stream, or rock, proves a ready outlet for that restless where the youthful strength was tried, faculty, which speeds away, picturing to which was to be a new power; the shades itself the ever-receding beyonL The which nursed the musings that were to misty spaces of the far-off plain, or the issue in new thoughts! Or the scenes vista of a valley, or the level vastness of where such men wrought, or suffered, or ocean, are equally seductive ; and when died; where they retired after lifes fitful the setting sun gilds a landscape with fever to rest awhile upon this worlds his last beams, the imagination of men in confines; or where they gave up life; all times and countries has been swift to and where the self-same hill or stream follow the departing glory with fond that meets our eyes to-day, faded upon yearnings after some remote paradise of eyes that closed too soon. Who does delight which may lie which alas must not feel such a landscape consecrate to lie, if it exist at all outside th~ boun- genius, or to goodness, and hush intru- dary of our common dayli~ht horizon. sive sounds to gaze his fill? Yet within that horizon, as we have A landscape which has been intimately already seen, the poetic faculty may find associated with any human achievement, abundant scope. The haze of distant which has supplied the arena for some cities raises not only the spell of history great deed, which has been the scene of but sets the imagination to work, pictur- some heroic act, or the stage for a life~ ing each crowded centre of human inter- long or an age-long drama, will tell its ests, and passions, joys and griefs: nay, story in every feature, will be itself the is not a single blue film of cottage smoke tablet inscribed forever with the record wavering upward from the moorland side, of its fame. sufficient to seduce the soul into poetic Let us close this portion of our subject reverie? Upon every flowing water the by pointing to the most emphatic illus- imagination takes ship directly, and faster tration of the power of history to di~nify than oar, or sail, or current can speed the a landscape. In Dean Stanleys admir- bark, follo~vs its course ; digressing curi- able book upon Palestine, may be seen ously upon all the shores it visits. Or how every feature of a not otherwise turning upward instead of downward, it striking land.scape may become intensely pursues the diminishing stream till run significant. In harmony of character be- to earth among the ferns and mosses of tween country and people, in geograph- its solitary source. And this solitariness ical position and conformation to suit has itself a mighty charm. The poetic their destiny, in scenes of great e~ents, mind seeks a spot where it can be alone in records of long-departed human ,with nature; where it may mould to itself activity, more than all in the spectacle of a subject creation, and listen undisturbed such a cityas Jerusalem, and in the me- to mysterious responses. The great at- morials of such a Life, the Holy Land is traction of mountain scenery consists in unrivalled for historic interest an in- its loneliness. Even the distant forms of terest indeed far higher than historic ; an mountains upon an horizon are a heritage interest so sacred that we arrest our for all poetic spirits, whose thoughts words. But we quote Palestine as the roam free over their summits, or nestle most striking instance of history conse- upon the silent uplifted crags. Nor is crating a landscape. ~the sense of mystery less enticing; the The POETIC closely follows upon the mind delights to wander in mazes of its historical aspect of scenery, for poetry is own making; to suggest to itself depths concerned with whatever stirs imagina- and recesses, and gulfs, into which might tion and rouses emotion. What, there- it but look, or heights which mioht it but fore, can be more poetic than a land- scale, and what of the marvellous and scape made livino~ with a human inter- unima~inable would not be disclosed! est? and especially a human interest To such a curiosity seas and lakes, and 4 SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. deserts and mountains, afford ample scope. But the poetic mind deals also more directly with Nature. Not content with airy flight and curious prying, it seeks to establish a communion as of soul with soul; to put Nature face to face with herself. This tendency finds expression in the investment of natural objects with attributes of personality, so that the tree, the stream, the hill, become living beings, with whom fraternal greetings can he ex- changed. It is difficult to resist the idea of personality in a tree. The birch is the lady of the woods, and the oak we call monarch of the forest; while rivers are constantly drawing forth strains of affectionate regard. It is an affection by no means conlined to poets. The pas- sion of the German nation for their ma- jestic Rhine is well known, and is amus- ingly illustrated in the story of a child, the son.of a Bonn Professor, who flung his newly-acquired watch into the. swift current as his fittest offering, because the fullest expression in his power, of his love and reverence for Great Father Rhine. But perhaps mountains are clothed with a personality yet more em- phatic. Their forms become expressive like a countenance; their hoary fronts seem crowned with dignity, Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago. They are continually apostrophized as beings of conscious might or beauty. The mountaineer always uses towards them the personal pronoun, and will speak of the Shepherd of Glencoe or the Old Man of Coniston ; or, in the si- lence of the still air rejoices (as one said) to hear them talkincr to one another; while Byron, listening to a thunder-storm, magnificently imagines that Jura answers through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud! And there are yet deeper sympathies between the poetic mind and nature, through which we find in the great scene of things a mysterious answering to hu- man emotion, an affinity which we recog- nize when we speak of the moods of nature, as if the inanimate world pos- sessed emotions of its own. Moods they are, which we transfer to it from our- selves ; or rather, the scenes of nature are intended to respond to our thoughts, to he the embodiment of ideas, and to present a series of vivid symbols illus- trating our mental and moral life. Thus Power is displayed to us; tas- sive, as regards magnitude and weight, in the prodigious masses and repose of rocks and hills ; active, in the forces which are seen in movement and in conflict, where torrents dash and avalanches de- scend, in the rush of winds and the rack of stormy seas ; and we call such scen- ery majestic, and awful, as if inhab- ited by a spirit of gloom and terror. Love seems to beam on us from many a fair and gracious landscape, where beautiful forms and colours are blended in happy nuptials over all the verdant earth, and earth and sky embrace in tender harmo- nies of tint; and such a scene of soft luxurious beauty answering as to a mute appeal we call it lovely. Joy lauohs in our faces when we catch the bright sparkle of streams and dewdrops, the twinkle of leaves, the dance of sprays and grasses and we call a landscape animated thus with movement and with colour smiling and cheerful. Peace breathes from many a calm hill-side and rural solitude, and from all the horizon round when day begins to die, and the winds are hushed, and all things settle to repose and so of such a scene we say it is peaceful, and that nature sleeps. Sorrow finds its apt reflection in many a dreary prospect, in weeping clouds and wailing winds, in shadows falling deep and dark, in black depths of water, and we say the scene is sad and melan- choly. The likeness of our human life we find in the jocund youth of spring and its gay renewing of the earth, in the ma- turity of summer and the decay of autumn. Mutability is urged upon us by the changeful influences and passh~, aspects of every natural scene. And Death is no less significantly enacted when light dies, and the wave, the tree, and the flower, and when all things perish in the using I It is not necessary to be a poet to ap- proach the poetic side of Nature. Many to whom expression is denied are keenly alive to poetic influences; and many more have deep delight in the scenes of nature, quite unconscious that it is the poetic aspect which enthralls them. They pos- sess a dim sense of communion with na- ture they feel that she responds to their yague longings and heart-yearnings; or they feel that they respond to heras if beholding a varied and gorgeous specta- cle, kindling now this, now that emotion, drawing out all their sympathies; and they know not that all the while nature is showing them their own heart, as in a glass darkly. SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. 5 We must account its poetic aspect the either in the majestic repose of mountains most refined and exquisite source of or the fury of the elements, hut in moral pleasure in beholding natural scenery. energy, and the firmness of self-reliance; It enlarges and dignifies the personality Beauty, to whose true significance those of a man, when he finds himself thus at are blind who rejoice only in the beau- one with Nature; thinking her thouThts teous outward show, and see not the sym- his breast thrilling with the sense of mys- bol of an eternal loveliness and truth; tery and grandeur, as he contemplates the Joy and Peace, the spiritual depths of abysses and the awful heights of her which the fairest and the brightest scenes mightiest forms ; or meltin as he sur- of nature reflect hut faintly. veys her scenes of lavish beauty pen- In reading thus the symbolism of the sive to her mood of sadness ; rejoicin~ world a genuine source of pleasure is dis- when she spreads before him her festal covered befitting the dignity of a moral gaieties. And if he should forget Who being, who is placed by a paternal hand it is that veils himself behind nature, in a theatre of existence where he is Who it is that has adapted to each other called upon not only td act and to suffer, the outward and the inward world, and hut also to recreate himself with the has bestowed upon them but one speech glorious spectacle of material beauty and language, even to the ends of the and in heholdinb which his pleasure earth, he may easily fall into the error of culminates in the thought that all these the Pantheist, and dream that one soul things have been so disposed and pre- animates both himself and the~world. sented before him by Divine intention, The MORAL aspect of landscape is con- and to image forth the Divine Artificer. nected on the one hand closely with the For those mightiest instances of physical Utilitarian ; as when a scene presents force, in magnitude or momentum, at itself in its relation to the well-being and which he stands transfixed in conscious happiness of its inhabitants and benev- impotence of adequate appreciation, are olence kindles at the sight of prosperous but the shadows of an immeasurable and fertile tracts, studded with happy almightiness ; and all the lavishness of homes, and yielding every innocent de- beauty spread around is hut a painted light; and when at such a spectacle the picture of an inimitable loveliness; and heart blesses the Parent of Good, who the joy in which earth often seems to revel, has appointed the times of man in pleas- and the peace which sometimes descends ant places. And it is a moral pleasure so calmly on her brow, are but tokens of too, when Nature is seen submittiw~ to an Infinite blessedness. culture, subduing her wildness to the Nor may we reckon the import to be hand of man, and rendering service and less Divine, of all that seems dark and companionship. It was a moral drawn mournful in natures landscapes. The from landscape, when the charming mournful, x~e know too well, rightly r~ shores of Como suggested to Dr. Arnold flects a sorrow which revelation more reflections upon the social condition of emphatically declares can even afflict the southern as compared with northern heart of God; while there is also a Divine regions; and he thanked God for allow- lesson in the fact that all the marks and ing him to gaze once and again upon that signs of woe are essentially transient. exquisite loveliness for solace and de- They are but clouds that dissipate, shad- light, yet not to enervate him for the ows that fleet away, winds that wail and noble work and duty of his life, cease, storms that break and disperse, But it is. also with the poetic side of decays that are succeeded by renewed Nature that the moral is intimately asso- vigour, deaths that make room for life! ciated. Poetic emotions should educate They speak to us indeed of a mystery of the heart as well as delight the fancy. evil; but they speak of a thing which They are in themselves ennobling and while it soils and stains is not permitted purifying; they purge the spirit from to destroy ; they remind us constantly of gross and sordid desires, and shame it of its inevitable griefs and mischiefs, but its petty vexations in presence of that they predict the time when creation shall calm sublimity and ordered beauty. Nor be delivered from it and them together. are more direct lessons wanting. Power Any one under the habitual influence and Beauty, Joy and Peace should be of religious feeling surrendering himself translated into their spiritual equivalents, to the impressions of natural scenery and not dwelt up,on for the sake only of will not only find its beauty and brandeur the pleasurable emotion. Power, whose wonderfully heibhtened, but his own soul highest representative is not to be found calmed and elevated. The quiet hours oi SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. a Sunday spent among the more imposing spectacles of nature on the ledge of some Alpine rock, or on some solitary ocean shore, are often very memorable; as the records of many good men show. And at such times the inspired aspirations of the Psalms and other of the poetic and emotional portions of Holy Scripture touch the heart with unusual force and beauty. Ascriptions of praise, and ado- ration of the Divine perfections seem as if uttered in the very presence of the Divine Majesty, when in immediate contact with His mighty works. He setteth fast the mountains. The strength of the hills is His also; the sea is His, and He made it. The valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing, are words clothed with unwonted power, when the hills are there before us visibly to testify of the strength that is in them; and the valley and plain of the perfection of their beauty; and the sea of its vastness, lifting up their several voices in unison with our own. A very familiar quotation, God made the country, but man made the town is so pertinent to this portion of our sub- ject that we cannot refrain from noticing it. It generally meets with vehement re- pudiation, inasmuch as man being the noblest work of God, and owing his fac- ulties to Him, the exercise of those fac- ulties in building and beautifying a town is indirectly a Divine work also. And we are far from denying that in mans works we are to recognize what God taught i~m to do. Yet for purity of moral influ- ence can they be compared with those where God alone has been the architect? Is there not a fatal propensity in man to spoil, to taint what his fingers touch ? Do we not read through all his works mistake, perversion, nay, prostitution of his Divine gifts ? And must there not therefore be danger to the moral sense if it be shut up among the diversified ob- jects of mans device, imprisoned among the creations of his brain, solicited at every turn by the allurements of his raree- show? Of all fair works of man Venice is the fairest. Yet though fully sensible to her unequalled charms may we not feel when pacing her gay piazzas as if the oft- quoted phrase might be rendered in yet stronger terms, and that if God built the Alps, the devil built Venice? In no place on earth, perhaps, is mans work so beautiful, and yet so exclusive; as if especially inspired of the Evil One to become a mans paradise secure against all rebuke or warning from the divine countenance of Nature. Separated by the sea from all the sweet influences of ordinary landscape, Venice knows but herself, reflected in the rippling water while even the sea is banished from her view as a solemn and subduing spectacle, hidden as it is (to her great content) by a belt of islands, and these, not soft with foliage, but glittering with walls and towers, and so still herself No stretch of field or grove affords to the Venetian the odour of green earth, but he floats on his canals, not wanting in odours of their own, among endless palaces, churches, and meaner buildings; or he sits among the crowded benches and tables of the great piazza, where the mar- ble pavement is nightly filled by thou- sands of congenial ice and coffee drink- ers. The very churches are dedicated less to God or the saints than to painters or sculptors, and they might be more fitly named after S. Tiziano or S. Vero- nese, than S. Paulo or S. Sebastiano. The sky is the only outlet upon grander sicrhts than man can rear; and when the gl~re of gas begins, and the bands strike up at every corner, the stars have a poor chance for their dim twinkling in the patch of misty dark. Not till the comet the Stella Cometa, of 1858, flared overhead like a portent of doom or a ver- itable message from the Infinite, could a Venetian eye be tempted higher than his rich faades of Palladian architecture. Great Nature sits apart from Venice, and offers no lessons from her open book. Compare this life of walls and pavements with that of the solitary peasant of the Tyrol, and we cannot but believe that the latter is surrounded by influences more wholesome both for soul and body; that the glorious things xvhich God has made must have a moral bearing upon the life of the dweller in the mountain, very different from that which the most ingen- ious or gorgeous specimens of human handiwork can exercise upon the heart of the Venetian citizen. And fact justi- fies the surmise. The Tyrol is the most moral country in Europe, while Venice has had a reputation of quite another sort. We have discussed the various sources of the pleasure derived from landscape scenery, and if the Utilitarian, the Scien- tific, the Artistic, the Historic, Poetic and Moral, comprehend the grounds of that pleasure, it is yet instructive to ob- serve how much they intermingle, or overlap each other. The utiritarian and SOURCES OF PLEASURE IN LANDSCAPE. 7 scientific have points of contact. The own d~fbris, yet our manufacturing skill artistic is seldom dissociated from the on the other hand has contrived the historic and with the poetic it is inextri- means of conveying the imprisoned mul- cably blended, all art being essentially of titudes abroad, and of showing them the nature of poetry again, the histori- green fields, bright skies, and streams. cal aspect of a landscape is also the poeti- This opportunity, and the growing desire cal and further, the highest order of p0- to embrace it, seem destined to be the re- etic feeling requires an elevated moral storative and compensating means which consciousness, modern life offers for its own diseases The pleasure, therefore, derived from and deprivations. There is something landscape is very complex, and not easily i ineffably calming and supporting in the. analyzed. We experience a sweet de- bosom of Nature, and those who seek light, and that is sufficient for the hour, her rightly, lay down many a burden. In without asking why. And yet the sensa- her calm realm is no competition, no tion of pleasure may be enhanced and hurry, no strife of passion; but every- enriched by separating and recognizing thing lives and grows, and passes through its particular components. At any rate, its ordered phases to its end doing its the impression will thus become at once work, and beautiful in doing it. more intelligent and lastino~ But it will add greatly at all times to Again, the analysis we have been pur- our intelligent enjoyment to be able to suing explains why so many different look on the scenery of nature with every kinds of scenery are pleasing ; the great variety of insight, to be able to sharpen variety of taste in landscape ; and the our vision by knowledge, and to detect causes of particular preferences in our all the interest that lurks in every land- own times. A tame landscape may be scape. How much does not one man ac- singularly rich in utilitarian, or historic tually see more than another, because he interest; or a small corner of it exquisite knows what to look for, arid knows also in artistic combinations ; while that all its significance? In this respect which is intrinsically gloomy, bleak, and wheneer we take our walks abroad bare, may possess high poetic claims. some acquaintance with the scientific, And varieties of taste will undoubtedly the artistic, or the historical aspect of be ruled by temperament and habit, so things will wonderfully augment our that those whose sympathies tend more powers, alike of observation and enjoy- towards the artistic, or poetic, will ap- ment, and will preserve us from the mere preciate what the practical man can see vulgarity of admiring only something that nothing in; as the scientific mind will find looks pretty; ignorant why, wherefore, to interest in what neither can enjoy ; while what end, and what other elements of the man of high moral perceptions, with higher virtue it may contain. larger scope than any, finds sermons in And if desirable to be comprehensive stones, books in the running brooks, and and instructed in our tastes, not less so is good in everything. it to be elevated and refined in them; to We would now only urge for a moment be sensible somewhat to the poetic and in conclusion the advantage and delight moral significance of this varied world; arisin~ from cultivating the pure sources to be open to its nobler impressions; to of pleasure we have been reviewing. To have the ear sensitive to its softer voices, behold the open face of Nature is a plea- to the subdued tones of its most eloquent sure which never satiates. It is exhilarat- speech ; to appreciate its solemn far- ing but never exciting. Or if the more reaching prophecies ; to respond to its majestic scenes excite, a recurrence to inner and almost sorrowful appeals, the the simple and near prospects is immedi- groanings of a fair but burdened crea- ately restorinb. Mr. Ruskin has well re- tion; to be elevated in fine into commo- marked that the way to give keener edge nity of spirit with nature. Thus may we to our enjoyment of scenery, is not to be find that we have risen to a higher corn- always seeking the highest and grandest munion still! In any degree in which examples, and passing from one magnifi- we shall be able to imbue ourselves with cence to another, but to bring ourselves the beauty and expressiveness of fair to appreciate and enjoy the humbler and landscape we shall discover that it tends, simpler specimens. These are within al- as Bacon said of philosophy, no less to most every ones reach; for if our manu- the glory of God th~u to the relief of facturing industry too often requires to mans estate. surround itself with a wilderness of its LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 210 A iS THE PARISIANS. From T3lackwoods Magazine. THE PARISIANS. BY LORD LYTTON. CHAPTER III. WHILE De Br~z6 and his friends were feasting at the Gafe Anglais, and faring better than the host had promised for the bill of fare comprised such luxuries as ass, mule, peas, fried potatoes, and champagne (champagne in some myste- rious way was inexhaustible durinb the time of famine) a very different group had assembled in the rooms of Isaura Cicogna. She and the Venosta had hith- erto escaped the extreme destitution to which many richer persons had been re- duced. It is true that Isauras fortune, placed in the hands of the absent Lou- vier, and invested in the new street that was to have been, brought no return. It was true that in that street the Venosta dreaming of cent per cent, had invested all her savings. But the Venosta,at the first announcement of war, had insisted on retaining in hand a small sum from the amount Isaura had received from her roman, that might suffice for current expenses, and with yet more acute fore- sight had laid in stores of provisions and fuel immediately after the probability of a siege became apparent. But even the provident mind of the Venosta had never foreseen that the siege would en- dure so long, or that the pri~ces of all arti- cles of necessity would rise so high. And meanwhile all resources money, fuel, provisions had been lar,,ely drawn upon by the charity and benevolence of Isaura, without much remonstrance on the part of the Venosta, whose nature was very accessible to pity. Unfortunately, too, of late money and provisions had failed to Monsieur and Madame Rameau, their income consisting partly of rents, no longer paid, and the profits of a sleeping partnership in the old shop, from which custom had departed so that they came to share the fireside and meals at the rooms of their sons fanc6e with little scruple, because utterly unaware that the money retained and the provisions stored by the Venosta were now nearly ex- hausted. The patriotic ardour which had first induced the elder Rameau to volunteer his services as a National Guard, had been ere this cooled if not suppressed, first by the hardships of the duty, and then by the disorderly conduct of his as- sociates, and their ribald talk and obscene songs. He was much beyond the age at which he could be registered. His son was, however, compelled to become his substitute, though from his sickly health and delicate frame attached to that por- tion of the National Guard which took no part in actual engagements, and was supposed to do work on the ramparts and maintain order in the city. In that duty, so opposed to his tastes and habits, Gustave signalized himself as one of the loudest declaimers against, the imbecility of~ the Government, and in the demand for immediate and energetic ac- tion no matter at what loss of life, on the part of all except the heroic force to which he himself was attached. Still, de- spite his military labours, Gustave found leisure to contribute to Red journals, and his contributions paid him tolerably well. To do him justice, his parents concealed from him the extent of their destitution they, on their part, not aware that he was so able to assist them, rather fearing that he himself had nothing else for support but his scanty pay as a National Guard. In fact, of late the parents and son had seen little of each other. M. Rameau, though a Liberal politician, was Liberal as a tradesman, not as a Red Republican or a Socialist. And, though little heed- ing his sons theories while the Empire secured him from the practical effect of them, he was now as sincerely frightened at the chance of the Communists becom- ing rampant as most of the Parisian tradesmen were. Madame Rameau, on her side, though she had the dislike to aristocrats which was prevalent with her class, was a stanch Roman Catholic: and seeing in the disasters that bad befallen her country the punishment justly in- curred by its sins, could not but be shocked by the opinions of Gustave, though she little knew that he was the author of certain articles in certain jour- nals, in which these opinions were pro- claimed with a vehemence far exceeding that which they assumed in his conver- sation. She had spoken to him with warm anger, mixed with passionate tears, on his irreligious principles ; and from that moment Gustave shunned to give her another opportunity of insulting his pride and depreciating his wisdom. Partly to avoid meeting his parents, partly because he recoiled almost as much from the ennui of meeting the other vis- itors at her apartments the Paris ladies associated with her in the ambulance, Raoul de Vandemar, whom he especial- ly hated, and the Abb6 Vertpr6, who had recently come into intimate friendship THE PARISIANS. 9 with both the Italian ladies his visits to Isaura had become exceedingly rare. He made his incessant military duties the pretext for absenting himself; and now, on this evening, there were gathered round Isauras hearth on which burned almost the last of the hoarded fuel the Venosta, the two Rameaus, the Abb6 Vertpr6, who was attached as confessor to the society of which Isaura was so zeal- ous a member. The old priest and the young poetess had become dear friends. There is in the nature of a woman (and es- pecially of a woman at once so gifted and so childlike as Isaura, combining an in- nate tendency towards faith with a restless inquisitiveness of intellect, which is al- ways suggesting query or doubt) a crav- ing for something afar from the sphere of her sorrow, which can only be obtained through that bridal of the earth and sky which we call religion. And hence to natures like Isauras that link between the woman and the priest, which the philosophy of France has never been able to dissever. It is growing late, said Madame Ra- meau; I am beginning to feel uneasy. Our dear Isaura is not yet returned. You need be under no apprehension, said the Abb6. The ladies attached to the ambulance of which she is so tender and zealous a sister incur no risk. There are always brave men related to the sick and wounded who see to the safe return of the women. My poor Raoul visits that ambulance daily. His kinsman, M. cle Rochebriant, is there among the wounded. Not seriously hurt, I hope, said the Venosta; not disfigured? He was so handsome; it is only the ugly warrior whom a scar on the face improves. Dont be alarmed, Signora; the Prussian guns spared his face. His wounds in themselves were not danger- ous, but he lost a good deal of blood. Raoul and the Christian brothers found him insensible among a heap of the slain. M. de Vandemar seems to have very soon recovered the shock of his poor brothers death, said Madame Rameau. There is very little heart in an aristo- crat. The Abb6s mild brow contracted. Have more charity, my daughter. It is because Raouls sorrow for his lost brother is so deep and so holy that he de- votes himself more than ever to the ser~ vice of the Father which is in heaven. He said, a day or two after the burial, when plans for a monument to Enguer rand were submitted to him May my prayer be vouchsafed, and my life be a memorial of him more acceptable to his gentle spirit than monuments of bronze or marble. May I be divinely guided arid sustained in my desire to do such good acts as he would have done had he been spared longer to earth. And when- ever tempted to weary, may my con- science whisper, Betray not the trust left to thee by thy brother, lest thou be not reunited to him at last. Pardon me, pardon ! murmured Madame Rameau humbly, while the Ve- nosta burst into tears. The Abb6, though a most sincere and earnest ecclesiastic, was a cheery and genial man of the world; and in order to relieve Madame Rameau from the pain- ful self-reproach he had before excited, he turned the conversation. I must beware, however, he said, with his pleasant laugh, as to the company in which I interfere in family questions and especially in which I defend my poor Raoul from any charge brought against him. For some good friend this day sent me a terrible organ of Communistic phil- osophy, in which we humble priests are very roughly handled, and I myself am specially singled out by name as a pesti- lent intermeddler in the affairs of private households. I am said to set the women against the brave men who are friends of the people, and am cautioned by very truculent threats to cease from such vil- lanous practices. And here, with,a dry humour that turned into ridicule what would otherwise have excited disgust and indignation among his listeners, he read aloud passages replete with the sort of false eloquence which was then the vogue among the Red journals. In these passages, not only the Abb6 was pointed out for popular execration, but Raoul de Vandemar, though not expressly named, was clearly indicated as a pupil of the Abb6s, the type of a lay Jesuit. The Venosta alone did not share in the contemptuous laughter with which the inflated style of these diatribes in- spired the Rameaus. Her simple Italian mind was horror-stricken by language which the Abb~ treated with ridicule. Ah! said M. Rameau, I guess the author that firebrand Felix Pyat. No, answered the Abbd; the writer signs himself by the name of a more learned atheist Diderot it ftztiie. Here the door opened, and Raoul en- tered, accompanying Isaura. A change had come over the face of the young THE PARISIANS. 20 Vandemar since his brothers death. The lines about the mouth had deepened, the cheeks had lost their rounded contour and grown somewhat hollow. But the expression was as serene as ever, per- haps even less pensively melancholy. His whole aspect was that of a man who has sorrowed, hut been supported in sor- row; perhaps it was more sweet cer- tainly it was more lofty. And, as if there were in the atmos- phere of his presence something that communicated the likeness of his own soul to others, since Isaura had been brought into his companionship, her own lovely face had caught the expression that prevailed in his that, too, had be- come more sweet that, too, had become more lofty. The friendship that had grown up be- tween these two young mourners was of a very rare nature. It had in it no sen- timent that could ever warm into the passion of human love. Indeed, had Isauras heart been free to give away, love for Raoul de Vandemar would have seemed to her a profanation. He was never more priestly than when he was most tender. And the tenderness of Raoul towards her was that of some saint-like nature towards the acolyte whom it attracts upwards. He had once, just before Enguerrands death, spoken to Isaura with a touching candour as to his own predilection for a monastic life. The worldly avocations that open use- ful and honourable careers for others have no charm for me. I care not for riches nor power, nor honours nor fame. The austerities of the conventual life have no terror for me; on the contrary, they have a charm, for with them are ab- straction from earth and meditation on heaven. In earlier years I might, like other men, have cherished dreams of hu- man love, and felicity in married life, hut for the sort of veneration with which I regarded one to whom I owe humanly speaking whatever of good there may be in me. Just when first taking my place among the society of young men who banish from their life all thought of another, I came under the influence of a woman who taught me to see that holi- ness was beauty. She gradually asso- ciated me with her acts of benevolence, and from her I learned to love God too well not to be indulgent to his creatures. I know not whether the attachment I felt to her could have been inspired in one who had not from childhood conceived a romance, not perhaps justified by history, for the ideal images of chivalry. My feeling for her at first was that of the pure and poetic homage which a young knight was permitted, sa;~s re/roclie, to render to some fair queen or clidlelalize, whose colours he wore in the lists, whose spotless repute he would have perilled his life to defend. But soon even that sentiment, pure as it was, became chas- tened from all breath of earthly love, in proportion as the admiration refined it- self into reverence. She has often urged me to marry, but I have no bride on this earth. I do but want to see Enguerrand happily married, and then I quit the world for the cloister. But after Enguerrands death, Raoul resigned all idea of the conventl That evening, as he attended to their homes Isaura and the other ladies attached to the ambulance, he said, in answer to in- quiries about his mother, She is re- signed and calm; I have promised her I will not, while she lives, bury her other son: I renounce my dreams of the mon- astery. Raoul did not remain many minutes at Isauras. The Abb6 accompanied him on his way home. I have a request to make to you, said the former ; you know, of course, your distant cousin the Vicomte de Maul6on ? Yes. Not so well as I ought, for En- guerrand liked him. Well enough, at all events, to call on him with a request which I am com- missioned to make, but it tnight come better from you as a kinsman. I am a stranger to him, and I know not whether a man of that sort would not regard as an officious intermeddling any communica- tion made to him by a priest. The mat- ter, however, is a very simple one. At the convent ofthere is a poor nun who is, I fear, dying. She has an in- tense desire to see M. de Mail6on, whom she declares to be her uncle, and her only surviving relative. The laws of the convent are not too austere to prevent the interview she seeks in such a case. I should add that I am not acquainted with her previous history. I am not the confessor of the sisterhood he, poor man, was badly wounded by a chance ball a few days ago when attached to an ambulance on the ramparts. As soon as the surgeon would allow him to see any one, he sent for me, and bade me go to the nun I speak of Sister Ursula. It seems that he had informed her that M. de Maul6on was at Paris, and had prom- ised to ascertain his address. His wound THE PARISIANS. had prevented his doing so, but he trust- ed to me to procure the information. I am well acquainted with the Sup6rieure of the convent, and I flatter myself that she holds me in esteem. I had there- fore no difficulty to obtain her permission to see this poor nun, which I did this evening. She implored me for the peace of her soul to lose no time in finding out M. de Maul~ons address, and entreating him to visit her. Lest he should demur, I was to give him the name by which he had known her in the world Louise Duval. Of course I obeyed. The ad- dress of a man who has so distinguished himself in this unhappy siege I very easily obtained, and repaired at once to lvi. de Maul6ons apartment. I there learned that he was from home, and it was uncertain whether he would not spend the night on the ramparts. I will not fail to see him early in the morning, said Raoul; and execute your corn mission.~~ CHAPTER IV. DE MAULEON was somewhat surprised by Raouls visit the next morning. He had no great liking for a kinsman whose politely distant reserve towards him, in contrast to poor Enguerran ds genial heartiness, had much wounded his sensi- tive self-respect nor could he compre- hend the religious scruples which for- bade Raoul to take a soldiers share in the battle-field, though in seeking there to save the lives of others so fearlessly hazarding his own life. Pardon, said Raoul, with his sweet mournful smile, the unseasonable hour at which I disturb you. But your duties on the ramparts and mine in the hospital begin early, and I have promised the Abb6 Vertpr6 to communicate a message of a nature which perhaps you may deem pressing. He proceeded at once to re- peat what the Abb6 had communicated to him the night before relative to the ill- ness and the request of the nun. Louise Duval ! exclaimed the Vi- comte, discovered at last, and a re- Zzgieuse / Ab! I now understand why she never sought me out when I re-ap- peared at Paris. Tidings of that sort do not penetrate the walls of a convent. I am greatly obliged to you, M. de Vande- mar, for the trouble you have so kindly taken. This poor nun is related to me, and I will at once obey the summons. But this convent des I am ashamed to say I know not where it is A long way off, I suppose? 21 Allow me to be your guide, said Raoul; I should take it as a favour to be allowed to see a little more of a man whom my lost brother held in such es- teem. Victor was touched by this conciliatory speech and in a few minutes more the two men were on their way to the con- vent on the other side of the Seine. Victor commenced the conversation by a warm and heartfelt tribute to En- guerrands character and memory. I never, he said, knew a nature more rich in the most endearing qualities of youth so gentle, so high-spirited, ren- dering every virtue more attractive, and redeeming such few faults or foibles as youth so situated and so tempted cannot wholly escape, with an urbanity not con- ventional, not artificial, but reflected from the frankness of a genial temper and the tenderness of a generous heart. Be com- forted for his loss, my kinsman. A brave death was the proper crown of that beau- tiful life. Raoul made no ansxver, but pressed gratefully the arm now linked within his own. The companions walked on in si- lence Victors mind settling on the visit he was about to make to the niece so long mysteriously lost, and now so un- expectedly found. Louise had inspired him with a certain interest from her beauty and force of character, but never with any warm affection. He felt re- lieved to find that her life had found its close in the sanctuary of the convent. He had never divested himself of a cer- tain fear, inspired by Louviers state- ment, that she might live to bring scan- dal and disgrace on the name he had with so much difficulty, and after so length- ened an anguish, partially cleared in his own person. Raoul left De Maul6on at the gate of the convent, and took his way towards the hospitals where he visited, and the poor whom he relieved. Victor was conducted silently into the convent ~arloir; and, after waiting there several minutes, the door opened, a~d the Sup~rieure entered. As she advanced towards him, with stately step and solemn visage, De M aul6on recoiled, and uttered a half-suppressed exclamation that par- took both of amaze and awe. Could it be possible? Was this majestic woman, with the grave, impassible aspect, once the ardent girl whose tender letters he had cherished through stormy years, and only burned on the night before the most perilous of his battle-fields? This the 22 THE PARISIANS. one, the sole one, whom in his younger hausted condition. Do I make myself dreams he had seen as his destined wife? understood? It xvas so it was. Doubt vanished Certainly, Madame, and the let- when he heard her voice ; and yet how ter! different every tone, ev& ry accent, from She had concluded last evenin~~ and those of the low, soft, thrilling music that when I took leave of her later in the had breathed in the voice of old! night, she placed it in my hands for M. de Maul6on, said the Sup~rieure, approval. M. le Vicomte, it pains me to calmly, I grieve to sadden you by very say that there is much in the tone of that mournful intelligence. Yesterday even- letter which I grieve for and condemn. ing, when the Abb6 undertook to convey And it was my intention to point this out to you the request of our Sister Ursula, to our sister at morning, and tell her that although she was beyond mortal hope of passages must be altered before I could recovery as otherwise you will conceive give to you the letter. Her sudden de- that I could not have relaxed the rules of cease deprived me. of this opportunity. this house so as to sanction your visit, I could not, of course, alter or erase a there was no apprehension of immediate linea word. My only option was to danger. It was believed that her suffer- suppress the letter altogether, or give it ings would be prolonged for some days. you intact. The Abb6 thinks that, on I saw her late last night before retiring to the ~vhole, my duty does not forbid the my cell, and she seemed even stronger than dictate of my own impulse my own she had been for the last week. A sister,feelings and now I place this letter in remained at watch in her cell. Towards your hands. morning she fell into apparently quiet De Mauldon took a packet, unsealed, sleep, and in that sleep she passed dway. from the thin white fingers of the Sup6- The Supdrieure here crossed herself, and rieure and, as he bent to receive it, murmured pious words in Latin. lifted toward her eyes eloquent with a Dead ! my poor niece ! said Victor, sorrowful, humble pathos, in which it was feelingly, roused from his stun at the first impossible for the heart of a woman who sight of the Sup~rieure by her measured had loved not to see a reference to the tones, and the melancholy information past which the lips did not dare to utter. she so composedly conveyed to him. I A faint, scarce-perceptible blush stole cannot, then, even learn why she so over the marble cheek of the nun. But, ~vished to see me once more, or what with an exquisite delicacy, in which sur- she might have wished to request at my vived the woman while reigned the nun, hands ! she replied to the appeal. Pardon, M. le Vicomte. Such sor- M. Victor de Mauldon, before, having rowful consolation I have resolved to thus met, we part forever, permit a poor afford you, not without scruples of con- relzgieuse to say wfth what joy a joy science, but not without sanction of the rendered happier because it was tearful excellent Abbd Vertpr6, whom I sum- I have learned through the Abbd Vert- moned early this morning to decide, my pr~ that the honour which, as between duties in the sacred office I hold. As man and man, no one who had once soon as Sister Ursula heard of your return known you could ever doubt, you have to Paris, she obtained my permission to lived to vindicate from calumny. address to you a letter, subjected, when Ab ! you have beard that at last, at finished, to my perusal and sanction. last! She felt that she had much on her mind I repeatof the honour, thus de- which her feeble state might forbid her~ ferred, I never doubted. The Sup6- to make known to you in conversation rieure hurried on. Greater joy it has with sufficient fulness and as she could been to me to hear from the same vener- only have seen you in presence of one of able ~ource that, while found bravest the sisters, she imagined that there would among the defenders of your country, also be less restraint in a written corn- you are clear from all alliance with the munication. In fine, her request was assailants of your God. Continue so, that, when you called, I might first place continue so, Victor de Maul~on. this letter in your hands, and allow you She retreated to the door, and then time to read it, before being admitted to , turned towards him with a look in which her presence when a few words, convey- all the marble had melted away adding, ing your promise to attend to the wishes with words more formally nunlike, yet with which you would then be acquainted, unmistakably womanlike, than those would suffice for an interview in her ex- which had gone before, That to the THE PARISIANS. 23 last you may be true to God, is a prayer never by me omitted. She spoke, and vanished. In a kind of dun and dreamlike bewil- derment Victor de Maul6on found him- self without the walls of the convent. Mechanically, as a man does when the routine of his life is presented to him, from the first Minister of State to the poor cloxvn at a suburban theatre, doomed to appear at their posts, to prose on a seer Bill or grin through a horse-collar, though their hearts are bleeding at every pore with some household or secret affliction, mechanically De Maul6on went his way towards the ramparts, at a section of which he daily drilled his raw recruits. Proverbial for his severity towards those who offended, for the cordiality of his praise of those who pleased his soldierly judgment, no change of his demeanour was visible that morn- ing, save that he might be somewhat milder to the one, somewhat less hearty to the other. This routine duty done, he passed slowly toxvards a more deserted because a more exposed part of the defences, and seated himself on the frozen sward alone. The cannon thun- dered around him. He heard uncon- sciously: from time to time an obus hissed and splintered close at his feet ; he saw with abstracted eye.. His soul was with the past; and, brooding over all that in the past lay buried, there came over him a conviction of the vanity of the human earth-bounded objects for which we burn or freeze, far more abso- lute than had grows out of the worldly cynicism connected with his worldly am- bition. The sight of that face, associated with the one pure romance of his reck- less youth, the face of one so estranged, so serenely aloft from all memories of youth, of romance, of passion, smote him in the midst of the new hopes of the new~ career, as the look on the skull of the woman he had so loved and so mourned, when disburied from her grave, smote the brilliant noble who became the stern reformer of La Trappe. And while thus gloomily meditating, the letter of the poor Louise Duval was forgotten. She whose existence had so troubled, and crossed, and partly marred the lives of others, she, scarcely dead, and already forgotten by her nearest of kin. Well had she not forgotten, put wholly out of her mind, all that was due to those much nearer to her than is an uncle to a niece? The short, bitter, sunless day was ad- vancing towards its decline, before Victor roused himself with a quick impatient start from his reverie, and took forth the letter from the dead nun. It began with expressions of gratitude, of joy at the thought that she should see him again before she died, thank him for his past kindness, and receive, she trusted, his assurance that he would at- tend to her last remorseful injunctions. I pass over much that followed in the ex- planation of events in her life sufficiently known to the reader. She stated, as the strongest reason why she had refused the hand of Louvier, her knowledge that she should in due time become a mother a fact concealed from Victor, secure that he would then urge her not to annul her informal marriage, but rather insist on the ceremonies that would render it valid. She touched briefly on her confidential intimacy with Madame Marigny, the ex- change of name and papers, her confine- ment in the neighbourhood of Aix, the child left to the care of the nurse, the journey to Munich to find the false Louise Duval was no more. The docu- ments obtained through the agent of her easy-tempered kinsman, the late Marquis de Rochebriant, and her subsequent domestication in the house of the Von Rudesheims, all this it is needless to do more here than briefly recapitulate. The letter then went on : XVhile thus kindly treated by the family with whom nomi- nally a governess, I was on the terms of a friend with Signor Ludovico Cicogna, an Italian of noble birth. He was the only man I ever cared for. I loved him with frail human passion. I could not tell him my true history. I could not tell him that I had a child ; such intelligence would have made him renounce me at once. He had a daughter, still but an infant, by a former marriage, then brought up in France. He wished to take her to his house, and his second wife to supply the place of her mother. What was I to do with the child I had left near Aix ? While doubtful and distracted, I read an advertisement, in the journals to the effect that a French lady, then staying in Coblentz, wished to adopt a female child not exceeding the a~ e of six : the child to be wholly resigned to her by the parents, she undertaking to rear and pro- vide for it as her own. I resolved to go to Coblentz at once. I did so. I saw this lady. She seemed in affluent cir- cumstances, yet young, but a confirmed invalid, confined the greater part of the day to her sofa by some malady of the spine. She told me very frankly her 24 THE PARISIANS. story. She had been a professional dan- cer on the stage, had married respectably, quitted the stage, become a widow, and shortly afterwards been seized with the complaint that would probably for life keep her a secluded prisoner in her room. Thus afflicted, and without tie, interest, or object in the world, she conceived the idea of adopting a child that she might bring up to tend and cherish her as a daughter. In this, the imperative con- dition was that the child should never be resought by the parents. She was pleased by my manner and appearance: she did not wish her adopted daughter to be the child of peasants. She asked me for no references, made no inquiries. She said cordially that she wished for no knowledge that, through any indiscre- tion of her own, communicated to the child, might lead her to seek the dis- covery of her real parents. In fine, I left Coblentz on the understanding that I was to bring the infant, and if it pleased Ma- dame Surville, the a~ reement was con- cluded. I then repaired to Aix. I. saw the child. Alas! unnatural mother that I was, the sight only more vividly brought before me the sense of my own perilous position. Yet the child was lovely! a likeness of myself, but lovelier far, for it was a pure, innocent, gentle loveliness. And they told her to call me 111am ii. Oh, did I not relent when I heard that name? No; it jarred on my ear as a word of reproach and shame. In walk- ing with the infant towards the railway station, imagine my dismay when sud- denly I met the man who had been taught to believe me dead. I soon dis- covered that his dismay was equal to my own that I had nothing to fear from his desire to claim me. It did occur to me for a moment to resign his child to him. But when he shrank reluctantly from a half suggestion to that effect, my pride was wounded, my conscience ab- solved. And, after all, it might be unsafe to my future to leave with him any mo- tive for retracing me. I left him hastily. I have never seen nor heard of him more. I took the child to Coblentz. Madame Surville was charmed with its prettiness and prattle, charmed still more when I rebuked the poor infant for calling me Mamati, and said, Thy real mother is here. Freed from my trouble, I re- turned to the kind German roof I had quitted, and shortly after became the wife of Ludovico Cicogna. My punishment soon began. His was a light, fickle, pleasure-hunting na- ture. He soon grew weary of me. My very love made me unamiable to him. I became irritable, jealous, exacting. His daughter, who now came to live with us, was another subject of discord. I knew that he loved her better than me. I became a harsh stepmother; and Lu- dovicos reproaches, vehemently made, nursed all my angriest passions. But a son of this new marriage was born to myself. My pretty Luigi how my heart became wrapt up in him ! Nursing him, I forgot resentment against his father. Well, poor Cicogna fell ill and died. I mourned him sincerely; but my boy was left. Poverty then fell on me, poverty extreme. Cicognas sole income was de- rived from a post in the Austrian do- minion in Italy, and ceased with it. He received a small pension in compensa- tion that died with him. At this time, an Englishman, with whom Ludovico had made acquaintance in Venice, and who visited often at our house in Verona, offered me his hand. He had taken an extraordinary liking to Isaura, Cicognas daughter by his first marriage. But I think his proposal was dictated partly by compassion for me, and more by affection for her. For the sake of my boy Luigi I married him. He was a good man, of retired learned habits with which I had no sympathy. His companionship overwhelmed me with emzzu. But I bore it patiently for Luigis sake. God saw that my heart was as much as ever estranged from Him, and He took away my all on earth my boy. Then in my desolation I turned to our Holy Church for comfort. I found a friend in the priest, my confessor. I was startled to learn from him how guilty I had beenwas still. Pushing to an ex- treme the doctrines of the Church, he would not allow that my first marriage, though null by law, was void in the eyes of Heaven. Was not the death of the child J so cherished a penalty due to my sin towards the child I had abandoned? These thoughts pressed on me night and day. With the consent and approval of the good priest, I determined to quit the roof of M. Selby, and to devote my- self to the discovery of my forsaken Julie. I had a painful interview with M. Selby. I announced my intention to separate from him. I alleged as a reason my conscientious repugnance to live with a professed heretic an eneiny to our Holy Church. When M. Selby found THE PARISIANS. 25 that he could not shake my resolution, he lent himself to it with the forbearance and generosity which he had always ex- hibited. On our marriage he had settled on me five thousand pounds, to be abso- lutely mine in the event of his death. He now proposed to concede to me the interest on that capital during his life, and he undertook the charge of my step- daughter Isaura, and secured to her all the rest he had to leave such landed property as he possessed in England passing to a distant relative. So we parted, not with hostility tears were shed on both sides. I set out for Coblentz. Madame Surville had long since quitted that town, devoting some years to the round of various mineral spas in vain hope of cure. Not without some difficulty I traced her to her last residence in the neighbourhood of Paris, but she was then no more her death ac- celerated by the shock occasioned by the loss of her whole fortune, which she had been induced to place in one of the nu- merous fradulent companies by which so many have been ruined. Julie, who was with her at the time of her death, had disappeared shortly after it none could tell me whither but from such hints as I could gather, the poor child, thus left destitute, had been betrayed into sinful courses. Probably I might yet by searching in- quiry have found her out you will say it was my duty at least to institute such in- quiry. No doubt I now remorsefully feel that it was. I did not think so at the time. The Italian priest had given me a few letters of introduction to French ladies with whom, when they had so- journed at Florence, he had made ac- quaintance. These ladies were very strict devotees, formal observers of those decorums by which devotion proclaims itself to the world. They had received me not only with kindness hut with marked respect. They chose to exalt into the noblest self-sacrifice the act of my leaving M. Selbys house. Exagger- ating the simple cause assigned to it in the priests letter, they represented me as quitting a luxurious home and an idolizing husband rather than continue intimate intercourse with the enemy of my religion. This new sort of flattery intoxicated me with its fumes. I recoiled froni the thought of shattering the pedes- tal to which I had found myself elevated. What if I should discover my daughter in one from the touch of whose robe these holy women would recoil as from the rags of a leper ! No it would be impossible for me to own her,impossi- ble for me to give her the shelter of my roof. Nay, if discovered to hold any commune with such an outcast, no ex- planation, no excuse short of the actual truth, would avail with these austere judges of human error. And the actual truth would be yet deeper disgrace. I reasoned away my conscience. If I looked for example in the circles in which I had obtained reverential place, I could find no instance in which a girl who had fallen from virtue was not repu- diated by her nearest relatives. Nay, when I thought of my own mother, had not her father refused to see her, to ac- knowledge her child, from no other of- fence than that of a rn~sal7ia;ice which wounded the family pride? That pride, alas! was in my blood my sole inherit- ance from the family I sprang from. Thus it went on, till I had grave symptoms of a disease which rendered the duration of my life uncertain. My conscience awoke and tortured me. I resolved to take the veil. Vanity and pride again! My resolution was ap- plauded by those whose opinion had so swayed my mind and my conduct. Be- fore I retired into the convent from which I write, I made legal provision as to the bulk of the fortune which, by the death of M. Selby, has become absolutely at my disposal. One thousand pounds amply sufficed for dotation to the convent: the other four thousand pounds are given in trust to the eminent notary, M. Nadaud, Rue . On applying to him, you will find that the sum, with the accumu- lated interest, is bequeathed to you,a tribute of gratitude for the assistance you afforded me in the time of your own need, and the kindness with which you acknowledged our relationship and com- miserated my misfortunes. But oh, my uncle, find out a man can do so with a facility not accorded to a woman what has become of this poor Julie, and devote what you may deem right and just of the sum thus bequeathed to place her above want and temptation. In doing so, I know you will respect my name: I would not have it dishonour you, indeed. I have been employed in writing this long letter since the day I heard you were in Paris. It has exhausted the fee- ble remnants of my strength. It will 1)e given to you before the interview I at once dread and long for, and in that in- terview you will not rebuke me. Will 26 THE PARISIANS. you, my kind uncle? No, you will only King are strong, inasmuch as the secrecy soothe and pity he sought was for the sake, not of his own Would that I were worthy to pray memory, hut that of her whom the world for others, that I might add, May the knew only as his honoured wife. The Saints have you in their keeping, and conduct of Louise admits no such excuse; lead you to faith in the Holy Church, she dies as she had lived, an Egoist. which has power to absolve from sins But, whatever the motives of the parents, those who repent as I do. what is the fate of the deserted child ? The letter dropped from Victors hand. What revenge does the worldly opinion, He took it up, smoothed it mechanically, which the parents would escape for them- and xvith a dim, ahstracted, bewildered, selves, inflict on the innocent infant to pitiful wonder. Well might the Su- whom the bulk of their worldly posses- p6rieure have hesitated to allow confes- sions is to be clandestinely conveyed? sions, betraying a mind so little regu- Would all the gold of Ophir be compen- lated by genuine religious faith, to pass sation enough for her? into other hands. Evidently it was the Slowly De Maul6on roused himself, and paramount duty of rescuing from want or turned from the solitary place where he from sin the writers forsaken child, that had been seated to amore crowded part of had overborne all other considerations the ramparts. He passed a group of young in the mind of the Woman and the Priest Moblots, with flowers wreathed round she consulted. their gun-barrels. If, said one of them, Throughout that letter, what a strange gaily, Paris wants bread, it never wants perversion, of understanding! what a half- flowers. His companions laughed mer- unconscious confusion of wrong and rily, and burst out into a scurrile song in right! the duty mirked out so obvious ridicule of St. Trochu. Just then an obus and so neglected; even the religious sen- fell a few yards .before the group. The timent awakened by the conscience so sound only for a moment drowned the dividing itself from the moral instinct ! song, but the splinters struck a man in a the dread of being thought less religious coarse, ragged dress, who had stopped to by obscure comparative strai~gers strong- listen to the singers. At his sharp cry, er than the moral obligation to discover two men hastened to his side: one xv s and reclaim the child for whose errors, Victor de Maul6on ; the other was a sur- if she had erred, the mother who so self- geon, xvho quitted another group of idlers ishly forsook her was alone responsible! National Guards attracted by the even at the last, at the approach of death, shriek that summoned his professional the love for a name she had never made a aid. The poor man was terribly wounded. self-sacrifice to preserve unstained, and The surgeon, glancing at De Mauldon, that concluding exhortation, that reli- shrugged his shoulders, and muttered, ance on a repentance in which there was Past help! The sufferer turned his so qualified a reparation ! haggard eyes on the Vicomte, and gasped More would Victor de Maul6on have out, M. de Mauleon? xvondered had he known those points of That is my name, answered Victor, similarity in character, and on the nature surprised, and not immediately recognlz of their final bequests, between Louise ing the sufferer. Duval and the husband she had deserted. Hist, Jean Lebeau ! look at me, you By one of those singular coincidences recollect me now Marc le Roux, CouL. which, if this work be judged by the or- cierge to the secret Council. Ay, I found dinary rules presented to the ordinary out who you were long ago followed novel-reader, a critic would not unjustly you home from the last meeting you broke impute to defective invention in the au- up. But I did not betray you, or you thor, the provision for this child, deprived would have been murdered long since. of its natural parents during their lives, Beware of the old set beware of is left to the discretion and honour of Here his voice broke off into trustees, accompanied on the part of the shrill exclamations of pain. Curbing his consecrated Louise and the blameless last agonies with a powerful effort, he Kino with the injunction of respect to faltered forth You owe me a service their worldly reputations two parents see to the little one at home she is so opposite in condition, in creed, in dis- starving. The death-rd/c came on; in position, yet assimilating in that point of a few moments he was no more. individual character in which it touches Victor gave orders for the removal of the wide vague circle of human opinion. the corpse, and hurried away. The sur- For this, indeed, the excuses of Richard geon, who had changed countenance MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 27 when heoverheard the name in which the dying man had addressed De Maul6on, gazed silently after De Maul6ons retreat- ing form, and then, also quitting the dead, rejoined the group he had quitted. Some of those who composed it acquired evil renown later in the war of the Commu- nists, and came to disastrous ends: among that number the Pole Loubinsky and other members of the Secret Council. The Italian Raselli was there too, but, subtler than his French confr?res, he di- vined the fate of the Communists, and glided from it safe now in his native land, destined there, no doubt, to the fu- nereal honours and lasting renown which Italy bestows on the dust of her sons who have advocated assassination out of love for the human race. Amid this group, too, was a National Guard, strayed from his proper post, and stretched on the frozen oTound ; and, early though the hour, in the profound sleep of intoxication. So, said Loubinsky, you have found your errand in vain, Citizen le Noy; an- other victim to the imbecility of our gen- erals. And partly one of us, replied the Midecil des Pauvres. You remember poor Le Roux, who kept the old b~raque where the Council of Ten used to meet? Yonder he lies. Dont talk of the Council of Ten. What fools and dupes we were made by that vieu gridin, Jean Lebeau! How I wish I could meet him again Gaspard le Noy smiled sarcastically. So much the worse for you if you did. A muscular and a ruthless fellow is that Jean Lebeau! Therewith he turned to the drunken sleeper and woke him up with a shake and a kick. Armand Armand Monnier, I say, rise, rub your eyes! What if you are called to your post? What if you are shamed as a deserter and a coward ? Armand turned, rose with an effort from the recumbent to the sitting posture, and stared dizzily in the face of the M~- decbz des Pawvres. I was dreaming that I had caught by the throat, said Armand, wildly, the aristo who shot my brother ; and lo, there were two men, Victor de Mauldon and Jean Lebeau. Ah ! there is something in dreams, said the surgeon. Once in a thousand times a dream comes true. From Temple Bar. MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. BY THE AUTHOR OF MIRABEAtJ, ETC. FRANCE is, ~ar ercellence, the land of famous women. England is far behind her in that species of greatness. Our women are too much hedged in by pro- prieties, too much under the domina- tion of grim-visaged Mrs. Grundies, to allow their genius fair play. Probably the French go to an opposite extreme, and frequently stray too far beyond the Grun- dian barriers. No more brilliant name than that of Madame de StaU is to be found among the female writers of any country. She stands in the first rank, if not at the head of all. As a brilliant writer of fiction she is unrivalled no womans novel ever at- tained to an equal Celebrity with Co- rinne her Dc lAllemagne, her R6- flexions sur la R6volution Fran~aise, her Dix Ann6es dExil, and her works upon Literature soar into regions, and successfully, to which female oenius sel- dom ventures to aspire, while as a con- versationalist, those who enjoyed the hap- piness of her society say that she even surpassed the writer. Anne-Louise-Germane Necker was born in the spring of 1766. She was the daughter of the Genevese banker after- wards so famous as the minister of Louis the Sixteenth. From her earliest years until his death her love for her father was almost idolatrous ; like the maternal love of Madame de S6vign~, it is almost unique in domestic annals. I owe to the ~von- derful penetration of my father, she says, whatever candour my character pos- sesses. He unmasked all false pretences, and from him I acquired the habit of be- lieving that people saw straight into my heart. He was to her the model of all that was great and good: a man en- dued with all the virtues of an ideal Ro- man. So absorbing was her affection that she was jealous even of her mother and her mother was jealous of her. There is a very good story told by Ma- dame Necker Saussure, in her introduc- tion to the collected works of Madame de Stadl, which, as illustrating her filial love and certain vainglorious traits of character is worth repeating. On the oc- casion of a certain visit which the nar- rator paid to the Neckers at Coppety& the carria~e that had been sent to convey her from Geneva was overturned. Upon * M. Neckers estate near Geneva. 28 MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. hearing of this accident Madame de Staffi was agitated by the wildest terror, not, as it may be imagined, on account of her guests narrow escape from in- jury, but from a possible contingency which the accident suggested to her mind. Ah, heavens! she exclaimed, it might have been my father! She ran to the bell, rang it furiously, and in a voice trem- bling with agitation ordered that the coachman should be instantly sent for. In a few moments the offender stood be- fore her. Have you heard that I am a woman of genius? were the first words she spoke to him. Her question was so odd and her manner so excited that he could not find a reply. Have you heard that I am a woman of genius ? she re- peated yet more loudly and angrily. The servant, more confused than ever~ was still silent. Well, then, I am a woman of genius ! she said, hotly, of great genius, of prodigious genius! And I tell you that all the genius I possess shall be exerted to secure your rotting all your days in a dungeon, if ever you overturn my father. When her agitation was over her friends rallied her upon this cu- rious speech_ but she failed to see the ab- surd side of it. What had I to threaten him with except my poor genius ? she answered, nafvely. The only injuries she could not forgive were those offered to her father; she could never endure to think that he was grow- ing old, and a mere hint of such a thing would drive her into a fury. When he was dead every old man she saw recalled him to her memory, and to watch over the comforts and alleviate the sufferings of age was her greatest pleasure. She believed that her soul communicated with his in prayer, and whatever piece of good fortune befel her she would say, My father has obtained it for me. In Madame de Sta~ls case, says Saint- Beuve, there is no difficulty in accounting for the enduring warmth of her filial devotion. Amid the ruin which, as she advanced in life, successively overtook all the illusions of her heart and thoughts, one single mortal, one only of her old loves, retained his exalted place in her memory, untouched, untainted, without the slightest stain or infidelity to the past; and the immortal and purified flames of her youthful devotion still played about that august head. Madame Necker was the daughter of a Swiss Calvinist clergyman; she was a woman of talent, but cold, Puritanical, aud severe. She wrote a little, would have written more, but her husband was averse to such employment of her time for which aversion he alleged a very cu- rious excuse he disliked, when entering her apartment, to feel that he had inter- rupted her in a serious occupation! So when madame did write it was by stealth. But she principally devoted herself to the education of her daughter, of whom she desired to make a prodigy. The conse- quence of which ambition was that the child fell ill through overstud y, and was peremptorily ordered by the doctors to be sent into the country, and entirely ex- empted for some months from all intel- lectual exertion. Nevertheless, little mademoiselle was a prodigy a wonderfully precocious child. Edward Gibbon,* who was a frequent vis- itor at the Neckers, was very fond of her, and whenever he came her seat was upon his knee. Seeing that both her parents took great delight in his society, she one day gravely proposed that in or- der that he might be always with them she should marry him ! In vain did her father and mother point out the impossi- bility of such a match she being at the time ten years of age and her proposed husband forty. She argued against all their objections, and could be by no means convinced that her idea was not perfectly feasible. She was passionately fond of the thea- tre, and after witnessing a play always wrote down the plot, and the parts which struck her most. Like Goethe she had a toy playhouse, cut out figures of kings and queens, and made them act, while she declaimed their speeches. Her mothers Puritanical instinct objected to such amusements, and so they had to be conducted like that ladys writing by stealth. In a like manner she had to en- joy her love for sentimental romances. She would pace up and down the room with a lesson or religious book in one hand and a romance in the other, reading them alternately as she advanced and receded from the paternal eye. In the drawing-room she sat upon a stool beside Madame Neckers chair, very upright and looking very demure. Thither came Raynal, Grimm, Marmon- tel, and the celebrities of the day, and all would gather round the little stool and converse with the little girl of eleven, as * Years before there bad been love passages between Madame Necker and the fotore great historian, hot his father had threatened him with disinheritance if he married her; so the affair was broken off, not, seem- ingly, with very much heart-aching upon either side. After the ladys marriage the quondam lovers renewed their acquaintance. MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 29 though she had been a woman of their own age. Mademoiselle Huber, one of her companions, thus describes her first introduction, which occurred about this time: We placed ourselves at table. Mademoi- selle Neckers very manner of listening was uncommon. She did not open her mouth, yet she seemed to speak in her turn, so much expression had her mobile features. Her eyes followed the looks and movements of those who talked, so that one almost thought she anticipated their ideas. She seemed ac- quainted even with political subjects, which at that period already formed an interesting topic of conversation. After dinner a great deal of company dropped in. Every one in approach- ing Madame Necker said a word to her daugh- ter, either in the shape of a compliment or a pleasantry. She answered all easily and with grace; people seemed pleased to attack her, to embarrass her, to excite her imagination, which was already so brilliant. The most remarkable men were those who took most notice of her and who provoked her to talk. They asked for an account of her reading, recommended books for her perusal, and gave her a taste for study in talking to her of what she knew or of what she had yet to learn. At twelve she wrote a little comedy, which was highly praised by Grimm, and at the representation of which Marmon- tel is said to have shed tears. At fifteen she had studied Montesquieus Esprit de Lois, made extracts from it, and written comments in the margins of her copy. She was about the same age when her father, having been dismissed from office, published his Compte rendu, or account of the moneys expended by him during his ministry. The then all-ab- sorbing theme of conversation was poli- tics. Anxious to exercise her mind upon it, she wrote to M. Necker an anonymous letter upon his publication. But her little secret was quickly discovered, as be immediately recognized the style. From that time a yet more close and con- fidential intercourse subsisted between father and daughter. Anecdotes of the childhood of great minds are infinitely interesting and sug- gestive. One such will reveal more of real character than pages of mature con- versation and Opinions. The constituent elements of our natures never change: they may be modified or expanded by education and circumstances, suppressed by hypocrisy or good or bad fortune, but they never undergo any radical change. In the tiniest bud is concealed every petal, pistil, and stamen which shall here- after form the flower; favourable or un favourable influences may advance or retard its perfect development, but cannot change its component parts : so it is ~vith the mind. An ignoble child never be- came a noble man or woman, and vice versd. Mademoiselle Necker was an idolatrous worshipper of Rousseau; her first work was a passionate eulogy upon his genius, and upon that genius her own was mod- elled ; its influence is apparent in all her works of fictionin their burning pas- sion, their tender melancholy. It im- parted to her youthful character a tone of morbid sentimentality greatly in vogue at the time. This intense and sorrow- ful soul, says Saint-Beuve, cared only for that which made her weep. She wrote a drama in verse, entitled Sophie, ou les Sentimens Secrets ; this, with other youthful efforts Mirza, Ade- laide et Thdodore, and Pauline were published collectively some time after their composition all are lachry- mosely sentimental, filled with the wails of deserted lovers, and in each there is the tomb of some beloved being half con- cealed by trees. Little promise in this of Corinne and De lAllemagne. Madame Neckers cold, and probably prudent, nature was desirous of checking this precocious brilliancy in her daughter; perhaps she was a little jealous of the homage she received, so much reater than that which fell to her own share. In deference to these feelings, made- moiselle would quietly retire behind her fathers chair; but it was no use; one by one the company would gather round her, until she again became the centre of attraction. She was not, however, what may be termed beautiful; the charm of her face was its wonderful expressive- ness. A contemporary author, in a pas- sage purporting to be translated from a Greek poet, thus describes hera little margin must be allowed for poetical exaggeration: Her great black eyes speak with genius, her black hair falls back upon her shoulders in wavy curls; her features are rather strongly marked than delicate; one discerns in her countenance a promise of something above the usual destiny of her sex. . . . I listen to her, I look at her with transport; I discover in her features something superior to beauty. How much play and variety has her countenance! How many shades of expression the modula- tion of her voice! What a perfect agreement is there between her thought and her physiog- nomy! She speaks, and if her words do not reach me, the inflection of her voice, her ges MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 30 tures, her looks, suffice to interpret her mean- ing. At twenty her parents married her to the Baron de StaU-Holstein, the Swedish ambassador at Paris. It was a manage de co~zve;za;2ce, in which her heart was not consulted. The Baron was a handsome man, but many years her senior; a man of no intellect, and in all other respects the opposite of what the husband of this passionate brilliant young creature should have been. Her parents selected him for his rank and position ; he selected her for her money, the match bringing him the splendid dower of eighty thousand pounds. As may be expected, it did not bring happiness to the wife he was a man of gay and extravagant habits, utter- ly careless of money, and after a few years s~e ~vas compelled to separate from him to preserve the wreck of her fortune. When, however, his health was broken. down, he found at Coppet a home and the tenderest of nurses, until death ter- minated his sufferings. He exerted but little influence upon her life ; indeed, in her biography we quite lose sight of him, his figure being seldom obtruded upon our notice. Three children, two sons and one daughter, were the fruit of this union. Since her fathers dismissal from the ministry, in 1781, she had resided with him at Coppet, a delightful residence, situated near the Lake of Geneva. Here she mingled with some of the highest personages of France, all of ~vhom en- tertained the greatest respect for M. Necker. In 1787 the family returned to Paris, in consequence of his restoration to power. The restoration endured but a short time, and he was again dismissed, to be again recalled upon the failure of Lom6nie de Brienne~s administration. His opposition to the nullification of the decrees of the Tiers Etat procured him a third dismissal and a command to quit the kingdom immediately. His popular- ity at this time was enormous the news of his dismissal, revealed to the people by Camille Desmoulins, raised a terrible insurrection, which culminated in the destruction of the Bastille. Poor vacillat- ing Louis ~vas compelled to send a cou- rier post haste, to bring him back long before he had crossed the frontiers. His return was a triumph, every town and village he passed through greeted him with the warmest demonstrations of joy and sympathy at Paris his reception was an ovation shouts, bonfires, illu minations, heralded his approach. He was the mob deity for the hour. How the heart of his daughter must have glowed at this triumph, this splen- did acknowledgment of those talents which she regarded as superlative! The early principles of the Revolution were, as by all generous minds, enthusiastically embraced by her she beheld in them the regeneration of her country, and a vast stride towards the ultimate perfecti- bility of the human race, in which she devoutly believed. Alas ! both her tri- umph and her dreams were of short dura- tion. The Revolution quickly outstripped such moderate men as M. Necker; a few months after his triumphant re-entrance he was compelled to resign amidst the bootings and revilings of the mob, to lighten whose burdens and distresses he had conscientiously laboured for years, and of whom such a short time previous- ly he had been the idol. In 1790 he re- tired to Coppet, where he passed the remainder of his days, and where he died in 1804. Madame de Staid remained with her husband in Paris, watching with shudder- ing interest the horrible excesses of that movement from which she had fondly hoped so muco. The hunted and pro- scribed royalists found in her a faithful friend, who frequently concealed and pro- tected them at the hazard of her own safety. M. de Narbonne and many others owed their lives to her. She eagerly entered into a plot for the escape of the royal family to the coast of Nor- mandy, but, like all the rest, it came to nothing, through the immovable inert- ness of the Kin0. Day after day the enormities increase the tocsin of the ioth of August has rung, the Tuileries has been sacked, and the King and Queen deposed and made pris- oners ; all countries have broken off dip- lomatic relations with France day after day the exodus from Paris is more numer- ous, but anxious for the safety of her friends, some of whom are already pris- oners, she lingers until the terrible 2nd of September, until the massacre of the priests, until the signal has gone forth for indiscriminate slaughter of prisoners, and until her safety imperatively demands immediate flight. As soon as the night closes in her travelling carriage is pre- pared ; passports have been already ob- tained, and she hopes to carry away with her out of the accursed city more than one proscribed royalist. The carriage has not proceeded many paces when it is MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 3 surrounded by a crowd of wretched wo- out the city gates ; fainter and fainter men. They are carrying off oold oTow the din and the dull-red horizon of They are joining the enemies of the Re: the city of murder the houses begin to public Down with the aristocrats f straggle, then give place to the hedges cry a score of hoarse voices. TI~e cries all is dark arid silentthey are safe at bring others to the spot, the servants are last. overpowered, ruffians mount to the box She spent a short time at Coppet, and and drive to the Assembly. Arrived then passed over to England. She lived there, the President accuses her of aid- in a house called Juniper Hall, at Mickle- ing the escape of proscribed persons, and ham, near Richmond. M. Necker had discovers that her passport contains one always been a great admirer of the Eng- more name than she has servants to rep- lish Constitution, and would fain have in- resent. She must be taken before the troduced a similar form of government Tribunal, which is now sitting at the into France ; his daughter shared with HOtel de Ville. She is conducted back him these English predilections, and was to her carriage. The crowd is now so also well acquainted with the language dense that the horses can proceed only at and literature. London was at this time a walking pace; half the city has to be swarming with ~rnz~-r~fs, and Juniper Hall, traversed amidst groans and cries of from the high position and known talents Death and hideous scowling faces of its nexv possessor son peer threateningly through the windows, headquarters of the n the destination reached, she had very little French colony. They At last the is money among them, and alights, presses through the ferocious were reduced to many economical shifts mob, and shudders as she remembers to eke out their scanty resources. They that only a few days have passed since were desirous of seeing the surrounding the stairs she is now ascending were country, but one small carriage, the ca- reddened with the blood of massacred pacity of which was limited to two inside victims. Robespierre is presiding; the seats, was all they could afford. To room in which he sits is filled with brutal economize space and expense, Talley- men and women, who at the sight of the rand and the Count de Narbonne alter- prisoner shout Vive hi na/iou I,, and nated the character of footman, while gather about her with wolf-like looks and the ladies and the older gentlemen took growls. She demands her immediate re- it in turns to occupy the inside seats. A lease, as the wife of the Swedish ambas- daughter of Dr. Burney, who had mar- sador. Notwithstanding this plea, she is ned a gentleman of the name of Phillips, removed to another apartment, and lived a-t Norbury Park, close by. An strictly guarded. Most acute are her intimacy sprang up between the neigh- sufferings. She knows not what fate ho urs, and it was here that Frances Bur- may be in store for her. Up from the ney, who was staying with her sister at street without rise confused sounds of a the time, first met her future husband, surging multitude; the air is filled with M. DArblay. a horrible din cries of Death Notwithstanding their straightened groans made faint by distance, and clani- purses and the inconveniences of cx- ours of murder. The window looks out ile, the i;nz~rYs contrived to pass the upon the Place de la Grave ; she presses ,days very pleasantly in their charming her face against the panes, and tries to Surrey retreat. Meetings were held some- penetrate the darkness. There are no times at the Hall, sometimes at Norbury. lamps ali ht, but here and there a torch Madame de StaU was ever the life and fitfully illumines the gloom, and in these soul of the party, illumining it by her splashes of light thrown upon the dark brilliant conversational powers and de- background she can see the assassins re- lighting all by tragic reach ngs from the turning from the prisons, their arms red French dramatists which xvere wonder- with blood, and their hands still graspin~ fully fine as well as from her own the gleaming knives. Then up from the works. Frances Burney, in a letter to black moving mass ascend ferocious her father, well describes this little so- shouts of exultation. Six hours does ciety. she dndure this suspense, these sights Madame de Sta~l is now the head of the and sounds ; then comes the order for little French colony in this neighbourhood. her release. When she reaches her car- Monsieur de Stahl is at present suspended in riage she finds it in the hands of the mob, his embassy, but not recalled; it is yet uncer- from whoPo it is with difficulty rescued. tam whether the Regent, Duke of Sudermania, A little time longer, and they are with xviii send him to Paris during the present hor 32 MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. rible Convention, or order him home. He is now in Holland, waiting for commands. Ma- dame de Sta~l, hoxvever, was unsafe in Paris, though an ambassadress, from the resentment owed her by the commune. She is a woman of the first abilities, I think, I have ever seen; she is more in the style of Mrs. Thrale than of any other celebrated character, but she has infinitely more depth, and seems even a pro- found politician and metaphysician. She has suffered us to hear some ~of her works in man- uscript, which are truly wonderful for powers both of thinking and expression. She adores her father, but is alarmed at having had no news from him since he has heard of the death of the martyred Louis. Ever since her arrival she has been pressing me to spend some time with her before I return to town. She exactly resembles Mrs. Thrale in the ardour and warmth of her partialities. I find her impos- sible to resist. She is only a short walk from here at Juniper Hall. There can be nothing imagined more charming, more fascinating, than this little colony; between their suffer- ings and their agr~mnents they occupy us almost wholly. Monsieur de Narbonne bears the highest character for goodness, parts~ sweet- ness of temper and ready wit. He has been much affected by the Kings death, but re- lieved by hearing through Monsieur de Males- herbes that his master retained a regard for him to the last. Monsieur de Talleyrand insists on conveying this letter to you. He has been on a visit here, and returns again on Wednesday. But so strong has been the reaction in England since the execution of Louis that all who are known to have been sym- pathizers with the Revolution, even in its earliest stages, are in bad odour. This is to be traced to those bigoted roy- alists whose evil influence upon the King did so much to foment the nation to insurrection. Dr. Burney writes to his daughter to tell her that he has heard Madame de Stadl spoken lightly of in certain high circles, and advises her to break off the connection. Miss Frances writes back to say that although the Bar- oness is wonderfully free in her manners she feels perfectly convinced that she is a pure xvoman. Yet, notwithstanding, as the certain high circles (i.e., the Grun- dies) speak lightly of her, she would give the world to be able to decline ~ oin ~ to a party to which she has pledged herself. She is quite convinced of her friends innocence, quite convinced that the re- ports are false but the very existence of such slanders makes her desirous of eschewing the acquaintance. How truly English What a lovely specimen of propriety you were, Miss Frances What a grand grim visage you must have been at forty, Madame DArblay! The effect of these slanders was soon apparent in the dropping of the English visitors out of the circle of Juniper Hall. Soon afterwards Madame de Stadl re- joined her father at Coppet. All Europe xvas at the time overwhelmed with horror at the news of the approachin0 nmurder of Marie Antoinette, and she wrote a noble defence of the hapless queen, a passion- ate appeal for mercy. As well might she have appealed to wolves and tigers. Nu- merous refugees were hiding in Switzer- land, and to all was she a true and inde- fatigable friend ; she found for them Swedish names, and assisted them both with her influence and with her purse. The Swiss government dared shelter no French fugitive knowingly, and more than once this noble woman pleaded for hours the desperate cause of some poor fellow that the magistrates were upon the point of giving up to the Paris hy~nas, and usually successfully. Beyond the grief and horror she ex- perienced at the sufferings of her un- happy country, the tedium of exile was intolerable to her. She was as essen- tially a Parisian as Dr. Johnson was a Londoner, and her exclamation that she preferred the stream in the Rue du Bac, a fourth storey in Paris, and an income of a hundred louis, to all the beauties of the Lake of Geneva, reads like an echo of the great lexicographers praise of Fleet Street. Were it not for the opin- ion of the world I would not open my window to see the Bay of Naples for the first time, she said, but I would go five hundred leagues to talk with a man of travel whom I had never met. It sounds strange to say of a devoted disciple of Jean-Jacques and of a mind so senti- mental and impassioned, that she was in- sensible to the beauties of nature but so it was. He~ sympathies were wholly en- grossed by the living world, solitude had no chdrms for her; she lived only in society and in communion with kindred souls. During her stay in Switzerland she published those early fictions which have been previously mentioned. A year later, 1796, she published her work upon the Passions, the most striking and remarka- ble book which had yet appeared from her pen. Order hem6 restored, she returns once more to her beloved Paris. France is now ruled by the Directory. The Reign of Terror has passed away, and its creators have expiated their crimes upon the scaffold, or are expiating MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 33 them in distant exile under a tropical Slowly and timidly the less stiff-necked sun. The Jacobins have been swept of the fmz~~r6s return to Paris, and are to away into holes and corners, where they be found both at Barras, and here, lurk, wolf-like, waiting hopefully for the shoulder to shoulder with the bourbeois hour when they may again uprear the of the boulevards, or with some unlet- standard of anarchy. Sansculottism, still tered denizen of Saint-Antoine, grown ragged and famishing, although it is the rich upon the plunder of sustects. There year live of the glorious Republic, has are no distinctions of rank: all are still been overawed, crushed; it has clam- citoyens and citoyennes, and live in a oured for loaves and its republican mas- happy state of equality in their j5ar/icuiar ters have given it lead, as its monarchical circles. But nevertheless it is the fash- masters have done before. Poor Sanscu- ion to scorn the manners that obtained lottism! When thy misery and hunger under the Convention, to ridicule and grow obstreperous that is the usual kina caricature the Republicans of last year, of food which a parental government, be and to affect aristocratic airs and it called republic or monarchy, provides graces. for thee. Not without insurrection The costume ~ la Carmagnole, with its grapeshot, and much blood-spilling has black shag spencer, woollen shirt, sabots, order been restored; more than once has and bonnet rouge, has long since been Jacobinism nearly triumphed; but this disdainfully cast aside, and the citoyen time it has been opposed by no poor and citoyenne study how absurdly or weak Girondists, but by an iron soldiery, how gorgeously they can dress. The that itself has trained, notably by a young ladies attire themselves in imitation of officer named Napoleon Bonaparte, he- Greek statuary, to which they approach in fore whom that band of assassins is scat- nudity; a tunic of white cashmere, which tered like chaff before the wind. Jaco- scarcely covers their bosom and shoul- binism has an enemy sworn to extermina- ders, is looped on one side to the knee tion in the 7eunesse doree, composed of by an antique cameo, and confined under the relatives of those who perished the bosom by a ceinture of gold or bright during the Terror, and who prowl about metal; the arms are bare, and clasped armed with heavy clubs to take summary with bracelets and armlets of gold stud- vengeance upon any Jacobin who comes ded with cameos. Upon the legs are in their way. Notwithstanding their worn buskins ; the feet are bare, save ruflianly employment, they dress in highly for the Roman sandal, and the toes are dandified costume, superfine in quality encircled with rings of gold and precious and exquisite in cut. stones. The hair is worn in loose curls, But who could recognize in the Paris gathered in a snood, and secured by an of to-day the splendid capital of the antique fillet, and is often of a colour dif- Bourbons? Decay, ruin, disorder, are ferent to the complexion a fashion af- everywhere; the great houses fallen into fected by the Roman ladies. When they dilapidation, their gates unhinged, trade go abroad they drape around them shawls stagnated, shops closed, a dead level of of white or scarlet cashmere, and veils of impecuniosity everywhere ; a carriage transparent gauze lightly cloud their passing through the streets causes every faces. Classicism is still the rage, not one to rush to their windows, to gaze Spartan, as under Robespierre, but rather wonderingly upon such a piece of un- Corinthian. The boudoirs are furnished known luxury. in Pompeian style: beds, couches, urns, e But nevertheless there is luxury within lamps, bronzes all are Roman. certain doors. Barras at the Luxembourg The men sometimes don the Roman gives receptions and j5etits souj5ers t~ liz tunic and to,a. When the Directory Regence. Barras, although he has worn publicly received Bonaparte after the the bonnet rouge, and has been an instru- Peace of Campo Formio, to hear him re- ment of liz Terreur, is of a noble and an- cite the story of his achievements, they cient family of Proven~e, and now that liz wore the costume of Roman Senators. Terreur has been swept away he affects But the male dress most in vogue is that aristocratic society. But the leader of of the Incroyables, which is still familiar fashion is Madame Tallien, nde that to us in the pictures of our grandfathers. Tb6rdsa Fontenai who so greatly con- The jaws and chin buried in a huge cra- tributed to the destruction of Robes- vat, the head half concealed by an pierre. A motley society is that which enormous coat collar, a short waistcoat, gathers around her, made up of won- nankeen breeches, with bunches of rib- derfully incongruous chaotic elements. bons at the knees, silk stockings and LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 211 MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 34 shoes, or boots with buff tops; the hair was frigid, soulless, bombastic; odes to plaited or dressed in queues, rings in the that sham Liberty in which no one now ears, a bunch of seals and trinkets hang- believed. The prose was sceptical, athe- ing to the knee, and a twisted knotted istical, and filthily lewd, to a degree that cane in the hand such was the In- would have astonished even the authors croyable, who affected the most dandified of the Regency. There were two cote- airs and never pronounced the letter R. ries, one of which still clung to Jacobin- The morality of such a society may be ism, at the head of which was Marie- imagined. The women were beautiful, Joseph Ch~nier, the other, at the head of and facile as they were beautiful. All which was La Harpe, upheld the new family ties were destroyed; marriage was ideas, and each ceaselessly and virulently a mere civil contract, which might be lampooned the other. broken almost at the pleasure of the con- The irrepressible Parisians had al- tracting parties. When husband and ieady forgotten the cruel reign of Za me~re wife grew tii~ed of one another, they had Guillotine, and even commemorated her only to appear before the authorities and work in their amusements. They had express their desire for separation, and their bals des victimes, to which no per- they were henceforth strangers ; a sepa- sons were admissible unless they had ration of six months constituted a di- lost a relative under la Terrezur, and each vorce. Many women still young, had visitor to which was compelled to wear a families by three different husbands, all band of crape round the arm. All were of whom were living. The Christian re- filled with a childish joy, such as one ligion was still under the ban of the law; feels upon awaking from some dream of the calendar of the Jacobins, which be- terrible peril, at the thought that they gan with the year one of the Republic, had survived the slaughter of the Revo- was still in use; in the place of Sunday, lution. But all things, manners, opinions, the tenth day was set apart as a holiday inclinations, were turnin~, back towards or festival, aristocracy and monarchy; the Republic Dancing was the all pervading rage; was already dead, only awaiting a hand the art was equally cultivated by men strong enough to bury it to disappear and women, and more homage was paid from the world. to a celebrated dancer than to a victori- So la ;n~re Guillotine, with all her la- ous general.* Vestris, Tr~nis, G ardel, bours, has not purged and purified hu- were the heroes of the salons; the mo- mani~y; society is little different, except ment they arrived place was made for that it is very much coarser, than it was them, and an eager crowd formed a ring in the salons of Du Barry. Did all those to watch them develop their marvellously rivers of blood then flow in vain ? Did intricate figures. The dances of the all those mountains of corpses piled up women resembled those of the Bac- in revolutionary fury offend the face of chantes; now languishing and voluptu- Heaven in vain? IN VAIN! Alas! for ous, now sprightly and vigorous, the the visions of an Incorruptible Robes- cashmere shawl playing an important pierre! Where is the Republic of the part as they floated gracefully through the stoic virtues of which he dreamed figures, or with interwoven arms struck Where the regeneration and purification picturesque tableaur. by blood for which he worked? A The first five years of the Revolution second Astolfo will have to seek them in had been an interregnum in literature; the moon among the thousands of de- who could write under Ia Terreur? lusions with which enthusiasts have Even Madame de Sta~l, hundred of miles mocked the world since the days of away, among the peaceful lakes and Adam. mountains of Switzerland, could not pen Such was society when Madame de a line. I should even have reproached Sta~l arrived in Paris. Daily, however, myself for a thought, she says, writing ~nz~grds were returning to the shores of of that time, as something too inde- France, and more refined coteries were pendent of grief. Such was the effect formed. In 1799, the Directory was produded upon all intellectual minds by overthrown by a cong ddtat, and the that awful period. What was written un- Consulate established, with Napoleon for der the Directory had as well, and much First Consul. From their first introduc- better, been left unwritten. The poetry tion, Madame de Stadl never liked Bona- parte. He inspired her with an instinc * This is the period from which date the old carica- tive dread a feeling which was not tures of the dancing Frenchman. unique in her. Being an earnest lover MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. 35 of true liberty, she early divined his am- r In t~te-dl-1i~1e her conversation was a thing bitious projects, and foresaw the despot- that could not be conceived by those who have ism that he was working to erect. That not enjoyed the privilege of her intimacy. which characterizes Bonapartes govern- Her finest pages, her most eloquent discourses ment, she says, is a profound contempt in society, are far from equalling in all-absorb. for all the intellectual riches of human ing power that which she spoke when, not nature, virtue, dignity of soul, religion, being compelled to conform to the ideas of certain auditors, she gave free play to the dar- enthusiasm. He would desire to reduce ing and original thoughts that filled her soul. man to mere force and cunning, and to Then her grand genius spreading its wings designate everything else as mere folly took flight: then, knowing not whither it and silliness. The English irritate him might lead her, a witness rather than mistress above all because they have found the of her own inspiration, she exercised a power means of combining success with hon- more than natural, to which she herself seemed esty: a combination which Napoleon to submit a power good or bad, but over would have us consider to be impossible. which she had no control; sometimes, am- The dislike was reciprocal. She pre- mated by a bitter and biting spirit, she would wither as with the breath of death all the tends to speak neither of me nor of poli- flowers of life, and carry sword and fire into tics, said Napoleon yet I do not know the depths of the heart; she would destroy all how it happens, but people love me less the illusions of sentiment, the charm of the who have been with her. She gives most cherished relations. Sometimes, deliver- them fanciful notions and of the opposite ing herself up to a singularly original gaiety, kind to mine. At another time he said, she had the ingenuous grace and confidence of Madame de StaU has shafts that would a simple child who is the dupe of everything; hit a man were he seated on a rainbow then, at length soaring into higher regions, In the year i8oo he established him- she would abandon herself to the sublime m self in the Tuileries, where he held a elancholy of a religious inspiration, which penetrates the nothingness of terrestrial exis- sovereign court, which in gorgeousness tence. But it was when in the society of would not have shamed the ancleis regime. friends in misfortune that she displayed her In that same year, French society, though grandest powers. Hurried away by rapid and still mixed with base alloy, had resumed profound feelings, it seemed that she traversed much of its old brilliance, and gathered heaven and earth to find solaces for their afflic- as usual around different nuclei. Ma- tions. There is nothing good and ingenious dame R6camier was then in all the delicate that she did not invent to distract them, to flower of her youth and exquisite grace; lighten for a time the sombre images of their Madame de Visconti in all the blossom sadness. She appeared to dispose of the fu- of her majestic beauty; Madame Jose- ture and to create one expressly for them, in which, by the power of friendship, she made phine Bonaparte gave splendid rdunions; amends for all things. and the Princess de Poix small and ex- clusive parties. In such salons gathered The night before Benjamin Constant, whatever of beauty, wit and birth the her most intimate friend, made his speech guillotine had spared. But most not- in the Assembly against the growing able and most brilliant of all these power of the First Consul he drew her gatherings were those of Madame de aside. If I make this speech, he said, Sta~l, whose genius and celebrity attract- to-morrow night your drawing-room will ed the finest intellects of all nations. Bril- be deserted. I know it. But you liant as are her works, her conversation must do what is right, she answered is said to have been infinitely more so. intrepidly. Their prognostications were You find that she writes well; hear correct. A party had been arranged for her talk, and you will find that she writes that night ; by five oclock she had re- badly, said a contemporary. She lived ceived letters of excuse from every per- above all by conversation and in conver- son invited, not one of whom came. sation; it was in that her genius was most What gould more eloquently describe the thoroughly aroused and was most thor- slavish adulation of the Parisians to their oughly original. It was in that, says Moloch? But Fouchd waited upon her Saint-Beuve, that she instructed, and and told her plainly that Napoleon sus- as it were renewed herself unceasingly, pected her of having composed that rather than by prolonged meditation. speech. A short time afterwards she was Conversation was her inspiration and her commanded to quit Paris and not to re- muse. side within forty leagues of it. In vain Of these wonderful powers Madame did Joseph Bonaparte, whom she fre- Necker Saussure gives the following quentlv visited, and with whom she glowing description passeJ the last few days of her Parisian MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. residence, intercede for her the Consul hours, without once missing, the flying shuttle- was immovable. No greater punishment cocks of countless interesting thoughts. could be imposed upon her than banish- Madame de Sta~l is a queen; and the men ment from her beloved Paris, and within of intellect who live in her circle cannot with- the prescribed limits she wandered from draw from it, for she detains them by a species of magic. These men are not, as is foolishly village to village, her thoughts ever supposed in Germany, all occupied in forming turned to the one spot, with the same her. It is she who is giving them a social melancholy longing that Adam might education. She possesses in an admirable have felt when looking back upon Para- degree the secret of uniting the most incongru dise* ous elements. Those who approach her may Delphine, the first of her great fic- differ widely in opinion, but they agree in their tions, was now published, and created an adoration of this idol. Madame de Sta~l is of immense sensation. Also her celebrated medium height, and her form, without possess- Discourse upon Literature. Durino ing a nymph-like elegance, is noble in its pro- the two following years (i8o34) she portions. She is a vigourous brunette, and her countenance is not, strictly speaking, hand- travelled through Italy and Germany, some. But all that is forgotten when we meet passing the greater part of the time at her superb eyes, wherein A great and divine Berlin, Vienna, and Weimar, where she soul not merely shines, but emits fire and diligently pursued the study of the Ger- flame. And when she speaks from the depths man language and literature, and con- of her heart, as she so often does, and we see tracted an intimacy with Goethe, Schiller, how that mighty heart dwarfs even her vast the two Schlegels, Wieland, and other of and profound intellect, then indeed one must the finest spirits of Germany. In the needs worship her, like my friends, August last-named year she was suddenly re- Wilhelm von Schiegel, Benjamin Constant, called to Switzerland by the death of her & c. father. How terrible a blow this was to her may be imagined from the previous description of her doting affection foi him. She now took up her residence at Cop- pet, and as soon as her affliction would permit, gathered about her some of the greatest men of the age ; among others, Augustus Wilhelm Schlegel, Sismondi, and Benjamin Constant. Nothiub more delightful than the life of this intellectual 1 circle can be imagined. Discussions upon literary and scientific subjects com- menced at eleven oclock, the breakfast hour, after which the party drove out upon some delightful excursion in the neighbourhood of the lake. Conversa- tion was resumed at dinner, or between dinner and supper, and was often pro- longed until midnight. Constant, whom she declaied to be the first of living minds, and herself, de Sta~l, were the principal talkers. Nothing, if one may believe the testimony of those present, was ever more wonderful and dazzling than the conversation of those two in the midst of that select circle. Holding the magic battledores of speech, they kept up for * When her eldest son was seventeen he obtained an interview with Napoleon to plead for the reversal of his mothers sentence of banishment. Paris is roy home, answered the despot; I will have there only those who love me; to a residence in any other European capital she is welcome, hot she will not do at Paris. She lost me the Tribunate. I will talce care she does me no more mischief. Ever dearest mother, wrote the boy, does not this seem cold to you? But indeed I tried to speak with energy.~~ Her mode of composition was admira- ble. Each work was written three times. The first draft was written by her own hand, after this had gone through emen- dations and additions, it was copied by her secretary, then passages were read to select friends ; after which, adopting any hints of value that might be offered, it was again corrected and recopied. When composing her work upon Litera- ture she worked as follows: each morn- ing she arranged a chapter; during the day she turned the conversation upon the subject she proposed to treat, lis- tened to and argued the various opinions, and the following day the chapter was written. The greatest blow that fell upon her after her fathers death was the suppres- sion of her great work, De lAlle- magne. * It had been submitted to the censor of the Parisian press, his altera- tions and excisions had been carefully observed; it was put in type and printed then came the veto of the Emperor, by whose orders io,ooo copies were de- stroyed. This book had been the la- bour of years, and she had looked for- ward to its publication with the utmost * The minister of police demanded to know why neither f/ce Emterer or i/ce army had been men- tioned in the work upon Germany. She replied that the suhject being purely literary she did not know how such references could be introduced. Have we theci made war upon Germany for eighteen years in order that a person should print a book without speaking of us?~ cried the minister. That book shall be deitroyed, and the author ought to be sent to Vincennes. 36 MADAME DE STAEL AND HER TIMES. eagerness. Her mortification may be that are ever youthful, the body grows imagined, old, heauty departs from it, or can only In 1807 was published her greatest and he discerned by the inward eyes; hut the best known fiction, Corinne, which at soul is still juvenescent, lovely and pas- once took not only France, but Europe sionate, as was Psyche when the rays of by storm. Every one read it, and every her lamp fell upon the sleeping face of one, young and old, frivolous and grave, I Eros. Alas it is a baneful gift; for was carried away hy its marvellous what greater misery than to feel the body beauty; even Scotch professorsstopped aging, to feel yourself drifting farther each other in the streets to comment and farther away from those sympathies upon it, and to inquire how far each other which in you are vigorous as ever, youth had read. It will live forever as the most and love looking coldly upon you, whil~ brilliant and passionate work thatever em- yet your soul is full of both? How ex- anated from female pen. Jean-Jacquess quisitely Madame de Stad felt this was pupil had equalled, if not surpassed, evinced by her shuddering dread of the master upon his own ground. Go- approaching age. The simple words, rinne was the outpourings of the inward We were young then, would fill her soul of its great authoress, or rather it! eyes with tears. Youthful indeed was was the embodiment of her soul, incor- the heart, the brain, the soul of her who poreally. Delphine it was said, was could write Corinne at forty-one. the rezlity of her youth, Corinne was So wearisome and unbearable became what Madame de Stad would have been.* the constant espionage kept upon her by In i8io there came to the neighbour- Bonaparte that she at length resolved hood of Coppet a young French officer of to quit Coppet and take shelter in Eng- Bonapartes army, invalided on account land. But to get there was the difficulty; of his wounds. He was twenty-five, all southern and central Europe was now Madame Dc Stadi forty-four, and yet a at the feet of the reat conqueror. All mutual passion sprung up between them direct access was impossible. Escaping which resulted in a secret marriage, out of Switzerland, she journeyed towards People will smile upon reading this, as Russia, succeeded in reaching St. Peters- the image of the averaze worldly and burg, where she was well received by the matter-of-fact woman of that age rises Emperor, and remained some time. The before them. But it is gross folly to news of her enemys invasion hastened compare ordinary humanity with excep- her departure. It was 1813, however, tional genius; as the one differs from before she arrived in London. Her the other intellectually, so does it in reception was immense. All the fashion passion and sentiment. There are souls and all the celebrities of the day crowded to visit her. Her residence was at No. * cannotforbear quoting Saint.Beuves fine analysis 30, Argyle Place, Regent Street. Accus- of this work: The main idea of the book is the conflict tomed to the freer society of Paris, and between a noble, if sentimental, ambition, and that de- understand sirefor domestic happinesswbich was ever preseotwith no ing English exclusiveness, Madame de StaB. No wonder that Corinne shines by her assemblies were more numerous than moments like a priestess of Apollo, while in the daily select. Lord B ron said that her table intercourse of life she is the simplest of women gay, minded him versatile, susceptible of a thousand fancies, capable of re of the grave, because there the most graceful and effortless abandon. But for all all distinctions are levelled. Peers, dan- her external and internal resources, she will never es- cape herself. From the moment when she feels herself dies, the most eminent literati and Grub seized by passion, by that vulture grip to which hap- Street scribblers, were equally to be niness and freedom succumb, I admire her incapa- found there. It was at this time that bility of consolation, the sentiment which is stronger De lAllemaune was at lenoth olven in her than genius, her frequent invocation of the sanctity and permanence of those ties which alone can to the world. It is the finest of all her prevent heart-rending separation. I love to hear her confess in the swan song of her dying hour, of all the works, and as in his earlier essays Carlyle faculties that were born with me that of sorrow is the first fully revealed the German genius to only one which I have exercised to the full. This F continuation of Deiphine in Corinne is the most ~.ngland, so did she perform the same fascinating and endegring characteristic of the book to office for France. The book, however, me. The noble framework which everywhere sur- attained a European perusal, and as such rounds the experiences of this ardent and impressible soul enhances their effect by its severity. These names anticipated the labours of the English of lovers, no longer graven upon beech stems, but in- author. scribed on the walls of eternal ruins, are associated Upon the Restoration she returned to with a solemn history, and come to have a living share in its immortality. This divine passion of a being that darling Paris for which she was ever whom we cannot believe imaginary, introduces into the si ohino Her salons were more brilliant antique arena one niore victim whom men will not for b get. Genius, whose child she was, becomes the last I than ever. Wellington, Chateaubriand, and not the least illustrious in the long list of victors. Humboldt, Blucher, Sismondi, Constant, SUKIE S BOY. 38 Lafayette~ Guizot, the two Schleoels, she said when she was dying; lively and Canova, Madame R6camier, and large sad, I have loved God, my father, and numbers of old friends from England, liberty. among others, Madame DArblay, were Her husband survived her only a few constantly seen there. The news of the months. The loss of his noble and bril- escape from Elba scattered all these liant partner proved too much for a con- brilliant spirits to the four winds, and stitution already shattered by disease. Madame de StaU once more retired to To enter into an analysis of her books Coppet. But soon afterwards M. Rocca s comes not within the scope of this paper, health obliged her to go into Italy. There and it would not probably interest the she remained until i8i6, in which year general reader. Her character; which was sle once more returned to Switzerland. frank to a fault, is revealed in her life. About this time Byron hired a house near By her children she was loved with an Geneva, and was her constant guest. ardour that almost equalled her own filial Madame de Stadl, he wrote, has made devotion. All her affections, we are told, Coppet as agreeable to me as kindness partook of the nature of love whether they and oleasant society can make a place. were friendship, or filial or maternal love. Writing of her after her death the reat Although she had a considerable amount poet says: of vanity, and loved to talk of her talents All those whom the charm of involuntary and successes, she had no particle of en- wit and of easy hospitality attracted within the vy, jealousy, or rancour in her nature. friendly circle of Coppet should rescue from In friendship she was as ardent as she was oblivion those virtues which, althou~h they are constant. But she had a curious habit said to love the shade, are in fact more fre- of analyzing the characters of those with quently chilled than excited by the domestic whom she was intimate even in their pres- cares of private life. Some one should he found ence. I cannot help it, she would say. to portray the unaffected graces with which she If I were on my way to the scaffold I adorned those dear relationships. Some one should be dissecting the characters of should be found not to celebrate but tode- the friends who were to suffer with me. scribe the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the ccntre of a society ever varied and al~vays She also formed her judgments very pleased, the creator of which, divested of the quickly, and seldom changed them. She ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shoi~e said very wisely, A man may be known forth only to give fresh animation to those in an hour, or in ten years ; no interme- about her. The mother tenderly affectionate diate impressions are to be relied upon. and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly She judged herself, however, as strictly generous, ut still esteemed, the charitable as she did others, and was the most se- patroness of all distresses, cannot be forgotten vere upon her own faults. She always by those whom she cherished, and protected, had a and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most thouo profound sense of religion, and al- where she was known the best, and to the sor- h perhaps during the more brilliant rows of very many friends and more dependents period of her life she inclined a little to- may be offered the disinterested regret of a wards philosophism, her latter years were stranger, who amidst the sublime scenes of characterized by a sincerely Christian Lake Leman received his chief satisfaction piety. from contemplating the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinne. Her last literary productions were amoncr her finest, her R~fiexions sur From The Sunday Magazine. la R6volution Franqaise, and her Dix SUKIES BOY. Ann~es dExil. In the latter she gives BY THE AUTHOR OF THE HUGUENOT some striking pictures of Russia, Poland, FAMILY, ETC. and the different countries through which she passed on her way to England. CHAPTER Y. In i817 she was seized with a violent TWO LONE WOMEN AND THEIR CHARGE. fever, to which she ultimately succumbed. OLD MILESS LAST ~ DONE. The day before her death she read a por- J tion of Byron~s Manfred, and marked SUKIES heart might have broken under some of the finest passages. Upon her the intensity of her anguish at seeing sick-bed none of her great or good quali- Kitty degraded from the post of honour ties abandoned her. To the last she was to which they two had fondly elected her, patient and devout, and her intellect un- and condemned publicly to that pity dimmed. I have always been the same, xvhich Sukie, in her simplicity, knew is SUKIES BOY. 39 with the hard and coarse-minded much akin to scorn. Other women and their children, all of them more or less Kittys inferiors, were protected and cherished, while Kitty and her innocent babe were set out to be despised and forsaken. But Sukie had an immense consolation in the very circumstances which, to the com- miserating or jeering world outside, ap- peared to put the crown on the Copes misfortunes. There were the children and if little Miles was so much to Sukie, what to Kitty should not the infant be who was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh? Kitty had not ceased to be a wife and mother, though a husband and father had proved false. Sukie could take hi~art for her sister and herself in the midst of their misery and self-abasement. Was not God the husband of the widow and the father of the fatherless? arid if poor Kitty were worse than a widow, and the two children Miless boy as well as Will Maynes were worse than fatherless, would not the Lord be doubly a husband and father, and could she and Kitty be altogether rebellious and despairing? As for daily bread, at present the chil- dren needed little, and the sisters were hardly worse off than they had been formerly, and Sukie would not fear for the future. The Lord who had blessed and consoled them by giving them chil- dren, would find bread to fill the chil- drens mouths. Sukies faith communicated itself in a degree to her father and her sister, though the one continued to go about his work in a maze, and Kitty hung her head never to raise it again. From being a healthy woman she began from that date to droop into sickliness. Sukie, who had been until this time the docile follower as well as the faithful ser- vant of her family, took sudden promo- tion and became its acknowledged leader. Pending the long dreary silence which followed the departure of the chddrens fathers, Suki~ and Kitty had had the children baptized, standing along with old Miles and a sympathetic neighbour as the childrens sponsors. No sacred rite could have been more clouded with earthly grief and shame. Yet Sukie could not aid in its celebration without a certain exaltation of spirit. Her heart was sore for her sister, for their father, for the reprobate Miles, for the unoffend- ing children who must be the sufferers; but her heart could not be all sad on the day when her little Miles and his cousin were given over to Christ, and when she promised with all her heart, God helping her, to bring them up good, honest, Chris- tian lads, whom He, who put his hands on the little children of Jerusalem, would yet consent to own. Sukie, in spite of late occurrences, kept to her declaration that Miles Cope was a dear name to her, and gave her nephew the name of Miles. What had the poor second Miles done in his sin against God and nature, himself, and them, that their fathers name should not descend to be borne more worthily, as Sukie was fain to prophecy, by a third Miles? Poor Miles the seconds abuse of the revered name was the very reason that it should be handed down afresh to be redeemed by Miles the third. Kitty remained firm in her intention, also, and bade her boy be named after his father, William Mayne. It might be her last passionate assertion of her claim to her husband it might be a lingering, desperate appeal to him on be- half of their son, while she would not make an appeal on her own behalf, and while she practised the self-control, in spite of what was weak in her character, of never again mentioning Will Mayne himself to her sisterwhatever the mo- tive, Kitty was stubborn in calling her boy William Mayne, but from the first the childs Christian name was abbrevi- ated into Bill, not Will. In course of time Sukie received a let- ter from her brotheran unsatisfactory letter, only less unsatisfactory than his total silence would have been. He said that he had been doing no good in Cran- thorpe that he could not look at his child as how could he when he had gone some way to st.