The Living age ... / Volume 128, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 832 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0128 /moa/livn/livn0128/

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The Living age ... / Volume 128, Note on Digital Production 0128 000
The Living age ... / Volume 128, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1647 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 832 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0128 /moa/livn/livn0128/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1647 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 1, 1876 0128 1647
The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1647, miscellaneous front pages i-vi

LITTELLS I, - LIVING AGE. E PLURIBUS UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME XIII. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CXXVIII. 7ANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, I876. BOSTON: LITTELL AND GAY. AR 2~ /1 S TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL- CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CXXVIII. THE THIRTEENTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE Ffl~TH SERIES. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, I876. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Lawsons Travels in New Guinea, . 226 A Prussian Campaign in Holland,. 259 Scottish Statesmen of the Revolution: The Dalrymples 579 The Two Amp~res 771 QUARTERLY REVIEW. Forsters Life of Swift 515 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. Walt Whitmans Poems, . . . 91 West-Indian Superstitions, . . . 117 Wesleyan Methodism, in Wesleys Life. time and after, . . . 429, 451 Goethe and Minna Herzlieb, . . . On National Education as a National Duty 676 The Pope and Magna Charta, . . 741 FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. The True Eastern Question, . . . 67 Dutch Guiana, . . . 154, 687, 726 The Prose Works of Wordsworth, - 195 A Ramble in Syracuse 414 The Myth of Demeter and Persephone,. 480 Modern English Prose 707 CHURCH QUARTERLY REVIEW. The Arts, considered as Tidemarks of History 131 On some Aspects of Science in Relation to Religion 323 BLACKWOODZS~MAGAZINE. France before the War 3 The Dilemma, So, 169, 422, 488, 681, 732, 8o5 ma Studio 112, 215 Left-Handed Elsa, 237, 274, 567, 625 In my Study Ch~dr, . . 349 Bee or Beatrix 717, 786 FRASERS MAGAZINE. German Home Life. Men, Marriage and Children, A Monks Daily Life, CORNITILL MAGAZINE. A Week among the Maoris of Lake Taupo,. . - . . 495 Self-Esteem and Self-Estimation, . 692 Matthew Prior 794 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. Diversions of a Pedagogue, . . . 42 The Curate in Charge, 103, 208, 339, 501 The Strange Horse of Loch Suainabhal, 179 Kisawlee: Life in a Canadian Country Town 185 Montenegro 387 On the Border Territory between the Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms, 643 Some Traits of Composers, . . . Sio A Winter Mornings Ride, . . 820 TEMPLE BAR. Her Dearest Foe, 35, 146, 358, 398, 467, 536 598, 652 Corneille, and the Literary Society of his Age 281 A Neglected Humorist 303 Mazarin 752 Caroline Herschel 816 ST. JAMESS MAGAZINE. Conversation with Napoleon at Long- wood 447 LEISURE HOUR. A Tribe of Toymakers 618 ARGOST. The Story of Monique, . SUNDAY MAGAZINE. Silenced and Forgotten,. EXAMINER. Mr. Storys Nero, SPECTATOR. 27 373 Misquotation 48 The Limits 0~ Illustration, III 293 319 .6o - 57 247 IV CONTENTS. The English Jews The Intellectual Qualifications for Chess, Prince Bismarck and his Master, George Eliots Heroines, ECONOMIST. Low Value of Silver, and its Effect on India SATURDAY REVIEW. Pets Consideration of Others, Spelling Rational Excitement, The Quakers Hat,. PALL MALL GAZETTE. Pigeon English, . ATHENAEUM. Vesuvius 444 507 637 761 639 62 249 509 572 763 CHAMBERS JOURNAL A New Paper-making Material, . . 316 ACADEMY. Diary and Correspondence of Samuel Pepys 252 Samuel Pepys and his Poor Relations, . 823 LANCET. Tyndall on the Air and Organic Life, . 701 NATURE. The Drainage of the Zuyder-Zee, . . 767 QUEEN. Good-Will towards Men, . . . 313 Hosts and Hostesses 702 GLOBE. 5~5 Hindoo Proverbs 126 PHILADELPHIA LEDGER. 254 Cheese-Factories in America,. 315 0 INDEX TO VOLUME CXXVIII. ARTS, The, Considered as Tidemarks of History 131 Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms, On the Border Territory between . 643 Amp~res, The Two 771 Alpine Scenery 824 BREATHE, How to, Properly,. . . 318 Bismarek, Prince, and his Master,. . 637 Bee or Beatrix, . . . . 717, 786 CURATE in Charge, The 103, 208, 339, 501 Canadian Country Town, Life in a . 