~rving its mother? He had found out Will Mayn~s purpose of giving Kitty and their bantling the slip. Where would have been the use of Miles trying to hold fast so slippery a customer when Will was heart-sick of Kitty and her palaver? No power would have kept Will Mayne to his bargain he would have contrived somehow to give it the go-by, and it was better to take what good he could get. out of Mayne, and let him show them a grand opening for house-painters in America, and make the opening free to both, by his oily tongue and swelling words, which imposed upon people for a time. Miles would see that Will sent home to Kitty a share of what money he made, which he would never do of his own accord, for he was a selfish dog. Miles himself would let Sukie have the better part of his earnings, so soon SUKIES BOY. 40 as he could spare them, which would be ere long, for there were good wages to be had in America ; a fellow could enjoy himself there, and at the same time put by money ; so that she might have plenty for the child which kiss for him, he was sorry he had not kissed it the morn- ing he went, somehow it seemed un- lucky. Miless vague intention of doing some- thing for his child came to nothing, but it was the utmost satisfaction which the sisters got from him. Sukie toiled like three women at watch- making with her father, at straw-bonnet cleaning, at the heavier end of the house- keeping: all that she asked or would consent that Kitty should do, was to look after the two babies, and attend to the lighter work of the house. Sukie was sufficiently cheered when little Miles crowed to her, or when little Bill pulled his mothers hair, till she roused herself and smiled faintly while she scolded him. If I could, but prevent father from feeling the pinch of poverty, and keep Kitty off a bed of languishing, and rear the children, I should not complain or feel any work too hard, said Sukie to herself, many a time, with a long sigh of aspiration which she half grudged, for she felt she had no breath to spare. I have so much to be thankful for, she ended, gratefully, I am rich in friends, if in nothing else, richer than I ever thought to be in the two dear children, and it is no pain to work for them. How angry I am when people speak as if I could wish to be rid of them,of my boy, the most contented, affectionate little fellow, so funny that he begins to make plays of ho- peep for Bill, though he is not a month older, and knows and singles me out al- ready; it is the greatest pride and pleas- ure for me to do for them (Sukie did not use the last phrase in the slang sense, hut in the honest working man and wo- man s sense). But another trial was in store for the sisters. Old Miles had never been the same man since the departure of his son and son-in-law. He continued indeed to go through his daily routine of more than half a centurys standing; and took his early walk regularly, bringing back with him froth March till November the bits of groundsel, shepherds purse, chick- weed, or plaintain which he had picked for his birds. Till light failed him he was at work, and then he would take his book in the window or the chimney-cor ner, and only leave it for the solemn slow reading of a chapter and a prayer, which sounded plain to the comprehension, after his own hazy, high-flown utterances, be- fore retiring to rest. But all was accom- plished with such perceptibly increasing feebleness, that Sukie was tempted to wish that her father would give in a little and lay aside his more fatiguing habits. From the early walk he now came back, manifestly tottering, more exhausted than refreshed. Over the more intricate fit- tings in and regulations of the tiny wheels and chains of his trade, his dim eyes faltered though they were aided by magnifying glasses; his stiff hands were unsteady, and in these things she could give him little aid. Mr. 1-lorrock, the other watchmaker in Cranthorpe, who combined flashy and at- tractive jewelry with his watchmaking, was not an unfriendly man, and was far beyond the stage of rivalry with the elder tradesman. When some of old Miless former customers, who were in truth fast falling from him, had gone to Mr. Hor- rock, and had spoken to him of Miles Copes being superannuated, Mr. Hor- rock had spoken in turn to Sukie, and offered to complete any fine work which her father could no longer accomplish, and to engage him to work at such jobs of clock-cleaning, & c., & c., as he was still capable of. There was a great deal of genuine com- miseration felt for the Cope family, to whom commiseration could not be very readily expressed. Not that Sukie re- jected or disdained it, though it was some time before ~he could bring herself to see that not only her fathers best days were gone, but that infirmities were ad- vancing on him with great strides, and it was a still longer time before she could venture to convey to him Mr. Horrocks message, with all that it implied. She contented herself, for a while, with longing that father would give in a little, stay in the house till hre~kfast time, if not take his coffee and slice of toast and bit of bacon in bed; that he would take a nap after dinner with his pocket-hand- kerchief throxvn over his head, as so many men of his age and station took a nap, in place of tramping back immedi- ately to business, like a man in his prime; that he would stoop to take a turn in the garden, or divert himself with the children by the fireside, or rest sat- isfied with the Bible and the newspapers, in place of employing his leisure in study. Surely father had studied enough in the SUKIES BOY. 4 course of his threescore and ten, she re- flected, referring to the old musty vol- umes (old Miles despised anything new and fresh out of a mechanics library), over which her father was given to pore, and from which she did not doubt that he drew additional stores to add to his heap of learning. At last Sukie dared not, having retard to the interest of the whole household, withhold from her father Mr. Horrocks really considerate and kind proposal. It toek old Miles by surprise, and by no means agreeable surprise. He was inclined to repudiate it indignantly. Hes a vapouring, new-fangled fool, is Horrock. Ive been my own master for too many years to bind myself an appren- tice again, least of all to him. I wonder at you, Sukie, for conspiring with so liti- guous a. fox against your own father. I forbid you to do anything so pestilent again, girl. Very well, Lather, she answered,. meekly, with tears in her eyes, all the more impressed that she had not the least idea what the terms litiguous fox or pestilent might mean. But that very same afternoon Miles fought for hours in vain with the difficult works of a valuable hunting watch of one of the few good customers who had stood by him. He wiped the perspira- tion from his brow in the pauses of the fight, and peered as if it were for a dis- traction through the little pane of glass in the partition which divided the so- called shop from the front kitchen, where he could see Sukie ironing and pressing her straw plaits, and Kitty, with her tall figure no longer straight, but stooping painfully, and her naturally thin face blanched and worn, cumbered heavily with the two children, trying to rock the cradle containing little Bill with her foot, while she stilled the fretting of little Miles in the first trouble of his first tooth on her knee. Suddenly old Miles came in upon the two women, startling them as much as if he were there to announce an earthquake, by this break in his ordinary afternoon custom. He had always been methodical in his most fantastic speeches, and he was methodical in his humiliation so he carried the shell of the hunting watch with its works carefully collected in a little box. He told Sukie with a kind of severity to take the commodity to Horrocks; Mr. Harewood was not to be put about or injured, because he (old Miles) was breaking up like a flood, neither were women and children to be driven to death and condemned to pine if he could help it, though it brought down his bul- warks. Oh, never mind us, father, cried Sukie, we can do very well for our- selves. And Kitty chimed in, We are chil- dren of affliction, but we would not take advantage of you, father. But Miles declined all parley, and with mournful imperiousness, waived off Sukie on her errand as on a matter which was settled beyond the chance of change. As for the sisters, in the midst of their admiration of their fathers magnanimity, they could not, with the children, and with Miless own grey hairs before them, remonstrate farther. Sukie returned with a courteous mes- sage, and several counter commissions in clock-works from Mr. Horrock for Miles, which the latter accepted with his old dignity, saddened though it was, and worked at them for several weeks. But this was only a stacre in the old mans rapid decline. Sukie soon saw with a sharp pang that he was no longer fit even for the coarse work which had been assigned to him. She did her best to get him to relinquish it to her, and to overtake it by yet more spasmodic exer- tions of her own fully taxed energies. But Miles, who in his isolated life had never been accustomed to contradiction, and never had tolerated interference with his arrangements, grew jealous, fractious, almost fierce, at the least suggestion of aid from Sukie. He even declined to permit her to be with him at any time in the shop, or to afford him the help which she had been used to render him from her girlhood. Thus it happened that it was without Sukies knowledge that her father worked with immense pains for days and days at a clock which in old times would not have occupied the most conscientious worker for more than a few hours and it was without Sukies anxious inspec- tion, for which she made an apology to herself, when, on inquiring whether the clock were not done yet, he had days be- fore told her, half in dudgeon, half in tri- umph, that he had sent the finished clock back again. He was so tired that he attempted no more work that afternoon, though it was a long sum mers day with fine bright weather. He turned over the slender remnant of his old stock and tools, and dozed in the sun, keeping himself well 42 SUKIE S BOY. out of his daughters sight, partly be- cause he could not bear to be idle and they so occupied, partly because Sukie had begged him to give over his work when he had carried it on into the hours of the previous evening, and had taken it upon her to warn him that he would be knocked up, if he would not take a little well-earned rest. It would spoil the girl, who was getting too opinionative already, if he let her suspect that she had been right in her warning. An unhappy interruption came to his present rest. Unfortunately the clock which he had put together with stifled groans and strange efforts had, in Mr. 1-lorrocks absence, been given to a fore- man who knew nothing of Miles. On examination this foreman had found some small flaw in the work, which was not to be wondered at in the circum- stances, but which never would have been found in Miles Copes work of former days. Coupling the defect with the de- lay in the doing of the work which had tried even his masters forbearance, the man, in a fit of surly zeal, pulled the clock down again with the utmost promp- titude, and bundled the materials back to Miles Cope, accompanying them with the contemptuous notice that they did not admit bungling work at Horrocks shop that he must sort the clock afresh, and look sharp about it. Sukie, entering to call her father to tea, found him seated motionless, with the works of the clock before him, and the taunt rankling deep in his failing mind Am I a bungler, Sukie? he asked her in a shrill voice of attempted deri- sion ; and Sukie guessed the blow which had been dealt, and put her arms round her fathers neck, as in the reserved na- ture of their intercourse she had not done since she was a child, and kissed and cried over him, and told him that he was the cleverest watchmaker, the wisest man to no purpose. I think I shall go to bed, Sukie, Ill not blunder there, said old Miles. And Sukie knew that the end had come. I was over proud, he further owned one day to Sukie, when she was waiting upon him, and so I have to be be- holden to women for everything. No, Sukie, dont contradict me, Ill never work for my salt again; and I may tarry on the length of the calendar, while my childrens children have falleii to you girls to be reared and admonished; and I cannot spell a pa~e to myself, or ex- press myself as I was wont to do~ but must depend upon you for a chapter or a verse, and employ common words for common things. It is true, father, assented Sukie, with tender sincerity. Oh, I wish I could bear the yoke for you. Not so; it is my yoke, nobody shall bear it save myself; Old Miles asserted his old independence manfully, even then. But oh, Sukie with all our pride as potentates, it is well for us that One bare the yoke for us ; I never saw it so clear as now. Yes, father, it is the greatest who are the humblest. I praise the Lord for your clear sight, as I have praised Him all my life long for a good father, said Sukie, devoutly. Poor old Miles did not tarry very long to render the straits of his daughters and b randchildren more pressing he de- parted in peace, and though his mourners were few, not the mightiest of men was more lovingly mourned, or more hon- oured in the mourning. CHAPTER VI. THE ONE TAKEN, AND THE OTHER LEFT. SUKIE worked on with her straw-bon- net cleaning, and found a substitute for the loss of the small gains which, to the last, the watch-making had brought to the family. Mr. Horrock at once took over old Miless few remaining watches, springs, screws, and pincers relics which Sukie parted from with pain, but pain masked by the thankfulness which she experienced by the fair remuneration procured without further trouble or ex- pense. She spent the few pounds thus obtained on tea, sugar, rice, such ~ro- ceries as could be easily kept, and en- tered into a treaty with a baker to sup- ply her with bread, with the view of Kittys retailing the groceries and bread, and thus making a small profit. There was the room which had served for dear old fathers workroom and shop, standing empty, ready to receive the groceries and bread, and with a door opening to the street, convenient for cus- tomers. The spare room would be an oppression to the Copes, a mere melan- choly reminder of the past, if not so em- ployed, for they could not get it let easily, while the house, on which Sukie put an exaggerated value, was so far the Copes own, that they held it by a long cheap lease. Sellin,, tea or bread would be a nice, light , genteel trade for Kitty, which would SUKIES BOY. 43 not be too much for her, and with which her charge of the children need not in- terfere. Sukie took pride in remember- ing that her mother used to send her when she was young to buy half a pound. of tea from the old curates widow, who was quite the lady, and had attention shown to her by the doctors and bankers families, and all the best people in the town. And Sukie recalled farther, that poor Mrs. Prince had a poor little daugh- ter affected with spine complaint, who required more from her than twin babies twice over would have called for. Kitty was willing to do anything, though she was despondent of success, and though she made objection to the word genteel for a recommendation of the callin~.,. As if anything were not fit for me, Sukie, when I see what you, on whom me and my boy and little Miles have all come to be dependent, have to do, as if I did not take blame to myself for the days when I was an untamed heifer, reflected Kitty, with her fathers inappropriateness of fine similitude. But although poor Kitty was perfectly sincere in her reflection upon herself, there was an innate fastidiousness about her which sorrow could not root out; so that it was with a melancholy satisfaction in the modified gentility of the operation that, generally with a child on one arm, she weighed out and tied up her tea and sugar, and dispensed her loaves, with the greatest exactness and neatness, and not without a certain languid grace which impressed some of her customers. The sterling, single-hearted honesty of the Copes, which made them most desirous of giving full measure and supplying good . articles, was in favour of Kittys little venture; and for any customer whom her lachrymoseness, instead of a chatty, popular shopkeeper manner fright- ened away, there was, to the credit of Cranthorpe, another customer attracted by the sympathy which was felt for the two women, and by the wish to support them in their honest efforts to maintain themselves and their children. Thus to Sukies great and permanent gratitude both ends, that of gaining and that of spending, were brought to meet in the household; and as the years rolled on, and the babies grew into little boys and young lads, with increasing ap- petites and increasing needs, and making additional drains for food, and clothes, and schooling, the supply was still found sufficient for the demand, and no debts had been incurred. But the women had more than once been hard put to it, espe- cially when Kittys weakness of chest had threatened to confine her to that bed of languishing which Sukie had depre- cated for her, and when, on her recovery, in spite of her weakness, both she and Sukie, in order to pay the doctors bill and find sufficient food for the boys, had to dine, and sup too, on some days, on kettle-broth (bread soaked in hot water and spiced with pepper and salt). But Kitty was spared, and the boys throve and shot up nearer and nearer to providing for themselves, and Sukie was ready to bear solemn and glad testimony that the Lord had provided - had been the husband of the widow, had given children to the desolate for thouoh the boys were the great care, they were also the light of the sisters house. The sisters had only beam once again from America, and the tidin~s put a stop to all likelihood of hearing farther. Miles was dead ; had died in an hospital in Philadelphia, and had begged the chap- lain to write home to the address which he had left, and tell those whom it con- cerned that the last thing he said was, that he was very sorry for all that he had failed to do, and that the last name he had spoken was that of his old sister Sukie, who had been like a mother to him, and was then acting as a mother to his child. The chaplain added that, as far as he could judge, the poor man was sincere in his sorrow, and died penitent, and in the faith of a Christian. Sukies heart melted entirely at the small atone- ment, and it was one of the greatest trusts of her life, that there had been a secret sacred sorrow, as well as the open simple sorrow, enlargin b and en- nobling Miless shallow heart, and a great name before hers on his faltering lips. With Miless death, the last hope, if it could be called a hope, as years rolled on, of their hearing anything further of Will Mayne died also. Happily for the peace of the women, they could not conceive that he would ever waste a thought either upon them or his son, or dream of re- turning to do penance for his sin, and to resume his unpalatable duties. Miles and Bill were like brothers, al- though they bore no resemblance to each other. Miles was an irregular, squat, plain-featured little fellow (though Sukie fondly believed him handsome), very good-natured, and with a peculiar straight- forwardness which some people mistook for silliness. But, thou6h he was not clever, or at all bookish, the last rather SUKIE S BOY. 44 to Sukies regret, he was neither silly nor: ing with all the gravity which he could dull, and, with all his liveliness, there was command, Thank you, mum, for two from his earliest years a remarkable I penrth of canary seed, mum, we never trustworthiness about him, which ren- allow our birds hemp-seed, like any dered Sukies boast quite true that she other customer, and never ceasing to en- could always depend upon Miles. What- joy his share of the joke, which did not ever play he was engaged in, whatever pall on any of its innocent promoters. temptation he was exposed to, Miles, ex- Bill Mayne was decidedly like his cept in the rarest instances, remembered mother, a tall, pale, long-nosed,, rather and attended to his aunts injunctions, refined-looking boy, with a genius for came home to his meals with a punctual- keeping his clothes and person whole ity which savoured of his old grandfather, and clean, which it must be confessed hardly ever forgot a commission with was not possessed by Miles. In spite of which he was entrusted, never cbm- his other model qualities, he constantly plained, but was as cheery as a cricket contrived, amidst hearty contrition and and consoled Bill on stinted diet or pleas- lamentation, to get out at knees and el- ure, and was as proud as a cropper pi- bows, and to black his face and soil his geon, which he was personally not unlike hands, even at the most unpropitious when he was set to work to help either times at the holiday-treat of his Sun- of his aunts Sukie with her straw- a -school, or after he had been sent to cleaning, or Kitty in her shop. carry home tea to his aunts customers. This model boy to his elderly aunts, Miles did not look at all above his sta- was called a milksop. Perhaps in minor tion as the orphan nephew of poor aunts, matters, notwithstanding his gaiety of who were in the lower rank of respect- heart, he was something of a milksop, as able tradespeople ; but Bill had some- children brought up entirely by women thing of the air and many of the aspira- seldom miss being, but, at least, he tions of a shabby little gentleman. had the courage to go on his way and not Bill was rather clever, outstripping mind being called names, though he did Miles at school, and being capable of not think of thrashin~ the boys who 9utstripping him a great deal farther had twitted him with being a Molly Coddle. it not been for a constitutional indolence, He had his recompense. Not only was possibly having reference to the delicate he prized at home, but he had the proud health which he had derived from his position of being one of the first boys in mother. But Bill had not Miless un- the Vicars Sunday-school, not because swerving steadiness and devotion to of his talents, which were not consider- duty, any more than he had Miless equal able, but, because he learnt his tasks and temper. Bill could trifle as well as idle, kept order as if he were a little teacher could grumble and trespass on his aunts himself. And yet he was not at all a and his mothers kindness. At the same prig, although he might be a little milk- time he was by no means a bad boy. sop. He was altogether in earnest, and He was truthful, even guileless and af- had a sense of his own deficiencies. fectionate, and the very daintiness and Even those teachers who preferred pride which often made him cross and dis- bright children, however flighty, could satisfied, served as a sort of safe,,uard not help having some favour for the against many of the grosser faults of boy. honest slow lad who was always trying hood. Indeed Bill Mavne was so much like to do his best, and yet his very teachers his mother, that it mibht have been trusted mistook him for a simpleton. that the strain of his father in him was Besides his integrity and punctuality, slight and innocuous. Miles had a trait of his fathers father Yet, though Bill was as much the wo- in him, which Sukie welcomed warmly, mens boy as his cousin was, and though The boy had inherited his grandfathers he was in addition a white-faced, clean, love of birds, and it was young Miless particular little fellowthe rudest boy part now, at any spare moment, sedu- I did not call him a milksop or Molly Cod- lously to care for the descendants of the dle. The fact xvas that there slept under old canaries, and to spend every chance Bills gentility a fitfully violent temper, penny which reached him in contributin~ which had broken out in more than one to the payment of their seed. Sukie school-fight, during which Miles had never grudged it, and by a pleasant little looked on in consternation, to rush in at feint, she and Miles bought it from Kittythe last moment with a whiter face than Miles going in at the shop door, laying Bills, and drag out the combatant, ren- down his coins on the counter, and say- dered for the nonce more disreputable by SUKIE S BOY. 45 black eyes and bleeding nose, than Miles with all his rents and stains. The boys had of themselves taken up towards each other a good deal of the relative position which had been held formerly by Sukie and Kitty. Miles, though the elder, the stronger, and much the more useful member of the family, deferred naturally, as it were, to Bill, and looked up to him. The sisters had not contributed to this result; indeed, Kitty, when she was more low-spirited than usual, was apt to vex Sukie and affront Bill by a kind of self-mortification, in which she dwelt, a little ostentatiously as well as painfully, on the fact of herself and her boy being largely dependent on Sukie, whose boy Miles specially was. Perhaps Miless homage to Bill, encour- aged and abetted as it was by his Aunt Sukie, was only confirmed by this tone in his Aunt Kitty. Be that as it may, the lads in their dissimilarity agreed well together, and were as much attached as lads could be, almost as much attached as Sukie and Kitty had been throughout their lives. Of course it was a great question with the sisters to what calling the boys should be reared. The guardians were resolutely bent on doing the best that they could for their charges, and Sukie and Kittys best involved two considerations. It was absolutely necessary that the boys should be rendered as soon as possible capable of supporting themselves, and it seemed almost equally incumbent on the two narrow-minded, strongly prejudiced sis- ters that this desirable attainment should be made without loss of station, that is, without letting the boys sink, as it would have seemed to their aunts, into mere mechanics. The line between small tradesmen and mechanics is very narrow, but the nar- rower the line the more tenaciously it is held. Fathers grandchildren ought to be something better than wrights or farriers. Sukie Cope, the most hard- working woman in Cranthorpe, saw no inconsistency in affirming our poor brother first lost himself by the low-lifed- ness ~vhich led him, to be a house-painter, though no doubt he looked forward to being a master house-painter like Mr. Bridges. Dont speak of house-painting, Sukie, said Kitty, with a little shiver. I should not like either of the lads to affect that. I suppose watchmaking is not to be thought of, said Sukie, regretfully, since Mr. Horrock, with so many sons and sons sons he has flourished like a green bay treeis not likely to want an assistant. If he had, and my hand had not been out, and if I had not been as far as No. 12 in my spectacles, I might have qualified Miles or Bill a bit for fathers trade. As if you had not enough to do, S ukie, said Kitty, reproachfully, and I feeling like a withered branch beside you, as it is. Kitty, it would have been a treat, said the indefatigable Sukie; and you are not a withered branch; there is no want of sap in you to be the fine-looking woman you are at your age. What should we do without you? After much cogitation, many inquiries, and the legitimate exercise of a little patronage commanded by the Copes, which Sukie called softly a testimony to what father was, every person con- cerned felt relieved and pleased when the lads were apprenticed. Miles went to a grocer, who was to give him a small wage sufficient to keep him in clothes, and from the commencement of his apprenticeship on account of the handi- ness and the knowledge which the lad had already picked up in his aunts shop Bill was apprenticed to a draper, but without any present wage, as he had no acquaintance with drapery goods and was not handy. The deprivation in Bills case was re,,arded as his misfortune rather than his fault, and by none was it judged more entirely in this light than by his cousin Miles, who insisted on sharing his first wages with Bill. It came to the same thing in the end, as both boys had to fall back on the sisters for what they required, but it prevented Bill from feel- ing behind Miles, and it gave the former a share in the lively pleasure of being for the first time in his life master of a little money. Bill repaid the gift out of his earliest earnings, and both boys did well in the years which are the connecting links between boyhood and youth. Then Bill achieved a rise in life. His master went out of business, and in place of remaining with his successor Bill, ~vith his mother and aunts consent, tried for and was successful in getting the situa- tion of junior clerk to the principal banker in the town; for Bill with his cleverness and neatness wrote a fine legible hand, and had not only mastered the rule of three in figures, but made some progress in book-keeping. As a clerk in a bank Bill had his evenings to himself, which SUKIE S BOY. 46 was a boon both to himself and his rela- Miles never thought of a game to him- tions in consideration of his delicacy of self: he had no time for games, and with health. I all his activity he had no skill or ambi Bill the future banker was a proud tion in that direction. He contented consideration to the whole household, himself with Bills prowess ; one crack and he loomed so grandly in Sukies cricket-player in the family was enough. imagination, that she began already to The nearest approach which Miles made think and speak of him with a species of to playing was when he had time to clean awe as her gentleman nephew, with whom himself and go and look at Bill playing. no liberty was to be taken not that Bill Bill Mayne was a good cricket-player: stood on his dignity and resented liberties, he had always been fond of the game; and for whom no service was too good and he had overcome, for love of it, the that she could rendernot that Bill drawbacks of his natural indolence and exacted services, or did anything, save delicacy of health. When Bill set his take them graciously. heart on an attainment, he could do won- Miles, instead of envying Bill his supe- ders and surmount great obstacles, with- nor gentility and leisure, was elated like out so much as counting the cost of the the rest, and happy over them, and was surmounting. There was risk for Bill sd ea~,er to preserve them intact, that he Mayne in competitions and rivalries; would tear home at eibht oclock, when and there were two risks, physical and his masters shop shut, to see that Bill moral, in what is rightly esteemed the was not prevented from getting to his healthful, innocent spoi-t of cricket-play- library or his game of cricket by having ing, of the first of which his relations, to meet and pay the tax collector, or with all their desire to indulge him, were make up some bill of cleaned or turned aware. But it was from the second risk bonnets, or take stock of the slender shop that Bill suffered soonest; and he was goods. only delivered from it by the intervention Halloa! old boy, Bill would say. and usurpation over him of the first. looking lazily up and stretching himself The cricket-players of Cranthorpe hap- with a yawn, to find these and far humbler pened to be most of them lads of a con- and more troublesome offices water siderably hi~her rank in society than Bill drawn and carried in from the well in the Mayne, with whom, however, he was not garden, potatoes and turnips hoed and I without qualifications for mingling, in the weeded, sticks broken and stbred con- 1 natural propriety, and the aspirations veniently for firewooddischarged by which had distinguished his mother be- Miles, and he offering his arm to let his fore him. Bill was charmed and fasci- Aunt Kitty have the turn on the pave- nated with his new associates; but while ment in the twilight, which was all the they were neither better nor worse than out-of-doors exercise that she took. the ordinary run of young men, they were What is that you are about? I meant bad associates for Bill Mayne, to whom to do all that if you had not looked so they freely enou~h condescended. They much alive ; and I know you were up wereth e sons of men of some fortune, with the crows this morning, making I who had the command of pocket-money, yourself as black as a crow, carrying in a or who were in the possession of salaries sack full of coals. Dont you think I I that were for the most part far beyond the heard and saw you like a sweep, between wages of Bills humble clerkship. These the curtains, before you turned to the young men had tastes which even were usual ~crubbing up, and watering, and they perfectly harmless in themselves, seeding of those canaries ? were forbidden to Bill Mayne, and yet, Never you mind, Bill; look after when he was held fast in the silken toils your own affairs, said Miles in the jolli- I of men better educated and still more est tone. I aint a future banker, so I polished than he was, and so especially can make a coal-heaver of myself, if I I attractive to him, Bill found it was very like the fun of the thing, without offence. hard to evade sharing and gratifying such I suppose the thunder-shower sent you tastes, or breaking through the entangle- cricketers in-doors ;~ but it is quite fair I ment. again, and you had better go and see if It made matters worse that Bills tempt- the players are trying another match. I ers were involuntary and ignorant tempt- think youll find them out ; only I say, ers, while his vehement inclinations were Bill, dont play too hard, or lie down on engaged for and not against them. the wet grass after it, for your doing so The field was so circumscribed that it worrits aunts. admitted of an amount of mischief being SUKIES BOY. 47 done which could not possibly have been accomplished by the same instrumen- tality in wider limits. The poor little luxuries of gloves and ties and studs which Bill was led to regard as no longer luxuries, but bare necessaries, were very simple; the little debts which were in- curred for them were very little debts the indulgences of smoking and of glass- es of beer were the most moderate in- dulgences. But what are matters of moonshine to one man are things of mo- ment to another; and the question of situation and individuality sometimes constitutes the criterion of guilty or not guilty. The tone of the society into which Bill Mayne had penetrated was not very much hicrher even on the surface than the tone of that which he had relin- quished ; and yet the heightened super- ficial tone laid hold of, and threatened to make a fool and worse than a fool of him. It was such petty rocks on which to be shipwrecked ; but petty rocks, inasmuch as they are often hidden, cause more nu- merous and frequently as disastrous ship- wrecks as are wrought by huge reefs. Bill Mayne became more and more restless and harassed as he was more and more drawn from mother and aunt and cousin. He began to grow ashamed of his surroundings and kindred, and glad to get away from them, to occupy more than his spare time with cricket matches up and down the country, crow and pigeon shooting, & c., & c. These sports tended generally to social meetings of a tolerably harmless description to the bulk of the young sportsmen; but the least excess in which might well prove a fatal heginning for a poor fatherless excitable lad like Bill Mayne. The glimpses which he got of his friends homes, with the es- glamour of their greater refinement peciall.y in their womankind, to which he was so constituted as to be keenly alive, were not calculated to counterbalance the peril. His friends, who had been so fond of Bill hitherto, and who were reluctant. to find fault, became troubled. His moth- ers eyes lighting on traces of growing extravagance and disorder in her son, grew heavy with unshed tears, and the old wounds of her heart began to smart and burn afresh, while each sore recollec- tion stimulated a sorer foreboding. Sukie looked dull and careworn. Miles in his loyalty to his cousin was grievously per- piexecl; why should not Bill do like the gentlemen whom he so nearly resembled, while nobody spied out harm in their pur- suing the course for which Bill was cov- ertly censured? But Miless candour would not suffer him to cheat himself, however glad he would have been in this instance to be cheated. If Bill wasted more money than he had to spare. though the waste were only of a few shillings, and the object of waste were nothing worse than a cricketers jacket or his share in the expenses of an occasional dob-cart taken by young fellows for an afternoon in the country; thou~,b Bill did not stay out later than eleven oclock, and did not come in more unlike himself than excitement and fatigue might of them- selves make him look; still there was in- jury done to himself and others, the same in kind, though not in degree, as if he had launched into the expenses of a no- blemans wardrobe, kept a whole stud of horses and a kennel of hounds, or been taken up by the police for being found drunk and disorderly. The screw was loosened and the bolt withdrawn in either case,and the mischief might not end till hearts were broken and grey hairs brought in sorrow to the grave. But when the two women and Miles had made their remonstrances so much in vain, that Bill, in order to get rid of them, plunged into still more undesirable costs and amusements, a sterner claim- ant interposed, and, seizing the young man in a hard clutch, became his best de- liverer whilst also his mortal enemy. Bill, with all his finicalness, had man- aged to combine carelessness of his fragile body, and impatience of all pre- cautions which had health as their end, and the combination brought him to physical grief. A neglected cold de- veloped into a bad coubh which speedily assumed an alarming character. For a time he fought with a kind of fierce, defiant gaiety, against the condi- tions and against the piteous anxiety of his relations. He would not consent to knock under, he would go on as usual in the cricket-field, as in the bank office, with blazing hectic cheek, hollow eyes, and hair showing damp and limp or dry and thin. Till one night Bill went up to the bed where Miles lay sleeping, awoke him in the small hours and caused him to stare aghast at the announcemen,t, Miles, Im dying; I have done for myself by my own folly. Bills struggle to deny and ignore his illness was ended, but it was succeeded by a state of gloom hardly less trying to witness. 48 SUKIES BOY. Miles, as well as the poor fellows It became no exaggeration in Sukie to mother and his aunt, ministered to him, say that though his mother~ face and devotedly hoping against hope for his re- hers were often foul with weeping, it covery, and spending every spare penny was yet the greatest pleasure and prlv- and moment in procuring for him medi- ile~,e to wait on her dear nephew, Bill, he cine and solace, though they themselves was so brave and happy. Sukie had should starve. For that matter it seemed never known him so contented well- as if Miles and Sukie, not to say Kitty, nigh blythe in his resignation. He en- who was the lads mother, did not feel dured his pangs with such rarely inter- that they had bodies to become spare and mitted patience, he enjoyed his reprieves guant with abstinence, and stiff with and compensations with such hearty watching during these weeks. good-will. Then there occurred another change in Bill consoled even his mother for the Bill, which can be expressed by nothing prospect of his death. He displayed so well as by that phrase in the Bible such tact as Sukie and Mjles could only which describes a man as returning to his marvel at, in dealing with her in those right mind, only the rightness in Bills tortures of jealousy which assail poor case was so infinitely sounder, sweeter, mothers, and with which they have to and higher than he had formerly mani- contend in the name of their Master, fested, that it was not so much a restora- when their children are stricken and tion as a re-creation, which, like all crea- others left untouched. Why should Bill tions, has only one origin. And who go and Miles stay? Oh, Miles was a shall say in these days of controversy dear good fellow enough, and he was that this change was not in answer to kind kind to his cousin, she admitted those prayers that had compassed Bill that, though sometimes she could not bear Mayne from his birthto the widows to see it, when Miles was giving his daily and nightly petition for her worse strong arm to Bill now instead of to her, than fatherless child; to Sukies con- and supporting him for a turn on the stant, humble supplications; to Miless pavement; when Miles came in blown stammering utterances; to the mans but vigourous from his shop, asking with own cries from the last hoarse mur- his first breath for Bill, who was not fit mur of his despair back to the first trust- to raise his head from the pillow to an- ful fearless prayer of his innocent child- swer his cousin. And she knew that Bill hood? had been longing and looking out for In the enlargement of soul which came Miles, though it had been in silence, not to Bill Mayne when his whole nature ex- to fret her, because the young mans firm panded with the comprehension of the one hands and stout arms could lift and hold great sacrifice, which looming over life him as neither his mother nor his Aunt and death does not darken them by its Sukie, with their shrunk sinews and fail- shadow, but illuminates and transforms ing muscles, could help him. And Miles them by its heavenly light, he was recon- was a tender nurse for a man, but, oh, ciled to everything and to everybody, the contrast was hard for a mother to to himself as pardoned and purified, to his mark, so hard, that even Miles in his thou~htless companions as not having blundering simplicity was forced to guess known what they did, and being in many it, and to keep sorrowfully out of his respects far better fellows than he, to his Aunt Kittys si~,ht. mother, his Aunt Sukie, and Miles, But Bill with his clear eyes, and faint against whom he had sinned especially as voice, could show her another side of the he had sinned against his own soul, and question. against the Lord who had bought him. Of course I should like to have lived He was inspired with fresh love and out my days, it is natural and right that gratitude for all the care which had done a fellow should wish that; but since itis even more for him than to save him tem- I settled otherwise by an unerring will, ay, porarilv. and a Fathers will, dont you see, you Under this new aspect all that was re- ~who are a good woman, that there is pro- fined in Bill Mayne came out in the reali motion in it after all? Shall I not be far ty of gentleness. His very person wast- better if I am permitted to be, as the ing, was yet lit up by the fire of the fever j Apostle Paul described, with the Lord, which was consuming him. His friends I than I could ever have been here? And gazing upon him were distracted between there was that in me, which might have grief and admiration, for his manly beauty landed me in destruction. So there is in was to them as the beauty of an angel. Miles, and all of us, since we are all sin- SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. ners, you think? No doubt, mother, but some have in them greater weakness and stronger taints than are found in others, and for them there may he so sharp and protracted a fight that an early deliver- ance may be, if not the only rescue, at least a great gain. I do not want to re- flect to-day on my father whom I never saw, (poor mother!) but I am my fathers son, and I might have found it hard not to turn out such as he. How terrible that would have been for you, and the rest, after all that you and Aunt Sukie have done and borne! No, Miles is not his fathers son, and he has been so made, or else such grace has been giventohim, that things are a great deal easier for him than they co3lld ever have been for me. He will keep and be kept right. I am not a bit frightened to trust you and Aunt Sukie to him who has always been the best son to you, though I know, dear, how you love your own little-worth son. You will let Miles be a son to you, as well as to Aunt Sukie, when I am gone to a better place, and the separation will not be for very lon On the day that Bill died, he requested that Miles should read to him the hymn beginning, 49 spiritual world unless they held com- munion with it through the Divine Spirit, and learned to prune and stretch the wings of their souls before they were called on to take their last flight since only by maintaining their connection with their head can Christians find that life and immortality are bTought to light by the Gospel, that the sting is taken from death, and the victory from the grave. There was no outward change on Miles after Bill Maynes death, and yet his character was almost indefinitely con- firmed, raised, and deepened. People who had been accustomed to laugh at the single-hearted, rather girlish lad, began to respect him in spite of themselves. Miles and Sukie, enlightened by their generous tenderness, treated Kitty with the distinction which Shakespeare makes Princess Constance claim as the due of her superiority in sorrow. Kitty, not Sukie, had Miless arm to church and Kitty, let her protest as she might, must have the softest seat, the daintiest mor- sel. And she was touched and comfort- ed with a human comfort, even as she was upheld by the higher consideration of that grand promotion of which Bill had spoken to her, and which seemed almost to bid her be a proud mother; for how unutterably small a matter it would have been to have had a son the most vi~orous and prosperous man in Cranthorpe, compared with having a son, if faith could but see him always, ever- lastingly safe and blest in the paradise of God! The hour of my departures come, I hear the voice that calls me home; dwelling on the lines,. I leave this world without a tear, Save for the friends I hold so dear, as expressing his sentiments. When all was over, Kitty uttered that great cry which once far back in the cen- turies rang out through a whole land, that cry like which in anguish there is no cry in this sorrowful world, and which, once heard, can never be forgotten, My boy, my first and last born, my only son whom I loved so well ! cried Kitty, ere she gave him up to God. It is a great lesson for all of us to be ready, Aunt Sukie, Miles confided to his THE other day, in looking over some aunt in as conscious-stricken probably long-hoarded papers, I came across the far more conscious-stricken a tone than if following letters, which struck me as be- he had been a reckless scampand ing too intrinsically delightful to be any Sukie responded in awe that it was a les- more withheld from general enjoyment. son to her. The time when they were written while Miles and S~ukie were right. Their they had all the warm life of a ectionate honest hard work and loving-kindness intercourse that refers to current personal such good things in themselves, mibht events, inspiring the wish to treasure them yet ehgross them with what was seen and in privacy has faded into the shadow of temporal, while they degenerated always the past. Some of the persons ad- to lower levels of virtue until death, dressed or referred to have left this which comes to all, might surprise them earth; others have survived to look back and tear them from the material to the J upon their young former selves with the LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 212 From The GenI1eman~s Magazine. SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB; WITH REMINISCENCES OF HIMSELF AWAKENED THEREBY. BY MARY COWDEN CLARKE. 50 SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. same kindliness of consideration with Lamb in these letters are here preserved which Charles Lamb himself confessed verbatim. to look back upon the child Ella that The second letter is addressed C. C. other me, there in the background, Clarke, Esqre, and has for post-mark and cherishing its remembrance. Even Fe. 26, 1828 the girl, then known among her friends hy the second of her baptismal names, Enfleld, 25 Feb. hefore and not long after she had ex- My dear Clarke, You have been changed her maiden name of Mary Vic- accumulating on me such a heap of toria Novello for the married one with pleasant obligations that I feel uneasy in which she signs her present communi- writing as to a Benefactor. Your small cation, can feel willing to share with her er contributions, the little weekly rills, are more recent friends and readers the refreshments in the Desart, but your large pleasure derived from dear and honoured books were feasts. I hope Mrs. Hazlitt, Charles Lambs sometimes playful, some- to whom I encharged it, has taken Hunts times earnest allusions to her identity. Lord B. to the Novellos. His picture of The first letter is, according to his fre- Literary Lordship is as pleasant as a dis- quent wont, undated and the post-mark agreeable subject can be made, his own is so much blurred as to he undecipher- poor mans Education at dear Christs is able but it is addressed V. Novello, as good and hearty as the subject. I-Iaz- Esqre., for C. C. Clarke, Esqre. litts speculative episodes are capital I skip the Battles. But how did I deserve Mv dear Sir, Your letter has lain to have the book? The comz5cz;zio;z has -in a drawer of my desk, uphraiding me 1too much of Madame Pasta. Theatri- every time I open the said drawer, but it is cals have ceased to be popular attrac- almost impossible to answer such a let- tions. His walk home after the Play is ter in such a place, and I am out of the as good as the best of the old Indicators. habit of replying to epistles other\vhere The watchmen are emboxed in a niche than at office. You express yourself of fame, save the skaitin~ one that must concerning H. like a true friend, and be still fugitive. I wish I could send a have made me feel that I have somehow scrap for good will. But I have been neglected him, but without knowing very most seriously unwell and nervous a long well how to rectify it. I live so remote long time. I have scarce mustered cour- from him by Ilackney that he is al- age to begin this short note, but con- :most out of the pale of visitation at science dons me. Hampstead. And I come but seldom to I had a pleasant letter from your Covt Gardn this summer time and sister, greatly over acknowledging my when I do, am sure to pay for the late poor sonnet. I think I should have re- hours and pleasant Novello suppers plied to it, but tell her I think so. Alas which I incur. I also am an invalid, for sonnetting, tis as the nerves are But I will hit upon some way, that you all the summer I was dawdling among shall not have cause for your reproof in green lanes, and verses came as thick as :future. But do not think I take the hint fancies. I am sunk winterly below prose unkindly. When I shall be brought low and zero. by any sickness or untoward circum- But I trust the vital principle is only stance, write just such a letter to some as under snow. That I shall yet laugh tardy friend of mineor come up your- again. self with your friendly Henshaw face I suppose the great change of place and that will be better. I shall not for- affects me, but I could not have lived in get in haste our casual day at Margate. Town, I could not hear company. May we have many such there or else- I see Novello flourishes in the Del where God bless you for your kind- Capo line, and dedications are not forgot- ness to H., which I will remember. But j ten. I read the Atlas. When I pitched do not show N. this, for the ifoutino infi- on the Dedn I looked for the Broom of del doth mock when Christians cry God~ (owden knowsto he harmonized, but bless us. Yours and his, too, and all our twas summat of Rossmnis. little circles most affecte - C. LAMB. I ~vant to hear about Hone, does he Marys love included. stand above water, how is his son? I have delayd yvriting to him, till it seems H. in the ahove letter refers to impossible. Break the ice for me. Leigh Hunt ; but the initials and abbre- The wet ground here is intolerable, viated forms of words used by Charles the sky above clear and delusive, but SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 5 under foot quagmires from night showers, wish that he could send the work a con- and I am coldfooted and moisture-abhor- tribution from his own pen; his touching ring as a cat; nevertheless I yesterday reference to the susceptibility of his ner- tramped to Waltham Cross ; perhaps the vous system the sportive misuse of mu- poor bit of exertion necessary to scribble sical terms when alluding to his musi- this was owing to that unusual bracing. cian-friend Vincent Novello, immortal- If I get out, I shall get stout, and ized in Elias celebrated Chapter on then something will out I mean for the Ears ; his excellent pun in the word & m~auw;~you see I rhyme insensibly. insensibly; his humorous mode of Traditions are rife here of one Clarke touching upon the professional avocatioa a schoolmaster, and a runaway pickle of his clerkly correspondents father and named Holmes, but much obscurity hangs self the latter having been usher in over it. Is it possible they can be any the school kept some years previously at relations? Enfield by the formerwhile conveying Tis worth the research, when you a genuine compliment to the handwriting can find a sunny day, with ground firm, which at eighty-five is still the clear & c. Master Sexton is intelligent, and firm impossible-to-be-mistaken school- for half-a-crown hell pick you up a master text hafid that it was at forty Father. one, when Lamb wrote these words ; the In truth ~ve shall he most glad to see genial mention of the hospitable children any of the Novellian circle, middle of the the whimsically wrong-circumstanced re- week such as can come, or Sunday, as collection of the counter-tenorlady; cant. But Spring will burgeon out the allusion to the night walks half quickly, and then, well talk more. back home; and the classically quoted Youd like to see the improvements words of regretare all wonderfully on the Chase, the new Cross in the mar- characteristic of beautiful-minded Charles ket place, the Chandlers shop from Lamb. In connection with the juvenile whence the rods were fetchd. They are hospitality may be recorded an incident raised a farthing since the spread of Edu- that illustrates his words. When Wil- cation. But perhaps you dont care to ham Etty returned as a young artist- he reminded of the Holofernes days, and student from Rome, and called at the nothing remains of the old laudable pro- Novellos house, it chanced that the fession, but the clear firm impossible-to- parents were from home; but the chil- be-mistaken schoolmaster text hand with dren, who were busily employed in fabri- which is subscribed the ever welcome cating a treat of home-made hard-bake name of Chas. Cowden C. Let me crowd (or toffy), made the visitor welcome by in both our loves to all. C. L. [Added offering him a piece of their just finished on the fold-down of the letter:] Let me sweetmeat, as an appropriate refection never be forgotten to include in my re- after his long walk ; and he declared that membces my good friend and whilom it was the most veritable piece of spon- correspondent Master Stephen. taneous hospitality he had ever met with, How, especially, is Victoria? since the children gave him what they I try to remember all I used to meet thought most delicious and best worthy at Shacklewell. The little household, of acceptance. Charles Lamb so heartily cake-producing, wine-bringing out, Em- shared this opinion of the subsequently mathe old servant, that didnt stay, renowned painter that he brought a and ought to have staid, and was always choice condiment in the shape of a jar of very dirty and friendly, and Miss H., the preserved ginger for the little Novellos counter-tenor with a fine voice, whose delectation; and when some officious sister married Thurtehl. They all live in elder suggested that it was lost upon chil- my minds eye, and Mr. N.s and Holmess dren, therefore had better be reserved walks with us half hack after supper. for the grown- up people, Lamb would not Troja fuit ~ hear of the transfer, but insisted that children were excellent judges of goo.l His hearty yet modestly rendered things, and that they must and should thanks for lent and given books ; his have the cate in question. He was right ever-affectionate mention of Christs Hos- for long did the remembrance remain in pital; his enjoyment of Hazlitts Life the family of that delicious rarity, and of of Napoleon, minus the battles ; his the mode in which Mr. Lamb stalked cordial commendation of Leigh Hunts up and down the passage with a mysteri- periodical, 27ze Corn~anion (with the witty ous harbingering look and stride, mutter- play on the word fugitive ), and his ing something that sounded like conjura 52 SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. tion, holding the precious jar under his fidence. He wants the er~os6 to appear arm, and feignin~ to have found it stowed in a newspaper as the greatest piece of away in a dark chimney somewhere near. legal and Parliamentary villainy he ever Another characteristic point is re- remembd, and he has had experience in called by a concluding sentence of this both and thinks it would answer after- letter. On one occasionwhen Charles wards in a cheap pamphlet printed at Lamb and his admirable sister Mary Lambeth in 50 sheet, as i6,ooo families Lamb had been accompanied half back in that parish are interested. I know not after supper by Mr. and Mrs. Novello, whether the present E aminer keeps up Edward 1-lolmes, and Charles Cowden the character of exposing abuses, for I Clarke, between Shacklewell Green and scarce see a paper now. If so, you may Colebrooke Cottage, beside the New ascertain Mr. Hunt of the strictest truth River at Islington, where the Lambs then of the statement, at the peril of my head. lived, the whole party interchanging But if this wont do, transmit it me back, lively brightest talk as they passed along I beg, per coach, or better, bring it with the road that they had all to themselves you. Yours unaltered, at that late hourhe, as usual, was the C. Lamb. noblest of the talkers. Arrived at~ the This letter quaintly rebukes, yet, at the usual partin~-place, Lamb and his sister same time, most affectionately congratu- walked on a few steps then, suddenly lates the friend addressed for silently turnin~, he shouted out after his late maki on quarters of the spot that the ng honeymo companions in a tone startled where Charles Lamb then resided. But midnight silence Youre very nice lovely Enfleld a very beau-ideal of an people sending them on their way Enolish village xvas the birthplace of home in happy laughter at his friendly Charles Cowden Clarke and the Grey- oddity. hound was a simple hostelry kept by an The third is addressed to C. C. old man and his daughter, where there Clarke, Esqre., without date but it was a pretty xvhite-curtained, quiet room, must have been written in i8a8 with a window made green by bowering Dear Clarke, We did expect to see vine leaves combining much that was you with Victoria and the Novellos be tempting as an unpretended retirement fore this, and do not quite understand for a town-dweller to take his young new- why we have not. Mrs. N. and V. made wife to. The invitation to name promised us after the York [Vin- a day this next week was cordially re- cent] d expedi to by a speedy visit and very tion; a day being name before, which ~ was on that occasion Charles faild. Tis not too late. The autumn y Enfield is beauti- Lamb told the wedded pair of another leaves drop gold, and bridal couple who, he said, when they fuller to a common eye than when arrived at the first stage of their marriage you lurked at the Greyhound. Benedicts tour, found each others company so are close, hut how I so totally missed yOU tedious that they called the landlord up- at that time ,going for my mornin cup to enliven of ale duly, is a mystery. Twas stealin~ stairs them by his conversa- face in b tion The Epithalainiurn, here called a match before ones earnest, a ~ onaa, is the Serenata contained But certainly we had not a dream of your in the next letter, addressed to Vin- appropinquity. I instantly prepared an cent Novello Es re. Epithalamium, in the form of a Sonata q whidh I was sending to Novello to com- My dear Novello, I am afraid I pose but Mary forbid it me, as too shall appear rather tardy in offering my light for the occasion as if the subject congratulations, however sincere, upon required anything heavy so in a tiff your daughters marriage. * The truth is, with her, I sent no at all. put together a little S~renata upon congratulation I had Tho I promise you the wedding was very the occasion, but was prevented from pleasant news to me indeed. Let your sending it by my sister, to whose judg- reply name a day this next week, when ment I am apt to defer too much in these you will come as many as a coach will kind of things so that, now I have her hold such a day as we had at Dulwich. consent, the offering, I am afraid, will My very kindest love and Marys to Vic- have lost the grace of seasonableness. toria and the Novellos. The enclosed is Such as it is, I send it. She thinks it a from a friend nameless but hicrhish in I little too old-fashioned in the manner, too office, and a man whose accuracy of state- ment may be relied on with implicit con- * Which marriage took place 5th July, 1828. SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. much like what they wrote a century hack. But I cannot write in the modern style, if I try ever so hard. I have at- tended to the proper divisions for the music, and you will have little difficulty in composing it. If I may advise, make Pepusch your model, or Blow. It xviii be necessary to have a good second voice, as the stress of the melody lies there SERENATA, FOR TWO VOICES, On tke marriage of charles Coroden clarke, Esqrc., to Victoria, eldest daughter of Vi;z- cent Novella, Esqre. DUETTO. Wake th harmonious voice and string, Love and Hymens triumph sing, Sounds with secret charms combining, In melodious union joining, Best the wondrous joys can tell, That in hearts uniteef dwell. REcITATIVE. First Voice. To young Victorias happy fame Well may the Arts a trophy raise, Music grows sweeter in her praise, And, ownd by her, with rapture speaks her name. To touch the brave Cowdenios heart, The Graces all in her conspire; Love arms her with his surest dart, Apollo with his lyre. AIR. The listning Muses all around her Think tis Phmbus strain they hear; And Cupid, drawing near to wound her, Drops his bow, and stands to hear. RECITATIVE.. Second Voice. While crowds of rivals with despair Silent admire, or vainly court the Fair, Behold the happy conquest of her eyes, A Hero is the glorious prize! In courts, in camps, thro distant realms nownd, Cowdenlo comes ! Victoria, see, He comes with British honour crownd, Love leads his eager steps to thee. AIR. In tender sighs he silence breaks, The Fair his flame approves, Consenting blushes warm her cheeks, She smiles, she yields, she loves. re RECITATIVE. First Voice. Now Hymen at the altar stands, And while he joins their faithful hands, Behold! by ardent vows brought down, Immortal Concord, heavenly bright, Arrayd in robes of purest light, Descends, th auspicious rites to crown. Her golden harp the goddess brings; Its magic sound Commands a sudden silence all around, And strains prophetic thus attune the strings. DUETTO. FYrst Voice. The Swain his Nymph possessing, Second Voice. The Nymph her Swain caressing, First and Second. Shall still improve the blessing, Forever kind and true. lioth. While rolling years are flying Love, Hymens lamp supplying, With fuel never dying, Shall still the flame renew. To so great a master as yourself I have no need to suggest that the peculiar tone of the composition demands spright- liness, occasionally checked by tender- ness, as in the second air, Sbe smiles, she yields, she loves. Again, you need not be told that each fifth line of the txvo first recitatives re- quires a crescendo. And your exquisite taste will prevent your fallin.g into the error of Purcell, xvho at a passage similar to lAal in my first air, Drops his bow, and stands to hear, directed the violin thus Here the first violin must drop his bow. But, beside the absurdity of disarm- ing his principal performer of so neces- sary an adjunct to his instrument, in such an emphatic part of the composition too, xvhich must have had a droll effect at the time, all such minuti~v of adaptation are at this time of day very properly ex- ploded, and Jackson of Exeter very fairly ranks them under the head of puns. Should you succeed in the setting of it, we propose having it performed (xve have one very tolerable second voice here, and Mr. Holmes, I dare say, would supply the minor parts) at the Greyhound. But it must be a secret to the young couple till we can get the band in readi- ness. Believe me, dear Novello, Yours truly, C. LAMB. Enfield, 6 Nov., 29. Peculiarly Elian is the humour through- out this last letter. The advice to make Pepusch your model, or Blow; the 53 SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 54 affected C~ divisions of Duetto, Re- citative, Air,~~ First Voice, Second Voice, First and Second, Both, & c.; the antiquated stiffness of the lines themselves, the burlesque Love and Hymens triumph sing; the grotesque stiltedness of the brave Cowdenios heart, and a Hero is the glorious prize ; the ludicrous absurdity of hail- in,, a peaceful man of letters (who, by the way, adopted as his crest and motto an oak-branch with Algernon Sydneys words, Placidam sub libertate guietern ) by In courts, in camps, thro distant realms renowdd Cowdenio comes !; the adulatory pomp of styling a young~girl, nowise distinguished for anythin~ but homeliest simplicity, as the Fair, the Nymph, in whom the Graces all con- spire ; the droll illustrative instructions, suggesting sprightliness, occasionally checked by tenderness, in setting lines purposedly dull and heavy with old-fash- ioned mythological trappings the grave assumption of technicality in the intro- duction of the word crescendo ; the pretended citation of Purcell and Jackson of Exeter ; the comic prohi- bition as to the too literal minutlie of adaI~tationin such passares as Dr~~s his bow, and stands to hear ~ the pleas- ant play on the word in the minor parts; the mock earnestness as to keeping the proposed performance a secret to the young couple; are all in the very spirit of fun that swayed Elia when a sportive vein ran through his Essays. The next letter is to Charles Cowden Clarke though it has neither address, signature, date, nor postmark My dear three Cs, The way from Southgate to Colney Hatch thro the unfrequentedest Blackberry paths that ever concealed their coy bunches from a truant Citizen, we have accidentally fallen uponthe giant Tree by Cheshunt we have missed, but keep your chart to go by, unless you will be our conductat present I am disabled from further flights than just to skirt round Clay Hill, with a peep at the fine back woods, by strained tendons, got by skipping a skipping rope at 53hei mihi non sum qualisbutdo you know, now you come to talk of walks, a ramble of four hours or so there and back to the willow and lavender plan- tations at the south corner of Northaw Church by a well dedicated to Saint Claridge, with the clumps of finest moss rising hillock fashion, which I counted to the number of two hundred and sixty, and are called Claridges covers the tradition being that that saint en- tertained so many angels or hermits there, upon occasion of blessing the waters? The legends have set clown the fruits spread upon that occasion, and in the Black Book of St. Albans some are named which are not supposed to have been introduced into this island till a century later. But waiving the miracle, a sweeter spot is not in ten counties round; you are knee deep in clover, that is to say, if you are not above a middling mans heightfrom this paradise, making a day of it, you go to see the ruins of an old convent at March Hall, where some of the painted glass is yet whole and fresh. If you do not know this, you do not know the capabilities of this country, you may be said to be a stranger to Enfield. I found it out one morning in October, and so delighted was I that I did not get home before dark, well a-paid. I shall long to show you the clump meadows, as they are called; we might do that, without reaching March Hall when the days are lon,,er, we might take both, and come home by Forest Cross, so skirt over Pennington and the cheerful little village of Churchley to Forty Hill. But these are dreams till summer meanwhile we should be most glad to see you for a lesser excursion say, Sunday next, you and another, or if more, best on a week-day with a notice, but o Sun- days, as far as a le,, of mutton goes, most welcome. We can squeeze out a bed. Edmonton coaches run every hour, and my pen has run out its quarter. Heartily farewell. Charles Lambs enjoyment of a long ramble, and his (usually) excellent powers of walking are here denoted. He was so proud of his pedestrian feats and inde- fatigability, that he once told the Cow- den Clarkes a story of a dog possessed by a pertinacious determination to follow him day by day when he went forth to wander in the Enfleld lanes and fields until, unendurably teased by the perti- nacity of this obtrusive animal, he deter- mined to get rid of him by fairly tiring him out! So he took him a circuit of many~ miles, including several of the loveliest spots round Enfleld, coming at last to a by-road with an interminable vista of up-hill distance, where the dog turned tail, gave the matter up, and laid down beneath a hedge, panting, exhaust- SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 55 ed, thoroughly worn out and dead beat; while his defeater ~valked freshly home, smiling and triumphant. Knowing Lambs fashion of twisting facts to his own humorous view of them, those who heard the story well under- stood that it might easily have been wryed to represent the narrators real potency in ~valking, while serving to cover his equally real liking for animals under the semblance of vanquishing a dog in a contested fQot race. Far more probable that he encouraged its volun- teered companionsnip, amusing his imag- ination the while by picturing the wild impossibility of any human creature at- tempting to tire out a dog of all ani- mals As an instance of Charles Lambs sympathy with dumb beasts, his two friends here named once saw him get up from table, while they were dinino with him and his sister at Enfield, open the street-door, and give admittance to a stray donkey into the front strip of gar- den, where there was a grass-plot, ~vhich he said seemed to possess more attrac- tion for the creature than the short turf of th~ common on Chase-side, opposite to the house where the Lambs then dwelt. This mixture of the humorous in manner and the sympathetic in feeling always more or lass tinged the sayings and the doings of beloved Charles Lamb; there was a constant blending of the overtly whimsical expression or act with betrayed inner kindliness and even pathos of sentiment. Beneath this sudden open- ing of his gate to a stray donkey that it might feast on his garden grass while he himself ate his dinner, possibly lurked some stung sense of wanderers unable to get a meal they hungered for, when others revelled in plenty, a kind of pained fancy finding vent in playful deed or speech, that fre~juently might be traced by those who enjoyed his society. The next letter is addressed C. C. Clarke, Esqre., with the postmark (much defaced) Edmonton, Fe. 2, 1829 Dear Cowden, Your books are as the gushing of streams in a desert. By the way, you have sent no autobiogra- phies. Your letters seem to imply you had. Nor do I want any. Cowden, they are of the books which I give away. What damnd Unitarian skewer-sould things the general biographies turn out. Rank and Talent you shall have when Mrs. May has done with em. Mary likes Nlrs. Bedinfleld much. For me I read nothing but Astrenit has turnd my brain I go about with a switch turnd up at the end for a crook ; and Lambs being too old, the butcher tells me, my cat follows me in a green ribband. Becky and her cousin are getting pastoral dresses, and then we shall all four go about Arcadizin ~. 0 cruel Shepherd- ess Inconstant yet fair, and more in- constant for being fair Her gold ring- lets fell in disorder superior to order! Come and join us. I am called the Black Shepherd you shall be Cowden with the Tuft. Prosaically, we shall be glad to have you both, or ady two of you drop in by surprise some Saturday night. This must go off. Loves to Vittoria. C. I. The book he refers to as Astrea was one of those tall folio romances of the Sir Philip Sydney or Mdme. de Scu- ddry order, inspiring him with the amus- ing rhapsody that follows its mention; the ingeniously equivocal Lambs being too old; the familiar minglin~ of Becky (their maid) and her cousin with himself and sister in pastoral dresses, to go about Arcadizing ; the abrupt bursting forth into the Philip- Sidneyan style of antithetical rapturizirig and euphuisni ; the invented Arcadian titles of the Black Shepherd and Cowden with the Tuft are all in the tone of mad-cap spirits which were occa- sionally Lambs. The latter name ( Cow- den with the Tuft) slyly implies the smooth baldness with scant curly hair distinguishing the head of the friend ad- dressed, and which seemed to strike Charles Lamb so forcibly that one evening, after gazing at it for some time, he sud- denly broke forth with the exclamation, Gad, Clarke ! what whiskers you have behind your head ! He was fond of trying the dispositions of those with whom he associated by an odd speech such as this ; and if they stood the test pleasantly and took it in good part he liked them the better ever after. One time that the Novellos and Cowden Clarkes went down to see the Lambs at Enlield, and he was standing by his book-shelves talking with them in his usual delightful cordial way, showing them some precious volume lately added to his store, a neighbour chancing to come in to remind Charles Lamb of an appointed ramble, he excused. himself by saying You see I have some troublesome people just conic down from 56 SOME LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. town, and I must stay and entertain then-i ; so well take our walk together to- morrow. Another time, when the Cow- den Clarkes were staying a few days at Enfield with Charles Lamb and his sis- ter, they, having accepted an invitation to spend the evening anti have a game of whist at a lady-schoolmistresss house there, took their guests with them. Charles Lamb , givin~ his arm to Victo- ria, left her husband to escort Mary Lamb who walked rather more slowly than her brother. On arriving first at the house of the somewhat prim and formal hostess, Charles Lamb, bringing his young visitor into the roam, introduced her by saying: Mrs., Ive brought you the wife of the n-ian who mortally hates your husband; and when the lady replied by a polite inquiry after Miss Lamb. loping she was quite well, Charles Lamb said : She has a terrible fit o toothache, and was obliged to stay at home this evening; so Mr. Cowden Clarke remained there to keep her com- pany. Then, the lin~erers entering, he went on to say, Mrs. Cowden Clarke has been telling me, as we came along, that she hopes you have sprats for sup- per this evenino The bewildered glance of the lady of the house at Mary Lamb and her walking-companion, her politely stifled dismay at the mention of so vulgar a dish, contrasted with Victo- rias smile of enjoyment at his whimsical words, were precisely the kind of things that Charles Lamb liked and chuckled over. On another occasion he was charmed by the equanimity and even gratification with xvhich the same uests and Miss Fanny Kelly (the skilled actress whose combined artistic and feminine attractions inspired him with the beauti- ful sonnet beginning You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, and whose performance of The Blind Boy caused him to address her in that other sonnet beginning Rare artist! who with half thy tools or none Canst execute xvith ease thy curious art, And press thy powerfulst meanings on the licart Unaided by the eye, expressions throne!) found themselves one sunny day, after a long walk through the green Enfield meadows, seated with Charles Lamb and his sister on a rustic bench in the shade, outside a small roadside inn, quaffino draughts of his favourite porter with him from the unsQphisticated pewter, su premely indifferent to the strangeness of the situation ; nay, heartily enjoying it wi/k him. The umbrageous elm, the water-trough, the dip in the road where there was a ford and foot-bridge, the rough wooden table at which the little party were seated, the pleasant voices of Charles and Mary Lamb and Fanny Kel- ly, all are vividly present to the imag- ination of her who now writes these few memorial lines, inadequately describing the ineffaceable impression of that hap- py time, when Lambso cordially delioht- ed in the responsive ease and enjoyment of his surrounders. The last letter is addressed V. No- vello, Esqre., with post-mark No. 8. 1830 : Tears are for lighter griefs. Man weeps the doom That seals a single victim to the tomb. But when Death riots, when with xvhelming sway Destruction sweeps a family away; When Infancy and Youth, a huddled mass, All hi an instant to oblivion pass, And parents hopes are crushd: what lamenta- tion Can reach the depth of such a desolation? Look upward, Feeble Ones! look up, and trust That He, who lays this mortal frame in dust, Still hath the immortal Spirit in Ills -keeping. In Jesus sight they are not dead, but sleeping. Dear N., xviii these lines do ? I de- spair of better. Poor Mary is in a de- plorable state here at Ehfield. Love to all, C. Lamb. These tenderly pathetic elegiac lines were written at the request of Vincent Novello in memory of four sons and two daughters of John and Ann Rigg. of York. All six respectively aged 19, s8, 17, i6, 7, anti 6were drowned at once by their boat being run down on the river Ouse, near York, August 19, 1830. The unhapl)y surviving parents had beooed to have lines for an epitaph from the best poetical hand; but owin to some local autl-ioritys interference, another than Charles Lambs verse was ultimately placed on tue monument raised to the lost cl-iuldren. The rather, therefore, dear Sylvanus Urban, is it transcribed from the original manuscript and enshrined in your pages for the behoof of yourself and your readers by MARY COWDEN CLARKE. ViZ/a Nave/k, Genoa. SHAM.JE WELLER V. 57 From Chambers Journal. burnt to powder, white-lead, and other SHAMJEWELLERY. similar materials. Sometimes rock-crys THE passion for jewellery has been a tal is used, with borax acid from Italy, habit of mankind from the days of Sol- and nitrate of potash. Of these materials omon to those of the Shah. It was il- is composed the false diamond, which fl~- lustrated by the idolaters of Somnath ; it ures so alluringly in the shop-windows of blazed at the feet of the Esterhazies ; it the Palais Royal. has culminated in the tiara and belt Let us turn to the sapphire, the next of Nasr-Shah-Eddin. This potentate esteemed among precious stones, even made himself the cynosure of Europe by abo -e the emerald and the ruby. It means of the diamonds flaminb upon his is a product of the East, though found, ai gre t te, his breast, and the hilt and of inferior quality, in Bohemia, Saxony, sheath of his scimitar; and so the sub- and France, among rocks of the second- je~t of gems has been wonderfully upon ary period. There are white sapphires, the carl)et lately. But with fashion occasionally mistaken for diamonds comes ambition. People will wear glit- crimson or carmine, resplendent beyond tering ornaments somehow, and prefer description; vermilion, and topaz-tinted. the false to none at all. In romance, Indeed, we may assign rank to the em- these lustrous deceptions have played a erald as daughter of the sapphire. Do high part, as in the story by Dumas, of you covet them in order to beam with the Tiree Musqueteers, where a brilliant borrowed lustre at a ball? Take, as the bit of dissimulation saves Anne of Aus- cookery-books say, one ounce of paste, tria from disgrace. Everybody, too, has mix with two grains of precipitated oxide read tales of extravagant ladies pledging of cobalt, and there you have the col- their genuine jewels and wearing shams oured and ~lowing necklet, which none for the deception of society. And the except a jeweller can detect. Supposing, art has reached ~uch perfection, that, however, that you desire ear-rings of aparL from certain tests, which, of course, chrysoberyl, or chrysopal or cyrno- are impossible to apply, they really do ~1iaue, as the French term it, which deceive. In flash and splendour, the im- means floating light the trifle is itated are often scarcely inferior to the exceedingly pretty, with its surface of originals, whence, by the chemists magic asparagus green and its heart of radiat- they are copied. In dealing with this ing fire. Yet it is to be emulated by a consummate kind of forgery, one prelim- combination of aluminium, silica, oxide mary remark has to be made. Jewels of iron, and lime. viewed in a natural, and jewels viewed in Coming to the splendid gem, the ruby, an artificial light, are, like certain sorts of whether of Brazil, Barbary, or Bohemia, beauty, not to be compared. There is a with its cherry or purple red, varied by fluid radiance in them which wants re- opalescent, or milky aspects, there are fraction ; the former take it from the sun, various methods of rivalling it xvith lith- the latter from the chandelier. In the arge and calcined shells ; with paste, an- case of the peerless stone, however, the timony, glass, and purple of Cassius; diamond, the object of the splendid illu- with white-sand, washed in hydrochloric s~on is to produce a perfectly colourless acid, minium, calcined potash, calcined substance, thoroughly lucid, and capable borax, and oxide of silver, stirred in a of reflecting all lights. To this pebble crucible. We are furnishing our jewel- foe it is nothing morehave been attrib- box rapidly, and at a very moderate ex- uted many virtues; but it can be fabri- pense. But care must be taken lest, cated by science with a very near ap- through an imprudent admixture, your proachto reality. First, it is necessary fictitious ruby should su~gest the idea of to dissolve charcoal. Then follow pro- a garnet, which is a l)OO~ and unrecogniz- cesses requiring crystallization a mm- able relation of the family. The topaz has gling of pure water, a little carbonate of never been very fashionable in England; sulphur, and & ertain proportions of lique- yet it is a charming gem in all its vane- fled phosphorus. Still, all this may not ties yellow, white, colourless drops yield a thoroughly deceptive diamond. of water the Dutch lapidaries call these Andther composition is made from silver- orange, shining to little disadvantage sand, very pure potash, minium, calcined amonb diamonds, red jonquil, purple, borax, and a form of arsenic, varied oc- red, blue, and violet. But it is unneces- casionally by a mixture of strass a mix- sary to search the rocks of Brazil, Sax- ture for which an equivalent is taste, and ony, or Bohemia to gain credit for wear- which represents transparent pebbles ing these bits of beautiful radiance. A 58 SHAM-JEWELLERY. little white-lead, with some shells of a extracted from the earth, as in Hungary, rich tint, pulverized and calcined, will is soft, hardening and diminishing in size yield a composition of exquisite fire and through exposure to the air. It is rarely tint, capable of being cut like the genuine larger, with its milk-blue beauty, illumi- gem. So will a~ mixture of antimony, nated by sun-tints, than a nut, but has al- glass, and ordinary jewellers paste with ways been marvellously esteemed. In purple of Cassius but the best imita- fact, the flamboyant opal of Mexico, rep- tion of any is produced by a composition resenting an admixture of silica, iron, of ~vhite-sand, minium, burnt potash, and water, is a magnificent gem, and its burnt borax, and oxide of silver. This, family is mentioned in the Apocalypse as with the necessary processes, is a some- including the most noble of stones. what costly preparation. In consequence of their being excessive- Far above the topaz, however, in point ly prized, and of a quickly fading nature, of splendour and value, ranks the em- sham specimens are fabricated to an ex- erald not that of Brazil, or India, or traordinary extent. Carthage na, but the noble quality Thus, also, with pearls, although by discovered in Peru, amon~ the valleys of many they are preferred when they have New Granada, of a rich grass green, with lost their original whiteness. The rage a sort of velvet surface, unapproached for these has no limit. False pearls were by any other precious stone. There are, invented in Paris towards the close of of course, several varieties the sky- Henry IV. s reid n, by an ingenious fellow blue, the aquamarine, the corn-coloured, named Jaquin. Thence the manufacture even the white they are not often imi- spread into Italy, where it was exten- tated. The true sm~zra,rdus ha~ been sively practised, thou~h the French spe- converted almost into an object of wor- cimens retained theirsuperioritv. To be- ship. It has been exalted as an amulet gin with, were employed the scales of the in cases of epilepsy and insanity ; its aid blay, a small flat fish, with a green back has been invoked for the detection of and a white belly, common in numerous witches and hidden treasures that of rivers of Europe. The scales are care- Mantu, indeed, was formerly termed the fully scraped off, and repeatedly washed goddess. Still, our chemist will, with in pure water until they glisten like paste, oxide of copper, and nitre of pot- silver. They are then again washed in a ash, create something wonderfully sim- sieve, inclosed in a net, and whipped into ilar, or more elaborately, he may employ a pulp, though still retaining those rec- numerous different materials, includin ~ tangular particles which, to some extent the invaluable silver-sand. The true hy- distinguishable to the eye, constitute a acinth of Ceylon, often confounded with high merit in genuine pearls. Phe mass the oranbe sapphire and the saffron thus formed was at one time known as topaz, and known also as the brown dia- essence of the East. To it was added mond, can be counterfeited almost to some gelatine from the same fish. Glass perfection. So with the water sapphire, of the most delicate texture, and pow- hyaline, the common amethyst, the dered white wax, with a dash of mother- smoke diamond of Alenon, the cats of-pearl, completed the operation; and eye and the agate. Onyx and coral need the necklace of the dernoiselle was ready scarcely be enumerated. There is a no- for wearing. It needs only a slight ad- torious manufacture of onyx nearly all ditionalchemistry to convert these pearls over Europe, from German pebbles into opals a kind of jelly made from treated with acids and the false can parchment is added. scarcely be distinguished from the true, The rose-pearls of Turkey are formed except by their weight and price. We by pounding fresh and youn~ flowers in should recommend very great caution in a mortar until they become a paste, purchasing what purports to be onyx. In spreading this on cloth, and laying to par- no kind of precious stones is more decep- tially dry in the sun. When nearly dry, tion pradtised. As regards coral, there they are pounded again in rose-water, are also false kinds as well as the reality, then dried again, and so on until the By the aid of the real or pink coral, many paste is exceedingly fine, when it is beautiful imitations are effected; some- rounded into shape, polished with rose- times with the assistance of diamond- water, for the sake of lustre and scent, dust for application to mosaic, to furni- and thus becomes the pretty imposture ture ornaments, and enamel. The opal celebrated as the rose-pearl. They are is,in its way, peerless among precious of various colours black, for the white stones, and the only one which, when throats of Circassia; red, for b eautyof a ODDS AND ENDS. 59 darker depth ; blue, also for fairness and a splendid amber, fit for all complex- ions thouot chiefly for the brunette. Mock-pearls, it should be remarked, by the way, have been made from fruit, per- fumed with storax and musk. The com- merce in these fictitious decorations is principally French and Austrian, though somethin~~ is known about it in our own honourable country. There is Japanese cement, there is rice-paste, and there are Roman pearls, made up of silver-sand, fish-scales, spirits of wine, and white wax. The Venetian l)earls are generally vitreous, and little likely to deceive, yet they are sold by thousands of boxes throughout Europe, Asia, and the New World. The art employed is simply that of producing white glass in tubes, tinted, however, by a process which the Italians still claim as a secret, though the exist- ence of any such mystery in our days may be doubted. These tubes, so to sl)eak, are melted again, whirled into a globular shape, or sometimes manipulated in a softened condition into the spheri- cal form, which, however, is occasionally produced by simply stirring the frag- ments of glass round and round in a vessel filled with warm sand and hot wood-ashes. Nothing now remains be- yond collecting the pearls, blowing off the dust, stringing them on thick strings of silk, packing them in barrels, and exportin~ them far and wide throughout the world, only stoppin~ short of the uninhabited islands. Enamel would come into our scope, with gilding, silver- ing, damascening, besides the alloy of coinage, but that the subject, however attractive, would attain to unmanageable proportions. These are among the most tender and delicate arts existing, and their culture has always accompanied the higher progress of civilization. Enam- elling is,in fact, the creation, rather than the imitation of a jewel, and calls upon the artist~ taste and skill scarcely less than did the production of Ascanios famous lily. The clouding and watering of metals, again, are artificial glosses upon nature, representing a subtle sci- ence; but it is in the fabrication of decorative ihsignia illustrating the various orders of chivalry in Europe, that the limits of ingenuity have been reached, with their mixture of false gems, their crucibles of colour, amaranthine enamels, bits of polished shell, and rays of bur- nished metal. Thus, therefore, there is still a sort of alchemy practised in this world, for is it not a Rosicrucian art to manufacture diamonds, emeralds, rubies, opals. and pearls from the common elements of the earth, and convert the contents of a lab- oratory into sparkles which shall flash as though they were beautiful secrets sur- rendered by the too miserly mines of Golconda, or the Sinbad valleys of Bra- zil? The vary light of heaven, the sun- beams themselves, have been entrapped and imprisoned by these mimetic jew- ellers. As for the result, what myriads of people are pleased in the indulgence of a little innocent vanity, without wear- ing one fortune on their heads, another round their necks, and a third upon their arms! It is not the savage only who delights in baubles. Besides, do we not thus enjoy that which Marie Antoinette called the luxury~ of wearing diamonds, without her torturing fear of losing them? From Chambers Journal. ODDS AND ENDS: FROM DR. ROBERT CHAMBER5 scRAP-BOOK.. RIDING OFF. Betty, said a mistress one morning to her servant, why did you stay out so late last night? You were to be in at nine, and were not at home till ten oclock. Betty denies the imputation. She does not say a word about being in at nine, but asserts in a tone of virtuous indignation that she was home at three minutes to ten, and enters into an explanation of having heard the clock strike when she was going up-stairs to bed. She could point out the precise step in the stair where she wa~ when the ball-clock began to strike. Worn out with the specious defence, the mistress gives the thing up. On the alleged error of three minutes in the accusation, Betty has made out her case of being an ill-used woman. In high quarters, this ingenious but not very honest practice of raising a false arb ument is called ridino- off. In the department of society to which Betty belongs, it is better known as the art of bamboozling. One day, at a court for the recovery of small debts in Edinburgh, there occurred a droll instance of a ser- vant-girl trying to bamboozle Judge Mac- farlane. She had been out all night with- out leave, and when she appeared next morning she was instantly discharged. Forthwith she raises an action for recov- ery of wages and board-wages till the end 6o ODDS AND ENDS. of her appointed term of service. He~~ master appears in defence, and briefly ex- plains the circumstances. What do you say to this statement? asks Macfarlane. Knowing that denial was vain, the girl went off on a new argument. Sir, said she, addressing the bench, that man there, my master, is owing my mother for a pound of butter, and We do not want to hear anything about your mother and her butter, shouted the judge ; is it true that you were out all night without leave ; that is the ques- tion ? Weel, Im comm to that, sir; but I first wanted to speak to you about how ill my mother has been used about the butter. Go away, was the re sponse ; the case is dismissed! Laugh- ter, as reporters would say, in which Mac- farlane joins. DESTRUCTION OF BOOKS. Amongst the influences at work for the destruction of books, one is not gene rally thought of that intense love of hooks, called bib- liomania. A regular collector obtaining a superior copy of a scarce book, will de- stroy the first and inferior copy in his li- brary that his new possession may have as little rivalry as possible. Collectors of works of art likewise destroy scarce ob- jects of virin, for the same reason. A poet would say, love tends to dehtroy its objects ; but is the passion of such men really love? Are these collectors not mere egotists, eager for the notoriety or glory of possessin~ unique or very rare articles? NAMING A CHILD. One evening, at the house of Dr. Arnott (1853), Mr. Row- land Hill gave some curious traits of the wretched ignorance of a population of nailers in some central district of Eng-, land with which he was acquainted. A clzrgyman exerted himself to effect an improvement, and took particular care to get their children baptized. One day, having come tobaptize a newly born in- fant, whom he understood to be a boy, he asked what name he should give the child. The father xva~ quite at a loss, had no predilections on the subject. Shall it be a Scripture name? Assent. Well, what Scripture name? The man agreed, at the niinisters sug~ est ion, that Ben- jamin would do. As he was retiring af- terwards, he heard a great shouting, and turning 1)ack, met the father, who ex- claimed: Sir, it wunna do it maun be done again the bairns a wench! JOCULARITY OVERDONE. (May 21, 1853.) I have been much pleased with the following remarks in Ruskins Modern Painters: The chief bar, I suppose, to the action of imagination, and stop to all greatness in this present age of ours, is its mean and shallow love of jest; so that if there be in any good and lofty work a flaw, failing, or undipped vulnera- ble part, where sarcasm may stick or stay, it is caught at, and pointed at, and buzzed about, and fixed upon, and stung into, as a recent wound is by flies ; and noth- ing is ever taken seriously or as it was meant, but always, if it may be, turned the wrong way, and misunderstood; and while this is so, there is not, nor cannot be, any hope of achievement of high things ; men dare not open their hearts to us, if we are to broil them on a thorn- fire. The above is most true. Banter reigns everywhere, even amongst the scientific men. I often deplore it, even while I to some extent join in it. It seems to me that the physical prosperity of our age and nation is the principal cause. An- other lies in the peculiar religious state of the world; no longer a sincere vital faith in the old, and yet nothing satisfac- tory in the new. There are earnest peo- ple too earnest in piety; earnest in phil- anthropic schemes, earnest in politics; but the tendency is to behold them as set aside from the main currentrespec~a- ble eccentricities at the best. There is a sad want of real satisfaction in all this crackling of thorns under the pot, and I deem it far from unlikely that there was more happiness among the wretched mul- titude following their leaders in the Holy Land in the twelfth century, or in the poor host of Scottish enthusiasts who met on Dunse Lawnay, even in many men perishin~ in Dunnottar Castle, or standing under the gallows in the Grass- market than there is among our pros- perous people of the present day, who have everything hut a faith, and are fain to make matter of mirth out of every hon- est emotion that goes beyond the tone of polite society. [Since the above was noted twenty years ago, the practice of treating subjects jocularly has become considera- bly more common, till at length it amounts to a kind of pollution of literature, par- ticularly the literature of fiction. It can- not be doubted that for this, the fashion set by certain popular writers is partly accountable.] DISCOVERY. The reward of the dis- coverer in natural science is, in all con- tingencies, great. To stand, as it were, between God and man in the laborato- ry, the mine, the study anywhere, and CURIOUS WILLS. 6i feel that within the few by-past minutes there has stolen into his mind xvhat has hitherto been known to God alone to reflect further on the many born and un- born who are to take this truth into their bosoms as part of their sense of that pri- mal mysteryis a privilege so high, and a pleasure so overwhelming, as to sink into utter insignificance not merely the toils of research, but all the emanations of jealousy and prejudice which so often attend the first coming of truths before the world. A BUILDERS SPECULATION. A few nights ago (1853), at a friends house in London, a gentleman amused the com- pany by giving an account of the anxiety of a builder enga~ed in large building speculations at Birkenheacl, to obtain the services, of a noted preacher in Liverpool as pastor in a church there. His object, of course was to popularize the place, and get customers for his houses. He ac- cordingly xvent to this famed preacheP, and offered him two thousand pounds a year to come over to Birkenhead. The offer being rejected, he told my inform- ant, that if he could have secured such an attractive pulpit orator, it would have been worth shillings a foot to all the new streets CHINAISM. We laugh at the reluc- tance of the Chinese to alter old arrange- ments and wonder at their obstinacy in not adopting customs which are known to be valuable in our own country. But there is a good deal of this Chinaism in England. It is remarkable how debates will take place regarding the propriety of adopting certain plans, or establishing certain institutions as ft they were new and difficult matters when they are all the time flourishing as part of the vener- able institutions of other countries, per- haps countries close at hand, or indeed part of the same imperial state. The sys- tem of registering rights to heritable property, has, for instance, been keenly objected to as something very dreadful; so has the proposal of establishing a public prosecutor for crime, been viewed as a dan erous innovation; though both these practices have been in use and highly esteemed fdr hundreds of years in Scot- land. One would think that the inter- course between the north and south part of Great Britain was very small, whereas the reverse is the case. If they were completely shut up from the knowledge of each other there could not be less ben- efit from the ~xample of each others in- stitutions. The remark is illustrated very effectively at what took place a few nights a~o at the house of a friend in London (1853). The subject of discussion was Tenant Right on grounds which showed that they were hardly a\vare of the lease system of Scotland. On my explaining how it worked, several of the company spoke of it as a thins still hypothetical, and which remained to be tested by ex- periment, whereas it is a system which has worked well for gene rations. [A prop- er knowled~e of the Scottish land tenure system, by which the rights of landlords and tenants are mutually and satisfacto- rily respected mioht have obviated legis- lation on Tenant Right in Ireland.] From The Illustrated London News. CURIOUS WILLS. AMONG the 28,000 wills annually ad- mitted to probate there are every year some which may fairly be called curious wills, curious from the peculiarity and conditions of the bequests or directions. Some of these bequests or directions are simply humorous, and some are the out- comings of the affections or antipathies of the testator. It has happened that a testator has set out in his will his opinion about some one else in so strong a man- ner that it amounts to a libel, but in these cases the Court has ordered the hibellous matter to be expunged, so that it appears neither in the probate nor on record. Some wills are curious from their brevity, some from their prodigious length, some from being in rhyme; some testators be- queath property which they have not, in order to enable them to enjoy, while liv- ing, the considerate attentions of the ex- pectant legatees. A Welsh gentleman, for the reason, as recited, that he might give way to the unfair importunities of his wife, secretly assigned, subject to his life interest, all his property by deed, and afterwards gracefully gave way to his wifes solicitations and made a will in her favour, which, of course, at his death, turned out inoperative. There are tes- tators who think it necessary that pos- terity should not be in any doubt as to their religious belief, and accordinuly oc- cupy a page or two of their wills with an elaborate statement on the subject; some even think it necessary to set out their pedigrees at full length. Some wills are curious only from the method or arrange- ment of the paper or the document they are written on, and require an inspection 62 CURIOUS WILLS. to appreciate their peculiarity. The many ingenious ways in which, neglect- ing the plain way, the requirements of the Wills Act have been complied with, make up a very interesting body of cases. In writing a few articles on curious wills we shall endeavour to take our illustra- tions from the records of the last 20 or 30 years, and, as far as possible, to classify them; many, however, defy classifica- tion, and will in this have to form a class by themselves. There are few wills made without some directions being given either as to the place or the manner of burial; frequently the testator desires to be buried in the same grave with his wife or some other member of his family. We remember one case where the testator directed that he should be buried in the space left for that purpose between the graves of his first and second wives, so that he should lie with one on his right hand and the other on his left. More frequently still, the direction limits the expense of the funeral ; in some cases no carriages are to be used, in others, the body is to be carried to the grave by per- sons employed on the deceaseds estate; in one instance the persons so to be em- ployed were labourers, and they were re- quired on the occasion to wear clean white smock-frocks, and were to be paid /Ji each for their trouble. Mr. Zimmer- man, whose will was proved in 1840, ac- companied the directions for his funeral, in case they were not carried out, with something like a threat. In his will he says, No person is to attend my corpse to the grave, nor is any funeral bell to be rung, and my desire is to be buried plainly and in a decent manner; and, if this be not done, I will come againthat is to say, if I can. The Countess Dowager of Sandwich, in her will, written by her- self at the age of eighty, proved in No- vember, 1862, expresses her wish to be buried decently and quietlyno under- takers frauds or cheating; no scarfs, hatbands, or nonsense. Mrs. Kitty Jenkyn Packe Reading, although evi- dently possessed of sufficient means, ap- pears by her will, proved in April, 1870, to have been very anxious that one part, at least, of the expenses attending her funeral should be kept as low as possible. After saying she is to be placed first in a leaden and then in a wooden coffin, she provides that if I die away from Brank- some I wish my remains, after being duly placed in the proper coffins, to be in- closed in a plain deal box, so that no one may know their contents, and conveyed by a goods train to Poole, which will cost no more than any other package of the same weight, from Poole Station said box to b~ conveyed in a cart to Branksome Tower. The contrivance of sending her remains in a plain deal box by a goods train, so that it will cost no more than any other package of the same weight, and said box afterwards to be conveyed in a cart, sounds rather oddly in connection with the dignified name of its destination, Branksome Tower. Mrs. Reading seems to have considered the details of her funeral with much minuteness ; among other things she states the easiest way to convey my coffin out of the house will be to take the window out of the dining- room. Some peoplewe do not know whether they would rather not die certainly would rather not be buried. Mr. J. L. Greffulhe, of Winchester street and Coruhill, merchant, whose will was proved in Qctober, 1867, thus directs as to the disposal of his body I do not wish to be buried. I enjoin my nephews to cause my body to be embalmed and placed in a coffin, the top of which shall be glazed and not nailed down, so that the body be not deprived either of air or daylight. Subsequently to cause it to be burned, if that can be legally done. It could not be from a motive of economy, as the personal property in England was sworn under half a million sterling, and he left 400,003 francs to be laid out in works of beneficence and charity. Mr. William Kensett, by his will, proved in October, ~ seems to have been of the same opinion as the members of a re- cently-formed club, who have pledged themselves for sanitary reasons to have their bodies burned at their deaths ; for he recites that, believino~ in the impolicy of interring the dead amidst the living and as an example to others, I give my body, four days after death, to the di- rectors of the Imperial Gas Company, London, to be placed in one of their re- torts and consumed to ashes, and that they be paid Lb by my executors for the trouble this act will impose on them in so doing. Should a defence of fanaticism and superstition prevent them granting this my request, then my executors must submit to have my remains buried, in the plainest manner possible, in my family grave in St. Johns-wood Cemetery, to assist in poisoning the living in that neighbourhood. Generally the curious wills are home made. The will of Mr. Kensett was made by a solicitor. A DISEASE-DESTROYING TREE. 63 From Chambers Journal. A DISEASE-DESTROYING TREE. THE following paragraph appeared lately in tI~ e Medical Times and Gazette, and has been copied into some of the daily newspapers: M. Gimbert, who has been long en- gaged in collecting evidence concerning the Australian tree, EueaZy~tus globulus, the growth of which is surprisingly rapid, attainin(r besides oi~antic dimensions, has addressed an interesting communica- tion to the Academy of Sciences. This plant, it now appears, possesses an extra- ordinary power of destroying miasmatic influence in fever-stricken districts. It has the singular property of absorbing ten times its weight of water from the soil, and of emitting antiseptic camphorous effluvia. When sown in marshy ground, it will dry it up in a very short time. The English were the first to try it at the Cape, and within two or three years they completely changed the climatic condition of the unhealthy parts of the colony. A few years later, its plantation was under- taken on a large scale in various parts of Algeria. At Pardock, twenty miles from Algiers, a farm situated on the banks of the Hamyze was noted for its extremely pestilential air. In the spring of i867, about i3,ooo of the eucalyptus were planted there. In July of the same year the time when the fever-season used to set in not a single case occurred; yet the trees were not more than nine feet high. Since then, complete im- munity from fever has been maintained. In the neighbourhood of Constantine, the farm of Ben Machydlin was equally in bad repute. It was covered with marshes both in winter and summer. In five years, the whole ground was dried up by i4,ooo of these trees, and farmers and children enjoy excellent health. At the factory of the Gue de Constantine, in three years a plantation of eucalyptus has transformed twelve acres of marshy soil into a magnificent park, whence fever has completely disappeared. In the island of Cuba, this and all other paludal diseases are fast disappearing from all the unhealthy districts where this tree has been introduced. A station-house at one of the ends of a railway viaduct in the de- partment of the Var was so pestilential that the officials could not be kept there longer than a year. Forty of these trees were planted, and it is now as healthy as any other place on the line. We have no information as to whether this beneficent tree will grow in other than hot climates. We hope that experiments will be made to determine this point. It would be a good thing to introduce it on the west coast of Africa. The statement so given appears to re- quire some modification. When men- tioning that the tree in question has the singular property of absorbing ten times its weight of water frbm the soil, we should have been told the length of time taken to perform the operation a day, a week, or how long. All trees whatso- ever absorb moisture from the soil, equal to their own weight in a certain period of time, some more than others, and the Eucalyptus giobulus may in this respect only offer a more than usually favourable specimen. We wish the account given had been more precise, and, for practical purposes, more trustworthy. All trees not only absorb moisture from the ground, but are useful in dryin~, up marshy places by means of exhalation. The fir tribe being evergreen, are for the purpose invaluable. Exhaling from all points, they send off moisture into the atmosphere, where it is dispersed by winds, and which, when condensed by cold, falls down as rain. Hence, planta- tions of firs not only dry the land, but beneficially water it: the two phenomena united being productive less or more of improved sanitary conditions. We shall be glad to hear on good authority that the Eucalyptus giobulus, if planted in this country, will realize all that is said of its superior properties. A SECOND Shakespeare club has been started I the discussion on the play after the reading of by the students of the Chaucer class at the it is over. The Athen~um hears that the men London Workingmens College. The men confess that the women know more of Shakes- meet at one anothers rooms, read Shakes- peare, and read him more intelligently than peare s plays in chronological order, with their they do. The first Shakespeare club at the wives and sisters. One member prepares a college has lasted above fifteen years, and is in short paper on each play, with which he opens existence still. 64 MISCELLANY. THE Quakers are at the present time hold- three-fourths of one per cent. of the money ing a conference in London to take into con- received. sideration and to deliberate on the condition of the body, and in particular to inquire into ___________ the causes which are retarding its increase, and producing a marked diminution in the attendance at many of the meetings. There PROFESSOR BLAcKIE, in his introductory cpnnot be a doubt that during the last few lecture to the Greek classes of the University years Quakers have either sadly dwindled in of Edinburgh the other day, said that it had numbers or have as a rule ceased to wear the been his fortune to dip into various languages, peculiar dress which distinguished them from and that the Greek langua6e and the Greek ordinary mortals, and thus manage to escape literature are worth them all put together ; recognition. In i66o it was estimated that and further added that every person who there were upwards of 6o,ooo Quakers in this despises Greek literature and language proves country, and hut a few years ago the sight of a himself to be a conceited puppy and an ig- broad-brimmed hat or a lavender coloured norant fool. Professor Plackie has evidently bonnet was common enough in the streets of not read a poem reviewed in the A/Izeweu London, whereas in the present day they are last week entitled Chemistianity, which, so rarely seen that they excite general atten- from the extracts given, must contain some tion, and it would be quite possible to frequent passages of rare and exceeding beauty. What, the busy haunts of men daily for three months for instance, can be more strikin0 than the fol- without meeting a Quaker or a Quakeress. lowing The sect appears to have been wasting rapidly Arsenic, the fool and villains poison, since the commencement of the present cen- Is a metalloid of steel grey colour, tury. In m8oo the Quaker meeting-houses Crystalline, lustrous, and very brittle. It tarnishes in water sod air, numbered 413, ~vhereas half a century later Unless they are free from carbonic acid. this number was reduced to 371. Itis possible Heated in air it volatilizes that the decision arrived at in i8 ~8 to allow Without fusion, hot with rapid oxidation, mixed marriages and a modification of costume And smells like garlic to arseoioos oxide, Called in trade ~vhite oxide of arsenic. has had the effect of not only retarding the iti- Arsenic forms salts in metalloid law. crease of the body but of reducing its propor- It oxides in arsen-lous and -ic acids. tions. A very intelligent physician re- Again, the following from the Chemistian marked to Lord Jeffrey, in 1813, that the Songis marvellously beautiful: wealthier Quakers often die of stupidity, that Chemistian lore ihould be they rarely live to be fifty, eat too much, take Well known on land and sea, too little exercise, and, above all, have no To sow the seed of chemistry, io heigh, so ho, so bee. nervous excitement. It is very doubtful Professor Blackie would be puzzled to discover whether a thoroughly peaceful, harmless ex- anything in Homer equal to this; but it is the istence is favourable to longevity. How many fashion nowadays to decry modem poetry. a household is only kept alive by its little Pall Mall. quarrels! and we all of us probably owe more than we are aware of to our disagreeable ___________ differences. Pall Mall. THE Manchester (England) Statistical Soci- ety, in its published reports of proceedings, gives data regarding the cobperative stores of Great Britain that are of interest. There were, at the end of 1870, 969 cobperative stores on the books of the registrar of Friendly Societies. In that year the sales of the stores amounted to $41,000,000, and the saving or profit realized upon these sales amounted to $3,240,000. The capital was $11,155, 50 that the profit repre- sented a little over twenty-nine per cent. on the mottey invested. In 1863 a wholesale co- dperative store was started in Manchester, with a capital of nearly $~ooo. In the first half year of its existence the sales amounted in value to $29,810. In the first half of the following year 212,625 were received for goods, and in the corresponding period of 1872 the amount had risen to 2,025,000. This store has been started to supply the retail cobperative stores with goods, and its expenses are less than THE president of the Berlin police has profit- ed by his recent visit to Vienna to introduce sundry reforms in the police regulations of the Prussian capital. The most important of these seems to be the precautions adopted to prevent stoppages and consequent blocks at the more frequented street crossings. At each of the twenty-six crossings where the traffic is greatest there are now placed an officer on horseback and two on foot, whose duty it is to regulate the traffic and protect the public. THE Catholic University is declared the supreme seat of education in Ireland, and to have affiliated to it every college, diocesan school, college and primary school under ecclesiastical control in the kingdom. A Catholic training college is to be established in connection with the university, the com- mittee charged with its establishment being Bishops Dorrian, Conroy, Lynch and Moran.