185 Consideration of Others, . . . 249 Corneille, and the Literary Society of his Age, . . . . . 281 Cheese-Factories in America,, . . 315 Chess, The Intellectual Qualifications for 507 Composers, Some Traits of . . . Sio Caroline Herschel, , 8i6 DIvERSIoNS of a Pedagogue, . . . 42 Dilemma, The 8o, 169, 422, 488, 68i, 732, 8o5 Dutch Guiana, . . . 154, 68~, 72b Demeter and Persephone, The Myth of. 481 Dairymples, The: Viscount Stair,. . EASTERN Question, The True . 67 Egyptian Birds and Animals,. . 256 Excitement, Rational . . . 572 Education, National, On, as a National Duty 676 English Prose, Modern . . . . 707 Eliots, George, Heroines, . . . 761 FRANCE before the War, . 3 Foote, Samuel A Neglected Humor. ist 303 Flavour: What is it? 384 Forsters Life of Swift 515 GERMAN Home Life. Men, 27 Marriage arid Children, . . 373 Guiana, Dutch . . . 154, 687, 726 Good-Will towards Men, Goethe and Minna Herzlieb, 313 554 HowlWonaWife 7 Her Dearest Foe, 35, 146, 358, 398, 467, 536 598, 652 Hindoo Proverbs 126 Holland, A Prussian Campaign in 259 Humorist, A Neglected 303 I-lops, . SI Hosts and Hostesses 702 Herschel, Caroline . . . . . 8i6 ILLUSTRATION, The Limits of 247 In my Study Chair 349 JEWS, The English 444 KISAWLEE: Life in a Canadian Country Towii i8~ LAWSONS travels in New Guinea, . 226 Left-Handed Elsa, . . 237, 274, 567, 625 MONK, The Daily Life of a 48 Misquotation, . . 57 Monasteries and the Poor-laws, 318 Montenegro 387 Methodism, We~leyaq . - . 429, 451 Maoris of Lake Taupo, A Week among the 495 Modem English Prose, - 707 Magna Charta, The Pope and 741 Mazarin, . . . 752 Matthew Prior 794 NERO, Mr. Storys - . . - 6o New Guinea, Lawsons Travels in - 226 Napoleon, Conversation with, at Long- wood 447 ORGANIC Life and Air, Tyndall on - 701 PEDAGOGUE, Diversions of a . 42 Pets 6z V VI Proverbs, Hindoo . Pepys, Samuel, Diary and Correspond- ence of Prussian Campaign in Holland, A. Paper-making Material, A New Pigeon English, Prose, Modern English . Pope, The, and Magna Charta, Prior Matthew Pepys, Samuel, and his Poor Relations,. QUAKERS Hat, The . RELIGION, On some Aspects of Science in Relation to . Ride, A Winter Mornings STORYS Nero, Studio, In a 112, Superstitions, West-Indian Strange Horse of Loch Suainabhal, The Story of Monique, The - Silenced and Forgotten Science, On some Aspects of, in Rela- tion to Religion BOAT, The, of my Lover, Best Use, The . Come Near to Me Cynics Carol, . Christmas Changing Guides Dust and Ashes Dame Poesys Ways of Love,. Deep in the Valley Dream of a Spelling-Bee, Elf-Kings Youngest Daughter, Forgotten Grave, The German Bad, A . Hymnus Responsorius, Hemlocks Home Jubilate Last Wish, The . Lines on Leap-Year, Lesson of the Leaves, Life, BEE or Beatrix, Curate in Charge, The INDEX. 126 Syracuse, A Ramble in . Spelling 252 Swift, Forsters Life of - 259 Scottish Statesmen of the Revolution, 316 Silver, The Low Value of, and its effect 575 on India 707 Self-Esteem and Self-Estimation, 741 Scenery, Alpine 794 823 TRIBE of Toymakers, A - Tyndall on Air and Organic Life, 763 Two Amp~res, The Traits of Composers, Some . . - 323 VESIJVIUS 820 Vegetable and Animal Kingdoms, On the Border Territory between - 6o 215 WALT Whitmans Poems, 117 West-Indian Superstitions, . - - 179 Wordsworth, The Prose Works of - 293 Wesleyan Methodism, . . 429, 319 Winter Mornings Ride, A . - 323 ZUYDER-ZEE, The Drainage of the. POETRY. 386 Morning Musings, 704 Moschus, From Memories, - 258 My Song, 258 450 New Year, The 642 Nymph of Arcadie, The 66 On the Threshold, 322 386 Rondel, 450 Spring Sorrow, 2 Shepherds Song, Sumner, Charles, To 450 Seasons, The Shadow, The 66 Tides, The 130 Transfiguration, 386 578 Until Death, Under the Apple-Tree, 514 Winter Sorrow, 2 Winter, - 450 Waiting, - 514 We are Bereft, 706 Years, The 414 509 515 578 639 692 824 6i8 701 771 8i6 254 643 9 117 195 45 820 767 258 - 514 770 770 - 578 . . 706 322 706 130 386 . . 514 578 770 . - 514 . . 706 321 642 130 - 194 . . 194 - 450 . 642 TALES. . 717, 786 Her Dearest Foe, 35, 246, 358, 398, 467, 536, 598, 652 103, 208, 339, 501 Left-Handed Elsa, . . 237, 274, 567, 625 Dilemma, rhe 8o, 169, 422, 488, 68i, 732, 805 Strange Horse of Loch Suainabhal, The 278 How I Won a Wife 17 Story of Monique, The . . . . 293