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The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1544 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 10, 1874 0120 1544
The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1544 65-128

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ Volume V. S ~ 1544. January 10, 1874. From Beginning, (Vol. CXX. CONTENTS. I. THE ENGLISH PULPIT II. ROBERT HOLTs ILLUSION. Part I., III. INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. I. Ceremonial, IV. SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE IN- TERIOR, DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. Part I. V. TIlE SENTENCE ON MARSHAL BAZAINE, VI. THE PRUSSIAN REFORMATION, FROM THE MAGYAR, A CYCLE,. MISCELLANY, Quarterly Review, Good Cheer, Blackiwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Spectator, Spectator, - 67 86 - 101 5 124 125 66 POETRY. 66 OUTCAST, 66 .128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remifled direcdy lo the Publishers, tl~e LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of ~5osttsge. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forwarding the money; nor when we club the LIVING Age with another periodical. Ao extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procttred, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters wllen requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELI. & CAY. 66 FROM THE MAGYAR, ETC. FROM THE MAGYAR. Mdg met nern mondanak. AND all the world is saying That my poor fantasy To earth is ever tending, And never to the sky. Yet towards the wide horizon The eager longing springs, But feels the heavy fetters Which hang upon its wings. It dives into the deepest Abysses of the seas; Explores the hearts own centre For deeper mysteries. And when I say Up, upwards! New strength the impulse brings, And like a lark in cloud-land, It flutters and it sings. And when I cry High, higher! It mounts into the light And leaves the soaring eagles Behind it in its flight. The eagles they get weary; My fancy never never. The clouds bar not its rising Up higher, higher ever! The clouds are pierced heavens concave Is by its pinions riven; Tis lost among the planets, It tracks the belt of heaven. It travels thro the darkness, It rules the night and day; Salutes the sun when passing In its mysterious way. Beyond the solar system, Its planets shining bright, It reaches other centres Of harmony and light. And yet it rests not rests not, But flies from star to star, Untired, uncheckd, exploring, The infinitely far And having then exhausted Creation thro and thro It finds a new creation As wonderful as new! PETOFI. Translated by Sir John ~owring A CYCLE. IF he had come in the early dawn, When the sunrise flushed the earth, I would have given him all my heart, Whatever the heart was worth. If he had come at the noontide hour, He would not have come too late; I would have given hun patient faith, For then I had learned to wait. If he had come in the after-glow, In the peace of the eventide, I would have given him hands and brain, And worked for him till I died. If he comes now the sun has set, And the light has died away, I will not give him a broken life But will turn and say him Nay! Good Words. C. BROOKE. OUTCAST THE moon is red and low, and the stars are few, The city moaneth like one who talks in his sleep, In distant meadows full heavily falls the dew, The dew in the city it falleth from eyes that weep. Now is the time, my soul, when a grieving pain, frightened away by the eyes that shine in the day, May dare to come forth awhile, and be free again, And look in thy face and say what it bath to say. Its mien is pure and true, and it seemeth calm, Though deep in its gaze there is lying the gloom of death, Its murmur sounds like the holiest heavenly psalm, But it singeth a sirens song to thy dreaming faith. Let it come forth and utter its plaintive moans, Listened so oft that thine ears are growing dull To sounds less sad and soft, to the cheerful tones That ring in the chord of life when it swelleth full. Hearken it now for the past and never more, Heed not the eyes that crave and the hand that clings, Kiss it once at the futures glimmering door, Float it away in the dark on its own sad wings. So shall it reach that realm on the verge of night, Where shadows of fair false things and their echoes be; Thy way is across the hills in the kindling light Mid living souls with a footstep glad and free! All TIme Year Round. THE ENGLISH PULPIT. From The Quarterly Review. THE ENGLISH PULPIT.* IF we reflect on the number of sermons periodically preached in our churches and chapels, there is presented to the mind a vast spiritual instrument of unde- fined limitations and immeasurable influ- ential possibilities which naturally sug- gests the comparison of means with re- sult. We are led to ask what is the use made of the gigantic institution of the pulpit distributed through the length and breadth of the British Islands so unex- ceptionally that there is no spot beyond its attainable reach, scarcely a place where the sound of the church-going bell is not more or less distinctly heard. We are prompted to inquire what the pulpit actually does towards further- ing the religious and moral life of the enormous number of persons constantly exposed to its influence ; if the effect of its labours is commensurate in any de- gree with its large claims, and the extent and magnitude of its operations, or if it obtains and holds a motive influence on the governing sentiment of the time at all corresponding to its virtual power and importance. We think that these questions can only be answered in one way. There is no doubt the pulpit of our churches, con- sidered as one of the spiritual motors of the time, is, with few exceptions, all but powerless. Whatever it may have done in the past, it now does nothing which can be reckoned amongst those large ele- ments that give tone and character to society, and go to form (if the phrase may be permitted) the idiosyncrasy of the nation. So notoriously is this the fact, that there are those who hold the opinion that the function of the pulpit is now utterly decayed, that there is no more use for it, that it must inevitably grow more and more effete, until it shall no longer retain an existence amongst us. This, however, is far too hasty and unre- flective a conclusion. It does not follow from the imperfect fulfilment of the office of preaching that it is a vain or useless one. We believe the time will come when the pulpit will be again the means of disseminating truth broadcast, its voice be heard above the clatter of the worlds discords, and its illuminating ca- pacities be displayed once more in the dark places of the earth. At present, it must be confessed, there is too much ground for despondency in regard to it. When we look back to the Middle Ages, or, indeed, to a much later period, we are struck with the large power it possessed then, compared with its almost utter im- potency now. We see it in its position of former days, flourishing under the eye of the Church; and, whether for good or evil, maintaining an irresistible and un- opposed sway over the mind of the whole nation, ruling it at will, and moulding it into the form of its own mood, the incep- tive animator of almost every large un- dertaking, the dominant instigator of al- most every important national movement. If any testimony to its intrinsic power were required, we need only recall such names as those of Peter the Hermit, St. Augustine, St. Francis of Assisi, Savona- rola, and a hundred others, which the pages of history abundantly furnish, whose discourses gave colour to the thought and feeling, and sometimes un- pelled the united action of the whole European quarter of the globe. Though the flame has fallen, the material of com- bustion still remains. The human mind is still sensitive to contact with its fellow mind, still thrills with a magic vibration to the touch of sympathy, still aspires, and still suffers. It may be that only tho fervent burning of the clear torch of truth is required to set on fire once more the slumbering enthusiasm of its mission, and light the dark day with a yet more brilliant radiance. But how can this be, whilst we are trifling away the opportunit4es and advantages afforded by our pulpits, and wasting our religious energies upon the unfruitful performance of ecclesiastical observances, beginning and ending in themselves? How can it * The Penny Pu~Ai/: a Collection of accnro/eiy-re- possibly take amidst the ~5oried Sermons by the most eminent illinisters of place sLrug~ie vorions Denominations. Vol. X. New Series. Lou- for new creeds, and the casting off of the dou, 1873. old ones; in the clamour, and disorder, 68 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. and confusion of polemical strife, and the fever of ecclesiastical law-courts ; in the clash of contending speculations; in the struggles for personal notoriety; ia the attempt to institute new offices, and a disregard for the availability of the old ones? When shall we learn that true re- ligion the religion which can alone give dignity to our nature, raise the soul out of the dust, and fix it on the life beyond life, enlarge our sympathies, enrich our being, soothe us in trouble, and give a deeper zest to joy, lies beyond and with- out all these, in the calm regions of a spiritual condition into which they can never enter? Some time, perhaps, we shall ask if it had not been better worth while to leave some of these unnoticed for worthier objects of thought and more useful fields of labour; for the exercise of grander aims, and the satisfaction of more vital desires; for the fulfilment of a life more in consonance with our lofty destiny, and the hopes we strive to foster in the midst of so much which is calcu- lated to quell and crush them. Before entering on the consideration of the condition of the modern pulpit, it will be necessary to premise that the term Church~ will here be used in a broad sense, specially and chiefly refer- ring to the Church of England, beyond which its precise limitation or extension may be left open, subject to the applica- tion of our remarks. It will not be ne- ~essary for our present purpose to define it more strictly. It must also be under- stood, that though these observations will apply to sermons in general, they are not intended to be absolutely universal in their application. There are, of course, many notable individual exceptions to the usual aspect presented by the mod- ern pulpit. It will not, however, on that account be necessary to furnish any evi- dence that such a consideration as we propose is ill-timed, exaggerated, or su- pererogatory, since we feel certain that every reader of these pages will at once recognize the truth of our position, and will, probably, have already felt within himself at least some portion of the sub- stance of that which we intend to lay before him.* Neither do we wish to detract from the good work which is done, nor to decry the praiseworthy usefulness, the disinter- ested activity, the broad and self-denying charity, which are so largely found in the National Church, and in many others. We are not oblivious of any of them. Our observations in regard to the present condition of the pulpit do not, and will not prejudice these. They are facts which we have infinite satisfaction in noting. They hold a place in the moral and reli- gious history of the time, neither to be overlooked nor forgotten, not less hon- ourable or important because frequently hidden from the public eye, and beyond the reach of the worlds rewards, or even its recognition. An obstacle greatly detrimental to the efficacy of modern preaching is that its importance is not generally reckoned at its full worth. We are accustomed to attach less value to the function of the pulpit than formerly, and by right, be- longed to it. In the Church of England this is particularly the case. Why it should be so is not very apparent. It is certainly neither throubh idleness nor indifference. There is, perhaps, no body of men to whom these terms are as little applicable as to the clergymen of the Church of England. There is no lack of conscientious desire to fulfil the duties of the most responsible of positions; and it is in the full recognition of this that we would wish the strictures which we are about to offer on the present condi * A noteworthy testimony to the present condition of the English pulpit was given in a leading article in the Times newspaper on the day after Hospital Sun- day (s6th June, 1873). It will he recollected that on that day the sermons of the principal churches of the metropolis were reported, in a more or less condensed form, thus furnishing ample material for a correct gen- eralization of their leading tone and sentiment. The conclusions, hased upon an examination of these, were thus summed up in the article in question: we look in vain for any indications that the preachers by whom the cause of the Hospitals was advocated have seized upon this opportunity of strengthening their hold, of pressing home the influence that the Gospel teaching would exert upon many other of the more dark and cheerless aspects of life, and of convincing those who heard them perhaps for the first and last time that christianity is something higher and better than a sys- tem or creed. THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 69 tion of the pulpitto be received rather as friendly hints towards its improvement, than as the sour fault-findings of antago- nistic censorship. The question is one more of the direction of energy and line of consideration, than the want of them. Other ministrations of the Church, as the visitation of the sick, the superin- tendence of the education of children and adults, and the personal care, inter- est, and attention bestowed upon the general welfare of those committed to its charge, may challenge comparison with any other religious community, and in these respects it perhaps excels all others. The office of the pulpit seems strangely disregarded as to its importance, contrary to the example of all precedent. It is quite true that in times past it stood al- most alone in its mission. There were fewer extraneous interests in operation. either to assist or hinder it. It held a more unlimited and independent sway over the popular mind, and the religious and moral sentiments. But whatever weight we may theoretically attach to these considerations, it is, nevertheless, an undeniable fact that the pulpit, far from being effete, was in some respects never in a better or more influential posi- tion potentially than that which it occu- pies at present. Wherever there is a church, and a preacher of earnest, thoughtful views, whatever may be his individual tone, sentiment, or opinion, he never fails to gather round him a circle of listeners. The large congregations, con- sistinb in a great part of men, which gather beneath the dome of St. Pauls and within the walls of Westminster Abbey every Sunday, show that there is no lack of in~erest in the message of the pulpit. Perhaps the general public never looked so earnestly as they do now to- wards the assistance and furtherance of the religious life by its means; they have certainly never had more need of it. The importance of preaching, as a faculty of the Church, is undoubtedly better undersfood and accepted by many bodies of Dissenters than it is in the Church of England. Out of taste, as it frequently is, characterized by half-views, ignoring everything which lies out of its own immediate vision, too exclusively dwelling on one class of truths, and those often coloured with personal, prejudiced, and sometimes with superstitious ele- ments, it does not fail to make as large a use as possible of so efficient a means for consolidating the spiritual bond of the members of its communion. It is almost always in earnest, giving its best energies and most powerful utterances to the fulfilment of its function. Occasion- ally it offers examples of a noble, disin- terested, and enlarged view of Christian truth and the Christian life, from which the parent Church might take a lesson with advantage. If this earnestness were always as sound as it is enthusiastic, ex- perimental and practical as it is intro- spective and emotional, if it regarded the elements of actual life and practice more than mere spiritual exercise, it would leave little to be desired. Unfortunately, this is by no means the case. We may turn fearlessly from the results of its teaching as exemplified in the lives and characters of its members regarded gen- erally, to those of the Church of England; for though the National Church cannot be said by any means to stand at the summit of its vocation, yet it must be allowed that whatever may be its faults and shortcomings, it practically embodies in the average of its members a more wholesome condition of mind and body, a better regulated social economy, a wider and more cultivated intelligence, a more tolerant charity, and, we believe, in the statistics of trade and commerce exhibits a higher standard of moral probity than is to be found .in most, if not all, forms or bodies of religious Dis- sent. The office of the pulpit, duly and rightly fulfilled, can never fall into desue- tude. If it does so, it must be entirely through the abnegation of the proper means to maintain it. A discourse de- livered vivd voce will always possess infinite advantages over anything re- ceived through the medium of the press. The pulpit is thus possessed of an ele- ment of power beyond the reach of literature. Not only is there an addi- tional force inherent in the utterances 70 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. coming directly from a fervent soul and brain, but there is a spiritual electricity which gathers energy from an assemblage of persons, passing from mind to mind with increased intensity, according to the numbers collectively submitted to its influence. For these reasons the mission of the preacher can never be rendered a vain or useless one. Preaching must always remain an instrument of power, not only indestructible, but superior to all other modes of personal influence in the propagation and dissemination of large truths relying on generally ac- cepted bases, as those of religion may be said to do. At present there seems to be no generally accepted faith in its pos- sibilities preachers, as a rule, neither doing their utmost, nor making the most of its opportunities.* There is a laissez faire statement of formal truths or truisms which argues an entire disbelief in, mistrust of, or indifference to its com- manding powers as a motive instrument. In some cases this may arise from the fear of coming into too close a contact with some phases of modern thought or certain conditions of modern feeling. It need not be so, however, since a bold exposi- tion of absolute religious truth in its application to life and practice would quickly make its way to a responsive sentiment, whatever obstacles might ap- pear to impede its progress or oppose its reception. One argument of confidence in the office of preaching may be gathered from its present condition, namely, that people will listen with at least tolerance to any- thing whatever which comes from the pulpit. No church was ever deserted because its preacher spoke plainly. Hu- man nature in the mass is not over-sen- sitive. It will listen and often like to listen to that which it is not always dis- posed to follow. The preacher, there- fore, need not fear the effects of candour. All that is required is the tact to measure the average condition and requirement of the hearers. We do not, for example, advocate the too special exposition of the character and condition of the libertine and blasphemer in a miscellaneous con- gregation. It is as much likely to do harm as good. In this respect, as in many others, much must be left to the guiding tact of the preacher. * Honourable exceptions to these remarks may be made in the names of the late Bishop Wilberforce, Canon Liddon, the present Bishop of Peterborough, and some others, whose earnest labours for the resuscita- tion of the pulpit are in all respects as praiseworthy as they have been successful. Amongst the reasons for the ineffi- ciency of the modern pulpit there are a few external ones which may be profita- bly glanced at before entering upon the consideration of those profounder ones which underlie them, and in which this inefficiency fundamentally and essentially subsists. They are chiefly of two kinds; first, the manner of delivery; second, the structure and composition of the sermon. In regard to the first, the modern pul- pit is lamentably defective and unsatis- factory. Contrast a man s manner in the pulpit when informing us upon those topics which he tells us are of infinitely more importance than any other, with that by which he imnpresses his opinions and enforces his meaning when discuss- ing the plans for anew house, the laying out of a new pleasure-ground, the order- ing of household matters or personal business, or with his narration of an after-dinner story. Observe his direct- ness, perspicuity, lively energy of speech and manner in these cases compared with the former. His action in the pulpit (if he has any) is a merely artificial thing, not dictated by the inward power, but assumed as a mere matter of propriety perhaps, even learnt from some one slse. His intonation and mode of utterance are purely artificial. His preaching and reading tone is altogether differexmt from his natural one, which at once removes what he has to say out of the close sym- pathy of his hearers. Every touch of vitality communicated by the lively ff10- tion of the mind acting upon its proper symbol is deadened as a leaf when its greenness is gone. Even the facial mus- cles of the preacher seem to be paralysed, as if by the aridity of his own discourse. We do not wish to see our preachers mimic the actor in their discourse. All action in the pulpit which is not natural must be bad and injurious to the effect of the sermon. Indeed it may very well be dispensed with altogether, as far as bodily movement is concerned, if the preachers mental energies are given thoroughly to his workif he only preaches that in which his most earnest interest is infused and deepest sympathies engaged that which by its force, truth, and applicability must make itself heard and felt for its own sake. Then his manner is sure to be sufficiently vigour- ous to second his discourse and enforce his meaning without any direct effort on his part to make it so. The same prin- ciple may be applied to the matter of THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 7 eloquence. Eloquence sought for its doubtless, the extempore method may be own sake for any attraction resulting desirable as more spontaneous, vivacious, from itself is sure to be mischievous and flexible. In either case the powers and defeat its intention. It will only lead should be well-measured, and no gift of from the true object, however carefully mere loquacity cause the pen to be laid and ingeniously its mechanism may be aside asus eless. Barrow not only com- concealed. Genuine eloquence lies in posed his sermons with the greatest care, the substance of that which is said. but rewrote them three or four times. True eloquence, says Milton, is the South inveighs strongly against extempore daughter of Virtue, and there is no preaching, perhaps the more so because other. A sermon preached from sincere it was practised by the Puritans. Robert conviction and with a sense of the im- Hall, on the contrary, followed it, but portance of its object, if not eloquent in always after much and close preparation the properties of speech and fluency, will sometimes even to the pre-arrange- be something better than eloquent. It ment of the paragraphs of his discourse. will attain its mission by more assured Others have adopted a middle course, means and find its goal on quicker wings that is, preaching from copious written~ than any which mere constructive elo- notes, perhaps a valuable method to those quence can bestow upon it. Style should who know how to make efficient use of be studied from the side of a clear, suc- it. Which plan soever be adopted, it is cinct, and unencumbered mode of express- always desirable that the whole substance ing the ideas, not from that of rhetorical of the discourse should be carefully effect and display. An important mes- thought out beforehand, and set before sage faithfully and energetically delivered the listener in some well-jointed order. is never forcrotten. Under no other conditions can it possibly As regarbds the mechanical arrange- live as an abiding influence or find a per- ment and distribution of the sermon, a manent place in the memory. good test of its constructive excellence is We must now approach a far more im- found in the degree of distinctness with portant series of consideratious in regard which it is remembered by the hearers. to modern preaching, namely, those of Too much division and subdivision the intrinsic qualities by which it can paraded before the substance of discourse alone fulfil its proper end and object in are decidedly undesirable, as they fre- impressing the hearts and minds of the quently frustrate their own end by intro- listeners, and producing a practical effect ducing perplexity and confusion in the on their lives and conduct.. In examin- attempt to follow the various headings if ing how far these conditions are fulfilled very numerous. On the other hand, a by the pulpit of the present day, we shall looseness of arrangement and classifica- simply state its obvious inadequacies to tion is just as much to be avoided. The meet the requirements of the time with- better medium is that the connected plan out dwelling upon them from a purely of the sermon should be clearly laid down religious point of view. That is to say, in the mind of the preacher, and then, in enumerating some of those qualities without burdening the attention of the of character and disposition and states of hearers with an enumeration and exposi- feeling which ought to be more definitely tion of all the divisions of the discourse, and distinctly dwelt upon from the pulpit to let it follow its natural sequence, which we shall not enter upon the considera- it will do insensibly and no less effec- tion of the religious motives and senti- tually thanunder a propounded system of ments which constitute their proper distribution and subdivision. Of the value, and which it is the special func- comparative merits of extempore and tion of the pulpit to urge and demon- written sermons much might be said, strate. But although we cannot do more which would perhaps be as little to the here than indicate the defalcations of the purpose. Circumstances of idiosyncrasy, pulpit in failing to reach in any correc- nature and interior propulsion must ulti- tive way certain tendencies and disposi- mately decide between the adoption or tions of the time, it must not be sup- rejection of the one or the other. We posed that these are only placed in the believe that, as a rule, the most valuable category of morality, or that a mere appeal sermons are those which are written, as to motives of expediency and propriety the arrangement and relative value of thetis all that we would imply as necessary in various parts of the discourse must be dealing with them. The office of the better preserved by that means than the pulpit is the ministration of religion ; to other. On the contrary, in certain cases, appeal to that part of our nature and 72 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. those feelings by which our lives and course of conduct are brought into rela- tionship with a Supreme Reing; to rouse the soul to a sense of moral res~onsibiZity to appeal to it through all the motives of love, gratitude, desire, trust, and fear, as xvell as to its sense of justice and right. It is not merely to set forth the Gospel plan of redemption to the soul as an arti- cle of creed, hut to enforce a noble, pure, and earnest life an actual following of the steps of Christ in a singleness of aim and purpose, a sustained elevation of feeling, and a conscientious rectitude and thoroughness of living carried out to the simplest particular, without wavering and without compromise. It is the special mission of the pulpit to enforce this by motives of union with Christ, and in vir- tue of that large brotherhood which He has instituted against the sin we all in- herit, and which He enables us to over- come and escape. These, to their fullest extent, must he understood to furnish the basis of all our observations, though not actually reiterated at every turn of our inquiry. We have said that we do not intend to waste time in pointing out the need of a close inquiry into the present condition of the pulpit. It is only too self-evident that our pulpits are no longer the centres of that earnestness and unity of teaching which once characterized them. For the thoughts that breathe and words that burn are substituted a Sahara-like dry- ness and harrenness, appalling in their wearisome monotony of sentences and unenlivened periods. In vain is the jaded and overtaxed attention roused and spurred in the endeavour to connect the succession of paragraphs set before us in any form or idea which can take a firm hold of the baffled faculties, or leave any trace or ahiding influence upon the mind. We are compelled to hear that which put before us anywhere else and under any other circumstances would not, and could not detain us for an instant to which, in fact, nothing short of compulsion could induce us to listen. It is certain that from no person we ever meet, in no book, journal, or newspaper which we ever read would we tolerate or submit to nine-tenths of that which is given to us from the pulpit as representin~ matter of the gravest moment which can demand our interest or occupy our deepest con- sideration. Perhaps this may not be wholly the preachers fault; perhaps the listener is somewhat to blame if he does not extract from the sleepy dialectics and stagnating platitudes of the pulpit some- thing towards the furtherance of his spir- itual life; but we are afraid that, at the most, it can often be no other than the merely negative gain hinted at by the good George Herbert: If all want sense, God takes a text and preacheth patience. In this respect, at least, we must allow there is ample room for the learner. The pulpit is no longer authoritative even in those things in the dealing with which it is most concerned. It would seem as if the preacher did not always really know whether he fully believed that which he thinks he ought to preach or not. He has perhaps never inquired into the rea- sonableness of the dogmas he utters so far as to ascertain if they are absolutely necessary to the spiritual life and well- being or not. He has never proved his principles by the test of their practical utility or necessity. He is by no means sure that they constitute a bank of strength sufficient to rest the moral life upon if they will afford an efficient obstacle to evil, a steady support in afflic- tion, an indicatory beacon in difficulty, and a reliable consolation in adversity. Generally, indeed, he is concerned in quite other matters, to prove a position or a thesis possibly nothing to the purpose of vital religion, having no bearing on or reference to life and conduct, which, proved or disproved, leaves us in re- gard to the larger object precisely where it found us. His discourse is of prece- dent, tradition, and ecclesiastical conven- tion, of the transient and accidental rather than of the absolute and incontro- vertible based upon real life and experi- ence. The religious life is kept separate from the actual and secular one. It only touches us lightly, and moves us feebly. The slow, dry system of religious observ- ance has no existence, no corresponding organ, in the life of human interests and activities which lies without the limiting walls of his church. Into this circle it never enters never even approaches it. In entering upon an analysis of the condition of the pulpit in relation to some of the peculiar characteristics of the present time, it must be understood that it can only be a very incomplete and inadequate one. All that we can do here is to submit a few facts as indications of the way in which a wider reflection and a larger consideration of the principles sub- mitted may develope results of a vaster and more substantial importance than we THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 73 can venture to predict; for we are con- vinced that so much lies in them. The pulpit of to-day does not condemn the real faults, vices, and shortcomings of the time with any degree of general force and energy commensurate with their strength and importance. Our age is specially distinguished as an extravagantly ambitious and acquisi- tive one. In no age of the world was ever the love of wealth more absorbing, nor were men ever more desirious to ob- tain it. Perhaps one-half the evils of so- cial life result from the excessive indul- gence of this overmastering passion. It blinds the eyes to moral good, it saps the principles of virtue and honesty, it throws a veil of discontent over the simpler and purer enjoyments of life or blots them al- together out of view, it induces a thou- sand vanities, it fosters a world of sin, it is as unwise as it is unsatisfactory, for it makes men forget their truest interests their allegiance to God, their duty to. their fellow-men, and the general well- being of the society to which they be- long. All the right enjoyment and best happiness of life are dislocated and per- vert~d by it. It would hardly be inferred from the lax or indifferent way in which the pulpit ordinarily regards it that the uncurbed love and pursuit of wealth for its own sake was denounced in the strongest manner by the Divine Author of Christianity. But if the prevailing thirst for gold is reprehensible in itself, infinitely more so are the means used to obtain it. There is scarcely a principle of justice or honesty that is not more or less commonly sacrificed for its acquire- ment. No real intrinsic value is dis- tinctly and impressively attached to the name of honesty. It is not generally re- ceived that the actual ~vorth of a just principle brought into practice by a rightly constituted mind is in itself a thing of absolute value, and that a strictly organized life bears in itself a treasure analogous to that bestowed by large pos- sessions in the realization of a sublime condition of being and a loftier content and satisfaction than they can bestow. All these are left as philosophical axioms, but not enforced as religious truths. They are creeds of the lips, but not of the heart or mind. One scarcely ever hears them preached from the pulpit as if they were really and vitally true; and yet they are amongst the first principles of a truly religious life. We are not advocating any Utopian views of impracticable and impossible conditions, nor do we desire to sketch an Arcadia of ideal men and women. Social prosperity as well as personal well- being demand an active use of the facul- ties and the exercise of a regulated ambi- tion; but we must not forget that these may be unduly exaggerated or misdi- rected. A community of slovens and idlers would be the worst national ca- lamity. The enterprises of business and the pursuits of commerce offer a noble field for energy and action; but why should they be followed to the exclusion of every other? The interests of a happy and healthy existence must be nu- merous and varied, yet how often are all others excluded by the all-consuming usurpation of these Suppose the pul- pit were to institute a universal protest, a kind of united crusade, against this mon- strous and growing evil; suppose it were to point out studiously and clearly at what a sacrifice such a condition of things is maintained; suppose it were persistently to impress upon those who had obtained a competency in business, instead of going on adding gold to gold, house to house, field to field, the desira- bility of giving themselves to other ob- jects and pursuits, and of allowing the hundreds of others comparatively indi- gent the means of obtaining a subsist- ence. If the pulpit were to do this vig- orously and ener~etically, its advocacy might go far ultimately to infuse a new element and motive into society; to induce a new set of principles for its government and guidance; to reveal a fresh and wider horizon in the economy of life. Of course its influence at first would be rela- tively small. There would be a world of prejudice and predilection to be re- moved; there would be numerous cases in which the man of business would be tied to his occupation by attachments more or less inseverable. But suppos- ing the pulpit were only faithful to its mission, supposing it was effective only on a moiety of the cases presenting no real obstacle to such a course, what an enormous measure of good might be brought about! To many the very idea would be a new one a sort of revela- tion presented to them with the force of a desirable possibility for the first time. But upon this the pulpit is almost silent. It is able to give us sermons upon such occasions as the Twenty-third Sunday after Trinity; it can even go far to in- vent theological and speculative diffi- culties in order to solve and answer them, but upon the large and allowed THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 74 evils and mistakes of the time it is mostly a personal one, gives rise, amongst other silent. They are heard of everywhere evils, to the fulsome sycophancy and before they obtain a voice from the pul- false presumption which, by stepping out pit; and if, indeed, they are ever noticed of its own position, endeavours to usurp by our preachers the appeal is generally that of another. The honourable inde- so languid, so isolated, so wanting in the pendence which, in fearlessly acknowl- enthusiasm of a mission that we are edging and abiding by its own social hardly touched or influenced by it at all. status, withholds no rightful acknowl- It falls like the good seed on stony edgment to its superior in the social places, like rain upon the sea. rank those having that pre-eminence Besides the unrestricted desire for which the economical constitution of the wealth, other prominent evils of our time time agrees to recognize is disregarded are the false ambition for personal eleva- or ignored. It is not, however, the lower tion in the social scale, and the effeminate social ranks who are wholly to blame in and erroneous views of life it gives rise this matter. A great proportion of the to. evil lies in the disregard of the upper Dissatisfaction with the existing social classes to those special qualities which condition, and the eager desire to change are entitled to honour and respect in it, are amongst the most mischievous ele- those of a less elevated grade. The ments in modern society. The fact that recognition of the full claims of the lower each grade in the social scale has its classes upon their rightful bases and special functions, and that the lowest, footing is too often, disregarded, and not when worthily occupied, is as honourable unfrequently treated with contempt. The in itself as the highest is scarcely ever superciliousness of office and position is recognized as a governing principle, a serious fault in our national character. There are few to whom it is apparent It is very often entirely overlooked by that progress does not necessarily imply those occupying elevated positions that discontent few who have no better the peculiar importance they attach to wish than to remain in that class in themselves in virtue of these is quite a which they are born and ed~ucated, gratuitous and self-elected one as re- and dignify its rank by the perfect.fulfll- gards their mode of viewing it, and that ment of its duties and functions; but the the recob nition and esteem of others must be souTht an object of every one appears to be to get d repaid by the same out of that which properly belongs to kind of consideration and respect which him as soon as possible, and to place they themselves demand. himself in another; and this without re- All this fundamental dissatisfaction at gard to fitness, propriety, or any consid- the heart of society is rarely alluded to eration of eligibility; that is to say, from the pulpit; and perhaps it is never without ever inquiring in what way he given that importance which it deserves. will be the gainer by such an exchange, The remedies and alleviations based he wishes to annihilate the distinctions upon the Christian scheme which a of class as far as it serves his purpose to thoughtful reflection might suggest and do so. All this is based upon a mistake, enforce find no name or adequate repre- and worse. It is a mistake to suppose sentation in our churches. However se- that social and official distinctions can rious its contingent evils may appear to ever be dispensed with or superseded. the humanitarian and the religious phil- The various classes of the social econo- osopher, remedial measures obtain no my are just as widely separated now as prevailing advocacy in the pulpit, though they ever were. Men, it is true, ap- no one would deny that their considera- proach each other more nearly in a more tion should occupy an important place in generally diffused education, in similar the economy of every religious mind as modes of thinking, in a combination and well as in the repertory of every serious community of interests ; but the social thinker. grades are as distinct in themselves, as A third very crying evil of the time they were a thousand years ago. Each is the slight and perfunctory way in has its appointed function, and if one which business duties and workmanship gets out of that which properly belongs are performed, and the disregard to to him there must be another to fill his thoroughness of practice in all the ways place. The falsity of view in supposing of life as an object desirable and valuable that rank and position in society are sub- for its own sake. vertible and transposable things, having, The almost universal desire now is not in fact, no real existence at all, excepting to do something well, but to do some- THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 75 thing which shall have some other ex- traneous advantage attached to it; not allowing the accomplishment of a con- scientious task to be in the least binding, or supplying any motive of pleasure in work for its own sake, or any induce- ment towards perfection in its labour as a thing desirable in itself. The manufac- turer, producer, and vendor of every kind have generally no more than one object in view, and if their practice is not absolutely vicious, they do not ap- pear to have any wholesome fear of making it so. But not only in our work- shops, manufacto ries, and markets are the most unjustifiable expedients re- sorted to, but our professions are dis- graced by the most ignoble shifts and contrivances. It is unnecessary here to specify what is well known to every one. The worst of this want of conscientious- ness and rectitude in workmanship and affairs is that they are continually trans- ferring themselves to our conduct in other respects. The chicanery and de- ceptions we practise in these are con- stantly multiplied and perpetuated in our moral and religious life. They infuse miserable self-compromising views into our minds. Each dereliction produces an- other and another, until the vitiation is complete. One cannot be honest be- cause his neighbour is a thief; another has his principles sapped and under- mined by the want of principle in his com- panion or fellow-workman. Every one acknowledges the evil, and yet nobody strives to remedy it. All this, and much more of a similar kind, might offer a fruitful theme for the pulpit, and, if well and variously enforced, might furnish the subject for as many profitable sermons as could be preached in a lifetime. Against the evils of drunk- enness, and others also, societies are formed, and large preventive means or- ganized, but against the perversions we have indicated there are no societies formed, and no public means taken to repress or prevent them, though they are still more dangerous and deleterious from their not being apparent. Now and then, it is true, the press will make an outcry against some one of them when it becomes specially flagrant or notorious, which ends in, perhaps, a score or two of letters being printed on the subject just enough to show the necessity of dealing with it vigorouslybut no large machinery is set to work to make a deadly war against it. Some might urge that these considerations do not strictly come under the religious category. However that may be, it is certain that as opera- tive fruits of the religious life we cannot afford to dispense with them. Though they do not constitute religion independ- ently, it is beyond contradiction that there can be no genuine religion without them and that the religion which fails to meet evils of so serious a nature in any reme- dial manner, must either be of a very dubious nature and imperfect kind, or else very badly and inefficiently expound- ed and enforced. But if the pulpit does not reach the faults and vices of the time, neither does it meet its wants and requirements. We live in an age of inquiry. Inquiry naturally generates doubt. Our religion has not been exempted from close and strict examination. It is the nature and essence of Protestantism, if not to doubt, at least to seek for the assured founda- tions upon which it builds itself. In the numerous aspects in which religion is from time to time viewed, it is, perhaps, natural that although its fundamental principles are indisputable, doubt should arise, particularly in young and unformed minds, as to certain of its forms and phenomena. At all events, it is suffi- cient for our purpose here to notify the fact,that whether rightly or wrongly, reasonably or unreasonably, doubts do actually arise not admitting of an easy or superficial solution. It is one of the characteristics of the pulpit of the present day that it scarcely ever fully recognizes these doubts by dealing with them fairly on their own grounds. It does not acknowledge that any question, arising even from a legitimate source, can be beyond its reach for dogmatical discussion or refutation if desirable, and contradiction if necessary. A great sec- tion of the pulpit, indeed, ignores doubt: brands it as a sin, or leaves it unnoticed beyond condemning it in a more or less tacit manner. This is sure to be disas- trous, for it at once separates the doubt- ing element from the religious one, and establishes enmity between them. Let doubt be recognized where it cannot be answered. The certainties which most nearly concern us will always remain. At the utmost need there is a specific for doubt, in the living of such a life as the Author of Christianity prescribed and exemplified. How many noble souls are torn with doubts and perplexities which a life of action would end at once! Doubt, even upon speculative subjects, vanishes in the exercise of a sincere and 76 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. energetic activity in the way of dutyin the persistent attempt to glorify God by a fulfilment of the obvious duties of life and devotion to the benefit of his crea- tures. There is no room for doubt in a soul fully occupied about its Masters business. It should be distinctly understood that the pulpit is not called upon to settle all the difficult questions of the age nor, indeed, any of them. Its true force lies in preserving its own coursethat is, the direction of the moral life and the conduct of the souls religious health and well-beingnot in the reconcilement of this or that newly-discovered fact or freshly-started theory to certain creeds and beliefs which, however true funda- mentally, are not always capable of being made answerable in a moment to every novel phase of thought or object of in- quiry. The pulpit,. for example, is not called upon to determine the precise~ value of the theories or inquiries of a Darwin or a Huxley neither to accept nor reject them. What is true will ulti- mately assert itself: but if the reception of religion must wait upon the decision of every difficult question which may arise, not directly within its category, we fear the good and useful life will be long to live and far from us. The verities of true religion are of an independent order and nature. They are always true. No discoveries of science, no change of spec- ulative belief, can ever interfere with them. The essential truth of Christian- ity is not a matter of logical evidence at all; it is a matter of fact: for it is based upon the highest spiritual laws, and em- bodies the loftiest conception of our reason, as well as our best and purest feelings. Its defence may be safely left to itself. The Christian life refutes every argument against the truth of Christian- ity, placing it far beyond the reach of question or cavil : but if this life is ab- sent no measure of argument will be able satisfactorily to substantiate it. Again, the pulpit usually makes no allowance for social, scientific, and politi- cal progress, nor for those eligible changes which the advancement of the race ren- ders necessary. At the most it tolerates these, but sel- dom or never makes use of them. It is always the last to recognize the course of Law. It does not dwell on the fact that the universe is framed on the unchange- able principles of physical laws which are inelastic ; that life has to be wholly and uncompromisingly governed by these laws, and that the sole condition upon which we subsist is by submitting to them. It loves the supernatural and extraordi- nary, frequently ignoring the very wis- dom of those principles and conditions into which we are born and in which we live, and whose exposition shows the Creator in the noblest light in which it is possible for the human soul to behold Him. It supposes every modification of the views and teaching which differ in any degree from the conventional stand- ard to be bad; quite forgetting how large is the religion it advocates, how vast is the power of God in the ministration of circumstances, how the very nature of the moral universe occasionally renders it necessary for us to alter our points of view, and how a more beautiful truth con- tinually emerges from the twilight of tem- porary perplexity. just as the wonderful and elevating discoveries of astronomy, though at first opposed, as endangering religious faith, were afterwards seized upon and made use of as affording the most sublime and stupendous illustration of the Divine power as exemplified in the wonderful instances of undeviating order and law. The attempt to wrest or con- tradict facts because they appear to mili- tate against certain present conditional aspects of our religion is not only wrong in itself but shortsighted and unwise. It is sure to have to retract the mistaken protest, and confess with shame its pre- cipitancy and folly. In the antaronistic contraposition of religion and ~cience, however, it must be confessed that the pulpit is not wholly to blame. It is too much the fashion for men of science to challenge or decrythe office and function of the pulpit, ignoring the spiritual life altogether, or seeking to supersede the wholesome principles and influences of religion by the mere substitution of a series of physical phenomena for those in- ternal and instinctive indications and pre- dilections which, judging by their univer- sal and persistent existence, are a neces- sary part and condition of the souls life and being. Probably many of these diffi- culties dwelt upon so vehemently by some scientific men only lie on the surface, and are of those which a wider knowledge may explain without any material change in either the one or the other set of views. At all events, this opposition of science to religion is both over-hasty and ungrace- ful, since perhaps those who press it the most ardently would be unwilling to see the doctrines they insist upon with so much exclusiveness absolutely carried THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 77 out in all their unbending rigour. Our being is a wide and complex one, which frequently admits of apparent contradic- tions, but which a closer examination or a clearer spiritual light might show us to be no contradictions at all. Science and religion should have faith in each other, and whilst each follows the course that specially belongs to it, be satisfied that if the tenets and conclusions of the one are true, real, and important, those of the other are not less so ; that those irresist- ible sentiments and instincts normal to every mind and co-existent with every nature, are doubtless as real, substantial, and unconditional as the natural laws which govern our bodies and regulate our physical economy, although belong- ing to quite another category and requir- ing another order of faculties for their understanding and appreciation. An ex- panded and thoughtful exposition, and the instigation to a course of action based upon these views, which we think every one will allow to be just, would go far to soothe and destroy the very wrong and unnecessary bitterness too frequently subsisting between religion and science a bitterness which generally arises from a mutual ignorance of each others claims due to an education given too ex- clusively to a single and isolated order of facts and experiences. This course, however, is rarely taken. The pulpit, which from its principles and nature should be the first to abandon the ani- mosity, prosecutes it with more energy, not to say rancour, than the other, until the interests of truth are lost sight of in the hostility of party, and the bewildered mind, alienated from that which should furnish its chief nourishment and suste- nance, and constitute its highest form of rest, turns with perplexity from both one and the other party, refusing to join hands with either. There is another serious defect in the teaching of the modern pulpit. It does not declare and enforce common rules for. the right government of life not so much even as the heathen philosophers. That is to say, it almost disregards re- ligion in its human or naturalistic aspect. It has little or nothing to say on the subject of self dependence and self-re- spect as divine gifts and measures to be made use of in the furtherance and sus- tenance of the souls religious life. It does not rest sufficiently upon the uses of the moral faculty as the proper instru- ment for the attainment of moral power and elevation. It lays too great a stress upon religious observances considered in the light of a dogmatic duty; as an end, and not as the vehicle and means of reaching higher religious energies in ac- tual life, which alone gives them their just significance and expresses their true in- tention. In some places it admits devo- tional feeling and religious ei~otion as indications of the religious status find condition, and does not fix its standard absolutely and entirely in the degree and extent to which the Christian life is lived in it~ fullest and widest interpretation. It does not proclaim distinctly and inex- orably that every religious sentiment, every act of devotion, which does not produce a corresponding elevation of life and practice which does not, for in- stance, insist upon the most scrupulous honesty, the most chaste sobriety, the widest charity ; which does not, in short, result in some Christian grace of act and conduct is worse than useless ; that it is simply pernicious and depreciating, as ministering to self-deception with its con- sequent train of ills, intruding an evil under the name of good. We do not say that this would not be acknowledged as the creed of the pulpit ; but that it is not clearly and emphatically brought forward as an unconditional part of its doctrine. It loves rather to appeal to a vague pre- sumption on the Divine power arbitrarily exerted and accidentally bestowed, and not operating through the appointed vehicle of the moral and religious faculties con- ferred upon us as the ordained means for its reception and agency. The standard of the Divine power in relation to our lives and conduct is placed outside of us, not within. We are taught to look to an abnormal rule of circumstance in our particular favour, rather than to depend upon that Divine power which it is the office of religion to implant within us, which enables us to meet any circum- stance bravely, and subjugate it by the sheer force of a spiritualized will. That noble fruit of the conscientious faculty existing within us as self-respect is rarely alluded to or appealed to, and yet in the morals of social life it plays a large, im- portant, and very influential part. The dignity of manhood, and the respect which is due to it as bearing the mark of the Creators highest workmanship, are rarely alluded to, and perhaps never as facts significant enough to influence our religious life and conduct. We are not taught that humanity has any inherent dignity, honour, or credit to support for its own sake as the head and crown of 78 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. creation, and that wrong doing and wrong of its Founder. It is not presented to us living add a shameful disgrace to its in those colours and with the natural fas- name, though no other responsibility were cination which a good and beautiful thing attached to it. The typical manly ele- ought to possess. The Platonism of ment in our nature is overlooked. A ancient Greece is far less lovely, nar- noble independence and uncompromis- rower, less real, than Christianity; yet ing reference to an internal standard in how beautiful does it become by the itself worthy of respect and considera- glowing colours and tenderly drawn lines tion is virtually ignored. Yet all this is in which it finds a setting! We are con- clearly implied in the teachings and doc- tinually touched by its appeal in some of trines of Christianity. If man is created the richest feelings of our nature, and in the image of God, however much dis- raised by its attractive spiritualism into figured by sin and obscured by time, the the regions of pure sentiment, as it floats primary model is infallibly there. It is through the soul in visitations of the something to appeal to, and demands most soothing and delightful harmony. recognition and culture, however con- Christianity has infinitely more to offer temptuously or indifferently treated from of the same kind, but immeasurably more the pulpit. That this mode of dealing noble and worthy, because it has for its with our humanity is one of formalistic ultimate object the transformation of the aspect merely, is apparent from its being whole life and its absorption into, the recognized nowhere else but in the pulpit. grander atmosphere of actual and practi. For of those who most studiously ignore cal energy. Not only is Christianity gen- anythin.g like an appeal to our humanity erally robbed of its proper attractiveness from the pulpit, there is not one who in our pulpits, but it is represented to us does, not fully recognize its claims, under an aspect which experience does nature, and rights outside of it. To not justify. Its attractions are placed in those who would deny the legitimacy of certain special privileges of emotion and allowing the human element to speak in external, or at least extraneous, reward, the offices of religion, we would ask if it which are calculated to draw the mind may or may not be made an instrument from the consideration of its desirability of good; and if it really may (as it un- for its own sake and the peculiar intrinsic doubtedly is the case) be so enlisted in worth which gives it a value far greater the service of religion, why is it over- than anything which is derived from it, or looked? To say it is unnecessary, is contingent upon its adoption. It is beside the purpose, seeing that it really I represented as inducing a certain con- does take a large part in the rule and dition of spiritual luxury, rather than as conduct of the moral life in its secular a noble and vitalizing energy which beau- relationship and transactions. tifies life with the stren th of an immacu- This brings us to a second considera- late purpose glorified in the act, and re- tion under this head, not often dealt with ceiving its chief loveliness from the ro- from the pulpit, namely, the duty and the bust power and wholesome activity which desirability of loving what is right and it infuses into our nature in the noblest true for its proper value. It does not courses of humanity. point out how inherently lovely a right The pulpit takes but a faint recogni- life and truthful course of action are in tion of Moral Law as forming the basic themselves, or how vile and u6ly the con- element of the Christian religion, but trary. Its general tone is rather calcu- dwells almost wholly on the dogmatical lated to repel philosophic indifference side. than to bring before it a series of consid- If the Christian religion were not Di- erations likely to impress it from its own vine; nothing. could be more wonderful point of view. Different classes of mind j than its comprehensiveness as an expo- require different kinds of presentment nf sition of Moral Law. It holds within spiritual facts to influence them. The itself the concentrated essence of the pulpit, ~s a rule, only submits one, often united wisdom of all the philosophies full of harsh and forbidding lineam ents, j not in the shape of axioms and abstract narrow in its application and stifling in principles, hut embodied in an actual its oblivion of the wholesome breadth form so simple and unmistakable that and airiness which to many minds would every one can understand and appreciate be the sole condition upon which the it without any difficulty whatever. how spiritual life would be accepted, and much better would it be to expound and which, indeed, intrinsically belongs to it, dwell upon some of the eternal and es- as seen in the life and heard in the words sential principles on which it is based THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 79 than attempt to wrest more or less irrele- vant facts in the vain and mistaken de- sire to corroborate what needs no con- firmation more than the internal one to show that the essential and ruling princi- ple of a right life is as necessary and as little accidental as the laws which govern and support the physical universe; that the farthest star pulsing light in the infini- tude of space keeps time to the throbbing of every rightly set human heart which seeks the fulfilment of the loftiest law of its being in carrying out the grand princi- ples of a just, pure, and pious life * The pulpit expresses painfully little faith in the intrinsic and essential truth of Christianity as self-confirmatory. Every attack from without seems to disturb its equanimity, for the reason that its con- siderations are too much fixed on the ac- cidents and non-essentials of mode and form instead of on those universal laws which form its real bases and are the con- ditions of its inexpugnable immobility. The pulpit constantly seeks its means and instruments for the defence of re- ligion from the outside, instead of ap- pealing to the unchangeable elements in which. it fundamentally subsists: for it is a great truth that no one can live, or be permitted to live, entirely without virtu- ally accepting some portion of its princi- ples and doctrines. Another want of the modern pulpit is the inculcation of a recognition of the sindere religious opimlions and feelings of others which differ from its own. There is a great deal of energy thrown away in many religious communities upon the errors or shortcomings of other religious denominations. This wasteful and unworthy manifestation of party spirit, as unchristian as it is mischievous, not infrequently finds its expression in a virulent invective and denunciation, which quite overlook the fact that the persons against whom their peevish and petulant tirades are levelled, and who could alone be benefited by them if there were any benefit to be derived from them at allare precisely those who would be the last to place themselves under their influence. The only possible way to destroy error is by the unsecta- nan teaching wind propagation of free and independent truth, which recommends * For a definition and exposition of the absoluteness of the Law of Moral Right, see Butlers three masterly discourses on Human Nature, in which he says of Conscience (in its widest acceptation), had it strength, as it has right; had it power as it has usanifest au- thority; it wou4 absolutely govern the world: and he proves it. itself by the force of its own irresistible power, and does not wait on the rancor- ous iconoclasm of malevolent and over- zealous declamation for the accomplish- ment of its mission. We think we need not dwell on the uselessness, at least, of this flagrant misuse of the office of the pulpit, whose function, rightly consid- ered, is rather to overlook or disregard religious differences as much as possible, in order to secure some degree of friend- liness or freedom from ill-will from those whose feelings and opinions are opposed to its own, instead of fomenting them to the widest possible degree of difference, and thus driving away the opposite party altogether from the reach of its influence. St. Paul affords a fine example of quite another mode of operation, in always seeking the points of resemblance be- tween the faith or observances which he sought to supplant with his own ; never making the breach wider by dwelling on their differences. The Christianity of the pulpit is too contrQversial, speculative, and dialectic, to accomplish any large practical end. How often do we hear from the pulpit sermons exclusively confined to the con- sideration of the grounds for a specu- lative belief in the truth of the Christian religion! And this in the face of those who would willingly take something for granted, who bring their yearnings, cares, hopes, fears, and perplexities, seeking a little help from the ministrations of the Church of their fathers and forefathers a Church in xvhose creed and belief thou- sands of temples have been raised ; a Church for the propagation and enforce- ment of a religion upon which is virtually based every social and political institu- tion under which we live, and whose reli- gion, as a form of creed, at least it is pre- sumable, is accepted by every one join- ing its congregations. And yet, in place of words of guidance or counsel, com- fort or assistance, properly belonging to the function of the pulpit, and specially to Christianity itself, which would be re- ceived unquestionably, what do we hear? A wearisome disquisition from a rhetori- cal and logical point of view, to assure us that our religion is simply a true one: and this after almost nineteen centuries of adoption, trial, and experience ! Such discourses suggest to us the illustrative case of the possessor of an estate who, instead of using it and improving it for the benefit of himself and others, should occupy himself in proving that his title is good and tenure valid. It is difficult to 8o THE ENGLISH PULPIT. see what purpose they can serve. They give no direction to energy, no stimulus to a noble life; they throw no new light on difficult subjects even if to do so (which never formed a part of the mis- sion of the Author of Christianity) were within the systematic range of the pul- pits function. They aim at nothing which the occasion demands, rendering assent and dissent alike indifferent ; they are followed by no operative result what- ever; they are only a fruitless burden to the hearer, fit to be consigned at once to the oblivious portion of weeds and worn- out faces. How much more would a few hearty words weigh, the growth of experience fitted to the needs of ordinary and actual life words breathed into the necessities of common humanity, with its continually flagging energies and waver- ing resolutions, dictated by the still small voice which speaks to us all in our heart of hearts, only requiring the rightly directed appeal to make itself heard within the soul, and its tender messages to be appreciated! Another defect of our pulpit-teaching is its want of speciality. Bishop Jeremy Taylor, in his Rules and Advices concerning Preaching to the Clergy of his Diocese, is very explicit on this score. He says : Do not spend your sermons in general and indefinite things, as in exhortations to the people to get Christ, to be united to Christ, and things of the like unlimited signification; hut tell them in every duty what are the measures, what circumstances, what instru- ments, and what is the minute meaning of every general advice. For generals not ex- plicated do but fill the peoples heads with empty notions, and their mouths with perpetu- ally unintelligible talk; but their hearts re- main empty, and themselves are not edified. Would it have been sufficient for us to have known that the whole of the Chris- tian religion is comprised in the terms, love to God and our fellow-creatures? The Author of Christianity conceived a different method in its dissemination. The religion of speculation finds no place in the Gospel as reported by the Evange- lists. It is specifically and thoroughly the religion of life all through, and no other. It is not without significance that we are rather left to infer the principles of Christianity from facts and cases than to depend upon our own deductions for the practical application of its rules and laws. It cannot be said that the broad truths of the Christian reli ion are ,asa rule, either garbled or suppressed in our pulpits: on the contrary, they are com- monly stated with sufficient clearness and distinctness. There is an abundant in- sistance on the fundamental principles of our faith : but that is all. They fail to accomplish their proper object from the want of a special application to the cir- cumstances of life and the actual condi- tions of living. As we have already sho~vn, the peculiar wants, oversights, errors, shortcomings, and more virulent evils of our present social condition, seldom meet with any careful or discrimi- native analysis from the pulpit: indeed it may be said to exhibit a negative acqui- escence in the faults and misdirections of the time more than to offer any vigorous protest against them. Instead of investi- gating the moral, social and religious condition of the time, and being the first to institute inquiry and suggest or afford means of help in difficulty, it is the very last; seldom even following the lead given by the contemporary press or the indica- tions expressed in other ways in matters quite within its range, and in which its aid might be most useful in disseminat- ing sound practical opinions and a cor- rect tone of feeling. In preaching general truths therefore, and even speculative ones for these, although they occupy at present far too exclusive a place in the pulpit, cannot be wholly proscribed a subordinate and occasional use in itit is necessary con- tinually to confront the auditory with their concrete bearing, to treat them persistently as much as possible in their personal and individual aspect and rela- tionship, to pause from time to time during their enunciation in order to apply them to the test of life and experi- ence. The judicious preacher will never forget that his appeal is to the person- ality of his hearers. Broadly general truths expressed without their connota- tive personality are quite as liable to do harm as they are to do good, since their very abstraction and impersonality cause them to be referred to. an absolute cate- gory in which the hearer has no idea of placing himself. The self-deception which is a part of our nature must be met in the closest and most vigorous manner, by means so direct and explicit as to leave no doubt as to the intention of the appeal. It is very easy for a congregation to go from a sermon dealing with abstract views well-pleased with themselves and satisfied with the dis- course without being reached or touched by its statements in any particular what- THE ENGLISH PULPIT. ever, however strongly and with whatever logical force these may have been given. Close, special, uncompromising applica- tiona driving home, so to speak, of the matter under treatmentis indispen- sable to the proper efficacy of every ser- mon, and to this its first aim and most strenuous efforts should be directed. It may be urged that all we have been particularizing is included in a general exposition of the main truths of Chris- tianity. It certainly ought to be. That it is not so to that appreciable extent which should make it a component part and ruling element in the lives of those who profess to accept it, we think we need adduce no evidence to make appar- ent. We are not arguing for a logical position, but simply stating and main- taining a series of incontrovertible and irresistible facts. Theoretically our pul- pit may be right. This is a question we are 6not discussing. That it is actually almost powerless as a practical influence on the age is an unmistakable and un- avoidable conclusion. On the other hand, it might be said that at least some of the specialities which we have dwelt upon do not properly belong to religion, and are not within the legitimate object of the pulpit. To this we would reply, that in the spirit of Christianity as first promulgated they are included, or are supposed to be included, to their furthest element, and that if they are not com- prised in the religion of our day it is through an imperfect. recognition of what that religion ought to embrace. In order to accomplish all or any of the objects which we have laid down in the fore~oing enumeration it would be necessary that the pulpit should be united in a common purpose. It is of little use occasionally and incidentally to mention this or that fault or want peculiarly inci- dent to the time or to given circumstan- ces. To accomplish a large object agita- tion is required. Great moral and reli- gious questions, wants or abuses should be taken up systematically, not for specula- tive discussion, but for practical solution by the strongest incitements, in the warmest and most emphatic manner. They should go simultaneously through all the pulpits dispersed over the length and breadth of the land. For every political movement and matter for social and economic reform these are the means used. In the bringing forward of the great moral and social abuses and wants of the age there would be an infinite adv~ ntage over the advocacy of political LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 214 or economic changes. In the great pro- portion of cases there would be no difficulty of opinion as to the desirability of correcting or supplying them. The battle would be at once conceded as far as argument goes. The only thing would~ be to alter them. The whole force and energy of the movement might be put into pressing the accomplishment of the necessary changes to the utmost degree: nothing would need to be wasted in apol- ogy and substantiation as matters of opinion. For this end episcopal indica- tions for the concentration and direction of a common effort might be periodically given, general clerical meetings period- ically held specially set apart for the con- sideration of the same, and other means, as that of the press, for giving force and vitality to the movement, be instituted. What an ennobling of the office of the pulpit would this be: the voices of all preachers united as one with the whole nation for a listener! Of the fruits of such a mode of procedure perhaps no calculation would be adequate to 0-ive an idea. Instead of xvastino its ~ time in the discussion of vain appointments and extraneous observances, suppose the pul- pit were to give itself vigorously and unitedly to a new reformation in this broad interpretation of the term, what a different condition ~vould the aspect of society assume! How much more revered would be its function! How much grander and worthier would he the result of its labours! How infinitely truer and more Christian its religion As it is, what a saddening experience meets us in our churches I We rarely hear a sermon which touches us with the nearness of an intimate sympathy with the Christian life. We may hear the Christian truths and doctrines expounded that we are sinful and fallen, and the means of redemption pointed out in gen- eral terms, but they are for the most part represented as the merely conventional conditions for undergoing appointed spiritual changes whose end rather lies in realizing certain moods of personal feeling and emotion than the entering upon that large Christian life whose function is in the world of active dealing, and in carrying out the initial principles of sound moral law, and an uncompro- mising rectitude of life both in reoard to ourselves and our fellow-men. We do not wish to secularize the pul- pit. We would not have it to fall one degree below its high calling as the mes- senger of Gods nor to be the uTtere. echo 8z THE ENGLISH PULPIT. or exponent of the shifting opinions of ture it has no bigotry, no intolerance, no men. We do not wish to see it giving hardness, no dogmatism. Its tenderness lectures upon ethics, science, or social rises above every other quality; it loves economy, on the basis of utility and self- without reserve without recognition of interest; but we do wish to see all these creed or party. It only denounces the elevated into the category of religion, hypocrite and the irreclaimable. If this infused with larger motives, ensouled loving sympathy forms the essence of with a more emphatic significance, the Christianity as promulgated by Christ right observance of their laws and rules Himself, it is obvious that without it considered as a part of our duty and ser- nothing is to be done nothing attained. vice to God, and not merely contingent It implies an absolute disregard of self regulations to be indifferently observed or and personal interests, whenever these not, at the option of an arbitrary human stand in the way of the interests and convenience. We do wish to see our welfare of others, or the general good. workmen and merchants, our professional It implies a sincerity of soul which looks men and statesmen, bring some other honestly and unreservedly to the bottom than merely human and trading consid- of its own nature with the most search- erations to the fulfilment of their several ing scrutiny, in order that by the attain- duties and vocations. We do wish ment of a knowledge of itself it may gain to see responsibilities of a higher sort the knowledge of others as the basis and acknowledbed than those which find a groundwork of its ministry. Beneath all name in the legislative decalogue; and, the affectations of vanity and wayward- towards this end, we would have all these ness of folly, the cares of riches, the recognized as a part of our Christian pride of office and position, the noiseand religion from which modern laxness or bluster of ambition and the dissipations self-interest has so long and so wrong- of vice, there is always the underlying fully separated them. humanity, the embryo of something bet- Having thus cursorily glanced at some ter waiting to be touched into life, the of the requirements of the modern pulpit, witness of truth and justice and purity necessary to place it on a more influen- planted by God in every human soul. tial footing, we will now apply ourselves We are all brothers in affliction and in to a short inquiry into the reasons for its our common necessities. It only needs inefficiency, and if there be any other the invasion of a foreign enemy to bring means more than those already suggested all classes together in the closest sym- of restoring to it something of its former pathy. Such an enemy is sin; the wrong power and efficacy. and folly which are calling upon us every The. main causes of its present mop- where to redress them whilst we are still erative condition may be of two kinds: standing upon our narrow individuality one, the inadequacy of the education as if they were matters in which we have preparatory for the pulpit, and the other, no incumbent interest or united concern. an imperfect recognition of the require-i The precious opportunities of the pulpit ments of the pastoral office. We think are lost in its virtual fusion with the coin- we have already sufficiently clearly mdi- monplace social elements of the time cated its narrowness and exclusiveness, making no independent stand of its own ~nd the more expansive and extended todistinguish it from that by which it is footing on which it is desirable to place surrounded. It is occupied about the it in regard to the sphere of its range transient and ephemeral accident instead and the scope of its teaching. of the immutable and eternal essence. It By the term education, we do not re- perceives no nobler destiny before it fer to the requirement of academic than the delivery week by week of a con- knowledge, the training of the intellect ventional discourse, so far removed from and information of the understanding our interest and sympathy as to leave us we will suppose these already accom- exactly where it finds us, with only the plished as far as scholastic discipline added tedium of a wearisome space goes but to the wider education of passed in the attitude of listening. life and feeling, which is the result of The other and more intrinsically per- deep reflection upon human experience, sonal condition necessary for the ef- and profound inquiry into the sympathet- ficient discharge of the duties of the pul- ic and emotional phenomena of our na- pit is a freedom from petty ambitions and ture. The supereminent characteristic jealousies, social and ecclesiastical. The of Christianity is its warm human sym- worthy representative of the pulpit must pathy. In its primary and essential na- be free from those vulgar aims and cares THE ENGLISH PULPIT. 83 which absorb and distract so large a pro- portion of the lay world. He must be able to see place, riches, honour, and distinc- tion pass by him without compunction and without regret. Anything like worldly ambition is perfectly incongru- ous with the right fulfilment of the min- isterial duty. Some predilection or pre- disposition for the sacred office, previous to its assumption, has been thought in- dispensable at all times, and amongst all religious communities. This should un- doubtedly exclude every trace of personal ambition based on the desire for self-ag- grandisement. All the objects of the dedicated teacher of religion should be centred in one, that of elevating his fel- low-mortals into the recrion of showincr mankind its ~ the divine, the proper destiny in attainment and fulfilment of the Christian life. He who cannot fix his motive here should shun the responsi- bilities of the sacred office, for he will assuredly not be able to fulfil them worthily. For this purpose it is necessary that the worthy occupant of the pulpit should raise himself as much as possible above the disturbances of the lower life by all the helps which his religion, united with philosophical study and reflection, can supply. He will consider that all the restlessness, ignoble competition and con- tention which he sees around him, are but the fashion of the time which future and better directed generations may see reason to correct ; that the proper value of riches and honour lies in contentment, in the realization of a world of happiness of which their meagre proportions, with their uncertain and unsatisfactory posses- sion, are but the false shows and cheating semblances; that the highest, noblest, and purest enjoyments of life are cheap and common to all; that the abuses of the age result, in a great measure, from an imperfect, shortsighted, or mischiev- ous education, which it must be his ob- ject to correct and reform. Above all, he may be assured of the value and im- portance of his mission. Labour in the right direction will be amply repaid to him in its fruits ; and if he sow with much and labOrious devotion, although it may be with great misgiving and in un- certainty of heart, he will assuredly re- turO in the end bearing his sheaves with him, crowned with the accomplishment of a lofty destiny, and pleased in the pleasure of his Masters eye. It is scarcely necessary to say here, that all preaching which is not embodied in the life of the preacher must be prac- tically useless and thrown away. It may influence to religious emotion ; it may lull into self-contentment and self-satisfac- tion; it may produce some maudlin senti- ment usurping a religious title it can never infuse that vigorous and robust growth into the Divine life and energy which is the fortress of truth and only proper ground of genuine religion. In this respect it is impossible there should be any concealment. Individuality will make itself felt. Personal insincerity and untruthfulness will be accurately meas- ured in their results, however little they may be apparent in themselves. In the desire to deal with the circum- stances of the modern pulpit as complete- ly and justly as possible, we do not wish to. pass over some of the natural obsta- cles which in some degree prevent it from attaining its right and normal posi- tion and which imperil the usefulness of its legitimate function. We must, how-. ever, be free to confess that, in bringing forward these, it is more with the object of treating the subject fairly, than for any very definite practical suggestions which we can make towards surmounting them. One is the difficulty of establishing and maintaining a probationary standard for appointments to the ministerial office for neither is it the most learned man, nor the deepest thinker, nor the most earnest, nor the most gifted in the quality of speech, nor the most devout, nor the warmest, ten- derest, and most disinterested in char- acter or disposition who is necessarily fitted above all others for the ministry; but rather one who has the happiest union or combination of all these. They are all more or less necessary, so that a perfect fulfilment of the office of the pulpit could not place its standard of appointment upon any one of them alone. In the im- perfection of human institutions perhaps the one adopted in the Church of Eng- land is as good as any other: a fair amount of learning, a special sense of fitness for the duty, the feeling of a sol- emn call to its office, and a life accredited socially blameless. That it must prove ineffectual over and over again (as must every other) in an exact discrimination of those precisely adapted to the ministry, is an accident for which it is not wholly responsible, and one which could hardly be obviated. In the test of competency, it is compelled to depend in a great meas- ure on those who present themselves ; for abuses, after all, must chiefly lie in 84 THE ENGLISH PULPIT. their hands to correct. A full knowledge drone, the least effort must be a fati- of the requirements for the sacred office guing and oppressive burden. should be definitely recognized and en- forced. Under a broad interpretation of We have thus set before the reader, as its function, the test of the Church of candidly and fairly as possible, the pres- England,as clearly laid down in its ent condition of the English pulpit; we offices, if carried out strictly and faith- have dwelt upon the mistakes or ineffi- fully, is as likely to be successful on the ciency of our present form of preaching whole as any other. in its most general phase, and made sug- Another obstacle to good and legiti- gestions for extending its power and in- mate preaching is the number of sermons fluence; we have taken into considera- usually required from each individual. tion some of the natural difficulties to be The least number of sermons gener- overcome in order to fill our pulpits ally demanded from each occupier of the worthily: we will now dlose these obser- pulpit is one a weekfifty-two in the vations with a few hints towards a right, course of the year, varying in lenbth ac- useful, and pertinent mode of preaching. cording to the habit of different pulpits : We do this with some degree of diffi- quite enough, in the present state of dence, first, because they must necessarily things, to draw out all the freshness and be incomplete ; and, secondly, because it a great deal of the force of the average must be infinitely difficult to lay down preacher. Generally, however, it is much rules of general application where almost more than this ; two sermons, and even everything depends upon individual mode three, a week not limiting the number in of view, and the specific force given to every instance. This is an allowed diffi- the discourse by personal sentiment and cuitya task, so great as to make its enthusiasm. execution a marvel in the confined range In the first place, dialectics should he of the pulpit of the day, with its conven- abandoned, or almost abandoned in our tional paucity of views and scantiness of pulpits. We do not want long disquisi- aspects for consideration. If such a la- tions to prove to us that the grounds of bour can ever be accomplished with a sat- our faith are true ones, or that the Chris- isfactory result, we believe the sugges- tian life is a good thing. These may fitly tions we have been making for an en- find a place in the literature of the day larged appliance of the function of the which circulates everywhere. We go to pulpit will do more towards making it church to exercise our faith and to realize possible than any other means or plan. what the Christian life actually is, to re- Where sermons have to be so numerous ceive the profit and enjoyment of a com- as seriously to endanger their usefulness, mon worship and faith in the same Al- they might be very reasonably curtailed mighty Being, to acknowledge our union in length. A short exposition, strongly under the same Divine Head, to feel the felt and well studied, or a few opportune- influence of a dependence upon and liv- ly-chosen words, might have all the use- ing in the membership of Him whom we fulness and efficacy of a longer treatment acknowledge as the Redeemer of our race, and more elaborately constructed dis- and to share those spiritual supports, course. A sermon is not to be considered privilebes, and strengthenings flowing in the light of a literary exercise. It need from a communion with Him in whom notbe always original in its theme. It is dwells the fountain of libht and purity. sufficient if the preacher make it his own What an impossible task useful teaching by the sincere and earnest energy neces- would be if every error had to be up- sary to enforce it. An enlarged freedom rooted before truth could be propagated! of discourse, a mind filled with the impor- And yet there is no reason if one kind of tance and value of its office, and a clear error must be overcome in order to in- impression of the requirements of the culcate and attain what is right that all occasion, will do much to render the la- forms of it should not have to be treated bour of preaching a comparatively light in the same manner. Instead of spend- one, by the interest which they are ing much time in refuting error real or sure to throw into the subject of the ser- supposed, let the pulpit confine itself mon. What the preacher often wants is more particularly to the exposition of more interest, not less work. A preacher sound and earnest practical Christian absorbed in his, topic, and capable of re- truth, which will prove a much more per- taining the attention and interest of his fect weapon than any argumentative dis- listeners, rarely suffers the fatigue of col- course directly addressed against it. lapsed energies; whilst to the pulpit 1 In the same manner, it is not by a spe THE ENGLISH PULPIT: 85 cial substantiation of the Church as an life, the sickness of a present sorrow and institution and organization that its effi- the bitterness of a new bereavement, the cacy is maintained. It is by the pene- consuming fires of unbridled passion and trative and disinterested preaching of the too weighty burden of many cares those sentiments and doctrines which which crushes the sotil down to the form the essence of Christianity of which ground, and there is none to help or raise it is the means and vehicle that it is to it up again. Let him recollect that he be held together and obtain a prevailing talks to the fathers of thankless children, influence qver society. This is the only to the struggling artisan or tradesinan,to way to give root and permanency to a! the young man about to enter life or who church, as it is to make it effectually use- has just begun it, to the poor sempstress ful, since these never change As long with her sorely tried powers, and the as time lasts, as men progress ahd pass young gentlewoman who seeks some clue from one phase of thought and aspect to to her destiny in the best mode of dis- anothermutations which must be con- tributing her energies and employing her tinually taking place in an advancing so- time, to the widow and the fatherless, to ciety the forms and modes of religion the prosperous and wealthy, with their will be liable to modification. But, as dangers and responsibilities. All these has been already said, the stable and cen- varying circumstances of life, and many tral elements of religion will be always others, which are found in every church the same, for they are based on the pri- and in every congregation, should be dis- mary foundations of our moral life and tinctively recognized and admonished nature. Let these therefore be taught, with an earnest, fervent, and loving preached, and insisted upon by those who thoughtfulness. It is not enough that would wish to render their Church impreg- they should be grouped under one head- nable. The points we have already laid ing, and addressed without any special down in the course of our inquiry are meaning or intention. The proper func- without controversy. Nobody would de- tion of the pulpit and its worthy fulfil- ny that they should be insisted upon ment implies something more than this. more or less prominently in every pulpit It should seek its proper field in the professing to be the interpreter of Chris- common experiences of life, its business, tian doctrine and the advocate and apolo- sufferings, and pleasure, not in the eino- gist of the Christian life. A Church tional transports of a vague and purpose- which practically embodied in its mem- less enthusiasm, which has no reference bers these and all other qualities neces- to anything beyond itself, its circle, and sary to the Christian life would need no its Church; which leaves every-day vir- propping from the side of controversy and tues and simple offices of good for tran- speculation. It would be impregnable scenden~tal sentiments sought for their from without, for it would be possessed own sakes, whose effects die with them- of the end and object of all religious selves. creeds and doctrines. No largest meas- To fulfil the duty of the pulpit usefully ure of questioning could move or stir it a and satisfactorily some intelligent knowl- hairs-breadth from its rocky foundations edge should be acquired, not only of the It would need no arguments to strengthen present position of science physical and or substantiate it. Its beliefs would be moral in its general bearings and direc- the symbol and development of its life; tion, but also of the precise foundations they would be the natural induction from I for its creeds, theories, and beliefs on its its faith and pradtice, growing out of the own ground and from its own points of soul from its inner vitality, not forced view. If the missions of the pulpit and upon it from the outside. of science are ever to be in doncord, it is Let the preacher recollect that whilst by such means alone that they can be in the pulpit he is in communication with united. It is absolutely necessary that the actual facts of life, and not with a the preacher should know exactly the merely philosophic dream or theory of relative position which his function occu- them; that he is called upon to confront I pies in regard to the scientific condition the cruelty of nature and the scorn of! and circumstances of the time, if it be time, the vanity and turbulence of youth I only to enable him to avoid collision with and the obduracy of unregenerate years, the progressive aspects of science by the the half-formed sin and the lukewarm re- fearless confidence in its issues which pentance, the sharp pain of regret and this knowledge will be sure to give him. the rankling sting of unkindness, the He will never forget that the object of weariness of hope deferred and a joyless his desire is conclusive truth, under what- 86 ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. ever form and in wbatever manner pre- sented, but that whilst decision is im- pending he can well afford to leave the extraneous for that which is intrinsic to his mission. A legal advocate in bring- ing his case before the adjudicator of the laws, thinks it necessary to make himself acquainted with the full basis upon which it stands; the statesman, also, in submit- .tino a measure to the Legislature of his country, masters his position so well that he not only knows clearly beforehand all that he wishes to urge in its favour, but he has also calculated the full force and weight of every objection which may be raised against it. He does not permit himself to be surprised or to ignore any- thing; well assured that if he does so, his neglect will recoil upon him so strongly from without as to endan~,er the measure he wishes to carry. In the pul- pit it is just the contrary. The reckless statements made upon subjects inade- quately investigated or not at all, the way in which established truths and well- authenticated facts are either contra- dicted or disregarded, the, utter disre- spect for all the ways of induction and the experimental labours of the time, and the presumption on the impossibility of remonstrance or reply, must not only weaken its power, but, if persisted in, cannot fail ultimately to bring it into ab- solute indifference and contempt. Let the preacher ask himself candidly what is the proper end and object of preaching. Is it to bolster up untenable do0 mas, to further personal interest, to amuse a vacant hour with time-honoured platitudes ? Is it to be the petted idol of a foolish and superficial people, to tickle the ears of worldlings, and gloze over the follies and wickedness which it is too timid, too weak, or too indifferent to de- nounce ? Is it to exercise the pedantic acumen of the schoolman, to air the logical motives of the academic, or to display the rhetorical ability of the ora- tor? Is it to fill the mind of the enthu- siastic with fruitless emotion, or to min- ister to the self-confidence of the decryer of the creeds of others ? Is it for these that our churches are built and our preachers ordained; that society in re- gard to religious progress may stand still, and sit and listen, and come and go, with- out being really touched or permanently influenced by them in any of the practi- cal relationships of life? Such questions can only receive one answer. Here our inquiry must termi- nate. We do not pretend to have pre scribed all that is necessary for the re- suscitation of our pulpits ; but we be- lieve we have indicated enough to show in what way they may advantageously be remodelled. Let us have the pulpit of our churches reanimated by the soul of a living interest, and its sound may yet go like a trumpet-call through the land, arid rally the disrupted forces of holy living and righteous dealing, breathing over England a breath of Divine spiritualism which shall infuse temperance in living, moderation in affairs, and teach us that ~there is yet a Power above the ruling dis- orders of the age which, if rightly in- voked, may answer the perplexities of doubt, relieve the burden of sorrow, con- trol the violence of passion, and allay the restless fevers of avarice and ambition in the cool recesses of a soul informed by the Divine Will livin0 in the hLhest laws of ~ur nature and being. recalling that substantial faith in our religion which can alone unite us to the purposes of the Creator in the furtherance of the true progress and elevation both of the indi- vidual and the species. From Good Cheer. ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. I. A GOOD scene for an artist to come upon. A distance of blue sea, blue, chang- ing into dark, stormy-looking purple near the horizon ; dotted with ships and her- ring-b oats, white sails and red ones. All along the north-east wild dark clouds flying; overhead white clouds shining and glittering. Fitful gleamings of sun- light on the white-washed, red-roofed cottages that cling to the sides of the rocks like so many swallows nests. Dark, stern-looking cliffs with bold ir- regular outlines on the right and on the left; huge fragments of black rock stand- ing high out of the white angry little waves. A wide sandy beach stretching right across the bay, and in the middle of the beach, just in front of the little town- let, half-a-dozen bright, busy, picturesque groups of fisher-folk. Above the beach there is a long wood- en quay, with smooth green fringes that ~vave 0racefully when the tide rises; and there is a broken railing on the sea-board, and some red capstans, and beyond the capstans three or four boats that are be- ing repainted. Blue stripes and white, rcd stripes and black ,g reen stripes and yel ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. low gleam in the morning sun. There And Walter walks away, perplexed and are women mending nets at cottage discomfited; and for another hour doors; girls with serge petticoats and red Holt is absorbed in the business of the handkerchiefs bringing up fish from the fish-cmuay. Then he turns homeward, up boats on the beach, spreading it out in I the cliff, by breezy, barren, cliff-top lanes, rows on the quay. And there are men I to an old red-brick house with green in blue guernseys and bright-coloured window-shutters, and beds of wallflower sou -westers selling fish; men in pilot- and London-pride. His thouo~hts as he cloth and bright black leggings, buying strides along are not altogeth~r pleasant fish. There is fish in the brown barrels, thoughts. Lucy is dearer to him than fish in the straw-covered baskets, fish in she knows, and she has been his house- the donkey-cmrts on the way to the sta- keeper this five years, ever since she was tion, fish everywhere. The very atmos- sixteen, and parting with her is not such phere is fish-laden. a light matter as Claydon seems to think. Of the figures in the scene that of Arriving at home he finds, a little per- Robert Holt, fish-buyer, is one of the haps to his surprise, Walter Claydon most striking. He is a tall, well-built there, and Walter remains to dinner, and man of forty years, dark, stern, keen, and the dinner is good ; for diplomatic rea- powerful. His black crisp-looking curls sons, Lucy has taken pains with the din- are cut as closely as possible, his thick, ner. She has dressed herself with care somewhat ragged moustache lends fierce- too, and she smiles, and chatters a good ness to a face that had hardly needed it; deal of what Robert considers nonsense. there is a fierce, half-angry look in his But insensibly the two men begin to feel eyes, and on his forehead two or three less unsympathetic toward each other, horizontal lines are deepening. Clearly the discords glide into unison, and ami- not what the world calls an amiable man. cable arrangements are made some time At the present moment the open quay before the three-oclock train leaves is his office, his desk the top of a herring- Hanthorpe. . . . The wedding is to take cask, yet he is doing what the bystand- place in August. ers consider a good stroke of business. The whole afternoon Robert Holt re- Very quietly he goes about his work, mains indoors, writing business letters. speaking very seldom, very briefly. He After tea he makes some little chanoe in jots down names and figures rapidly in a his dress, and goes out, leaving Lucy to much-worn pocket-book, makes bargains entertain two or three expectant brides- and gives orders in a low decided voice; maids. attends to everything himself, has an eye He has a long walk, five miles or so, everywhere, and is obeyed by everybody, by lanes with green, daisy-studded hedge- Only one man seems determined to risk rows, by narrow field paths, by moorland his displeasure, and this man is in love, ways brown and barren and stony. You see I wanted to go away by the Presently, by a turfy track leading down three-oclock train, he says in a suppli- from the moor he comes to a kind of ra- cating tone. He is a young man, a boat- vine. A noisy sienna-coloured beck runs builder from Scarborough, very hand- over the stones that lie at the bottom of some, very well-to-do in the world, and it, rugged scaurs, grey and yellow and very much attached to Lucy Holt, the red, rise up on either hand, stunted trees fish-buyers sister. and whin-bushes fringe the top, a few You can go by any train that suits hazel-trees grow near the water, there is you, Robert HoJt replies, without look- abundant bracken ; and here and there a ing up from the herring-cask, purple foxglove, here and there a patch Well, but you know what I mean. of spreading coltsfoot. Surely you can give a simple answer to a At the top of the ravine Stonebeck simple question, Walter Claydon says, Gill by name there is a waterfall. The with a little irritation. You were down white foam dashes over a dark bold rock, at the north yesterday, you know; or I falls into a seething pool, surrounded by might have seen you last night, and then I huge moss-tinted boulders. There is shouldnt have had to trouble you to-day the ruin of a water-mill on the right, when youre busy. roofless, doorless, windowless. The Busy! Robert Holt exclaims, useless water drips from the useless drawing himself up for a moment, and wheel, harts-tongue waves from the glancing out sharply from under dark crannies in the wall, from the fissures in overhanging brows. Claydon, youre the rock at the side ; the scene is dark- the biggest fool under the sun. ened by a spreading beech-tree. 88 ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. On the left of the fall a thatched cot- have read in the signs of repression on tage stands, not yet quite a ruin. It is her face repressed suffering, repressed built of rough stones, rounded and tinted ambition. He might have said, as so with time. There is a rude stone seat at many did, not beautiful, but he might the door, a few well-worn flints for pave- have recognized the possibility of beauty, ment, and from out between the flints a this mainly in the large soft grey eyes, pink rose-tree rises, hiding window and soft as a rule, but not without capability lintel and overhanging roof. of fire and passion in them. Thirty years ago, this was the millers Possibility of beauty had circumstances cottage. His widow, Hagar Shepherd permitted, but no such permission had lives in it still a woman of nigh seventy I ever been given. First had been a life o~ years, blind, partially deaf, and of sadly thirst, intense painful thirst far knowl- failing memory. There is still some- edge, and no fountain, cups of water now thing noble about her face. She has and then instead. Thirst, too, for refine- been a woman neither small-minded nor ments of life, a wild thrill at the sound of low-minded. She may have been stern, music, at the sight of a picture in a sta- perhaps, but not to pitilessness. tioners shop; a sense of baffled expres- She looks placid now, asleep in her sions, of capabilities trodden down, of chair. Her high-crowned cap has a frill- disappointment everywhere, in everything. ing of white net for border, a broad black Then, at twenty-three, began a second ribbon is passed round her head and under life, with light in it and something of her chin and a small cream-coloured peace, or at least striving after peace, spun-silk shawl, last relic of better days, with consciousness where it was to be is folded neatly over her coarse ~black had. There was little sense of attain dress. ment, of any height reached, but always It is a low room, the brown rafters are fidelity to the notion that heibhts were bare, there is only one tiny stone-mul- to be gained by due struggle, always honed window; but there is an air of a consciousness that life without effort somethinb very like refinement, lying and aspiration could be no life at all. chiefly perhaps in the absence of vulgar- At thirty, an element altogether new ity. There are no coloured prints, no had been infused into her life. This was twopenny ornaments, such as may corn- three years ago, but the new element was monly be found in cottages of this kind; new still, adding a fulness of fresh hap- nothing here save a few plants in the, piness daily, an ever-widening, ever- window, a few roses and some heather in deepening happiness. . . . Yet still the an ancient sugar-basin, and about a old lives were in her face. They had left dozen books on a shelf. lines there; and a certain look of sad- By the small window Hester Shepherd, ness, visible most plainly when her face Hagars daub hter, is sitting at work, plain was in repose. needle-work, exquisite to see. Twelve, It is only partially visible now. There sometimes fourteen hours a day, Hester is a look about her lips as if a very little sits there, as her mother used to sit in would move them to a smile, and her her early widowhood. eyes have a soft gladness in them. The I do not know that any one ever said sound of Robert Holts footstep on the that Hester Shepherd was beautiful, but rough pathway deepens the gladness, and there are m. ny kinds of beauty, and it is brings a warm crimson flush to her face. not given to every one to perceive certain It is not a lover-like meeting. Hester of the high~r kinds, rises from her chair, wnrk in hand, and Writing of her, I cannot give a list of with a quiet graceful bow, says, Good physical perfections, she had but one, a evenino~ In a gruff voice, Robert Holt profusion of thick, smooth golden hair. says, Good evenino too, accompany- Quite heavy, the thick yellow coils ing the words with a stiff little nod, and looked, though they were wound round a seatino himself at a tolerable distance head by no means small for a woman. from Hester. She was altogether somewhat massive, Robert Holt is not, as a rule, a man rather tall, full in figure, and possessed of given to much speaking, but this evening a certain easy grace of manner and move- he seems to be even less inclined for ment not common. Nothing about her conversation than usual. Hagar Shep- was commonplace. The merest stranger ~ herd sleeps in her chair, awaking now passing in the street, if he had a soul, and then to utter a few incoherent sen- knew that another soul spoke to his as he terices ; while Hester re-arranges her passed. A strong soul too, as he might cushions, or offers her a draught of the ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 89 herb-tea that simmers on the hob. Then she falls asleep again, and Hester goes back to her sewing. The old clock ticks in the corner, the rose-sprays sweep over the window-pane, the silence is very audi- ble. Yet Hesters face is decidedly a happy one earnestly and intensely happy. She knows this man all through; can sound chords and evoke tones in him as no other human being can do. If it suits him best to sit silent and moody, let him so sit. The tenderness of a man Cold and shy And ahsent . . . tender when he thinks of it, is a kind of tenderness not at all unsuit- ed to a woman like Hester Shepherd. Presently the cause of this silence appears. In a few brief words he tells Hester of the change that had been de- cided upon. Not pleasant words. Lucys marriage is not in any way a pleasing thing to him; but putting Lucy out of the question, he is by no means sorry that time for change has come. For over two years Robert Holt had been endeavouring to persuade Hes- ter Shepherd to become his wife. Her life of loneliness, of ceaseless monotonous toil, had heen a burden to him from the beginning. But no effort on his part to induce her to renounce it had hitherto been successful. He had spoken of it as a matter of course that Hesters mother should share hesters home ; he had held out as so many inducements the increased comforts that she would he ahle to pro- cure for the old woman; and he had re- minded Hester again and again of the fact that their own two lives were passing on; but nothing had shaken her resolu- tion. I would come if you were in actual need of me, she had said ; but as it is, I would rather not disturb my mother. She has begged me more than once to prom- ise that I would never take her away from the old home; but though I have not given my word, I will carry out her wish, if it is possible so to do. And this evening she urges the same plea again, firmly, yet gently, and with very tender looks at the aged face that is so grand, and yet so wan and withered, so evidently the face of one who is nearing the Silent Land. Robert Holt only half comprehends, and her resistance irritates him. Its my belief that you are doing nothing but trifle with me, he says, fiercely. There is something in Robert Holts anger that has strange effect upon Hes- ter, something that amuses and excites her, rouses her quite out of the pen- sive mood that has become second nature to her. A curious light comes into her eyes, and her lips part with a smile alto- gether indefinable. If I were, she says, looking up mis- chievously, I shouldnt be the first woman who has trifled with a man. A look very difficult to describe comes over Robert Holts face; but he has him- self well under control, and he hesitates. The fire dies out of his dark eyes pres- ently, and he says No, you wouldnt. But you would be the first woman who has trifled with me and the last. The temptation to lead him a little further into this mood is stron but Hester resists it ; and looking up from her work again, with quiet, earnest eyes, she asks gently, gravely Do you really think me capable of anything so base ? And Robert Holts answer is generous and honest. No, not for a moment. I shouldnt be here if I did. You must forgive the word, Hester, and forget it. Hester smiles,a forgiving, under- standing smile; and Robert Holt draws his chair a little nearer to her side. You must give me a promise before I go, he says tenderly, and very earnestly. I dont like vague ideas of the future. Hester looks up, looks long and intent- ly, with a little reproof in her eyes. It seems to me that the future ought never to be any other than vague, she says softly. I believe one reason why we take troubles so hardly is that they interfere with our self-laid plans. That is good as a general maxim but I want you to come down to matter- of-fact for awhile, if you will. Certainly then we must keep to the present, which is the only matter-of- fact. The words seem a little perverse, but there was nothing of perversity in Hesters manner of saying them. Her utterance, peculiarly sweet by nature, had grown to a new and more graceful sweet- ness through the things she had suffered. It was but rarely that any word of hers jarred upon the ear. There is nothing Jarring about either word or manner this evening. She is happyso happy that to look out to any happiness to be added in the future seems half a sin. Yet she 90 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. does so look out. A time is set. The distant scene is brought near, talked over, arranged satisfactorily down to the mi- nutest detail. Hester Shepherd is to become Robert Holts wife about a month after Lucys marriage to Walter Claydon. You are happy, Hester? Robert asks. They stand together in the twi- light out upon the moor. The purple heather stretches far and wide on either hand, the huge grey boulders rise up like distant mountains against the sky, the beck in the hollow ripples along, the sound of the waterfall comes a little sub- dued, the smoke from the cottage chim- ney rises against the dark foliage of the beech-tree. You are happy, Hester? And Hesters answer is another ques- tion. Do you know what it is to be afraid of happiness to tremble when you see it coming to you? No, Im thankful to say I dont; but I know what you mean. That feeling will soon pass away. Think of the hundreds, nay, thousands, of happy wives there are in the world. Why shouldnt you be one of them? You will be one of them if I can make your happiness. You dont doubt that? No, not for a moment. I have never yet had a doubt of you, but I have a good many of myself ; and it seems to me, with good reason, if I look back. I have failed so often and so terribly, and lately I think I have been sitting down with failure content, acquiescent. I dont understand you. Where is there another woman who would have done as you have done, who would have lived voluntarily, uncomplainingly, a life that has been one long sacrifice ? Fail- ure! In what have you failed? Cer- tainly not in doing the work that above all others was given you to do. That is the surface view. Duty to others is not the whole duty of man, nor the highest. It is only now and then that I catch even a glimpse of what life might be, and would be but for the dark- ness and the feebleness that are mine. Suddenly, at the last, it will be no more a glimpse, but a full view of what might have been. Dont you think I shall have to veil my face from the sight ? Which of us will not ? Robert Holt said, lookin~ thoughtfully, half-sadly, over the barren moor, and feeling as if Hester Shepherd had discovered for him the fact that he too had a soul. Which of us will not? . . . But and here is enough for a sorrow, if one were wanted I think that people who have ideal lives must know that they can never attain to them in this world. They learn to know it after much strife; but they also learn to know that the strife must never cease.~~ A tender parting, a graceful figure gliding down a rough pathway to a cot- tage door, a tall, stern-looking man strid- ing over stones and heather and patches of stunted grass. After much strife strife that must never cease, this man says to himself. How will it fare with those who have never begun to strive, who have no idea of striving for anything but daily bread, and after that an abundance of butter? He is sad and subdued for a time, but presently he puts the subduing thought away, and yields to the thought of Hester. She has a strange, peculiar grace of man- ner and character, a strange nobility of nature. He feels that she has a power to raise. him to a higher, a more ethereal level, that no other human being has ever had, nor ever will have. As the days went on, Robert 1-lolts reverence for Hester Shepherd went deeper. It seemed to him that the time spent at Stonebeck Mill could not be reckoned as time belonging to his com- mon life. And that common life of his was unfortunately very common. He had little capacity for seeing in human nature any side but the side that was daily turned toward him the sordid, paltry, money-making side. It was a life, too, brightened by few pleasures. Stern and hard to the world, the world was stern and hard to him. He cared little for books, less for friendsif indeed he could be said to have any friends. In days gone by it had been a matter of pride to him that his estimate of hu- manity was low, his aversion to asso- ciate with it on any terms but the most business-like, strong. But it has been said by a deep thinker of our own day that the most lost cynic ~vill getanew heart by learning thoroughly to believe in the virtue of one man. Robert Holt had learnt thoroughly to believe in the virtue of one woman, which, according to the views of certain philosophers, might argue even stronger ground for change of opinion. II. Lucy HOLTS wedding was considered quite a brilliant affair. There were four bridesmaids in blue and white, three car- ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSIONS 91 riages, white satin favours. Guns were fired, flags displayed; the one street and the fish-quay were all but deserted; the population of Northscaur Bay was assem- bled in the old churchyard. The pew- opener had anticipated this assembling, and, to the intense disappointment o( certain curious people who were minded to witness the ceremony from without, this office-bearer had white-washed the chancel window inside. It was sorely against his will that Robert Holt had been persuaded to give Lucy away. He had previously an- nounced his intention of going to Scot- land on business that would require his presence the whole week; but Lucys en- treaties had been made with tears, and Robert was not tear-proof. His con- sent would not perhaps have been given so reluctantly could Hester have been present too; but that was impossible. Hagar Shepherd was ill, confined to her bed. Robert was glad when the ceremony was over, when he found himself on his way back to the old red house. Yet he was not quite at ease. Mark Sanderson, Walter Claydons uncle, was in the same carriage, and Mark was an old man, and garrulous, and very deaf. And there were two bridesmaids beside, one of whom was Fanny Claydon, Walters sis- ter, and Fanny was altogether a puzzle to Robert Holt. She was so pretty, so sparkling, so vivacious, so little afraid of him, so unlike any other woman he had any way; but he consented to go to the ever seen, that he found himself wonder- White House in the evening. ing on what possible system she could When evening came he regretted the have been brought up. He had never promise he had made, blamed himself for seen her till about an hour before the being so foolish, and half-resolved to wedding; yet here she was, laughing at frame an excuse for staying away. But him, flattering him, scolding him, now excuses did not come readily. He loi- full of raillery, now of irony. Never be- tered about a little, thought he might as fore had Robert Holt been treated in well go, decided not to go, and finally such fashion; never before had he seen went, thinking as he went along what a any airy, lightsome sprite of this kind. stran~,e sensation indecision was. There was a second ordeal to be gone The White House was a yellow one, a through the wedding breakfast. Rob- new square block of glaring sandstone. ert was strangely out of his element and Ehere were lights in every window, lace he knew that he was, and felt awkward curtains fluttering in the breeze, sounds and ill at ease accordingly. Toasts.were of music and laughter. Some one came drunk, jokes and speeches made, viands flitting down the stairs, a slight, pretty disappeared. Lucy, untroubled with shy- figure in a white dress. ness, regret, or inquietude of any kind, was Now this is good of you. I knew happy and cheerful; Walter was radi- you would be good. ant, and self-congratulatory. The brides- The voice is Fanny Claydons, and she maids sat blushing and smiling in clouds puts her tiny fingers into Roberts big, of white tarlatane edged with blue. Rob- brown hand with the simplicity of a six- ert Holt sat silent, seemingly indifferent, year-old child. Fanny is three times six, but in reality noting xvith curious wonder- but she appears to be hardly conscious ment the words and ways of Fanny Clay- of the fact. Come along, she says to don. Fanny was more winsome than ever, and more daring, but Robert told himself that it was entirely the daring of a fearless child. You will come down to Aunt Sander- sons this evening? she said coaxingly to Robert an hour later. Breakfast was over; Mr. and Mrs. Claydon had started for London; Fanny and old Mark were about to return to the White House. There was to be a party at the White House in the evening. I! Certainly not, Robert Holt said grimly. Then his dark rugged mous- tache moved as if there was something of a smile underneath. Robert Holt at a party of girls and boys! Without doubt the idea was amusing. Certainly not! Ah, you are joking, I see, Fanny replied, lifting her keen, sparkling, wine-brown eyes to his face. Beautiful eyes they were, and her mouth was exquisite small, pouting, crimson, and most bewitchingly curved. Of course you will come, she said, with one of her sweetest smiles. I shall not care in the least for the party if you dont. Say you will come. If I dont see you this evening I shall perhaps not see you again. I am going back to Scarborough in a day or two. What was her going back to Robert Holt? Why, when she spoke of it, was he conscious of a sudden dull sensation that was almost a pain? He did not analyze the sensation, nor think of it in 92 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. Robert, weve nearly done tea, but Ill et, open in. front, displaying a white em- make some fresh. You like tea, dont broidered boddice. There is a heavy you? All men do if they would acknowl- gold chain round her neck, a tiny velvet edge it. cap resting upon her curls; her round, So Fanny goes on chattering, rarely at white ar~~ is bare, except where the short a loss for a topic, more rarely still at a lace sleeve covers it, and under her arm loss for words. And she has such a is a coarse, common Northscaur fish-bas- pretty, bright way of saying things, smil- ket. Fanny enters daintily, lightly, seem- ing all the while, ~lanci ng up keenly, or ing to tread on air rather than on a vulgar coquettishly, or inquiringly; and the carpet. And she glances round the room brown eyes sparkle, the rich red-brown with a fearless smile, seeking Robert hair clusters round a small head in rings Holts eyes evidently. Then she bows and curls that remind people of old pic- in that direction, and begins her song. tures; a crimson colour comes and goes Caller Herrin she sings. Her voice, rapidly under a complexion soft and fair though somewhat weak, is very pleasing; as the petals of a blush rose. there is a sweet, silvery tone in it, and a When tea is over there is music and certain refinement of vocalization that is dancing. Fanny does not dance much; evidently the result of training. The she appears to prefer an occasional chat highest grace of all expression is with Robert Holt, who sits by old Mark wanting, but she has other graces. Pe- Sanderson, looking on a little contemp- culiar inflections, peculiar turns .of the tuousl . head, various little ways of emphasizing y You mustnt look like that, Fanny passages that would seem to belong more says, holding up a tiny forefinger chid- to an actress than to a singer. Yet there ingly. is charm in all the charm that youth, Like what? Robert asks, a little beauty, lightness of heart can hardly fail amused. to have. Add to these a strong desire to Like this, Fanny says. And she please everybody, desire still stronger to draws down the corners of her pretty please somebody in particular, and no mouth, throws her head and shoulders one need wonder that the guests at the back, and lets her eyelashes droop over White House consider Fanny to be a eyes as scornful as she can make them. very irresistible little personage. Robert smiles, but he feels a little hot, a Why the somebody in particular should little uncomfortable. Then Fanny imi- have been Robert Holt it would not be tates the expression of one or two other easy to explain. It might have been sup- people in the room, and she does it so posed that a stern, hard man of forty cleverly that Robert forgets that she had years, with not one grace of speech or begun with himself, and laughs in a more manner, would have had few attractions hilarious manner than he can remember for agirl like Fanny Claydon. But the having done for years. Certainly, he laws of attraction are very capricious thinks, there is some strange witc hery laws, as most of us have seen at some about this little creature. period of our lives. Fanny had heard a Presently she disappears. The gas good deal of Robert Holt from Walter. burns as brilliantly as ever, the people Her curiosity had been piqued ; she had are as merry, the dresses as. gay, the expected him to be even more bearish music as festive, but Robert Holt feels as than he had proved to be, and the result if some very undesirable change had of all this was an unusual interest in him come over him. Again, there is no defi- from the very beginning. Then,too, she nite thought of any emotion or feeling, had quick perceptions. She had seen that nothing but a vague undercurrent of sen- the unusual interest had very rapidly be- sation. come mutual that she was something When Fanny opens the door again, new to Robert Holt, a source of surprise, there is a sudden silence, then a murmur then of amusement. It was flattering to of admiration. Deary, deary me!,, old have been noticed at all by such a man, Mrs. Sanderson says, looking over her doubly flattering to have awakened any spectacles, disnt she leuk bonny ? sensation in him. Fanny is dressed in costume, meant to Again Fanny disappeared, and again be that of a fisher-girl, but of what nation returned, this time dressed in the most or country few might venture to guess. advanced costume of the day. A tiny She has on a dark crimson petticoat, very white hat with a high crown and waving short; white stockings and black velvet feathers; a many-coloured chintz dress, slippers with sandals ; a blue velvet jack- flounced, frilled, festooned, and drawn in ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 93 at the waist to a circumference of about lawn, and on the roof a dove was coo- eighteen inches. Her figure was thrown ing. forward by a pair of boots with heels of When did you say you were going exaggerated height. Her gait was as- back to Scarborough ? Robert Holt sumed; she turned leisurely and sur- asks, looking at the pretty, unwearied lit- veyed the amused guests through an eye- tle face beside him. glass. Then she began a second song Oh, I dont know. Tired of me al- no quaint Scotch lay this time, but a ready? Why, youve only known me one popular half-comic ballad, that made some day. of the people there laugh half against Only one day! Was it possible? Rob- their will. It was like a glimpse into a ert wondered. What a long day it had new world for certain Northscaur men been! And how different from any other and women something to b~ remein- day! bered, talked about, for months after- No, Ididnt say I was tired of you, ward. he says, looking straight into her face Fanny made her exit much in the same with an unconscious look. manner as she had entered, with a cer- Perhaps you didnt say it, Fanny tam inimitable grace that had clung to says airily, but Im not at all sure you her in spite of the vulgar dress she had didnt mean it. To punish you I shall assumed, the yet more vulgar gait and at- not go back this week. Aunt Sanderson titude that she had tried to assume. Rob- wants me to stay a fortnight. ert Holt sat silent, immovable, watching Then by all means let Aunt Sander- the last flutter of her dress. There was a son be obeyed. hum of voices all round. Some one was How much do you care whether I playing a waltz, old Mrs. Sanderson was obey her or not? And Fanny looks up handing cakes and cowslip wine. This with a sudden depth of dreamy tender- man was wishing that he was young again, ness in her eyes, a sudden acc~s of ear- or that he could live his life a second nestness that is almost startling. time, or that he had gone to Scotland as I do care, Robert Holt says, speak- he had intended to do. ing by sheer force of impulse. The There was more dancing, more singing. words are regretted as soon as said, but As before, Fanny came and sat down by he cannot unsay them. The crimson Robert, sat talking to him in a playful flush that spreads over Fannys face is ceaseless strain, blushing, glancing, laugh- quite visible in the dawn-light; her voice, ing, teasing him, flattering him ; and for when she speaks again, is gentler and a man not free from taint of cynicism he softer; her whole manner is subdued. was curiously open to flattery. It has Robert is full of shame, self-contempt; been said that men sometimes think but he is also full of bewilderment, in- they hate flattery, whilst they hate only fatuation. Then, for the moment, the the manner of it. There was nothing to manhood in him asserts itself. Fanny hate in Fannys manner of administering considers his leave-taking cold, u~satms- the harmful dose. Robert was gratified, factory. He has said nothing of coming as many other people in his place would again. have been. This is not to be wondered And she goes back to the house. She at. The struggle most people have to has a certain dim idea of having heard keep up a good opinion of themselves is something about Robert Holt being en- a very hard one, and if anything can make gaged. But what if the idea were ever so it seem easier for a time it is a judiciously clear! A broken engagement! The administered compliment. If well-timed, thing is heard of every day. The re- delicate, and half-true, the effect is very membrance is no check upon her dreams. comfortable. She dreams of Robert Holt till daylight, The party at the White House was kept and when daylight comes till night up to a late hour, and Robert Holt was comes again. She recalls every word he one of the last to take his departure. Be- has uttered, every glance he has be- hind the long black rocks day was corn- stowed, dwelling most of all, most rap- up 1 b ing out of the sea; grey ghost q sails turously, upon that word and olance in wefe moving slowly against the horizon; the garden. How strange that people there was a splash of wavelets on the should think him hard and stern, stranger beach, a solitary sea-gull hovered on the still that she should have thought so her- edge of the cliff. In the garden there self! He is not a man to kneel slavishly was a faint perfume of roses and sweet at a womans feet, but Fannys ideal hero herbs; a thrush was whistling on the tiny had never been a man of that kind; nor ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 94 had he been a man of half such powerful fascination as Robert Holt. III. ON the evening of the third day after the party at the White House, a strong breeze had sprung up; the fishing-boats were moored high upon the beach; and next morning the fishermen were, for the most part, walking with short quick steps up and down the quay, waiting till the sea went down a little. There was no selling nor buying to be done. A glorious morning it was A hot sun poured down into the little bay; a cool breeze swept over the rocks, over the green cliff tops, over the brown moorland beyond. A slight girlish fig- ure was wandering over the moor. Quite alone she was. The wind played with a dainty muslin dress, with a daintier para- sol; swept the brown-red rings of hair hither and thither under the wide- brimmed hat; carried across the heather the sound of a silvery voice, singing, Kathleen Mavourneen. A tiny river runs down to the sea about a mile to the south of Northscaur Bay; a river with high stratified rocks and scaurs for banks, ironstone, russet, and blue, alum shale grey and scaly. And there are graceful clusters of folia~e along the top, hanging over, growing down, swaying about in the summer breeze. Down at the bottom the little stream murmurs, and there is a broad expanse of dry shaly river-bed on either side of it, quite full of fossil remains. Fanny Claydon takes no notice of the curious fluted shells that she treads upon at almost every step. She glides along, daintily as the uneven shale will permit, carolling out now and then a line of some old song. Presently she comes to a barrier, a tree loosened from the scant soil at the side lying across the river, growing there, green, and fresh, and vigorous. She might easily step over the trunk, but the river seems broader above, and . . . What is that? a tiny flame burning deep down in the water? Fanny looks up. Half hid- den by foliage, there is an angler sn~oking a cigar., It is Robert Holt. Fanny steps back into the shade of the rock a little. She is trembling, and her heart is beat- ing very fast indeed. Higher up the stream there is another pulse bounding faster than should be. A glimpse of a muslin dress, of a broad- brimmed gipsy hat, and straightway a strong man grows hot and tremulous. The cigar is thrown into the stream, the fishing-rod laid aside, and Robert Holt, trying to assume a careless air, saunters down toward Fannys hiding-place. She has stolen a little further back, and is sitting in a dark, cool, ferny nook, soft and green with knee-deep grasses, and with massive boughs of oak and hazel overhead, arching over and drooping till they sweep the bed of the river in front. A beautiful picture she makes sitting there. And she looks up blushing, smil- ing brightly and sweetly. T1~ere are two crimson lips, two rows of pearly teeth, a small hand held outthe begin ningof a sad end is wrought. What made you leave your fishing? Fanny asks, with an innocent smile. What made you turn back so sudden- ly? Robert Holt inquires, in a low, tender way. He does not press for an answer: Fannys confusion is answer enough. They sit silent for awhile. Fanny is happy, assured of happiness; and being so, a new and softer beauty comes over her: there is less sparkle and glitter, more tenderness and humilitya very halo of humility. Her eyes are downcast, her face half-hidden by stray- ing curls, her hands crossed quietly on her lap ; she is for the moment guiltless of any kind of attitudinizing. Perhaps Robert Holt is to pity a little. He is undergoing an agony of strife strife that does but seem to increase the blindness that has come upon him. Yet he only deceives himself up to a certain point. He knows that Fanny Claydon is One who in the world Both lives and likes lifes way, Nor wishes the wings unfurled That sleep in the worm, they say. And be knows that with all her fascina- tion her nature is of the shallowest, her range of thought of the narrowest, her powers of sympathy, her capacity for real insight, of the very slightest. But the knowledge in nowise deters him, he would not have her other than she is. There is a glamour about her, a glamour that holds him in thrall with a power he cannot resist. He tells himself that he cannot resist it, and the next step is to put all thought of resistance aside, to pour out a passionate confession of love and misery. And Fanny listenswith rapture at first half troubled with the weight of rapture. Listening still, doubt comes, and after the doubt amazement, disap- pointment, a feeling of being stunned. Then a flood of hot tears streams ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. 95 through her fingers, and her poor little fort; she would send him away with light mouth quivers with a sorrow that is very that would keep him from stumbling on real. the path that he had made so dark for I will go home, she sohs, I will go himself. Should he go? Would it he hack to-day. Oh! why did I ever come? possible for him to go on such an errand? I can never, never he happy again. Why Robert Holt should have gone to Stone- have you told me, when you knew that it heck Mill ; instead, he stood thinking of could he no use? what he should say when he got there. I have told you because I couldnt And the thoughts were fatal. How could help telling you, Robert says passion- he speak of the temptation into which he ately. Dont reproach me, I shall go had fallen without speaking of the mad if you do. I have enough to bear, daughter of Eve who had tempted him? more than enough. And how could he do that? After all, And bounding through the rustling had she tempted him? Had she done oak-branches, Robert Holt disappears, anything but be true to her own nature, fleeing as a man might flee for his life. a nature over-endowed, unfortunately for But it is not temptation he flees from. him, wi4h the rare fault of transparency? He has been tempted, and he has en- And the fascinating little face cam~e he- tered into temptation, and he does not fore him with all the vividness of reality, regret having so done. He is rushing now all smiles and brightness, now all away from himself, from his own weak- tears and tenderness. A~,ain a tide of ness, from the self-knowledge that has irresistible emotion swept over him. He come upon him so suddenly. would dare all, do all, lose all, rather than Further up the stream there is a piece lose this sweet new love that had come of rock jutting out into the water, and into his life. there is a dense blue-black shade of But another mood came upon him be- trees all round and above it. Robert fore long, graver, truer, sadder. He Holt throws himself down there, and would do nothing dishonourable. He covers his face with his hands ; and for was no coward, he would face his difil- awhile gives way to his wretchedness. culties, not sneak out of them, trusting to Thoroughl wretched he is, and with time and circumstance to save him from reason. l7or a moment he wonders if he open disgrace. He would tell Hester in is sane. His forehead burns as if his a few straightforward words what had brain were on fire, his thoughts are con- happened; and his heart pained him fused, he is haunted by two faces, one grievously, as he acknowledged to him- quiet, and sad, with a weight of sadness self that very few words would do. There he dares not look upon, one mocking, up- would be no scene, no reproaches. Her braiding, fascinating. And with a strong one thought would be to make mat- effort, born of the horrible fear, he calms ters easy for him. There would be no himself, rises to his feet, walks about a need for him to see her yet, but neither little, tries to think of other things, just would he see Fanny Claydon by design. to see if he can judge as to whether he is And yet, Fanny was suffering, and he in any abnormal state of mind or not. was the cause of it; was he not bound to He is soon satisfied on this point, and comfort the poor little creature, by giving the terrible difficulties of his position some sign or other? force themselves upon him again with Another week passed on, making the greater weight than ever. The thought third week since Robert Holt had been at of Hester is half madness, but it is a Stonebeck Mill. And there had been no thought he cannot drive away. It seems message, nor letter, no means of account- to him that never since the day he first ing for this unusual absence. Hester saw her has she been to him what she is was much occupied, her mother required now; never before so closely and in- attention day and night now, yet it would separably part of himself, never before be untrue to say that she was in nowise so clearly and truly his one guide, his one disturbed by the daily disappointment comforter, the one human being with that she was enduring. It wanted now whom he could share his thoughts, live somewhat less than three weeks to the his life, to whom he could tell his hopes, day that had been fixed upon as their his joys, his sorrows. What if he were wedding day. She was aware that her to go to her now, and tell her all? The mothers illness would cause delay, per- very thought is a relief. If she were to haps Robert was aware of it too; yet it reject him forever for what he had done,~ was strange that he should act thus. His she would reject him with a word of com- absence mi~ ht be unavoidable; she had 96 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. very little real fear that he would not be able to explain it satisfactorily, yet there were times when she could not help think- ing that it would be difficult for him to find a valid excuse for not writing so much as a single line. He came at last. It was quite late in the evening, and Hester had given up expecting him for that day: she had put aside her work, too, and was reading by the light of a dim candle that flickered on the table. The door of the small room where her mother slept was ajar, so that Hester could hear the faintest sound if any came; but instead, the sound of a well-known footstep broke the silence. Hester trembled a little; she was stirred all through, but in no way would she show it. At the first glance, Hester saw that some change had come over Robert Holt. She decided that he had been ill, and the whole strength of her womans tender- ness went out in pity. Quietly she placed her mothers high-backed chair for him, and then sat down herself with- out any questioning. It would all come in time. She took up her work again, but her hands shook too visibly, and she let them rest on her lap for awhile. Robert Holt sat looking into the fire. His face was certainly pale; but Hester began to perceive that it was not the pallor of sickness. Had any trouble come to him? Would he tell her? Would he let her try to comfort him? She was very sure that he needed coin- fort. Even as he sat there the expression of his face seemed almost an expression of anguish. But perhaps, after all, it might only be that Lucys going away had been a trouble to him. And Hester put the idea into words. Im afraid you miss your sister very much, she says, looking up sympathet- ically. Robert looks up too, and for a moment his eyes answer to the sympathy. Then they droop for very shame, and the shame brings irritation. He replies to Hesters words, and in an absent and jerky kind of way he talks about the wed- ding. But there is a curious under-cur- rent of thought going on in his mind. He rebels against the fate that seems to compel him to do a deed fr6m which his whole nature recoils. Why should he do it at all? Especially why should he do it now? He has not yet spoken any word to Fanny Claydon that could possi- bly be considered as a word of promise. And sitting there with Hester Shepherd before him, her bright, golden hair shin- ing in the dim light like a halo, her large soft grey eyes appealing mutely to him for confidence, for explanation, her pen- sive tranquil face speaking of so many things that he has hardly yet learnt to understand, things that he had promised himself a whole life of highest, purest happiness in trying to understand sit- ting thus, it is by no means clear to him that any such word as Fanny may rea- sonably expect will ever be spoken. Certainly he will say nothing to-night that he may afterward regret having said; and he will not remain at the mill an~ longer. He is aware that he is not at one with himself, and that consequently he cannot be at one with anybody else. Altogether, he is ill at ease. A man suffering much from self-contempt, know- ing that he deserves the contempt of others, cannot fail to feel as if he were receiving what he deserves. As Robert Holt walks back across the moor, he feels intuitively that he has lost ground in Hesters estimation; that, however tena- cious her love may be, her faith must be somewhat shaken. And he is not far from the truth. Hester sits by the dim candle, by the dying fire. The clock ticks loudly through the house, the shutters groan and creak in the wind, the hoarse roar of the fall comes from without. The hours go by, still she sits there, pale and cold, and still. She does not speak to herself, she hardly thinks. Shadows of things to be can rarely be viewed or defined in any way. Yet she feels that a shadow has fallen not from Roberts unex- plained absence, not from his silence, I not from the unsatisfactory visit lie has paid this eveningall these things might be forgiven and forgotten. But there is more beyond ; and Hester, who not long ago had reproved Robert for thinking of the future; sits alone till long past mid- night, and her eyes are not strained with peering into the gloom of to-day. More days passed on, days of silence and neglect, of growing doubt and disap- pointment; yet still hope lingered. Hester yet had faith in her own power over Robert Holt. When he came again she would use her power, she would draw him out of that self-absorbed mood. It could not be that anything worth dread- ing could come between them now. If it were possible, surely such possibility would be as terrible to Robert as to her- self. They would suffer alike, and it seemed to her that she could realize his ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 97 suffering in such case more vividly than stoops overthe shells that she has gath- her own. But it was idle, worse than ered. She is much absorbed, and does idle, to sit inventing the circumstances not hear a heavy footstep among the of a sorrow that had not yet come, that stones till it comes quite close. She might never come. She would try not looks up with a start as a shadow falls to think of Robert at all until she saw over her. It is Robert Holt who is stand- him again; or if she did so think, it should ing there, and Fanny rises, blushing, be hopefully. turning pale, looking very sad and wist So Hester resolved as she sat at her ful. sewing, trying to encourage herself, to They told me you had gone for a keep up her faith in a man who had well- walk on the sands, he says, taking her nib h lost faith in himself. It was difficult hand in his, holding it there. work, sad work; but it would have been Perhaps they had better not have sadder and lonelier if she had known the done anything of the kind, Fanny re- truth, if, for instance, a scene like this plies sadly. Then she looks up into had passed before her Roberts face, and tries to smile, but her A blue summer sea crowded with mouth quivers, and her eyes are bright white-sailed ships, passing each other with coming tears. She would say some- rapidly, sailing north, sailing south. Sun- thing, but she cannot. shine on land and sea, white waves break- Robert Holt had come there with a ing upon the sandy beach, making a cool certain resolusiononly a resoldtion murmur that falls pleasantly upon the that would give him time for further ear. A back-ground of dark rocks, of thoucrhtbut he feels that even this is high, green-topped cliffs. Between, a giving way. It has been said before that wide sandy beach, strewn with huge he was not tear-proof. pieces of fallen rock, rounded by the You still intend going home to-mor- waves, covered with dripping weeds, row? he asks, with a shade of pain and green and brown and purple. And under embarrassment crossing his face. the stones there are little pools where Yes, I go to-morrow, Fanny says, other sea-weeds wave, delicate pinks and still struggling to keep the tears back. yellows, crimsons and brighter greens. But her voice is choked by- a sob, her And on the beach there are curious hand trembles, her emotion is very visible. stones, and tiny beautiful shells, beauti- Stay another day, only one day more, ful enough to be gathered carefully by Robert Holt pleads, earnestly, tenderly. tiny, beautiful hands. Why do you ask it ? she says, with It is Fanny Claydon who is sitting a little flush that is like anger, a certain there, playing with the shells. Her face vehemence of manner and tone. Why is a little paler than it should be, and the do you ask that? Have I not stayed too lids that droop over the bright xvine-brown long already? Is it kind of you to sug- eyes are white and somewhat heavy. gest such a thino-? Is it kind of you to Yet she has lost nothing of her beauty, follow me here? . . Then her voice nay, these things do but add a grace, a falters, hot tears fall, and she says with softness of tone that was wanting. much distyess, It would have been bet- She is, as usual, exquisitely dressed. ter, better far, and easier to bear, if we Her muslin dress looks white in the dis- had not met again, if we had parted with- tance, but seen near at hand it is bordered out knowing that we were parting for- by branches of pale green leaves, and ever. under the leaves there are shadows of But it will not be forever unless you delicate grey. Her whole attire is white will it so, Robert Holt says with a sud- and soft and cloudy. Her hair is pushed den strong determination. Then, know- away from her face with a carelessness ing that the die is cast, a feeling of reck- that few women can affect with impunity; lessness comes over him. He pours out b.ut Fannys hair arranges itself, and promises and assurances with an aban- always to good advantage. donment all the greater because of other Is she waiting for some one? She things that he cannot pour out, things takes her watch out very frequently, and that he must set his foot upon for- she is sitting with her face toward Black ever. A man who had thrown away a Point, and beyond Black Point there is a fortune, or fallen into irretrievable dis- path way leading down from the top of grace, could not have felt more wildly re the cliff. gardless of all things past, present or fu She sits a long time looking out to the ture, than Robert Holt did at that mu- foot of the headland, then suddenly she ment. LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 2i5 ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. 98 Fannys tears were dried now, the last tears she would ever have to shed be- cause of Robert Holt, and she was her- self again, bright, winning, blushing, smiling. Was it possible that Robert should regret what he had done? Was it unnatural that he should resolve never to entertain another regret? What are you thinking about? Fanny asked, looking up with a smile, a bribht, child-like glance. About you, Robert said tenderly. You mustnt say anything more about going away in the morning. If you do go I shall go with you. I shall hate this place when you are gone.~~ But you never hated it before. No, I had no reason for hating it, Robert said, with a graver look in his eyes. And what reason have you now? I shall love it. I shall always love it be- cause I have met you here. Shall I have to come and live here some day? I should like to live here always. But I want you to promise to stay a little longer, now you are here, Robert said, and added more vehemently, You must stay, Lucy is gone; there will be nothin,, but dreariness and misery if you go too. Promise me you will stay. But Fanny could only promise to re- main at Northscaur one more day. She had already stayed much longer than her father had wished her to do, and his last letter requesting her immediate return had been peremptory. Fortunately, per- haps, for Fanny, he was not a man to be trifled with. One more day. Robert Holt did no work that day. He and Fanny went for a long walk in the morning, spent a long afternoon on the sands; and t~e evening was passed for the most part in the or- chard-garden that sloped down in front of the White House. A strange day it was, a day of charms and enchantments, a day never to be forgotten. Robert Holt walked like one walking in a dream. No shadow of remorse, no regret crossed his pathway; all was glamour, intoxica- tion. If he had a thought of Hester, it was only a wish that she were present, that she might see with her own eyes what he had done; that she might hear from his own lips why he had done it. It seemed to him that her presence would not be in the least strange, that he could meet her there or otherwhere without the slightest embarrassment. Shame and sorrow had gone from him. He could see no cause for them. A tide had swept over him that he had no power to resist; and if the backwater had swept over another life, it was not for him to grieve for that. Besides, Hester Shepherd was not a woman to be pitied; she would not pity herself. She was strong, self-supporting, given to religion or philosophy, or some- thing of the kind. She would pray more for a little while, and perhaps read more books. If she were troubled in any way, she would be very sure to keep her trouble to herself; and this was satisfac- tory. There was a parting scene at Han- thorpe station next morning, a few amazed bystanders; and after that con- jecture, rumour; but no rumour reached Stonebeck Mill. Hester still entertained the vile promiser hope. When even- ing came the hearth was swept, the chair set, the flowers re-arranged. Hester put on another dress, coiled the golden hair round her head, and sat down to work with an expectant smile, a soft, tremu- lous tenderness that grew with the grow- ing hours, and then yielded to chill and sickness and pain. And the same silent little scene was played out the next even- ing and the next. iv. ROBERT HOLT on his way to Stonebeck Mill for the last time, was not a man to be envied. The events of real life do not come and go with the same ease as the events of a dream. The thing that had seemed so easy to him with Fanny Claydon smiling and chatting by his side, seemed easy no longer. Yet he was very resolute, shamed ~ll through when he thought of his present predicament. Shame was a new thing to him, and un- endurable. He would put an end to any cause for shame this evening, this he had deter- mined. When he left the mill, whatever sorrow he might feel, he would be free from the pain and disgrace of a false po- sition. Yet he lingered on his way, and went round by the high-road and up the bill, instead of over the moor, avoiding the old path instinctively. The trees were chang- ing colour, a few red and yellow leaves fluttered down as he went along, behind the hill-top the sun was setting. He had almost reached the cottage. There was a piece of stony road to pass, a grey rock to round, and he would be there. He stood by the rock for a few moments, then, turning, he saw Hester standing near the cottage door. He drew ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 99 back and watched her for awhile. It and love. Till death do us part, she seemed to him that he could not help said to herself, twining her clasped hands watching her, that he could not have more tightly together. taken his eyes away if he had wished it. Hester knew that this day would have It was like coming suddenly upon a pic- to he deferred, and the knowledge was in ture that an artist had painted with his no way a trial to her, hut she feared soul. much that it was a trial to Robert. She Yet it was a very simple picture. A wished that he would speak of it, she hack-ground of thatched cottage and could hardly do so first herself; but if green leaves; a foreground of water and he would allude to it in any way, she mossy stones; a tall, finely-formed woman would be very gentle and patient; and if standing with carelessly clasped hands, Robert would be gentle and patient too, and uplifted head and face, a face pen- as he had been before, all would be well. sive, earnest, wistful; a grand broad fore- She would say nothing now about his ab- head, a crown of smooth golden hair with sence or his silence. He had come one lance of sunlight quivering upon it again, he was there by her side; she through the trees ; a dress of coarse would be content with the present, for- purple-black serge fitting closely, falling get the past. Explanations were at the heavily about her feet. best but doubtful, unsatisfactory things. Suddenly the noble head turned, the And all this while Robert Holt was expression of the uplifted face changed thinking, so absorbed in thought as to be altogether ; and one firm white hand was unconscious of his silence. It seemed held out with a readiness that deepened to him that now for the first time he saw a little the flush on Robert Holts face. the true nature of the deed he was about It is touching sometimes to see people to do. It had not occurred to him be- throwing their little handfuls of fiery fore that any brand of shame would cling coals hither and thither coals that to him because of his desertion. He had dont seem to burn anything, or melt any- imagined that an outspoken confession body, or make themselves felt in any way. would absolve him in his own eyes, what But this handful of Hesters went deeper it might do in the eyes of the world he than she knew, deeper than Robert Holt had never considered, nor did he consid- himself knew at the moment. Yet he felt er now. But his opinions were undergo- that in some way or other the deed that he ing a change. It seem~d t~o him that he had to do was growing more and more could never again think of hester with- difficult, out thinking of himself asof one who had Youve had a longer walk than usual, sinned against her, and sinned in a das- Hester said, with a smile, and a little tardly way that would be very intoler- flush of pink colour. Will you come in able to remember. He stood by her side, and rest, or shall we stay here ? but he had a curious longing to. fall at Just as you like,~ Robert said, but her feet, to confess his sin there, and his tone was less abrupt than his words ; there receive his absolution. and he gave no sign of wishing to go in- Presently he recollected himself. This doors. silence was cowardly, this hesitation an How is your mother? he asked pres- added wrong. Turning suddenly, look- ently. ing into Hesters quiet, loving eyes with Ill, very ill. Aunt Ellen came over a look of pain and confusion, he said from Kirkthwaite this morning for a Hester, Ive come up to-night to say day or two ; she is with her now, or I something that I cannot say, I would shouldnt have been standing here. give my right hand if I might go away Then there was a silence. Hester without saying it. Try to understand waited for what Robert might say next, me, and forgive me if you can. After all, waited quietly at first, but as the mo- perhaps its best things have happened ments went on a little tremulously. It as they have. I never was worthy of now wanted only ten days to the day that you, never should have been. had originally been named as their wed-1. It was not difficult to understand him, ding-day; a day that was to chan be all her his tone, his manner, were plainer far life, to bring her ease instead of toil, to than his words. Nay, Hester hardly take away her ceaseless cares and small knew what words he had said, hardly anxieties, and give her instead peace of I knew that she had heard any words at all. mind and plenty; more than all, a day to She was conscious of nothing save a kind put an end to her loneliness, to place her of aura, creeping from her heart out- side by side with faith and confidence wards, over her whole being, holding her ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. 100 brain like a band of iron. Yet very little change was visible in her. She smiled gently, looked into Roberts face with eyes that had not much expression in them, and said softly, What is it? What has come between us? A simple question, but one that shook every fibre of Robert Holts being, every resolution, every barrier dividing right from wrong. It was in his heart to answer, Nothing, to look upon the events of the past three weeks as events brought about by sorcery of some kind, to tell Hester that she was to him as if these events had never been. What stayed him he hardly knew, perhaps the stranee look that was coming slowly over Hes- ters face, perhaps the remembrance of another face, a remembrance that swayed him in a manner incomprehensible even to himself. Hesters question had to be repeated, and then the answer came, came with an impetuosity that no words could represent. Yet he told his tale very plainly, without shadow of defence, excuse, or self-condemnation. He felt intuitively that these things would he of. the nature of insult. He had done this deed of which he spoke, he accused him- self of havinb done it, hesitated, then asked once more for forgiveness. He spoke vehemently, but his words were very few. Why he restrained him- self at this moment, when words would have been so easy, he could not have said.. But there was no need for him to say it. Hester knew far more of what was passing in his mind than he knew himself. She saw the bewildering influ- ence of which be had not spoken, under- stood the strife and sorrow that he was hiding away out of her sight; and she perceived at once that he had spoken briefly because he had no hope of being able to make her comprehend by means of words how really and deeply he was suffering as lie stood there. It was not in her to see suffering anywhere without pity, and suspecting that much of the pain he was enduring was but the reflex of that he was causing, pity rose above all else. Itis said of Paulus iEmilius that when his sons died he assembled the people of Rome, and made a speech to them, not as one that wanted consolation him- self, but like one who could alleviate the grief which his fellow-citizens felt for his misfortune. Something of this Roman spirit Hester Shepherd had, something of a spirit greater far. The virtue of for- giveness in the old-world days was not a necessary virtue, not a natural virtue but there are men and women now, born with the influence of centuries of Chris- tian culture in their veins, to whom for- giveness is a first impulse. Hester Shep- herd was one of these. If she was suffer- ing any pain at this moment, she was unconscious of it, above it for the time. Her one yearning was to put an end to the suffering of this man, who seemed to be enduring more than he could endure. Forgiveness he had asked for. How was she to persuade him to accept, to believe in, such forgiveness as she felt? There was a strange light in her eyes, a light sometimes seen in the eyes of peo- ple who listen to sad sweet music, some- times seen in the eyes of people whose only music is the rippling of the river Acheron. Forgive you! she said quietly, hold- ing out her hand. Forgive you! Do you know I think it is I who need for- giveness. I have known from the begin- ning that I was no fit wife for you. I have told you so, told you long ago that you ought to marry a younger and hap- pier-natured woman, a woman whose life has been free and bright and harmonious. I have been too much weighed down ever to rise to the enjoyment of what you would call happiness. I long for nothing but ease and rest. I dread all else. You have done wisely and well. I should have been nothing but a drag upon your life. Never, Robert Holt said, with firm lips and livid, stony face. Dont interrupt me, Hester said, gently. I am speaking exactly as I feel. I am hardly conscious of anything but a sense of relief. The greatest happiness I can have will be to know that you are happy. . . . You will tell me of your hap- piness? she said, looking up with a brighter look. You will let me be your friend ? Robert Holts face flushed, and a gleam of curious emotion shot into his eyes. If I have a wish, he said, passion- ately, it is that I may never see you again, never hear your name mentioned. Hester smiled a little sadly. More than ever she understood how it was with Rob- ert Holt. That is a little unkind of you, she said; but I know what you mean. That feeling will pass away. You may need a friend some time, or at least there may come a time when an old friends voic~ may be a pleasant sound to you. Come and see me then. . . . I must go in now. I have been here a long time. It was INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. I0I good of you to come and tell me all your- self. Hester~ s voice was changing: it had tired listless tones in it and the short sentences came with long pauses between. Robert Holt made no answer. He had expected calmness, he had expected for- givenes 5; but there was something in Hester that he had not expected, that he could not define; something that made him feel narrow and feeble and contempt- ible. He was glad when Hester held out. her hand and said Good-bye. One moment he held her hand in his, and looked into her face ; but there was little there that he could understand. The wonderful libht was in her eyes still, a light clear and deep, but it seemed to him altogether inexpressive. And the quiet exaltation of her face, the strange grace of repose that was in her manner and in her attitude, were equally incomprehensi- ble. Good-bye ! she said a second time with a smile as sweet and uncon- scious as the smile of a dreaming child. And Robert Holt said Good-bye There was nothing more to say. An hour or two later Hester stood alone in her own room at the back of the cot- tage. There had been no reaction, no paroxysm of grief. She had passed the time mainly at her mothers bedside, lis- tening to oft-told tales, answering oft-re- peated questions. Mrs. Shepherd was asleep now, her sister dozing by her side, her daughter standing with stony face and white firm lips by an open drawer! The wonderful light that had been in her eyes had departed; instead, there was utter blankness and silence An open drawer! with other drawers empty below, and by the side of them a large box half filled with clothin Arti- cles of dress a little unlike any Hester Shepherd has been in the habit of wear- ing, daintier, prettier, more expensive. Garments purchased one at a time, made in the night after long days of sewing for bread. Hester had smiled many a time to find that her womans pride in these thins s was so strong. She is careful of them still, folding them neatly, wrapping some in paper, putting all away in the large box. Perhaps I can sell them if ever I am in need, she says to herself. Half the night is gone before Hester Shepherd has arranged things to her sat- isf action. The large box is put out of sight ; the drawers partially refilled from a bundle that had been put to~ether for a poorer neighbour; three or four books and a dozen old letters are addressed to Robert Holt. Then Hester sits down and tries to think, but no thoughts come all is blank and grey and cold. Presently she kneels by her bedside but no prayer comes, no relief by words nor tears ; nothing but the same dull aching, nothing but the same sad silence. Even between her soul and God nothing save silence. From Blackwoods Magazine. INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. I. CEREMONIAL. THERE are some curious subjects which have become old-fashioned, which have drifted, by degrees, so far outside the necessities of ordinary educations and occupations, that most of us grow up and live and die with but a faint perception that they exist at all, and certainly with no notion of their details. If accident should bring any of them under our observation, we look at them with more or less indifference, according to our particular proclivities ; but, as we get on very well without them, as they have nothing to do with money-makir!g, or athletic sports, or Ritualism, or novels, or last nights ball, or the state of the crops, or the few remaining topics which now possess the privilege of interesting one or other of our social strata, we never think of going out of our way to make an exploration of them. And yet they are seldom altogether stupid: they all contain some sort of useful teaching; they may even occasionally be amusing; and each of them has exercised the ear- nest thoughts of earnest men ; each of them has a literature of its own; each of them fills many dusky Latin folios, that were printed two hundred years ago, at Mayence or Amsterdam; each of them has had enthusiastic advocates in its time. Heraldry, astrology, the art of poisoning, hawking, and international law, are ex- amples of this class of subjects. But, if the mass of us are at liberty to know as little as we like about questions of this category, there are here and there some people in the world who, from special sympathy or professional neces- sity, still persist in studying them. The noble art of blazon continues to find a few eager followers; astrology is main- tained as a state-craft in Persia; poison- ing has not ceased to exercise a winning influence over certain contemporaneous 102 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. minds; falconry is, even now, a daily sport in Poland; whilst a smattering of international law is usual amongst diplo- matists. Of these five forms of knowl- edge, the last is certainly the most useful and the least rare; but, though there are grave persons who go on wrltlnb books about it, it is looked at, by everybody but themselves as being at the best, an an- tiquated, disagreeable, ugly sort of learn- ing, and scarcely any of its unwilling students have the slightest idea that it can ever become attractive. Such, how- ever, is incontestably the case; there is a vast deal of real interest and amuse- ment hidden away in the gloomy volumes which date from Grotius; it all depends on the way they are read. Diamonds are found in dirt; sunshine gleams out of clouds; cases have positively been known in which laughter has been provoked by dictionaries ; why then should treatises on international law be absolutely ex- cluded from the list of readings which can possibly contribute to make life pleasant? They are not limited, after all, simply to discussions of the jus gen- tbim and the jus ~riva1um, of the mare lill2rum and the mare clausm/m, of de- rivative acquisition, or of rights of juris- diction. They talk of other things besidesof Ceremonials, and Forms, and Dignities, of Prerogatives, Privileges, Emblems, and Decorations, of attitude towards Aliens and attitude towards Kings, of all the varied elements which make up the vanity of nations. These details of their contents are, however, covered up by such a pile of ponderous dissertation on other less diverting mat- ter, that they not unnaturally remain invis- ible to the casual eye. But if some strange necessity should forcibly direct attention to them, they shine out like a lantern in a fog; they tell us curious stories ; they impart to us odd experiences of charac- ter; they show us human nature in a form, which is often singularly new; and especially, they teach us incredible as it may seem that nations reach a height of self-asserting vanity immeasurably be- yond what any individual can possibly attain. This latter fact is worth coin- munic~ting to the world; for no discov- ery can be more soothing, more strength- ening, more justifying, than to find out that, whatever be the enormity of one s own pride, it never can be as vast as that of the country to which one belongs, whatever that country be. The various books which unconsciously supply the. evidence of this truth corn- mence, without exception, by the asser- tion that all nations theoretically possess two main right sindependence and equality. They then proceed to describe these glorious privileges in language which renders them so utterly unattrac- tive that it is difficult to believe that we are reading of the great causes which make the blood of nations boil, and for which men are always ready to give their lives. Fortunately for us, we are not obliged to follow them in this disfigure- ment of noble sentiments; we have noth- ing at all to do with their ideas of inde- pendence here, and we have to make but one extract from their theory of equality. Independence may perhaps help states to feel vainglorious ; but the legists tell us that it is in the name of equality alone that they show their pride in action, that they call upon each other for external marks of honour and respect, and that, to better realize this purpose, they have gradually invented Ceremonial. From Vattel down to Phillimore, all publicists have written gravely on this subject of ceremonial. Most of them treat it as if it were a form of worship, and seem inclined to kneel down when they talk about it. The Dutch and Ger- man writers particularly have applied to it all their learning, all their pedantry, and all their awe. They have analyzed and subtilized it ; they have divided it into its parts ; they have decomposed its motives ; they have distilled its essences they have anatomized, dissected, sorted and classified it. They wind up their laborious enthusiasms by calling it the politeness of nations, which is a lofty sounding but particularly incorrect de- nomination; for the original object of ceremonial was in no way to be polite to others, but solely to manifest the high idea which each country entertained of what was due to it from its neighbours. The more ancient of the jurists talk of it in language which is evidently intended to frighten away disrespect, and to in- spire profound deference. Vattel the great Vattel, the commentator of Grotius, Puffendorf, and Wolf says, in speak- ing of the details of state courtesy, Les attribuer k un vain orgucil cest ignorer grossi~rement lart de r6gner, et m6priser lun des plus fermes appuis de Ia _ randeur et de la suret6 dun Etat. And Junins our English Junius went quite as far in the same direction when he declared, in the sonorous wordings which were proper to him Private credit is wealth ; public honour is security ; the CEREMONIAL. 103 feather that adorns the royal bird sup- for it asserts the rights of nations them- ports his flight ; strip him of his plumage selves ; in theory it cares nought for per- and you pin him to the earth. These sons, for it represents the collectivity of grand talkings, however, do not quite peoples in theory it is a universal lan- convince us we remain incredulous, and guage, for its voice is everywhere the perhaps even somewhat irreverent, as same. But, in practice, these superb hecomes our century and we listen with pretensions disappear in practice cere- more sympathy to the practical modern monial hecomes as human as we are our- politician Calvo, who takes up the other selves, with all the weaknesses, the pu- ground, and argues that, if, from an his- erilities, the jealousies, the littlenesses, torical point of view, these questions have which form part of the nature of each one lost nothing of their value, it must be of us. All it proves by the grandeur of owned that the development of civiliza- its claims is that, vain as men are mdi- tion, and the diminution of the prestige vidually, they become, as was said just which formerly belonged to the monar- now, vastly more so in their united ca- chical principle, have considerably weak- pacity as nations. ened the meaning of these vain preten- Ceremonial is divided by its professors sions, to which it is no longer possible to into five main sections Precedence of sacrifice the higher interests of humanity. States, Royal Honours, Diplomatic Cere- It is perhaps fair to own here, at once, monial, Maritime Ceremonial, and I~ti- that though all the legists solemnly lay quette. And yet, though etiquette has thus claim to ceremonial as being essentially become simply one of the elements of cere- one of their own subjects, though it has monial, the latter is, in reality, begotten grown to be an integral and undisputed of the former. Etiquette has existed from element of the Law of Nations, and all time. It is so very ancient that it may though the latter must consequently ac- be presumed, without fear of contradic- cept the responsibility of the former, tion, to have come originally into use at ceremony existed long before the Droll the court of Nimrod. There is no dii ect des Ge;2s was thought of. Hi story is full evidence of the fact, for the annals of the of proofs of this. Did not Cyrus behead period are, unfortunately, incomplete two satraps because they omitted to place but it is perfectly logical to argue that, as their hands inside their sleeves when every monarch in history, of whatever they saluted him? Did not Hadrian set date or country, has invariably called the example of establishing a royal house- upon his subjects to show him obsequi- hold? Was not Charlemagne the sim- ous marks of inferiority, Nimrod, the first ple, unpretending Charlemagne served of kings, cannot have failed to do so too. at his repasts by subject kings? Did Ceremonial, on the contrary, is of relative- not royal hands present to him, at each ly recent birth it was called into exist- dinner, a spit with a roast boar upon it? ence with the object of extending to na- And did not St. Adalbert write a book (of tions the privileges and rights of courtesy which Hincmar has preserved the mem- which, to that time, had been the person- ory) telling us the titles of the officers of al property of sovereigns alone. It grew his palace, expatiating, amongst other so fast, it was taken up and fostered by matters, on the dignity of the chief cook so many statesmen and so many authors, (princeps coquorum was his title), and that it quickly overshadowed, eclipsed, notin~, specially, the hierarchical superi- and absorbed its pro~enitor; but, not- ority of the bottle-holder over the wine- withstanding its hasty growth and its pourer at the court of Aix-la-Chapelle ? rapid acquisition of power, it has never But there was nothing international in undertaken its predecessors work ; the all this; subservient politenesses were two have never been mixed up, they have then addressed exclusively to the person of constantly remained separate and distinct. the local soverei~n they were pure home The special publicists put ceremonial on actions; they had no connection with their title-page, and only give a chapter foreign parts. They properly belonged, to etiquette ; the foreign ministries of the not to ceremonial as it is now defined and Continent have each an office of cer- understood, but to the one particular emonial, and leave etiquette to the branch of it called etiquette, which is lim- narrower duty of mana~ing court re- lied to the regulation of the relations of ceptions; but though ceremonial has monarchs, princes, and dignitaries be- grown so great and strong, though its own tween themselves and with their visitors, name alone now constitutes the generic Ceremonial is larger, grander, more im- denomination of the whole class of pro- posing. In theory it rises above kings, cesses of which it has become the chief1 104 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. it is limited in action to the comparative- ish court a model of a kind which ly new international functions for the dis- the world has never seen before or charge of which it was called into exist- since. Men and women ceased there to ence. Its ,ancestor, but present junior be human beings with a will; they be- partner, continues to direct alone the par- came machines of reverence; everybody ticular section of their joint domain which had his place marked out, and was kept ori~inally pertained to it. mercilessly in it; the number of steps The antiquity of the parent justifies us and the depth of bows which each per- in giving a little consideration to it be- son was to make on entering the royal fore we describe the child; and though presence the width of cloaks, the we have to look to other sources for its length of ribbons, and, perhaps more history, we find quite enough informa- than all, the elaborate division of offices tion upon it in old chronicles to be able and functions were fixed with a preci- to describe it with tolerable exactness. sion of which examples exist nowhere Some authors derive its appellation from else, except in decimals. The study of the Greek stickos, order, rank ; others etiquette was, three centuries ago, the from a corruption of est kic ques/lo inter essential element of education of a Span- N. et N., the formula which French pro- ish gentleman; and it is naturally in cli reurs placed formerly on their law- Spain that we find the most vivid in- papers, from which the primary French stances of its influence. They are, in- meaning of the word, in the sense of deed, so particularly strikin~, that, by ticket, has evidently originated. As dti- exception to the general indifference to quettes were fastened outside documents such subjects which was alluded to at or parcels to indicate their contents, so the beginning of this article, everybody ittiquettes, or tickets, were given to peo- has heard something about them. There ple on state occasions, to tell them where may therefore be no novelty in the story to stand and what to do. Thence grew of the queen (she was the wife of Charles up (according to this interpretation) the IJ.) xvho fell off her horse, caught her secondary use of etiquette as descrip- foot, and hung indecorously by the stir- tive of ceremonious observances. But rup, upside down, in the presence of her whether this latter etymology be correct forty-three attendants. The sight was or not, the origin of the idea expressed is grievous ; but the forty-three stool still distinctly traceable, in its modern appli- and gazed at it, in anguish deep but mo- cation! to Philip the Good, Duke of Bur- tionless, because the grand equerry, gundy, the holder of jousts and tourna- whose peculiar right it was to unhook the ments, the inventor of court courtesy (the royal ankle on such occasions, happened second word was generated by the first), to be somewhere else. Her majesty who sought to thereby adorn his house would have remained suspended there with more glories than kingly monarchs indefinitely, if a good-hearted but unin- then possessed, as a consolation, per- structed passer-by had not taken upon haps, for not holding their title. There himself to release her. He received sev- are, however, antiquarians who allege eral doubloons for his useful service, but that the theory of royal etiquette in Eu- was condemned to banishment for his rope (we need not refer to its supposed unpardonable indiscretion. And we all first sproutings in China, Persia, and the know better still the lamentable end of Caliphat of Bagdad) is older still; and Philip III., who finding the fire too hot that it was brought westwards by the for his royal wellbeing, told the Marquis Greek princess Theophania, who married de Pobar to put it out. But the Marquis Otho the Red in the tenth century. Be could not presume to do so, because fire- this as it may, everybody abrees that it extinction was one of the attributions of was not till the middle of the fifteenth the Duke dUseda, who, most fortuitous- century that it took a serious form in the ly, was at that moment hunting in Cata- hands of Philippe le Bon. His grand- lonia. So the king, who of course could child, Mary of Burgundy, carried the new not condescend to give way to fire fire ideas to her husband Maximilian; and being bound by etiquette to give way to from Austria they passed on a6ain, with kin ~ s sat majestically and scorch- constant augmentations and freshly de- ingly still, grew far too warm for health, vised subtleties, to France and Spain. got erysipelas, and thereby died. With The latter land especially became the examples such as these before their eyes, forcing-house of etiquette; it was there it is not astonishing that the entire peo- that it attained those scarcely credible ple should have taken up ceremony as a developments which made the Span- duty; that a beggar should remark in the CEREMONIAL. 105 early morning to a colleague, Seflor, has your courtesy taken his chocolate ? and that grandees of Spain should have believed themselves to be above the uni- verse. That they really did so seems to be demonstrated by a conversation which a certain illustrious Portuguese had, in those times, with a blue-blooded Castil- ian. The former began by speaking to the Spaniard as your Excellency; the latter replied,your Courtesy. Then the Portuguese imagining that his first phrase was incorrect, politely said, your Courtesy; to which the other immedi- ately answered, your Excellency. There- upon the Lusitanian, vexed and puzzled, asked the Iberian for an explanation, and was coolly told (it appears they were speaking French), Tous les titres me soot ~gaux, pourvu quil ny ait rien d6gal entre vous et moi. And French etiquette was almost as extreme as that of Spain. Arm-chairs, backed chairs, and stools were, for cen- turies, as Voltaire says, important ob- jects of politics, and illustrious subjects of quarrels. He explains, with his usu- al spitefulness, that the etiquette of chairs came from the barbarians, our grand fathers, who had only one arm- chair, which was solely used by people who were ill. This latter view is borne out by the fact that there were provinces in France where the piece of furniture in question was called a chaise de dohiance; and that the Germans have, from all time, denominated it krankensessei a sick-chair. Voltaire goes on to say that Mademoiselle spent a quarter of her life in the mortal tribulation of disputes about her seats ; ought she to sit in a certain room, upon a chair or upon a stool, or not sit down at all? The whole court was in emotional perplexity about these insoluble difficulties. Even the king himself was not free from the obli- gation of sitting according to regulation. if he condescended to pay a visit to a courtier ill in bed, etiquette constrained his majesty to lie down too, for it was impossible that a sovereign could permit a subject to indulge in unshared recum- bency in his presence ; so when the king was coming to a sick-room, a sec- ond bed was prepared beforehand, and the conversation was conducted in po- sitions of mutual horizontality. Louis Xiii. visited Richelieu in this way at Tarascon, and Louis XIV. did the same when he xvent to see the Mar6chal de Villars, after he was wounded at MaIpla- quet. The. idea of the importance of eti. quette reached such a point at Versailles, that, amongst other things, it became a principle that toute la femme est dans la rdv6rence, which meant that the man- ner of execution of a perfect curtsey ought to visibly manifest and express all the qualities of a true woman. Etiquette exercised its action not only over form and manner, but over acts as well. Marie Leczinska did not dare to play cards one night because the court had heard that day of the death of some German prince that nobody had ever seen ; and M. de Maurepas filled her heart with joy (she was choked with ennui when she could not play) by saying, Madame, I have the honour to assure your majesty that the game of piquet is deep mourning. In the earlier times, before these strange things had come to pass, there used to be several sorts of etiquette, de- pending not only on the rank of the per- sons concerned, but also, in some de- gree, on that of the nation to which these persons belonged. Distinctions of this nature disapp~ared from etiquette as ceremonial became organized; but, in passing from the former to the latter, they became still more clear and binding. Precedence belongs to each of the two classes of the subject ; it forms, indeed, so essentially the basis of both, that ~ve cannot conceive the existence of either of them without it; and though we have not to consider it here in its double character, though we have to look at it solely in its international applications, the part of it which concerns individual or local rights is peculiar enough to merit some attention from such of us as are cu- rious in human follies. As a proof of this, an allusion may be usefully made to the position of the question in England, where precedence is still determinedin its majn elements by the statute 31 Henry VIII., but where, since the Court of Chivalry has fallen into disuse, doubts on intricate and involved problems can only be dispelled by petitionin, the Crown for a solution. This is the sole official man- ner of obtaining a decision as to who is entitled to walk first in a procession but as the Crown does not reply itself as it refers the difficulty to the Heralds Collegeit would be simpler to allow perplexed inquirers to go direct to the Officers of Arms, as they do in Scotland, where the Lyon King has direct juris- diction in all matters connected with the subject. Ordinary cases can be solved by easier means ; people whose standing- ground is not too complicated,, who are io6 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. simply suffering from curiosity as to their lated, as is shown by the treaties of Bel- exact place on earth, can learn it from grade in 1639, and of Jassy in 1792, and the published list of precedence of Eng- even in the treaty between Prussia and lish men and women (which can be found the Dutch East India Company in 1717. in the special dictionaries). This cata- We can now leave etiquette, and begin logue begins with the King and Queen, to look at the origins of ceremonial. The and ends with Burgesses and their wives first fact which strikes us is, that the it includes 98 ranks of men, and 66 ranks Precedence of States and the honours of women. How soul-elevating it is to due to sovereigns, though classed apart, recognize that, in what we call our wave- were, in reality, synonymous terms for girt home of freedom, we are still suscep- centuries. This was because States tible of division into so many categories, were nothing then, while Sovereigns were and that there are, in England only everythin~ and because, though all without counting the two sister king- kings were theoretically equal between doms 97 sorts of men above a bur- themselves, not one of them would ever gess I It was surely worth while to step admit equality with any other; so they aside for an instant from our subject in all strug~,led, by every imaginable means, order to announce this remarkable but to obtain an advantage over surrounding generally unknown fact. potentates. Kiuber, and most of the The court etiquette of the present day writers who preceded him, enumerate the is also beyond our range~ for, though its principal considerations which were ap- component parts are everywhere sub- pealed to in this struggle to the front. stantially alike, it is in no way interna- Monarchs based their arguments of su- tional. Such local differences as it pre- periority towards each other on the an- sents are utterly uninteresting. No one tiquity of their royalty, on the size of will gain much, for instance, by learning their dominions, on the supplementary either that there are courts where queens titles they possessed in addition to that and princesses have official rank in pub- of king, on the high dignity of their vas- lic ceremonies, and others where they sals, and, perhaps more than all, on the have to content themselves with looking distinctions accorded to them by the on as mere spectators ; or that the cere- Emperors or the Popes. Even the date mony of the baise;n~ziuz, the old feudal of the conversion of their ancestors to form of homage to the suzerain which Christianity has been invoked by certain was suppressed long ago in Turkey, be- princes as a ground for claimin~ prece- cause an evil-minded courtier tried to dence. And yet, notwithstanding the profit by it to assassinate Amurath the disputes and difficulties which were per- Fourth. still exists in Russia at the Em- petually occurring as to rights, nothing presss New Years Day reception, as it definite ever was decided about the rela- did in Spain when there was still a crown tive rank of states. The Popes tried there, as it does in England at presenta- more than once to express an authorita- tions and on nominations to certain of- tive opinion on the question; and in fices. There is but one detail of court 1508, Julius II. composed and promul- action the bestowal of presents by gated a complete list of seniority for the sovereignsw~nich assumes a distinctly use of ambassadors in his own chapel, international character ; it may therefore recommendin~ Europe, at the same time, be cursorily mentioned before we quit to adopt it everywhere. The order which the subject. Decorations, jewels, curi- he followed is in such utter contradiction osities of art and literature, books written with that which exists to-day, that it is by the donor, have always been royal worth while to give the table at full gifts ; and certain special offerings have, length as a measure of the changes which at different times, grown into use,as have since occurred. Only three of the when the Kings of France and the Grand titles enumerated 350 years ago continue Masters of the Order of St. John sent to exist in their old form (the Pope, the e~ery year a l)resent of trained hawks to new Emperor of Germany, and the King the Kihg of Denmark. and as live stags of England) ; all the others have either were sent regularly from Germany to Na- vanished altogether, or have become poldon. The Pope gives presents of sa- merged in other names. And it will be cred or blessed objects, gold roses, hats, noticed that the Margrave of Branden- ~nd swords, Agnus Dci, and relics of burg stands t~rentieth, and the Duke of saints. In tre ties with the Porte and Savoy twenty-second, and that Russia is the Barbary States, the exchange of not alluded to at all, though one would presents was at one time regularly stipu- have thought that the Grand Dukes of CEREMONIAL. 107 Moscow had become powerful enough to merit mention at the date when this cata- logue was issued to the world : I. The Pope. 2. The Emperor. 3. The King of the Romans. 4. The King of France. 5. The King of Spain (Castille and Leon.) 6. The King of Aragon. 7. The King of Portugal. 8. The King of England. 9. The King of Scotland. io. The King of Sicily. ii. The Kind of Husgary. 12. The King of Navarre. 13. The King of Cyprus. 14. The ~ing of Poland. i~. The Republic of Venice (for Cyprus, Candia, and Dalmatia). i6. The Duke of Brittany. 17. The Duke of Burgundy. iS. The Duke of Bavaria and Palatine. 19. The Elector of Saxony. 20. The Margrave of Brandenburg. 21. The Archduke of Austria. 22. The Duke of Savoy. 23. The Grand Duke of Tuscany. 24. The Duke of Lorraine. 25. The Princes of the Holy See. 26. The nephews of the Pope, and the Legates of Bologna and Ferrara. Of course this arrangemeq~t was not accepted: it contented nobody; it only served to create new difficulties by add- ing new graduations to the scale. Na- tions, or rather monarchs, xvent on dis- puting about their place, their titles, and their prerogatives; and, in many cases, even force did not suffice to bring about a permanent solution. In 1648, a hun- dred and forty years after the vain effort of Pope Julius, an amusing proof oc- curred of the inutility of his intervention. At the negotiation of the peace of West- phalia the question was evidently as com- plicated as ever ; for we find the German plenipotentiaries, who represented the beaten side, and who might therefore have been supposed to have become less absolute in their claims, putting in Latin notes in which his sacred Imperial Ma- jesty the Emperor marked his discontent against the most serene kings of France and Sweden; to which the French and Swedish envoys replied that their sacred Royal Majesties had much ground of complaint against the most serene Em- peror. This shows that even the Thirty Years War had not stifled the eternal strife for precedence; and no better evi- dence can be adduced of the nature of international ceremonial two centuries ago. It still consisted, without variation since its origin, in requiring everything for yourself, and in granting nothi ngto anybody else. There was a superbness of selfishness about it which surpasses all other examples. Directly new titles were invented, no sovereign was satisfied to continue to be called by old ones. Serenity and Royal Dilection were all very well until Majesty was employed; but, as soon as the latter name got into circulation, Dilection was abandoned to such small people as electors, who were regarded by their superiors as so unim- portant that Monsieur, brother of Louis XIV., would not allow his second wife, the Grand Palatine, ever to see her family otherwise than incognito. He said, with a natural indignation which goes to our hearts and provokes our most earnest and respectful sympathy How can I, a Prince of the blood, pay honour to an elector, because he happens to be the uncle of my wife? As for giving a chair to an elector, I really cant. But if no complete hierarchy of na- tions was ever organized, two main prin- ciples of division were generally ad- mitted ; the first, that what are called Royal Honours belonged only to Em- pires, Kingdoms, the Papal States, the Grand Duchies, the Elector of Hesse, and the Swiss Confederation; the second, that the Emperor of Germany was the first sovereign in Europe, in virtue of the Roman crown which came to him, through Charlemagne, with the Western Empire. Phillimore confirms this ex- planation of the reason why the Em- perors enjoyed this proud and undisputed supremacy; he says, The idea of this paramount superiority was derived from the notion of their being successors of the Roman Emperors. Vattel remarks that, at the time of Charlemagne, there was une id6e r6cente de la tnajest6 du v~ritable Empire Romain. Bartolus said, 450 years back, that they were heretics who denied that the Emperor was sovereign paramount of the world. From this old, deeply rooted impression, arose, in the middle ages, the imitative disposition of many states to describ~ ,themselves as Empires, and to speak of their crown as Imperial, showing that the story of the frog who wanted to be an ox applies to nations as well as to Jrogs. But, after the abdication of Charles V. and the political dislocations which ensued from it, the place of honour ceased to be the assured property of the 108 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. Empire; France and Spain struggled for it for two hundred years; France at last ob- tained it, in 1761, by the Bourbon Family Compact. But it was too late: 89 was coming ; the reign of ceremonial was drawing to its end; France had no time to enjoy its conquest. The Republics of Venice and of the Low Countries were admitted, nationally, to royal honours; but as their ambassa- dors had to yield precedence to those of crowned heads, their situation was in- complete. The Genoese Republic and the order of Malta never obtained a dis- tinct recognition of the same half-privi- lege, though the former claimed equality with Venice and superiority over Switzer- land, and though the latter considered itself to possess monarchical rights in vir- tue of the elective sovereignty which it exercised at Malta. In later times, the United States, the German Confedera- tion, and the Empire of Brazil, have been considered to be entitled to royal hon- ours. As a natural consequence of the difficulty which existed in procuring ad- mission to the upper ten of nations, it followed that no state which had ever possessed these international privileges was disposed to abandon them afterwards, no matter what changes took place in its constitution. Thus Cromwell insisted on the maintenance, towards his Republic, of the forms of ceremonial which had been observed towards the Monarchy which he had suppressed. A more re- cent example of the same attitude is fur- nished by the 23d article of the treaty of Campo Formio, in which Bonaparte stipulated that S. M. lEmpereur, Roi de Hongrie et de Boh~me, et la R6publique Franaise, conserveront entre elles le m6me c6r~monial, quant au rang et aux autres 6tiquettes, que ce qui a & 6 con- stamment observ~ avant Ia guerre. This condition, was specially confirmed by the treaty of Lun6ville in i8oi. But if the English and French Republics preserved the ricrhts which their countries had pre- viously enjoyed as monarchies, it is evi- dent that they did so solely in favour of their strength. So long as divine right was the One acknowledged source of legiti- state powcr~ it was impossible for a Gov- ernment based on popular suffrage to obtain, unless by force of arms, the same exterior respect as was shown to a tradi- tional dynasty. Indeed, the real rank of Republics was never fixed at all; kings shrank from recognizing it, and the Con- gress of Vienna tried in vain to find a rule for it. It is only of late years, since levelling tendencies have grown general, that all Republics, including even those of South America, have tacitly acquired the ceremonial rights which are accorded to other sovereign states. In Germany, however, which has now become the land of forms, unsettled difficulties continued to exist down to the suppression of the old confederation in i866; the exact rela- tive positions of the Grand Dukes and of the Elector of Hesse never having been determined, excepting as concerned their order of voting in the Diet, which left untouched their rank in general, and their prerogatives outside the Diet. Diplomatic ceremonial, which, at first, was but another form of manifesting the power of states through their re~resenta- tives, remained during some three cen- turies the most conspicuous, if not the most important, part of ceremonial, in consequence of the incessant struggles for precedence between Ambassadors who sought to increase the importance of their employers by fighting for their own. The stories of their strifes are innumera- ble and amusing; a few of them may use- fully be told here, in order to show the furious nature of the ~b ht, and the van-. ousness of the measures that ~vere adopted in order to attain success. When force could be safely used it was naturally th~ favourite solution, as being in harmony with the spirit of the times. The Spanish Envoy resorted to that means of obtaining priority of place when he attacked the carriage of the French Ambassador in the streets of London in i6fii, hamstrung his horses and killed his men; and then went on joyfully with the satisfying conviction that he had done his duty to his country, and that his rival could not get to court before him. In cases where milder action was momen- tarily employed, it was not unusual to stipulate, by previous arrangement, for absolute and exact equality in every de- tail. This was the plan selected when Mazarin and Don Luis de Haro met to settle the conditions of the marriage be- tween Louis XIV. and Maria Theresa. In order to preserve the full dignity of their nations by yielding nothing to each other, the two Ministers stepped together, with the right foot, side by side, into a council chamber hung in corresponding halves with their respective colours, and sat down at the same instant precisely opposite each other at a critically square table, on two mathematically equivalent arm-chairs. In this case the previous bargain was honourably carried out; but CEREMONIAL. it was not always so, for Bielfeld tells a story of two Envoys, one from Genoa and one from Brandenburg, who, being unable to come to terms as to which of them should present himself first to the French king, stipulated, that whoever reached Versailles soonest on the day of their reception should take precedence of the other. The cunning Prussian went down the night before the audience, and sat on a bench in the Palace until dawn. The Genoese, not suspecting this ac- tivity, arrived in the morning early, saw the Prussian, recognized that he was beaten, but with the perfidy which Italian proverbs attribute to the children of his native town, slipped surreptitiously through the door of the kings bedroom, which had been left ajar, and instantly commenced the requisite salutations. The German rushed indignantly after him, pulled him back by the skirts, and began pouring out his own harangue. Passive obstinacy was another weapon much em- ployed. The best example which can be cited of it, is that of two Ambassadors who met face to face on the bridge at Prague, and stopped there for the entire day, because neither of them would dis- grace his country by letting the other one go by. There are not many examples of the use of leaping, or of other personal gymnastics, as a means of supporting the rights of nations ; but even that sort of proceeding was utilized, in 1768, at a court ball in London, where Ivan Czerni- cheff, Ambassador from Russia, sat down audaciously next to the Imperial Envoy, in the very place which belonged to the Comte de Ch~telet-Lomon, repre- sentative of France. The latter came in a few minutes later, did not say a word, passed quietly behind the Russian, affect- ed to sit down on a bench of the second row, and suddenly, with a bound, sprang in between his two colleagues, and in that way reconquered his legitimate po- sition. A duel was the consequence of this, and Czernicheff was wounded, which was but justice, for his sovereign, Cath- erine II., had expressly recognized the supremacy of France six years before. And if Ambassadors struggled, by all these means, for precedence between themselves, they were quite as ardent and as resolute in their attitude on the subject towards the Government to which they were accredited. The most celebrat- ed asserter of ceremonial rights, in this aspect of the case, was Charles de Fdriol, Marquis dArgenthal, French Ambassa- dor to the Porte at the end of the seven- 109 teenth century. Amongst other violent proceedings, he refused to give up his sword at audiences, although it was abso- lutely forbidden, since a Dervish had tried to murder Bajazet II., to appear armed in presence of the Grand Seigneur. He said, Je d6shonorerais le roi mon maitre si je quittais mon 6p6e. All the critics own, though evidently with sorrow and unwillingness, that Fdriol was wrong in this pretension: for the question was not one of international ceremonial, but of local etiquette, which each court had an undisputed right to regulate as it liked. It may, however, be urged in favour of M. de F6riol, that he knew, by the experience of his prede- cessors at Constantinople, that the Turks were particularly exacting on points of etiquette, and that he therefore stood out for all he could obtain. The question of the soy5ka, for instance, had always been a difficulty at audiences of the Grand Vizier, the latter claiming the privilege of sitting on a higher seat than that attributed to foreign envoys. Guil- lerargues, another Plenipotentiary of France, persistently refused to concede this right, and carried on the contesta- tion for five years, until it was settled in his favour. But when he at last sat down on the seat for which he had fought so long, the other side considered that it was disgraced for ever; and the Tes- chifrat-Emini (what we call Master of the Ceremonies) mournfully put in a prayer to the Grand Vizier to be permitted to inscribe the fact as an odious exception in the archives of Turkey, exclaiming, in his anguish, The Book of Ceremonies is no longer of any use it may as well be burnt. Cases have occurred in which the entire diplomatic body has acted in unanimity for the protection of its rights. At a ball given at Versailles by Louis XV. in 1739, a special stand had been pre- pared for Ambassadors in the Salon dHercule. Soon after they were placed, the Comte de Clermont and the Prince de Dombes (princes of the blood) came and sat down on stools in front of the Am- bassadors, who thereat grew so indignant that the Prince de Liechtenstein and the Marquis de Ia Minas, representatives of Austria and Spain, were prevented with much difficulty by their colleagues from making a public protestation then and there. The next day a collective letter, signed by the whole body, was addressed to the Foreign Minister, pointing out the highly grievous nature of the action of the two princes, which was contrary to INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. ITO ceremonial, and asking to be tranquil- lized with reference to such novelties; for, in the contrary case, they would be forced to deprive themselves of the eager- ness with which they had hitherto paid their court to his Majesty on such occa- sions (deprive themselves o~ the eagerness~~ is a phrase of the largest merit, which no one would be capable of inventing now). All these are simple cases ; they turn solely on formalities. It may therefore be as well to quote a more complicated example, in order to supply a type of an- other sort of difficulty. In 1787, when the King of Sweden raised the Baron de Sprengporten, his Minister at Copen- hagen,to the rank of Ambassador at the same court, Spren~,porten at once claimed, in virtue of his new position, precedence of Prince Charles of Hesse, who had married the King of Denmarks sister, and of the hereditary Prince of Holstein-Augustenburg, who had matried the Kings daughter. He based this de- mand on the habitual pretension of Am- bassadors to refuse the ~czs to princes who were not of the blood. He quoted the two examples of the Comte dEstrades, French Ambassador at the Hague, who~ in 1664, claimed and pos- sitively obtained precedence of the Prince of Orange, though, by his mother, he was grandson of a king; and of the Duchesse de Lavauguyon, wife of another French Ambassador at the same resi- dence, who had refused to pay the first visit to the wife of the Stadtholder. A long and difficult negotiation resulted from Sprengportens claim, which was at last settled by a compromise based on the double consideration that he repre- sented a family allied to that of Den- mark, and that, as he was the only envoy holding the rank of Ambassador at Co- penhagen, he had not to fear that, if he yielded, he would damage his position towards his colleagues. For these mo- tives it was agreed, as a sort of private compact and concession, which left the principle untouched, that Sprengporten should give way to princes who, though not themselves of royal blood, were mar- ried to princesses of the blood. This arrangement formed the subject of three detailed notes between Sprengporten and the Comte de Bernstorff, who was then Danish Minister for Foreign Affairs. The greatest monarchs have often attached as much importance as their representatives to questions of this sort. Napoleon, particularly, never gave way on any point where dignity or precedence could possibly be involved. We have already seen that at Campo Formio he stood up for the rights of France; as Emperor, he stood out in the same way for his own. His Book of Ceremonial still exists it is as elaborate as that of Louis XIV., on which it was based, and almost more so than that of the Second Empire, for which it served as a model. When he was compiling it, he applied for information to many of the surviving members of the Bourbon court; and it was in reality with their aid that he made it up. But they were not all disposed to help him; for when he sent a messenger to the Princess of Chimay, who had been Lady of Honour to Marie Antoinette, asking her for details of the old etiquette, she replied, Vous voudrez bien dire ~ lEmpereur que jai tout oubli6, hors les bont6s et les malbeurs de celle que jai servie. Her refusal did not matter much, however; he framed his etiquette without her aid, assigning the first place to himself, not only when he was person- ally present, but wherever his name was used in print all over Europe. A curious proof of his tenacity of precedence oc- curred in i8o8, when all the copies of the Almanach de Gotha, which had just been printed for the year, were seized and sent to Paris, because, by the old habit, al- ways adopted in the volume, of arranging reigning houses alphabetically, the list began, not with Napoleon, but with the Anhalt Duchies. The Emperor abso- lutely refused to allow this, and the book had to be reprinted with his name on the first page. The continual difficulties provoked by disputes between Ambassadors led the Congress of Vienna, at the end of 1814, to name a commission in order to fix les principes ~ dtablir pour r~gler le rang entre les Couronnes et tout ce qui en est une cons6quence. At the sitting of pth February 1815, the report of this Commission which proposed to divide nations into three degrees was brought forward and discussed. Objections were made to the suggested classification, especially as to the position which the larger Republics ought to occupy finally, the idea of regulating the relative status of all the Powers was abandoned as too difficult to realize, and the Con- gress limited itself to the less invidious task of determining the ranks of envoys. The present diplomatic precedence was thus created. The Act of ipth March i8i~ divided diplomatic agents into three CEREMONIAL. III classes 1st, Ambassadors, Legates, and officers around him. Sometimes the Nuncios; 2d, Envoys or Ministers ac- ceremony takes place in a large drawing- credited to Sovereigns; 3d, Charg6s room, but never in the throne-room, dAffaires accredited to Ministers of which is reserved for Ambassadors alone. Foreign Affairs. An intermediate cate- At Constantinople there is a special gory, that of Ministers resident, was habit: Ministers do not deliver their added by a protocol of the Congress of credentials to the Sultan himself (as Aix-la-Chapelle, on 21st NoVember i8i8. Ambassadors do), but hand them to the The ceremonial which now regulates the Grand Vizier, in presence of the Sultan. courtesies to be shown to each of these All those dull details are enumerated four ranks is not international but local, here, not because they possess the slight- and throws us back to etiquette again; est novelty or interest, but bechuse they for not only do no universal rules exist show that as regards these particular as to diplomatic honours, but there are practices our actual civilization is very no two states whose practice on the ques- nearly as precise as were the courts of tion is absolutely identical. The sover- Spain or Austria in the great days of eign still fixes, in each country, the nature etiquette. In this one respect we resem- and degree of the distinctions which he ble the Bourbons of 1814,we have is disposed to grant to the Ministers learnt nothing and forgotten nothing. accredited to his person. For instance, And monarchs still continue to maintain there is no universal rule even for the the old tradition in their receptions of presentation of letters of credence, though the diplomatic body on state occasions: the general habit of European courts is in England at courts, drawing-rooms, and that, when an envoy arrives at a new levees; on the Continent, on the sover- residence, he immediately announces his eigns fete-day, or on the 1st of JanuAry. arrival to the Minister of Foreign Affairs These receptions are called Cercles Di- of the country, sending him a copy of his plomatiques, a denomination which is credentials, and requesting an audience: supposed to date from the brilliant period it is only after having seen the Minister of Versailles; it is at these Circles that he can ask for an audience of the that charg~s daffaires, councillors, secre sovereign. taries, and attach~s are presented. Solemn royal audiences are granted to As soon as an arriving Minister has Ambassadors alone. They are fetched been officially received by the Chief of to them by the introducer of Ambassa- the State, he pays visits to all the other dors, in court carriages, with six horses members of the Corps Diplomatique; (as to the six horses there is unanimity but if he be an Ambassador, he notifies between the states of Europe it seems to his colleagues the fact that he has pre- to be the one point on which they all sented his credentials, and waits for their agree), they are treated with military first visit, which he returns in person to honours, are received by the sovereign Ambassadors, and by card to Ministers. in the throne-room, with the whole court There are, however, differences of rule in around him, and exchange speeches with different countries ; and it is usual for him. Directly the reception is termi- a new-coiner (unless his secretaries can nated, the Ambassador is received by the instruct him) to privately consult the se- Queen in another room. As soon as nior Ambassador as to the exact forms these royal audiences are over, he is con- to be adopted. All Envoys take prece- ducted home again with the same cere- dence in each class between themselves, mony. In some countries he waits there, according to the date of the official noti- in uniform, for the visit of the Minister fication of their arrival at their post. of Foreign Affairs, who comes officially Other details are regulated by adopting within half an hour, in the name of the or perpetuating the old etiquette. The sovereign and in his own. There are, place of honour in all ceremonies the however, other countries France, for honourable point, as the authors call it instancewhere the Ambassador calls is, as it used to be, in the centre, and upon the Minister again after the royal each member of the ambassadorial group audience, and it is only after this second should strictly place himself roundthe visit that the latter comes to him. Mm- centre according to his rank. But, in isters plenipotentiary are received with practice, the Nuncio (where there is one) less pomp and stateliness. They are and the Ambassadors take the centre, usually admitted to the presence of the and the other Envoys stand anyhow, in sovereign in his private room, with but the order or disorder diplomatically called two or three Ministers and a few court ~~le-rn~le. If Ambassadors are sitting 112 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. at a table, or in a conference, the hon- state which had to offer it. England has ourable point is opposite the door. The naturally been one of the great promoters right is always more honourable than the of this class of ceremonial, and has fre- left, except in Turkey, where the left is quently endeavoured to enforce it as a the noble side. An Ambassador still has proof of the admission by other Powers the privilege though he no longer uses of the jurisdiction over the high seas itof putting on his hat in the presence which she once pretended to possess. of the sovereign when he reads his re- The theory on which maritime cere- ception speech. monial was primitively based was that The order in which names and signa. naval as well as military salutes should tures appear in treaties and other public render the saluter temporarily powerless. documents used to be determined by the Thus, firing guns, or dropping sword- precedence of the states concerned; but points, or presenting arms, symbolically this involved such interminable disputes deprived the ship or soldiers of all power that other systems were su~ested, an d,so of aggression for the moment: dipping long ago as 1718, at the signature of the colours and lowering sails and manning Quadruple Alliance, each Power signed yards all present the same idea of respect- first the copy which was to remain in its ful innocuity. In early times salutes were own possession. At Aix-la-Chapelle, in given in the open sea: between vessels 1748, the contracting parties each signed of equal rank or rights they consisted one copy for each of the others. Anoth- only in a certain number of cannon-shots. er system, which was at one time a good But in cases of inequalityand with the deal used, called alternat, was first em- finely shaded differences which formerly ployed for the treaty between France and existed, these cases were the more nu- Austria in 1756, in which each Power was merous the inferior side had to add named first and signed first alternately, some additional sign of deference, to Finally, the present plan of alphabetical lower or hoist its flag, to furl its upper order (according to the French alphabet) sails, or to change its tack, according to was adopted. It would be useless to go on the exigencies of the case. The relative citing other examples of actual diplomatic significations of these various forms is ceremonial, for all are equally minute and clearly indicated by a writer in the En- unamusing. Happily most of the details cyclop6die Maritime, who says, Le sa- are diminishing perceptibly in impor- lut du canon est majestueux, celui du tance; and though some sort of ceremony pavillon pli6 est humble, si on lam~ne will always have to be maintained as long tout bas il est de la plus grande humilit~, as embassies are needed, it looks as if et m6me avilissant. England was quite our children would see the end of many aware of this ; so in the time of James I. of the odd fashions which are still in she insisted that her maritime supremacy force. should be recognized by the instant dis Maritime Ceremonial is by far the no- appearance of the flags and sails of all blest element of the entire subject, for, other ships, English vessels showing however futile it may seem at first, it has, their opinion of their own importance by at all events, the real merit of represent- offering no kind of recognition in return. ing an idea that of homage to a Power Of course this vexed other countries, and represented by its flag. It has always p rovoked resistance from such of them occupied an important place amongst the as were strong enongh to risk it. It is exterior signs by which nations manifest true that Philip II. had introduced this respect and courtesy towards each other, sort of action some time before by order- and it long ago became so essential a ing all Spanish ships to refuse to salute mark of international deference that many any foreign vessel, and to fight and go to wars have resulted from its non-observ- the bottom rather than give way; and that, ance. Some of the acts of which it is in his tremendous pride, he had even for- composed have been stipulated by trea- bidden his captains to lower his flag in ties ; ancient usage has given force to any foreign port. Encouraged by this others ; but it is quite evident that, in its example, France soon afterwards gave origin, it was nothing but an obligatory precisely similar instructions to her fleet recognition of the claim of certain states and it was while these instructions were to the soverei~nty of the sea, and that in force that Sully raised the fury of his what has become, in our time, a simple Government by lowering the French col- sign of reciprocal politeness, was otice, ours to an English squadron when he was as Calvo justly says, a testimony of hu- on his voyage to England as Ambassador. iniliating inferiority on the part of the This last event brought about so bitter a CEREMONIAL. I 13 discussion between the two Governments, that, at last, as the best way out of it, an Order in Council was issued, telling Eng- lish officers either to avoid French ships altogether, or to stipulate for a simultane- ous salute. The French Government im- itated this solution, but it was of course impossible to practically maintain it in force: so in 1689, when Louis XIV. was in all his glory, he dealt with the matter afresh, in the old way, by once more re- quiring his officers to oblige the vessels of every other state to salute them first, wherever they might be. This ordinance was one of the causes of the war which broke out in the same year between France and England, and did not finish till the peace of Ryswyck in 1697. In the eighteenth century a change took place; the hauling down of flags of weaker powers was, by degrees, no longer claimed. Russia and Sweden agreed in 1721, by the treaty of Nystadt, that their war-ships should meet on a footing of equality, and that vessels of both nations should ive the first salute to ports or fortresses of the other. This example was followed; distinctions began to dis- appear, though, as a consequence of the old theory of royal honours, the ships of monarchies still continued to claim the first salute from the vessels and even from the ports of a Republic. At last, in 1787, France and Russia agreed by treaty that henceforth salutes shall no longer take place at sea. The same stipulation was soon after introduced into the conven- tions between the courts of St. Peters- burg, Stockholm, and Copenhagen, and later on, into successive treaties between Russia and the two Sicilies and Portugal. We may consequently thank Russia for having been the first to introduce a total change into the character of maritime ceremonial, and to give to it its present character of equality. The opinions of the publicists on the condition of the question since 1815 may be summed up as follows: I. All sovereign states are equal in everything that concerns Maritime Cere- monial. 2. Salutes are obligatory on no one; they are pure acts of courtesy. 3. If a salute is not returned, explana- tions may be asked for, but no hostile action can be taken. 4. If two ships salute in the open sea, the inferior officer should begin. 5. Ships carrying Sovereigns, Princes, or Ambassadors, always receive the first salute. LiVING AGE. VOL. V. 216 6. All these conditions apply to war- ships only; merchant vessels owe no sa- lute at all. In addition to these general rules as between ships and ships, there is the habit which prescribes that every vessel arriving in a foreign port shall salute the - flag on anchoring. The salute between ships and land is never personal, it is ex- clusively international; and the older books contain enraptured chapters on it, full of beautiful language about defer- ence to the foreign soul. Translated into an intelligible sentence, this means that in the opinion of their authors (it scarcely need be said that they are Ger- man) a salute to the flag of another country is imaginatively addressed to the inner self, the soul, the dine, the seele of that country. Salutes to persons of whatever rank do not excite the emotions of these eager jurists as homage to the flag does: the former provokes their close but critical attention; the latter excites their nobler aspirations, and leads them on, through fog, to poetry. They exaggerate inconceivably, they talk pro- digious nonsense; but the idea which tempts them is, in itself, sound, solid, and attractive: there is a real justifica- tion for the admiration they express of the incarnation of a nation in its colours, and of the sentiment of honour which at- taches to such emblems. What a pity it is that they have not all talked about it in a sane spirit and in comprehensible grammar! it is the one reasonable part of their entire subject ; it is the single element of ceremonial which .appeals to our heads and our hearts; so, naturally, they have composed greater twaddle about it than on all the rest together. International salutes from flag to flagare returned by an exactly corre- sponding number of shots, while those to officers or functionaries vary, on both sides, with the degree of rank. In ad- dition to these manifestations of courtesy on arrival in a port (to which might be added all the ceremonial as to visits be- tween officers), it is usual for vessels to associate themselves unless there be some political reason to the contrary with every public demonstration of mourning or rejoicing which may occur while they are in a foreign port. If, for such purposes, officers go on shore of- ficially, their precedence is determined by their grade, and, for each grade, by the order in which they reached the an- chorage. Each nation has promulgated regula INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. 