The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1647 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No5 1647. January 1, 1876. From Beginning, ~Vol. OXXVIII CONTENTS. I. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR, . . . Blackwoods Magazine, II. How I WON A WIFE. Translated for THE LIVING AGE from the Platt-Deutsch of . Fritz Renter, III. GERMAN HOME LIFE. By a Lady. Part viii Frasers Magazine,. IV. HER DEAREST FOE. By the author of The Wooing Ot. Part X.,~ . Temple Bar, V. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE, . Macmillans Magazine, VI. A MONKS DAILY LIFE Frasers Magazine, VII. MISQUOTATlON Spectator, VIII. MR. STORYS NERO, . . Examiner, IX. PETS Saturday Review, .3 7 27 35 42 48 57 .6o 6z P 0 E T R V. 2 THE ELF-KINGS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER, THE LAST WISH, MISCELLA:IY, z 64 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EsoseT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LivINO Auss will be punctually forwarded for a year,Jree of~oat(Lge. An extra copy of THe LIvTNO Ana is sent gratis to any one getting no a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, oi by pdst-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 Lr?rELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE Lovuen AGE, s8 cents. Fifth Series, Volume XIII. THE LAST WISH, ETC. THE ELF-KINGS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. THIS is all, is it much, my darling? You must follow your path in life, Have a head for its, complex windings, a hand for its sudden strife The sun will shine, the flowers will bloom, though my course mid them all is oer, I would not that those dear living eyes should light in their joy no more; Only just for the sake of the happy past, and the golden days that have been, By the love we have loved, and the hopes we have hoped, will you have my grave kept green? Just a moment in the morning, in the eager flush of the day, To pluck some creeping weed perchance, or train the white rose spray; Just a moment to shade my violets from the glare of the noontide heat, Just a tear and a prayer in the gloaming, ere you leave me with lingering feet. Ab! it is weak and foolish, but I think that in Gods serene, I shall know, and love to know, mine own, that you keep my grave so green. I would fain, when the drops are plashing against your window-pane, That you should be thinking wistfully of my grasses out in the rain; That when the winter veil is spread oer the fair white world below, Your tender hands twine the holly wreaths that mark my rest in the snow. My clasp on life and lifes rich gifts grows faint and cold I ween, Yet oh! I would hold it to the last the trust of my grave kept green. Because it is by such little signs the heart and its faith are read; Because the natural man must shrink ere he joins the forgotten dead; The heavenly hope is bright and pure, and calm is the heavenly rest, Yet the human love clings yearningly to all it has prized the best. We have been so happy, darling, and the part- ing pang is keen, Ah! soothe it by this last vow to me you will watch that my grave keeps green? All The Year Round. DOWN the merry streamlet dancing, Through the flickering shadows glancing, Foam about her white feet creaming, All her wayward hair out-streaming, Laughing on the laughing water, Dances down the elf-kings daughter Youngest daughter fair. All the trees bend low toward her, All the ro6ks are strong to guard her, All the little grasses whisper, And the low-toned breezes lisp her Praises everywhere. All around the warm air lingers Lovingly, the while her fingers, With a dainty upward gesture, Seem to draw a shade for vesture Of her loveliness. Yet meseems she moves so purely, Gliding on her path demurely, Looking with clear eyes serenely, She were clad not half so queenly In a royal dress. Now shes lightly onward sweeping, Now she stays half-glad, half-fearing, Oer the ledge of granite peering, Eyes the headlong torrent leaping Eyes far down the sullen boulders, While the long locks round her shoulders Gather tenderly. Now with little laugh a-tremble, Glad her shrinking to dissemble, Flashing through the diamond shower With her white feet launched below her, And her hair drawn out above her, Swift as lady to her lover Down the fall goes she. Now when quiet night has clouded All the river broad and stately, Down the stream she rides sedately, By her soft hair warmly shrouded, Lulled by melody. Down amid the dim trees greeting, And the drowsy wheats repeating, Dreaming on the dreaming water Floats the elf-kings youngest daughter To the dreaming sea. Blackwoods Magazine. J. R. S. 2 THE LAST WISH. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 From l3lackwoods Magazine. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. PARIS, October 20, 5875. IT will not perhaps be altogether useless to give an outline of the situation of the French army at the moment when the late war broke out; for, though important changes have been introduced since into the system which then prevailed, old habits still continue to exist in sufficient force to lead a good many onlookers to imagine that some at least of the same results might be produced again by the same causes. As regards the year 1870, very detailed evidence of both causes and results has been supplied to the world; and though that evidence has been brought forward in a fashion which most Englishmen cannot help deploring, it has, at all events, the merit for the object which is in view ~ unfolding a complete story of what happened. No foreign spectator has forgotten that, directly the war was over, the French ex- hibited a fierce desire to localize the blame of their defeat to remove it from the people at large, and to allot it specifically to certain persons. There was a hot long- ing in the air to destroy somebody a resistless need to select victims as a sacri- fice to the national pride; so that, when public punishment had been brou~ ht down on a few chosen heads, all the rest of the population might soothingly com- fort itself with the conviction that it was proved to be innocent of all participation, direct or indirect, in the faults which had brought about the wreck. The idea which was suggested in certain English newspapers, that the causes of disaster might perhaps be, not exclusively individ- ual, but, to some extent at least, national as well that they might be, in fact, a result of weaknesses and infirmities proper to the generatioh as a whole was con- temptuously rejected as preposterous. It was declared to be impossible that so utter a discomfiture could be in any way attributable to reasons common to the entire land; it was asserted, with all the confidence of rage, that it resulted solely from the personal incapacity and folly of a few guilty individuals, and a shout arose that those individuals must be discovered and convicted. A variety of measures were adopted in consequence of this clamour: the Bazaine trial and the two parliamentary inquiries into the contracts made during the war, and into the pro- ceedings of the government of the 4th of September, were instituted mainly in order to satisfy it; the nation astonished and afflicted Europe by the savage delight which it seemed to take in dragging into daylight all the secrets of its disgrace; and, to make the confession thoroughly complete, nearly all the more important actors in the war wrote books, describing fully their own merits and each others sins. By these strange means the whole inner history of the preparations for war was laid bare. It was a sad sight for the friends of France; they have mournfully remembered it: but in France itself it really seems to have become almost for- gotten; it appears to have half vanished from popular memory and to have left no manifest trace behind it, except, indeed, some unslaked hatreds which are silently biding their time. In one sense, them. fore, the tale has become prematurely old; but as, to foreign eyes, the value of its teaching is in no degree diminished by the indifference with which, according to appearances, the mass of the French have now grown to regard it; as, indeed, to our view, that teaching looks, in some re- spects, to be almost as much needed by them at this present time as it was before the war, it may be worth while to group it together a few of the facts which pre- sents. The revelations made are, how- ever, so extensive, the questions which they raise are so complicated and so va- ried, that it would be impossible to con- sider all their aspects here: the insuffi- ciency of military preparation is the only one at which we propose to look; and though the details of it are scattered through a hundred volumes, it will not he difficult to pick out the more important of them. But in order to obtain a general view. of the material conditions under which France commenced the campaign, it is es- sential to look back a little and to see what had been passing during the years which preceded 1870. The other wars of 4 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. the Second Empire had brought to light ty; a universal feeling jumped into exist- so many faults of organization and such ence that the army was not strong enough, incredible disorder of management, that it and that immediate measures must be tak- was scarcely possible to suppose that the en to increase it. It was not generally government had not attempted to remove imagined that the entire military organi- some at least of the defects which had zation of the country needed to be changed been revealed. It was not