4 tions of its own for the guidance of its dise can take place without payment of naval officers on all these questions. duty. Phillimore furthermore contends The English rules are laconic and inex- that maritime ceremonial is also obliga- plicit; those of France (the present tory in the portion of the open sea ac- edition of these dates only from i868) tually occupied by a ~ee~,that por- are very precise and clear; those of the tion being, during the period of the oc- United States are singularly minute. cupation, under the dominion of the With reference to these last it iriay be state represented by the fleet, as the tem- observed, as an odd fact, that while the porary occupation of a foreign territory American President is saluted by his own by an army places it, for the time, under fleets with a fixed number of twenty-one the dominion of the state which the army guns, the official salute of the United represents. There is a subtilty about States to foreigners is made up of as this notion which makes one suspect it many shots as there are states in the was not invented by a British mind; such Confederation (forty at this moment). imaginary theories as this are usually The Spanish rules which date from hatched beyond the Rhine. Let us hope, 1838 indicate in substance. that Spanish out of respect for Sir Robert Phillimore, ships. are to do what other vessels do, that he simply copied the conception which reminds one of the practices of a from a trans-Rhenan quarto. hundred years ago. But all these ordi- Certain nations claim maritime hon- nances prescribe, without exception, that ours in particular seas, that is to no salute is ever to be given unless it is say, in waters of which they profess to quite certain that it will be regularly re- hold the jurisdiction, irrespective of the turhed. limit of a league, as Venice did in the Still, however general be the present Adriatic, and Genoa in the Ligurian Sea; application of these habits, it must be as Denmark once did over the Arctic repeated that they are now in no way seas to within four miles of Iceland and obligatory ; at least, that is the distinct fifteen miles of Greenland; as she now opinion of the majority of modern au- does in the Sound; and as Great Britain ;thors. Phillimore, however, argues that has never ceased to do in what are called maritime ceremonials can be claimed as the narrow seas around her coasts. recognitions of sovereignty when the sea Grotius and Bynkershoek, the advocates Is subject to the sovereign who claims of the free sea, of course deny that them. This sovereignty, according to a any such powers can be claimed; while ~usage which has acquired the force of Selden and Blackstone, the supporters of Ilaw, extends to a maritime league (three the closed sea theory, maintain the miles) from low-water mark; and within contrary. It looks as if the latter were that distance Phillimore considers that likely tp be right; for the position of salutes are not optional but obligatory. Denmark in the Sound has been recog- The limit of three miles was originally nized by so many treaties that it is diffi- chosen because it was supposed to repre- cult to regard it either as unjust or as in sent the range that a cannon-ball could antagonism with the law of nations; cover. Bynkershoek, who is the oldest while England has immemorial usa~e in authority on maritime questions, says, in her favour, for she has invariably claimed colloquial modern Latin, terr~ domini- jurisdiction in her four seas, and she um finitur ubi finitur armorum vis. distinctly vindicated the right in the lord Stowell has confirmed this theory reign of Charles I. But even if the at- by the phrase, in the sea, out of the tribution of jurisdiction were as com- reach of cannon-shot, universal use is plete and undisputed in these seas as it presumed. And the adoption of this is inside English ports, it in no way fol- distance as the limit of jurisdiction is not lows that it would entail the obligation dependent solely on ancient custom; to salute within their limits: if saluting ~there is at least one treaty that of is a free and voluntary act of courtesy 1795 between France and Tunis which and it is only in that aspect that it is stipulates it formally, and others might worthy of respectit cannot be enforced perhaps be found if they were looked for. anywhere; and consequently these soy- The United States and England practi- ereign rights, be they imaginary or real, cally extend this notion farther still, for have no connection with the question. both of them have enacted that their The Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle rec- Customs Laws are in vigour to a distance ommended that all doubts on the subject of four leagues from the coast, within of maritime ceremonial should be re- xwhich area no transhipment of merchan- moved by a general convention between SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR. I 15 the Powers; but nothing has heen done. Time, however, settles questions gradu- ally, without treaties: certain habits be- come as strong as Acts of Parliament; others change their character or their ob- ject; new ones spring up wherever they are needed. Even the vexed point of the nationality of ships at sea, which was once furiously disputed, and which in- troduced many complications into cere- monial, settled itself peaceably at last, and but few people now suspect that there ever was a doubt about it. Haute- feuiile has summed up the controversy with respect to it in lucid language, and those who wish to know the arg~uments on both sides should read his chapter on the subject. All we need say about it here is, that if ships at sea did not continue to form an integral portion of the country to which they belong, there could be no such thing as maritime ceremonial. Military Ceremonial has no existence in the sense which we are pursuing here. The reason is evident enough: armies are not like ships; they go abroad in war time only, when foreigners do not show them courtesyon the contrary. All these things have a strange mouldy perfume of ancient times and ancient thoughts; they do not fit in with our ideas and our practices of to-day. They may excite admiration and approbation amongst people who continue to believe in divine right, and amongst writers who seek to adorn their names with reputa- tion by re-editing Vattel in a nineteenth- century form. But facts are stronger than the enthusiasm of the first or the ambition of the second, and facts are slowly driving out ceremonial. It is be- coming a faded subject: it is ceasing to apl)eal to either the prejudices or the convictions of our epoch; it no longer represents a necessity, an obligation, or a duty ; it has distinctly entered into the phase of odd antiquity. If it were not still amusing, it would have no claim to be spoken of at all. Let us end by quoting the opinion of other people in the matter, and by shift- ing on to strong shoulders the responsi- bility of the irreverent ideas which have been here expressed. Marmontels no- tioh was, Moquons nous de l& iquette, et du sot qui linventa. Voltaire said, Les- ddtails concernant les rangs sont le plus mince objet de ihistorie, et tous les d~tails des querelles excitdes par les prdsdances sont les archives de la peti- tesse plutOt que de Ia grandeur. And, in the mortal weariness of her greatness, Madame de Maintenon exclaimed, IJ ny a pas dans les couvents daustdrit~s pareilles k celles auxquelles ldtiquette de la cour assujettit les grands. She, at all events, had a right to an opinion, and we may accept, without hesitation, her view of these little subjects with great names. From Macmillans Magazine. SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. LETTER I. ENGLISH people, who glean their ideas of Spanish life and character from a so- journ at Madrid or Malaga, Gibraltar or Seville, know strangely little of the real state of education and social life in the less-visited towns of the interior. When I arrived at Gibraltar on my way to the secluded town from which I write, I was warned not to attempt to return to Cadiz, as the line was cut, and that city in a state of siege. Malaga was in a condition very little better. However, I went on by sea to Malaga, hardly know- ing indeed, I should say, very doubtful whether or no I should be able to take train into the interior. At Malaga the first token of La Republica Demo- cratica Federal was a string of red- capped Voluntarios, who had taken the place of the ordinary Custom officials. They boarded our steamer, headed by their captain, and with fixed bayonets marched up to the breakfast-table on deck to confer with our captain. They seemed but ill armed, and wore no uni- form, save the scarlet flannel cap, peaked over the eyes, of which every shop win- dow was full. Some had old fowling- pieces. some Enfield rifles, some the Snider. They seemed restless, and hag- gard, and indeed, one of them told me, as we smoked a cigarette together, that he was dissatisfied with his Government, his faith~-in a word, with everything. Our captain, a hearty Englishman, who did not like arms at his breakfast-table, good-humouredly asked them to unfix bayonets. This the poor fellows did, after a moments demur, with a hearty laugh. Afterwards, I met these same men at the Custom House, and they passed my luggage unopened, in remem- brance of our cigar and chat together, and behaved most courteously. This was my first introduction to the Intransigentes. Next day, two thousand Malaguanese ix6 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, Voluntarios, who had been to proclaim through tunnel after tunnel in swift suc- the independence of Seville, entered the cession, until the far-famed viaduct at town, preceded by their band, and four Bogantes is passed at a foots pace. cannon. They, too, were ill armed, and The chief spot of interest is the only distinguished from civilians by the Hoyo, or gorge, with the river foam- red cap; they promenaded the street in ing at its side as just described. This triumph for some time, and at a bugle call magnificent scenery is but a short dis- dispersed at once, each man going to his tance from Bogantes station, and is called own home. In two hours Malaga was here the pass of the Guadalhorce. It quiet as ever, and not an armed man seen is hardly more than fifty miles from in its streets. The only active measure Malaga, and I can only ~vonder that the taken on that day was the issuing of the artists hand and pencil are not busy here order for every Nun to leave her convent year by year, where all is so intensely in twenty-four hours, which time of grace new, and almost untrodden ground. was readily extended, at the request of Let me pass on to the end of my jour- the English and American Consuls; to ney. The road, save for the beautiful six days. ridge of the Sierra Morena, just tinged Starting up-country, vic~ Cordoba, I by the setting sun; and the silver Gua- was reminded only too sadly of the un- dalquivir winding among its here tree- happy state of sunny, beautiful Spain. less hills was treeless, barren, and de- The corn, Over-ripe, was ungathere d in; void of beauty. Late at night I arrived at each small station stood, with fixed at my destination, and was only too glad bayonets, a couple of Guardas Civiles. to turn off to rest. No words of mine can describe the alter- What struck me most, at first, was the nate beauty and savage grandeur of the wretched state of the streets, which is route from Malaga to Cordoba. From common to the towns of the interior; Malaga to Alova, the wild, semi-cultivated they have no pavement, but have at some slopes stretched out far as the eye could remote period been pitched with huge see, reminding one, here and there, of the stones, many of which have gone, leav- Wiltshire Downs on a grand scale; but ing holes a foot deep. All travelling is at Alova, a lovely town of some 8,ooo accomplished on horse or donkey-back: people, the fertile plains of Andalusia or in springless mule carts, which jolt Abaga (Andalusia the lower) suddenly one to pieces. These carts are covered spread around us in all their beauty, lit with bamboo canes, with a sacking at up by the beams of the morning sun each end ; the bottom is simply a piece the orange, the vines crowning slope of ordinary matting stretched over the after slope, the full palm-tree, and the iron bars that join the wheels. But, to oilve-patches dotting the landscape far say truth, there is hardly any communi- and near; field after field separated by cation between town and town. Villages, hedges of prickly pear, and groups of aloes country houses, farm-houses absolutely here and there, completely enchained have no existence, owing to the unsafe and fascinated heart and soul, and one state of the country. The farmers live forgot the sorrows of ones new country, in the towns, and gather their wheat and and her strife and her bloodshed, in look- garvancos (a sort of pea) into the camera, ing on her beauty and her grace. or attic, at the top of the house. Suddenly all was changed vineyards, Walking out the next morning, I heard olives, trees, were all but as a dim mist in the distance the well-known strains of of blue far behind, and we had entered the Marseillaise, played in the most lively on a scene of more savage grandeur than way by a brass band, and presently a tiny the Alps, the Pyrenees, or the Tyrol. coffin, swung between four boys, came Nothing can exceed the grandeur of the round the corner: the coffin of a little country, after crossing the Guadalhorce fair-haired child of some seven summers, near Bogantes station. Far and wide laid out in blue paper, with a glass lid to there is nothing but naked rock; you show its peaceful face. A crowd of boys, look up, peak after peak of granite towers cutting capers, singing and shouting, ran up above the line and cuts its rugged before it, while close behind, at a swing- way into the deep clear blue, while to ing pace, and playing their loudest and your left, seen here and there through liveliest, camr~e the band I had heard the holes of the rock, the Guadalhorce, behind them, four abreast, walked fifty or increased and fed by one cascade after sixty young men, chiefly of the mining or another, foams and dashes along over its artisan class. This ceremony is peculiar huge granite boulders. The line goes to this part of Spain, and has only exist- DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. I 17 ed since the Republic was formed. It is called a civil funeral. The ceremony is simple enough; the band (of advanced Republicans) marches to the house! whence the funeral is to come, and forms in a semicircle around the door, with all the followers; they then march to the! cemetery, play one last lively Republican air, in token that the innocent has gone to a better country, and is safe en manos de Dios, leaving the little flimsy coffin on one of the stones, until the grave digger can find time to inter it. The law in other days was, that no fune- ral should take place without a priest, but this was repealed by the Republic, and permission given to all to bury with or without a religious ceremony. It is sad, I must confess, to witness such a spectacle; it is a defiance of the religion of their fathers, from men who absolutely have no faith at all to cling to in its place. Strangely enough, I have never seen a grown-up person buried with a civil funeral. The most striking part of a Spanish funeral, is the number of those who follow. Every friend of the be- reaved family, every distant relation, those in the same street, and all who knew the dead man, leave their work and follow him to his last resting-place. No women ever follow; no special mournino- seems to be used. A few days after my arrival I was inJ troduced to the Mayor of the town, him- self an Intransigente, but not an ultra-red. Here is the blot of the Spanish Republic, that there are Republicans and Repub- licans ; the moderates are divided, the ultras are divided, and they will not, even in face of the ruin of their country, unite. This man, Intransigente himself, saw the danger to our town from his advanced brethren of the same ordermen who live in the mountains of the Morena, whose one idea is equality of property, and the dividing of their country into countless small cantones, or states, and who descend on any town at will, which is ungarrisoned,and simply demand and receive from the frightened inhabitants any sum they choose to name. I should say that during the summer our town had absolutely no I garrison at all. The Alcalde, to his honour be it spoken, equipped and armed, and kept at his own expense, some three hundred Voluntarios, to defend the property of his fellow townsmen, Eng- lish and Spanish, from the descent of the insurgents. Nightly they walked the town, and guarded the threshing floors from fire. One night the rumour was spread, The Intransigentes from the Sierra are in the town. Yes. They had descended to the number of fifteen or twenty, and were drinking in the very fonda I had occupied a few nights before. They had come to levy contributions, and to proclaim our town an independent canton. You, in England, would have taken them prisoners at once, with a force of three hundred men to support you. We, howeverthat is, our author- ities did no such thing. Let me tell you what befell them. At midnight the Voluntarios marched down to the fonda: armed they were to the teeth ; behind them followed a string of mules and donkeys. At one oclock that morning some fifteen or twenty men on beasts of burden, guarded on each side by a string of red-capped Voluntarios, marched out of the town, and were taken to a spot twelve miles off, andshot? nobut simply told to dismount, and not enter our citys walls a~ain! I asked one of the authorities why this was so? Why, said he, gravely and sadly, for aught I know those very mens party may hold the reins of government to-morrow, and some of them being men of position, may themselves be liberated, and hold office. And then? said I. Why, then, where would I be? This little visit of gentlemen from the Morena, however, bore fruit afterwards, in a way we little expected. One. night I passed at twelve oclock up the dark and silent street in which the barracks of the Voluntarios stood. I had always been glad to see the gleam of their sentrys bayonet, and the red tips of their ciga- rillos, as the guard sat waiting for any fire or other emergency, and smoked the night away. To-night the barrack-door was closed; the sentry absent; the bar- racks deserted. I could not think what it meant. Next morning the town was in a ferment. The main body of our trusty defenders, arms and all, had marched boldly through the streets the evening before, openly announcing their intention to join the Intransigentes in the Sierra, and once more our town was undefended. A strange picture then presented itself. Spanish families, in some cases, sent for their employ~s, from olive farm and mine, to come in nightly to the casas, and act as body guards. In the house next to my own, some twenty men armed sat throughout the night around and within the casa of their master, and drove away ix8 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, alarm with frequent copas de vino, and the tinkle of guitar, as light feet danced the fandango until morning dawned. Arms were carried by hundreds in the streets and the Plazza; journeying out- side the wall was at an end. One morning, I was standing at the open window, looking out on the olive groves and withered plains, waiting for breakfast, and enjoying the cool morning air; suddenly, the maid who had gone for the fruit and bread for our early meal, entered the room with outspread hands. What is the matter now? I asked. Mucha g6nte, mucha g6nte en la Plazza, was her excited answer, pointing out of window towards the olive groves. Scanning the avenues with my glass, I saw a little band of sixty or eighty men under arms. These were none other than our friends who had deserted a few nights before. Finding provisions run shortin the Sierra, they had made a de- scent at early morn on the Plazza (where the market is held), and taken ample stores of bread, fruit, and meat; and were now almost within gun-shot of the town, calmly smoking their cigarillos and dividing the spoil. Seven or eight hours after, a flying column of General Pavias army, some 2,000 strong, bringing back peace to Andalusia, passed over the very spot where the deserters had stood, and en- tered the town, to restore order I They had come, flushed with victory, from the storming of Seville. Next day an edict went forth that all fire-arms should be delivered to the troops, under pain of punishment; the soldiers entered any disaffected house, and two mule-carts, piled with our townsmen s arms, went away with the troops. I can hardly tell you how far behind the age, in civilization, are these towns in the interior. The streets unpaved and un- lighted, save here and there with an oil lamp; children up to the age of nine and ten constantly running about the streets stark-naked, not however girls; in a town of thirty thousand people not a sin- gle book-shop, the only books, chiefly of a religious order, being procurable once a yearat the feria, or annual fair. It may amuse you, however, to know that the first three hooks that met my eye were translations of Scotts Guy Man- nering, the Bible (in Spanish, of course), and a copy of Regula Clan. Again, people talk much of Spanish ladies; and certainly the higher classes are in some cases very beautiful, and in their grace- ful mantillas, trailing dresses, and stately walk have no equal, but they are strangely uneducated, and their musical powers very slender ; still, the Spanish women, as a rule, are good, really religious, very affectionate mothers, very generous friends. But there are no schools, and hardly any governesses, so how can they learn Let me here, as one who is neither Carlist nor Republican, nor a bi~ot in religion, but who simply wishes well to a country where he has received kindness from all parties, pay a passin~ tribute to the large-heartedness of the Spaniards. A few weeks since I was in a difficulty, and appealed to a passing stranger, a Spanish fondista (hotel-keeper) for help. The help required was readily and freely given, and, as I shook the hand of my generous friend at parting, I thanked him warmly for his help, and inquired who and what be was. Never mind what I am, was the ready answer; Protestant or Catholic, Republican or Carlist, you stood in need of help, and we are brothers because we are Chris- tians. LETTER H. You cannot think how entirely different Spanish domestic life is from what it is in England, nor would you credit it were I to tell you how rough and rude is the life of the lower how ephemeral and pur- poseless the pursuits of the higher classes. Let us take a glimpse of family life in the middle class. The Spanish houses are built chiefly of the hard but porous sand or iron-stone, quarries of which abound in the interior; they have some ten or twelve rooms, all of which are paved with stone, or large tiles, for in this country of dust and burning heat the thermometer has varied from 570 to 950 throughout the summer no carpets seem to be used, save just in one room, in the heart of the winter. The stable is at the back of the house, and horses, mules, and carriabes all pass through the hall just as do the inmates of the house. I have often been taking a refresco with the sefior and his sposa in the hall, and we have had to move the little table to let the servant and his mules pass through! Every morning the creada, or Spanish maid-servant, takes her wa- tering-pot, and carefully lays the dust, and cools the room with an abundant sprink- ling of aqua fresca. At early morn the mas- ter rises, and his little cup of chocolati, an DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 119 egg, and a slice of melon await him in the sala, or large sitting-room to English eyes a most comfortless place ; very large, stone-flagged, with a few massive chairs, walls painted in the rudest way, and one large table in the, midst. The rooms, owing to the heat, are always kept darkened by means of closed shutters throughout the day: some of the windo ~s have glass, some not: but all are strongly protected, without exception, by a strong cage of massive ironwork outside. The seflora has her chocolati in her bedroom, at the open window, enjoying the fresh morning breeze. All the Spaniards rise as a rule at five or six in the summer to enjoy the only enjoyable time of the summer day; at one oclock they have dinner the comida and after that follows the two hours siesta in a darkened room. Even- ing then draws on, the delicious night- breeze rises and blows freshly from the hills, and the ladies go out in groups to the alamedo for the passao, or walk. Such is the Spanish ladys day. She has, however, her creadas to look after: and, above all, her dresses to make, or super- intend, and her graceful mantilla to ar- range. It is quite a striking sight to pass down the streets from six to eight at night, and see the graceful carriage of the head, and the stately upright walk of the Spanish ladies, with their long white dresses trailing behind them in a cloud of dust: how they manage to walk over the rough, unpaved, uneven streets with- out a trip is a mystery. At about ten all retire to rest, to rise up refreshed for anoher uneventful day. As regards the master of the house, he really seems to have but one interest in life, and that is, Politics. He may ride out to view his olive farm, or his mine and you will certainly meet him in his shop, his casino, or his friends casa, smoking the inevitable cigarillo, and chatting, or making a bargain. But there is absolutely no reading of any sort, not even a book of the calibre of a three vol- ume novel. Politics, politics, are every- thing to him, and of politics he seems never to tire. I was but yesterday talk- ing with a friend., here, a professional man, one who would give up all for the sake of his cause, and during the whole weary evening we seemed to have nothing in common. At last I bethought myself of the unfailing subject, and said, What is your opinion of Seflor Caste- lars enforcing the penalty of death again? In a moment all was changed: his look of utter apathy had given place to the keenest enthusiasm, and knock- ing the cigarillo out of his mouth, he said, with flashing eyes, and flushed cheeks, Castelar is a statesman, a poet, and an orator; he knows and says that, in desperate cases, desperate remedies must be applied; so he does right for awhije to enforce once more capital pun- ishment in our army; for me, I am a Re- publican of Republicans, and I consider capital punishment opposed to the true spirit of Christianity. I desire nothing for my country but to see her sons free; free to serve their God as they like, as their unfettered conscience tells them; freedom in their families ; freedom from slavery in their colonies ; that is the wish of Heaven; that is my wish also. You will say, what, then, are the pleas- ures of the Spaniards? I asked that question too, and received for answer, shooting in the sierra; a pic-nic in the campo ; the annual ferias (fairs); and the bano del rio (river bath). It was a piping hot evening in July last, and we were all in this house fairly exhausted with the long unbroken drought and heat, when my friend said, Let us join the ladies to-morrow, and get a bath in the river. The thought of any change to break the monotony of daily life, especially by the coolness of a bathe in the Guadalquivir, was tempting, and I thankfully accepted the proposal. We had a long ride (three miles) across the campo, or open country, to get to the river, so it was arranged that we should ride down thither at sunrise, four oclock, the following morning, the sefloras going in a springless covered cart before us. Before the sun broke into view we were in the saddle, after swallowing a glass of aquadiente, a kind of cognac and aniseed, the spirit of the Interior. I shall never forget the wildness of the ride. The morning was quite grey, and a chilly air blowing from the hills, as we passed outside the town walls, and en- tered upon the threshing-floors. These threshin~,,-floors are simply strips of dusty land where the corn is brought and threshed; day by day, all round the town, the unmuzzled oxen are seen tread- ing out the corn; and boys driving tiny little carriages, with wooden spikes, among the rich full ears, round and round the floors ; as soon as all is threshed it is stored in sacks, and carried into the camera, or granary, at the top of each house ; and the p~ga, or loose straw- 120 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, chaff, piled up for the horses and mules sky of fast-deepening blue; on my left provender, for Andalusian horses know was a tremendous chasm, the bed of a no taste of hay. As we passed the floors, mountain torrent now dry, sixty to two the guards, gun in hand, were slowly hundred feet in sheer depth, running rising up, like ghosts, from their bed of down to the rio straw, rubbing their eyes, and lighting At last we were at the river; and for their cigarillos. These men, who are the first time I stood on the banks of the generally old dependents of the owners, far-famed Guadalquivir. Our bathing- live all day and night on the floors, and place and our method were as follows: one of them told me his health was First we unsaddled our horses, put a better in the two months of that duty halter on them, and gladly they plunged than all the year round. Huge dogs, too, into our bathing-place to enjoy the bath. were sharing in the duties of the guards, I stood still to see the place. A magnifi- barking at our early footsteps, but never cent view it was. A few miles in front, presuming so well were they trained stretching farther than eye could reach, to cross over the boundary line of their lay the serrated edges of the Sierra own floor. Morena. In the river bed all was fertile The ride across the campo, or open and green ; and all along its peaceful country, was not interesting. It consists banks, and overhanging its waters, were here of far-stretching wastes upon wastes, the beautiful rose-pink oleanders, the treeless but not barren, for corn, and lilies of the valley of ~vell-loved story. peas, and oats have been reaped there- An old mill-house, with its clumsy wheel, from in our months of May and June. and a couple of pomegranates, shaded There are no sign-posts; and the. roads one corner of this part of the river, and are mere tracks, which the fierce rains of under their shade, sitting up to their winter obliterate. They are knee-deep shoulders in the water, on the huge round in fine-dust, and, unless careful, you step boulders of which the bottom of the river into a crack and sprain your ancle. is composed, were groups of Spanish The only objects of interest I saw vere ladies! Truly it was a pretty sight. They the enormously high thistles, often sat, as though on chairs, clothed to the twelve or fourteen feet high, covering neck in bathing gowns of the gaudiest what were just now corn-fields; and a colours red, grey, yellow, and blue; cloud of white vultures from the Sierra and holding in one hand their umbrellas, Morena alighting to breakfast on the car- and with the other hand fanning them- case of an ox which had dropped dead. selves, they formed a most picturesque The only persons we passed were the group. men and women with their donkeys, Just above them we were fain to un- laden with fruit for the early mornings dress, and tumble in; and we too, like market in the plazza, who saluted us, one them, sat down on the boulder chairs (the and all, with sleepy looks of wonder, and river was not above four or five feet the inevitable Spanish salutation, Vaya deep), and lazily allowed the fast-flowing usted con Dios Anglic?, Good-bye yellow stream it is full of iron and God be with you, on your journey. sulphur to soothe our skin and nerves, At last the three weary miles of dust and give us strength and coolness. and thistles was over, and the beautiful, I thought the bathing promiscuously silver Guadalquivir here not far from was enough; but suddenly I heard its source showed before and beneath shouts on the further bank, and a crowd us. Just as we came within sight of its of muleteers and mules came down the silver windings the haze of grey and pur- rocky incline, for their mornings bath. ple broke away from the sierra, and you In a moment two of the men were un- saw in a moment the cloud turn into a dressed,and mules and men struggling jagged edge of dark brown rugged hills, about in the yellow water. I narrowly and the whole river and landscape be- escaped being struck with the front hoof come one mass of hot crimson light, of one of the former. They, like our- Just as I was gazing at the barren mag- selves, sat in the co6l current for one nificence of the prospect, my companion hour, then slowly left the rio, and crawled called out, Mind where you are riding up the bank. For ourselves ladies to! and as I looked sharply round, I and men we spread our mantas saw that we had got on to a narrow slop- (rugs) on the sandy bank, and slowly ing path, not five feet wide. On the dressed. right rose up great boulders of granite Will you not bathe once more this rock; far above, half shut out, was the summer, said I to a Spanish lady. No, DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 121 indeed not, was the answer. I have had my baths up to the odd number. What her especial odd number was I know not; but all the Spaniards have a fixed number of baths, beyond which they think it wrong to go; and in all cases it must be, they believe, for healths sake, an odd number! LETTER III. LET me recur for a moment to two points already mentioned. Since giving the description of a cere- mony which is common to a very few towns in the interior, and is called a civil funeral, another, equally signifi- cant, has come under my notice. Like the before-mentioned, it is confined, I fancy, to the lower orders and those -of very extreme opinions it is a ceremony known as a civil christenincr The sympathizers march, as before, with their brass band to the house of the newly- born infant, and, after playing a succes- sion of Republican tunes over it, the spokesman of the party names it by some expressive name, as Liberty, or Equality, and the like. With this the ceremony is complete. The signifi- cance of such a proceeding, as pointing out the march of things, is only too pain- fully obvious. The mockery of calling it a Christening is almost calculated, were it not too sad a subject to joke upon, to provoke a smile. Speaking to a Spaniard on this subject, she said: Why, I said. to these people, You can never make a child a Christian by play- ing a tune over it, and the listeners merely smiled. The next point to which I recur is the Spanish love for politics. It may be in- teresting to give a short account, while on this subject, of some of the tiny pho- tographs, sold at two or three pence apiece, with which, during a horse-fair lately held at a town in the interior, the sides of the booths were studded. Here is one: A group of gentlemen, in full dress, are standing round a female figure with flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other Liberty. Around her head is a halo of lustre, and above it the words Espafioles el rey es impos- sible. On her breast is a shield with the inscription Goberno del pueblo por el pueblo. Hoinbre libre en la familia. Familia libre en el municipio. Municipio libre en la provincia. Nacion libre en la humanidad. Vivan los derectios del hombr~. Underneath the feet of Liberty lie a crown and sceptre shattered to pieces, and tied to her waist are two lion cubs; on their scarves being written Down with capital punishment! Down with slavery! Among the knot of gentle- men the well-known features of Emilio Castelar and Pi y Margall are easily dis- tinguishable. Surely such little things as these, trivial as they may seem, show that the heart of this once great nation is panting and yearning for that freedom to which she has too long been a stranger, in religious as well as in civil affairs. The other photographs are of a coarser nature. In one, Spain is represented as a starving gipsy-hag, shivering on the ground; at her back the palace of Mad- rid in flames. A frame of nine-pins, each one having for its top the head of some Republican statesman, stands on her right hand, while Carlista and Intran- sigente are vying with each other in knockino- them over one, two, three, down I ~ Some of the photographs pub- licly exhibited in the street, both of a political and of other character, were so grossly coarse and indecent that they would have been criminal in England. Notably so some of the late Queen Isa- bella. And now let me come to the lower class- es and to the Spanish character two subjects closely allied ; for nowhere so well-defined and marked are the out- lines of Spanish character as in her wholly uneducated masses. The dress of the lower classes is very varied and picturesque. The women wear a short skirt of some gaudy colour, especially gaudy on holidays; a red, yel- low, or snowy-white handkerchief over the head, which forms their only protec- tion (save their magnificently thick tresses of bound-up hair) against the burning, almost tropical sun. Generally they have small, well-formed feet and hands, on the latter of which one or two massive brass or silver rings are seen; on some of these I have noticed the simple word Recibiado ( Received ), on others No me olbides ( Forget me not ), while others again wear~a ring with the image of the saint on ~vhose day they were born. These rings can be bought at the various ferias, or annual fairs, for sums varying from two pence up to two shillings. The dress of the men consists of a coloured shirt, a short jacket, and a pair of coarse woollen trousers. They do not wear boots, as a rule, but sandals bound 122 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, with string round the ancle: these san- dals are of unbleached leather. Many of the women ~vear sandals of esparto grass, costing ahout fourpence; many again are barefoot. There are, however, two articles of dress without which no mans toilet is complete the manta, or rug, used at home to sleep in, and as a covering from rain, or a bed, when on a journey; and the faja, or waist-belt, pronounced facca. This last is wholly indispens- able: a muleteer, gardener, miner, or bricklayer would gladly do his days work without his sombrero, or thick felt pork-pie hat, but without his faja it were useless to expect it. Let me describe this necessary article of clothing. It is a long piece of very thin cloth, in length about eight feet, in width about nine inch- es ; in colour, always bright scarlet, black, or crimson. One end is tucked into the trousers just at the ~vaist, it is then wound round and round the waist tightly, forming an elastic bandage about nine or ten inches wide, the remaining end is tucked in tightly, and then the fajais complete. The support of this to the back, loins, and abdomen is marvellous, and whether your calling force you to walk, ride, lift, sit upright~ or dig, it is equally a comfort. Once get used to it, and you cannot dispense with it. The cheapest of these cost about four pesetas (a peseta is equal to tenpence), and a silk one about four dollars. These are worn in many cases by the better classes also. Nor is this the only use of the faja. It serves as the belt for the revolver and knife which are carried by every Span- iard ( Why do you carry a knife ? I asked of a very intelligent Spaniard, and the answer was a very significant one, I do not know whom I may meet ) and in its ample folds the little purse, is kept concealed. The poorer class of Spaniards carry the whole of their worldly goods about with them; the richer keep all their wealth concealed about their house. In the towns of the Interior no one makes use of a bank: if you ask the reason, and re- mind them that they lose interest, a Span- ish gentleman will say, Yes, but that is better than to lose the principal. No Spanish labourer ever walks out- side his door without his knife, and those who can afford it carry a revolver too. The knives are clasp-knives, opening with a spring, so as not to close without the spring being purposely loosened, when once opened ; in shape they are exactly like the scimitar of old, but taper towards the point, and for about the two last inch- es are two-edged. Some of them, evi- dently made solely for the purpose of fighting, are a foot long in the handle and as much in the blade. Such an one was bought, out of curiosity, by an ac- quaintance of mine at a fair not long since. On reaching his house, he opened it in the presence of his creada, or maid- servant: truly it was a hun~ry, hideous- looking weapon ; it seemed to thirst for blood. The poor creada shook her head. Ah, she said, Sefior, Sefior; a few years back, in the good old times, you would have had five years at Cuba for being in possession of such a weapon. This is true enough: and the law to which she referred is, I believe, still un- repealed, but in these days of (almost) ut- ter licence and anarchy, these knives, generally with the motto on the blade, Viva la Republica democratica federal are sold by the thousand, openly, in every street and market-place. An ordi- nary one, used either for stabbing or for eating, is from four to six inches long in the handle, and as much in the blade. The Spaniards have regular duels with these knives: and a well-matched pair of duellists will cut and thrust for ten min- utes, each turning aside the thrusts of his adversary on his sombrero, or thick felt hat. Some men are great adepts, and are known to have killed two and even three adversaries, though the crime may not have been brought home to them. A short time ago a man was carried into the hospital badly hurt by a stab. One of the official guards of the town ex- amined the wound, and shook his head, sagely : I know well enough ~ said he, whose hand dealt that thrust. On be- ing asked, he said he knew by the char- acter and disposition of the stab, and the spot where it was aimed at, whose prac- tised hand had been at work. While on the subject of knives, I must be allowed to make a still further digres- sion. There is a wide-spread impression among Englishmen, that the knife is a weapon used always by stealth, and one that needs no skill. This is far from be- ing the truth, or, at least, the whole truth. The general run of things when the knife is used is this : Two men have a quar- rel : words wax higher and higher ; they repair to a little roadside yenta, and drink a copa or two of vile wine. This heats their pa~sion still more: they repair out- DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 123 side the house, knives are drawn, som- bad Spanish will be interpreted by some breros taken off. Both receive several bystander for you; the copa of xvine cuts, and at last one falls mortally wound- will be freely offered you (for your Span- ed. As a rule, the Spanish use of the ish peasant is very generous), and the in- knife is not a stab in the dark and run evitable cigarillo will be offered you ere away affair. It is a quarrel between two you leave. You will then be politely men, both of whom are on the alert. In helped on to your horse, and receive, in times of festivity, such as the annual a chorus, the usual viaticum, Vaya usted fairs, it is no uncommon thing for as con Dios, from one and all. many as nine or ten men to be carried Again, the poor Spaniard is witty, off to hospital, mortally wounded. though he i~as no education. From the Once more I recur to some of the other time of Sancho no one enjoys a joke so habits of the lower classes, thoroughly as he. Their fare is the very simplest. Bread A Spanish boatman, of the lowest class, and fruit, and fruit and bread, with now had picked up a smattering of broken and then, for the men, a copa (xvine- English. As. he rowed me across the glass) of Val de peflas (the rough red ferry, he asked for a light for his cigaril- wine of the country), is the staple of their lo, and when I handed him one of my last sustenance. The only thing about which Bryant and Mays patent safety matches, the Spaniards high and low are really looking at its colossal and substantial particular, is their water. - stem, he s aid, English INDEED fine- In a country where the women drink growzn~, tunberregular deals. I after- nothing whatever but agua (water) from wards learnt that he had been unloading years end to years end, and the men lit- deals with some of my countrymen. tle else, it is quite necessary to have that Another instance is this. A poor little little good; and good it is in all cases. cat the other day tumbled into my well, a Go into the poorest hut, only tenanted depth of forty feet. With the assistance. by a few wood-cutters or itinerant miners, of the servant, I got her out. On telling and ask for a cup of water, and the little I the man-servant of all the trouble we had jarro, or porous four-mouthed water- had, and how rejoiced I was at the skill jar, will be unhooked from the peg where of his fellow-servant, La salvadora de it hangs in the sun, and you will have a los gatos (the saviour of the cats), he drink of the purest, coldest water, from said, Yes, you could only have done one the choicest spring water perhaps thi~g better than get her out leave her brought from a distance of three miles in. by the water-carrier. Only be sure you Again, as to the intellz~gence of the hold the jarro up above your head with lower classes, they have a theory, and both hands, and pour the water down they illustrate it in practice, that you can your throat in a refreshing stream, for tell every persons character by his eye your manners are voted simply indecent and gait, and in their estimate of human if you touch the brim with your lips, character they rarely fail. Their percep- As regards education, the lower classes tion partakes quite of the marvellous. have absolutely none. Seventy per cent. Witness this instance. can neither read nor write. There are Some little time ago two men were no schools to speak of in the Inte- caught by the officials and charged with nor: even for the higher classes there a robbery upon a large scale. As is usu- are no governesses, and it is no uncom- ally the case in Spain, .they were interro- mon thing to find a well-born lady not gated first by the lowest of the officials; very well up to writing a letter. The low- both men stoutly swore they knew noth- er orders are, of course ,grossly super- ing whatever of it. The official scanned stitious. Fortune-tellers abound. There with a keen scrutinizinb glance the bold, is, however, a vast deal of natural cour- reckless faces of the two men before him, tesy, natural wit, natural intelligence, and then said, Take this (pointing to Unculturedand uneducated as he is, the one) outside for a few minutes till I come Spanish poor man has the manners of a to speak to him; then, added he, aside, thorough gentleman. Go to the lowest I have a MEDICINE that will make him road-side yenta (public-house), and el- tell us all as to the other, he is that sort bow your way amid the throng who are of man that you can never get anything drinking their vino tint?, and you will out of. He afterwards went out and ad- find a courtesy and a kindness to which ministered to the one outside a good an English roadside tavern is a stranger. sound thrashing with a hazel-rod, and The space you need will be cleared ; your after a.few strokes the hero confessed his 124 THE SENTENCE ON MARSHAL BAZAlNE. own guilt a fact the truth of which was abundantly proved afterwards by other and further evidence. The other man, who sub- sequently received a tremendous sentence, after being clearly proved guilty, refused to acknowledge his own guilt, and would not disclose the name of the receivers, though his half-pardon was made condi- tional upon his so doing. I will endeavour in my next letter to commence with that most striking of all Spanish domestic arrangements in the lower classes the care of the daughter until her marriage. From The Spectator. THE SENTENCE ON MARSHAL BAZAINE. Wx can see no reason whatever for objecting to the sentence on Marshal Bazaine, or for endorsing, except on grounds of policy, the recommendation to mercy which the tribunal forwarded to the President of the French Republic. That tribunal itself, composed as it was of the old soldiers of France, and pre- sided over by the ablest of her Princes, is in itself a sufficient guarantee that on technical grounds the sentence is just, and for the rest, the world knows enough almost to dispense with evidence. We set aside absolutely the charges about Woerth and Gravelotte, first, bedause we do not believe them; and secondly, because proof of them rests, and must rest solely, in the Marshals conscience; and still there remains enough to con- demn any great soldier in any country in the world. The 4th of September oc- curred, the Government of Defence was set up, and towards the end of the month that Government outside Paris was in the hands of a Dictator who so roused France, so disciplined and generalled his raw levies, that he compelled Count von Moltke to resolve that if better news did not arrive, he must raise the siege of Paris and march to the defeat of the one- cv~d Genoes e lawyer whom it pleases Englishmen to despise, but who, had Ba- zaine but been loyal, would have delivered France, or made for her honourable terms. Marshal Bazaine, with 170,000 splendid troops, the last rebular army of France, was in Metz, giving full occupa- tion to the Second German Army. and till it was released, Count Moltkc had no great body of troops to move, except the quarter of a million of men who, in a fearfully extended line, invested Paris. If h.e had moved, the Count might per- haps have calculated with certainty on destroying the army at and around Coul- miers; but if he had moved, France would have been again herself, the spell would have been broken, the French people, one-third of them trained sol- diers, would have risen, and although the Germans could not with their discipline and their generalship have been beaten, they could have been made, as the South- erners were in the American ~var, to give life for life, a game always safe for the invaded. In the midst of this wonderful scene what was Marshal Bazaine, with the last regular army of France, an army of 170,000 men, doing? Was he helping the Government of Defence? He him- self says No, for he could not recognize the rabble of the 4th of September. Was he adhering to the dynasty to which he professed personal attachment, and which had raised him from a mere Gen- eral of Division to the Command-in-Chief of the French army? Certainly not, for he was advising the Empress-Regent to yield Alsace for a throne, and on her re- pudiation of the suggestion, in a spirit which in our eyes condones half or all the offences she had committed against France, he neither obeyed nor distinctly refused to obey, but went upon his own course. That course, it is certain from the evidence and from the judgment, was not to deliver France. We do not know that he intrigued with the Germans, and should be inclined to take Prince Fred- erick Charless word as conclusive that he did not; but he certainly made no use whatever of the mighty force at his dis- posal, which could, in the judgment of the soldiers on that tribunal, have broken out of Metz. Of all commanders in the war, Trochu was the least self-confident, yet he affirmed that, with sufficient regu- lar troops, he could have broken out of Paris; and Bazaine had them, had drilled man for drilled man nearly as many as his enemy, more guns, and ample pro- vision for a ten days march. Yet he did absolutely nothing, called Councils of War, told them secrets till they remon- strated, declared battle hopeless, and finally surrendered on terms so ignomin- ious, that his most dashing officers burnt their flags, rather than obey orders for their surrender. If there were the faint- est suspicion that the Marshal had lost his nerve, that he was incompetent, or that he was afraid of disobedience in the ranks, his conduct might have been intel- ligible; but the man was, and remains, THE PRUSSIAN REFORMATION.~~ 125 as brave as steel, he knew everything he shal Bazaine would have been that he had, wanted to know, and he was to the last in surrendering, obeyed either an inex- sovereign master of his army, and there orable necessity or the Government remains but one fatal conclusion. He which he considered legal, but he totally was not fighting for France, or even for failed to prove either proposition. The the dynasty he professed to respect, but Empress-Regent declined peremptorily for his own hand, and either had grounds to listen to his propositions; and as for hoping, or in mere mad ambition, Baron von Andlan has shown, there hoped, that if his army were saved by never was a time when part of his army surrender, he could assume the Regency could not have escaped, or the whole, by and protect order. He, therefore, amid deadly fighting, could not have broken weeping officers and maddened soldiers, through a thinly extended line. Suppose in the very nick of time, when ten days he had lost half, and it takes days to lose more would have saved France but have so many in the field, the remainder could saved her for the Republic, surrendered still have raised the siege of Paris, which, to the Germans, thus releasing 15o,ooo with an army outside, could not have men to crush Gambettas Generals. We gone on, or could have acted as a solid leave utterly aside General de Pourcets nucleus for the recruits whom Gain- worst allegations, we reject for the mo- betta was bringing in scores of thousands ment the bare suspicion of transactions from the south and west. Marshal Ba- with the enemy, we press only the charge zaine failed either to save France or to that a Marshal of France, a man of bat- obey the Government he admits to have tIes, a soldier commanding 170,000 men, been legal, or to assist the Government did not do all honour and science re~ which was defending France, and for that quired of him to do, to avoid capitulation; failure the Tribunal justly held him re- and what remains to~. say, save that for sponsible with his life. That his life such an offence, so committed, and with j should be taken, is of course, under the such results, no penalty is possible ex- circumstances improbable or impossible, cept the one awarded unanimously by the for executions now-a-days shock Europe. Military Tribunal. That would be the His action, whatever its motive, assisted sentence in any country of the world, Germany, and the President can hardly Great Britain included. Many of our fail to allow him the benefit of that vast contemporaries are doubtful; but sup- and horrible confusion which then reigned pose England invaded, and all to depend in France. But that he cannot remain a upon the determined defence of our Sec- Marshal of France is certain, arid the ond Army of the Red Hills, and a rough reported commutation of his sentence and unpopular but capable General to to 20 years seclusion that is, life im- surrender his army because, forsooth, prisonment is not only just but merci- Mr. G. Trevelyan had been appointed ful, and will we trust warn the French Dictator, could anything short of force Generals that, amidst all the jar of par alter the determination of the people, ties, and principles, and pretenders, there that that General should die? Those is always France to be defended, always a who think so, those who believe that flag to be the subject of devotion, always England would be less enraged than a people which survives everythin~, to France, less absolutely resolute to clear award its gratitude or its hate. Had Da- her soldiers names, have little notion of mouriez been but honest, he might, in- their countrymen or of the temper into stead of fading away into night, have an- which the defeat they have so seldom ticipated Napoleon. suffered would precipitate them, even if it were not accompanied with the sus _______________ picion France has so often felt, but Eng- land neverfor the single instance in our annals, the betrayal of an expedition From The Spectator. by John Churchill, was unknown, and is THE PRUSSIAN REFORMATION. still, as we think, unproved that she ARcHBISHOP MANNING has had another had been selfishly betrayed. Any Gen- animated controversy with the Tivzes- this eral, if he had the fame of the Duke of week on the drift of the recent Prussian Wellington, would, under such circum- legislation, on which we have something stances, be shot with as little mercy as to say. We will not refer to the old mat- any private soldier who betrayed a des- ter in dispute as to the motive of the new patch. laws. The Times says very truly that The single argument in favour of Mar- Archbishop Manning brings no proof that, 126 THE PRUSSIAN REFORMATION. before the Faick laws were introduced, the Roman Catholic clergy in Prussia were loyal to the German Empire. But how can a man he expected to bring proof of the loyalty of a class? Where loyalty exists, it is not usual to have ~proofs of it, but only to have no disproofs of it. If a German Protestant had to hring proofs of the loyalty of the English Dissenters to the Crown, would it not he sufficient for him to assert that there had never been any evidence of the contrary? We do not expect the Nonconformist clergy to be constantly signing addresses of affection and fidelity. All we expect is that society shall receive with surprise and incredulity any assertion that as a class they are disaffected. And that is just what the Prussian Roman Catholics saywe suppose trulyof the attitude of the Catholic clergy of Prussia before the recent legislation. Every one knows that this was not true of the Bavarian Catholics. Their violent Particularism was mixed up with their religious belief, and manifested itself in ways that gave very natural ai~d just offence to the Prussian Government. But the Prussian Ecclesiastical laws were not made for Bavarian, hut for Prussian Catholics, and if there is any proof of the existence of a seditious spirit amongst them before Prince Bismarck put himself at the head of the anti-Romanist movement, it is cer- tainly very unfortunate for the Prussian Government that it has never produced it. It is perfectly true that Archbishop Manninb has failed to prove their loyalty, just as Prince Bismarck has failed to prove their disloyalty. But neither law nor public opinion expects proof of good conduct, while it does expect very ex- plicit proof of a crime, or even of a crim- inal disposition. On this head, therefore, we do not believe that the position of the Times is for a moment tenable. But the Times gives the question a new turn, by comparing the Prussian legislation of the last year or two to the Tudor laws against the Roman Catholic Church in England, whereupon the Roman Catholic Archbishop grasps at the analogy, and asks us how it is possi- ble we can expect Roman Catholic prel- ates and priests to submit to a compul- sory Protestant reformation? Now, that is a new, and as it seems to us, very in- structive turn to give to the question. How far would anything like the policy of the Tudor Reformation be really wise and defensible in modern Europe? We should reply at once, that so far as the secularization of Church property subject to great moral abuses is concerned, we should rebard that policy as not only defensible, but in the hibhest sense just, in modern times ; that so far as complete disestablishment is concerned, we should often hold the same ; that so far as the forci- ble dissolution of orders and corporations which can be shown to strike at the roots of moral order in society is concerned, we should hold the same ; but that so far as regards any interference with the system of religious worship and ecclesi- astical government freely adopted by men who submit and adhere cordially to the ordinary moral laws of modern States, we should hold any imitation of that part of the Tudor policy in modern times one of the most wilful and superfluous of all offences against the explicit political teaching of centuries, as well as the es- sential spirit of the Christian revelation. If we hold it right, as all Liberals do, to divert the uses of Charitable Trusts from the support of obsolete purposes to those really useful to the State it is hardly deniable that Church property, if once shown to be employed in fostering indolence or vice (as has been shown, we believe, in Italy), ought to be reclaimed by the State, and consecrated to the pub- lic benefit. But then this element in the Tudor Reformation has no application to Prussia. The Catholic Church is very poor there, and has been chiefly depen- dent on annual support from the State. No one even pretends that the Catholic Church in Prussia is affected by the gross abuses which were brought to light in England before our own Reformation. Then, we go further, and say that if the Prussian Government has really con- vinced itself that the Catholic clergy in Prussia do not exert their influence on the side of civil order, or even if they do, that they exert an influence unfavourable to the intellectual culture and moral vigour of the people, the State is justified in withdrawing, after fair notice given, all the State grants to such a Church, and would not even be justified in not with- drawing them, unless it held that the unfavourable influences exerted would increase, instead of diminishing, with the divorce between State and Church. Bnt Prussia has not as yet shown any inten- tion of disestablishing and disendowing the Roman Catholic clergy as a whole. Again, as to the expulsion of religious Orders, we should regard that as a ques- tion depending strictly on the evidence given as to the inner morale of each of I THE PRUSSIAN REFORMATION. 127 the Orders, and its tendency to subvert the moral order of society and the State. England has long given up her policy of forbidding even the Jesuits, we suppose by far the most dangerous of such Orders to Protestant conceptions of duty and culture to live amongst us, and, as far as we know, there is no country where the Jesuits are more harm- less. Still, this is a question which can hardly be decided without special refer- ence to the political circumstances of each State; and possibly, in a new em- pire of very heterogeneous materials, the Jesuits may be more dangerous if toler- ated than if expelled. But it is impossi- ble to understand the principle on which orders of purely devout tendencies, like the Redemptorists, have been treated on the same footing as the Jesuits, except on the theory that Prussia is intent on making an undiscriminating attack on all the strongholds of the Roman Catholic faith. But what we do maintain to be utterly unjust, impolitic, and contrary to the whole drift of the historical teaching of centuries, is to attempt to suhject any Church and any worship which is re- garded as admissible at all under mod- ern conceptions of the moral ends of gov- ernment, to a forcible control wholly in- consistent with its principle. We be- lieve that the interference of the State is properly limited to dealing with the moral and social outcome of creeds, not with creeds themselves. If you wont vaccinate your child for religious reasons, if you wont educate your child for reli- gious reasons, if you insist on widows burning themselves for religious reasons, if you excite tumult and disorder for religious reasons, if you foster pauperism for religious reasons, the State ought to interfere, and does, but not with the motives, and reasons, only with the re- sults, with which it is properly charged and concerned. The Tudor legislation went far beyond this. It forbade Roman Catholic ceremonials, for instance, by penal laws, just as the Roman Catholics forbade Protestant worship, and both were utterly wrong. It is ridiculous to repeat to-day the blunders of the times of the Tudors. And it is because Prus- sia seems to us to be repeating them in the most glaring form, that we hold her recent legislation to be so utterly bad. But, says the Times, why do the Prus sian people so heartily support this legislation? Why, indeed? So far as we can see, simply because they have never really learned the lesson of religious freedom, and time has only changed them from persecutors of scepticism into per- secutors of superstition. We have never believed that Prince Bismarck sees any intrinsic reason for this vexatious and busy-bodyish legislation. All his earlier speeches showed us that he was himself as disinclined to it as the King. And we have never seen the least atom of evidence that he is really afraid of the Church he is persecuting. But he is well aware that he cannot head a great national movement without the cordial support of Liberal opinion. He is not in- clined to gain that support by giving back to the people of Prussia any of the vast influence exercised by the Throne and by the Army. And the only policy left to him is to make himself the intellectual expo- nent of the Liberals on some point which will not weaken the Administration. Ex- perience has shown him that the hitter anti-clerical feeling of the Prussian Lib- erals, anti-clerical feeling almost as much in relation to the Protestant as to the Catholic clergy, affords him the point of advantage he desires. And on this he has been for some time now act- ing with very sufficient success. That is our only interpretation of a policy which seems to us disastrous and reactionary in every true sense, though it is an ex- tremely popular policy among the intel- lectual Liberals of Prussia. But it is more than surprising, it is alarming, to hear the sympathetic tone in which Eng- lish Liberals talk of it. If that sympathy is sincere to-day, why should we not have a popular movement to-morrow to enable some Minister of Worship to veto all Cardinal Cullens and Archbishop Mannings appointments, to pry into Congregational elections and Presbyteri- an Synods, and send the Presidents of the Methodist Old and New Connections, if they should not choose to defer to State vetos on their nominations, to a State Court of Ecclesiastical Appeal. A Tudor Reforn~ationin the nineteenth century would be,in England at least, an impossible blunder and crime. Why is it otherwise in Prussia, except that the people of Prussia, though they have plenty of light, have never learned the sweetness of real religious charity? 128 MISCELLANY. LADIES LOGIC. In the talk of some ladies who move in a tolerably good position, but who have been imperfectly educated, I have heard droll specimens of illogical reasoning. The following are two instances. A married lady with a family, who lived in a villa in the exterior environs of London, was asked why she was at the expense of keeping a cow, see- ing that it would be surely much cheaper to buy milk for the household. Well, said she in reply, we keep the cow because we have a field quite at hand, which answers very nicely. But, was the rejoinder, why do you rent the field? The answer was: Be- cause, you know, we have got the cow! The other instance occurred in my young days at Peebles. A lady in reduced circumstances mentioned to a friend that she had just arranged to rent a house belonging to a baker in the town. The friend was somewhat sur- prised at the announcement, considering the ladys circumstances, and asked if the expense would not be too much for her. Oh, not at all, was the answer; well take bread for the rent! Dr. R. Chambers. A SOFT WORD. The art of saying an un- pleasant thing in a perfectly agreeable manner, is a very high accomplishment, which should be studied by all persons liable to be asked for loans. Some years ago there was a bankinrr- house in Edinburgh which gave general offence by the rude way that customers were some- times addressed. A tradesman leaving a bill for discount, would on his return have the bill thrown across the table, with the supercilious and loud remark: We dont know the par- ties. Tradesman retires affronted, and ever afterwards speaks of the unmannerliness of the bank. There was at the same time another banking establishment in the town, the oldest in the country, which was noted for its civility. It was presided over by Mr. F, an aged gentleman, who knew the value of a soft word. When a tradesman, as in the former case, was to be refused the discounting of a bill, the old banker carrie forth from his den, and address- ing the ~vould-be customer in a friendly and confidential way, said: I am sorry it is not convenient to discount your bill to-day; but be so good as to give my compliments to your wife! Tradesman retires a little chop- Fallen, but not displeased, and ever after lauds the politeness of the bank. Dr. F. Chambers. ENGLISH RESERVE. Lord Ashburton, in conversing with me at Sir James Clarkes, su0gested a reason for the cold formal manners of English servants, which had struck him when he was himself a subaltern of office under Lord Ripon being then a young man, I presume, and not come to his title. He said when he came into the room of one of his superiors, he observed great formality, that he might protect himself from being treated over- familiarly in his turn. He thinks the English servants have a similar view. It is a defensive measure. [In this last sentence, is in a great degree explained the principle of English re- serve. To a certain extent, reserve may be imputed to shyness, but it is substantially a defence against over-familiarity and intrusive ness.] Dr. R. Chambere. CHINESE WATERPROOF VARNISH FROM BLOOD. Dr. Scherzer, an eminent Austrian naturalist, during a recent visit to China, learned the mode of preparing a waterproof varnish very extensively used in that country for mating boxes and other packages which it is desired to protect against moisture. For this purpose four parts of blood, fresh drawn, are mixed in four parts of powdered slaked lime and a small quantity of alum. One, two, or three coats of this mass, which is slightly viscid, will impart so great a degree of im- permeability to wood to which it has been ap- plied that it is said to be unnecessary to use the interior tin or lead lining to boxes for transporting delicate articles through the tropics. Owing to its cheapness it can be used for coating boxes containing sugar, coffee, tea, and other substances. AT Constantinople, according to a French writer, the jasmine is extensively grown for the manufacture of pipe stems (chibouqzees). For this purpose the stems are carefully trained until they have attained the desired length and thickness, care being taken to protect the bark by a covering of varnished linen or calico. Two or three times a year the bark is sponged with citron juice, which is said to give it the light color so much sought after. Some of these pipe stems are over sixteen feet in length, and sell for as much as $Ioo each. CONFUSION OF IDEAS. My brother W. once found a ladys brooch, which he next day advertised in the newspapers. Shortly after the announcement appeared, he was waited on by a lady who eagerly stated that she had lost a ring, and proceeded to describe it. But, said my brother, it was not a ring that I found ;it was a brooch. Oh, yes, replied the lady, but I thought you might have seen or heard something of my ring! Phrenolo- gists would call this a want of causality. It looks like a want of common-sense. Dr. R. Chambers.

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The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1545 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 17, 1874 0120 1545
The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1545 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ No. 1545. January 17 1874 ~ From Beginning, Volume V ) Vol. CXX, CONTENTS I. PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY, II. ROBERT HOLYS ILLUSION. Conclusion, III. RICHARD STEELE IV. SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE IN- TERIOR, DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. Part II., To MARRY AGAIN OR NOT BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT, ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE MIGRATORY BOGS V. VI. VII. VIII. Cornhill Magazine, Good Cheer, TempZe Bar, Macmillans Magazine, Chambers 7ournal, Saturday Review, Athenaum, Chambers 7ournaZ~ POETRY. THE YEARS, OUR LOST PET, 130j ORPHANHOOD, MISCELLANY, P U B LI SHED LIITTLLL EVERY SATURDAY BY & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGhT DOLLARI, remitted directly to the P bhiskers, the LIVING AOE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free oJs5ostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forwarding the money; nor when we club the LIVING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of Thu LIVING Ane is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should he made by hank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. 131 143 157 . 168 . 174 ISO 185 190 . 130 192 THE YEARS, ETC. 130 THE YEARS. A SHIMMER of white robes a pall just after, Then, bits of song and victors shout, anon; Now fast, now slow with mingled wail and laughter The motley, weird procession moveth on, And still from out the shadowy, dim To Be Another and another year glides stealthily. 0 phantom train! Your chill breath dulls our pleasures; Your footprints leave the furrows and the frost With ruthless hand ye gather up our treasures Till in the mist of by-gones they are lost And darkening windows, closing portals show The daughters of sweet harmony brought low! And yet, 0 passing years! 0 grim procession! A lavish store ye tossed into our hands Rare gems, tried gold ah yes we make con- fession, Your gifts well balanced all your stern de- mands. And many an offer~d prize our idle fingers lost Because, all heedlessly, we slumbered at our 1)ost Then fair, fresh, laughing year, with light steps gliding Out of the mystic shade the veiled Un- known In childlike faith, in patient hope abiding, We l)iace warm, welcome hands within thine own! Your touch may thrill and brighten or may loose the silver cord; It matters not we know thee an envoy from our Lord! B. E. E. OUR LOST PET. SHE went what time the birds of passage sought The sunny south, our first and only love; A short and pleasant loan, who only brought Joy to our hearts awhile, then soared above. A star dropped where nought star-like long may be Fair as a day-old fiowret washed in dew, With eyes so clear, we fancied we could see Her soul the Angel in her shining through. Departed bath she, like the first light snow, Quick melted in the early winter sun; And all of her we evermore may know Is, that a marvellous sight hath come and gone. ,For now, left lonely as we are again, Our only darling, gone beyond recall, Is unto us a vision in the brain, A dream within the heart, and that is all. Chambers Journal. ORPHANHOOD. THE shadow of the forest trees My childhood withered neath their spell, In the old home remembered well, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees Between me and the black sky spread, As I lay waking on my bed, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees I wept and struggled for the light, But all around was black as night, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees Robbed us of lifes enchanting plays; Both heart and stream were dark always, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees We heard of love and of the sun, But in our gloomy world were none, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees One morn they quivered in the blast, Wild moaned the storm, and broke at last The shadow of the trees. The shadow of the forest trees Mid tossing branches struggling through, I hailed a sky of happy blue Unshadowed by the trees. The shadow of the forest trees No longer hushed the streamlets song, In fierce wild mirth it sped along, Unshadowed by the trees. The shadow of the forest trees Clouded no more my heaven above; My heart awoke to raptured love, Unshadowed by the trees. Alas! alas ! the forest trees Once more the time grew dark and still, Murmured no more the poor lone nIl, Shadowed by forest trees. Alas! alas ! the forest trees Again they closed around my head, And love and hope and joy were dead, Shadowed by forest trees. Alas ! alas ! the forest trees The wind that woke the stream is past, This heart, wild beating, breaks at last, Shadowed by forest trees. The shadow of the forest trees Alas for heart! alas for stream! But both have had one bless~d gleam, Unshadowed by the trees. Despite the shadow of the trees, The heart has loved, the stream has sung, Now let their mournful knell be rung, Shadowed by forest trees. ISA BLAGDEN. PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 3 From The Corohill Magazine. I lo) at Naples in 1648 their Goddess Rea- PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY WILL the reflective reader ask himself why it is that French journalists absorb so much larger a share of public attention than the newspaper writers of other coun- tries? They are not more argumentative than the English, they are unquestionably less xvise than Germans, they yield to the Americans in the versatility of polemical invective, and even to the Irish in their favourite art of screaming about noth- ing; as to epi0rammatic wit, the Italians with their pasquinades are, in this respect, more than their masters. Frenchmen themselves explain the interest they excite by pretending that they are the leaders of human thou~ht; but this is a little piece of vanity with not much truth in it. The French are great adapters and magnifiers of other mens ideas, but their genius is not of the inventive sort. All that is practical in their political theories comes to them from England or America; and when the Communalists raised the stand- ard of rebellion in the name of what seemed to them a new and i-ndispensable right that is local self-government they were only claiming an institution which has flourished in Britain for now five hundred years. Even in philosophy, the Encyclop~dists of the eighteenth century, who are credited by their coun- trymen with having been the first apostles of rationalism, did nothing but follow the lead of Hobbes and Locke; and as their writings were at bottom rather attacks upon Popery and the Jesuits than delib- erate impeachments of the Christian dog- ma, it may be said that they were virtually continuers of the Reformation. The Revolutionists of 93 certainly seerbed to go a good way in experimental novelty, but there is scarcely a single one of their vagaries which, if we look to it, can be accepted as original. When they be- headed their king and republicanized the calendar they repeated acts perpetrated with much less fuss and disorder by the Roundheads; their Rights of Man were a plagiarism on paper, for few of the Rights took living effect of AiagJul Ghana and of the Re/ti dcl Eo~olo pro- mulgated by Thomas Aniello (Masaniel son had been imagined so far back as 1535 by that Anabaptist fanatic John Bokkold better known as John of Ley- denwho stirred up Munster against its bishop-prince, and held anarchical revels in the city for six months; and even that queerest of Republican inno- vations, which consisted in placing mili- tary commanders under the constant su- pervision of civil commissioners, was simply borrowed from the Dutch, whose meddlesome deputies, as we know, ham- pered and plagued Marlborough almost to perdition. France, it may be urged, has artistic and literary renown, a great name in science, immense military glory, and a moral influence reaching far beyond the confines of her own territory; but these again are catch phrases which do not bear very close examination. France has owned neither a Michael Angelo nor a Rubens, a Dante nor a Shakespeare, a Galileo nor a Newton, a Mozart nor a Rossini. As to military glory, before Na- poleon, who was a Corsican, vanquished the armies of disunited and distracted Germany, the military annals of France offered a long series of such crushing de- feats as Cressy, Poictiers, Agincourt, Pa- via, Blenheim, Ramillies, Mal~laquet, Oudenarde, and Rosbach, only chequered, here and there, by a few easy triumphs over weak neighbours, or by noisy inter- necine struggles, so that now-a-day par- tisans of the white flag are reduced to boasting over the one victory of Fonte- noy, which was gained not by a French- man, but by Marshal Saxe, a German. Turning now to moral influence, we see that whereas an Englishman finds his language, literature, and institutions thriv- ing over a third of the globe, and whereas Spaniards, Portuguese, Dutchmen, and Germans can point to prosperous settle- ments of their founding in North and Sonth Am~nerica, Africa and Australia, Frenchmen have done so little to propa- gate their name and customs by coloniz- ing, that Algeria itself would retain not a trace of them if once the garrisons were removed. To be sure all these circum- stances need not constitute a reason why we .English should be indifft:2nt to the 132 PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. French, but they make us wonder why such a comparatively inferior nation should arouse so much more attention than ourselves, as they undoubtedly do. Great as our own power, and successful as our own institutions may be, we, as Engli shine n, cannot be in perpetual ado- ration before them ; but that foreign States sho~dd rank us rather below than on a line with the French, and should have done so from time immemorial, both when France reared her head and crowed and when she lay bruised under our feet, is a mysterious thing which can only be ac- counted for by seeking the causes of Frances popularity outside her actual achievements or deserts. But we need not search far. French- men owe their popularity not so much to their qualities as to their defects, though it should be noticed that their defects, hem b exempt from hypocrisy, often wear an honester look than other peoples vir- tues. If the French affected British pro- priety, German gravity, Spanish supercil- iousness, or if they were servile as the Italians, we might speak in severe terms of their ungovernable natures, their inor- dinate bumptiousness, factiousness, and immorality. But how be angry with men who are the first to laugh at their own vices, and who yet retain self-respect enough to show that they think none the worse of themselves for being sinners It is in this inner consciousness of inno- cence that lies the great charm of the French; they do wrong, but there is such a smiling candour in their waywardness that it disarms censure. British and Ger- man vice is an u~ly thing because it is underhand and cloaked with a pretence of respectability which renders it doubly offensive. If we look at a crowd of young En~lish people disporting themselves loosely in a casino, we~ see at once by their constrained attitudes or by their boisterous gaiety that they are ill at ease and trying to stifle the prickings of their consciences which tell them that they are misbehaving themselves. Some, per- haps, are cynically dissolute, but the ma- jority are ashamed of themselves, and will slink away from the place of riot, dreading to be seen, and consequently throwing upon themselves and their dis- sipation an air wholly disreputable. In the same way a young Spaniard who stalks off grandly from a house of de- bauchery to pay his orisons at the shrine of his patron Saint, and, who, in speak- ing to a tailor whose bill he does not in- tend to pay, adopts a tone of urandilo- quent haughtiness, is a grotesque crea- ture exciting little sympathy. But a Frenchman who laughingly brags that he has got the better of his tailor, and French people of both sexes who revel at casinos, are all in their ways funny and seductive; because there is not one among them, man or woman, but feels that his or her mission in this life is amuse- ment, and that there is no reason to make a secret of the matter. Viewed in this light Frenchmen occupy towards the rest of the world the position filled in private circles by those merry, bright-witted rakes who, with impunity, do and say things for which steadier persons would be ostracised. They are in fact the spoiled children of this earth, whom we love in our own despite, and towards whose extravagances, political and social, we shall always feel indul~ently. We do not envy them their institutions, and often, aloud, we thank Heaven that we are not as these men are ; but, inwardly, we rejoice that there should be a nation ever ready to put our own unspoken thoughts into words, and to fling stones for us at the many fallacies, humbugs, and prejudices which we dare not assail ourselves. In this respect the encour- agements we bestow on the French re- semble not only the kindness we cherish for rakes, but also the patronage which noblemen of old used to vouchsafe to court jesters, whom they egged on to say spiteful things and to play pranks against big people who could not be molested otherwise. If the jester was whipped for his pains, the nobles put on a virtuous expression which seemed to say that he had quite deserved it; and so we, when the French have got into trouble through trying, with our warm approval, to effect something say a Revolution or the establishment of a Republic which we have not the slightest desire to see at- PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 33 tempted on our shores; so we moralize surveys them with the same wondering finely over their failure, and say: XVhat curiosity as before, setting them down for could you expect of such a people? a people who are decidedly incorrigible, After the cruel humiliations of their late and who, victorious or beaten, will con- tinue to amuse, frighten, and scandalize other nations to the end of the chapter. This being so, it may please the reader to be introduced familiarly to the score or so of journalists who sway French people, such as they are, and make up what is popularly called the great voice of the French Press. The present writer speaks of them from personal knowledge, and will endeavour to sketch them, as far as may be, in their natural colours. war and the Commune it looked as if the French had awoke to a sense of the cats- paw part they had been made to play by other nations, and their serious writers inveighed in bitter terms a~ ainst the for- eigners who had always goaded them on to ridiculous or perilous adventures at home and abroad, and then left them in the lurch. Foreigners,~ they said, were delighted to see us liberate the Italians, but they gave us no help, and would have given us none if our generous folly had drawn down on us, as it very nearly did, a coalition of all Germany. It pleased them again to see us try to civilize Mexico, and found there an em- pire which should check the United States; but they left us to manage this, as also the settlement of the Roman ques- tion, single-handed just as they would have bad us, si~gle-handed,go forth to free the Poles, defend the Danes, and save Saxony and Hanover from being swallowed up. As to home matters, for- eigners seem to regard our country as an insensible body politic on which the most venturesome experiments can be prac- tised as in cor~ore viii; and demagogues like Gambetta, Louis Blanc, and Deles- cluze are enthusiastically applauded by the very men who are loudest in denoun- cing the Radicals of their own lands. We have been pricked on, in short, to act as the Quixotes and clowns of Europe; and if now and then we appeared to lead other nations, we did so only like those unlucky sappers who walk in the van of armies. It is not the sappers who have settled the line of march; those who did that are behind, but the sappers are sent in front to clear the way and run the risks of ambush. This is the substance of what French- men wrote in the first hours that followed defeat ; but their fit of perspicacity was short-lived. T~ow that thirty months have elapsed, they have resumed their old habit of laughing at themselves and at others, of blustering, quarrelling, cut- ting capers, and shouting; and Europe It. A NAME that is often quoted in London papers is that of M. John Lemoinne, who ~vrites for the 7aztrnaides Dfbats. There are plenty of English essayists as clever as M. Lemoinne, whose names are not known to the public, and never will be; but to see a Frenchman write sound sense without rhapsody appears so strange a thing on this side of the Chan- nel that whenever M. Lemoinne puts his hand to a long leader we hear of it from Lerwick to Lands End. Perhaps ft ought to gratify us that M. Lemoinne was brought up in England, owed his first successes to a thorough knowledge of English literature, and speaks our lan- guage with a musical purity not often found even amongst us natives. He is now fifty-eight, and is a thoughtful, unde- monstrative man, who wears a white neck-cloth, and has passed his manhood in wondering why France should not adapt herself to British institutions. About two years ago he let himself be converted to Republicanism, much as a man is converted to swallowing a black- draught; but he readily seized on the Fusion as a pretext for changing sides again, and on the evening when the Count de Chambords letter of renuncia- tion was made public there was not an unhappier face in Paris than M. Le- moinnes. In his solemn way, M. Le- moinne has two bugbears: 1st, the i3ri~- ish newspaper which writes up M. Ga~- betta in one column and sneers d~Wh ~QAX PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO~DAY. Sir Charles Duke in the next; and znd, the British politician of the Palmerston school, who asserts that Frenchmen are not fit for liberty, and can only be roan- aged by a government like the Second Empire. Full two-thirds of the leaders M. Lemoinne has ever penned are pro- tests against the latter proposition ; and during the Empire M. Lemoinne was backed up by a most distinguished pha- lanx of Anglophilists such as MM. St. Marc Girardin, Eug~ne Forcade, Prdvost Paradol, and Edouard llerv6, the last of whom alone survives. Of these gentle- men it may truly be said that they knew the British Constitution as well as if it were an invention of their own. When Mr. Bright thundered against this or that superannuated contrivance, when Mr. Bealess good friends pulled up the Park railings, when Mr. Stuart-Mill lent his countenance to woman suffrage or crotchety agrarian schemes, and when Mr. Disraeli dished the Whigs in the in- genious fashion we remember, M. Le- moinne and his co-thinkers all uttered piercing cries as if they were being per- sonally molested. For all that, they made few proselytes outside the ranks of educated Frenchmen. Parisians ap- proved their articles because the Dibats and other papers in which their effusions were published were much disliked by the Emperor; and being disagreeable to the reigning potentate has always been a powerful element in French politics. But average Parisians were sceptical as to the panaceal properties of the British Con- stitution for distempers of the body poli- tic ; and after the fall of Napoleon III. the Anglophilists were carried onwards by the tide of events, or left high and dry miles behind it. M. Herv6, who is editor of the journal de P ris and an amiable, scholarly writer, much terrified by the un- washed face of Democracy M. l-Ierv6 still does battle for Westminster customs in his journal, which is the organ of the Orleans family; but M. Lemoinne can scarcely be said to have any opinion, ex- cel)t that everything and everybody are goin~ wrong. A short while since, he declared ruefully that Reason had ceased to have a voice in public matters, and he is in just such a frame of mind as may cause us to hear any morning that he has retired from militant journalism. The readers of the Revue d~s Deux Afondes would not complain of this, for they might get a ne~v series of literary essays like the LZft of Rrurnme4 Englisk Electoral Habits, and Caroline of Br nswick, which first drew public notice on M. Lemoinne some thirty years ago ; but journalists at once learned, able, and temperate are everywhere so scarce that one must hope M. Lemoinne will be content to take the world as he finds it, nor be disgusted be- cause he cannot lift it out of its wayward grooves. M. Lemoinne is not decorated, nor has he ever sought a post under Gov- ernment, though he could long a~o have had his pick of good places for the ask- ing. The reason of this abstinence is that M. Lemoinne looks upon journalism as being itself a profession, the bdton in which is a character for independence and truth, which character M. Lemoinne has got. A prefectship would be no proL motion, and indeed it might put him in grievous straits; for if M. Lemoinne were appointed prefect, he would not fail to commence ruling on British principles. With Jiallani for his daily guide, Black- stone for his philosopher and friend, he would measure the length of his preroga- tives by those of a Lord-Lieutenant; whereat the Ministry of the Interior, per- ceiving that he neither imprisoned any- body, nor suppressed newsl)apers, nor had recourse to the military to disperse meetings of orderly citizens assembled to discuss politics, would conclude that he had none of the qualifications neces- sary to a French official, and dismiss him with ignominy. To speak of M. Louis Veuillot in the same breath with temperate journalism seems a strong measure, but the shock may be broken by coupling with M. Veuillots name that of M. Ernest Rdnan, M. Lemoinne s colleague on the DJba! Now, M. Rdnan is the champion of free- thought, and M. Veuillot the beadle of Catholic orthodoxy; yet by a freak of fate these two gentlemen, who stand at the opposite poles of journalism, happen to be the two most skilful and pungent writers of their own language. The most courtly and classical among French writ- ers is Count de R6musat; the most aca- demical in purism M. Guizot or M. Bar- th6ldmy St. Hilaire; the sweetest and softest, M. Octave Feuillet; and the most Parisian, M. Edmond About: but for extent of vocabulary~ and for a com- plete mastery of all the resources of the French tongue, there are no two such penmen as MM. R~nan and Veuillot; and if only M. R6nan shared M. Venil- lots love for controversy, there might be some hot skirmishes now and then to keep the Boulevards lively. Unfortu- nately, M. R~nan writes seldom, and he PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY, 35 never gives heed to personal attacks. A sound theory that Republicanism is a man of fifty, with quiet, winning man-, law of nature, and that nations have no ners, a pleasing voice, and a handsome right to set up kings, even if it suits face, clean shaven as a priests, no one them. Premissing all his arguments with would take him for the best abused man this hypothesis, he rejects lessons of bis- on the face of the globe the author tory,. experience, facts, knowledge, and who, with his Life of 7esus, has sowed all expedient policy in short, and is, in doubt broadcast, earned at Mi. Veuillots his own way, every whit as intolerant hands the title of wholesale peopler of as the most fanatical of Legitimists. In- madhouses and Antichrist, and been deed, if there be Legitimists so hot, it is solemnly excommunicated by the Pope. because there are Republicans so frac- Yet the strangest thing about M. R6nan tious pragmatical little men, who ride is, that having been educated for holy big hobbies over the likes and dislikes orders, he has retained none of the casu- of mankind, and would have all human- istry of Romish seminaries. He refused ity bow to an ideal picture of Democracy, ordination (and thereby renounced lucra- as absurdly overcoloured as the daubs tive preferment, which had been prom- which are hung up outside shows to set ised him) because his master, M. Dupan- clowns agape. M. Louis Blanc cannot loup, now Bishop of Orleans, was unable understand that a man of M. R~nans in- to solve some doubts that had beset him tellect should be so feeble as to look at and ever since he first put a pen to paper two sides of a question ; and M. R~nan he has abided by two maxims: to make is at a loss to conceive why a man should his own meaning clear, and never by a swear that the whole earth is red be- subterfu~e to avoid facing the argument cause his own spectacles happen to be of an adversary. M. R6nan may be ac- scarlet. M. Louis Blanc will go to his cepted as the incarnation of that French final judgment with the ten volumes of passion for logic which will take nothing his Histoire de la Rdvoizetion under his for granted, but must have it all proved arm, and he will point to his panegyric by rule of thumb. The consequence is, of Robespierre with the satisfaction of that instead of being a Republican, he is one who has done his best to promote a theoretic Monarchist (without reference goodwill and confusion among men. M. to particular dynasties), reflection having R6nan will reach his death-bed unshaken convinced him that Republicanism, how- in the belief that if MM. Robespierre ever sound in doctrine, has invariably and Louis Blanc had flourished together, broken down (save in small States) in one would have eaten up the other and practice. This is a bitter pill for Repub- left the world but little the better for be- licans of the Louis Blanc type to swallow I ing abandoned to the incisive experi- but the great difference between Mi. ments of the survivor.* R6nans style of reasoning and theirs is But to return to Mi. Louis Veuillot, that they will make no allowance for facts who hates MM. R~nan and Louis which do not tally with their precon- Blanc with equal piety. This modem ceived notions and prejudices, whereas Torquemada has not always been the fe M. RThan starts without any prejudice, rocious Ultramontanist we behold hint and aims solely at discovering abstract now. Like Augustine of Hippo he truth. Mi. Louis Blanc, whom we have passed his early life among the profli- all of us met in London or Brighton at gates, contributing to comic nexvs sheets, the period when be was English corre- fighting duels with actors whom be had s pondent to the Tern~s, and who now quizzed and brother journalists whom he divides his time between fidgety silence had libelled, and publishing a novel, in the National Assembly, and occasional LHonn.~te Femme, much less edifyin~ dogmatic contributions to the Red Rat- in its tendency than the title might sug- ~ei Mi. Louis Blanc, with his syste- gest. But havin~ gone on a tour to matic one-sidedness, would make any Rome in 1838, when he was just five-and fair-tempered man bate Republicanism, and be has made such men bate it by the * The writer thinks it well to state that, in expressing komunculus (as Mr. his admiration for M. Ernest Renans impartiality and thousand. A dainty good faith as a logician, he offers no opinion on the Cailyle mibbt call him), smaller in stature Lfe oJ7esus, which is not in question here. M. R~ than even Mi. Thiers, with a wizen, hair- nan is not infallible; hot those who heard his lectures wisen he was Professor of History at the CoiMge de less face, dapper bands, feminine voice, France, and those ho read the political and literary arid a feline method in conversation, be articles which he contributes from time to time to the has been surnamed the Jesuit of Repub- D~b~s and Revue des Deux ~ des, must do him justice as a reasoner, however much they may differ licanism, and is the originator of that from his views on Christianity. PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 136 twenty years old, the religious ceremo- nies of Easter week wrought such a pow- erful effect on him that he came hack an altered man. Good-hye to songs and suppers, revelries and profane literature. M. Veuillots friends laughed at the change that had come over him, and augured that it would wear off; hut M. Veuillot b ro wlingly anathematized them, and from that time to this he has been busy classing his fellow-men into two categories ; namely, a very small one, who xvill troop into heaven behind him because they subscribe for his news- paper, LUvlvers, or, at all events, adopt its tenets; and a painfully large one, who who will be kept waitin~ at the gates without a chance of ever obtainino ad- mittance. Priests of all shades, bishops, and even a few saints jostle one another in this last category, for M. Veuillot is no respecter of persons, and has long since learned that the cowl does not make the monk. Of his own zealous au- thority he has re-judged a round dozen of saints whom he asserts were canon- ized in a hurry or owing to erroneous in- formation (which does not prevent him from championing Papal infallibility), and he rehukes tepid bishops and weak- kneed members of the lesser clergy with- out stint or scruple. A few years ago Monseigneur Dupanloup lost patience under M. Veuillots admonitions, and save vent to his feelings in a well-known letter, beginning, Movsleur, le rule que vous clierches d lover divis lEgilse est lv- toiYrable. But M. Veuillot did not care for that. The Pope approved him; and it was perhaps lucky for the Pope that he did approve, for M. Veuillot is much like that French lady who, being told that she ought to live in subjection to her hus- band because the Holy Spirit, speaking through the mouth of St. Paul had or- dered it so, answered, Ak! vials viol ;ie suls ~as dv vie;ne avis que le Sazut Esy5rlt. In person M. Veuillot hears some resemblance to the portraits of Miraheau, his features being deeply pit- ted, his lips full and sarcastic, and his eyes ever a-glow. He is now sixty, but ripeness of age has in no way quenched his fler~ spirit nor his indefatigable in- dustry. He probably reads more than any other man in, France, for, making it his duty to keep an eye over the ortho- doxy of the whole Church, he dips into every new work of theology, and leaves not a pastoral or a viavdavivs unexam- ined. Talk to him in private about his travels, or about any secular matter not tending to controversy, and you will be struck by his genial humour and his fanciful shrewdness in describing scenes and customs he has witnessed. He has also, thouc~h unmarried, a wonderful love for children; and if you catch him draxv- ing out the yellow silk handkerchief, which he flourishes benevolently as a prelude to social intercourse, the chances are ten to one that the hearth-ru xvill be littered with sugar-plums which he has bought for baby acquaintances. But mention the name of a prominent free- thinker or Church waverer, and M. Veuillots aspect undergoes a curious change. Back goes the yellow handker- chief into the capacious tail of his coat, his knotty right hand plunges straight into the bosom of his shirt, a sardonic ~rin (it is really not a smile) breaks over his expressive lips, and quick as malice itself M. Veuillot launches one of those pitiless bolts which quiver into the weak- est part of a delinquents armour. M. Veuillot is a terrible man for inventing epithets which sum up all the foibles of an enemy, and stick to him through a lifetime. He christened Prince Napo- leon 76rovie Egalltd, M. Thiers KIng Ego, Father Hyacinthe the Sancho Panza of the Gizurchi; and his printed sketches of divers anti-clerical people are like an- atomical dissections, so cruelly do they expose the innermost blemishes of the victims. Freethinkers walk in much ter- ror of M. Veuillot; and if they have any peccadilloes even on their private consciences, take care not to come athwart him; but perhaps Churchmen feel even more fearfully towards this In- quisitor of a man. It could scarcely have been pleasant for the bishops at the last ecumenical to see M. Venillot stalk- ing about the Vatican as if he were the usher. who had brought all these holy men together, and meant to punish such of them as were refrac,tory; neither can it be agreeable at thisjuncture for for- eign priests, who know little of M. Veuillot, to discover that he knows all about them, and is concerned to hear from private reports that their proceed- ings are not what to his mind they should be. Possibly, if the Romanist clergy throughout Christendom were pri- vately polled, a stron~ majority would opine that .M. Veuillot is a trifle too good for our earth, and that if he were with- drawn from this vale of tears, which he illumines with his blazing sanctity, it would be a providential release for him and for them. PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 137 But M. Veuillot shows no anxiety to great scandal, it was advisable to xvait quit this scene of his ecclesiastical until the soreness of it had passed off. wrestles ; and so long as he continues to Prince Napoleon conveyed this message splash epithets at his opponents, for the at one of those jovial Friday dinners at cleaning of their souls, one of the his Pompeian Villa of the Avenue Mon- writers most frequently bespattered by taigne, where he gathered, at the private him will be, as heretofore, M. Edmond request of his cousin, all the eminent About, editor of the XIXI?rne Si~cle, and pagans whom the Emperor durst not in- Paris correspondent of the AtIze,uz?urn. vite too often to the Tuileries. The If ever France should possess a truly Prince told M. About to wait and M. paternal government, which will restrict About waited. He waited, and wrote every man to the work he can best do, more novels, got married, and enlarged that government will prohibit M. About his fine estate at Saverne. He waited, from writing in newspapers at all, and and from the official columns of the Mo;u- send him back to fabricate us some more teur wrote furious anti-republican arti- novels. M. About is a capital novelist. des, which secured him promotion in the His Trente et Quara;zte is a very 6em, Legion of Honour. But the diplomatic and his Mar/ages c/c Paris tales to read appointment kept tarrvinb, and at length and re-read; but he is a poor journalist the Grandson of Voltaire lost pa inconsistent, flighty, and, not to put tience, and following the immemorial too fine a point upon it, by no means free wont of baffled Frenchmen, discovered from personal bias in judging men and that he had been from the first an ardent measures. So long as he confined him- Liberal. This was about five years ago, self to fiction it fared well with him, for and M. About lost no time in revealing he achieved reputation, wealth, and paved his long-concealed Liberalism in the his way to a fine marriage; but one day Gaulois, then a new paper started in ri- he took it into his head that he was born valry to the Fzgaro. From the Gautois he for p9litical destinies, and since then he passed to the Soir as editor, with a salary has been running to seed at a precipitous of 6o, 000 fr., and at the outbreak of the rate. The late Emperor was primarily war appointed himself special corre- responsible for unhinging M. Abouts spondent, and wrote from the battlefields brain, having invited the witty author to a series of letters most remarkable for Compi~gne and pinned a red ribbon to everything except gratitude to the Sover- his button-hole. Then he talked to him eign who had so often and so kindly be- about the Roman question; and as it friended him. Gratitude, however, has was part of Imperial policy at that period never been M. Abouts forte, and he (1858) to be on ill terms with the Pope, would gladly subscribe to the late Nestor M. About was asked whether he would Roqueplans aphorism : Lingratitude go to Rome at Government expense, and est lind/pendance clii ewur, adding there- write a book about it the implication to this maxim of his own: Les bien- being that his book on Rome should fails coz2teraicnt trop c/icr sil fallait les bear a close resemblance to his amusing j5aycr. The late critic Sainte-Beuve, skit on Greece, Le Gr?ce Contc;n~orainc. who knew M. About well, said of him, Of course M. About was delighted. Ghacuu c/c ses liz,rcs est zinc belle We all have our weaknesses, and M. ceuvrc ct zinc inauvaise action, meaning Abouts weakness was, and is, to hear that the author of Le Roi c/cs Montagnes himself called Le petit-fils de Voltaire. could seldom resist the temptation of He much loved to be noted as a famous saying a witty thing at the expense of infidel, and it would have been sweet to people whom he intimately knew, whence him if the Pope would only have banned that vein of demure personalities which him in a special bull, to be posted on all runs throu6h all his novels personali- church doors throughout Christendom. ties which the generality of readers can- Thus con~enially disposed he went to not detect, but which are apparent enough Rome, and Wrote of it all the evil that to the initiated, who read between the could be decently crammed in 300 octavo lines. Without going so far as M. pages, after which he returned, expecting Sainte-Beuve, one may say of M. About hi~ reward in the shape of a post under I that he is one of those delightfully keen Government. But the Emperors Papal psychologists whom it is pleasanter to policy had in the mean time veered, and have as a neutral acquaintance than as a M. About was told that he should have a foe. He is now forty-five, but looks ten diplomatic employment by-and-by, only years younger; and you have only to that his Roman book having caused a glance at his wide-awake face, rendered 133 PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. deceptively bluff by a hay-coloured beard, his malicious blue eyes and meaning sn~iie,to guess how agreeably this thor- ough Parisian can pull absent celebrities to pieces over a quiet dinner-table, or in a snu drawing-room before an admiring audience of ladies. 14. About is a great favourite with ladies, but as regards men friends he stands in much the same posi- tion as Prince Talleyrand, who remarked that he had all his life through possessed one sincere friend and that was him- self. However, M. About can boast of at least a fervent comrade and xvorship- per in the person of 14. Francisque Sar- cey, the dramatic critic to the TernAs, and M. Abouts chief contributor to the XIX~?v e Si?cie. As Boswell was to John- son, so is M. Sarcey to M. About; but we know that Johnson did not consider him- s If bound to repay Boswells admiration by a warm show of kindred feeling. With respect to political opinions, 14. About is still hoping, so his enemies say, for a di- plomatic appointment; and meanwhile he advocates a sort of chameleonous re- publicanism, which varies much in hue, according to the colour of the party that may happen to be in the ascendant. His latest public achievement has been to fight a duel with 14. Edouard Herv~, and to pay a fine of Si. for this misdemeanour, which arose from an interview with the Count of Paris. Two years ago, when it looked as though the Count were going to become King, M. About requested M. lierv6 to present him to his Royal High- ness, and 14. Herv6 having complied, 14. About said, with an amiable bow, to the Prince, All the hopes of France are centred on you, Monseigneiir. This year the hopes of France having centred elsewhere, 14. About found it convenient to ignore his compliment and to abuse the Prince, whereat 14. Hervd waxed wroth, and some bitter articles ensued, culminating in the fine of 8/. above-men- tioned. However, all who know 14. About do him the justice to feel sure that, should the Count of Paris become King after all, this little unpleasantness will be forgot- ten, for Louis Philippe dOrl~ans is not vindictive, and 14. About is ever generous in forgiving and forgetting the hard things he has said of others. Another journalist who has long han- kered after a public postbut nothing less than a seat in the Cabinet would suit him is 14. Emile de Girardin, the found- er of the Presse, and owner of the Libertd le Grand Emile as Boulevard wags call him. M. de Girardin wears a long wisp of hair over his forehead like the o-reat Napoleon, and just as the dancer ~renis said a hundred years ago, This century has begotten three men Vol- taire, Frederick the Great, and me so would 14. de Girardin willingly say, or at all events think, Two men have illus- trated this century I and Napoleon. He is now past seventy, and has glanced at events all his life through that sheen eye-gtass of his, which was once a very will-o-the-wisp, leading Frenchmen for- ever into new fields of speculation, finan- cial quagmires, and political morasses. At an age when most boys are at school, 14. de Girardin had written a novel; be- fore he had even shaved he started a joint-stock company; at twenty-five he founded a paper, which candidly called itself Le Voleur, because it filched the best articles from all the other journals and at txventy-flve-and-a-half this paper had procured him three suits-at-law, a criminal action for libel, and two duels. But 14. de Girardin wonhis suits, got ac- quitted for the libel, and winged his ad- versaries after which he started afresh, and inaugurated a promising era in jour- nalism by publishing serial fictions in a daily paper along with political leaders, and selling the mixture for a halfpenny cheaper than rival newspapers. This grand idea of the roman fenilieton put the completing touch to 14. de Girardins fame. All the other papers, even the grave Debats (which trebled its circulation by 14. Eug~ne Sues novel, Les Afyst~res de Paris) felt bound to season their poli- tics with long-winded romances; and the Presse, in which this experiment had been first tried, brought its owner a cool io,oooi. a-year. 14. de Girardins next ex- ploits consisted in marrying the beautiful and witty Mdlle. Delphine Gay (then known in literature as the Viscount de Launay); in shooting and killing Ar- mand Carrel, the chief of Republican jour- nalists (1836); in accurately predicting the fall of every Cabinet that declined listen- ingto his advice, and in getting talked of as a possible member of all new Cab- mets. After such a well-spent career 14. de Girardin might fairly claim to sit at rest in the sumptuous palace he has bought in the Champs Elys6es next to ex-Queen Isabella of Spain; but 14. de Girardin is one of those men xvhom noth- ing in this life will wholly silence, and he takes as great a pleasure as ever he did in bestowing advice on atatesmen xvho have not asked him for it. He has been called Le Saint Sacremen4 because it has PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 39 been remarked that Governments only tkeyfri~liten Ike Forezgner To eack na- send for him when their condition is last tion its Providential man To England praying for; and his arrival invariably a Pitt, to France a Napoleon Whj was acts like a Nunc Di;nittis which closes Pitt strong I Because he ruled free their career for good and all. He hurried I England Why was England free? to the Tuileries on the 23rd February, Because she was ruled by Pitt There 1848, just in time to counsel Louis-Phi- was Khzg called NebuchadnezzarA lippes abdication when it was too late. King of Babylon and lVineveh Why He was consulted by Napoleon III. .in may the French nation be some day coin- i8yo, by the Empress Regent after Se- pared to Nebuchadnezzar? Bccause this dan, and by M. Thiers on the eve of the King of Babylon, being afooA was sent to 24th May; but he has never heen able to herdfor seven years with the beasts of the persuade either Sovereign or Premier that field [4411 France ever herd with the he, would be a valuable person to have in beasts of the field? Yes, and chew the cud an administration. This has imparted to of remorse and humiliation When and his conversation a somewhat injured why I France will herdfor sevcn times tone, and he insensibly speaks of himself seven years with the brute nations of the as of a man whose worth contemporaries I world And be despised And laughed have ignored. He has certainly made 1 at And mocked And it will serve her more noise in his time than any dozen rzghtZf she do not elect Louis Na2bo- other journalists clubbed together; and leon. what is still better, he has made varieties of noises, for there is not a sin~le opinion This style of composition might occa- in the catalobue of political creeds which sion surprise if found in a leading column he has not at one time or other advocated, of the Tinies, but to a Parisian public it In this respect he may be said to have tasted well, with a glass of bitter drink set an example of suppleness to this and just before dinner. To this day French- the cominb generation of writers, who men allude, with a national pride, to the make, and will make it, a point of honour Great Emiles journalistic feats, and to quote him as a precedent whenever point to his numberless successful disci- they wish to assail to-day what they de- pIes in the. Press as a proof that his name fended yesterday and vice versd. But can never be obliterated. And yet it is he has set as good an example in other probable that M. de Girardin will be re- points, for he was the first to launch that membered less in connection with hi style of spasmodic leader, chopped into fine manner of writing than because of trenchant lines and short paragraphs, a the good-humoured patronage he has style now become classical. No great always extended to young and struggling trouble is needed for such leaders, and men of letters. I-Iimself an adventurer M. de Girardin, who has never deigned the term is no disgrace to him, for he to read up the annals of any nation but wrote an autobiography, greatly glorying the French, had a great art for jumbling in the title he has never missed a chance up scraps of historical lore, picked up in of fostering youthful talent. His princi- desultory reading. In 1848, when he pal contributors have always been young threw himself, heart, soul, paper, and pen, men, for he loved to have such about into the advocacy of Louis Napoleons him; and any one, no matter how shabby, Presidential candidature, this was the eccentric, and friendless, who came to sort of leader to which he would treat the ask him for employment, was sure of readers of the Presse every evening, obtaining it, if he passed satisfactorily There ~vere generally three or four of through an ordeal to which M. de Girar- these leaders, all bearino his signature ; din would subject him to test his sharp- and it must be borne in mind that each ness. One of the Great Emiles favourite of the sentences, here divided hy dashes, tests consisted in saying to the aspirant: occupied a separate line of large print, Call on me to-morrow at six. If the well leaded. aspirant came at six P.M., he was a lost cest Ia Paix. man; but if he had the sense to guess LEmpire that so Olympian a personage as this Emg5 ire is peace Peace is Empire editor must be afoot and busy with the 14/ithout Empire no Peace Without early bird, the Great Emiles thin lips peace no Empire Why is Finpirepeace? smiled approvingly, and he would say: Because it is propped up by bayonets Thats right, youll stop and breakfast. Why are bayonets peaceful I Because 140 PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. man untimely in the bud. If the Empire were restored, he ~vould hope to be some Iv has just been mentioned that M. day prime-minister, and would wage war Girardin has had many disciples they upon M. Rouher, whom he secretly re- have, in fact, been so numerous that gards as a hindrance in his way; for if Parisian journalists who have not at some M. Rouher were gathered to his fathers, time or other served under the Great and if M. Duvernois could obtain a seat Emiles orders are almost exceptions. in the Assembly as easily as he did in the M. de Girardins practice was to keep a Imperial Corps L6gislatif, then he xvould ~vriter till he had achieved a name, then assuredly lead the Bonapartist faction the two generally quarrelled; for the and be reckoned a somebody. Mean- Great Emile was renowned for having a time he writes well and violently, earns a new idea every day, and when his contrib- fine income, and would probably buy a utors become too consequential to jump pair of braces and brush his hat if he obediently from notion to notion every could divert his thoughts from the public twenty-four hours, he ~vould hint that the weal. world was Large enough for two, and bow Behind him comes another writer, care- his unbendin~ disciple out. Let us, how- less in his attire, and with him one of the ever, take our seats in front of the Caf6 de best-dressed men in Paris: these two Su~de, next door to the Vari6t~s Theatre, are M. J. J. Weiss and M. Henri de Pane, and see M. de Girardins old pupils, and editor of Paris 7ournai. M. Weiss is indeed all other Parisian journalists of like one of those rough-bound books note, file by towards five P.M., the ab- which one must not judge from the cover. sinthe hour; with thirsty but cheerful He disdains gloves, but he writes as few looks, just fresh from the printing and other men can and, what is better, he is publishing o1 ces, that cluster about the a singular instance of chivalrous politi- Rue Montmartre. The Caf6 de Su~de is cal fidelity, pushed almost to Quixot- the head-quarters of journalists athirst, ism. Ori~inally editor of the 7ournal and a score or two of them are sure to de Paris, M. Weiss assailed the Empire drop in to discuss the news in the first in vigorous but always temperate lan- editions of evening papers which appear guage, and claimed for France a Par- between four and five. All these educat- liamentary Government and liberties. ors of the people are not equally eminent, When the Emperor called M. Ollivier to nor do they call for full biographies at power, and seemed thereby to be enter- our hands. But many of them are powers ing upon a Liberal policy, M. Weiss felt in their way, and deserve at least a nom- it would be uncandid to continue his op- inal mention. position; and so he accepted a post in First a young man of thirty-two, with the Fine Arts department, and has been unfortunate looking shoes which show secretly fretting over his mistake ever his socks, and unbraced pantaloons which since. If he were as many other men, M. exhibit a bulging expanse of linen below Weiss would easily have shaken off his his waistcoat. The nap of his hat bristles yoke of allegiance after the 4th Septem- up, he has a pile of papers under his arm, ber, and have set to work abusing the ri- his hands are thrust deep in his waist- girne he had served; but he is not like band, and he walks as if the cares of other men. Having drawn Imperial pay, State still sat on his shoulders. This is he will not stoop to write against Imperi M. Clement Duvernois, editor of the alism, though at heart he never loved that Ordre, the Empress Eug~nies paper. form of rule, and possibly loves it now He was at once a Radical, and a gushing less than ever. His terse and scholarly pupil of M. de Girardins at a period articles in Paris 7ourxai are much read, when the latter was at quills drawn with but there is a disenchanted tone about the Empire; but one day he changed them, and when M. Weiss talks to you opinions somewhat unexpectedly, ~vas he does so with those frequent shrugs met ooinr in and out of the Tuileries with which mark a Frenchmans belief in the ~ a notes for the Emperors L~fe of G~sar, utter vanity of things human. M. Weisss and eventually blossomed out as Minis- editor, however, still thinks there are ter of Commerce a post he held for cakes and ale to live for. He twists a three weeks, that is from the noth August gold-headed cane in his well-gloved to 4th September, 1870. M. Duvernois hands, fillips a speck of dust off the silk wears a ferocious-looking beard, and facings of his coat, and tells you, with an he does not forgive the Republican party aristocratical smile, that he would like to for having nipped his career as a states- flick all Republicanism into space as PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. 4 easily. A thorough exquisite is M. de Pane; cool, handsome, and brave as a Zouave. He burst into renown by very nearly being slain in a duel, under cir- cumstances rather comical. Being then a contributor to the Figaro, he wrote of the officers of a certain line regiment, that they rushed into the supper-room at the Tuileries balls as if they were a troop of jackals. Justly incensed, the officers drew lots among them as to which should challenge M. de Pane, and made a vow that they would fight him, one after an- other, until his insolent blood were spilled to the last drop. But they were spared this trouble, for the first officer thrust home so cruelly that for six weeks M. de Panes life was despaired of, and the Colonel of the th Regiment declared that the honour of his jackals was sat- isfied. As the Army was not popular at this date, it needed no more than this duel to make M. de Pane a hero, and to double the worth of his literary signature~ He soon found a moneyed man to risk starting a paper in his company, and there he is now, a living instance of the fact that a hole in the chest is not always an unmixed evil. But duellists will always be liked in France, for look at this young giant who comes striding along with his curly head aloft and his creole features, snarling at a pair of Radical journalists who flit by him. This is M. Paul de Cassagnac, who has fought about a dozen duels, and will be enga,ed in many more such encounters before he has done. He is editor of the Pays, and has been so for the last three years, though he is but little past his thirtieth year, and knows not much of literature. To write in the Pays you must have a good command of virulent adjectives, and must be an adept with swords or pistols. You must, further, worsnip Napoleon III., believe that the Second Empire heaped innumerable blessings upon France, and be well versed in all scandals appertaining to the pri- vate lives of foremost Republicans. M. de Cassagnac plies his pen as if it were a bludgeon, and when not engaged in writ- ing articles of three columns length for his style is not concise he may be generally found fencing in M. Pazs gym- nastic rooms, and there is no denying that he fences well. A congenial friend of his is M. Edmond Tarb6, who edits the Gaulois, and tries to model his cloth- ing and manners on those of M. de Pane without quite succeeding. M. Tarb~ earned some distinction by riding out of besieged Paris disguised as a postilion, and going straight off to Brussels whilst his countrymen were gettin~ their heads broken. At Brussels he started a pro- vincial edition of his Gaulois, and, to the astonishment of the public, began to champion the claims of the dethroned Emperor, whom until that time he had always assailed. There was a mysteri- ousness in this proceeding which has never been cleared up ; but it is enou~,h for ordinary inquirers that the Gaulois has been since the war one of the most obedient and most frequently inspired organs of Chislehurst. It is also sooth- ing to know that M. Tarb6 has amassed a fortune of several million francs by his paper, and finds no difficulty in spending his money, being young and fond of hos- pitality. But we must pass lightly over the next covey of journalists who come scudding down the Boulevard in a brotherly throng. M. Louis Jourdan, the tall, grey-headed. and austere editor of the democratic Si~cie; M. Anatole de la Forge, a short- bearded and waddling iconoclast in spec- tacles, one of the chicf contributors to the same paper; M. Hippolyte Castille, whose articles sioned with the pseu- donym of A1ces~e, have caused the suppression of no less than three daily papers, and who, for all his vigour, looks a quiet old gentleman enough; and M. Edouard Portalis, a young dandy, who is a son, nephew, cousin, and brother of staunch Conservative landowners, and who himself dabbles with the tips of his yellow gloves into the frothings of ex- treme democracy, and lately tried to form a new alliance between Red Republicans and Red Bonapartists under Prince Na- poleon. Then we have M. Francisque Sarcey, friend, as above said, to M. About a fat, pleasant critic, who would look well disguised as a monk of old, and who contrives to say, in nine out of every ten articles he writes, at the time when I was a schoolmaster the fact being that he once held a professorship in a Government college, and was dismissed therefrom for telling his pupils that Au- gustus was a poor sort of character, and Brutus a much better citizen than Ciesar. Next to M. Sarcey we may meet M. Charles Monselet, dramatic critic to EvJne- mont, and very busy at this juncture trying to set up a new joint-stock theatre at the Porte-Montmartre. He, too, is plump, and wears spectacles, and the chances are that he will have on his arm a very popular young writer with crisp hair and 142 PARISIAN JOURNALISTS OF TO-DAY. a mahogany face M. Victor Cochinat, of the Rap~ei, who hails from Guade- loupe. But M. Monselet is one of the princes of the French press, and his walks down the Boulevards are gene rally a triumphant series of hat-liftings and hand-shakings till he comes finally to an- chor in a snug corner of the Caf~ de Su~de cheek-by-jowl with a gentleman resplendent in a velvet waistcoat, a red tie, and too much watch-chain. Who that has ever been in Paris will not rec- ognize, at the mere sight of this exube- rant jewellery, M. L6o Lesp~s, known to, and beloved by, every concierge, market women, and laundress in Paris as Tim- oth6e Trimm ? M. Trimm served his seven years in the army, and never rose above sergeantship neither did his ca- reer dawn very brightly atter he recurred to civilian life, for he had no friends, no money, no profession, and as he patheti- cally said, no clear ideas as to anything in general. All this, however, was bag- gage enough for a literary man; and one day M. Lesp~s, meeting the Israelite capitalist M. Millaud, suggested to him the creation of a one-sou daily paper. M. Millaud thought the idea good, and, as his custom xvas, acted on it without de- lay. The Petit 7ournai was started, and in less than a twelvemonth rose to a cir- culation of 150,000, and by the end of two years time to 250,000. For five con- secutive years, without a sin6ie days interruption, M. L6o Lesp~s contributed to this sheet a daily chro ique of three columns length; and when at last he re- tired from the Petit 7ournai to the Petit Moniteur, it was only to continue this extraordinary kind of labour at an in- creased salary. The Petit 7ournai had given him 2,000/. a year, the Petit Moni- teur offered him 3,000/., and Timoth6e Trimm draws this salary to the present day, and does his best to deserve it by instructive chroniques, compiled largely out of~ biographical dictionaries, memoirs, and books of travel, and yet very read- able. M. L6o Lesp~s considers that he has done much to educate the masses, and perhaps he has; at all events, it must be recorded to his honour that he is a singularly impartial writer, and that he appears to be utterly unconscious of the political changes that go on. around him. He never alludes to them even re- motely; and no man knows what his po- litical opinions are. If you question him on this subject, he answers, with a wink, I believe in Paris, and nothing else; and to tell the truth, I have not travelled farther than ten miles outside Paris for the last twelve years. Then he lights a cigarette, and strokes one of the most over-waxed pair of moustaches human eye ever beheld. But Parisian journalists are so numer- ous, and space is so limited, that a whole bevy of well-known faces must be left un- sketched, though they come crowding up, and seem to protest, French-like, against being left unnoticed. One at least of the number must be alluded to, for he is the most conspicuous of all namely, M. Hippolvte de Villemessant, proprietor and editor of the Fzgaro. Short and round, with a very French head of bullet shape, a drooping, dyed moustache, and an irrepressible white waistcoat, M. de Villemessant holds veritable levees in every public spot where his countrymen congregate. He has a way of nodding and of holding out his hand, which seems to say that he knows his gre at impor- tance, and would like to keep up the dig- nity of it if he could ; but unfortunately he cannot. When he first started his Fzgaro he never counted on its becom- ing an important political oracle, selling 5o,ooo copies a day, and guiding the opinions of all the lighter classes of the French capital. Now that he finds him- self a courted personage, to whom even Deputies and Cabinet Ministers think it prudent to bow, he is rather struck by the humour of the thino and will con- fess the fact in private if he thinks you can be relied on. It is needless to say that M. de Villemessants high-sounding name is an assumed one, his real patro- nymic being Cartier; also that, like the generality of French literary folk, he be- gan in life with no capital but his own wits. His mode of rising was, however, extremely simple once he had scraped enough credit and money together to found a paper. Unlike other editors who have an opinion and lay it down as a guide to their contributors, M. de Ville- messant kept his opinions to himself, and allowed the writers on his staff to say what they pleased. As he enlisted the most pushing, witty, and reckless journalists that love or money could procure, the concert of discordant sounds which his newspaper emitted was some- thing altobether new in journalism, and like most new thin~s, it paid well. An- other principle of M. de Villemessants has always been to dish up the common- est scraps of news in the most attractive form strict adherence to facts being a secondary consideration and the re~ ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 43 suit is, that when a mad dog is killed in the Fz~raros columns, he always dies more artistically and under more interesting circumstances than in prints of the old school. This way of doing business M. de Villemessant calls true journalism, and he does not conceal his contempt for news-sheets which, like those of England, describe things dryly and barely, as they have happened. From Good Cheer. ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. V. THE days that followed were for Robert Holt somewhat strange daysdays wherein he refused to look backward or forward, to see the things that had been, or the things that might have been. This could hardly be because of full content with the presenthis passionate, fre- quent letters to Fanny Claydon breathed nothing of contentment. They were the outcome of a soul fevered, unexamined, reckless. To Fanny Ck~ydon herself these letters were a puzzle. The fierce, impetuous mode of expression, the uncontrollable impatience of separation, the sudden, fervid yearnings, the strange, rare touches of tenderness, were all incomprehensible to her. But they were not unwelcome. The letters were looked for with eager- ness, received with delight, and ansxver~d in a pretty, childish, rambling fashion that amused Robert Holt as much as it disappointed him. He would be glad when the necessity for letter-writing was over, he told himself; and it should be over soon if he could have his way in the matter. And how was it in the thatched cottage that stood in the rift of the moorland? An aged woman dying, a younger woman with a dead. heart poverty, loneliness, plain-sewing, silence. Once the silence had been broken; there had been a burst of wild, mad long- ing, a sense of wrong and in jury, keen, intolerable. Then fQrgivene ss again, and a very agony of love, a very agony of blind craving for the veriest morsel of food, for the scantiest crumb of affection. She would write to him, go to him, creep to his feet and die there, abjectly, con- temptibly. Then came a thought of that other woman, that woman that was so young and so fair and so winsome; a woman that had had a life and a world of her own before her, and yet had come to darken another world, to take all thore had ever been of sunshine out of another life. This was a moment of terrible strife for Hester. It was so hard to think charitably of one who had done a deed like thjs but it was by strife in little things that Hester had come to be great; and it was after all but a little thing to forgive an injury that had been, in a cci-- tam sense, unintentional. A victory was won here, but there was no consciousness of anything won. It did but seem natural to Hester that she should come to think kindly of one of whom lie, thought with so much more than kindliness. After this struggle, the old weight of calmness came down a~ain, a calmness that had no virtue in it, as Hester knew. But it seemed to her that she was power- less to contend against it. There was a great blankness over all things, a stoni- ness in the heart of things ; she felt as one who in a living body bears about a dead soul. If she prayed, it was as one praying by strange altars. There was none to hear, none to see. Love by harsh evidence Thrown from its eminence, Even Gods Providence Seem~d estranged. But a new hour was at hand. In the silence of the night a sound was heard, the unfolding of the wings of Azrael, the last faint sigh of a soul ooino- ho toGod. me Alone with the dead ! with one who has finished that last dread act of dying! an act the very thought of which is sufficient to hold men all their lifetime subject to bondage ! In what a strange new light the world of the living appears to us now! Our own life, what is it ? As a dream when one awaketh, the Psalmist says; and of the thousand and one things to which life has been likened, none may compare with this, there is none so full of pathos, none so true. But the words are seldom realized till we kneel alone by the body of one who has but just awakened from his dream. Kneeling thus, we, in a partial way, awake also. The appalling unreality of the things that are seen startles us; the truth, the nearness of the things that are not seen, overpowers us. Life is no more a long, weary via dolorosa, but a too-brief hour of watching. The terrible struoo-le to reconcile life in the world with d~th to the world, seems a struggle no longer. The former things are passed away. 44 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. There is a light not of this world upon Ellen Jefferson could not tell. She shoolc the narrow, thorn-strewn pathway that her head ominously, and her voice sank lies before us there are strange shadows to a whisper, hut she had nothing to tell. upon the flowery fields on either hand. Presently the neighbours went home. The faces, too, that surround us are Hester stood amongst them for a moment changed. Men and women that had for at the last, her presence causing a sudden us no form nor comeliness, nor any beauty hush of silence. Good-bye, she said, that we should desire them, become and thank you all. She smiled, but radiant with beauty, new, sublime, un- such a sad wan smile it was, that some earthly: from other faces, faces that there were touched to tears. And her had been a joy to uswe turn with a voice, too, was chan ed. It had strange prayer. The old hopes and feelings fixed tones in it, as it nothing could ever change also, yielding place to new. If put life and ease into it again; and her one man s tenderness, one womans face was, in every line of it, the face of a smile, has been to us a religion, how we woman stricken with a life-long sorrow. shudder thinking of such religion now! Yet she looked very beautiful, very sweet. If any human being has done us a wrong, The golden hair drooped a little, the how xvan and feeble the memory of the black dress hung in heavy folds, the soft dead is kneelino heret how intense and grey eyes told a sad tale. searching the memory of the deeds we Then came a night of sleeplessness, have done ourself! There may have and pain, and desolation. The water been no act for man to point out with rushed over the rock by the side of the finger of scorn, but the hand of the little cottage; the wind swept in plain- Recording Angel has moved against us, tive gusts among the foliage; the old and conscience endorses his record with clock struck the hour slowly; through terrible readiness now. There is no more the tiny panes the daylight crept. Then thought of the things endured, nor of any life began again; the sorrow that had endurance to be exercised in the future. never slept through the night, that had If by any means we may escape, that been so sharp and stimulating, turned to is the only thought. If by any means a dull ache now. It was not easier to we may so live that the midnight cry shall bear; and Hesters power of endurance find us also ready. If by any means we was growing less than it had been. She may attain to the Resurrection of the was worn in mind and in body, inwardly Just. fevered with the strife that she was for In this hour, then, it was that the dead the moment ignoring. And there was a weight of a prayerless sorrow passed sense of insufficiency to contend with, from Hester Shepherds heart. Not that too a consciousness of failure of pur- it ceased to be a sorrow at all, that could pose, of faithlessness, of want of insight. hardly be; but the darkness of it was no At last, towards evening, came a mo- more a darkness that could be felt, no ment that I-lester had been dreading all more a cause of strangeness between her day. It had been a restless day. She soul and God. had wandered in and out of the cottage, Then came days of silent watching. up and down the gill, backward and for- Now and then a solitary neighbour came ward over the moor; trying to peer into over the moor, passed noiselessly through the grey future, trying to be content with the darkened rooms, whispered a word of the greyness; then trying to reach out sympathy, and went out into the autumn higher, to grasp some fragment of truth sunshine again. And after these days that should save her from drowning in came a day more drear still. Hagar this strong surge that was beating upon Shepherd was laid to rest in the quiet her soul. moorland churchyard, where generations But the day was nearly over. Ya of her forefathers slept. The neighbours mun come an sit doon a bit noo, Mrs. went back to the cottage, where Ellen Jefferson said a little sharply, placin., a Jefferson Hesters Aunt Ellen made round, fat, red hand on either knee. She strong green tea, and dispensed large was a woman who prided herself some- slices of a species of plum-cake. Hester what upon her business qualities firm- sat alone in her mothers room, but she ness, decision especially. Over at Kirk- could not shut out the gossip, the lauda- thwaite she kept a greengrocers shop, tion of the dead, the memories of the and took lodgers, and did a little starch- past, the speculations as to the future. ing and ironing. She was a clean, tidy Her own future. Poor Hester! what woman, with a broad red face, a tiny up- was she going to do? they asked; but turned nose, and a fondness for bright ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 45 colours. At the present moment, over full of perplexity. Not coherent thoughts. her black dress, she xvore a red and Some seemed born of the outer events, some of wbispering voices. It seemed to Hester that they all needed explanation that life itself was beginning to need a key. Then she travelled backward over her life, over the years of hunger and negation then over the brief time of par- tial friction brieg but full of compensa- tion. Had she accepted it too readily, dwelt in it too completely? Where had been her sin ? Was renunciation the one duty of life ? Was there no happiness for man nor woman save in utter rejec- tion in utter refusal to accept the least of the things of the world ? Could free- dom from disappointment be secured in no other way save this Then thought paused a little; there was no apprehension of anything save klankness, isolation, and a haze of trial yet to come. A hush had falled upon the howed spirit, and slowly thought passed into an attitude of voiceless supplication. There was no plea to be satisfied, uplifted. Hester did but pray as the Syro-Phceni- cian woman prayed, that some crumbs might fall from the Masters table. Have mercy on me, 0 Lord! This was the womans plea. But He answered her not a word. Is He not now oftimes as silent as then by the coasts of Tyre and Sidon? Does it not often happen, too, that His first answer is of the nature of denial ? yellow bandanna. Yall ha to know, Ab reckon, the little woman said ; and then followed the long and oft-told story of her own strug- gles and successes. Hester listened very patiently, very attentively; and the atten- tion was pleasing to Mrs. Jefferson. The tone of her voice grew softer, and her plans for Hesters future were disclosed with a persuasiveness of argument that Hester had not expected. The said plans were very simple, very feasible. It was of course impossible that Hester should remain at the mill; she had few relations, few friends, and, as Mrs. Jefferson reminded her, still fewer talents. The one available talent that she had could not be turned to ac- count everywhere. Mrs. Jefferson had been told that all the work was done by sewing-machines in large towns nowa- days ; but she knew of plenty of work that might be had for the asking in the town of Kirkthwaite. If Hester would go there, she could hav.e hoard and lodgin~ much cheaper than she could have them elsewhere. And there were other advan- tages. But the greatest advantage of all was not pointed out by Ellen Jefferson. She knew of no reason why Hester would he especially glad to leave the neighbour- hood of Northscaur; knew nothing of memories that would cling forever to Stonebeck Mill. Mrs. Jeffersons offers were accepted with a readiness that surprised her a little. Youll remember youre free to do as you like, she said, with a change of tone and attitude. And Hester did remember, ~vith a pain that left her strengthless for the moment. Then she recovered her- self. I think I should like to do what you wish, Aunt Ellen, she said. I know you do wish it, and youre very kind. And Ellen Jefferson was touched by Hesters quiet gratitude, and in her own heart honestly glad and relieved. Then some minor matters, such as the sale of the furniture, were settled ; and after that Mrs. Jefferson went to say good-bye to a friend who lived a mile or so above Stonebeck Mill. When she had gone, Hester sat as she had sat on that night when the first shadow fell be- tween her and Robert Holt silent, moveless, barely conscious. Then, slowly, consciousness came hack, bringing dark blind thoughts that were LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 218 Hold thee still in the Lord; wait pa- tiently for Him, and He shall bring it to pass.~~ For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee. He said unto me, Write, for these words are true and faithful. True and faithful in life and in death if poor, blind, struggling humanity would but believe and see. Is nian against us Yet is God for us. Is isolation our cross, want of sympathy, tenderness, appreciation ? It is no true cross. His tender mercy is over all, pitying, listen- ing, waiting for our first utterance of per- fect trust, for the very first proof that we have learnt to lie still. There is no harder task in life than this of learning to lie still. Not to lie idly, not carelessly, not untimely seek- ing here the peace of heaven ; but with calm, trustful, unswerving acquiescence. For acquiescence such as this, Hesters 146 ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. voiceless prayer went up. But He an- swered not a word. Still she sat there silently; still under the brooding wing of the Angel of Peace. What right had she, had any human be- ing, to expect freedom from sorrow and disappointment ? Still less, what right to expect happiness, to claim it as a due? Was the attainment of earthly happiness a noble aim? Would not the Christian who should set himself to attain it be fol- lowing his Master in ways He never trod? And the things that had been by whom had they been permitted, ordered? Who had meted out the joys and the sor- rows of each day and year? Who had put an end to the joys, and mixed the cup of sorrow that she was drinking now And how had she accepted the cup? Had there been any readiness, any will- ingness in her manner of taking it from the Unseen Hand? Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Masters answer came. It was an an- swer of peace. There seemed to be no more difficulty, no more perplexity. There had been storm and darkness now came light and quietness. One walkin5 upon the waters of strife. A Voice saying softly, It is I. Here, then, for Hester Shepherd, was the unfolding of the great secret of life, the grand master-key to all philosophies. A thrill swept over her, she listened breathlessly; and through the gloom the kindly Voice came, It is I. And through all the days that followed the last days in the old home, the first days in the new; days of parting and anxiety, of solitude, and dissonance, and pain through and above all came the still small Voice, It is I. When Robert Holt heard of Hesters new trial, his heart was troubled within him. He had an unreasonable longing to go to her, to be of use to her. He had never ceased to think of her. It had been beyond his power to put her away out of his mind altogether. But he had told himself that it was not love he felt for her now ; that the old reverence had dee.pened to veneration. At first she had stood in his memory as she had stood by the grey rock when they parted, with the quiet exaltation on her face, the sweet self-forgetful smile, and eyes with the wondrous light in them. But time and other thoughts had intervened; she had come to him of late enshrined in a shadowy, half-spiritual haze, her ~goIden hair gleaming like the halo of a pictured saint. He could have prayed to her as she stood thus before him, and he would have thought such prayer no sin. He had ceased altogether to think of her as an ordinary woman, who might be a man s wife, and help him to keep his books and write his business letters. But the knowledge that fresh sorrow had come upon Hester seemed to turn the wheels of life backward little, to in- vest her with the old loving and lov:~ble humanityto place him by her side as he had stood six months ago; to give him power to stand there when he would, to do for her what he thought best, to help and comfort her in the way he thought kindest and most tender. All that he might have done then she was needing now, and his one duty to her was to keep away from her, to hide him- self from her sight forever. It was like an awakening from a dream. If he might only see her once, might only tell her What was it he would tell her? What was the thing he put away out of his thoughts so hastily, with such a sucl den bitterness? What new knowledge had come to him by tbis fresh activity of thought and emotion? When he came to know that Hester had left Stonebeck Mill, that the old place was deserted altogether, sadness fell upon him, and a restless desire to go there once again. It was a grey Novem- ber morning when he went. A heavy mist was rolling away over the moor, disclos- ing here and there a gloomy pine-tree, here arid there a weather-beaten crag. Dew- drops hung heavily on whin and briar, the water came rushing over the fall with a dull, hoarse sound, the only sound that broke the silence. The cottage door was closed; the window-shutter was swaying slowly to and fro; the wind had blown the leafless rose-tree from the wall, and the broken branches were straggling across the pathway. Robert Holt hid his face with his hands, and so he stood awhile. Then he turned homeward, pale, sorrowin ~, and repentant. Over th moor the grey November sky lowered more heavily than before. The postman was coming away from the old red-brick house as Robert Holt walked up the road, and his housekeeper had put the letters on the breakfast-table as usualtwo cheques, an order for salt- fish, three circulars, a letter from Fanny Claydon, brief, angular, highly-scented. ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 47 Ever, clearest R., Your loving FANNY. P.S. When are you coming to see me? This was not the first letter of Fannys that had made Robert Holt feel as a hungry man feels when he is disappoint- ed in his hope of food. Hitherto he had been in the habit of re-reading such let- ters of tryin~ to persuade himself that they were not in reality so vapid, so empty, so selfish, as they had seemed to him at first; and sometimes he had suc- ceeded in this, and had accused himself of being exigeant and unreasonable. But, for the first time, he put it out of his power to do this. Fannys letter shared the fate of the circulars, and the tea-ket- tle composed a new song for the occa- sion. Mv DEAREST R., I dont know tumbler-glass , gingerbread, sealing-wax, what you have thought of me not answer- hair-oil, bone-buttons. ing your letter before, but I have had At the back of the shop there is a small such dreadful attacks of toothache ; I kitchen with a brick floor. In front of couldnt eat and I couldnt sleep, and the window, which looks out on to a high sometimes I didnt care to go anywhere white-washed wall, there is a long table or do anything at all. Yet only think, I covered with an ironing-blanket; and in have had to go to frurkrties within the the middle of the floor, a round table last si days, so imagine how tired I am. covered with a snow-white cloth. Ellen I did enjoy them though I think I could Jefferson is preparing supper; a strong dance forever. Walters house looks so smell of onions prevails, and Ellen is nice now. They have got dark green warm and irritable, as she usually is curtains for the winter, with scarlet and when there is cooking to be done in the gold Byzantine border, and table cover to evening. Presently the door opens match. I should have liked bine better, two men enter, and throw down their hut Lucy wouldnt listen to blue. I caps and pull off their heavy boots. One cant write any more, you dear old thing; is a porter from the railway station, the my face is beginning to ache again, and I other an engine-cleaner, oily and grimy, sent Sarah down to Mitchams for ammo- from the same place. These are two of nia half an hour ago, and she hasnt got Ellen Jeffersons lodgers; the third is in backyet. the little room over the shop. An odd little room it is. There is a looking-glass in a wooden frame over the mantel-shelf, peacocks feathers above it, calico flowers of many tints in vases be- low it, china dogs with gilt chains on either side of it. On the opposite wall is the pride of Mrs. Jeffersons life, a Scripture piece, as she terms it, in other words, a libellous representation of Ruth and Naomi, done in worsted and framed in tarnished gilt. And on the wall opposite to the window there are three prints of favourite ministers framed in mahogany. Hester Shepherd had felt instinctively that to suggest the removal of any of these works of art would be to incur her aunts lasting displeasure, therefore no such suggestion had been made. Yet she had done what might be done to tone down the aggressive unrefinement. A pretty chintz coyer had been made for the horsehair sofa; there were a few ex- quisitely arranged wild flowers on the table ; and Hesters books were there, and a little oaken cross, and an illuminat- ed text, As thy day, so shall thy strength be. A promise that was ful- filled more and more as the days went on. Yet they were but sad days, and the life lived in them was but a narrow life, with little to elevate or beautify it, less to cheer or encourage it. The meagre incongruous surroundings were curiously typical. And there was strange aching of heart, too, sometimes an aching that Hester herself could hardly comprehend. It was not the pain of a divided life, that pain was already growing dull; nor was it the longing to hear once more some voice of human sympathy, though there KIRKTHWAITE lies thirty miles or so from Northscaur Bay. It is a quaint, silent little town. The streets are dark and narrow, the houses high and gabled. At the top of Moorgate there is a grand old church, with a high tower, and win- dows of stained glass, and a peal of bells that can be heard eight miles down the valley on quiet Sunday mornings. And beyond the church is the market cross, and some rude wooden stalls; and be- yond these the dingy little back street called Maulds Road. No. 38, Maulds Road, is a tiny shop with three steps leading up to the door. In the bottom of the window there are baskets of apples and potatoes, of green peas and early cabbages, and above there are sweets in bottles, brass thimbles in a 148 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. were times when such longings craved loudly to be satisfied. Later Hester came to see that it had been the aching of utter hopelessness, the hopelessness of a strong-natured, imaginative, warm-heart- ed woman, with no earthly future save this of silence, plain-sewing, isolation. It was a sad story. A loving woman who might have been lovely, and should have been much loved, living this lonely, hard. unbeautiful outer life. But it was not the only life. God sets a man with his feet upon a certain spot of earth, but the man may make his own sky overhead a firmament of heaven, blue and shining, or an atmosphere of sin, hot and stifling. Or he may sit in perpetual gloom, outwardly sinless, inwardly sun- less ; yearning for sweetness and light, but making no effort to satisfy such yearning. There is satisfaction, full and complete. No soul of man was endoxved with capacities high and wide simply that such capacities might be thwarted. The universal longing for sympathy and hap- piness, the ihexhaustible desire for per- fection and holiness, have deep root in human nature. But men have to seek fruition in the Nature at once Human and Divinein Him who created man for himself, and wills not that any should find full content and satisfaction out of Him. Robert Holt had only met Fanny Clay- don twice since that first fatal meeting. In the winter old Mark Sanderson had died, and soon afterwards Fanny had come over to Northscaur to stay with her aunt awhile. It had been a time of per- plexity for Robert. At first he had been disappointed, then re-fascinated; then, after Fannys departure, he had become dubious and dissatisfied again. But per- haps, after all, he argued, it was only that he was less happy when he was away from her, which was natural. And he was not an imaginative man. There were people given to invest the absent with virtues and attractions to which they could make no claim when present; but he, Robert Holt, was not one of these; it was difficult for him to realize virtues and attractions that really existed. So he are, ued with himself, but his argu- ments were not altogether satisfactory. One day in the early spring he went over to Scarborough went as Fannys future husband, and was cordially re- ceived as such. Mr. Claydon unbent a little, and was hospitable ; Mrs. Claydon bustled about a good deal, and was moth- erly; Fanny was bright and gay and pretty as usual. On the surface all went well, and he had no time to think of any- thing below the surface. Every day, almost every hour, there ~vas something to be done. Fannys life seemed a routine of walking, dressing, shopping, visiting, receiving visitors, and drinking tea. He stayed a week, and there was an enga~ement for every evening, and he had the felicity of seeing Fanny treated like a spoiled, petted child everywhere. He felt bewildered as he went back, and an atmosphere of flattery, muffins, airy songs, and millinery hung about him for a week afterwards. Light wonder, then, that as the days went on Robert Holt should come to think that ther~ was for him no real sat- isfaction, no true content anywhere. Life was a failure. A glamour had fallen upon him, a glamour that had taken the similitude of love, and had caused him to miss his way. It had never been a nar- row way; but the path his feet were treading now seemed broader than the old one. There was strange emptiness, too, inward and outward. His present life seemed mean and worthless ; his future hollow and purposeless. He saw no way out of the difficulties into which he had brought himself. His feet were entangled. He could only drift with the tide. And he did so drift; but it was not a painless drifting. The dead past was not buried. His memory seemed to have acquired a new and special tenacity for the things he would fain have forgotten. He tried harder xvork, he tried extra trav- elling, rushing about from one place to another on the slightest pretext; but he could not rush away from himselffrom the past that was behind him, from the future that was before him. But things could not go on forever thus. One day a letter of Fannys roused him to a little new sufferingsuffering of the aching, empty, voiceless kind; and he wondered why he had let things go on thus so long. He told himself that he still had faith in Fannys power to make him happy with a certain kind of happi- ness if once they were married, once settled down quietly together in a quiet place. Perhaps he had thought too much, too hardly, of her poor little letters. She had confessed over and over again her incapacity for letter-writing. Her thoughts would not go down to the tips of her, fingers, she said; and she hated trying to make them go. Better, far better, ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 149 then, for her and for himself that these greetin ~, as she had done before ? He unsatisfactory communications should could hear her voice, her ringing laugh, come to an end. If even he were mis- and for a moment a faint rush of the old taken about that certain amount of hap- emotion came back as he listened. Sure- piness that he was anticipating, still, it ly she would come. But Fanny was would be as well for him to find out busy with the tea-cups, and Mrs. Clay- his mistake now as at a later date. Un- don was staring at him a little impatient- der any circumstances he would abide by I ly from the doorway. Come yer ways what he had done. And there should be in, she repeated. Surely youre not no more delay, no more cowardly shrink- i going to be shy at your time o life. ing from the fate that he himself had Robert did go in a little hot, a little made, and now was finding stronger than angry, a little disappointed. The room himself. was full of steam, coloured muslin, ex- pansive shirt-fronts, glances of inquiry. It was in the early August days the Hdw do you do ? asked a thin sweet days of tall white lilies and glowing car- voice from behind the urn, and a small nations, of roses and bright geraniums white hand was held out to him then that Robert Holt went over to Scar- half-a-dozen introductions were nervously borough again, this time to fix an early hurried through. There was not a face day for his marriage. He had written a that he remembered. None of Fannys note to Fanny only the day before, say- friends were the friends of six months ing that she might expect him. ago. Lucy would have been there, South Villa, the house in which Mr. doubtless, but she had gone with her Claydon lived at that time, stands a little husband to visit some friends near Car- way out of Scarborough. It is a grey, lisle. unpretentious-looking little place, with After tea there was croquet on the pear-trees and rose-trees all about it, and back lawn. and Robert sat by the par- scarlet. honeysuckle growing in at the lour window xvith Mrs. Claydon, looking windows. A white railing forms the, on. He was beginning to feel curiously boundary of the garden, and beyond the bewildered. Fannys manner to him was railing is a dusty road, with green hedge- inexplicable. In-doors her smiles, her rows and shady trees. Carriages come glances had been as bright as ever, her whirling by; people on horseback, some pretty sayings as amusin~ ; but there was of them looking timid and scared, some some flavour wantingsoi~etl~ing he astonished and awkward, some all ease had never missed hefore. Now, flitting and grace and elegance. Then come about the lawn, just outside the window, nursemaids With perambulators, and~ she refused to look at him at all, tried to troops of sweet little sunburnt children, avoid cominb quite close to him, and bare-legged, clad in limp holland and when he spoke to her, she pretended not white cotton hats and bonnets. to hear. Mrs. Claydon gossiped; Rob- Presently a tall man, wearing a grey ert, listening to himself, answered at ran- suit, comes slowly up the road. He has dom; then he got up and went out under a dark, fierce-looking face; but his eyes pretence of smoking a cigar. have lost some fierceness; seen near at He stood alone a moment or two on hand, there is an expression of Weariness the edge of the lawn; then Fanny came and bitterness about him, up, skippin~ and smiling. the white gate, sounds of Why dont you bo and talk to Ellen Waters? she said, with the arch little laughter come to him through the open window, and a clatter of tea-cups. He turn of her head that Robert knew so rings the bell with more of violence than well. There she is, under the chestnut- is really necessary, and a smart house- tree with a book. maid opens the door for him. Then Mrs. I see she is; but I dont want to Clayclon comes into the narrow passage, talk to Ellen Waters just now. I want fat and very warm. How do, Mr. to talk to you. Holt? she says, putting out two reluc- Then deeper tones came into his voice, tant fingers to be shaken. Youve and a more earnest expression to his come upon us rather sudden this time, face. Look at me, Fanny, he said. havent ya? But come yer ways in, an Why are you behaving so strangely? made yerself at home. Fannys havin a Fanny looked up for one moment a few friends to tea this afternoon. nervous, terrified look it was. Then her Robert hung back a moment. Would eyes drooped and her lips trembled, and Fanny come out to him for a kiss of her colour came and went rapidly. Sud ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. 150 denly she turned. Oh, I believe its my turn to play, she said, darting off. It was a mistaken belief, but Fanny did not come back to Robert Holt, and Robert sauntered under the trees to smoke his cigar. What did it all mean? he asked him- self. Had he given offence in any way? or was the change in Fannys manner simply a natural change, the result of the note he had written yesterday? It might, after all, only be a kind of shyness. Peo- ple had different ways of showing embar- rassment. Or perhaps she did not wish to be married vet awhile. She xvas very young, very girlish, and her present life was very full of the pleasures that girls seemed to care for most. . . . Then a sudden sadness came upon him feel- ings that he dared not analyze, memories he dared not put into thought, prophe- cies he dared not look upon. When he went back two more young men had appeared on the scene, and Mr. and Mrs. Claydon were sitting on a seat near the lawn. There was no unbending on the part of Mr. Claydon this time he was quite himselfstiff, silent; churlish. Mrs. Claydon was again reserved for a minute or two; but she was unequal to continuous effort of this kind, and re- lapsed into her natural garrulity. Thats Mr. John Gregson as is talkin to Flory Hughes, she said, pointing to a stout young man with her knitting needle. Hell do well in the world, will John, if be only keep~s steady. An thats Mr. Alfred Chester as is pinnin ferns in our Fannys hat. Were fond o Alfred. Hes an architec, and he makes a sight o money. Hes a handsome young fellow too dont you think so, Mr. Ilolt? Yes,hes handsome enou~ h, Robert said, not grudgingly, but absently. He was watching Fanny more intently than be was aware of. There was no nervous- ness about her manner now no trem- bling lips nor drooping eyelids. When Mr. Alfred Chester had arranoed the ferns to his satisfaction, he placed the hat on Fannys head with an unmistaka- ble air of privilege; and Fanny thanked him with a mock curtsey, very pretty, very profound. Then they sauntered up and down the brave1 path awhile, talking earnestly, but quite inaudibly. Presently twilight came creeping over the fields. The mallets were thrown aside; there was silenceshadows, light dresses passing slowly to and fro under the trees in the distance. Whispering, flirting, love-making there, surprise, an- noyance, bewilderment here. New light was breaking over Robert Holts mind too strange light yet. He dared not ad- mitit. He grew restless. It was not possible for him to sit longer listening to the ceaseless gossip of Mrs. Claydon nor was it possible for him to put himself in the way of any opportunity for eaves- dropping. He would go in-doors, he de- cided at last, and join Mr. Claydon, who had gone to smoke a pipe in the kitchen. Mr. Claydons silence was an unspeak- able relief after his wifes garrulousness yet Roberts thoughts were hardly of a more consecutive nature than they had been in the garden. It seemed to him that it would be unwise to let certain new ideas take definite form yet he could hardly help them doing so. He bad seen with his own eyes, heard with his own ears, things that he would have thought very easy to understand had the case been anothers; but the case was not anothers, and he was afraid of drawing inferences too readilyin- ferences that might bring disappoint- ment, disappointment that might bring knowledge of a kind of which he had too much already. Escape by any means was a thing he had never dared to dream of, never permitted himself to consider possible ; and he was still afraid of enter- taining hope qf such possibility too soon. Yet hope would come. He felt strangely confused and impatient. What was Fate going to bring him now? They came back presently, the young people from the garden, whispering, laughing, flitting about the narrow pas- sages, in and out of the small rooms. Then lamps were lit; some one began to play a noisy waltz, and Mrs. Claydon came into the kitchen, laughing a curious little laugh that Robert could not under- stand at all. Well, well, she said, in a resigned tone; then she laughed again, then re- sumed, Ive heard it said as all folks have their way, but yours is a queer way. I dont wonder as things have taken the turn they have. Think of a man like you sittin here broodin over a pipe when theres only a brick wall atween him an music an singin, an half-a-dozen or more of as nice-lookin girls as youd meet in a days march. But you are a queer un, an Ive said so from the first. Only one sentence of this speech re- mained with Robert Holt. What did Mrs. Claydon mean by the turn things had taken? Should he ask her? Per- ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. 5 haps it would be better to wait and find ing the paces of the song she bad been out for himself. 1-Je would go back to singing. Circumstance had yet to de- the sitting-room. If his interpretation of cide what her r~1e should be. At present the word that had been said was the her mental attitude was that of a victim. right one, he would probably not have There was silence for a minute or two. to wait long for confirmation. Mrs. Claydon munched her biscuit, It might have been thouTht that by sipped her wine. Fanny turned a little this time Robert Holt would have be- on the music-stool suddenly Robert come a little used to incongruous situa- Holt turned too, looking full into her tions, that some little portion of his mor- face. bid sense of the ridiculous would have You would get my note yesterday? been blunted, but it seemed to himself as he said abruptly. he entered Mrs. Claydons parlour that Yes, Fanny answered tracing the the reverse was the case. He had to pattern of the carpet with the toe of her stoop as he went in ; the room seemed boot. Then she looked up and smiled a lower than ever; the younger men little sarcastically. I wasnt expecting seemed younger than they really were, a note of that kind, neither ~vas I expect- and more graceful in figure and better ing a scene of any kind to-night. mannered. He felt his age. his grimness, No, an I ope there ~vont be no his rough bearing, his awkwardness. He scenes, Mrs. Claydon broke in. If could not breathe freely. He had a long- Mr. Holts the sensible man as folks take ing to rush out of doors, to stride away him to be, he wont want a deal o cx- without once stopping, over the miles and planation. miles of breezy moorland that stretched Robert restrained himself. A single between him and Northscaur Bay. He word will do, he said, hiding a grim would be stifled if he remained long in smile. that atmosphere of smoky lamps, com- Many a one would ha seen for their- pany-manners, and stale scent. selves how matters stood, resumed Mrs. But he did remain remained till Al- Claydon, an wouldnt ha needed a word fred Chester, the very last of the guests, wouldnt ha wanted to be told that a had departed. He had told himself that girl had changed her mind. An Im very it would be impossible for him to leave glad she has changed it, an sos her the house in this terrible state of sus- father. It never was a suitable match as pense. The last hour had been torture. I said at first, an as you must ha known Fanny had been fascinating to bewilder- yerself. Shes but a child to you, an I ment, showering her fascinations upon ev- make no doubt but she was over-per- erybody alike, Robert Holt included. But suaded. But, howiver, let bygones be there had been a good deal of badinage, bygones, Mr Holt. You must see as and Robert had discovered that there things are best as they arc. was a general understanding that such I hardly know what I see yet, Mrs. fascinations should have been reserved Claydon, Robert said, a little absently. for Mr. Alfred Chester. He was quite A good many thoughts were crowdin~ aware that his only sensation ought to upon his mind now, but Mrs. Claydon im- have been one of intense relief; and he agined that Roberts preoccupation was was relieved, but he was conscious of a the preoccupation of deep grief. good many sensations besides this, not Of course I am aware as it must be all of them pleasant ones. It had not a trial to you, she said, softening a lit tie; been pleasant for him to be compelled to sos Fanny. She quite lost her appe- witness Alfred Chesters airs of appropri- tite yesterday after she got your note, an ation. He had not been prepared for talked 0 goin away somewheres so as anything of the kind, and he thought that she mightnt see you. But I said as how he should have been prepared in some that would be behaving badly, an she way or other. Without doubt he had said no more o goin away after that. been treated very badly, Shes been well brought up, has Fanny Perhaps the same thought was in Mrs. but she hasnt been herself since last Cl4ydons mind. She sat down very com- night, an she wont be till she knows as placently, smoothing out her black satin you mean to forgive and forget. Come, apron with her fat red hands, and helped Mr. Holt, say a friendly word or two. herself once more to wine and biscuits. Dont let us part wi any kind o enmity Her manner was that of a person unas- atween us. Bless you, youll get over it sailable from any point whatever. Fan- sooner than you think. Itll be like a fly sat on the music-stool, listlessly turn- dream to you afore three months is over. I ~2 It was like a dream now, and not a pleasant dream; but Robert had a good deal of amusement to bide as well as a o~ood deal of relief. It was not possible for him to say much. He repudiated the idea of cherishinb enmity, and assented vaguely to proposals of friendship. But it was something of a disapppointment to Mrs. Claydon that he said so little of his grief. There are folks as cant talk o anything as goes very deep, she said to Fanny afterwards. When he rose to go, Mrs. Claydon was more friendly than ever; and Fanny held out her hand, smiled a bright winning smile, and looked up into his face with a tear or two sparklin~ in her wine-brown eyes. Say you wont think harshly of me, she said, in a sweet little voice of en- treaty. It wouldnt be possible, Robert said, with a smile as bright in its way as Fan- nys own. They parted then. Robert Holts illu- sion was over. Certainly he was a sadder and a wiser man, but the weia, ht of sad- ness had not come down upon him yet. His thoughts were chiefly of the unex- pected relief that had come. The burden that he had borne so long seemed greater than ever, now that it had fallen from him. The life that he had before refused to look at, he faced with a shudder now. Collid he have endured it? . . . And he felt humiliated too Shamed through all his nature To have loved so slight a thing, if indeed he had loved her. But it was not pleasant for him to look back. He tried to put this part of his life away from him, as men try to put away all recollec- tion of the delusions of a fevered brain, but it was a difficult matter. There was nothing in the present or the future that he could turn to with any satisfaction. All was barren, and blank, and dreary. He might be at peace, but it would be the peace of the desertan empty, des- olate peace. vii. THOSE who do not get virtue out of suffering get knowledge so much real sorrow, so much real experience. It seems a hard bargain; the loss appears greater than the gain; yet there is gain, if a man could realize it in time for com- fort; but we do not find it till after many daystill the need for comfort, is, so to speak, half over. With Robert Holt the many days passed slowly, sadly, unprofitably. A strange unrest was with him. It seemed to him that any alternation of pleasure and pain would have been better than this utter lifelessnessany interchange of hope and disappointment better than this utter hopelessness. Where should he go? what should he do? he asked himself during the long dreary winter. If there was no fountain for such name- less thirst as his, was there no Lethean draught anywhere? Could he never escape from the recollections that had such vitality in themsuch power to pierce and sting? There have been many since Themis- tocles who would gladly. have learnt the art of forgetting, gladly have acquired the power to shut out the old memories that lie enshrined in the heart, fresh , green, vigorous, blooming there like flowers on the graves of the dead. We would be quiet in the present, if we only might. We would restrain ourselves from any cravings ; we would do our duties faith- fully ; we would strive to the utmost we would practise any and every virtue we might have strength forall this and more, if we could only be at rest. Through much sorrow we come to be very unenvious; and if we learn nothing else, we learn to be reasonable in our de- mands. We smile pitifully at the old visions; they were so bright, so large! What a little would content us now! A single note of the song that thrilled us, a single word from the lips that spoke and smiled for us the whole day long. It may be said that if Robert Holts life had been a less solitary life, the hun- ger pains that beset him would have had less opportunity for development; but he was altogether alone, and his loneliness was becoming a more intolerable thing to him daily. Going homeward in the twi- light, to the old red house on the cliff, to his empty rooms, his desolate fireside, it seemed to him as if the plaining winter winds swept through his very soul. A fisherman with a child in his arms, a cot- tage fire lighting up the home faces gathered round it, a pair of lovers in the lane all these things touched him somewhere. Strong man as he was, there were times when he could have wept without knowing why. Robert Holt knew nothing of the the- ory of unconscious cerebration ; if he had, he might perhaps have explained for him- self certain things that puzzled him. It was but rarely, very rarely, that ]~ ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. thought consciously of Hester Shepherd, hut he was conscious every day and every hour of a certain subtle influence that seemed beTs. It appeared to him as if every act of his life were done in her sight. When he did think of her, it was without effort, without any recogni- tion of a change of subject. There were times when he wondered if it would he always thus ; when he told himself that he might probably come to be content with this mysterious sense of nearness. But as the days went on these times grew rarer; the longing for some more definite, more material knowledge of her began to haunt him wherever he went. If he might but know that she was happy, or content, or at least that she was suffer- ing no privation, he would be satisfied. He had no desire for any intercourse. If he could see her once afar off, learn from some friend what her life was, assure himself that she had no need of any aid of his, he would come back to his dreary life willingly. He was no idealist ; but the hunger and aching of heart that he had endured, had rounded certain angles of his nature wonderfully. And it had been a help to clearness of vision too. He was beginning to see that there were more things in heaven and earth than had been dreamt of in his philosophy. The longing to see Hester grew apace with the growing days. It seemed to him that the merest glimpse of her would have the effect of making his after-life seem a less sad and dreary and purpose- less thing. He mused over it till it fevered him. There could be no more work done, no more plans made, no more days of sad unhopeful routine, until he had satisfied himself thus far. It was towards the end of December when he set out on his silent errand. A strange errand for such a man! He had wavered a good deal at the last; but the deciding thought had been the thought, perhaps the hope, that Hester might be in some adversity or other; that perhaps he might have the satisfaction of befriend- ing her in some way without her knowl- edge. He was very careful to hold in his thoughts and his hopes. He would give no rein to his imagination. Yet he could not help the tremor that came over him as he left the Windmill, ~n old whitewashed house ~vith green shutters that stood at the top of Moor- gate. He knew the way to Maulds Road, across the sleepy little market- place, beyond the wooden stalls, by dingy little shops with dim oil lamps burning 53 somewhere on the counter. There were very few passers by; and he began to slacken his pace a little as he went along the tiny street; and to try to recover himself. What did it matter? No one would see him ; and he was not likely to see any one for whom he cared. Which was the shop? This one was full of crockery ware, that of ribbons. A feeble light streamed from behind the ribbons, glinting across the street, lighting up the rags that clot bed a little brother and sis- ter standing near the window of the on- posite shop. A window with oranges in it, and red- cheeked apples, and box and laurel, and red-berried holly. Because its Christ- mas, you know, Joe, the girl said. And the boy looked up quickly. Is it? he inquired. Then Ill go in an ax Miss Shepherd for a horange. She said shed give me one at Krussamas if I took old Nans milk up ivery daily athoot spillin ont. They went in together, the little ragged pair, and Ellen Jeffersons disappoint- ment was expressed in the sharp tone in which she called Hester down from the room above. Robert Holt was standing very near the step as Hester crossed the small space between the door and the counter, his power of self-control strained to the utmost tension by the thrill that swept over him. What is it, Joe ? Hester said, taking the round chubby cheeks between her large white hands. Her voice was changed, but it was strangely sweet still ; and her smile seemed even sweeter than of old, and more gentle, and more earnest. Wish a merry Krussamas an a appy new ear, Miss Shepherd, an Mrs. Jeffer- son, an Mr. Barnes, an Mr. Smithson, Joe said, in a hurried, shamefaced way. And Hester smiled. Thank you, Joe, she said, but her voice faltered a little, and when she spoke again, there xvas a pathetic cadence in her tone that stirred Robert Holts very soul. Then she turned to reach the oranges, and he saw that she looked a little wan, a little faded; and it seemed to him that her movements were listless and her attitudes more nerveless and lifeless than he had seen them before. Yet more than ever she seemed to him beautiful, more than ever a woman grand, benign, calni, good ; a woman to raise a mans soul from the dust, to comfort him, strengthen him, redeem his life from too thin breathing. So, as Robert Holt turned away into the darkness, he felt as if already some new life had entered into 54 him expanding his thoughts, kindling his hopes, bringing fresh knowledge of himself, of Hester ; suggesting to him a possible future for them both. Why should there not be that friendship of which Hester herself had once spoken? A friendship of the highest, purest, most spiritual kind. She was capable of this, as few women were, he told himself. She would comprehend it from the beginning without any written code; she would be content that it should be a friendship altogether unacknowledged, unmaterial- ized by words, visible only in a glance, a subtle sense of sympathy in the con- sciousness of a finer and higher relation- ship. Let him meet her once, see her face to face, once with new light within him, and she would be quick to see the light, quick to do her part in establishing this new order of things. There would be no need for frequent intercourse ; a note, a letter by the way; a chance meeting as the years went on, he would desire noth- ing more. Nor would she. He could live the intermediate life very calmly, live it in her sight always, as he had done before; but it would never again be the same life that it had been of late, never again so isolated, so non-appreciated. He would once assure himself of her at- titude toward him; and he would bear about with him the high support of that attitude forever after. He had no doubts. He had nothing to ask of hei. This that he desired would be given with-. out asking if it could be given at all. Her soul would gravitate towards his, as his towards hers, of necessity. So he thought as he went back to the Windmill. He did not ask himself whether he was happy, whether he would ever be happy, but he was strangely calm and contented. All he had to do now was to bring about the meeting in a nat- ural way. There must be no suddenness, no intrusion; nothing to cause any jar or difficulty. But this was less easy than it had seemed. Difficulties came from within, memories of wrong and offence; remorse, doubt, and a sense of unworthiness. All day these things kept possession of his mind; and when night came again they kept possession still. Up and down the dreary little road he wandered, backward and forward when the feeble light streamed from behind the boxes of rib- bon. There was a light in the window of Hesters little room till ten oclock, then a shadow crossed the blind and the light disappeared; and Robert went on his way again, less satisfied with that idea of a perfect friendship, more sad, and doubt- ful, and hungry. When morning came there was a changed world, a wild snow-storm swept over and all around the little town. It would have been a busy day in the mar- ket had the weather been fine, for it was Christmas Eve, and the farmers~ wives had brought in large cans of furmity, or creaved ~ wheat, for the Christmas Eve suppers of the good people of Kirk- thwaite, and also barrels of milk where- with to prepare it, and boughs of red-ber- ried holly wherewith to deck the windows, and the picture-frames, and the supper- tables. But the snow-covered carts made their way to the doors of the little shops this morning; and quaint white figures crept noiselessly about the streets and the wind whirled the snow into heavy drifts under the projecting win- dows, and by the numerous steps. It was a silent day without; and for Robert Holt who sat by the window of the little inn parlour, it was a cheerless and a hopeless day. Toward evening the sky began to break a little ; the grey changed to a deep clear indigo, and the moon rose over the hills beyond Kirkthwaite, silvering the edges of the purple clouds, disclosing the soft outlines of the folding uplands, gleaming upon the white high-peaked roofs of the town, throwing a pale mysterious beauty everywhere. Once more Robert Holt went out, once more he turned his steps towards Maulds Road ; but a little beyond, in the lane leadinb toward Kirkthwaite Hall, he saw a dark graceful figure by the white hedge- row. She was carrying a parcel, plain- sewing, doubtless Robert said to him self as half-unconsciously he turned into the same path. For some distance he followed her, through the fields, through the fir-wood, almost to the gate of the avenue; ~roxv- ing more tremulous, more painfully athirst in soul at every step. Hester dis- appeared through the gate; and Robert stood leaning againt the trunk of a fir-tree on the edge of the little copse. Standing there, the silent weird beauty without, the silent weight of pain within, Robert Holt was no longer haunted by the strange unrest that had filled him even remorse was present no lonber, no doubt nor anxiety of any kind. His calmness was not that of despair, but it * Creaved pre-boiled. ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. ROBERT HOLTS ILLUSION. 55 was akin to it. He had so little to hope were on the pathway twinkling lights in for, that it seemed hardly worth hoping the distance. Then the chime of the old at all he had nothing even to fear, he church hells came through the silence. told himself. He was rigid with misery. I It was the time of evening prayer. Coldness and sickness were at his heart; ou tired after your journey? and it seemed to him as if they must re- H Are y up to the pale, ester asked, lookino~ main there forever, stony face by her side. Presently he heard the click of the No, Robert answered. I have had gate again. The time had not seemed no journey to-day. I came on Monday. long; the sound was no joy to him. He Hester said nothing of her surprise. waited very calmly. The dark figure Perhaps you will come to church with came onward, under the glittering fir- me, then, she asked, and go home trees, by the snow-laden bushes. He with me afterward to tea. Aunt Ellen heard the li~ ht foot-fall, saw by the xvill be glad to see you. streaming moonlight a pale uplifted face, Both invitations were accepted. gentle, earnest, intense. Then he stepped Prayers were read in the dimly-lighted forward and held out his hand, and a low, old church ; there was an atmosphere of sweet voice said calmly, yet eagerly, calmness, of consolation a new realiza- Robert! is it you? tion of the old words, Peace on earth, He made no answer. The soft clear good-will to men. The text was written grey eyes that looked into his without in letters of gold, and bordered with surprise, without embarrassment, seemed holly; but Robert knew nothino of this to hold him spell-bound. He grew tremu- he could have said some one whispered it bus again, his heavily drawn breath be- to him. Perhaps Hester standing there came audible; and Hester began to un- by him, the light falling upon her shining derstand, and understanding to pity. hair, upon her peaceful face. More than Have you come all this way on pur- peaceful it was. The soft low tones of pose to see me ? she asked with her old the organ were rolling away up to the quiet smile. And Robert said that he roof ; a sweet, clear voice was singing had ; and then another silence followed, the Nuxc Dirnittis. intense, instinct in every moment of it They went homeward. There was with deep emotion. music in the street; and a group of carol- Dont be afraid of me, Hester, Rob- singers trudging through the snow that ert said at last, in tones strange and nearly blocked up Maulds Road. You touchin ~, all the more touching because will come in ? Hester said, observing of evident effort for self-control. Dont that Robert drew back when they reached he afraid of me. I havent come here the step that led up to the little shop; to ask anythin~ that can distress you, but he shook his head, and held out his to disturb your peace of mind in any hand. way. I can hardly tell why I have I cannot this evenin~, he answered, come. . . . But I mustnt keep you stand- in an absent, dreamy way. I have seen ing here in the snow. May I walk back you that was what I came for. . . . I with you? must see you again, though. M ayl Certainly, Hester said, turning home- come to-morrow? ward. And dont try to find any ex- Perhaps he read his answer in the cuse for coming to see an old friend. I pitying, loving eyes that looked into his begged you to come, you know; and I it may be that he read more than the neednt say Im glad to see you. answer he expected just then. Robert sighed. If only Hester had Yet I cant, I darent be thankful, been less cabin, less unembarrassed. he said aloud, as he rushed onward Why did she talk in that indifferent way? throub h the snow. I darent be thank- But there was an undercurrent of doubt ful yet. But it had come to him sud- in him as to whether her indifference denly, strongly, in that last unutterable was real. He had heard her speak in look, that he had ground for thankful- tones like these before quiet, even, but ness. Should he go back? It was yet wjth just a suspicion of unnaturalness in early in the evening. The impulse was them. overmastering. They were walking slowly down the Hester had gone up to her room very lane that led into Moorgate now. There quietly ; and she had put away her bon- were trees overhead, the leafless inter- net, smoothed her hair, and returned to woven boub hs glittering like a canopy of the little sitting-room without pausing silver-frosted lacework; soft shadows anywhere to think. But emotion is swift- 156 ROBERT HOLT S ILLUSION. er and stronger than thought. The events that had come into her unevent- ful life during the past hour were not to he ignored. Why had he come? Why was he so strange? What depth of suf- fering had humbled him in this way? That he had suffered she knew certainly there is a freemasonry in sorrow. And conjecturing what his sorrow might be, she could hardly forget her own; it seemed to come hack upon her with new keenness if indeed that could be said to come back that had never been absent. But this was only for a moment. Swift as lightning an unbidden thought crossed her braina nameless, unbidden hope. Not the hope that in Robert Holts heart there was still love for her she had never doubted that, never once through this long time of unfaithfulness had she doubted that, unknown to himself, he was still faithful. She knew better than he what real love was, knew more than he of its deathlessness, its power to in- fluence a human soul after a dozen lower fancies hav.e swayed it hither and thither. T he thought that came to her now was a thought that perhaps the meaner love in him was dead, or dying; that he was finding out the mistake he had made. But what then? Was he not still bound by it? Here was his sorrow, doubtless and no light sorrow either. Hester Shep- herd could see no way out of it for him, save a dishonourable way. It was a dark futureeverything was dark; and life was full of mistakes, and the world was full of strife and sorrow and tears. Hot, bitter tears, such as Hester Shepherd had never shed before, came streaming down her face; her whole frame shook with emotion as she knelt by the little sofa. She had knelt there some time ; her tears were dried; she was calmer and stronger, when Mrs. Jefferson showed Robert Holt the staircase that led up to the little room. But traces of the tears were visible on Hesters face still, and her heavy white eyelids seemed to droop with a weight of tears yet unshed. Robert Holts first impulse was to throw himself at her feet, to kneel there, not till Hester forgaxfe him, but till he could for- give himself. Her calmness, her utter unembarrassment restrained him. For a moment or two he stood lookino into the fire, pale, hesitant, doubtful. Then he took Hesters hand, and drew her nearer to him. She made no resistance. They stood for a moment or two, each in that moment acquiring knowledge of the other. Robert Holt would not be stand- ing there, standin~ thus, unless he were free so to stand, Hester told herself with a thrill that swept through her, lightening her heart of doubt and misery and pain. And once more their eyes met, once more Robert Holt saw the look of unutterable love and faith that had inspired him so suddenly with hope and resolution. Is it possible that you have forgiven me ? he said at last, in hoarse, broken tones. Quite possible ! Hester said. Her calmness xvas giving way a little now; there was a quiver in her voice, her face was a little averted. Thank you, he said. I dont de- serve it. I deserve nothing at your hands, hardly even pity. But if I had thought only of my deserts, I shouldnt have been standing here now. Then he told her how it came to pass that he stood there, told her of the long, painful year of punishment that he had endured, of his unexpected release, his sadness and isolation, and of the stron~ yearning that had come upon him to see her once again. I told you the truth this evening when I said that I had not come to distress you, to disturb your peace of mind in any way, he continued, still trying to speak calmly; but it is not all the truth, though I thought it was. I thought I only wanted to see you, to hear you speak, to ask your forgiveness. But I have more to ask than this. . . . I must ask it, Hester. . . . Is it possible to ef- face the past? YVill a whole life of ten- derness and truth efface it ? Can you, will you try to love me as if that past had never been ? Hester looked up there was meaning in her eyes that it ~vas impossible to questiQn, impossible to mistake. Will you promise to believe me if I tell you the simple truth ? she said, lay- ing one hand gently on Roberts shoulder. Will you try to understand me when I tell you that until I learnt to suffer for love, I never knew what love was Robert Holt did not say whether he understood; for some moments he said nothing, moments big as years, not to be forgotten, not to be written of here. Indeed, there is little more that may be written. The one or two hours of su- preme happiness that come into most lives are too much above ordinary ex- perience to be put into ordinary words. Hesters joy was not as Robert Holts joy, nor Robert Holts joy as hers. On RICHARD STEELE. 57 a crown like this? A clang of bells sounded from the old church tower at midnight, moving some hearts to sadness, some to joy, lifting some above all earthly joys and sorrows. To Hester, standing by the window of her little room, the world seemed one wide home of light and peace. There was light and peace without, upon the snow-clad hills, in the dark fir-wood, over the quaint old town. There was light and peace within, upon the sweet new present, upon the shadowy past, upon the bright, hope-lit future. People whose whole life is one long happiness, never know what happiness is. Here is a paradox, but with truth in it. Joy coming after sorrow is joy in- deed, a very glory of joy. Out of great tribulation. This shall heighten the crowning joy of all. one side there was the transcendent grew angry he remained so; when he felicity of forgivin on the other, the in- was in a permanent state of anger he was effable relief of being forgiven. Hers probably one of the most unscrupulous was the hibher satisfaction, his the men who ever lived. Steele went to deeper. Almost too deep, it seemed to Carmarthen to die, but hardly a beggar; Hester. His silent sympathy, his humil- his creditors were almost paid, and a ity, his half-sad, hesitant tenderness, as balance was left for his daughter. Re- he began to perceive how she had suf- grets and failures he had for his portion, fered, touched her with a sense of pain, beyond the portion of most men; but his almost of unworthiness. What had she end was tolerably peaceful, considering done that her life should be crowned with that he was a disappointed man. It is possible that most of our readers would elect to die like Ri~hard Steele, and not as his bitter enemy, Jonathan Swift; there is a difference between dying mad with baffled ambition like Swift, and sink- ing quietly down like a tired child as did Steele. Their quarrels are finished now, and let us hope that their regrets for them are over also; light lie the earth over both their hearts, for with all their faults and errors they are dear friends to every one speaking or reading the English language. Out from the confused dark night of early childish recollection two white hands are stretched towards us before all others. One points to gigantic. figures upon the wall, when the nursery light is growing dim, and we perchance are getting frightened : there is no need to fear; it is only the hand of Lei uel Gulliver; and the Brobdingnags on the wall are only the shades of the sleepin~ nursemaid. Where does this other hand point, while we sit up in our cribs, with the Lilliputians crowding over our bed, and binding us with cords not to be loosened until the earth goes on our coffin? This second hand points downstairs, where the Christmas music is playing, and our sisters are footing it in the dance with Sir Roger de Coverly. Gulliver and Sir Roger Swift and Steele are almost our earliest friends, when all is said and done. More than one other writer may have said this in better language than our own, but the fact is the same. Hu- man life is made up of regrets, we repeat, and many of those regrets arise from the death or estrangement of early friends~ many die and are forgotten, others by no means develop into what we in our boyish ardour expected; and with regard to others again, we wonder how we ever could have believed in them for a moment; Sir Roger and Gulliver, however, are among the few ideal friends who kept their own place : of Sir Roger we still believe that he is the most charming old gentleman in existence, and that paper 410 was written by Tickeli and not by From Temple Bar. RICHARD STEELE. HUMAN life is a mere inheritance of regrets: those who have no hope for the future often commit suicide, like London- derry and Romilly, or go mad, like Swift. The most successful of men, if they have any conscience left, live only to deplore the fact that they have not done one-half what they could have done under other circumstances, and that those circum- stances were, nine times out of ten, after the first success, potentially of their own creation. Sir Richard Steele, not en- tirely an unsuccessful man, must have thought somewhat with us when he took his inheritance of regrets to Carmarthen and lay down to die when he, as Swift says, with his cruel untruth, From perils of a hundred gaols Withdrew, to starve and die in Wales. That the above lines are utterly untrue we need hardly say. When the Dean was offended he grew angry; when he i RICHARD STEELE. Steele; of Gulliver we retain the opinion Budgell and Tickell wrote three or four. that he was a gentleman of agreeable The unfortunate paper, No. 410, must manners, combining strong political and either have been written by Steele at a social opinions with the modesty which time when he could write to his wife this is the inseparable accident of all great rather singular letter, travellers. We defend neither on all DE points; Sir Roger frequently laid himself ever AR PRUE, Sober or not, I am out to misconstruction, and Gulliver ~ yours, RIcHARD STEELE. behaviour on one occasion, at the court Feb. i6, 1716 of Lilliput, was ill-considered. Certainly in compassing his political ruin it was or by Tickell ; we are unlikely to find out rather hard of his enemies to rake up an the truth now, but we are almost afraid old statute against him, but the St. Pan- that we must father it on Steele. cras Vestry are doing exactly the same Possibly a short account of Sir Rich- in raking up an act of the godly Charles ard Steele himself claims our first atten- the Second against Sun day traders: on tion. For one who knows the real life of all details we are not answerable for Sir Richard Steele a dozen know the im- either Gulliver or Sir Roger. but they are aginary life of Sir Roger rle Coverley; certainly the first, and, with few excep- a vague impression which seems to pre- tions, the most lasting of our friends, vail in the cheap literature of twenty There was a wild delusion afloat in our years ago is, that Steele was a trooper in youth that Gullivers Travels and the the Life Guards, perniciously given to Spectator were both British clas- drink, who by some mysterious means got sics, and might consequently be put into the House of Commons and was into the hands of childhood ; from that promptly expelled. The cheap literature cause, probably, we so early made the of the present day, written as it is by acquaintance of Sir Roger and Mr. Gulli- scholars and gentlemen, is somehow ver. We can only say that more people scarcely fair to him; let us try to be so, must have talked about those books than never omitting to mention his faults, or have read them: there is a coolness on the other hand to sneer at his virtues, about parts of both which we will not though the temptation to do the latter is discuss in an age when Chaucers Can- strong at times. He was particularly terbury Tales are elegantly published connected with many great men, literary iu erlenso, and only not read because a and other: standing as he does between great majority of people are puzzled at two of our greatest heroes of literature, the dialect. But it must be said, as a he is in an unenviable position. From all general rule, as regards both Swift and that we can gather, he was as virtuous Steele, that the flies can be put on one regarding women as Swift himself, though plate and the butter on another: both he had neither a Stella nor a Vanessa are capable of being Bowdlerized; a with regard to liquor, hefound himself in Bowdlerized Smollett would be rather excellent company, including Addison, dull reading. Mr. Thackeray goes as far and at one time Johnson. It was a drink- as to say that Humphrey Clinker is ing age, and he drank. Steeles drinking, surely the funniest book ever written; on examination, seems to have been tol- will any one undertake to read the fun erably harmless, as far as such a vice can at a e working-mens be harmless ; it only led to an illimitable penny readino befor wives? It is extremely strange that both and almost inconceivable muddle of his Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray, two pecuniary affairs. Yet he left the world men whose writings were so singularly when the world was in his debt, and the pure, should have quoted Smollett as worst vices he exhibited were those of such a witty writer, arid have considered silly profusion in private matters, and a him, or affected to consider him, their habit of pig-headed stupid honesty in master; it would puzzle any one to find public ones. a witty passage in Dickens or Thackeray Steele was an Irishman. It is no use with a double enlezdre in it; it would disguising the fact, but he was as much puzzle any man to find a funny passage an Irishman as Swift, Curran, Grattan, in Smollett without one. Wellington, Palmerston, or OConnell. Sir Roger is peculiarly the creation of It is perfectly idle to write at the end of Steele, though greatly developed by Ad- your advertisements No Irish need ap- dison; they worked on him almost alter- ply; the Irish always do apply; and so nately, Steele writing one-third of the j persistently that they generally get lis- papers and Addison nearly two-thirds; tened to, after the manner of the impor tunate widow; once put an Irishman into a place, however, and you find that he is about the most diligent and conscientious man you can get; shrewd, mobile, and dependent, he will do your work as well as any Englishman or Scotchman. When he has to originate work for himself the genius of his nation is apt to lead him into flights of fancy which are not easily followed by pig-headed English or Scotch ; though even the other two na- tions have done some rather alarmin things in the financial way with other peoples money. Steele was an Irishman, so he was always looking for support elsewhere ; and an Irishman again in his habit of indomitable pluck. No insult or disappointment troubled him long; he was up again to his work as soon as he was out of the last trouble. In another point, that about women, he was the true Irishman ; he pinned his faith and love on one woman, and he tenderly courted her to the day of his death. She was very stupid and very ill-tempered at times, but it made no difference to him she certainly, had like the late Mrs. Peck- sniff, a little property, but it is hard to believe that it had much influence with him. If he had been the reckless fellow which some have tried to make him, he would have shaken himself free from her, instead of always praying her to stay with him and merely keep her temper; it is not much for a man to ask, but we are afraid that he asked it in vain sometimes. He was born, as some say, in 1671, at Dublin, the son of a barrister of good family. His mother was a Gascoigne, of whom we know very little. He lost his father very early a loss which has pro- duced possibly one of the most perfect pieces of writing known : it is familiar to most, but so exquisite that we must ask our readers to allow us to write it down again: RICHARD STEELE. 59 under ground, whence he could never come to us again. Enough. Shall I go on? says Sterne, in his death of Le Fevre, No. We quite agree with Mr. Sterne; Le Fevre is pathetic, and the dead donkey is tolerable, but Mr. Sterne never wrote anythin~ comparable to this story of the battledore and the coffin, for the simple reason that he had not got it in him. Steele went to the Charterhouse, now removed into the Surrey hills: to name the wonderful men who have come from Charterhouse would require quite as large a volume as that which is required to give the school roll of Harrow or Eton. On comparing notes, one discovers that a vast number of the scholars of all the great public schools have succeeded in making a considerable mess in the coun- cils of the nation; Sir Richard Steele did his best in this respect, but only suc- ceeded in making a rather tolerable mess of his own affairs, the nation being left comparatively uninjured. Here he made the acquaintance of Addison, and formed a life-long friendship, that is, until they fell out late in life and used extremely strong language to one another. Doctor Johnson, by a (for him) rather foolish mistake, makes Addison speak of Steele as little Dicky; the fact being that the little Dicky spoken of by Addi- son was a dwarfish actor, who played Gomez in Drydens Spanish Friar. This long friendship between Steele and Addison lasted nearly through every- thing; they were not enemies at Addi- sons death, though Steele had tried his gentle temper rather sorely at one time; he borrowed a thousand pounds of him, and that lie paid; he then borrowed a hundred pounds, and the use he made of it exasperated Addison so that he recov- ered it by law. Still the friendship went on. Lord Macaulay, in accounting for The first sorrow I ever knew was upon the this action of Addisons, finds no excuse death of my father, at which time i was not for it in his own mind, and so creates quite five years of age; hut was rather amazed what he confesses to be a purely imagi- at what all the house meant, than possessed nary story; his lordship need not have with a real understanding why nobody was written a scene from a hovel to account willing to play with me. I remember I went for it. The simple fact is that Addison, into the room where the body lay, and my who was very poor, thought that Steele mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my could pay him, but would not; lie there- battledore in my hand, and fell a beating the fore gave Steele a very proper lesson, coffin, and calling Papa! for, I know not th how, I had some slight idea that he was ough we are of opinion that he forced locked up there. My mother catched me in Steele to rob Peter in order to pay Paul. her arms almost smothered me in her em- Steele and Mr. Micawber have a great bracesand told me in a flood of tears, deal in comh~on as rebards their mone- Papa could not hear me, and would play with tary transactions; the difference between me no more, for they were going to put him them is that Steele always had some i6o RICHARD STEELE. money, and Mr. Micawber never had any. From the Charterhouse Steele went to Oxford, and like his more famous school- fellow, Thackeray, left Oxford, as Thack- eray did Cambridbe, without taking a de- gree. He wrote a comedy at Oxford, and some verses of his are dated 1695, which would he certainly damned for the Newdegate in any ordinary year. They are certainly incomparably inferior to Hebers Palestine, or Mr. Edwin Ar- nolds Beishazzar. We doubt if the theatre at Oxford, with all its loyalty, would stand the folllowing lines, even about Queen Victoria: I see her yet, nature and fortunes pride. A sceptre graced her hand, a king her side; Celestial youth and beauty did impart Ecstatic visions to the coldest heart. Steele was not a poet -he thought that he would like to be a soldier, and he went as cadet in the Horse Guards. His posi- tion was practically that of a trooper until he. had thoroughly learned his duty; but then his next move out of the ranks would have been not corporal or non- commissioned officer, but enszgw, or com- missioned officer ; therefore it is some- what incorrect to say that Sir Richard Steele, M.P., was ever a trooper; he had to do stable, guard, and such duties wit/i troopers, but it is very doubtful if he ever messed with them: any man who has been in certain services knows, as well as we do ourselves, the vast differ- ence between a cadet and a trooper; the one is received in the drawing-room, the other never passes the kitchen ; what were the rules of the service in Steeles time we do not know. Likewise, from comparing various biographies of him, we remain completely puzzled as to the various regiments in which he served. He certainly enlisted as a volunteer in the Life Guards, which consists of cav- alry. Then we find him in the Cold- streams, which is now a foot regiment, under Lord Cutt5. Then he was ensign, and afterwards captain in the Fusiliers, under Lord Lucas, at which time he was secretary to Lord Cutts, the vainest old fool alive, says Swift. Did Lord Cutts orhis secretary write Only tell her that I love, Leave the rest to her and fate; Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move. Lovers on their stars must wait. Only tell her that I love. Why, oh, why should I despair? Mercys pictured in her eye. If she once vouchsafes to hear, Welcome hope and welcome fear. Shes too good to let me die; Why, oh, why should I despair? We suspect that this very pretty bal- derdash is straight from the noble hand of Lord Cutts. Steele, when, like Silas Wegg, he dropped into poetry, never wrote such extremely pretty verses or such illimitable nonsense. At this time Steele seems to have been divided between his extreme satisfaction at the enjoyment of the pleasures of this wicked world, and a very strong opinion that there was a next one. He was very much dissatisfied with himself: he was very fond of eating, drinking, and sleeping. but he felt that there was something higher and nobler than the mere disc,har~e of physical functions in a way which pro- duced the contentment of a fattening hog, in clean, straw, in a warm sty. When men get into this state of mind they mostly seek a formula, by which to express, to themselves firstly, and to God afterwards, their desire of a higher life. Men generally seize the first formula which comes to their hand a fact by no means unknown to our friends the Jesuits or to our friends the Methodists the former would lead a man into slav- ery as dark as that of Comte (we are only quoting Mr. John Stuart Mill), the lat- ter would leave a man nearly perfect po- litical freedom. It was rather fortunate for Ensign Steele that when he found himself awakened there was not a Romish priest handy; he was perfectly ready for one, and a great convert has been lost. Sensitive and we will not write the second epithet natures like his are utterly abroad without religion. Steele took to religion with the formulas which were most familiar to him, and what is more, he stuck to his religion with all his faults. The key to the whole mans life is, that he created a hi h standard for himself, and was eter- nally vexed that he could not attain it. Addison never erected any particular standard; he could not kelp being good Becky Sharp says that anybody could be good with three thousand a year. We doubt that, because we have seen a great many people who were extremely naughty on four times the money. But we say that Addison was good, because he had a perfect temper, unswerving honesty, and a heart and soul entirely .incapable of wrong-doing in any shape or form. A RICHARD STEELE. world of Addisons would be so perfect that any improvement on it would be- come an unnecessary impertinence: poor Ensign Steele had Addison and William the Third in his minds eye when he wrote The Christian Hero and dedi- cated it to Lord Cutts The effect of this work was not by any means encouraging. We knew an old lady once, who, in a fit of absence of mind, said grace before sitting down to a rubber of whist. A traditional sporting parson is said to bave given out from the reading-desk, the Collect for the Sun- day next before the Derby. Steel& s Christian Hero was received by the mess of the Fusiliers very much as though a gentleman were to propose to read prayers at Tattersalls the night be- fore the St. Leger. It was all as good as asAddison, but it would not do; the fact was that he was not in a posi- tion to preach; his comrades might quote against him: Some parsons are like finger-posts, Ive often heard them say. They never go to heaven themselves, But only point the way. A doctor who will not take his own medicine inspires little c6nfidence ; but when a man preaches and does not prac- tise he does an infinity of positive harm. There is no set of men who have served the state better, or done more to raise the moral tone of their associates, than the religious soldier, such as a Gardiner, a Havelock, or a Lieutenant Willoughby; but then they showed the fruit of their teachin~ in their own lives ; we fear that Steele did not. About this time he fought a duel: two officers quarrelled, and Steele made the peace between them with such success that the one with whom he had used his strongest efforts was persuaded that Steele was in the interest of his antag- onist and challenged the peace-maker. Steele was only just recovering from an illness, but was forced to go out, and wounded his man very severely. Adams seems to think that this duel arose indi- rectly from the badinage which Steele received about the Christian Hero: he certainly was in a fair way of never hearing the last of that most ill-timed publication. To save his character he wrote a play, which being very success- ful, he was forgiven. 1-le had now the character which Mrs. Quickly gives to John Rugby. No tell-tale nor breed- hate. His worst fault is, that he is given LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 219 to prayer ; he is something peevish that way; but nobody but has his fault. Let that pass. The writing of a play at that time was a rather audacious change from the Christian Hero style of literature: the stock argument of most plays was conjugal infidelity of the most shameless kind. Lamb, in defending such plays as were written by Wycherly and Vanbrugh, says that they pretend to no morality be- cause they were written by men who merely created an imaginary picture of society in which morality was a mere matter of philosophical speculation : not by any means a powerful defence, from the most dearly-loved essayist of Eng- land after Addison : the fact was that Lamb could not help admiring the great constructive powers and the brilliant wit of these plays, and so he made the best he could of them ; he had much better have let them take care of themselves. On certain grounds they are hideously immoral; a Jacquerie or a Reign of Ter- ror would be perfectly justifiable if the morals of the reigning class were so atrocious as they are described in the plays of the Restoration and those im- mediately following it. Aphra Behn can be pretty strong, but she is generally considered to write on the side of virtue in the majority of plays at the latter end of the seventeenth century, the popular hero was the adulterer. Lord Macaulay lays all this to the credit of the Puritans Leigh Hunt is rather more feeble in his excuses than Charles Lamb for these as- tounding plays. The fact lies in a nut- shell; both Charles Lamb and Leigh Hunt saw with their exquisitely critical eyes points of construction and bright- ness of dialogue rarely equalled in any age ; the plays were condemned for their immorality, yet they were so good in par- ticular ways that something had to be said for them. The blacker the negro, the more whitewash required, and cer- tainly Lamb and Hunt daubed them with somewhat untempered mortar. Steele wrote a respectable play : Jer- emy Collier, in 1698, had published his attack on the English stage. He had won, having beaten even Congreve. Steeles play, The Funeral, or Grief ~ la mode, was acted in 1702, and Steele had the benefit of seeing the change in public opinion. The Funeral is re- spectable, but surely extremely dull read- ing, in spite of Sydney Smith, who, be- ing, like Dickens and Thackeray, far higher than the men he pretended to 162 RICHARD STEELE. adore, used them as clothes-horses. The women are rather idiots, are they not? Why anybody wanted to marry any of them is rather a mystery ; they did not seem to know anything; they required a great deal more xvinning than they were worth : they are intolerably affected and dictatorial before marriage ; what they were after one can only buess. The theory which underlies this play, and one-half of the more tolerable vir- tuous plays and novels which followed, is this. A man is determined to marry a particular woman, and she at once puts on every air of silly coquetry of which she is mistress ; the more silly and petu- lant she is, the more he is supposed tobe determined to gain her. Swift, in one of his nameless hideous horrors, has satir- ized this supposed habit of women in a way which makes one inclined ~o assist Mr. Calcraft in hanging him. But is the fact true with the majority of women, or was it ever true? Men dont want women to rush into their arms; but a woman who keeps a man at bay too long, thro~gh sheer humbug, may gain an ardent lover, but will find herself linked to an exceedingly suspicious husband a husband who watches for her to make up the arrears of that confidence which she lost in her pre-matrimonial childish- nesses. Steeles women are the women of mediocre eighteenth century comedy: and they have at times a rather alarming family likeness to Lady Steele and Lady Warwick, as far as we can jud~e of those two ladies from the extremely small means at our command. Both Addison and Steele seem to have suffered from the same domestic trouble. Addison, his de- tractors say, used to take refuge from the wife of his bosom at Buttons, where he took more wine than was good for a delicate constitution like his ; he could not always stand Lady Warwick. Steele was in the same trouble. We find him writing, DEAREST BEING ON EARTH, Par- don me if you do not see me till eleven oclock, having met a schoolfellow from India,by whom I am to be informed in things this night which extremely con- cern your obedient husband, RICHARD STEELE. We hope for the sake of peace Lady Steele was asleep when he got home, and that he remembered to take his boots off before getting into bed; a bullying wife is apt to make a lying husband, and we do not believe in the schoolfellow from India. Addison had to take so much drink to make him talk brilliantly he could never speak in Parliament that Steele was generally fuddled before Addison be~an; consequently, the suggestion about the boots is not out of place. Is it not wildly possible that Lady Warwick and Lady Steele mibht have kept their husbands at home by a different course of treatment, and not driven them to taverns for the sake of society, by simply assisting to entertain their husb~ nds friends at home, and listening to the best conversation of the century? The play of the Tender Husband followed, and then the Lying Lover. The latter play was unsuccessful; it is possible that Steele attended to Jeremy Colliers strictness too closely, for he is not only dull but preacl~es. Of this play he told a startled House of Commons years after, It was damned for its piety. The glorious,, pious, and immortal memory of the jeat William might have been drunk pottles deep by Steele but for the little gentleman in black velvet, who brought a sudden end to that monarchs career. The Kings horse stumbled on a i~olehill,to the great satis- faction of some of the Tories, and to the great dissatisfaction of Defoe and Steele: Steele, however, was an Irishman, and manaoed thpuoh e utirelv honest, keep to right side uppermost. A very singular thing is told which we should like to see verified~ it is said that Steeles nam was the last ever written down for preferment by William the Third, and that the fact was discovered after his death. The story has been told in various ways, but it seems to come from Steele himself, who on matters of this kind was no liar: it is in the highest degree probable, bat is worth historically about the same as an e.v Azrfe state paper from Fetter Lane; that is to say, not worth the paper on which it is written.. He fared better than he expected: it is possible that Addison used his influence, now recognized, from his remarkable talents and blameless life, to get Steele appointed gazetteer; he was also made gentleman usher to the Prince Consort. 1-Je left the army and married; his in- come at this time is difficult to calculate. He had three hundred pounds a year as gazet teer, and something from other sources: his. wife, who lived only a few months, had a property in Barbadoes, which he inherited: we, however, do not find his name on the list of estates on RICHARD STEELE. 163 that island forty years later, and it does about double their income, had the in- not seem to be known among the tradi- come even existed, vhich it did not. tions of that very aristocratic dependency. Steele scarcely saw six hundred pounds The lady having died suddenly, Steele cash in reality: he was certainly in debt very soon looked about for another help- when he married. During his mother-in- mate, also with a little property. The laws lifetime he only got from the Welsh second lady was Miss Scurlock, of LIan- estate what she chose to give him, and gunnor, Carmarthen, heiress to four hun- on this he and his wife started a style of dred pounds a year. Veni, vidi, vici, living which would take nearly three Richard Steele might have said of him- thousand pounds a year now. His excuse self. He was then a handsome fellow of was that it was necessary for him to keep thirty-six, thirty-two, or thirty-one. No- up appearances. This laudable effort to body seems to know, and therefore we do advance his fortunes by display only not pretend to decide. A Richard Steele gained him one eminent acquaintance, was born in 1671. If that was the man, that is to say, the Sheriff of Middlesex: he was thirty-six in 1707, at which time when he ultimately got out of debt, or he married Miss Scurlock, after a won- nearly so, he died. He started with a derfully short courtship. His statement town house; a country house at Hamp- of his income to her mother is as follows : ton Court, near Lord Halifax; a carriage and pair, sometimes with four horses, a I3arbadoes estate (let with negroes) 8~o riding horse for Mrs. Steele, and every- Gazetteer office . . . . 300 thinb else in prol)ortion. Addison lent Gentleman usher . . . . 100 him a thousand pounds, which he, as we have said before, repaid; but nothing 1250 could keep such extravagance from con- Deductions: tinual trouble. Why Mrs. Steele allowed Interest of /3000 debt . . i8o it is a question which is easily answered~ Tax for employment 45 she was not in possession of facts: Steele Remainder of income . . . 1025 did not know the state of his own affairs, and believed in the most agreeable view Steeles marriage was for some reason of them; this he magnified and decorated private. Mrs. Steele married without her to make himself agreeable to his wife, mothers consent, and awaited it until she with whom he was utterly in love; she would come to him by some process of developed into a screw, but can we, reasoning which we confess ourselves on the whole, blame the poor lady be- unable to follow. He appears to have cause she was not a Mrs. Micawber, and protested against it at first, but then as had not the charming habit wbich that afterwards she appears to have made him lady had of believing with a splendid do nearly as she chose. He writes to her devotion in the financial ability of an still as Mistress Scurlock: entirely thriftless husband. MADAM, Being very uneasy when Starting almost at the very first, it be- absent from you, I desire you would give comes obvious from Steeles letters to me leave to come to your house, Pray his wife that he was in difficulties, and let Mrs. Warren be in the way to admit that she gradually had got the habit of your obliged humble servant, facing facts, and of letting him know, RICHARD STEELE sometimes with very little gentleness, that he was not (financially) the man she Ten days after this he is still asking took him to be. She was devoted to him for her mothers consent, and concealing in the most proper manner, but her devo- the fact that they were married. He tion took the form of such extreme compliments his wife on her filial virtue anxiety about his well-being that the in only consenting to come to his arms domestic hearth seems to have been with her mothers blessing. It is very warmed with something stronger than probable that Mrs. Steeles sudden acces- sea-coal; that is an elegant way of saying sion of filial piety alter marrying without that she made the house too hot to hold her mothers leave tad something to do him. No novelist, as far as we are aware, with the old ladys tower of administer- has as yet attempted to sketch the char- ing the property: it is evident, however, acter of an invisible woman from the that everything was soon comfortable as letters of her husband; it is highly prob. far as Mrs. Scurlock ~vas concerned; able that no person alive would be likely and they shortly after started housekeep- to succeed in giving the world a detailed inc, on a scale which would have required character from almost purely one-sided 164 RICHARD STEELE. evidence, except Georbe Eliot, who is capable of anything. The only attempt ever made in that way was by a French- man in the Famille Benoiton. In that piece, the woman, who has been the ruin of the family by neglect, is never seen, and only heard of periodically by the fact that she is not at home. Oz~ est Ma- dame? is asked continually. Elie est sortie, is the answer. At last, at the d6;zouement, when she might have been of some use, the question is asked, but is answered with a slight difference. Madame has been at home, but is once more gone out. Mrs. Steele, or Lady Steele, is practically as unreal a person as Madame Benoiton, she never appears. A parallel between her and the French lady holds only partially good, however: the author, whether of novel or play, who would sketch the relations between Steele and his wife, must draw on his imacrina- tion so far as to represent fact avery difficult thing, only to be accomplished by a very first-rate hand. Our imaginary author would have to represent a per- fectly doting husband, doting to im- becility, who is eternally makin,, ex- cuses for not coming home; and a wife who is continually wanting him to come home soon, and then making his home so excessively disagreeable that he is glad to get out of it again. The(we hope) imaginary wife of Albert Diirer was not more disagreeable at times than Lady Steele it would take the pen of a Richter to describe her. Only a nagging woman is capable of driving an honest fellow like Steele into such mean sub- terfuges to avoid her company unless he could be assured of her temper. The woman was disappointed in her husbands finances ; she on the whole behaved well, hut hers was not a bosom on which he could lay his head, find peace, and start again diligent and newly strung for fresh effort; the encouragement he got was from his friends : Addison was Steeles wife. They quarrelled, it is true, and Steele was in the wrono~ but Addison was the dearest friend which Steele ever had, and Steeles friendship for Addison outla~ted everything. Lord Macaulay, in one of his essays, declares that Steele never did any good without Addisons assistance. Surely there is a moral inaccuracy here; yet practically there is very much truth in it. Like many other of the critical bulls originally issued from Buccleugh Place, Edinburgh, N. B., it makes one angry until we see the partial truth contained in it. Steele had no home, and be was partly lost without the guidance of his real better half, Addison ; but to say that he was powerless without him is to speak inaccurately. Lord Macaulay de- sired to prove that Addison would, in a future state, sit at the head of all the Whigs in heaven, himself included ; no- body ever doubted the fact except sinners and Tories ; but in proving it Lord Macau- lay goes a little out of his way in runninb down Steele. Steele had to write against time with a wife continually demanding money; he did a vast number of thin~s without any assistance from Addison at all; and he certainly as an originator beat Addison hollow. It is idle to say that we should have had Sir Roger de Coverlev without Steele, though Addi- son has developed the character in its most tender and ornamental points ; or that Steeles best papers could have been written with the dreadof the invasion of a scolding woman into his study. Steeles home was not happy, and so his best pa- pers were written at his office or at worse places. Lord Macaulay does not allow for a foolish woman or an unhappy home. One fragment of a letter from Mrs. Steele to her husband is extremely sad. The poor lady and he had been quarrel- ling, and very likely he was in the wrong the chances are about even that he was. She xvrites, It is but an addition to our uneasiness to be at variance with one another. I beg your pardon if I have of- fended you. God forgive you for adding to the sorrow of a heavy heart. That is above all sorrow, but for your sake. Ab, Mrs. Steele! half a dozen such letters as that, and your lover, who wrote to you as a lover to the end, would have been at your feet, not as a lover, but as a husband; you would never have had him write to you about your rival Asn (Addison). We may misjudge the woman, and we hope that we do; we can go no further with her. She had lived a peaceful life before she married him, possibly, though not a fine one. She had at first a brand time of it with her carriage, and then things went bad- ly: she seems never to have exerted her- self, and to have made her home uncom- fortable, not through unkindness, but through simple petulance. That she could act bravely on what most women would consider a great matter there is no doubt. Steele confessed to her that he had an illegitimate daughter. She took the young lady into her house and treated her in a way which made her own chil RICHARD STEELE. 