reasonable to that unsatisfactory conviction was, at imagine that a system could have been that time, limited to a few wise men; but left entirely unchanged which to refer everybody became convinced that the to one single class of examples only number of soldiers must be instantly had allowed 73,000 men to die in the Cri- doubled. Yet notwithstanding the una- mea of disease and privations, while only nimity of this feeling, a strange delay oc- 20,000 were killed or died of their wounds; curred; the, emperor and his advisers which, though of course on a much smaller could not agree between themselves as to scale, had reproduced in Lombardy nearly~ the plan to be adopted; they disputed the same proportions of mortality; and over it so long that it was not until nearly which, according to Dr. Champouillons eighteen months after Sadowa that Ma- report, had left badly wounded men so r6chal Niel, at that moment minister of utterly without food during the Solferino war, was ready to bring forward his bill campaign that many of them crawled from for enlarging the army; and that bill, their beds into the roads in order to beg which was waited for so long, was limited for bread. And yet it turned out that to the creation of the Garde Mobile. And these imperfections, as they were grace- then, as if it wished to proclaim to Eu- fully called, had produced no effects at all; rope that, in the eyes of France, number that routine had kept things as they were; was everything in war and organization that no reforms whatever had been en- nothing, the Chamber refused to allow the forced or even proposed. The various minister to drill this new Mobile for so army services remained exactly in their exorbitant a period as eight days at a old condition; the teachings of the Rus- time as he proposed; it reduced the pe- sian, Italian, and Mexican wars were for- nods of instruction to twelve hours, think- gotten in victory; the French had con- ing, apparently, that as every Frenchman quered; a system which had provided tri- was born a soldier, that length of teaching umph was taken to be, if not faultless, at was quite sufficient for him. And the all events quite good enough, notwith- minister bowed down his head before this standing its imperfections: and so childish folly, and told the Chamber that, everything went on unaltered. Indeed, thou6h it really was a pity to so restrict so convinced was France of the ample the education of men who knew absolute- suffici5cy of her military arrangements, ly nothing, he would do what he could all that in 1865 the Corps L~gislatif called the same: it is for this reason, he add- for a reduction of the army, and the gov- ed, that I see with less regret the sup- eminent did not dare to refuse it, for it pression of the eight days of drill, and I was just beginning to struggle out of the add that, without them, we will, do the fatal expedition to Mexico, which had best we possibly can. In this prodig- cost 14,000,000 of confessed outlay, and ious fashion was established the new force nobody knew how much more of un- which was to render France a match for avowed expenses. Considerable diminu- Germany! From that time forth the tions were effected: 2 regiments of heavy Garde Mobile was counted as represent- cavalry, 32 squadrons of other regiments, ing some 500,Ooo available soldiers. and 221 companies of infantry were sup- IM ar6chal Niel did, however, make an pressed; 1,268 officers were put on half- effort to introduce a few small improve- pay. But the very next year the Sadowa ments into the active army; unfortunate- campaign occurred; France woke up ly the effort did not last he died in abruptly to a sense of impending danger; 1869; and though after the appearance victory ceased suddenly to seem a certain- of General Trochus celebrated book in FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 1867, a commission had been appointed to select a new system of infantry mnnmuvres fitted to the changes which had arisen in the art of war, that commission, of course, declared in substance that no modifica- tions were required, and things were kept as they were before. The result was that in 1870 the French army was virtually in the same condition as in i8~o; it had learnt absolutely noth- ing whatever; the one single novelty which had been introduced into it the formation of the Garde Mobile was an utter illusion; it was no more ready for a serious campaign than a sick schoolgirl is ready to go up the Matterhorn. Two illustrations of its general state of organi- zation may usefully be given before we begin to describe what happened when the war