165 dren jealous. To intending novelists we may mention that the youn~ lady was lovely and accomplished that Steele in- tended to marry her to Richard Savage, with a dowry of one thousand pounds (where the thousand pounds was to come from does not appear); that Steele, dis- covering the real character of Savage, broke off the arrangement; and the youn~ lady married a tradesman below her and became a saintly person, while Richard Savage followed the path which he had chalked out for himself early in life, and went to the devil. If a young novelist cannot make a tale out of that, he or she had better quit the trade at once. The Tatler, one of the greatest Eng- lish classics, is but rarely read now. Steele originated it, without the least idea that it was to live as long as the language is spoken. Addison, not long gone to Ireland, backed him up, certain- ly as early as the eighteenth paper. Steele says about Addison, I was un- done by my auxiliary. When I had once called him in I could not subsist without dependence on him. Addison wrote forty-one papers out of two hundred and seventy-one. Steele originated it, and also brought it to an end, in a way for which we are unable to account. It is certain that he made a great deal of money both by the original publication and the republication in volumes. The Spectator followed at once that collection of essays and stories, a large portion of which many of us have had to translate into Latin prose for about six years of our life. The senti- ments are transcendent, the English prose absolutely incomparable ; but whether for virtuous sentiment or admir- able English, Addison reigns supreme, though Tickell, Steele, and Budgell run him hard at times. We doubt very much if the Spectator is greatly read now, save for the adventures of Sir Roger de Coverley and Will Honeycomb, both cre- ations of Steele. We have just read the inimitably witty and pathetic love story of Hilpa and Shalum, and it appears to us exactly the same as it was thirty years ago ; the more often you read it the more the judgment of your early insight is confirmed. It has been translated into many languages, and those who say that it is the most outrageous piece of twad- dling balderdash in the language are en- tirely wrong there are many worse. The sentiments are of the most virtuous kind, absolutely faultless: the only ques tion which could possibly arise in a de- graded mind is this : whether the young lady was worth all the trouble ? To say that Hilpa had the remotest resemblance to Lady Warwick is to say more than we dare ; yet the paper does to the world with Addisons name, and the circum- stances are not entirely dissimilar. The Spectator was brought to a close in 1712. Addison published a supplementary volume in 1714 without Steeles help. Therefore the story of Hilpa and Shalum was written two years before his marriage with Lady Warwick. Steele meanwhile had started the Guar- dianin 1713, with a new set of charac- ters and a new set of writers. Addison, as usual, came to his aid, and wrote forty- one papers to Steeles eighty-two, the rest, numbering forty-two, ~vere xvritten by the great Bishop Berkeleywho wrote fourteen Alexander Pope, and John Gay, Philips, and Rowe: it is pos- sible that no paper has ever had such a list of great classical names among its contributory before or since. This will hardly be disputed when we add to the names above mentioned those of Hugh es, Budgell, Tickell, Parnell, Wotton, and Young ( Ni~ht Thoughts). It seems incredible that such a paper should come to an abrupt end, but it most un- doubtedly did so, and left Steele in a heavy quarrel with Swift. It was a very ugly thing to quarrel with Swift, and there is little good in raking it up. Steele charged Swift with being the Ex- aminer. Swift denied it to Addison, saying that he had saved Steele from ruin by his political power: Addison showed the letter to Steele: Steele wrote to Swift, laughing at his claim of having saved him : Swifts reply is grinding and terrible. He could be inexorably harsh, and was a master of a certain kind of fence ; Steele was no match for him in the Deans own peculiar manner. The Dean had a point, and that was that he had certainly pleaded for Steele to Har- ley ; he made the most of this; but Steele knew, or thought he knew, that the Dean was lying hard about his con- nection with the Tory paper, the Ex- aminer. The Dean was this kind of man a man rather uncommon, though there are a few in rather eminent posi- tions even now : he loved power ; he loved to hold a card in his hand against a man, and let him know that he held it. He held such a card against Steele, and thought that he should smash him by playing it. Steele made him play i66 RICHARD STEELE. it, and then laughed in his face, asking the Examiner for knitting in church him what was the next card. There was in the immediate presence of God and no other. Steele, the soldier, the play- the Queen ( Write God first, says wright, the Bohemian, stood simply on Dogherry), Steele somewhat savagely de- his own legs, and said, Here am I, fended the lovely sinner, who was after- Richard Steele: you, Jonathan Swift, wards Duchess of Somerset. Young cant say or do anything against me which Lord Finch had never spoken before, and has not been said and done before: you when he got on his legs he found that he have no more to say against me; I have could not say one word. I cant speak my friends, you have yours; let us see for the man, hut Id fight for him, blun- whos the best man. Nothing in this dered out the honest young nobleman, world is so dangerous as driving an hon- sitting down. The house was so pleased est man, of good ability, with a wife to with his modesty and pluck that they back him up, into a corner, Swift, wife- forced him on his legs again, on which less, tried it, and Swift came out second Lord Finch suddenly found his tongue best : but he never forgave Steele. The and astonished the House by a most wretched man wrote envenomed per- capital speech. Steele; however, was ex- sonal attacks on Richard Steele, which pelled the House by a vote of 248 against Steele never could by any chance have 154. Hallam says that it was the first read, and when he was quite happy. In instance in which the House of Commons the country once we heard one man say so identified itself with the executive ad- to an eminent author, You caught it in ministration independently of the soy- the last week. Did I ? said the ereigns person as to consider itself other. As I never see that paper I do libelled by those who impugned its meas- not particularly care. ures. There is no appeal against Mr. One of the things which half ruined Hallam, and so we are safe in writing Steele for some time was the publication down his account of the matter. of the now celebrated Guardian on Steele now retired into private life, ex the demolition of the works at Dunkirk. cept as far as literature was concerned. The sentence which gave most offence He writes to his wife exhorting her not was, The British nation expects the to be dismayed, and also that some one immediate demolition of Dunkirk. This has paid in three thousand pounds to his would be about equivalent to saying now, account. He was but a short time under The British nation expects that her a cloud; Queen Anne died on the 1st of Majesty will see the treaty with Russia August, and the tables were completely carried out in its integrity. A most turned. harmless sentence, but one which was DEAR PRUE, I have been loaded thought by those who chose to think 50, with compliments by the Regency. I am among others by Swift, to be a deadly in- assured of something immediately. I de- suIt to her Majesty. In this year he was . ou to send elected to the horouo~h of Stockbrid~e at sire y me a guinea. I shall ~ have cash in the morning. the nomination of the Duke of Newcas- RIcH. STEELE. tle; a petition was lodged against him for bribery hut was never pursued; his The licence for Drury Lane Theatre enemies intended to inflict a much more having expired, it was renewed, Steele serious blow on him than the mere loss being patentee, and receivin~ about a of an election. He was duly elected in thousand pounds a year from Colley Cib- August, 1713, and took his seat the next ber and the other managers. He was March. having meanwhile written a very made Surveyor of the Hampton Court violent Whig pamphlet, The Crisis, Stables, a magistrate for Middlesex, and and three papers in the Englishman, deputy-lieutenant. He was also elected which contained some pretty strong re- to Parliament for Boroughbridge, and fiections upon Queen Anne. His first took Prue for a jaunt to York, when he parliamentary experience was the ex- went to his election, at which place she tremely unpleasant one of having to stayed, he going on to Boroughbridge defend himself before the House on a alone, and promisin~ her faithfully not tc charge of sedition. Robert Walpole get drunk. But poor Prue was not long spoke for him, as did also Walpoles to remain Mrs. Steele: a grand banquet brother, Horace, with Lords Lumley, was given by the deputy-lieutenant of Hinchiabroke, and Finch. Lord Finch Middlesex to the lord-lieutenant, Lord had reason to speak in Steeles favour, Clare, and an address to the King was for when his sister had been attacked by drawn up. Richard Steele, Esq., M.P., RICHARD STEELE. 167 wrote it for them and became Sir Richard having, with all his faults of commission Steele, ~vhile poor honest Pine, for whom and omission, been as much a lover as a the close of all earthly honours and all husband to her until the last. She was earthly vexations was approaching, be- only forty when she died, he being about came her ladyship. The event was cele- forty-eight: much as she may have had brated by a splendid banquet to two hun- to undergo from her husbands careless- dred persons with all kinds of wine. Ad- ness in money matters, he never gave her dison wrote some lines of exquisite wit, ?ne moment s uneasiness on the score of which were spoken after dinner, and jealousy. which gave the character of Steele in so The loss of the woman he loved so perfect a manner that his history is com- dearly was qt~ickly followed by the es- plete : all Steeles projects and mistakes trangement of the dearest friend he had are touched on with a loving hand, and ever known. Lord Sunderland introduced at last the guests are informed in confi- a bill limiting the number of the House dence that their host intends to convert of Peers, that is to say, preventing the the Pope immediately. creation of fresh peers by. the sovereign Steele was, hoxvever, only moderately for the purpose of carrying any political rewarded for his sufferings in the cause measure through the Upper House. of party, which in reality had not been Steele was furious at the measure, and very great. Walpole sent him five bun- published a paper called the Plebeian, dred pounds as a present, and be must in which he argued that the limiting of have made a tolerable sum by literature, the number of the peers gave them an The Rebellion of 1715 came on, and almost overwhelming power, for they be- Steele became a commissioner of for- came an oligarchy almost under the pow- feited estates. About the end of August, er of the court, whereas, by giving the 1716, Steele left him with the chil- e power of creating a major- Lady sovereion th dren, while she went for abo uta year to ity in their chamber, they were more de- her mothers at Carmarthen. There pendent on the will of the nation as rep- seems to have been no quarrel, but Steele resented by the sovereign. He does not seems to have been most beggarly poor seem to notice the fact that the House for some reason : he writes, We had of Lords exists only by the will of the soy- not, when you left us, an inch of candle ereign that is, in reality, by the will of or a pound of coal in the house, but we the ministry, for no nobleman can take do not want now. Steeles letters to his his seat in the House of Lords without a wife thus far are rather we4risome, for call from the Crown. Addison took an Lady Steele seems to have generally been entirely opposite view from Steele in the in a bad humour, and once complains that Old Whig. The end was a quarrel, in he owes her he was eight hundred pounds, advis- which we think Steele, though inr him to take care of his soul he oives rioht in his argument, was wron6 in his a S S her the same advice and denies the debt. conduct: he should have been more re- Old Mrs. Scurlock died, and there may spectful to Addison. The bill was lost, and have been some amelioration of their af- the privilege of the Crown remains but fairs but Steele was bound to make his it was a bitter victory for Steele, living fortune to please his wife, and in order as he did by the breath of the ministry. to gain that end, threw a laroe sum of His persecution by the Duke of Newcas- money in a plan for bringing i~sh to Lon- I tle, his loss of fortune, his quiet retire- don alive. Salmon was then about five ment to Carmarthen, where he forgot his shillings a pound when it could be got quarrel with Dennis, with Addison ev- in the Thames the attempt was made erything in a quiet and peaceable end, to bring it from the Irish rivers, but the our space gives us no room to narrate. fish dashed themselves to pieces in the At the end he had no enemies save Swift transit, and the thing was a failure: t~ and Dennis. Vast sums of money for shared the fate of his early efforts after I those times must have passed through his the philosophers stone. hands. Adams considers that the loss Lady Steele, to whom we hope we have of his patent as Governor of the Comedi- done justice, returned to him, and they ans amounted to a fine of Io,ooo. In seem to have been happy together. 1722 when his Conscious Lovers was Steele had previously been in Edinburgh, acted the King sent bun ~oo. Little where be had been well received. In seems to have remained. The early mass 1718 we find him at Blenheim with the of debt was too overwhelming. Duke of Marlborough on the ~oth of A good man, and a very clever one. He December, 1718, Lady Steele died, he had one great blessing in life, the friend- i68 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, ship of Addison; he had one great misfor- tune, a posthumous reputation greater than his own. He lived with Addison, worked with Addison, and is always spoken of in comparison with him. Addi- son was so greatly his superior, that Richard Steele will suffer for all time by enforced comparison with a much grander man. From ~ Magazine. SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. LETTER IV. THE position of the young unmarried women of the lower orders in Spain next claims our attention. Certainly the con- trast between the perfect freedom of the daughter of the family in England, and the seclusion and strictness under which her Spanish sisters days are passed, is a very striking feature in the domestic arrangements of the interior. In the lower walks of life the Spanish maiden is absolutely a prisonerthe prisoner of her madre, or her tia, or aunt until a kind Providence gives her a husband. No Spanish maiden, however poor, or however low her rank, can ever walk alone in the street, even for a few paces if she do so her characteris gone. She cannot go out to service unless her madre or tia be in the same service; and hence all the criadas, or maid-servants, are ~vidows who are allowed to have their children in their masters house, under their own eye ; or unmarried over forty. The Spanish maiden has her choice of only two walks of life, until married life and a husbands protection becomes her own. Up to the time of her marriage she may either, if her father and mother be alive, go to a tailors shop each day, returning at night, thus earning a few pence a day, and learning a trade. She is escorted thither and homewards by her mother, whose tottering steps and grey hair often contrast strangely with the upright carriage and stately walk of the daughter by her side. While at work during the day she is under the care of the maestro, or master tailor, who sits among his bevy of fair maidens at the open door, and superintends their work. All the tailoring is done in this way. You first of all buy the amount of cloth you need at a linen-drapers; it is then taken to the tailors house, and he takes your measure, and reports upon the amount and fitness of the cloth, and sets his maidens to work. A b ood Spanish servant, if you get a tailor to cut the cloth, will thus, at odd hours, make a cap- ital suit of clothes. If the Spanish maidens, however, have a mother who is a widow, or who has no settled home with her husband, and is for this cause obliged to go out to service to earn her bread, the maiden will probably be with her mother, and, receiving little or no wages, take an idle share in the house- hold duties, and receive each evening of course in her madres presence the visits of her lover. Most of these girls have their lovers, who, after his days work is over, saunters idly, cigarillo in hand, into the kitchen which contains his Isidra, Maria, or Isabel for these girls have very fine names and performs his courting. The mothers watchful eye and ear are ever open, and the mother herself ever at hand. As to saying a single word, or, at least, having a walk or a good English chat alone, the young couple never even dream of such a thing. To so great an extent is this system of motherly surveillance carried, that should you call the mother away for a few minutes, she will not leave the young couple alone, but will order the young man to go out for some trifling article, or call the daughter to her side, that they may not have a private talk. This seems strange, unnatural, and unneeded. The mother, during this period, treats her daughter quite like a child. If she does wron no matter though she be on the very eve of mar- riage the mother administers a sound beating with her fists, and sometimes even a sound kicking. Upon my word, said a pretty Spanish maiden thus situ- ated, to me, I really begin to think my mother is a bad old woman for beating me so. The Spanish mother has no ide~z of trusting her daughters; nor do they ever attempt the least religious or moral culture. Their system is to pre- vent any impropriety simply by external precautions. And I must say that the majority of poor girls, when led to the altar, would present a marked con- trast in purity to an equal number of our English agricultural labourers daughters. In Spain the daughters purity is the mothers highest pride. Mother and daughter, though constantly quarrelling, and even coming to blows, are very fond of each other ; and the old woman, whem~ they go out shopping together, will carry the heavy basket, or cesta, under the DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 169 burning sun, that she may not spoil her daughters queenly walk: her dull eye, too, will grow moist with a tear, and her worn face will kindle with absolute soft- ness and sweetness if an English sefior express admiration of her childs mag- nificent hair, or flashing b lack eyes. The poor old mother, too, will save and save: she will deny herself her morsel of came, or meat, and her little copa of wine, on feast-days (and these poor creatures luxuries are few indeed at best) that she may buy a ring or ear-rings of gold, to grace her daughter at the Feria, and shame her rivals. The moment, however, that the daugh- ter is married all this is at an end. The mother, to use a vulgar,but very ex- pressive phrase, washes her hands of her care. From the moment of the com- pletion of The marriage ceremony, the mother declines all responsibility, seldom goes to her daughters house, and treats her almost as a stranger. Amon the higher classes, although different in kind, the treatment of the young unmarried maiden is almost as strict. She, too, like her humbler sister, can never have the privilege of seeing her lover in private, and very rarely in- deed, if ever, is he admitted into the sala where she is sitting. He may contrive to get a few minutes chat with her through the barred windows of her sala; hut when a Spaniard leads his wife from the altar, he knows no more of her character, attainments, and disposition, than does the priest who marries them, and per- haps not so much. Happiness under such circumstances can hardly be ex- l)ected as a rule, and yet the married life of the Soaniard, if not brilliantly happy, seems at least calmly peaceful. The pleasures of husband and wife lie in different directions, and each leaves the other free to follow out and enjoy them, as he or she hest can. They are not ;riuch together again, and in sunny Spain there is no fireside gathering indeed, there are no fire-places, only braseros of charcoal to bring husband and wife torether in sustained intercourse. There b is a very striking law in Spain, the very existence of which proves better than any words of mine, the strictness with which the Spanish maiden is guarded, and the absolute authority of her parents. Its provisos are these : Should a Spanish lad and lassie become attached to one another, and the parents absolutely forbid the match, and refuse their daugh- ter liberty and permission to marry, the lover has his remedy at law. He has but to make a statement of the facts on paper, and deposit it, signed and attested, with the alcalde, or mayor of the township in which the ladys parents dwell. The alcalde then makes an order, givin~ the young man the right of free entry into the house in question within a certain number of days, for the purpose of woo- ing and carrying off his idol. The pa- rents dare not interfere with the office of the alcalde, and the lady is taken to her lovers arms. From that moment he, and he alone, is bound to provide for her: by his oxvn act and deed she has become his property. Cases have happened where the parents judgment has been proved, by the bitter experience of their unhappy child, to have been the best: the would-be husband having turned out to be a seducer. But the law comes upon kim with all its force, and he is bound to maintain her, in every way, as a wife, under pain of punishment. The whole Spanish law on the question of bastardy is very stringent, and bears severely and deservedly so on the man. LETTER V. IN seeking to present a general and impartial outline of Spanish life in the interior, I promised to give some estimate of the Spanish character. The first thing you will notice as a leading characteristic is its e~ceedbzg ~assiouiateness. Wh eth er this may be due in any measure to the fiery sun of their climate or no, I cannot say. Many thoughtful men with whom I have conversed upon this subject believe that such is the case. But the fact re- mains. No race is so fiery as this. The rule with the Spaniards of the lower or- der is a word and a blow. It is, however, quite a mistake to suppose that the un- educated Spaniard is vindictive in nature quite the reverse. His anger, soon up, is soon down again, and the insult under which he smarted forgotten, whether it has been avenged or no. The only safe way to deal with these men, when angry, is never to thwart, answer, argue with, or irritate them at the moment when their passion is boiling over. Speak an an- gry Spaniard fair, and very soon his anger will calm down, and he will be- come a rational being again. More than thishe will be willing and glad to ac- knowledge his fault, and shake hands and be on friendly terms again. A case in point here occurs to my mind. A friend of mine, while out rid- 170 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, ing, came suddenly, at a bend in the road, on two angry men, who were just in the act of drawing the knife upon one another. Contrary to the advice and en- treaty of his companions, he sprang in- stantly from his horse, rushed in be- tween them, separated, and expostulated with the combatants. The men, mad- dened with passion, deemed worthless and an interference his arguments and entreaties. At last one of them let fall the fact that they (the duellists) were brothers. Instantly my friend made use, and good use of this point. Sirs, said he, would you, who sucked the same mothers breast, go down to the grave, one of you with a brothers blood on your soul ! For a moment the men s better feelings were aroused ; the young- er brother drew back, and sheathed his knife. Right you are, seflor, he said, badly, shamefully, as my elder brother has treated me, I have no right to draw upon him he is my brother, after all my elder brother. My friend took the young fellows arm, and walking beside his horse led him slowly axvay from the scene of temptation. Homeward they went, talking about indifferent matters, until at last they reached the casa of my friend. On entering it, this man (the younger combatant) said, while the tears streamed down his brown wooden face, You are my friend. Thanks to God I lie down to-night with hands not wet with my brothers blood. The men were miners, and of the lowest class of itine- rant Spaniards. Again and possibly as a natural con- sequence of these frequent and deadly crimes, committed with the ever-ready knife the Spaniards utter disregard, utter recklessness about shedding man s blood, comes in here as another marked feature of Spanish character. The Span- iard thinks nothing at all of the higher and deeper aspects of his crime ; he thinks nothing perhaps (I fear in too many cases it Is so) because he has been tauglit no/lung of the responsibility of sending his own soul or his neighbour s, without one moments warning to its last account. True, he feels a certain re- morse, and a certain terror of the law may cause him to tremble. But, if his crime be not found out, with the morning sun his remorse has passed away. The brothers blood has dried upon the knife, and he can cut and eat his melon with the self-same blade without a pang, per- haps without a thought. And this disre- gard of human life does not entirely con- fine itself to the utterly ignorant classes. Like a vile infection, it spreads to those around. Two men, fighting in our streets, with revolver and knife, a few weeks since, both fell mortally wounded. Of course not one of the ring of bystanders had lifted a hand to prevent so ghastly a termination of what, in its commence- inent, had been but a trivial quarrel. The bystanders, I grieve to say, never do in- terfere. The two men were carried to the hospital; and on speaking to one of the chief officers of justice about the af- fair, Yes, said he, lighting his cigarillo, one is dead, and the other, I fancy, lust walking on Ike border-land. With these words he quietly dismissed the subject. Another case, illustrating what I have said, here occurs to me. I went into a way-side yenta with a friend, a Spanish entle man, for a glass of the common rough red wine of the country, the Val de Peftas. Two men, words running high between them, entered sooi~ afterwards: one drew his knife, with an oath. The hosfess did not cease filling the copas of her customers. My friend, a really hu- mane and good man, merely uttered the single word Knife! and, drawing my arm through his own, dragged me out. Noticeably in warfare long-continued if we are to believe what has been written the mind gets used to deeds of vio- lence when so constantly presented to its view ; and so, I suppose, it is in the case I allude to. But it is absolutely shock- ing to see how callous the lower classes have become to these sxvift, fierce deeds of blood. I wonder, said an educated man to me the other day, how many men will be stabbed at the Feria thIs year? I think any comment of mine upon this speech would be wholly superfluous. There is one reflection that I cannot help making here one question that con- stantly presents itself to my mind, when I see the fearfully low state of religious and moral culture to which the masses in this country have been suffered to be- come a prey it is this, !J7ko Is to blame for these Ikings? Here is a country with undreamed of mineral wealth; with vast resources of timber uncut and of land un- cultivated ; with vineyards to the f till as rich as those of sunny France, and xvith a glowing climate; yet her poor have no education, and nothing but huts to live in; her roads are mere tracks, all trace of which the winter storms carry away and, above all, not only mental, but religious culture is a stranger to the DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 7 masses; and who is to blame for these things? The Spaniard, again, is a man full of courage. But it is courage of a certain and peculiar kind, and his courage is made up of paradoxes. He is reckless of his own life, and will fight with an adver- sary far his superior in skill. He is a daring horseman, and a still more daring driver. In the bull-ring, or personal combat, he shines for courage and adroit- ness and yet, in some things, he is strangely timid. As a soldier, in the ranks, he has been proved not to be al- ways very plucky, by the experience of past warfare. But I account for this upon this theory, that, being only semi- civilized, the Spaniard, like all semi-bar- barians, cannot rely upon his comrades. These men do not in tradino or in fight- mb, loyally and fully trust ~ne another. Then, again, the presence of a brave and yet unarmed man his mere voice and presencewill awe two or three armed Spaniards. Again,in illness he is very timid; once the foe has fairly got him in its grip, the Spaniard gives up hope, and gives himself up to, as he calls it, his fate. So, then, his courage is made up of paradoxes, and I account for the fact in this way, that the nation is really only semi-civilized, and shares the character- istics of other semi-civilized peoples. Like them, the Spaniard knows no reli- ance on his comrades en masse; like them, he knows nothing of combination, as a secret of strength like them, he has not the full and free and absolute trust in God as the Defender of the right. Yet, as a soldier, the Spaniards pa- tience under privations is of no common order, and his exceeding endurance of hunger, thirst, and nakedness, would put to shame the enduhnce ot an English in- fantry man. I pass on to two bright spots in Span- ish charactersobriety, and the polite- ness of all classes. The Spaniard, how- ever ignorant, has naturally the manners and the refined feeling of a gentleman. A rude speech, a laugh at a foreigners expense, would be voted simply indecent by him. Should an Englishman so far forget himself as to become drunk and ~ncapablein a Spanish town, I believe he would be politely carried home and his purse restored to his pocket. The Spaniard, again, is no drunkard; as he himself says, I know when I have had enough. Rare as may be his opportu- nities of getting stimulants, he would not pass the bounds of moderation when the opportunity of drinking at anothers ex- pense is offered him. Then the Spaniard, again, is very con- tented. Ask him why he does not ask more wages, and he would often say It is too much trouble, but oftener still I have enough. He is not certainly a saving man on the contrary most irn provident. He reads the motto The morrow shall take thought for the things of itself in its wrongs ense, and he acts upon it. In some other relations of life, the Spaniard of the ]o~ver class does not shine. In a country where the very bread, the very existence of two out of every three men depends solely on his beast one would expect to find many merciful men. But such is not the rule. The Spaniard never calls his mule or donkey by any pet name he calls the one Mulo (mule), pronounced Moo - - lo and the other Boricco (don- key), pronounced ----- ruko! You hear the ominous sound Moolo, and, instantly following it, a shoxver of blows and kicks, too often wholly undeserved. A bad-tempered mule or donkey-driver will actually, if his beast be obstinate, seize its ear and bite until the blood streams down. This disregard of the sufferings of the rest of the creation seems to be sucked in with their moth- ers milk, for boys of seven and eight years old will stand at the corner of a street, where some poor donkey is teth- ered, and beat it mercilessly with an ashen staff, wielded with both hands, the passers-by never dreaming of interferinb the while I So with the dog: he is beaten, not to correct and amend his faults, but simply to avenge the fault he has been guilty of. The one pleasure, amounting to a pas- sion, of all classes in this country is ga/n- bling of every sort. In the street, the cottage, the casino, the fair, are lotteries, pitch-farthing, cards, roulette-tables, and every sort of gaming, to be found. So let me end. Passionate, but rarely revengeful; careless of others lives, yet equally so of his own ; more enduring and contented than courageous, as a soldier; very generous of what he has ; sober, hut not very chaste ; polite and kind, but not very truthful ; cruel, and yet withal warm- hearted; not patriotic, yet very fond of his country; proud, and yet ready to serve and help, the Spaniard has many noble qualities. But he needs education of heart and mind, moral as xvell as meiv 172 SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE INTERIOR, tal culture. That given him in greater abundance, he would be a noble friend and a by no means contemptible foe. LETTER VI. I MUST endeavour to brincr to a close b my chapter on the general view of Span- ish life and character in the interior. I have sought to bring out vividly and im- partially a true picture of Spanish life and manners, and to describe the state of some of these townships of the interior as it really is. I have taken you from the poor to the well-to-do: from the town to the country: from troubles to peacefulness. Let me bather up some details that still remain to make my pic- ture as clear as I can. Let me premise, that it is almost with a feeling of sadness at any rate, of depression that I begin these chap- ters ; for in them, to be truthful, I must give rather a gloomy background to the many bright traits in the character of these people, the reproduction of which has given me sincere pleasure. It may be that, like the Spaniard himself, one is too prone, under these bright and cloudless skies, where day after day re- produces itself only more bright and yet more bright than the last to dwell upon the bright side, and forget what is equally true, yet far from bright or en- couraxino But as our home poet has said, with touching simplicity, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn; and one must walk at times through the shadow, and be content to grasp the thorn. I have not sufficiently dwelt upon the low, the very low state of morals among the higher classes and the ignoran Ce, the rudeness, the semi-civilized state of the masses. Let me speak of the latter first, for with them I am most at home. Ill-fed, ill-housed, ill-clothed, ill-taught, or rather uutaugkt, and uncared for: a hopeless, objectless being, feeling no re- sponsibility for the present or the future. Such is the peasant of the interior, be he farm labourer, blacksmith, fruit-seller, water-.carrier, gipsy, horse-dealer, or what he may. He seems to be unable to read, or write, or think, or love, or hope, or pray, or plan. With him there is no light. Into darkness, social, moral, religious, and intellectual, he is born as his her- itage in that darkness he spends, and in that darkness be is content to end his days. Come with me for a stroll al- though unarmed a stroll is by no means a secure pleasure into the campa, or wild country, and visit the hut of a friend of mine, a poor fruit-seller, and we will pass a few hours of one day with him. His little shanty stands alone near his dry, half-tilled garden; and you look in vain for a smiling village, or a substan- tial farm, or country-house. His hut, let us call it shanty, stands alone amid the thistles, its poverty its best protec- tion. It is formed of three walls of rude, unfashioned, unhewn stone, bound to- gether with no mortar. You must stoop low to enter it ; it is roofed with reeds from the Guadalquivir, or with brush- wood from the steeps of the Sierra ; its door is a hurdle, laced with green brush- wood and rushes, from the neighbouring bosque (coppice). There is one rough settle in the dark room, and on it lie the two mantas, the use of which I ex- plained in a former letter. The floor is the earth and dust. Here is the mistress, a knife stuck in her girdle. You must not look for beauty, or tidiness, in her wooden, mahogany-coloured face; and you wonder at her stride, like a mans, and her muscled arms, and rough voice. Yet remember, she has to work very hard; and the Spanish old woman (madre) of the lower class is ~iways a masculine-looking hag. She has no chair, but courteously apologizes for its absence, and throws down a manta on the floor for you to sit on. Suddenly, you hear at your ear the cackling of hens, the crowing of a cock ; she sees, with ready Spanish perception, that you are puzzled, and pushes aside, not the bed linen, but the brush-wood, and there, under the settle, is the roost full of poultry There, too, is her little jarra of water, agua clara, and the provisions for the scanty comia (we . drop the d in comida in the interior) the flat cake of coarse bread, and the melon, or the white grapes. She will tell you with a womans tact (though it is not perhaps strictly true), We are all. in the rough, for the winter rains are coming, and then we go to take a house (site means a quarter of a room) in the town. The little vineyard, or melon, or vegetable ground of this man is close to his house, and daily he takes his produce to the Plaza (market-square) of the adjoining towns. Just now he is taking his siesta, rolled in his manta in this room too in- dolent to move. At sun-down he trots be- hind his donkey, with its panniered sides DURING THE SUMMER OF 1873. 73 well galled with melones or grapes ; sandalled feet, the bright fruit, and the and we will follow him along the dusty fierce competition for it, in the early track we boast no roads with his morning sunlight, formed a scene at once baggy canvas trousers, esparto-grass san- busy and beautiful. dals, and huge knife stuck in his faja. Sunday, alas! though the Domingo About ten oclock he arrives in the street, (Lords day), is the busiest day of all. which, running out of the market, serves Sunday, which brings rest to the tired for stables for the beasts, and bedroom millions in our own land, brin6s none to for the owners of these panniers of fruit. these. True, the bells are clashing and He loosens his pannier from his donkeys clanging all the day, but save a few pious back, and lets the air get to the inside of or frightened women, in many of these the packet of fruit; then, tethers his don- towns there is no congregation at all. key to the side of the street, rolls himself On Sunday bricklayers build, carpenters up in his manta, lights his cigarillo, and rend, and shops drive a roaring trade. falls fast asleep by his fruit. It is a To a certain but very small extent, the strange sight to pass about midnight feast days make up for the Sundays along these streets adjoining the fruit rest. Thus, a devout man will say to his market, the rows of donkeys, the hun- employers, To-day is the festival of the dreds of sleeping forms, undistinguish- saint after whom I was christened, and able from the fruit and sacking, the fresh his holiday will at once be ~ranted to sickly damp smell of fruit hanging heavy him, and to some of his chief friends. on the air; and just beyond the Plaza, Then he can pray or confess in the morn- with its every tent now lying on the ing, and have a feast in the afternoon. ground covering the fruit, and a tiny oil Now for the closing scene in the life lamp burnin6 faintly to show where the of the Spanish poor. Ill health and old stall and the stall-keeper and the fruit age must come at last, and bread cannot are, all lying under the rough tent like be won any longer. He has no work- a lot of half-empty sacks. house or parish pay to look to, and so At 3.30 the market opens, ~nd at four he must either be~ his bread from door to five it is, in truth, a lively sight; from to door, as do many, or live on the grudg- every house in the town comes a repre- ing charity of relatives ; or, as is often sentative; and from every rich house a the case, he must be content, for the criada, her basket on her arm, to buy term that remains to him, to be a fruit, bread, and game (for there is little pendent of the master for whom he once beef or mutton killed in the summer worked, or of some charitable rich man. months) for the days consumption. The These masters, in the larger houses and little tents of the fruit venders are of the palacios of the towns, are very kind to most primitive and varied shapes, dirty their old servants: at eight or nine canvas stuck in fantastic shapes upon oclock, you will be surprised by observing one or more sticks, underneath their crowds of these poor, worn, ragged crea- shade lie the heaps of glowing fruit, the tures sitting inside the court-yard, and red flame-coloured tomato, the red and round the outer doors of some of the yellow pomegranate, the purple fig, the great ones, waiting for alms and food. yellow or dark-green melon, the plum, Often I have been thus most forcibly the apple, and the grape, all in profuse reminded of the Parable of the Great abundance, all sold at the uniform rate of Teacher, framed on this spectacle. Like five farthings the pound ! the certain poor man, of whom he spoke, The rich colours of the fruit, the chat- they are laid at the rich mans gate ; like tering of those that buy and sell, the him, too, they desire only to eat of the gaudy colours of dress of the people, with crumbs which fall from his abundant the tinkling of hundreds of mule and don- table ; there, too, you may often see the key bells, and the shouts of the muleteers, dogs great, rough hounds kept for who can hardly pick their way through guards passing up and down the string the eager throng, all together forms a of sitting suppliants, and greeting with a scene for an artists pencil. I strolled lick or a kiss some old acquaintance down one day at five oclock, when a col- Such, to its end, is the Spanish peas- umn, 2,000 strong, of General Pavias ants life. And is not the picture all too army had entered the town on th,e night dull? No joys of education while away preceding, and the Plaza was thronged, his time. I have never yet seen above and stripped of all its luscious stores ; three books read in the market, and they but I shall never forget the sight: the were hardly decent I No cottage home uniforms of the soldiery, their shoeless and peaceful village is his, where his 74 TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. weakening eyes may see his sons and daughters growing up around him. Hard, coarse fare, and hard lodgin~ this, without one ray of religious hope and light to lighten his darkness is his hard and bitter lot. Would you follow him one step further? There is a little, walled-in spot of sandy, rocky ground, some two miles outside the town froi which I write it is the ci menterio, where at last his bones are laid in peace, waiting for the touch of that Magic Wand which one day is to make all things new. I entered that sacred ground, a few nights since, for the first time. Much as I had heard of the beauty of burial-yards abroad, I looked at least for decency and cleanliness. The first thing that struck me as I opened the gate, and took off my hat, was the sickly, putrid smell that well-nigh caused me to vomit. Close before me, on a rough- hewn and unlettered stone, stood two tiny coffins; the lids (always of glass) were not screwed down. I pushed one aside, and there, beautiful even in death, were the rich tresses and pink cheeks of a child of some eight summers. The other was the coffin of an infant. Both bodies were wrapped, as is customary here, in coloured silver-paper for the clothes are ktr;zt invariably, as they might b~ a temp- tation to some dishonest person to ex- hume the coffin from its shallow grave. just then I looked down, and lo! the whole place was covered with human bones, lying on the surface. The evening breeze rose and fell, coming from the dis- tant Sierra Morena, and wafted to my feet it ci g arou;zd my feet a light, loose mass of long and tangled hair. Stooping down to look, I saw that there was plenty of it about; on the grave- stones, and around the dry thistles, which grew in abundance, it twined and clung. There was no grass, no turf only sand, and rocks peeping out. This, then, was the end of lifes brief drama here : the rude end of a still ruder life! I saw no tombstones worthy of the name. I asked the old grave-digger, when would he bury the two little coffins ? Manafia (to- morrow), he answered; but the place is so full, I hardly know where to scrape a hole. Just then, I heard the strains of mar- tial music coming near. A civil funeral came, heralded by its band; and as the shades of evening fell, one more coffin was deposited on the rude blocks of stone, to wait until the morrows dawn. From chambers Journal. TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. No man ever had a fonder or better wife. I say so now, with as full conviction as I said it when I looked my last in her dear dead face, and kissed it and the fingers that had wrought so deftly and untiringly for the poor, for our children, and for me. I am a hale, active man of seventy, and, through Gods mercy, capable of much en- joyment; but a day and night pass not without thoughts of how well she suited me, how simply she admired me, hoxv ten- derly she loved me, what a happy old couple we should have been. I wonder you never married again, Morton, said my early friend, Jack I-lath- away, to me once. ~You must have want- ed a wife in the parish as well as at home, and you must feel very lonely in the long winter evenings. Then I knew that he was thinkino- lov- ingly of his fat little wife and common- place children at home, and I was glad of it, for he is a good creature, and though we are intellectually anta,, onistic ,andhe sometimes offends my taste, I like him be- cause we were lads together. I felt that I must say something, and I am sure I astoni~hed myself more than I astonished him when I said: Totell you the truth, jack, I did think of it once. I was so taken aback by the having made such a confidence I had never breathed the fact had intended never to breathe itthat I felt as I think I should feel if one of my good sound front teeth fell out, and I had to attack a piece of coal. Then what hindered you ? Well, to be candid postage-stamps. Postage-stamps ? he queried loudly. It is a curious story, I answered. I will tell you all about it,if you really feel interested, but I would rather not have it repeated. I am as deep as a well, and of course Im interested. With that he crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and looked expectant. I began: You know that I was left a widower with two children, a boy and a girl. TI~ey went to school as soon as they were old enough. About sending a boy, there can be, in my opinion, no doubt; and I do not believe that a solitary girl can be educated, with advantage to herself, at home. She requires com- panionship, wishes for it, and ought to have it. I even took care to provide it for mine in her holidays. My wife had TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. 75 always taken great interest in the Dal- first words were: I want to speak to you tons. Dalton was the perpetual3curate alone. of Furzeham, about four miles off, and he So you shall, I replied. Now, my had married a favourite schoolfellow of dear good friend, whats the matter? hers. It was an imprudent match; nei- Nothing serious, I hope? ther of them had any money; of course! No, she said faintly, and with a they had a lar~e family, and Furzeham quivering lip, not looking up at me but was worth L.12o per annum. Mary helped 1 want Dorothy to come home with me them a great deal, and, Youll be kind to-day. to the poor Daltons wont you ? was Why ? I asked. Is Dalton ill, or among her latest expressions. Their old- one of the children, or are you? What is est daughter was two years older than it? ours, and ten years wiser. Education, She broke into quiet tears ; and know- as it is usually understood, she had none : ing the womans long endurance, her it was simply impossible : first, there was strength as well as tenderness of charac- no money for it next, her mother want- ter, I was very much affected. ed her to help in nursing, sewing, cooking, Come, come, I said soothingly; housework. I must say the child was a remember what an old friend I am. Try stron(r case in favour of no education. and fancy that I am Mary, I whispered, She had abundance of talent; and her and I took and kissed her roughened father being a gentleman, her mother a hand spoiled for society, but in my eyes gentlewoman, she acquired easy, self-un- made venerable by holy household toil. conscious manners, talked with tact, read She wiped her tears, and said : We aloud charmingly, wrote a capital letter have all forgotten that Dorothy is now a she even danced and sang when she had woman. We ought not to have allowed opportunity. Now, partly for her sake, to her to stay with you after Anna went give her the recreation she deserved, and away. People are making ill-natured re- a glimpse of better social things than ex- marks. isted at home, but much more for my own Then I felt exceedingly angry, and girls sake, I always had Dorothy Dalton said: I really think that my age and to spend her vacation with her, and I social position entitle me to have a young treated her in every respect as another lady staying in my house as long as she daughter, even to kissing her and bless- and her parents choose, even if she had ing her ni~ht and morning. It went on not, as Dorothy has, grown up as one of thus six or seven years, till Anna mar- my own family. How did ned, which she did at eighteen. Dorothy gossip ? - you hear this had been invaluable during the trouble- In the most innocent, unexpected some period of preparation for the wed- manner, from my dear little Mattie. She din and when it was over, I asked her went to Miss Kings to buy me some cot- mother to leave her with me for a time, ton. The Browns, who were in the shop, not only to set new arrangements going, did not see her, and made observations, but to talk to me; for Charles, who was which she repeated, and asked me to ex- with me for the long vacation, was very plain. dull, a mere hookworm. Mrs. Dalton I should have likedto know what the agreed ; and for several weeks all ~vent observations were, but I checked myself, on delightfully. Dorothy had an ex- and enquired: Do you believe that this quisite gift of companionship could set sort of thing is worth noticing? To me, conversation going when it was wanted, it seems utterly contemptible. and her silence was never glum or oppres- No, it is not, she answered firmly: sive. As far as I am concerned, this society has made rules, and they are state of things might have lasted to useful, and we must abide by them. I the present day I should never have will take Dorothy back, if you please; dreamed of putting an end to it but and I am sure you understand her one morning I. was alarmed by a visit voice faltered how much I like, and from Mrs. Dalton I say alarmed, not have always liked, her to be here. You only because her countenance betokened are a second father to her. trouble, but because I knew that it was You wont tell her? barely possible for her to leave her family. 0 no; there is no occasion. It is My first thought was of some pecuniary simply true that I am very much in want difficulty ; not that she or Dalton had ever of her help at home. asked for even a small loan yet how Then I reproached myself for having could they make both ends meet? Her been selfish in keeping her so long; and 176 TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. she came in, radiant and affectionate, and I felt that a sort of void was made in my life, which I knew not how to fill. I drove slowly back, after leaving them at Furze- ham, and stopped to give an order at the saddlers. While I was there, these words caught my ear: Will she take the old one or the young one, think ye? I could not see the speaker; I did not know the voice, but, at the moment, the words seemed to have an unpleasant sig- nificance, though probably they had no reference tome. Things do occur very oddly, inter- polated Jack. They might have alluded to something quite different. Circum- stances seem sometimes to be tinged by what is uppermost in the mind. The man might have been talking of horses or cows that he had to sell. Had you any notion that your son admired Miss Dalton ? None whatever. He was at that time very backward socially devoted to hard reading, and if he spoke of women at all, it was to depreciate them intellectually. I should have been hard on him for it, but that he could not remember his moth- er; and Anna, dear creature, is not clev- er She is none the worse for that, in my opinion, interrupted Jack. As a rule, clever women do not add to home happi- ness, which is the chief end for which they are sent into this world. It was useless to answer this, though it irritated me: he had always taken a low tone, or he could not have married the insipid little woman whose twaddle was quite up to his mark. But go on, James, he continued I want to get at the postage-stamps. I think, by the way, that Mrs. Dalton was right to take her daughter home. Unless people hereabouts are simpler or more good-natured than they are elsewhere, they, would infallibly say that her parents were trying to catch you or your son for her. I winced again, and said : You may be right ; but as I have never troubled myself about gossip possibly because I had never been affected by it I thought it very hard at the time. There was I, deprived of the harmless, pleasant flitting of a girl about my quiet house and she was removed from surroundings that suited her to a very meagre home Where she must have been very much wanted by her mother, interrupted Jack. The fact is, James, that I suspect you were, quite unconsciously, in love with the young lady. No replied I, stoutly ; of that I am quite certain ; but I admit that after I had thought over the matter some weeks, I asked myself why I should not marry her, if her parents would bive her to me willingly, and if she thought she could be happy with me. That, in a way, she loved me, I was as sure as that I loved her not with a lovers love that was as impossible for me as second-si ~, ht, but with affectionate approbation, cordial ad- miration, genuine pleasure in her society. I could take her from poverty to affluence, and, when I died, leave her independent. What prospect has a poor parsons dauohter? He can leave her nothing. If, by some painful process, he contrives to educate her as it is called to make a governess of her, what a life is before her I declare I think a girl had better marry any kind, good man who loves her, than teach, teach, teach; conflict with the old Adam in children day after day, year after year ; having no freedom of action, no home the while, till she is too old for it and, after helping her family, has perhaps saved what gives her twenty or thirty pounds per annum, on which to languish and die. Dorothy, moreover, could only be fit for a very inferior situa- tion ; she had bright parts, but no system- atic training. What was to become of her, her mother, and sisters, when Dalton died ? She might with her attractions, she probably would, come across more than one man who would be fond of her, but could not marry without money. Of what use would that be? After discuss- ing the matter with myself a month, I wrote her a letter, of which I remember every worday, even the position of the sentences. I told her that, though not with a young mans love, not with the sacred love I had given my xvife, I loved her; that I would rejoice in her presence, would shield her as far as I could from the ills of life, till my death, and after it, would advance J~er brothers and sisters interests, make her mothers life easier. I told her to take her own time to con- sider and to consult her parents. I wrote late one night, and next morning the let- ter seemed to me too important for my own post-bag. I was not afraid that the servants or posf-office people would think it odd that 1 wrote to her, for I had often done that ; but I resolved to take the let- ter myself, and post it at Crossford. The postmaster there had married a parish- ioner of mine: she would be glad to see TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. 77 me: the walk was a pleasant one, and I ferent feelings I walked home; the en- was in a frame of mind which demanded tire aspect of life was changed for me. quick motion. I stepped out cheerily, Dorothy was irretrievably lost, and hang. that bright September morning, wonder- i ng over me was the disagreeable neces- ing, among other wonderings, whether sity for an explanation with Charles. As Dorothy and I should ever walk that way far as my observation reached, he had as man and wife _____ not only shewn no preference for Doro- Now, interrupted Jack, I suppose thy, but paid her less attention than, in we are coming to the postage-stamps. my opinion, she had a right to expect We are, said I, but we must come from him. It annoyed me exceedingly at them my own way. The post-office at to become aware that I was an utter Crossford was a grocers shop. The mis- stranger to my sons inner life; I thought tress, my friend, Mrs. Sims, was, as I him more than usually silent at dinner, expected, pleased with my visit. but then I was constrained and heavy- Such a pleasure, to be sure, sir, and hearted. As soon as the servant was you looking so well fresh as a four- gone, I said : Pray, Charles, do you year-old, as my good-man do say of you, consider me an inquisitive man ? sir, special. Yes, hes nicely, sir; thank Certainly not, he replied. No man you gone to Boxhain market to look less so, I should say. about some pigs. Theres a fine new Have I ever, I demanded, shewn sort, they do say, that Sir William have any distrust of you, or any disposition to brought into the county, from Shropshire. hamper you by unnecessary exercise of Youll come into the parlour, sir, and sit parental authority? down. You may well look at all them He looked amazed, and answered: letters. I couldnt say how many has No, sir; I have always felt, when com- heen for stamps this morning; and I paring my position with other mens, that hadnt one till half-an-hour agone. Mas- I was singularly fortunate in my father. ter Charley, too, lie have been for some. Thats well. I have the less diffi- They left their letters, and I said Id see culty, then, in puttin5 a question to you. to stamping them, and that I will, surely. Whats the mean inn of a letter addressed Ill do it for you, said I. I see by you to Dorothy, which, without blame you want to put away these goods; and it being due to anybody, I saw this morning will amuse me while I talk to you. at Crossford post-office? So, notwithstanding resistance on her Surprise, displeasure, and a sort of part, I began. I da resay there were be- doggedness, were in the countenance; tween thirty and forty of them, and I was he turned away from me, and some sec- getting rather tired when I came to the onds they seemed to me minutes last. I had really not looked at the ad- passed before he said: It would never dresses of the others. I could not have have occurred to me that there was any- told where one of them was going; but thing out of the way in my writing to this one her ; we have been brought up like Was to Miss Dalton, from your son! brother and sister. exclaimed Jack. But why walk six miles to post your It was indeed, I replied; and I letter? I should not have thought any- cannot attempt to describe my feelings, thin5 about seeino a letter from you to I believe that I was for some seconds Dorothy on the table or in the bag, unconscious; the ground seemed gone though I should have reminded you that from under my feet. My own son was you could not correspond with her xvith deceiving me ; and I could not conjec- propriety. You might, of course, have ture how far Dorothy was involved. The written a casual note to her about a book, one miserable consolation was, that my or some arrangement. own letter remained safe in my pocket. Why infer, he asked, that the I was not committed. I conclude that letter you have seen was not one of this my countenancQ had changed, for xvhen I character? rose to go, as I did immediately, Mrs. In the first place, I replied, be- Sims entreated me to have some brandy, cause you took the trouble to post it saying she was sure that the smell of where it was in the highest degree im- the nasty dips had upset me; but what probable that I should see it ; and lastly, could she do ? People must live, and from your evasions. she must sell what there was a demand Then there was a long pause, and I for. thought he was determined not to speak. You need not be told with what dif- Charles, I said sternly, Dorothy LIVING AGE. VOL. V. 220 178 TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. has been so much among us, that I am responsible for whatever, involving her happiness or misery, is connected with any of us. As your father, and in place of her father, I demand what relation ex- ists between you and her which leads to your writing to her clandestinely. If I cannot elicit it from you, I shall have an immediate explanation with her. He looked badgered, ill-tempered even, and said hurriedly and surlily: I wrote to Dorothy to ask her to marry me some day. Asked her to marry you! I ex- claimed. I put aside your gross dis- respect in ignoring me in so important a matter, and remind you that you have not taken your degree, that you are wholly dependent on me, and that, during my lifetime, unless I assist you, you will, in all probability, have nothing better than a country curacy. I suppose it was not unnatural to ex- pect that you would help me, sir, as you are very fond of Dora. This he said in a tone which softened me a little. After all, thought I, he is very young. Pray, what answer do you expect from her? I inquired. I was relieved to find that she was inno- cent of aught that would have lowered her in my eyes. She was lost to me for- ever, whether she accepted Charles or not, but she was worthy the place I had given her in my heart, and would have given her in my house. Without giving him time to reply, I went on: I have too good an opinion of her to believe that she will answer you without consulting her mother. I begged her to say nothing to any one. Then either, I rejoined, you are more ignorant of the world than I believed even a reading-man could be, or you have endeavored consciously to lead her to act as a modest girl should not. Pray, what reason did you give for such a request? This : that, in the event of her tak- ing me, some years must elapse before I could marry; and I should dislike being pointed at as an engaged man all that time ; and that if she refused me, it was no business of any one else. His cool selfishness exasperated me. I got up and walked about the room. Good heavens! I ejaculated ; and you are a very young man, and my son. Of course, I did not put it quite so broadly as that, he observed, rather apologetically; but you expect confi dence, and I am not a man of many words. I really took pains to write a proper letter, and I think I succeeded. I always had a notion that I should never marry. A college life has been my ob- ject since I was old enough to have one, and, as a rule, I find women a bore; but Dorothy is different from all the women I know suits me, in fact. I thought I should like to make sure of her, and would not mind waiting for her. You see, it could all go on quietly enough. I should see her here a great deal. I set my son down as utterly abnor- mal, and I think I dishked him for a min- ute, but I remembered his poor mothers loving pride in him as a little child, and relented. Have you any reason for expecting that Dorothy will accept you? I in- quired. He leaned back comfortably, put his hands in his pockets, and said: Not exactly; but I do not see why she should not; she is very fond of us all. At any rate, I will let you know as soon as I ~et an answer. With that he seemed to consider the conference over, and that he was at lib- erty to leave the room. I was glad when he was gone. I puzzled myself very much as to how Dorothy would act not as to whether she would accept Charles it never occurred to me to discuss that with myself. Would she tell her mother? Undeniably, she would wish to do so, for she was openness itself ; but she would be unwilling to annoy Charles, because he was my son, if for no other reason. Would she write to me? or would her father or mother write ? U4ess they sent a special messen6 er and they guarded conscientiously against needless small expenses there could be no letter till the third day. In the interval, there was no perceptible change in Charless ways, except that he was constrained when we were alone. I imagined that he feared I should renew the subject, but I was not at all inclined to do that. I had discovered a great gulf, unsuspected be- fore, between my first-born and myself. My life was placed in a new groove, and did not perhaps never would run easily in it, and that odious gossip had given the first impetus. I believe my hands trembled a little when I unlocked the post-bag on that third mornin There was no letter for Charles, but a note from Mrs. Dalton, asking me to call as soon as I could. I gave it to him without a remark. He put it in his TO MARRY AGAIN OR NOT. 79 pocket, and did not read it in the room. Do you mean that you do not know Soon after breakfast I walked to Furze- whether you like Charles well enough to ham. Dora came to me in the little accept him or not? study, and again I felt how changed I 0 no; but there are so many diffi- was. Up to that time, we had held out culties. This was said hardly above her both hands mutually and simultaneously, breath. and I had kissed her as heartily and natu- Do you mean the long engagement, rally as if she had been Anna: now, my and so on? own secret consciousness made that im- She blushed with vexation, and an- possible, and the something une xpressed swered: 0 dear! no. I3ut I am so by me, or something which I did not afraid of hurting your feelings, or dis- fathom in her, held her back. pleasing you. I do so wish it had never Colouring, and looking distressed happened. she gave me one hand, saying: It was But, my dear child, what could there very good of you to come so soon, but I be displeasing to me, or injurious to my thought you would. feelings, in your being attached to my I made an effort to be playful, and re- son? I think it would be an indirect joined: You know I have utterly compliment to me. spoiled you, kitten ! She hardly let me finish, but spoke The smile this evoked was a poor very earnestly. pitiful spectre. Did you ever think that I No; Come, I went on; I know why you never can have supposed that; you you sent for me, so you need not worry must have been as much surprised as I yourself about how to begin. Charles was. If anything of that kind had been has told me. going on, I must have been the most de- Oh ! I am so glad. But why did ceitful creature possible; but I am afraid he not do so before he wrote to me? It of your thinking that Charles would not would have saved me great unhappiness, have asked me, if I had not encouraged I did not know if I ought not to have kept him. I am sure I should say so of any his secret, though I should have felt quite one in my circumstances. I hope the guilty hidinb anythin~, especially such a lesson will make me very charitable. I thing, from mamma; but I could not. have really never thought about Charles The letter was taken to her, and, of at all. It no more entered my head that course, she has always opened and read he thought about me in that way, than my letters as if they were her own. that you did. Quite right: the longer she does so I winced. She had been speaking so the better. Charles had no right to fast that I could not get in a word. I make such a request. I am surprised was sitting in what they called humour- that he did not know better. ously her fathers easy-chair; she was But I am sorry to have done any- opposite, on a low seat, leaning forward, thing disagreeable to any of you. I am with her little hands clasped in her lap, her so fond of Anna; and you have always, pretty warm brunette complexion height- always been so kind to me. ened, her eyes sparkling, her countenance There is no harm whatever done, expressing what she was trying to put in Dorothy: circumstances helped you out words. of a difficulty, as they often do help the Dorothy, I said, you will grieve innocent. me very much, if you imabine for one Then we were both silent. I saw she moment that it would be possible for me wanted to go on, but did not know how; to doubt your candour. I am sure you and, for myself, I had a sort of fear of were as much surprised as I was. To what I should hear but I helped her. tell you the truth, my dear little girl, I Well, Pussy, I asked, what are you never gave Charles credit for so much b oing to say to Charles? good taste, and it had never even entered I do not know; and she looked my head to think of his marrying at all. miserable. She looked, however, only partially I have always thought you were very relieved when she returned: Jam glad clear in your views, and distinct in stat- you understand me I hope you always ing thenii. will. Yes; I know my own mind quite And is that all you have to say to well ; but She stopped, and seemed me, Dora? about to cry. I do not know what to No;i want to know what lam to do, she went on. do? i8o BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. That must depend entirely on your own feelings. I am quite as anxious for your happiness as for my own children s. Do you love Charley? She only re- plied by tears; and I began to consider if she had a secret fondness for him, and thought I might object to her want of money, so I went on: If you do, I consider him the luckiest fellow in the \vorld, for, though he is my own boy, he is not worthy of you. I will tell you all, she said, wiping her eyes. I do not love him ; I am sure I never should love him well enough to marry him; but I do not like to say so to you ; it seems so ungracious. In the depth of the meanness hidden in my heart, I was delighted that she had spoken thus of my own son, but I smothered the feeling, and walked to the window to look out. I am afraid you think me ungrateful, she resumed. That would be utterly unreasonable. No one can command his heart. You see that I do not think I could make Charles happy if I married him without loving him, and it could not be right either could it? Certainly not. I hope he will see it all as you do. If not, it cannot be helped. He has managed very badly. Young ladies are not usually gained by a coup de main. In my young days, men went thought- fully and carefully to work, venturing on littlegraduated attentions, which had an infinite charm in themselves, and were skilful feelers. Whatever be Charless disappointment, he has no one to blame but himself. I am so glad you think so this was said in her own natural manner and yet it is a great shame to say so. But you do understand dont you? Of course I did, and told her so. Then she asked if I would tell Charles for her. I compressed my lips, laid my head on one side, and tried to look as if I were considering. What does mamma say? I inquired. She thinks I ought to answer his let- ter. It is due to him, she says. I was of her mothers opinion. Of course, I did not see her letter, and we never recurred to the subject afterwards. Charles asked me no questions when I returned home, made no remark on Dor- othys decision, which, I knew, reached him next day, and bore his rejection with the apparent impassibility which had characterized his wooing. He took his fellowship, and settled into a conscien- tious, respectable, somewhat pompous don. I do not think he ever met Doro- thy subsequently. It xvas a pity for the girl, and she was evidently a nice girl, observed Jack and her father and mother must have been disappointed. No doubt. When Dalton was dying, two years later, Dorothy was very heavy at his heart. To think of that bright, pretty, high-spirited creature, chilled, drilled, kept under, as I have seen girls as sweet, lively, and good as she is, la- cerates me, he said to me one day. And then I told him that, with Gods help, she never should be ; that I had taken fore- thought about what would be best; and that, if Mrs. Dalton agreed, I would find the money for them to start a school for little boys, which I considered the least laborious undertaking for ladies, and she not only need not be separated from her daughters, but would be materially helped by them. His look of perfect satisfaction is among my dearest recollections.~~ Youre a good fellow, remarked Jack huskily. Not at all, Jack. I made no sacrifice, and insured myself very great happiness. They have always succeeded extremely well, and they spend their summer holi- days with me ; Anna, her husband, and children come at Christmas. As to the loneliness which you thought must oppress me, I know nothing about it. Of other mens hidden experience, I know noth- ing ; but for myself, I find that, as I grow old, though I enjoy society with un- diminished zest, I am more independent of it. No one is less dear to me, but all are less necessary.~, From The Saturday Review. BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. THE newspapers have very naturally been filled with facts and speculations about the sad calamity which is said to be impen~iing over the oldest of our East Indian possessions, and every kind of note has been sounded, from the highest falsetto to the deepest bass. Sugges- tions of course have been plentifully showered on the Government some full of sound good sense; others well-mean- ing, but long a~o acted on; others, again, childish and silly, and of about as much practical application as would be the ad- BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. i8i vice tendered by a Liddesdale farmer to do not dissolve; and the richest hopes a vine-dresser in Spain. The tone of the are converted to blank despair by the daily and weekly press has, on the whole, mere omission of half-a-dozen inches at been earnest and temperate, though here the close of September or the beginning and there we have heard an utterance of October. In fact, it is perfectly possi- more like the ravings of Habakkuk ble to conceive a scarcity with seventy Mucklewrath than the advice which inches of rain all confined to June, July, ought to he tendered by those whose and Aubust, and a year of unusual abun- mission it is to brace official thought or dance with fifty inches distributed in to fashion public opinion. We propose timely and successive falls between the in this paper, not gratuitously to lecture 1st of June and the 15th or 20th of Octo- an Administration which is fully alive to ber. Perhaps the happiest distribution the crisis, nor to harrow readers by dilat- is when there is never more than a fort- ing on a probable recurrence of the year night or three weeks of sunshine without which Macaulay has immortalized, but to rain during that period, and the worst is put before them an accurate account of when all the supply is exhausted before agricultural wants and operations in the the middle of September. Better that Gangetic Delta such as they ordinarily e dry heats of May should be pro- th are in an average season, and such as onged till the middle of July than that they cannot now be in that re~ion until moisture should cease at the very time the middle of 1874. when the rice-stalks are two and three To bre.ak up the clay or loam of feet in length. In the years 1844, 1848, Bengal, dried and baked by months of i8~i, and 1858, Bengal was saved by a sun, to keep up the village reservoirs to timely downfall which occurred at van- their p roper fulness, to prevent the ous dates in October. In the first man- smaller streams from running dry, to tioned year the whole country exchanged give the late rice plants that depth of dearth for plenty, or escaped a famine, water which converts a vast plain into by three days of rain, which began ,at the one huge wet field of unbroken cultivation, very nick of time, on the i ith of October. and to enable the higher lands to pro- This is exactly what has been prayed for duce two successive and distinct crops in this season by editors and statesmen, by one twelvemonth, some sixty to eighty prophets and planters, by Brabmins and inches of rain are almost indispensable. Sudras, and what has not been given. But Bengal, and indeed India generally, Broadly speaking, the lands of Bengal must have, to use a Biblical expression, and Behar, including, of course, all the the former and the latter rain in due i threatened districts, may be divided into season. The prospects of the finest year two classes, the higher and drier lands may be hopelessly ruined if the showers which produce two crops in the year, and are not vouchsafed to the land at due in- the deep low-lying tracts which are only tervals and with occasional breaks of fitted for rice. Though some divisions sunshine. If an undue proportion of wet are more subject to inundation than oth- is gauged in May and June, the rydt can- ers, and retain sheets of water for eight not sow the best and deepest lands, or he months out of the twelve, yet both kinds sows them late and in haste, for the seed of land are constantly found in the same to rot or the young plants to be drowned. village and in one and the same plain. If the return of the periodical rains is de- A few inches more or less of earth, a layed beyond the middle of June, the greater or less incline or outfall, an ex- same result occurs and before the rice change of loam for sand, and of viscous can gather head, as it were, it is over- chy for loam, will make all the difference topped by a deluge in July and Au~ust between a sino~le and a double crop in the when the windows of heaven are some: year. Cultivation on the high levels times opened for a week in succession. commences in March or April, and the On the other hand, it is quite possible ground is then tilled for rice, pulse, that everything may go on well till the vetches, hemp, oil seeds, some vegeta- middle of September. The rice sown on bles, and indigo. In the space of from both high and low lands in May and ninety to one hundred and thirty days all June, strenoThened but not overwhelmed these crops are soxvn, grow to perfection, by the heavier downfall of August, after and are cut and carried. No sooner is a week or ten days of sunshine in Sep- one crop disposed of than the ground is tember just wants several good inches of ploughed for what is called, by Anglo- rain to keep the roots wet while the ear Indians, the cold-weather crop. This is developed. But the clouds bold off or may be wheat, barley, chickpea (termed 182 BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. gram), the poppy, and the coarser cereals1 in Behar; oats, barley, gram, mustard, pepper, peas, and vetches, in Bengal. These crops, if sown when the ground is still soft and moist in the end of Sep- tember or October, and if benefited by the parting showers which wind up the rainy sea son, will do perfectly well with- out Irrigation till they are fit to cut. In Behar indeed, and in Upper India to a much greater extent, this crop is irri- gated by wells and watercourses. In Bengal we have for years seen splendid breadths of mustard, gram, barley, peas, and pulse, which had very little other moisture than the dews of heaven from the day the seed was put in the ground in October to the time it was reaped in March. In most years the bright, exhila- rating, and not oppressive sunshine of the cold season is now and then obscured by clouds, and rain generally falls for a couple of days at any time between the middle of December and the middle of February. This visitation has nothing tropical about it. The drops descend pretty much as they do in moderate au- tumnal showers in England. The crops, if the rain be unaccompanied by hail, look better than ever. Ryots shiver in their scanty clothing of American or Manches- ter workmanship; and Englishmen en- camped in th.e interior of districts for sur- veying, inspection, or sport, or for all three combined, draw round an extem- porized fireplace, and dream for a day or two that their tents are pitched in Som- ersetshire or Cannock Chase, instead of by obscure streatus and populous villages loftily named after Hindu deities or Ma- hommedan Nawabs. The above statement must be under- stood entirely to apply to high-level lands and their crops. The winter or late crop of rice, as it is termed, occupies the land for a period rarely less than six, often eight, and sometimes even ten months in the year. The deep, marshy, clayey soil bears this one crop and none other. On it centre the hopes of the ryot, and to it is devoted as much continuity of strenu- ous exertion as can ever be expected from Asiastic muscles. The great object is toget the ground prepared and a good deal of this rice timely sown in May, June, or July, so that the young stalks may not be overwhelmed by a rainfall in Aubust of six or eight inches in as many hours. Only let the stalks keep their heads above water, and they shoot up- wards with the rising tide, showing that Vishnu, the preserving power in Hindu mythology, is quite capable of coping with Shiva, the destroyer. A large portion of this crop is sown broadcast, is never weed- ed, and with fine sunshine above and water below, measured by inches and even by feet, turns out, in January or February, a fulness of ear and a wealth of straw which would amaze the most skilful of Lothian farmers. We have ourselves counted as many as 376 grains on one stalk, and have plucked stalks twice the length of the t~dlest of men. But as the rice crops are divided into high and low levels, so there is a subdivision of this later crop. In tracts neither too high nor too low, where the water continuously fills the plain to the depth of a few inches, or at most a foot, the crop is planted out by hand. It is sown in small nurseries, in places under the close personal inspection of the ryot, and removed to fields carefully ploughed, scr-2ped, weeded, and smoothed, at any time in the months of July and August. While the rice sown broadcast is rarely weeded, but takes its chance with the lotus and other aquatic plants, that transplanted is kept free from grass and vegetation with the most scrupulous care. The importance of the late crop may be estimated from the fact that, if harvested, it alone would feed a province. The early rice may be dried up without in- flicting any serious loss on the resources of a division; but a failure of the late rice generally is tantamount to a failure of the cold-weather crop also, which suc- ceeds the early rice. The critical time in India for these two crops, as we have pointed out, is the close of the rains. All turns on their not ending too soon. They may not commence until six weeks after they are due. When they begin they may continue for three weeks, rot seeds, sweep away crops, destroy houses, flood the railways, and reduce villages to the condition of inhabited islands in. an inland sea. These disasters, however grievous, are confined to certain limits, and, even if irretrievable for the time, they leave behind them legacies of silt and water which are by no means ruinous. But a sky of copper durin~ the month of September, and the failure of the parting gift of a few inches usually bequeathed, as the hindu thinks, by Indra the rain- god, mean simply scarcity, distress, dis- ease, and famine over an extent of coun- try out of which the -area of Lancashire might be cut without being missed. To see what this rich alluvial soil can display under the simple ploughs and harrows of a people ~vho have practised BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. 183 agriculture and nothing else for centuries, we should select two dates in the year the beginning or middle of August, and the beginning of February. At the former date the rainy reason is at its height. The early rice is just ready for the harvest; the late crop is sufficiently far advanced to cover with a green carpet plains of such vast amplitude that the village bounding them on one side seems to those on the other like land on the horizon to mariners at sea. These plains are at this time converted into the best and easiest of highways, and they are traversed for perhaps two months by the boats and skiffs of the planter and the missionary, the policeman and the post. The dense foliage which shrouds the dwellings of some millions of inhabitants is decked out in the verdure and bril- liancy of a second spring. Cattle, no longer at liberty to pasture anywhere, are tethered on the very few spots not occu- pied with a crop of some kind or other, on the very homesteads, or on the sides of the village roads. The air is saturated with moisture, and with the perfume of heavy-blossomed bowers and heavy- fruited trees. The small embankments which serve both for landmarks and pathways, overtopped by the ripening or the rising crops, are no longer visible, and the country presents two broad charac- teristics often for some hundred of miles. These are long waving lines of tall palms and fruit-trees, which are identical with the villages, and watery steppes between, where hardly a single acre does not con- tribute its quota to rent, to consumption, and to exports. The climate to an Eng- lishman is simply detestable ; but the sight of the Gangetic Delta at such an epoch is one which for completeness of husbandry, intensity of colour, and luxu- fiance of crops and vegetation, is not easily matched, and which can never be forgotten. The change in six months, at the commencement of February, is in its way no less striking. The cold-weather crops, not quite ready for the sickle, re- call the agriculture of temperate zones the late rice crop, in many places borne down by its own weight, lies flat on the earth, or on the top of the water, unin- jured, golden, full of promise. Bullock carts, heavy with produce, make their own roads, and traverse the plains ~r skirt the marshes with the most perfect facility. Date-trees, cultivated not for their fruit, but for their juice, discharge the material for treacle and sugar in a steady flow. Bevies of quail are flushed in the peas and barley ; snipe swarm everywhere in the rice-fields ; and ducks in myriads darken the lakes and ponds, or any places where water still lies deep. The weather, though soon to be ex- changed for drying winds and clouds of dust, leaves nothing to wish for or grum- ble at. The Zemindars are secure of their rent. The Ryots have only the prospect of harvesting the last crop of the agricultural year, and will have no more hard work to do till April, and few instalments of rent to pay before June. Englishmen are compressing as much as possible of active open-air work and en- joyment into the remainder of the cold season; fleets of native craft, under no apprehensions of cyclones or tornadoes, pierce the great and small arteries of the country the last batch of magnificent merchant vessels has just left or is leav- ing the Hooghly; and, considered either from an official, a social, or a mercantile point of view, the Ganbetic plains put on their best aspect, and display the most palpable evidence of their agricultural wealth. Of course the coming February must present a picture in lamentable contrast to this. Not that Bengal will ever be re- duced by failure of rains to the aridity of an African or Arabian desert. The ground, indeed, will become hard as iron, but verdure will still conceal the4 village, and all sorts of worthless herbage will spring up unbidden, from the copious night dews or from the slight winters rain. But it must not be imagined that any timely fall at Christmas can enable the Ryots to recover their lost ground. The tropical downpour, which floods a vast area, has vanished with the depart- ure of the sun to the Southern hemi- sphere, past recall; and under no possi- ble combination of circumstances can it be again looked for before May or June. A couple of wet days in January may im- prove the barley, wheat, and pulse, and, by reviving the poppies of Behar, may make a difference of a million or two sterling in the April Budget. But not one grain of the staple commodity of the country can be put into the ground again before April, or be cut and carried be- fore July; and when telegrams announce that the Indian Government will have to feed more than two millions of people for seven months, we must bear in mind that this unhappy period only begins from March next, and that it cannot by any possibility expire until September. Even then, under the most favourable circum 184 BENGAL PAST AND PRESENT. stances for sowing, ripening, and cuttinb., been turned or an atom of seed scat- new rice, fresh from the threshing-floors, tered; that the old stock of c ttle xviii be will be no food for a weakly population sold off for half its value or left to perish kept alive on half rations during all this from sheer want of fodder. These and interval. Nothing would more infallibly similar occurrences, the result of the na- produce spleen, dysentery, low fever, and tional character, may strain the nerves divers other Indian complaints. Indeed of the Administration to the utmost, and the effects of this scarcity will be felt may call forth all the best and the worst throughout India in more ways than one. j qualities of the Hindu but it is not It is grievous to think of thousands of yet necessary to paint an alarming picture peaceable, loyal, and industrious beings, of twenty-five millions perishing from deprived of food, of their natural occupa- hunger, or to imagine the rivers Kosai tions, and of all motive for exertion, and Purnabaha choked xvith corpses, and crowding once a day round the official the vultures and jackals gorged to reple- stores and kitchens, receiving just enough tion with the carcases of the unburnt or to keep soul and body together, and re- unburied dead. The calamity is quite turning home to gaze with a look of dull grave enough to demand our attention resignation on their herds of lean cattle without any stimulus of ghastly word- and their emaciated children. Perhaps a painting or dismal prophecies of unut- period of enforced idleness will demoral- terable woe. As we have said, the ize a ryot of Bengal or Behar to a less I scarcity must leave its mark in the extent than it would an Englishman or a bureau and the counting-house, as well Frenchman. But the effect of scanty as in the rice-field and the bazaar. The diet and unceasing anxiety will render outlay on beneficent measures must be the population more dependent than stinted or stopped. Grants for education, ever on Government, and much less for new buildings, for increased salaries, ready, for some time to come, to compre- for improved agency, must be rescinded hend measures of progress, which mean or withheld. The whole time of Coin- taxation. Then it is certain, judgin5 from missioners, magistrates, and their subor- the experience of former calamities, that dinates must be given to form commit- our administrators must be alert to anti- tees, to collect materials, to store grain cipate outrages, and that no activity can effectively against damage from di- prevent~n increase in certain classes of mate and against violence by robbers, crime. Civil litigation, the recreation to animate the rich by personal influence or political excitement of rich Zemindars and practical example, to sustain the and substantial sub-proprietors, will lan- sinking hearts of the herdsman and the guish but policemen xvill have their cultivator, who will certainly call on the hands full and the criminal courts will be I name of the Maharani for succour as they thronged. It may be fairly assumed, for did formerly on that of the old Company. instance, that as the pressure increases, We have endeavoured to place before grain merchants xviii live in constant dread our readers the probable condition of the lest their stores should be sacked by a people of some six or eight magnificent crowd of excitable and half-famished districts during the approaching time of Asiatics that the convoys of grain sent severity and trial. But there are some by Government or by speculators into re- considerations xvhich afford consolation. mote villages will have to be protected In the first place, the means of commu- by strong detachments of guards ; that nication, whatever may have been wildly the fortunate possessor of an acre of late dreamed or dogmatically asserted to the rice or of standing barley will have to I contrary, are ample. One railway has keep watch over it by night, xvith his put Calcutta within eighteen hours of sons and dependents, and even then that Patna, and it touches the Ganges at more he may be knocked on the head by a than one place. Another avoids the long, bamboo or run through the body with a circuitous, and dangerous passage of the spear ; that all the ornaments of women Sunderbund~, and enables Government and children will be pawned to the mon- to convey stores almost to the banks ey-lenders that some men will die un- of the same river, where it goes by der the tyranny of caste, while others the name of the Poddha, in less than a will get rid of it altogether; that native day. There is not a populous mart, not subordinates employed in the distribution I to say a hamlet, in any one of the threat- of rations will have a dozen opportunities ened portions of the country, to which of making illicit perquisities ; that future subsistence could not be conveyed in a crops will be pledged before a furrow has week or fortnight at furthest, from rail- ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. i8~ way station and river bank, by the corn- of knowing that measures for relief are mon bullock carts over the common cross in the hands of txvo men the most quali- roads of the country. For the next six fled hy character and experience to deal months Bengal and Behar are just as with a vast and complicated system of easily traversed as Somersetshire and succour. Lord Northhrook is cautious, Wilts. We have known five hundred confident, full of activity and resource. carts at a time, laden with molasses, to Sir George Camphell was selected by start from a populous sugar mart in the Lord Lawrence to report on the Orissa interior over a mere track on which no famine, has the mechanism of Beng~ 1 engineer had ever expended a penny, well oiled and completely under his con- with the absolute certainty of reaching trol, and is precisely in the position where their destination, one hundred miles off, his terrible energy, which is too much for at the rate of ten miles a day. This sea- some intellects in uneventful seasons, son, owing to the failure of rains, the can do nothing hut absolute good. Both plains on either bank of the Ganges have at their hack highly-trained and must be open to carriage traffic at an high-minded suhordinates, a full treasury, earlier period than usual, and they will and ample warning. They are nobly sup- continue passable to the middle or end of ported by all the influence of the Indian May. The difficulty of internal transit Council and the Secretary of State, who, only begins with the periodical rains as we have just seen, has sanctioned by but the Indian Government need hardly anticipation any measures necessary be warned to commence purchasing and for the saving of human life. If, under storm5 before that date. Then, although Providence, these men so warned, so en- the rice crop has failed, the cold-weather couraged, and so trusted, cannot solve crops of cereals and pulses may take off the problem of keeping life in the bodies the edge of the calamity, and even fruit of even five millions, or twice five mil- may be hoped for as a means of keeping lions, of Asiatics, who can exist on rice the population alive. Behar can he fed and gruel without wanting more, the on the cereals from Upper India, and thing is hardly to he done by anything Bengal on rice from Burmah and Madras. short of a direct miracle. It is a fact placed beyond question that in the pressure of i86~, the population of Dinajpore, now afflicted in a similar man- ner, lived for the months of May and June and part of July an the produce of their mango-trees, and staved off famine till the beginning of the harvest. Some- thing may be expected from the liberal- ity and kind-heartedness of the Zemin- dars. To tell them gravely to reside on their estates and stop the famine, to trust to the laws of supply and demand, to hazard the lives of the commuility on private enterprise or on national impulse, would indeed be tantamount to telling a battalion of Rajpoots or Goorkhas that they must bear the brunt of a battle while the English soldiers formed the reserve. But the pious, and in this sense well di- rected, feelings of Hindus and Moham- medans may fairly be called on to sup- plement disbursements from the general treasury, and to form, according to their means and abilities, small social centres of relief. One native gdntleman, in the famine of i866, when the poor were flock- ing to Calcutta, to our personal knowl- edge, fed, out of his own resources, some thousands of his countrymen every day for two months. And his example in a * Archibald Cons/able and his Library Carre- minor degree was followed by many sAonden/s. A Memorial, by his Son, Thomas Con- others. Lastly, we have the satisfaction I stable. 3 vols. (Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas) From the Athemeum. ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE.* THE Edinburgh publisher, Archibald Constable, whose name used to look so pleasant on a new work by the author of Waverly, and whose handsome, man- ly, intelligent, and sympathetic face looks still more pleasant in the frontispiece to these sixteen hundred pages, called A IVllemorial, was one of those honest, shrewd, persevering men who may be found here and there in every country, but who are more often to be found among Scotchmen than in any other com- munity in the world. Archibald Constable was born in Fife- shire nearly a hundred years ago (i774). He might have been, like his father, a well-to-do farmer, and a better-to-do fac- tor (or land-steward), but he chose to be a bookbinder, and he was allowed to fol- low the bent of his inclination. He was duly apprenticed, and before his time was out had duly fallen desperately in love with a young lady. In the too brief an- i86 ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. tobiography which prefaces the Memo- rial, this love-passage is the prettiest episode of all. With this young lady, Archibald fell extremely early in love; but, he says, I did not enjoy an oppor- tunity of becoming personally acquainted till after some years of a most sincere and passionate attachment. And yet the pair married when the bridegroom was barely one-and-twenty! Throughout the period of the young Scotchmans silent love, the thought that the object of his affections might one day become his wife had the most healthy influence on his character and conduct. It was in 1794 that the personal acquaintance was formed, and what followed was done after honest fashion. There was no prelimin- ary asking of paternal permission. The young couple first understood each other, and then, says the lover, I announced by letters to her father the resolution we had formed. The father blessed the children, who were married in 1795 ; and Constable always looked on the day he wedded with Mary Willison as the hap- piest day of his eventful life. The ladys father, a printer, helped his son-in-law at starting in life ; and, says Constable, with frank simplicity, The result of his kind office has, I trust, not been without some advantage to the public. The enfran- chised apprentice soon established him- self in business at the Cross in Edin- burgh. Over his shop was written Scarce Old Books and jealous fellow-tradesmen interpreted the legend as signifying Scarce o books! Constable cared not for idle unenter- prising wits. He devoted his whole en- ergies to business, and he was specially ambitious to pick up curious and valuable works relative to the history and litera- ture of Scotland. This ambition was gratified, and it made of Constables shop Hunters letters, at home or on busi- the meeting-place of the most intellectual ness travels, never omit to record the men of the time. Among them was the drinking bouts. He sneers at old Lind- Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair~ and when they re- ley Murray (visited in Yorkshire) for giv- member the grave teaching of Blairs ser- ing a copy of his Power of Religion, mons, some persons may be surprised to when the power of a pint of claret or a find that the ministers own favourite read- bottle or two of the rose would have ing for amusement was novels and been preferred. At another English romances. But then Blair was a Mod- house he was better satisfied, had a erate pf the pre-Chalmerian era. famous criwk, and came home decently In 1802, Constable was selected by the about eleven, quite sober. The taste of projectors of the new periodical, the the Scotch seems to have been consid- Edinburgh Review, to be its publisher. ered in the kitchen and coffee-house This is not to be considered the turning combined in the garret of the House of the tide towards flood which led to of Commons. Hunter notices Maule, fortune. At the period in question Skene, and Major Ramsay eating the Constable had outstripped all competi- steaks cooked in their presence, and tors, and was at the head of Edinburgh drinking a bottle of claretkept for publishers. Soon there was associated with him Alexander Gibson Hunter, whose business letters to Constable, when the latter was absent on profes- sional matters in London and elsewhere, were varied by such records as the fob lowing: Our turtle dinner turned out admirably well. . . . I cut a most dis- tinguished figure; ate seven plates of calipash and two of calipee, besides about three of the fins. We had four kinds of madeira and claret, till half-past eleven. In another letter, the mighty Hunter writes of Mr. Longman, who was temporarily knocked up by Edinburgh life These Englishers will never do in our country. They eat a great deal too much and drink too little; the con- sequence is, their stomachs give way, and they are knockedup of course.~~ What used to be done in our country, is not badly illustrated in the following incidents : The story is known to many, of the Forfar laird, who, in returning on horseback from a convivial party, heard himself fall into the ford that he was crossing, and called out to his servant, John, what was that played pies/i? and who, on another similar occasion, when his hat and wig had been blown off, in- dignantly refused the latter when it was re- stored to him, exclaiming, John, this is no my wig; this is a wet wig! until John re- joined, Theres nae wale o wigs in Pitmossie muir! and induced him to resume the drip- ping covering. It is told of the same worthy, that once when so far gone that he could go no further, his hosts, in order to satisfy an uncon- trollable homeward instinct, placed him, whip in hand, upon a stone ~vall, with the faithful John behind him, who, after a sufficient time had passed, assisted his master to dismount, and led him off unconscious, to sleep away the effects ?f his carouse in a strange apartment. ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. the Scots members. He was also natu- chapters are sometimes given to biograph- rally affected by an incident at a dinner ical sketches of these individuals, and at Johnsons, the publisher, in St. Pauls the book accordingly contains the lives Churchyard, at which Fuseli, Bonny- of many p ersons besides that of the great castle, the mathematician, a few others, I Edinburgh publisher. They are all worth and two of the shopmen, were present. knowing, especially the self-made men. Fuseli is set down as the most conceited We look with reverence on such men as and self-sufficient quiz ever seen. The Lindley and Alexander Murray, who two shopmen, poor devils, would not were originally shepherd boys, and who take wine, although I asked them. They had no school-training till after they were even sat a considerable time after dinner, nine years old. In one of his letters, and drank nothing but table-beera Murray tells Constable that when Bruce brutal specimen of the London prac- erected a temporary observatory near tice! How drink could go hand in his house, on an eminence, the country hand with duty, as it seems to have done people said G preserve us! The in those days, is scarcely to be explained. Lairds gaen mad! He sits up a nicht The Scottish tipplers were, however, keekin at the starris! And Murray cautious. When port heated them, they adds, One cannot help drawing a par- cooled their throats with claret, and they allel between the savages of Abyssinia sent both gently over the palate, so that and Stirlingshire. In a letter from Con- not a drop was lost to the sense of taste. stable to Murray (i8o6) there is this There is a significant rebuke of the amusing reference to Brougham horrible guzzling of the Londoners, and Mr. Brougham has been very active . no drinking. It was not the quantity . . in circulating a report about the Ed- they were blamed for (the Scotch drank inburgk Review being to be given up; and more), but the manner of imbibing it. I believe . . . he would not dislike that There was as much difference between it should fall, whenever the iol. los. a the Scotch and the Londoners as there is sheet is no longer an object to him. between the epicure and the glutton. A Murray, quite as practical a man as Con- Scotch minister is, in one of these chap- stable, writes, at the close of the above ters, given up as in a reprobate condition, year, affirming the certainty of England for abandohin6 himself to censurable and the French Empire coming to friendly swallowing of toddy. He was not nice relations, a circumstance, he adds, which in his cups. Constables partner, more- might lead Constable, on literary re- over, abhorred the English dinners of search, to Paris. Meanwhile, he cautions fifty years ago. I am completely sat- the publisher not to put forth any books isfied, he says, that the English peo- written in coarse and mendacious spirit ple have no proper genius or turn for that against Napoleon, such as abounded at sort of thing, as we have in Scotland. the time. Besides, says Murray, he There was, however, in those days, not SHOOTS people that write against him, only a good dinner, but good drink, to and, even if he did not, they ought to be be had by Scotchmen at the British shot for such absurd stuff. From such Coffee-House, Cockspur Street a house letters as pass between Constable and of call, from long previous time, for Alexander Murray it is a descent to Scotchmen. The house stands un- have to go through the details of the bus- changed in appearance, and it has a true mess transactions of the former with William-the-Third look about it; but it Longman and John Murray in London, has long, ceased to be a Scotch house. valuable as these details are as part of In former days the heads, or representa- the history of contemporary bibliography tives of the heads of the Edinburgh and literature. Why the house estab- house invited there the Londoners xvith lished by Constable, in London, was not whom they had business transactions, a success, is clearly seen in one of Alex- and usually combined business with ander Murrays truthful remarks: If costly eating and drinking. It was found you had been personally in London in- that occasional great extravagance was stead of Edinburgh, I am satisfied that prudential on the part of the men of bus- your London concern would have pros iness. pered. A few raw lads put at the head Archibald Constable himself almost of affairs change the case entirely. disappears in the crowd of these men of From trade records and chronicling of business by whom he is surrounded, or the authors and literature of Scotland, we from whom he receives letters on sub- confess our readiness to turn aside to jects relating to his vocation. Whole traits of old Scotch character. One of i83 ARCIIII3ALD CONSTABLE. these we find in an octogenarian, Mr. George Paton, on whose behalf Consta- ble wrote to the Duke of Roxhurghe. Paton in his younger days came to oTief through neglecting the - of monition Sol- omon, that he who goes surety for a friend shall smart for it. Friends got him a post in the Customs, 307. a year! and upon that sum he supported himself and two aged parents! In course of long years he was made rich on ~ol a year, out of which he saved aool. as a solace for his old age, but lost the whole of it by the failure of a hank. Constable recommended this self-denying hero to the Duke of Roxburghes charity, and alluded to the library of British An- tiquities which Paton had contrived to get together book by book, each volume symbolizing much fasting on the part of the proprietor. But the book-collecting Duke, who would give hundreds of pounds for an old ballad, replied, I believe Mr. Paton to be a very worthy man, but I really cannot be of the use to him you wish me to be. Dr. Duncan Forbes had a way of collecting books that ~vas not like honest Patons. He simply stole those he xvanted, or, as Mr. Thomas Constable daintily puts it, he regarded the appropriation of books . . . as a jus- tifiable spoiling of the Philistine. On one occasion he complained to Archibald Constable that his library had been plun- dered during his absence from home. Ah, Doctor ! . was the rejoinder, if we all had our own, your library xvould be still srnzdler! Dr. Duncan Forbes was not the only visitor at the Cross whose conscience was debauched by the sirht of a coveted book. An anonymous individual is noticed, of whom the author says, that whenever he appeared my father received this warning, The gen- tleman with the brown great-coat is in the gallery. Other men who were con- nected with Constable figure unpleas- antly among honester colleagues. One of these was John Pinkerton that Ish- mael among arch~ologists, whose moral standard was pitched. at the lowest level. He not only suppressed but misquoted authorities, had as much audacity as men- dacity, passed off a modern ballad for a genuine antique, and, in his Preface to his Dissertation on the Scythians or Goths, bad the cool impudence to remark that ln Germany or Scandinavia, if an au- thor were to quote falsely he would go near to bear the character of a scoundrel or a liar. Mr. T. Constables comment on this is that Pinkerton must have pre sumed too confidently on the greater len- ity of his countrymen in estimating his own productions. Pinkerton must have been odious in the eyes of publishers, yet not more so than the Earl of Buchan was in the eyes of an editor to whom he would send his limping verses. How such pre- sumption would now he met we need not say. Constable and the editor of the Scots Magazz;ze, in 1802, took their own way with a fartago of verse which my lord sent to that periodical. They would not disoh!i e so great a man, and yet they would save their own honour. They did not insert the contribution in the elevated poetical department, hut placed it alone amid the prose, stating that, from respect to Lord Buchan, they had assigned it a conspicuous place in their Miscellany, distinct from the mass of vulgar poetry. But the above, and numerous other literary incidents and sketches of the lives of eminent men, yield in interest to the illustrations of home life and of the family circle gathered round the publish- er and his admirable wife. The most striking figure here is Auntie Jean, Mrs. Constables maiden sister, who is as good as the best of novel heroines with whom we are acquainted. In her youth and beauty, circumstances led her, Cal- vinist as she was, to be consigned to a convent in Picardy for her education. From this she escaped in disguise, when war broke out, carrying with her a little box of bonhons, the offering of a loving and well loed youn~ French gentle- man. Having consumed the sweetmeats, she foung a ring at the bottom of the box, an expression of hope on the part of the swain who had deposited it. The girl was well content to listen to the suit but those were not times in which British parents would entrust the happi- ness of their daughters to th6 Gaul, and they were the times in which daughters honoured their fathers and mothers, and would rather cherish a silent sorrow than disobey their parents. So, good and fair Auntie Jean put her lovers ring on her finger, and gave ear to no other wooer. She became, as such women often are, the good genius of the family, a true hu- man angel in the house. Slightly ec- centric, her utterances were often worthy of record. Mr. Constable notices the following, addressed to himself, through the aunts maid, when the good deaf old lady was dying, Ann, she said, if I should he spared to be taken away, I hope my nephew will get the doctor to open my head, and see if anything can ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. 189 be done for my hearing. The gentle mind, says the nephew, had already begun to waver. We confess we leave the home circle with regret, to be intro- duced to groups of literary men and liter- ary women, even though Jeffrey himself, the editor of the Edinburgh, be among them. Assuredly, he enjoys an eminent, honourable, and well-merited place of distinction among the distinguished. Jeffrey was the very prince of editors. lie never ruffled the susceptibilities or disturbed the honest self-respect of a writer in the Review. He could perform a disagreeable duty in a fashion to make it appear almost agreeable to the patient. One incident alone will suffice to show the metal of which Jeffrey was made. Through unintentional neglect, he had omitted to let the proprietors of the Review know the amount of honorarium due to a cer- tain contributor. After discovering the omission, the honorarium was not only forwarded with graceful apology, but with an additional ten guineas of Jeffreys own, but sent as the proprietors. I mulct myself in this fine, wrote Jeffrey to Con- stable. . . . I deserve this for my negli- gence, and, besides, it is right that the Review and its management should not be liable to the imputation of shabbiness even from the shabby. Parting from Jeffrey, we are once more surrounded by scholars, writers, and booksellers. The contrasts are strongly marked as when we have, on one hand, the Quaker poet, Ber- nard Barton, who mourned the fate that bound him to a bank desk, goin0 on mak- ing figures till death made a cypher of him and, on the other hand, is the flashy publisher, Sir Richard Phillips, who, re- solved not to pass for a cypher even after death wrote his own epitaph, and, among a score of other fine things said of him- self, set down that as a son, husband, father, and friend, he was worthy of imi- tation, and left a mourning family little to inherit except a good name. Pleasanter altogether than either of them was Dr. Kitchiner, one of Constables army of authors. Though a doctor, we are told he had no faith in medicine. It would be more correct to say that be- cause he was a doctor he had no faith in the way people chose to take medicine. Here is as good a bit of advice gratis as ever was given by an upright sensible physician. It is from a letter to Constable, March, 1822: I assure you I am quite uncomfortable that you still persist in tampering with us doctors What does a man want with medicine who can ride ten miles without fatigue, eat plain food with an excellent appetite, has every domestic comfort to render the evenings delightful, and can sleep soundly from ten oclock at night till four in the morning ay, and all this in spite of the pains he takes~ to annoy his good and well-behaving stomach with squilis, & c.? You have a fulness in your head and in your heart, forsooth, well, nobody can deny that: the former is as full of good sense, and the latter of good nature, as any man s in Christendom. . . . You are enjoying actually better health than almost any man of forty-five can boast, and will long continue to do so if you do not undermine your excellent con- stithtion by everlastingly bothering it with physic. I am ready to swear this before my Lord Mayor and the Court of Aldermen. There was as much generosity in the above as in Capt. Basil Hall, when Con- stable was in difficulty, makin~ the pub- lisher a present of the copyright of the three volumes of his voyages. It is, says Constable, the most handsome thing I ever experienced. The last volume of this elaborate and inter estina history is almost an independ- ent work. It contains the record of the connection between XValter Scott, the Bal- lantynes, and the publishing house of Constable. It is partly written as a sony s vindication of his fathers character, his honour, and his name; and the sonwe can say it with the greatest satisfaction is successful. No blame is cast on Scott, for Scott was blame- less; no reproach is cast on Ballantyne; the person chiefly censured is Lockhart, who is accused of misrepresenting cir- cumstances. The story of the Waverly Novels is here told, from first to nearly the last; from their burst of triumph down to the ruin of that publishing firm of Constables, which had once seemed a tower of strength, proof against all as- saults, but which went down (as a gallant but unfortunate ship goes down, with her flag unstruck) in the panic of 1826. Those who are curious in the history of that publishing time, will find it all here. For our own part, we leave the record of triumphs, sorrows, speculations, bills, ledgers, endorsements, and so forth, to those who will follow it. We prefer to give some of the incidents as illustrations of the men and the times. And first as an illustration of the certain fact that many a good book has been spoiled by a publisher giving it an uneffective title, in spite of the author, it may be here no- ticed that Constable proposed that The Abbot should be called The Nun- nery. Scott replied The only ob~ 190 MIGRATORY BOGS. jection . . . is that there is neither Nun nor Nunnery mentioned in the affair from be~ inning to end. I remember Harry Siddons wrote a novel, which he sold to Mr. Lane, of the Minerva Press, who . . new-christened it The Mysterious Bridal. Saar, as poor Harry used to say, there was neither mystery nor bridal in my poor book. . . . I took my own book, Saar, out of a circulating library for some new reading to Mrs. Sid- dons, and never found it out till I was far in the first volume. As Scotts novels appeared Constable sent a copy to Syd- ney Smith, who returned thanks and criticism. When The Pirate was pub- lished, Smith disapproved of Norna as a sort of hash-up of Meg Merrilies. He prayed for no more of Meg or Dominie Sampson, adding All human themes have an end (except Taxation). In those days, the volumes published in Edin- burgh were sent by sea to London. Con- stable writes of the Ocean smack arriving in the. Thames on a Sunday night, with bales of The Fortunes of Nigel aboard The bales were got out by one on Monday morning, and before half- past ten oclock seven thousand copies had been despatched from 90, Cheap- side. When, at a later period, Walter Scott was a partner in the trade and a sharer in the crash, he showed himself a true hero. He writes on this loss of for- tune I feel quite composed and deter- mined to labour. There is no remedy. And,later, a~ain to Constable: Be my loss lighter or heavier, I will bear it man- fully. Woodstock will be on the counter in a month, and you shall see that neither frost nor foul weather shall abate the spirit of . . . Walter Scott. In giving details of the catastrophe, Lockhart is charged with omitting son-ic passages in Scotts Diary, and slightly altering others, thereby creating an im pression that Scott and his publishers were on less friendly terms than was really the case. For instance, Scott wrote: Bade Constable and Cadell farewell, and had a brisk walk with them, which enables me to face the desolation here with more spirit. Mr. Lockhart, for a brisk walk with them, hives in the Life, a brisk walk home, without notice of companions. We pass on, however, to Scotts Life of Napoleon, and may notice the following singular passage in a letter to Constable, from Mrs. Campbell: If, as we hear, Sir Walter Scott is writing the History of Buonaparte, you may tell him that the late Sir Charles Stuart (of Bute) told me that when he commanded our army in Corsica, Buonaparte wished to come into our service. I asked what rank he expected; he said he believed he would have accepted a Lt. -Colonelcy. This is a fact that I know has been doubted, but you see Sir C. Stuarts au- thority is decisive. The end soon came to publisher and author. In order to maintain the repu- tation of the latter, which needed no championship, Lockhart branded the Ballantynes as unprincipled adventurers, and ultimately sacrificed Constable & Co. to the same cause. The publishers son has amply shown that Lockharts zeal drove him into error. Constable himself was fully justified, as he lay on his dying bed, in sayin~ to his son, in whose arms he may be said to have passed away, that he left him a poor man, indeed, but pos- sessing a name which might be of ad- vantage to him in the battle of life. The name has proved of value to Archibald Constables sons, as we see by the im- print at the close of each volume : Printed by T. & A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh Uni- versity Press. From Chambers Journal. MIGRATORY BOGS. THERE are said to be some six million acres of bog in the United Kingdom, Ire- land boasting or bewailing the posses- sion of at least a moiety of the ill-condi- tioned mixture Scotland coming in for a third, and England ow ning the remaining million of moist acres, which no one has yet managed to put to very profitable use. Fortunately for those whose lines are cast in their undesirable neighbourhood, British bogs very rarely become so im- patient of quiescence as to convert them- selves into movable property, and set out on their travels, as Chat Moss did in the far-away days of many-wived King hal. Leland tells how, bursting up within a mile of iVIosley Haul, it destroyed much ground with moss thereabout, and de- stroyed much fresh-water fish thereabout, first corrupting with stinking water Glas- brook, and so Glasbrook carried stinking ~vater and moss into Mersey water, and Mersey corrupted, carried the rolling moss, part to the shores of Wales, part to the Isle of Man, and some unto Ire- land. And in the very top of Chateley Moor, where the moss was highest and MIGRATORY BOGS. 191 broke, is now a plain, fair valley as ever In 1629, says Dr. Robert Chambers. in in times past, and a rill runneth in it, his Domestic Annals of Scotland, a large and pieces of small trees be found in the moss with a little lake in the middle of bottom. Thanks to Stephensons ge- it occupied a piece of gradually rising nius and perseverance, Chat Moss is not ground in the fertile district between likely to he guilty of another freak of the Falkirk and Sterling. A highly culti- kind. We can find but one other in- vated tract of wheat-land lay below. stance recorded of bog-moving in Eng- There had been a series of heavy rains, land, and that happened in the Debata- and the moss became overcharged with ble Land of olden time, near the Neth- moisture. After some days, during which erby whose Gr~mes, Fosters, Fenwicks, slight movements were visible on this and Musgraves went racing and chasing quagmire, the whole moss began one o er Cannobie Lea, in the vain hope of night to leave its native situation, and catching young Lochinvar and his fair slide gently down to the low grounds. Ellen. When Pennant visited the place The people who lived on these lands, re- in 1768, he saw a beautiful tract of culti- ceiving sufficient warning, fled, and saved vated land; four years afterwards, he be- their lives; but in the morning light they held nothing but a dismal swamp. The beheld their little farms, sixteen in nuin- fertile vale had succumbed to Solway ber, covered six feet deep with liquid Moss, the sixteen hundred acres of peat- moss, and hopelessly lost. In the wet mud of which had only been kept within August of i86m, a farmer dwelling near bounds by the hard outer crust. Igno- the town of Slamannan, looking out from rant, or careless of the consequences, his door early one morning, beheld some some peat-diggers cut away part of the twenty acres of Auchingray Moss part protecting edge of the bog; a three days company with its clay bottom, and float downpour came, and, unable to with- away for three-quarters of a mile, to the stand the extra pressure, the hitherto ef- utter ruin of a large quantity of arable fectual barrier yielded, and let out a river land and potato-ground over which it of thick black slush, carrying everything spread. before it. It was on the night of the 17th Yet more extraordinary was the sight of November 1771, that a farmer living seen in the county of Limerick in 1697. close by the Moss, hearing an unusual The continuous rains of a very unfavour- noise, went out of doors, lantern in hand, able spring getting under a large bog at to discover the meaning of it. He saw a Charleville, forced up its centre to a small dark-coloured stream flowing to- great height. Soon afterwards, sounds wards him, and for the moment, fancied resembling distant thunder betokened it came from his own dunghill; but the mischief was brewing underground, the stream growing to a deluge, he ran as he boghill sank as rapidly as it had risen, never ran before, to rouse up all within and then the entire mass was set in mo- hail, with the news that the Moss was tion. A wide deep ditch separated it out. Some received their first intimation from some pasture-land, but did not pre- of the disaster from the entrance of the vent the bog sweeping onward with wave- Stygian tide into their houses; these like undulations, but unbroken surface, sound sleepers had to wait for the day- and carryin~ the pasture-land with it,to light ere they escaped through the roof, deposit it upon an adjoining meadow, with the aid of outside friends. Still covering it wholly with sixteen feet of there was cause for congratulation al- soil after which, it would be difficult,~ though buildings had been swept down, we should fancy, to decide as to owner- cottages filled from floor to rooftree, and ship. The pasture became bog, and the four hundred acres of good land over- old site of the bog was left bare, marked whelmed beyond redemption, no man, by an unsightly hole, throwing up foul woman, or child had been done to death water and very stinking vapours. After by the unlooked-for irruption. The cattle a violent storm in March 1745, a turbary had not escaped so well, many beasts at Addergoole, near Dunmore in Galway, being suffocated in their sheds. One which the turf-cutters had only just left, cow, the solitary survivor of eight, aftcr began to move, and floating to a piece of standing up to its neck in mud and water low-lying pasture near the river-side, for sixty hours, had appetite enough to spread over a space of thirty acres. The eat heartily when delivered from durance, choked river overflowed its banks, and but refused to touch any water, nor would in a very short time the fields near she even look at it without manifest were hidden by a lake covering fifty signs of horror.? acres . Before a passage could be cut 192 MIGRATORY BOGS. for the river, the lake had extended over three hundred acres, and a week after that operation had been effected, a fifth part of the deluged land still remained under water. This notahle event in the simple annals of Dunmore will no longer stand unpar- alleled in the records of the little Irish town. On the 1st of October 1873, a farmer diligently labouring in his potato- field caught sight of a hrown mass mak- ing its way towards him. Leaving his spade in the ground, he ran off to fetch some neighbours. An elevated bo~ about 0 three miles distant from the town had burst through its banks, descendin0 so swiftly that by the time the frightened man got back to his potato-field, half of it was buried, and a few stocks on a high knoll were all that remained to tell where his corn-field had been. In a very short space of time, the cruel torrent had buried three farm-houses, and covered two hun- dred acres of valuable land with half- concrete, half-fluid deposit, to a depth, in some places, of ten feet, leaving, a great basin of a mile and a half in circum- ference, from which steadily flowed a stream of very watery brown bog-stuff. At the time we write three xveeks after the outburst this stream had attained a length of two miles, with a breadth of about a quarter of a mile, and two mil lions cubic feet of bog-stuff had been sent down the valley. A letter from Dunmore says: The worst of the dam- age already done is that it is likely to be permanent in its effects, unless, indeed, the foreign matter continues its locomo- tion, and branches off to some locality where it will affect no industrial interest. As it is, a wide extent of capital land has been converted into a black swamp sev- eral families have been ruined, not only by the loss of their holdings and homes, but by the destruction of their crops, their firing, and other property which there was not time to save. It is pitiable to see one of these ill-fated tenements surrounded by the filthy ooze of the bog, with no trace of the green fields and cheerful harvest stubble that the occu- pants of the deserted dwelling looked upon from its threshold only a fortnight ago. It is consoling for those who have not suffered by the untoward action of the migratory bog to know that such calami- ties are of very rare occurrence. Micrht they not be rendered impossible ? We think so. If bog-reclamation could be made as exciting as running after politi- cal jack-o-lanterns, moving bogs xvould soon rank among the wonders of the past. A LOAN exhibition of the works of old mas- I ters has been organised in Brussels by the Soci~t~ Nderlandaise de Bienfaisance. The chief feature of this exhibition is the number of works from the celebrated Suermondt col- lection, which has contributed no less than 120 paintings and 44 drawings. Among these we find as many as three Van Eycks, one of which, known as Lhomme ~ muillet, was engraved a short time since in the Gazelle des Beaux-Arts. It is one of Van Lycks most admirable portraits. The recently discovered master, Gerard David, has a picture ascribed to him, and there are several others of the early Flemish school in this collection. The old German school is likewise represented by some of its chief masters, but as might be ex- pected, the wealth of the exhibition lies in works of the later Netherlandish schools. Rembrandt, Frans 1-lals, Paul Potter (by whom we have the famous landscape of the Suer- mondt collection, Bois de la llaye ), Albert Cuyp, Jan Steen, and many more of the later Dutch masters, may be studied to advantage in this small but rich exhibition. Truly the I any of them. art tourist has had a great advantage this summer in being able to view without diffi- culty or favour in so many of these loan ex- hibitions the treasures that usually lie hidden or inaccessible in the depths of private houses. Tim last number of the Are/iwoZo~ ieee 7ozernai contains an interesting article on The Architecture of the Eleventh Century, by Mr. J. H. Parker, in which he maintains his previously expressed conviction that the churches of the Anglo-Saxon period in Eng- land were with few exceptions built of wood, and that it was only in the eleventh century that stone came fairly into use for building purposes. For many years past, he writes, I have been hunting for buildings of the tenth century with very little success. It is a matter of history that some stone buildings were erected at that time, but there is very little construction of that period remaining in

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The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1546 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 24, 1874 0120 1546
The Living age ... / Volume 120, Issue 1546 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1546. January 24, 1874 From Beginning, Volume V. CONTENTS. I. HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME, II. HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL: A TALE OF AUSTRALIAN BUSH LIFE. By Anthony Trollope, author of Barchester Towers, The Eustace Diamonds, Phineas Re- dux, & c. Part I. III. JONATHAN EDWARDS. B~ Leslie Stephen, IV. LINCOLNSHIRE SCENERY AND CHARACTER AS ILLUSTRATED BY MR. TENNYSON, UNITED STATES ENGLISH ABOUT AMBER PRINCIPAL FORBES AND HIS GLACIAL Ex- PLORATIONS, WEATHER WISDOM, INDIAN POLICE, THE FOOD OF LONDON V. VI. VII. VIII. Ix. x. Cornhill Magazine, Graphic, Frasers Magazine, Macmillans Ma6 azine, Chambers 7ournal, Chambers 7ournal, 195 203 219 236 240 244 247 251 254 255 MADAGASCAR SONG, REMEMBRANCE, MISCELLANY, P 0 E T R V. A REPLY TO IT MIGHT HAYE BEEN, I TRUE LOVE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly ta the Publishers, the LIVING Aou will he punctually forwarded for a year,free af~ostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forwarding the money; nor when we cltih the LIvING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of THE LIVING AOR is sent gratis to any one getting up a cluh of Five New Suhacrihers. Remittances should he made hy hank draft or check, or hy post-office money-order, if possihie. If neither of these can he procured, the money should he sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are ohliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should he made payshle to the order of L1TTELL & Gxy. Chambers 7ournal, Salierday Review, Once a Wech, CENTURIES AGO, . Our Own Fireside, 194 194 256 94 MADAGASCAR SONG, ETC. MADAGASCAR SONG. TRUST not trust not to the sea-shore sor- cerers! In the times of old the sorcerers came To our island, and were thus accosted: Land is here, so tarry with your women; Be ye good and just, and be our brothers! This the sorcerers promised we believed them. Soon they overturned our walls erected Threatening fortresses, which poured forth thunder In their fury; and their priests would give us Other unknown gods than ours to worship; And they spoke of service and obedience. Better die! The fight was long and bloody. They were masters of the murderous lightnings, And our multitudinous hosts they scattered All were scattered all our people perished. Trust not, trust not to the sea-shore sorcerers More invaders came, yet bolder stronger. On the sea-shore they their banners planted; But Heaven fought with us, and they were conquered! Heavy torrents fell; and mighty tempests, Storms, and poisonous winds oerwhelmed the stranger. They are gone are dead; and we the living Live to know that we are free and happy. Trust not, trust not to the sea-shore sorcerers I Translated by Sir John Bowring. [Translated from the German of Matthison by Arthur Lowell.] REMEMBRANCE. (A ndenken.) I THINK of thee When the soft voices of the nightingales, In sweet and plaintive warblings to the night, Ring through the vales. When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee, By the cool waters of the shaded fountains; While, in the shimmering rays of twilight glow, Glisten the mountains. Where thinkest thou of me? I think of thee, With many tender hopes and anxious fears. Passionate longings for the one I love, And burning tears, How thinkest thou of me? 0, think of me, Until we meet again some happier day. Till then, however distantly my feet may roam, Still shall I think and pray Only of thee! A REPLY TO IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. Tis easy, by no sorrow crossed And sung to by a friendly bird, To pine for bliss you have not lost, And weep for ills that neer occurred. Tis easy, too, where days are bright, And Tweed rejoicing past you flows, To think a real trouble light, And magnify ideal woes. But come and tarry, friend! with me, Where air is heavy, sunlight pales, And for your Robins carol free Exchange a captive nightingales. Each morning miss a sweet caress, A tender voice forever dumb, And through the long days loneliness Wait for the steps that never come. When evening shades press dimly on, Brood oer the embers flickering light, And watch the sparkles one by one Die, like my joys, in lonesome night. Your fortunes, then, with mine compare, The fancied with the real scene, And sadly own the joys that were Dearer than all that might have been. Spectator. J. A. H. TRUE LOVE. I WOULD that every angry shaft From Troubles bitter sheaf, Would wing its flight to pierce my heart, To give to thine relief. I would that every ill and woe, And every carking care, Would force their way within my breast, That I for thee might bear. Id genial deem the icy chill, The biting frost and cold, The stormy tempest, Love, if thou Wert sheltered in the fold. If my frail bark were tossed about, Of angry waves the sport, Calm as on glassy lake, Id feel, If thou wert safe in port. And if thy choice oer me should pass, To bless anothers life, His truest friend Id ever be, Because thou wert his wife. Chambers Journal. HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. 95 From The Coruhili Magazine. HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. To the average English understanding the typical arch~ologist or antiquarian must be a sore puzzle, or at least he would be a sore puzzle if the average Enolish understanding ever troubled it- self to try to account for the existence of anything that is not more or less a re- production of itself. And the average Englishman is in the habit of setting down all things -that do not seem instant- ly profitable to himself as, on the whole, unworthy his serious attention. Every- thing that is old, and that does not seem to be intimately connected with nine- teenth-century gains, and pleasures, and what he calls progress and civilization, is passed by as practically worthless de- serving only of being stowed away in those singularly dull institutions, known as museums, which exist all over the country, but which apparently are fre- quented by nobody at all. The objects of the love of these anti- quarians vary, indeed, in their degrees of unattractiveness. Coins, for instance, and medals are among the dullest of the dull things that fanatical collectors gather together; but what is their dulness com- pared to the dulness of inscriptions? What can possibly be the reason for gathering together a host of inscriptions which nobody can read without the great- est difficulty, and which tell nothing more, when they are really made out, than that somebody did something, at some period or other, which is not of the smallest interest to any but a few scholars who care for nothing but old books? Il- luminated old books they generally go by the name of illuminated missals are quite another thing, because of the beauty of their paintings ; and if their contents are of the Papistical kind, that is of small importance, as one need not read the writing, which in truth is usually very difficult to read, and so can dono harm. They are interesting, too, as showing that even in the dark ages there was some artistic feeling among the peo- ple ; while their colours are lovely. Why, you have got the new London green here exclaimed a young lady not long ago, when she was shown one of the manuscript treasures of the Bod- leian Library at Oxford; an exclamation which might possibly have indicated the commencement of a complete revolution of thought in the mind of the young per- son who uttered it. Architectural relics, aga~n, possess widely different degrees of attractiveness or non-attractiveness for the non-arch~- ological observer. There are some per- sons,it is true, and chiefly, we have ob- served, among women, whose one idea seems to be that whatever looks exces- sively old must be of peculiar interest and value. Such persons are to be spoken of with the sincerest regard, espe- cially when they really are of that sex which values novelty as identical with beauty, and rarely cares for architecture in any shape whatever. There is always something to be made out of a person who loves what is old, or at least exhibits a modest uninstructed faith in that which has survived through generations long gone by. First of all, he or it should rather be said she is above the vulgar love for the fashionable and the new. She cannot be one of those who think Paris the most delightful city in the world because in every fifth or sixth shop is written up the magic word nouveaut6s. She must possess with- in herself the elements of the true his- toric instinct, and be able to regard hu- manity as a whole, and recognize in the life of those who have been dead for thousands of years the elementary be- ginnings of the life of to-day. She might even be susceptible of philological spec- ulations, and feel a positive interest in her own Sanscrit origin. Such thinkers, as has been just ob- served, are usually to be found among women; for men, for the most part, in- stinctively begin to discriminate, and are suspicious of being taken in. Their faith in the relics of the past is largely mingled with doubt, just as they receive the assertions of the clerical profession with little of that unquestioning assent which is yielded by women. They are prone to regard the enthusiastic anti- f 96 HiSTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. quarian as a being of somewhat limited in their passion that they give a sort of capacities, and as a personage whose colour to the scoffs of the non-antiqua- opinions in matters of real life are of lit- nan portion of the human race. A relic tIe worth. This is pure Philist~nism, in- may he very old, and yet very ugly, or deed ; which cannot conceive a real de- very worthless. There are many de- votion to literary or artistic cultivation to luded souls, though they can hardly be be consistent with that thorough c onse- classed among antiquarians, who believe cration of the faculties to ones business in the priceless valuc of a Queen Annes or profession which alone, as they fancy farthing; whereas these farthings are can ensure success. It is quite possible simply scarce, and can be got any day, by that some of the patients of a certain dis- any well-instructed collector, for the sum tinguished London surgeon would begin of five shillings. Then there is the ultra- to doubt his professional skill, if they Gothic race, who hold that every church, knew that he was one of the ablest pro- castle, house, window, moulding, or sam- ficients in the art of etching that Eng- ple of wood or iron, produced between land can produce. If George Grote~ the the reigns of King John and Henry the historian, had been known by the cus- Seventh, must he admirable, and worthy tomers of his bank to be a fiddler as well of imitation. Are not the results of this as a devoted student of Greek literature, illusion to be seen everywhere ? Is there would they not have been more than a town in Eno-land where some grotesque b doubtful as to the soundness of his views erection is not justified by its architect on the nature of investments, and pre- on the ground that all its details are taken ferred a banker who knew nothing in the from some medi~val example ? As if world about any coinage but that which the human race in the Gothic period was passes current to-day? How many, too, freed from that intermixture of men of are there who are aware that music was naturally bad artistic proclivities which the special recreation of that most crab- troubles us so grievously in these latter bed and profoundest of writers on juris- prudence, Jeremy Bentham himself? Now and then, indeed, the world is right in its suspicions, when it sees an incongruous subject perpetually thrust forward at inappropriate times, and the charlatan in the domain of thou~ht sug- gests the presence of the rogue in an- other. Some thirty or forty years ago there was a hard-headed and old-fash- ioned canon of Christ Church, who had the charge of the College funds, and who kept them at a well-known London bank- ing-house, where the chief partner made excessiv& professions of religion. What does the man mean? said the old can- on; whenever I go up about the Col- lege accounts, he begins talking about theology. I am sure there is something wrong behind the scenes. And he with- drew the College money accordingly; and not lonb afterwards the three part- ners in the bank were all arraigned and convicted of felony. So, too, there are antiquarians who though perfectly honest in their love for the antique, are yet so undiscriminating days. The love of what is old is, indeed, often an undiscriminating tenderness, or it is narrow in its conceptions, or is ham- pered by its ignorance of the nature of true arch~ology, as a science of no little importance towards the elucidation of the history of mankind. It is not mere natural obtuseness, so much as a want of acquaintance with the basis on which all history rests which makes men, not sim- ply indifferent to antiquarian studies, but careless as to their relative degrees of importance, even when they are by no means absolutely indifferent to them. Mere antiquarianism is, in truth, nothing but a form of dilettante work, which is very harmless, and produces practically pleasant results, Such, too, is the purely artistic study of the achievements of the past, which draws and measures build- ings and their details with a view to their modern application in the buildings of the day. But this is not true arch~ology, whose oflice it is to aid in the uplifting of the veil that hides the life of our fathers from our eyes, under the feeling that HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. 97 they were our fathers, and that our ex- isting life, social, political, and religious, is the lineal descendant of the life which exhibited itself in these long-buried or long misunderstood remains, which the enlightened observer now studies with ever-increasing ardour and delight. As it happens, too, it is in those very relics of antiquity which have least charm for the lover of the picturesque that the real archaeologist finds his most important treasures. We may learn nothing from the most gorgeous windows, the most daringly constructed of vaults, the most perfect of sculptures while in the posi- tion of a few bricks, or the foundations of a hidden wall, or a long buried pathway or well, we may light upon the key to his- torical problems which have hitherto baffled the acutest critics and the most learned students. Just now, too, the scientific study of these living monuments of the past is of more than ordinary importance. Every old belief is breaking up around us. Everything is turning out to be a myth. The very word myth, not very long ago quite a novelty in the world of letters, has come to be so popular as to be almost of the nature of slang. Of course it is not in Johnson; but then even such a universally-used word (now- a-days) as humbug is not in Johnson. In Johnsons days, indeed, nobody had thought out the idea of myths, as such and it is surprising to our sharpened in- telligence how people got on without myths. Perhaps they were all the hap- pier for knowing nothing about them and perhaps, on the ~vhole, they were not. At any rate there can be no doubt that the notion of myths is now so fashiona- ble, that we are in danger of having it overrun the whole field of historical knowledge, while the word itself has be- come so common that most people use it in the senseof a simply fictitious state- ment. It is therefore pre-eminently the present function of arch~ology to come in and assure us that everything that we do not know in detail is not necessarily a myth. And very grateful ought many minds to be for such a result. It is really extremely disagreeable to be ddsU lusiound to the formidable extent which some people seem to delight in. Of course there are an endless number of superstitions which it is quite proper to get rid of; and for those superstitions which affect a mans religious belief, and his personal conduct towards his family and friends, not one word of excuse is to be put forward. The whole multitude of supernatural stories which are found mixed up with the earliest records of all nations must also be relegated to the mythical region, or set down as mere in- ventions of the poetical or the priestly mind. But what is so unpleasant, and in real- ity so eminently unhistorical, is that iconoclastic spirit which demolishes the legendary history of remote ages solely for the pleasure of demolishing it. These literary Pharisees, who seem ever to be saying to us, I am wiser than thou, have no more claim to toleration than other Pharisees or iconoclasts. It is an abominable thing that they should go about hitting right and left, and smash- ing truths and errors together, like those theological puritans who robbed Eng- land of innumerable treasures of art, in their horror of anything that xvas or might be Papistical. What if there are a great many things in Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, to say nothing of Hero- dotus himself, that are unquestionably fic- tions, and others in which it is difficult to say where the fictions end and the facts begin ? Why should we place ourselves abjectly at the feet of those destructives who, for instance, treat the whole history of the foundation of Rome as if it were a legend with no solid foundations of truth, and evolve a new theory as to the origin of the great Roman republic out of the depths of their own consciousness ? Those who have studied the advances made by our university and school teach- ers, and of those formidable young ladies who are now threatening to beat their brothers in the contest of learning, are satisfied that it is quite a mistake to imagine that we know anything at all about the real origin and growth of Rome in its earliest days. We can only make guesses at the truth, and we must always 193 HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. do this with a full recognition of the ten- dency to outrageous ex ag~eration which is the characteristic of legendary records. When number or size, for example, is mentioned, we must begin by dividing everything by ten, or even twenty; be- cause as a moderately high hill looks like a mighty mountain, when looming throu~h the mist, so it is with the tales told of ones great-grandfath ers. As to Rome, in particular, there is but one safe method ; namely, that of taking its political constitution as it existed in what is politely termed the historic period, and tracing its institutions back- wards to their origin in the legendary period, and then resting satisfied that no more is to be known. Happily, the most myth-loving of destroyers believe that all institutions have an origin ; only they have an invincible dislike to believe that the legendary stories that have come down to us supply a substantially correct account of that origin, and that thus we do really know very nearly as much about the actual history of these early ages as we believed that we knew in the pre- mythical period when those who now are old were still boys at school. A larb e portion of the first book of Livy is to be set down as totally valueless. It was the work of a credulous age. All those old- world tales about Romulus and Remus, and the rape of the Sabines, and the fights with Veii and the Volscians, and Tarquinius Priscus, and Ancus Martius, and Servius Tullius, and the horrid con- duct of the second Tarquinius, are not worth serious attention. Nobody knows anything about the real facts, and it is an imposition on the understanding t oac- cept the story of Livy as giving a practi- cally correct idea of the condition of the Roman people and government during the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries before the Christian era. Nevertheless, there are now to be seen in London and in Oxford a series of photographs which establish the sub- stantial truth of the traditional history which was current among the educated classes of Rome during the Augustan age, and which the criticism of the later schools of modern historians has laboured to demolish. The Roman correspon- dents of the London newspapers have occasionally spoken of the excavations which have been made in Rome during the last twenty years, at the e. pense of the late French Emperor and of the Prus- sian Government, and of an English Arch~ological Society, of which the most energetic member, if not the founder and chief supporter, was Mr. J. H. Parker, whose Glossary of Architecture and other kindred books have so materially aided in the revival of the study of Gothic archi- tecture in Rome. But few persons are aware that while personally prosecuting his researches into the buried history of the Rome of the past, Mr. Parker has expended a very considerable sum in the execution of more than three thousand photographs of every important fragment of Roman remains which can elucidate the actual history of Rome, from its very earliest foundation down to the medi~val period, adding to this strictly historical collection photographs of all the best Gr~co-Roman sculpture in the collections of the Vatican and the Capitol.* The value of these photographs, from their literal troth, cannot be over-esti- mated and they furnish the most im- portant contribution to historical knowl- edge which the art of photography has yet supplied. No drawings mad eby hand can be depended upon for perfect accu- racy in such minute details of measure- ment as are essential to the ar~ uments which are to be founded upon them and moreover, many of the photographs were made by the aid of the magnesian light, as they are transcripts of work which lies in the deepest darkness. This is the case, not only in certain portions of the earliest walls and fortifications of the ancient city, but in the catacomos generally and it is not a little interest- ing and instructive to notice the contrast between the engraved copies which have been made from the paintings in the Catacombs and the photographic repro- ductions which now for the first time acquaint the untravelled student with the actual realities. Unhappily, the dis- honesty of theological controversy has perverted the real truth concerning many of these paintings, and it is not surpris- ing that to the extreme party in Rome Mr. Parkers perseverance in his re- searches was by no means welcome. He was fortunate enough, indeed, in soon securing the favour and support both of the Pope and of Cardinal Antonelli in his labours, the Cardinal personally sym- pathizing with him as beinb himsif something of an arch~ologist and a col * A complete collection of the photographs is to be seen in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford, and at Stanfords, West Strand, close to Charing Cross. Many of them are of great beauty, solely as photo- graphs, and they are now to be bought singly at a very low price. HISTORICAL PIIOTOGRAPI-IS OF OLD ROME. 99 lector of antiquities. It is notorious, too, that Antonelli is no friend to the extreme party in Rome, and that he would scorn all opposition to Mr. Parkers work on the ground of his being an Englishman and a Protestant. In fact, he actually gave him permission to have photographs taken from the treasures of the Museum of Christian Antiquities at the Lateran, no permission even to engrave them hav- ing ever been given before. These long-standing hindrances to the study of the many treasures that Rome contains do not, indeed, exist under the present Italian Government; but unfortunately that Government itself has something else to do with its money and its energies beside extensively prosecuting researches which do not im- mediately tell upon politics. Govern- ments, generally, are not much (riven to care for antiquities ; and there is a griev- ous leaven of Philistinism even in the most enlightened cabinet of adminis- trators. Unless, then, the money need- ed for fresh excavations is found by foreigners, as for some time a fair amount of subscriptions were supplied by the Arcbreological Society in Rome, little more that is very important is to be looked for in the way of fresh discoveries. In the meantime the old error about the Catacombs will continue to be maintained by the dominant clerical writers and their supporters, in the face of all evidence, the control of the Catacombs being still left in the hands of the priests. In the face of all true arch~ological inquiries, it will still be maintained that the paintings which abound through those wonderful burial-places are as old as the burials of early Christians themselves. That the earliest writers on the subject should have taken up this notion was natural enough,for they knew nothing of archaeology, and little enough of art; and besides, the supposed early use of paintings in connection with religion was an admirable argument wherewith to silence the Protestant puritanism which has now happily vanished from the world. Still the clerical school of Roman critics refuse to admit the whole truth, of which English stud~nts of this vast series of photographs may now inform themselves. It is in vain that De Rossi, in his great work, implies, without venturing to as- sert it, that the frescoes as they are now existing belong to the age of the martyr- doms. A comparison of their character with paintings of which the dates are positively known, combined with a knowl edge of the processes of that mischievous meddling which is called restoration, proves that fully three-fourths of the fres- coes belong to the latest restorations of the eighth and ninth centuries. There is, in truth, no more misleading illusion than the popular idea that de- struction under the name of restoration is a product of these latter unartistic days, and that the process which we will name church-wardenizing is of Eng- lish, or Protestant, or modern origin. Pope John the Third, in the seventh century, was as mischievous in his works as any committee that now ordains the restoration of a medkeval church, with additions altogether new; and the eighth and ninth centuries were at least on a level with the eighteenth and nineteenth ,in their passion for making all old things ,as good as new. Unfortunate,at the same time, as was the Papal taste for restorations, the frescoes actually thus restored have been grievously libelled by the drawings and engravings which have made them familiar to us. The drawings themselves were undoubtedly made under great disadvantages, as they must have been made by lamplight, and sometimes are much injured, to say noth- ing of the awk~vard positions in which the artist must have placed himself in making them. Now, however, comes Mr. Parker, with his photographer and his magnesian light, and shows us what the frescoes really were. The contrast is wonderful, and greatly raises our con- ception of the skill of those darkening, if not dark ages. The figures are often most natural in their conception, and vigorous and easy in their treatment. One detail, indeed, ought not to be for- gotten, as bearing on the controversial storms of to-day. The dress of the Christians engaged in prayer corresponds as nearly as possible to the Anglican sur- plice and stole. Of the unrestored paintings none that are of a religious character are really older than Constantine the Great, those of the second and third centuries bein~ purely secular in character, proving the use of the Catacombs by the Pagans as well as the Christians, and suggesting the fictitious nature of that violent di- vision of life and habits between the ad- herents of the old and the new religion which is believed in by ecclesiastical writers in general. As presented in these interesting photographs, the skill of the original fresco-painters, working as they did with artificial light, and often 200 HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. ~~irg upon their backs and we assure the reader that it is by no means an easy thing to paint in fresco, that is, upon wet plaster, while lying upon ones back must have undoubtedly been considera- ble. One common subject was the agri- cultural occupations of the four seasons each season being accompanied by its attendant genius, a sign either of Pagan origin, or of the tolerance of the early Christians for the prevailing taste in art. There is another point which is forci- bly brought out by these photographs. It is made clear that there is great exag- geration in the popular view concerning the introduction of burial by the Chris- tians in opposition to the heathen prac- tice of burninb the dead. That the family of the Scipios buried, instead of burning, their dead, is admitted on all hands. But, in fact, the custom of burn- ing was going out of fashion in Roman society long before it was influenced by the Christian practice. In all proba- bility economical reasons were at the root of the change. As the cost of wood grew excessive, through the cutting down of the old forests, the expense of the funeral pile came to be beyond the means of the poorer multitude. Burying, so far from being of purely Christian in- vention, was a Jewish and Oriental cus- tom. The Christians simply continued it from their Jewish forefathers, and they carried it with them wheresoever they went. The practice by degrees became universal, just as Greek had become the universal language of communication be- tween Rome and the various portions of the trading and literary worlds of the day. These matters, however, are of com- paratively small moment contrasted with the great historical fact which Mr. Par- kers photographs reveal, and which he is the first to have recognized in its full sig- nificance. As has been already said, it has for some time been held by the domi- nant schools of historical teaching, that we have no means of forming any satis- factory estimate of the actual condition of the Roman people during those early ages which are popularly known as the period of the Kings. The traditional stories which were put into historical shape by Livy are not, it is said, worth serious consideration. There may, and there may not, have been kings, though doubtless there were some leaders of the chieftain kind, ruling, by some means or other, the obscure and slowly-increasing shepherd population, which ultimately was developed into the Roman republic, and who carried on a series of quarrels, which legend has designated by the sounding title of wars. But we cannot trace any clear succession in these chiefs, or learn what they actually achieved, and can only assume that if ever there was such a person as the leader whom tradi- tion called Romulus, he must have been the mere head of some band of discon- tented or half-outcast followers, who settled down somewhere on the site of the vast city which ultimately included the seven hills and the land immediately adjoining them. Let us see what Mr. Parker and his photographs tell us, in contradiction to this now generally received theory. ma word, the excavations of the last twenty years have unburied the actual founda- trons, and more than the foundations, of enormous works, which show that at the period of the Kings, Rome was a for- tified city of very considerable import- ance, and that it contained an immense population governed by despotic mon- archs. The fact of the construction of an arx or citadel of great strength in war, together with the commencement of special fortifications discontinued after some important event, is established be- yond a doubt. The wells which were constructed by the chief, whom we may as well call Romulus as anything else, for the use of his garrison when driven to their last resources, are still in existence. Mr. Parker had himself let down into these wells, and found, with what aston- ishment and delight may be imagined, that in their construction they are totally unlike any other wells in Italy, ancient and modern, with one solitary exception. That exception is to be found in the re- mains of the old Etrurian city of Alba Longa, which was unquestionably a flour- ishing place about the time which tradi- tion assigns as the date of the foundation of Rome. There was a report among the poor people who lived near the walls of Romulus, that some sort of old and dried up well did there exist, but of the perfect condition and structure of the existing wells no one had the slightest knowledge. The peculiarity of construction of these wells lies in their termination at their lower extremity, where they reach the body of the water stored up in the reser- voir with which they communicate each well there expanding into a conical shape, so that it precisely resembles an inverted funnel. Such a construction is perfectly useless if designed to increase the quan HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. 201 tity of water to be drawn up through the well, and consequently it is everywhere unknown, except, as we have said, in a well which communicates with a reser- voir of water, at the ancient Etrurian city of Alba Longa, now Palazzuolo. The wells of Romulus, and the sides and bot- tom of the reservoir into which they open, still exhibit remains of the clay puddling with which they were made water-tight, the tufa in which they are cut being porous and unfit for the storing of water. The identity of the engineer- ing ideas which prevailed both at Alba Longa and at Rome when its foundations were laid is thus clearly made out; and, so far, the tradition is made out which asserts that Romulus came of the family ruling at Alba Longa. The arx, or citadel, which these wells were meant to supply with water, when its inhabitants were shut up by a belea- guering force, isthe original fortified place where Romulus ruled, and which goes by the name of Romcz Qucidrata. So far the more moderate of the sceptical school will admit, though even this will be con- tested by those who believe that the old traditions are not worth the slightest consideration. But what is now made evident from the recent excavations as interpreted by one who possesses the trained archaeological eye, and under- stands the true tests of age in buildings, is the great size and importance of the very earliest buildings of Rome. It is clear that Rome at once assumed the nature of a fortified city, and that its rulers were rapidly in a position to com- mand a vast amount of enforced labour. The additions to the original buildings exhibit, moreover, marked changes in construction, and are of extent and char- acter which precisely correspond to the traditionary stories of the succession of kings which ended with the second Tar- quin. In actual size the Roma Quadrata was about 300 yards long and nearly 200 wide. Its foundations are now at last open to the eye, and in their masonry they corre- spond with that of some of the chief cities of Etruria. They are constructed of oblong blocks of tufa, four feet long and two feet high, roughly chipped, where not got out of the quarry by some simple process of splitting. The horizontal sur- faces of the blocks were thus less rough, as they followed the natural stratification of the stone, than those at the ends. The walls of this date are thus distin uished by the width of the vertical joints, which are often so large as to allow a man to thrust his fist into them. No mortar was used to hold them together. The first work of Romulus was sur- rounded by walls of this kind, twelve feet thick, built up against the scarped cliff, which was cut away to make all entry impossible except by the gates. This work crowned the Palatine Hill, and its construction may now be seen in Mr. Parkers photographs. It is found no- where else in Rome. Here, in the Roma Quadrata, its remains are still to be seen on three sides of the original parallelo- gram, in the foundations of the temple of Jupiter Feretrius, which tradition said was begun shortly after the founding of the city, and in some steps close at hand. It is not a little remarkable, also, that the size of each of the stones corresponds to the statement of Dionysius of Halicarnas- sus, who says that each of them was suffi- cient to constitute a cart-load. Each stone, as now existing in this earliest work, is of just that size which, in the tufa of which they consist, is to this day called by the Roman masons a cart-load. Until the re- cent excavations, the space covered by this arx could only have been guessed at even by those who believed in its reality but now the whole of the deep foss which was cut on the south-west side of the fort, when it was first built, has been laid open. It separated the fortified part of the Palatine from the unfortified part, where the population congregated in ordinary times. On the opposite side of the arx, facing the hill of Saturn, which the Sabines, according to the tradition, occupied in their final conflict with the Romans, another feature now exposed to view has been pointed out by Mr. Parker, and is singularly suggestive when taken in con- nection with some experiments made by M. Viollet le Duc, the most distinguished of French architects, for the late Empe- ror Napoleon, at Pierrefonds. He had a catapult made to try how far it was pos- sible to throw a paving-stone sufficiently large to be serviceable in war; and he found that when thrown from the Satur- nian hill, it would throw just far enough to knock down a Roman standing upon the spot where the first fortification was raised. Obviously, therefore, on the oc- cupation of the hill by the Sabines, it was necessary to heighten the wall of the fort on the side facing the Sabine camp, which involved the construction of a series of towers to serve as buttresses to hold it up. The remains of such a series are 202 now discovered, with the proof that they were never finished, for the spaces be- tween their sides are filled up with con- crete of the time of the Republic. Why were they left thus incomplete? Clearly because there was no longer any neces- sity for protection against the attacks of the Saturnian hill, the treaty between the Sabines and the Romans ensuring future peace. As soon as peace was thus ensured, it was natural that a new wall should be made, to enclose the district occupied by the Sabines, and to extend to the banks of the Tiber at its two extremities. It was necessary thus to keep open a com- munication with the Tiber as the highway for provisionsand the like, and to include the Velian hill, to protect the principal gate. The remains of such a wall are now visible in several places, and they exhibit a form of construction in which no practical mason will hesitate for a mo- ment in recognizing an advance in the art of building. This advance may be due only to the greater leisure which the builders had at command, or to an in- creased skill in the quarrying of the stones, which are here found larger in size than in the primitive opus quadratum, as it is called. Its outer surfaces certainly exhibit clear traces of the use of the saw. They are, in fact, identical with what is now termed ashlar work. Apparently no mortar was used for holding them togeth- er. A similar masonry is found in the lowest chamber or chambers of the Main- ertine Prison, which the accepted tra- ditions called the Prison of the Kings, and assigned in its earlier portion to Ancus Martius, the addition to it being the work of Servius Tuilius. It should he added that this second wall, enclosing both the Saturnian and the Palatine hills, was plainly twelve feet thick and fifty feet high. This same masonry is also seen in the lowest portion of the great building called the Capitolium, commenced natu- rally as soon as the rapid progress of the young city was ensured. It was to con- tain all the offices necessary for the gov- ernment of the city, including an ~Erarz- urn on the lowest level, for its money, and a Tabulariurn above, for its documents. The masonry is the same in both, though part of the ~Brariurn has been faced with small square stones, probably by Theod- oric, who repaired many of the public buildings of the city. Next came the vast work with which Servius Tullius is credited, and which is called his agger. It includes all the seven hills of Rome, and there is no novelty in our knowledge of its site. But its im- mense breadth and height were until lately matters of conjecture, while the chief peculiarity of its mode of construc- tion was altogether unknown, except that it consisted of two parallel walls enclos- ing a gigantic mound of earth where it stood by itself, or of one wall facin~ the scarped cliff where any portion of a hill was cut away, leaving the remaining cliff to be sustained by the wall. When the railway station was made in 1871, this agger was cut across, and wrought-iron clamps were found, bindin~ together the separate stones of the masonry. The discovery at once explained the meaning of various holes in old Roman masonry, which had hitherto puzzled all antiqua- rians the iron having everywhere dropped out, through the action of rust, while the clamps of course had disap- peared. Here, on the contrary, being within the body of the wall, they were retained in their original positions, and the action of the rust itself had been less destructive. About a dozen, or so, were then found, and were immediately se- cured by Mr. Parker and other arch~olo- o~ists b Such are some of the most important facts which have been gathered from the sites unveiled by the labours of English, French, and German excavators. It is not too much to say that they must ma- terially modify the opinions which have come to be popular among modern histo- rians, not only as to the origin of Rome, but as to the possibility of future discov- eries in the other great historical sites of the world, which will help the future historian to establish the reality of a con- siderable element of real fact, where at present he discovers nothing but the cloudland of superstition and worthless legend. Of course they proVe nothing absolutely as to the date of the foundation of Rome, or as to the names and succes- sion of its kings but they do establish a probability that the foundation was be- tween seven and eight centuries before Christ, and that from its earliest years Rome exhibited the handiwork of a mighty race, possessing a military and administrative genius which was to make them at length the masters of the civilized world. HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF OLD ROME. HARRY HEATHCO7E OF GANGOIL. 203 From Th Graphic. hARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL: A TALE OF AUSTRALIAN BUSH LIFE. IIY ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Au/liar of Dorchester Towers, The Ens/ace Diamonds, Phineas Redux, & ~c. CHAPTER I. GANGOIL. JUST afortnibht before Christmas, 1371, a young man, twenty-four years of age, returned home to his dinner about eiTht oclock in the evening. He was married. and with him and his wife lived his wifes sister. At that somewhat late hour he walked in among the two young women, and another much older woman who was preparing the table for dinner. The wife and the wifes sister each had a child in its lap, the elder having seen some fifteen months of its existence, and the younger three months. He has been out since seven, and I dont think hes had a mouth- ful. the wife had just said. Oh, Harry, you must be half-starved, she exclaimed, jumping up to greet him, and throwing her arm round his bare neck. Im about whole melted, he said, as he kissed her. In the name of charity give me a nobbler. I did get a bit of damper and a pannikin of tea up at the Germans hut ; but I never was so hot or so thirsty in my life. Were going to have it in earnest this time. Old Bates says that when the gum leaves crackle, as they do now, before Christmas, there wont be a blade of grass by the end of February. I hate old Bates, said the wife. He always prophesies evil, and com- plains about his rations. He knows more about sheep than any man this side of the Mary, said her hus- band. From all this I trust the reader will understand that the Christmas to which he is introduced is not the Christ- mas with which he is intimate on this side of the Equator, a Christmas of blazing fires indoors, and of sleet and snow and frost outside,but the Christmas of Australia, in which happy land the Christ- mas fires are apt to be lighted, or to light themselves ,when they are byno means needed. The young man who had just returned bom& had on a flannel shirt, a pair of moleskin trousers, and an old straw hat, battered nearly out of all shape. He had no coat, no waistcoat, no braces, and nothing round his neck. Round his waist there was a strap or belt, from the front of which hung a small pouch, and, behind, a knife in a case. And stuck into a loop in the belt made for the purpose there was a mall briar-wood pipe. As he dashed his hat off, wiped his brow, and threw himself into a rocking chair, he certainly was rough to look at, but by all who understood Australian life he would have been taken to be a gentle- man. He was a young squatter well known west of the Mary river in Queens- land. Harry Heathcote, of Gangoil, who owned 30,000 sheep of his own, was a magistrate in those parts, and able to hold his own among his neighbours, whether rough or gentle and some neighbours he had, very rough, who made it almost necessary that a man should be able to be rough also, on occasions, if he desired to live among them without in- jury. Heathcote of Gangoil could do all that. Men said of him that he was too imperious, too masterful, too much in- clined to think that all things should be made to o as he would have them. Young as he was he had been altogether his own master since he was of age, and not only his own master, but the master also of all with whom he was brought into contact from day to day. In his life he conversed seldom with any except those who were dependent on him, nor had he done so for the last three years. At an age at which young men at home are still subject to pastors and masters, he had sprung at once into patriarchal power, and being a man de- termined to thrive had become laborious and thoughtful beyond his years. Harry Heathcote had been left an or- phan, with a small fortune in money, when he was fourteen. For two years after that he had consented to remain quietly at school, but at sixteen he de- clared his purpose of emigrating. Boys less than himself in stature got above him at school, and he had not liked it. For a twelvemonth he was opposed by his guardian but at the end of the year he was fitted forth for the Colony. The guardian was not sorry to be quit of him, but prophesied that he would be home again before a year was over. The lad had not returned, and it was now a settled conviction among all who knew him that he would make or mar his fortune in the new land that he had chosen. He was a tall, well-made young fellow, with fair hair and agood-humoured smile, but ever carrying in his countenance marks of what his enemies called pig- 204 HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. headedness, his acquaintances obstinacy, intellect, and the fittest to he the mis~ and those who loved him, firmness. His tress of such an establishment as that at acquaintances were, perhaps, right, for he Gan~oil. certainly was obstinate. He would take When he had washed his hands and no mans advice, he would submit himself face and had swallowed the very copious to no man, and in the conduct of his own but weak allowance of brandy and water business preferred to trust to his own j which his wife mixed for him, he took insight rather than to the experience of j the eldest boy on his lap and fondled others. It would sometimes occur tha tih im. By George, he said, old fel- he had to pay heavily for his obstinacy, low, you shant be a squatter. But, on the other hand, the lessons which Why not, Harry U asked his wife. he learned, he learned thoroughly. And Because I dont want him to break he was kept right in his trade by his own his heart every day of his life. indefatigable industry. That trade was Are yotl always breaking yours? I the growth of wool. He was a breeder thouoht your heart was pretty well hard- of sheep on a Queensland sheep-run, and ened now. his flocks ran far afield over a vast tern- When a man talks of his heart you tory of which he was the only lord. His and Kate are thihking of loves and doves, house was near the river Mary, and be- of course. yond the river his domain did not ex- I wasnt thinking of loves and doves, tend but around him on his own side of Harry, said Kate. I was thinking the river he could ride for ten miles in how very hot it must have been to-day. each direction without getting off his own We could only bear it in the verandah pastures. He was master, as far as his by keeping the blinds always wet. I mastership went, of 120,000 acres, dont wonder that you were troubled. almost an English county, and it was That comes from heaven or Provi- the pride of his heart to put his foot off dence, or from something that one knows his own territory as seldom as possible. to be unassailable~ and therefore one He sent his wool annually down to Bris- can put up with it. Even if one gets a bane, and received his stores, tea and sun-stroke one does not complain. The sugar, flour and brandy, boots, clothes, sun has a right to be there, and is no tobacco, & c., once or twice a year from interloper like a free-selector. I cant thence. But the traffic did not require understand why free-selectors and mus- his own presence at the city. So self- quitoes should have been introduced into contained was the working of the estab- the arrangements of the world. lishment that he was never called away I spose the poor must live some- by his business unless he went to see wheres, and squiters, too, said Mrs. some lot of highly-bred sheep which he Growler, the old maid-servant, as she put might feel disposed to buy ; and as for a boiled leg of mutton on the table. pleasure, it had come to be altogether Now, Mr. Harry, if youre hungered beyond the purpose of his life to go in theres something for you to eat in spite quest of that. When the work of the day of the free-selectors. was over, he would lie at his length upon Mrs. Growler, said the master, cx- rugs in the verandah, with a pipe in his cuse me for saying that you jump to con- mouth, while his wife sat over him read- clusions. ing a play of Shakespeare or the last My jumping is pretty well nigh done, novel that had come to them from Eng- said the old woman. land. By no means. I find that old people He had married a fair girl, the orphan can jump quite as briskly as young. You daughter of a bankrupt squatter whom he have rebuked me under the impression had met in Sidney, and had brought her that I xvas grudging something to the and her sister into the Queensland bush poor. Let me explain to you that a free- with him. His wife idolized him. His selector may be, and very often is, a rich sister-in-law, Kate Daly, loved him dear- man. He whom I had in my mind is not ly, as she had cause to do, for he had a poor man, though I wont swear but proved himself to be a very brother to what he will be before a year is over. her: but she feared him also somewhat. I know who you mean, Mr. Harry The people about the Mary said that she you mean the Medlicots. A very nice was fairer and sweeter to look at, even gentleman is Mr. Medlicot, and a very than the elder sister. Mrs. Heathcote was nice old lady is Mrs. Medlicot. And a the taller of the two, and the larger-fea- deal of goo~l theyre going to do by all tuned. She certainly was the higher in accounts. HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 205 Now, Mrs. Growler, that will do, enough to bear all that for himself, said said the wife. Harry. I get ashamed of myself when The dinner consisted of a boiled leg of I grumble, and yet one seems to be surly mutton, a large piece of roast beef, po- if one doesnt speak out what ones think- tatoes, onions, and an immense pot of mo tea. No glasses were even put upon the I hope you will always tell me what table. The two ladies had dressed for youre thinking, dear. dinner, and were bright and pretty as \Vell, I suppose I shall ; till this they would have been in a country house fellow is old enough to be talked to, and at home, but Harry Heathcote had sat to be made to bear the burden of his down just as he had entered the room. fathers care. I know you are tired to death, said By that time, Harry, you will have his wife, when I see you eat your din- got rich, and we shall all be in England ner like that. shant we ? It isnt being tired, Mary ; Im not I dont know about being rich, but particularly tired. But I must be off we shall have been free-selected off Gan- again in bout an hour. goil. Now, Mrs. Growler, were done Out a~gain to-night ? dinner, and Ill have a pipe before I Yes, indeed. make another start. Is Jacko in the On horseback? kitchen? Send him through to me on How else? Old Bates and Mickey to the verandah. are in their saddles still. I dont want to Gangoil was decidedly in the bush, have my fences burned as soon as theyre according to common Australian par- put up. Its a ticklish thing to think lance, all sheep stations are in the bush, that a spark of fire anywhere about the even though there should not be a tree place might ruin me, and to know at the or shrub within sight. They who live same time that every man about the run away from the towns live a bush life. and every swagsman that passes along Small towns, as they grow up, are called have matches in their pockets. There bush towns, as we talk of country isnt a pipe lighted on Gangoil this time towns. The bush, indeed, is the doun- of the year that mightnt make a beggar try generally. But the Heathcotes lived of you and me. Thats another reason absolutely and actually in the bush. why I wouldnt have the young un a There are Australian pastures which con- squatter. sist of plains on which not a tree is to be I declare, I think that squatters have seen for miles but others are forests, so more trouble than any people in the far extending, that their limits are almost world, said Kate Daly. unknown. Gangoil was surrounded by Free-selectors have their own troub- forest, in some places so close as to be les too, Kate, said he. impervious to men and almost to animals, It must beexplained as we go on, that in which the undergrowth was thick and Heathcote felt that he had received a tortuous and almost platted, through which great and peculiar grievance from the no path could be made without an axe, hands of one Medlicot, a stranger who but of which the greater portions were had lately settled near him; and that open without any underwood, between this last remark referred to a somewhat which the sheep could wander at their favourable opinion which had been ex- will, and men could ride, with a sparse pressed about this stranger by the two surface of coarse grass, which after rain ladies. It was a little unfair, as having~ would be luxuriant, but in hot weather been addressed specially {o I~ate, in- would be scorched down to the ground. tending as it did to imply that Kate had At such times, and those times were by better consider the matter well before far the more common, a stranger would she allowed her opinion of the stranger wonder where the sheep would find their to become dangerously favourable ; feed. Immediately round the house, or for in truth she had said no more than station, as it was called, about one hun- her sister. dred acres had been cleared, or nearly The Medlicots troubles will never cleared, with a few trees left here and trouble me, Harry, she said, there for ornament or shade. Further I hope not, Kate: nor mine either a-field, but still round the home quarters, more than we can help. the trees had been destroyed, the run of But they do, said Mary. They the sap having been stopped by ring- trouble me, and her too, very much. ing the bark; but they still stood like A mans back should be broad troops of skeletons, and would stand, 206 HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. very ugly to look at, till they fell in the :ourse of nature by reason of their own rottenness. There was a man always at work about the place, Boscobel he was called, whose sole business was to de- stroy the timbers after this fashion, so that the air might get through to the grasses, and that the soil might be re- lieved from the burden of nurturing the forest trees. For miles around, the domain was divided into paddocks, as they were there called; but these were so large that a stranger might wander in one of them for a day and never discover that he was enclosed. There were five or six paddocks on the Gangoil run, each of which comprised ever ten thousand acres, and, as all the land was undulating, and as the timber was around you every- where, one paddock was exactly like another. The scenery in itself was fine, for the trees were often large, and here and there rocky knolls would crop up, and there were broken crevices in the ground; but it was all alike. A stranger would wonder that any one straying from the house should find his way back to it. There were sundry bush houses here and there, and the so-called road to the coast from the wide pastoral districts further ~vest passed across the run ; but these roads and tracks would travel hither and thither, new tracks being opened from time to time by the heavy wool-drays and store waggons, as in wet weather the ruts on the old tracks would become in- surmountable. The station itself was certainly very pretty. It consisted of a cluster of cot- tages, each of which possessed a ground floor only. No such luxury as stairs was known at Gangoil. It stood about half a mile from the Mary river, on the edge of a creek which ran into it. The principal edifice, that in which the Heathcotes lived, contained only one sitting-room, and a bedroom on each side of it; but in truth there was another room, very spacious, in which the family really passed their time; and this was the verandah which ran along the front and two ends of the house. It was twelve feet broad, and of course of great length. Here were clustered the rocking-chairs, and sofas, and work-tables, and very often the cradle of the family. Here stood Mrs. Heathcotes sewing-machine, and here the master would sprawl at his length, while his wife, or his wifes sister, read to him. It was here, in fact, that they lived, having a parlour simply for their meals. Behind the main edifice, there stood, each apart, various build- ings, forming an irregular quadrangle. The kitchen came first, with a small ad- jacent chamber in which slept the Chinese man-cook, Sing Sing, as he had come to be called; then the cottage, consisting also of three rooms and a small verandah, in which lived Harrys superintendent, commonly known as Old Bates, a man who had been a squat- ter once himself, and having lost his all in bad times, now worked for a small sal- ary. In the cottage, two of the rooms were devoted to hospitality when, as was not unusual, guests known or unknown came the way; and here Harry himself would sleep, if the enterta?hment of other ladies crowded the best apart- ments. Then at the back of the quad- rangle was the store, perhaps of all the buildings the most important. In here was kept a kind of shop, xvhich was sup- posed, according to an obsolete rule, t9 be open for custom for half-a-day twice a week. The exigencies of the station did not allow of this regularity ; hut after some fashion the ShOp was main- tained. Tea was to be bought there, arid sugar, tobacco, and pickles, jam, nails, boots, hats, flannel shirts, and moleskin trousers. Anybody who came might buy, but the intention was to provide the sta- tion hands, who would otherwise have had to go or send thirty miles for the supply of their wants. Very little money was taken here, gene rally none. But the quantity of pickles, jam, and tobacco sold was great. The men would consume large quantities of these bush delicacies, and the cost would be deducted from their wages. The tea and sugar, and flour also was given out weekly, as ra- tions, so much a week, and meat was supplied to them after the same fashion. For it was the duty of this young auto- cratic patriarch to find provisions for all who were employed around him. For such luxuries as jam and tobacco the men paid themselves. On the fourth side of the quadrangle was a rough coach- house, and rougher stables. The car- riage part of the establishment consisted of two buggies, so called always in the bush, open carriages on four wheels, one of which was intended to hold two and the other four sitters. A Londoner lookinb at them would have declared them to be hopeless ruins ; but Harry Heathcote still made wonderful journeys in them, taking care generally that the wheels were sound, and using ropes for HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 207 the repair of dilapidations. The stables were almost unnecessary, as the horses, of which the supply at Gangoil was very large, roamed in the horse-paddock, a comparatively small enclosure containing not above three or four hundred acres, and were driven up as they were wanted. One horse was always kept close at home with which to catch the others, but this horse for handiness was generally hitched to a post outside the kitchen door. Harry was proud of his horses, and was some- times heard to say that few men in Eng- land had a lot of thirty at hand as he had, out of which so many would be able to carry a man eighty miles in eight hours at a moments notice. But his stable ar- ranb ements would not have commanded respect in the shires. The animals were never groomed, never fed, and i~ost of them never shod. They lived upon grass, and, as he always said, cut their own bread and butter for themselves. Gangoil was certainly very pretty. The verandah was covered in with striped blinds, so that when the sun shone hot, or when the rains fell heavily, or when the musquitoes were more than usually troublesome, there might be something of the protection of an enclosed room. Up all the posts there were flowering creepers, which covered the front with greenery even when the flowers were wanting. From the front of the house down to the creek, there was a pleasant falling garden, heart-breaking indeed in regard to vegetables, for the opossums always came first, and they who followed the opossums got but little. But the garden gave a pleasant homelike look to the place, and was very dear to Harry, who was perhaps indifferent in regard to peas and tomatoes. Harry Heathcote was very proud of the place, for he had made it all himself, having pulled down a wretched barrack that he had found there. But he was far prouder of his wool-shed, which he had also built, and which he re- garded as first and foremost among wool- sheds in those parts. By and bye, we shall be called to visit the wool-sheds. Though Heathcote had done all this for Gan goil, it must be understood that the vast extent of territory over which his sheep ran was by no means his own prop- erty. He was simply the tenant of the Crow n, paying a rent computed at so much a sheep. He had indeed purchased the ground on which his house stood, but this he had done simply to guard him- self against other purchasers. These other purchasers were the bane of his existence, the one great sorrow which, as he said, broke his heart. WhIle he was speaking, a rough-look- ing lad, about sixteen years of age, came through the parlour to the verandah, dressed very much like his master, but unwashed, uncombed, and with that wild look which falls upon those who wander about the Australian plains, living a no- mad life. This was Jacko, so-called, and no one knew him by any other name, a lad whom Heathcote had picked up about six months since, and who had be- come a favourite. The old woman says as you was wanting me U suggested Jacko. Going to be fine to-night, Jacko ? J acko went to the edge of the veran- dah, and looked up to the sky. My word I little squall a comin~, he said. I wish it would come from ten thou- sand buckets, said the master. No buckets at all, said Jacko. Want the horses, master U Of course I want horses, and I want you to come with me. There are two horses, saddled there; Ill ride Hamlet. CHAPTER II. A NIGHTS RIDE. HARRY jumped from the ground, kissed his wife, called her old girl, and told her to be happy, and got on his horse at the garden gate. Both the la- dies came off the verandah to see bin-i start. Its as dark as pitch, said Kate Daly. Thats because you have just come out of the light. But it is dark, quite dark. You wont be late, will you ? said the wife. I cant be very early, as its near ten now. I shall be back about twelve. So saying he broke at once into a gallop, and vanished into the night, his young groom scampering after him. Why should he go out now? Kate said to her sister. He is afraid of fire. But he cant prevent the fires by riding about in the dark. I suppose the fires come from the heat. He thinks they come from enemies, and he has heard something. One wretched man may do so much when everything is dried to tinder. I do so wish it would rain. The night in truth was very dark. It was now mid-summer, at which time with us the days are so long that the coming of the one almost catches the departure 208 HARRY HEATHGOTE OF GANGOIL. of its predecessor. But Gangoil was were replaced, and the two were again not far outside the tropics, and there galloping through the forest. I thought were no long summer nights. The heat you were making for the wool-shed, was intense; but there was a low sough- said Jacko. ing wind which seemed to moan among Were eight miles beyond the wool- the trees without moving them. As they shed, said Harry. They had now crossed crossed the little home enclosure and the another paddock, and had come to the horse-paddock, the track was just visible; extreme fence on the run. The Gangoil the trees being dead and the spaces open. pastures extended much further, but in About half a mile from the house, while that direction had not as yet been en- they were still in the horse-paddock, closed. Here they both got off their Harry turned from the track, and Jacko, horses and walked along the fence till of course, turnedwithhim. You can sit they came to an opening,with a slip your horse jumping, Jacko? he asked. panel, or moveable bars, which had My word! jump like glory, answered been Heathcotes intended destination. Jacko. He was soon tried. Harry rode Hold the horses, Jacko, till I come at the bush fence, which was not in- back, he said. Jacko when alone, noth- deed much of a fence, made of logs ing daunted by the darkness or solitude, lengthways and crossways, about three seated himself on the top rail, took out a feet and a half high, and went over it. pipe, and struck a match. When the to- J acko followed him, rushing his horse at bacco was ignited he dropped the match the leap, losing his seat and almost fall- on the dry grass at his feet, and a little ing over the animals shoulders as he flame instantly sprang up. The boy came to the ground. My word! said waited a few seconds till the flames be- J acko, just saving himself by a scramble; gan to run, and then putting his feet to- who ever saw the like of that? gether on the ground stamped out the in- Why dont you sit in your saddle, you cipient fire. My word, said Jacko to stupid young duffer? himself; its easy done any way. Sit in my saddle! Why dont he Harry went on to the left for about jump proper? Well; you go on. I dont half a mile, and then stood leaning know that Im a duffer. Duffer, indeed! against the fence. It was very dark, but My word. Heathcote had turned to the he was now looking over into an enclos- left, leaving the track, which was indeed ure which had been altogether cleared of the main road towards the nearest town trees, and which, as he knew well, had and the coast, and was now pushing on been cultivated and was covered with through the forest with no pathway at sugar canes. Where he stood he was not all to guide him. To ordinary eyes distant above a quarter of a mile from the attempt to steer any course would the river, and the field before him ian have been hopeless. But an Australian down to the banks. This was the se- squatter, if he have any well-grounded lected land of Giles Medlicot, two claim to the character ot a bushman, has years since a portion of his own run, eves which are not ordinary, and he has, which had now been purchased from the probably, nurtured within himself, un- Government,for the loss of which he consciously, topographical instincts which had received and was entitled to receive are unintelligible to the inhabitants of no compensation. And the matter was cities. Harry, too, was near his own made worse for him by the fact that the home and went forward through the interloper had come between him and thick?gloom without a doubt, Jacko fol- the river. But he was not standing here lowing him faithfully. In about half-an- near midnight me rely to exercise his hour they came to another fence, but wrath by straining his eyes through the now it was too absolutely dark for jump- darkness at his neighbours crops. He in~. Harry had not seen it till he was put his finger into his mouth to wet it, close to it, and then he pulled up his and then held it up that he might dis- horse. My word; why dont you jump cover which way the light breath of wind away, Mr. Harry? Whos a duffer now? was coming. There was still the low Hold your tongue, or Ill put my whip moan to be heard continually through the across your back. Get down and help forest, and yet not a leaf seemed to be me pull a log away. The horses couldnt moved. After a while he thought he see where to put their feet. Jacko did caught a sound, and put his ear down to as he was bid, and worked hard, but still the ground. He distinctly heard a foot- grumbled at having been called a duffer. step, and rising up walked quickly to- The animals were quickly led over, the logs xvards the spot whence the noise came. HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 209 Whos that? he said, as he saw the figure of a man standing on his side of the fence, and leaning against it, with a pipe in his mouth. Who are you? replied the man on the fence. My name is Medlicot. Oh, Mr. Medlicot, is it ? Is that Mr. Heathcote? Good night, Mr. Heathcote. You are going about at a late hour of the night. I have to go about early and late; but I aint later than you. Im close at home, said Medlicot. I am, at any rate, on my own run, said Harry. You mean to say that I am trespass- ino said the other; because I can very soon jump hack over the fence. I didnt mean that at all, Mr. Medli- cot; anybody is welcome on my run, night or day, who knows how to behave himself. I hope Im included in that list. Just so ; of course. Considering. the state that everything is in, and all the damage that a fire would do, I rather wish that people would be a little more careful about smoking. My canes, Mr. Heathcote, would burn quite as quickly as your grass.~~ It is not only the grass. Ive a hun- dred miles of fencing on the run which is as dry as a tinder; not to talk of the sta- tion and the wool-shed. They shant suffer from my neglect, Mr. Heathcote. You have men about who maynt be so careful. The wind, such as it is, is coming right across from your place. If there were light enough, I could show you three or four patches where there has been fire within a half mile of this spot. There was a log burning there for two or three days not long ago which was lighted by one of your men. That was a fortnight since. There was no heat then, and the men were boil- ing their kettle. I spoke about it. A log like that, Mr. Medlicot, will burn for weeks sometimes. Ill tell you fairly what Im afraid of. Theres a man with you, whom I turned out of the shed last shearing, and I think he might put a match down, not by accident. You mean Nokes. As far as I know, hes a decent man. You wouldnt have me not employ a man just because you had dismissed him? Certainly not ; that is, I shouldnt think of dictating to you about such a thing. Well, no, Mr. Heathcote, I suppose LIViNG AGE. VOL. V. 222 not. Nokes has got to earn his bread though you did dismiss him. I dont know that hes not as honest a man as you or I. If so, theres three of us very bad ; that?s all, Mr. Mcdlicot. Good night and if youll trouble yourself to look after the ash of your tobacco it might be the saving of me and all I have. So saying he turned round, and made his way back to the horses. Medlicot had placed himself on the fence during the interview, and he still kept his seat. Of course he was now thinking of the man who had just left him, whom he declared to himself to be an ignorant, prejudiced, ill-constituted cur. I believe in his heart he thinks that Im going to set fire to his run, he said almost aloud. And because he grows wool he thinks himself above everybody in the Colony. He occupies thousands of acres, and employs three or four men. I till about two hundred, and maintain thirty families. But he is such a pig that he cant understand all that and he thinks that I must be something low because Ive bought with my own money a bit of land which never belonged to him, and which he couldnt use. Such was the nature of Giles Medlicots soliloquy as he sat swinging his legs, and still smoking his pipe, on the fence which divided his sugar-canes from the other young mans run. And Harry Heathcote uttered his so- liloquy also. I wouldnt swear that he wouldnt do it himself after all mean- ing that he almost suspected that Medli- cot himself would be an incendiary. To him, in his way of thinking, a man who would take advantage of the law to buy a bit of another mans land, or become a free-selector as the term goes, was a public enemy, and might be presumed cal)able of any iniquity. It was all very well for the girls, meaning his wife and sister-in-law, to tell him that Medlicot had the manners of a gentleman and had come of decent people. Women were always soft enough to be taken by soft hands, a good-looking face, and a decent coat. This Medlicot went about dressed like a man in the towns, exhibit- ing, as Harry thought, a contemptible, unmanly finery. Of what use was it to tell him that Medlicot was a gentleman? What Harry knew was that since Medli- cot had come he had lost his sheep, that the heads of three or four had been found buried on Medlicots side of his run, and that if he dismissed a hand Medlicot HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 210 employed him,a proceeding which, in Harry Heathcotes aristocratic and patri- archal views of life, was altogether Un- gentlemanlike. How were the hands to be kept in their place if one employer of labour did not back up another? He had been warned to be on his guard against fire. The warnings Ifad hardly been implicit, but yet had come in a shape which made him unable to ignore them. Old Bates, whom he trusted im- plicitly, and who was a man of very few words, had told him to be on his guard. The German, at whose hut he had been in the morning, Karl Bender by name, and a servant of his own, had told him that there would be fire about before long. Why should any one want to ruin me? Harry had asked. Did I ever wrong a man of a shilling? The German had learned to know his young master, had made his way through the crust of his masters character, and was prepared to be faithful at all. points, thou~,h he too could have quarrelled and have avenged himself had it not chanced that he had come to the point of loving instead of hating his employer. You like too much to be governor over all, said the German, as he stooped over the fire in his own hut, in his anxiety to boil the water for Heathcotes tea. Somebody must be governor, or every- thing would go to the devil, said Harry. Dats true ; only fellows dont like be made feel it, said the German. Nokes, he was made feel it, when you put him over de gate. But neither would Bates nor the German express ab- solute suspicion of any man. That Med- licots hands at the su~ar-inill were stealing his sheep, Harry thought that he knew but that was comparatively a small affair, and he would not have pressed it, as he was without absolute evidence. And even he had a feeling that it would be unwise to increase the anger felt against himself, at any rate during the present heats. Jacko had his pipe still alight when Heathcote returned. You young mon- key, said he, have you been using matches? Why not, Mr. Harry? Dont the grass burn ready, Mr. Harry my word! Then Jacko stooped down, lit another match, and showed Heathcote the burned patch. Was it so when we came? Harry asked, with emotion. Jacko, still kneel- ing on the ground, and holding the light- ed match in his hand, shook his head, and tapped his breast, indicating that he had burned the grass. You dropped the match by accident ? My word, no. Did it o purpose to see. Its all just one as gunpowder, Mr. Harry. Harry got on his horse without a word, and rode away through the forest, taking a direction different from that by which he had come, and the boy followed him. He was by no means certain that this young fellow might not turn against him; but it had been a part of his theory to make no difference to any man be- cause of such fears. If he could make the men around him respect him, then they would treat him well ; but they could never be brought to respect him by flattery. He was very nearly right in his views of men, and would have been right al- together could he have seen accurately what justice demanded for others as well as for himself. As far as the intention went, he was minded to be just to every man. It seemed as they were riding that the heat grew fiercer and fiercer. Though there was still the same moaning sound there was not a breath of air. They had now got upon a track very well known to Heathcote, which led up from the river to the wool-shed, and so on to the sta- tion, and they had turned homewards. When they were near the wool-shed sud- denly there fell a heavy drop or two of rain. Harry stopped, and turned his face upwards, when in a moment, the whole heavens above them and the for- est around were illumined by a flash of lightning so near them that it made each of them start in his saddle, and made the horses shudder in every limb. Then came the roll of thunder immediately over their heads, and with the thunder rain so thick and fast that Harrys ten thousand buckets seemed to be emptied directly over their heads. God Amighty has put out the fires now, said Jacko. Harry paused for a moment, feeling the rain through to his bones, for he had nothing on over his shirt, and rejoicing in it. Yes, he said ; we may go to bed for a week and let the grass grow and the creeks fill and the earth cool. Half-an-hour like this over the whole run, and there wont be a dry stick on it. As they went on the horses splashed through the water. It seemed as though a deluge were falling, and that already the ground beneath their feet were be- coming a lake. We might have too much of this, Jacko. My word, yes. HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 211 I dont want to have the Mary flooded again. My word, no. But by the time they reached the wool- shed it was over. From the first drop to the last there had hardly been a space of twenty minutes. But still there was a noise of waters as the little streams washed hither and thither to their des- tined courses, and still the horses splashed, and still there was the feeling of an incipient deluge. ~Vhen they reached the wool-shed, Harry again got off his horse, and Jacko, dismounting also, hitched the two animals to the post and followed his master into the building. Harry struck a wax match, and holding it up strove to look round the building by the feeble light which it shed. It was a remarkable edifice, built in the shape of a great T, open at the sides, with a sharp- pitched timber roof covered with felt, which came down within four feet of the ground. It was calculated to hold about four hundred sheep at a time, and was divided into pens of various sizes, par- titioned off for various purposes. If Harry Heathcote was sure of anything, he wa~ sure that his wool-shed was the best that had ever been built in this dis- trict. By Jinilni ! whats that ? said Jacko. Did you hear anything? Jacko pointed with his finger down the centre walk of the shed, and Harry, striking another match as he went, rushed for- ward. But the match was out as soon as ignited, and gave no glimmer of light. Nevertheless he saw, or thou~ ht that he saw, the figure of a man escaping out of the open end of the shed. The place itself was black as midnight, but the space beyond was clear of trees, and the darkness outside being a few shades lighter than within the building, allowed something of the outline of a figure to be visible. And, as the man escaped, the sounds of his footsteps were audible enough. Harry called to him, but of course received no answer. Had he pur- sued him he would have been obliged to cross sundry rails, which would have so delayed him as to give him no chance of success. I knew there was a fellow about, he said one of our own men would not have run like that. Jacko shook his head, but did not speak. He got in here for shelter out of the rain, but he was doing no good about the place. Jacko again shook his head. I wonder who he was? Jacko came up and whis- pered in his ear, Bill Nokes. You couldnt see him. Seed the drag of his leg. Now it was well known that the man Nokes had injured some of his muscles, and habit- ually dragged one foot after another. I dont think you could have been sure of him by such a glimpse as that. May be not, said the boy, only Im sure as sure. Harry Heathcote said not another word, but getting again upon his horse galloped home. It was past one when he reached the station, but the two girls were waiting up for him, and at once began to condole with him because he was wet. Wet! said Harfy, if you could only know how much I prefer things being wet to dry just at present! But give Jacko some supper. I must keep that youn~ fellow in good humour if I can. So Jacko had half a loaf of bread, and a small pot of jam, and a larbe jug of cold tea provided for him, in the enjoyment of which luxuries he did not seem to be in the least impeded by the fact that he was wet through to the skin. Harry Heathcote had another nobbler, being only the second in the day, and then went to bed. CHAPTER III. MEDLICOT S NULL. As Harry had said, they might all now lie in bed for a day or two. The rain had set aside for the time the necessity for that urgent watchfulness which kept all hands on the station hard at work dur- ing the great heat. There was not, generally, much rest during the year at Gangoil. Lambing in April and May, washing and s hearinb in September, Oc- tober, and November, with the fear of fires and the necessary precautions in December and January, did not leave more than sufficient intervals for looking after the water-dams, making and mend- in, fences, procuring stores, and attend- ing to the ailments of the flocks. No man worked harder than the youn~ squatter. But now there had suddenly come a day or two of rest, rest from work which was not of itself productive, but only re- medial, and which, therefore, was not be- grudged. But it soon was apparent that the rest could be only for a day or two. The rain had fallen as from ten thousand buckets, but it had fallen only for a space of minutes. On the following morning the thirsty earth had apparently swallowed all the flood. The water in the creek be- neath the house stood two feet higher 212 HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. than it had done, and Harry, when he visited the dams round the run, found that they were full to overflowing, and the grasses were already springing, so quick I is the all but tropical growth of the coun- try. They might be safe, perhaps, for eight-and-forty. hours. Fire would run only when the ground was absolutely dry, and when every twig or leaf was a com- bustible. But during those eight-and- forty hours there might be comparative ease at Gangoil. On the day following the night of the ride Mrs. Heathcote suggested to her husband that she and Kate should ride over to Medlicots Mill, as the place was already named, and call on Mrs. Medlicot. It isnt Christian, she said, for people livin~ out in the bush as we are to quarrel with their neighbours just because they are neighbours. Neighbours said Harry I dont know any word that theres so m~ich hum- bug about. The Samaritan was the best neighbour I ever heard of, and he lived a long way off, I take it. Anyway he wasnt a free-selector. Harry, thats profane. Everything I say is wicked. You can go, of course, if you like it. I dont want to quarrel with anybody. Quarrelling is so uncomfortable, said his wife. Thats a matter of taste. There are people whom I find it very comfortable to quarrel with. I shouldnt at all like not to quarrel with the Browobies, and Im not at all sure it maynt come to be the same with Mr. Giles Medlicot. The Brownbies live by sheep-stealing and horse-stealing. And Medlicot means to live by em- ploying sheep-stealers and horse-stealers. You can go if you like it. You wont want me to go with you. Will you have the buggy? But the ladies said that they would ride. The air was cooler now than it had been, and they would like the exercise. They would take jacko with them to open the slip-rails, and they would be back by seven for dinner. So they started, taking the track by the wool-shed. The wool-shed was about two miles from the station, and Medlicots Mill was seven miles further, on the bank of the river. Mr. Giles Medlicot, though at Gangoil he was still spoken of as a new-coiner, had already been located for nearly two ve~trs on the land which he had purchased immediately on his coming to the colony. He had come out direct from England with the intention of growing sugar, and whether successful or not in making money, had certainly succeeded in grow- ing crops of sugar~canes and in erecting a mill for crushing them. It probably takes more than two years for a man him- self to discover whether he can achieve ultimate success in such an enterprise; and Medlicot was certainly not a man like- ly to talk much to others of his private con- cerns. The mill had just been built, and he had lived there himself as soon as a water- tight room had been constructed. It was only within the last three months that he had completed a small cottage residence, and had brought his mother to live with him. Hitherto he had hardly made him- self popular. He was not either fish or fowl. The squatters regarded him as an interloper, and as a man holding opinions directly adverse to their own in- terests, in which they were right. And the small free-selectors, who lived on the labour of their own hands, or, as was said of many of them, by stealing sheep and cattle, knew well that he was not of their class. But Medlicot had gone his way steadfastly, if not happily, and complained aloud to no one in the midst of his difficulties. He had not, perhaps, found the Paradise which he had expected in Queensland, but he had found that he could grow sugar, and having begun the work he was determined to go on with it. Heathcote was his nearest neighbour, and the only man in his own rank of life who lived within twenty miles of him. When he had started his enterprise he had hoped to make this man his friend, not comprehending at first how great a cause for hostility was created by the very purchase of the land. He had been a new-coiner from the old country, and be- ing alone had desired friendship. He was Harry Heathcotes e~jual in educa- tion, intelligence, and fortune, if not in birth, which surely in the Australian bush need not count for much. He had assumed, when first meeting the squatter, that good fellowship between them, on equal terms, would be acceptable to both but his overtures had been coldly re- ceived. Then he, too, had drawn himself up, had declared that Heathcote was an ignorant ass, and had unconsciously made up his mind to commence hostilities. It was in this spirit that he had taken Nokes into his mill, -of whose character, had he inquired about it, he would certainly have heard no good. He had now brought his mother to Medlicots Mill. She and the Gangoil ladies had met each other on neutral ground, and it was almost neces HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 21$ sary that they should either be friends or They were just rising to take their leave absolute enemies. Mrs. Heathcote had when Giles Medlicot himself came in out been aware of this, and had declared that of the mill. He was a man of good pres- enmity was horrible. Upon my word, ence, dark and tall like lIeathcote~ but said Harry, I sometimes think that stoutly made, with a strongly marked friendship is more so. I suppose Im face, given to frowning much when he fitted for bush life, for I want to see no was eager, bright-eyed, with a broad fore- one from years end to years end but my head, certainly a man to be observed as own family and my own people. And far as his appearance was concerned. yet this young patriarch in the wilderness He was dressed much as a gentleman was only twenty-four years old, and had dresses in the country at home, and was been educated at an English school! therefore accounted to be a fop by I-larry Medlicots cottage was about a hundred Heathcote, who was rarely seen abroad in and fifty yards from the mill, lookino other garb than that which has been de- down upon the Mary, the banks of which scribed. Harry was an aristocrat, and at this spot were almost precipitous The hated such innovations in the bush as site for the plantation had been chosen cloth coats and tweed trousers and neck because the river afforded the means of handkerchiefs. carriage down to the sea, and the mill had Medlicot had been full of wrath against been so constructed that the sugar-hogs- his neighbour all the morning. There heads could. be lowered from the build- had been a tone in Heathcotes voice ings into the river boats. Here Mrs. when he gave his parting warning as to Heathcote and Kate Daly found the old the fire in Medlicots pipe which the su- lady sitting at work, all alone, in the ye- gar-grower had felt to be intentionally in- randah. She was a handsome old wo- solent. Nothing had been said which man, with grey hair, seventy years of age, could be openly resented, but offence with wrinkled face, and a toothless mouth, had surely been intended and then he but with bright eyes, and with no signs had remembered that his mother had of the infirmity of age. This is gay been already some months at the Mill, kind of you to run so far to see an auld and that no mark of neighb ourly courtesy woman, she said. Mrs. Heathcote de- had been shown to her. The Heathcotes dared that they were used to the heat, had, he thought, chosen to assume them- and that after the rain the air was pleas- selves to be superior to him and his, ant. Youre two bright lass ies, and and to treat him as though he had been youre hearty, she said. Im auld, and some labouring man who had saved just out of Cumberland, and I find its hot money enough to purchase a bit of land enough, and Im no gude at horseback for himself. He was, therefore, aston- at all. I didna know how Im to get ished to find the two young ladies sitting aboot. Then Mrs. Heathcote explained with his mother on the very day after such that there was an excellent track for a an interview as that of the preceding buggy all the way to Gangoil. Giles is nicrht. The leddies from Gangoil, Giles, ae telling me that Im to gang aboot in a I have been guid enough to ride over and bougge y, but I do na feel sure of thae see me, said his mother. Medlicot, of bouggies. Mrs. Heathcote, of course, course, shook hands with them, and ex- praised the country carriages, and the pressed his sense of their kindness, country roads, and the country generally. but he did it awkwardly. He soon, how- Tea was brought in, and the old lady was ever, declared his purpose of riding part delighted with her guests. Since she of the way back with them. had been at the mill week had followed Mr. Heathcote must have been very week, and she had seen no womans face, wet last night, he said, when they were but that of the uncouth girl who waited on horseback, addressing himself to Kate upon her. Did ye ever see rain like Daly rather than to her sister. that ? she said, putting up her hands. Indeed he was, wet to the skin I thouoht the Lord was sending His were you not? clouds down upon us in a lump like. I saw him at about eleven, before the Then she told them that some of the rain began. I was close home, and just men had declared that if it went on like escaped. He must have been under it that for two hours the Mary would rise all. Does he often go about the run in and take the cottage away. Giles, how- that way, at night? ever, had declared that to be trash, as the Only when hes afraid of fires, said. cottage was twenty feet above the ordi- Kate. nary course of the river. Is there much to be afraid of? I HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 2T4 dont suppose that anybody ca~ be so hoots Mill as guide to another man. wicked as to wish to burn the grass. There was a weakness in the idea that Thenthe ladies took upon themselves to such aid could be necessary, which was explain. The fires might be caused revolting to Jackos sense of bush inde from negligence or trifling accidents, or pendence. might possibly come from the unaided They were standing on their horses at heat of the sun ; or there might be ene- the entrance to the wool-shed as they dis- mies. cussed the point, when suddenly harry Mv word, yes; enemies, rather! himself appeared out of the building. He said Jacko, who was riding close behind, came up and shook hands with Medlicot, and who had no idea of being kept out of with sufficient courtesy, but hardly with the conversation merely because he was cordiality, and then asked his wife as to her a servant. Medlicot, turning round looked ride. We have been very jolly, havent at the lad, and asked who were the ene- we Kate? Of course it has been hot, but mies. everything is not so frightfully parched Free-selectors, said Jacko. as it was before the rain. As Mr. Med- Im a free-selector, said Medlicot. licot has come back so far with us, we Did not jist mean you, said Jacko. want him to come on and dine. Jacko, youd better hold your tongue, Pray do, Mr. Medlicot, said Harry. But again the tone of his voice was not said Mrs. Heathcote. Hold my tongue! My word! Well, sufficiently hearty to satisfy the man who you go on. was invited. Medlicot came as far as the wool-shed, Thanks, no; I think Ill hardly do and then said that he would return. He that. Good night, Mrs. Heathcote, good had thoroughly enjoyed his ride. Kate night, Miss Daly; and the two ladies Daly was bright, and pretty, and winning, immediately perceived that his voice, and in the bush, when a man has not which had hitherto been pleasant in their seen a lady perhaps for months, bright- ears, had ceased to be cordial. ness and prettiness and winning ways Im very glad he has gone back, said have a double charm. To ride with fair Heathcote. women over turf, through a forest, with a Why do you say so, Harry? You are woman who may perhaps some day be not given to be inhospitable, and why wooed, can be a matter of indifference Thould you grudge me and Kate the rare only to a very lethargic man. Giles Med- pleasure of seeing a strange face ? licot was by no means lethargic. He Ill tell you why. Its not about him owned to himself that though Heathcote at this moment; but Ive been disturbed. was a pig-headed ass, the ladies were Jacko ~o on to the station, and say were very nice, and he thought that the pig- coming. Do you bear me? Go on at headed ass in choosing one of them for once. Then Jacko, somewhat unwill- himself had by no means taken the nicest. ingly, galloped off towards the house. Youll never find your way back, said Get off your horses, and come in here. Kate, if youve not been here before. He helped the two ladies from their I never was here before, and I sup- saddles, and they all xvent into the wool- pose I must find my way back. Then shed, Harry leading the way. In one of he was urged to come on and dine at the side pens, immediately under the Gangoil, with a promise that Jacko should roof, there was a large heap of leaves, the return with him in the evening. But this outside portion of which was at present he would not do. Heathoote was a pig- damp, for the rain had beaten in upon it, headed ass, who possibly regarded him but which had been as dry as tinder when as an incendiary simply because he had collected; and there was a row or ridge hought some land. This boy of Heath- of mixed brush-wood and leaves so con- cotes, whose services had been offered structed as to form a line from the grass to him, had not scrupled to tell him to outside on to the heap. The fellow who his face that he was to be regarded as an did that was an ass; said Harry, a enemy. Much as he liked the company greater ass than I should have taken him of Kate Daly he could not go to the house to be, not to have known that if he could of that stupid, arrogant, pig-headed young have gotten the grass to bum-n outside, the squatter. Im not such a bad bushman wool-shed must have gone without all but what I can find my way to the river, that preparation. But there isnt much he said. difficulty now in seeing what the fellow Find it blindful, said Jacko, who did has intended. not relish the idea of going back to Med- Was it for a fire ? asked Kate. HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. 215 Of course it was. He wouldnt have been contented with the grass and fences, but wanted to make sure of the shed also. Hed have come to the house and burned us in our beds, only a fellow like that is too much of a coward to run the risk of being seen. But, Harry, why didnt he light it when hed done it? said Mrs. Heathcote. Because the Almighty sent the rain at the very moment, said Harry, striking the top rail of one of the pens with his fist. Im not much given to talk about Providence, but this looks like it; does it not ? He might have put a match in at the moment? Rain or no rain? Yes, he might. But he was interrupted by more than the rain. I got into the shed, myself, just at the moment ; I and Jacko. It was last night, when the rain was pour- ing. I heard the man, and dark as was the night, I saw his figure as he fled away.~~ You didnt know him, said Miss Daly. But that boy, who has the eyes of a cat, he knew him. Jacko? Jacko knew him by his gait. I should have hardly wanted any one to tell me who it was. I could have named the man at once, but for the fear of doing an in- justice. And who was it? Our friend Medlicots prime favourite and new factotum, Mr. William Nokes. Mr. William Nokes is the gentleman who intends to burn us all out of house and home, and Mr. Medlicot is the ,~entleman whose pleasure it is to keep Mr. Nokes in the neighbourhood. The two women stood awestruck for a moment, but a sense of justice pre- vailed upon the wife to speak. That may be all true, she said. Perhaps it is as you say about that man. But you would not therefore think that Mr. Med- licot knows anything about it. It would be impossible, said Kate. I have not accused him, said Harry; but he knows that the man was dis- missed, and yet keeps him about the place. Of course he is responsible. CHAPTER IV. HARRY HEATHCOTE S APPEAL. FoR the first mile between the wool- shed and the house Heathcote and the two ladies rode without saying a word. There was something so terrible in the reality of the danger which encompassed them that they hardly felt inclined to dis- cuss it. Harrys dislike to Medlicot was quite a thing apart. That some one had intended to burn down the wool-shed, and had made preparation for doing so, was as apparent to the women as to him. And the man who had been baulked by a shower of rain in his first attempt might soon find an opportunity for a second. Harry was well aware that even Jackos assertion could not be taken as evidence against the man whom he suspected. In all probability no further attempt would be made upon the wool-shed ; but a fire on some distant part of the run would be much more injurious to him than the mere burning of a building. The fire that might ruin him would be one which should get ahead before it was seen, and scour across th~ ground consuming the grass down to the very roots over thou- sands of acres, and destroying fencing over many miles. Such fires pass on, leaving the standing trees unscathed, avoiding even the scrub, which is too moist with the sap of life for consump- tion, but licking up with fearful rapidity everything that the sun has dried. He could watch the wool-shed and house, but with no possible care co,~tld he so watch the whole run as to justify him in feeling security. There need be no pre- paration of leaves. A match thrown loosely on the ground would do it. And in regard to a match so thrown, it would be impossible to prove a guilty intention. Ought we not to have dispersed the heap? said Mrs. Heathcote at last. The minds of all of them were full of the matter, but these were the first words spoken. Ill leave it as it is, said Harry, giving no reason for his decision. He was too full of thought, too heavily laden with anxiety to speak much. Come, lets get on youll want your dinner, and its getting dark. So the) cantered on, and got off their horses at the gate with- out another word. And not another word was spoken on the subject that night. Harry was very silent, walking up and down the verandah with his pipe in his mouth, not lying on the ground in idle enjoyment, and there was no reading. The two sisters looked at him from time to time with wistful anxious eyes, half afraid to disturb him by speech. As for him, he felt that the weight was all on his own shoulders. He had worked hardy and was o n the way to be 2 i6 HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. rich. I do not know that he thought much about money, but he thought very much of success. And he was by nature anxious, sanguine, and impulsive. There might be before him, within the next week, such desolation as would break his heart. He knew men who had been ruined and had borne their ruin almost without a wail, who had seemed con- tented to descend to security and mere absence from want. There was his own superintendant, Old Bates, who, though he grumbled at everything else, never bewailed his own fate. But he knew of himself that any such blow would nearly kill him, such a blow, that is, as might drive him from Gangoil, and force him to be the servant instead of the master of men. Not to be master of all around him seemed to him to be misery. The merchants at Brisbane who took his wool and supplied him with stores had ad- vanced money when he first bought his run, and he still owed them some thou- sands of pounds. The injury which a great fire would do him would bring him to such a condition that the merchants would demand to have their money re- paid. He understood it all, and knew well that it was after this fashion that many a squatter before him had been ruined. Speak a word to me about it, his wife said to him imploringly, when they were alone together that night. My darling, if there were a word to say, I would say it. I must be on the watch and do the best I can. At present the earth is too damp for mischief. Oh that it would rain again There will be heat enough before the summer is over; we need not doubt that. But I will tell you of everything as we go on. I will endeavour to have the man watched. God bless you! Go to sleep and try to get it out of your thoughts. On the following morning he breakfast- ed early and mounted his horse without saying a word as to the purport of his journey. This Was in accordance with the habit of his life, and would not excite observation ; but there was something in his manner which made both the la- dies feel that he was intent on some spe- cial object. When he intended simply to ride round his fences or to visit the hut of some distant servant, a few min- utes signified nothing. He would stand under the verandah and talk, and the~ women would endeavour to keep him from the saddle. But now there was no loitering, and but little talking. He said a word to Jacko, who brought the horse for him, and then started at a gallop to- wards the wool-shed. He did not stop a moment at the shed, not even entering it to see whether the heap of leaves had been displaced during the night, but went on straight to Medli- cots Mill. He rode the nine miles in an hour, and at once entered the building in which the canes were crushed. The first man he met was Nokes, who acted as overseer, having a gang of Polynesian labourers under him, sleek, swarthy fel- lows from the South Sea Islands, with linen trousers on and nothing else, who crept silently among the vats and ma- chinery, shifting the sugar as it was made. Well, Nokes, said Harry, how are you getting on ? Is Mr. Medlicot here ? Nokes was a big fellow, with a broad, solid face, which would not have con- demned him among physiognomists, but for a bad eye, which could not look you in the face. He had been a boundary- rider for Heathcote, and on an occasion had been impertinent, refusing to leave the yard behind the hous