broke out. They are taken al- most at hazard, amongst fifty others of the same kind. M. Blondeau, intendant-general, stated in his evidence before one of the parlia- mentary commissions, that the waggons of the trains were all kept parked at Ver- non; that when he went there in i868 he observed that there were about 8,ooo ve- hicles in the enclosure; that they all had to be got out one by one through a single gateway; that, consequently, a very long time would be required for the purpose; and that he believed the officer in charge of the park had made a calculation show- ing that the operation would last for eight months. This means that the officer in question knew perfectly that the vehicles intrusted to him could not possibly be employed in the event of sudden war; but tbat, instead of informing his supe- riors of the fact, he contented himself with privately working out a sum which showed arithmetically the utter useless- ness of the whole thing. If this officer had been asked why he did not inform the ministry of the impossibility of get- ting the carts horsed and taken away, he would most certainly have replied that ten or twenty times in the course of his ca- reer he had ventured to point out abuses to his chiefs; that some of those gentle- men had simply shrugged their shoulders with indifference; but that others, less gentle in their views of the proper atti tude of a subordinate, had given him to understand that if he made complaints his promotion would be delayed. It should be added, however, that, thanks to M. Blondeaus visit, the condition of this park was altered before 1870. The second example is so curious and complete that we will state it in the words of the report. M. de la Valette, another intendant, said that In 1867, at Stras- burg, we were speculating on the possi- bility of a war; an idea of war was in the air, and it was natural that we should think about it onth~ frontier, for, even at that time, it was felt that the nationality of the district might depend upon the issue of a war. General Ducrot then commanded the division; and as he felt most deeply the apprehensions to which I allude, we frequently talked over the measures to be taken in order to provide Strasburg with supplies for either ag- gressive or defensive action. In i868 I drew up a statement showing what was indispensable for an army of 30,000 men, indicating what we had in store at the time, pointing out the useless articles which might be removed in order to make room, and enumerating what was wanted to make up a complete assortment. I had given a copy of this statement to the in- spector-general in i868; I gave a second copy of it to the intendant-general in 1869. Our fears increased; we found that the inhabitants of the opposite bank of the Rhine were convinced that war was com- ing. I therefore examined my calcula- tions over again; I increased them so that they might serve for a corps of ~o,ooo men, and I took them to General Du- crot, asking him what he thought about them. I told him that, on two sep- arate occasions, I had communicated my views to the representatives of the minis- try of war, that I had arrived at no re- sult whatever, and I proposed to give him another copy, for him to send to the min- istry through General de Failly, who at that time commanded at Nancy. I added that if the minister saw the same state- ment come before him through two differ- ent channels, he would perhaps imagine that there was something in it. Soon af- terwards I went myself to Paris; I saw 6 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. there M. Blondeau, chief of the intend- ing that he recognized the justice of my ance of the army, who spoke to me in a observations, and that he would attend to tone which proved how little he knew of them. Soon afterwards M. de la Valette the truth. He said, that if my impres- informed me that he too had written, but sions and those of General Ducrot were with no result; and he asked me to com- correct, it followed that the minister of municate officially with General de Failly, war was the only person who was igno- who commanded the corAs d~zrrnee, saying rant of the facts of the case; for if they that he (La Valette) would do the same to really were as I supposed, the minister the ministry of war. This was done. I would certainly have spoken to him about got a reply stating that before wagons them. That was conclusive; there was could he sent to us it was necessary to see nothing more to be said. As I was leav- if we could provide shelter for them. ing M. Blondeau, he observed that I did There the matter remained until the war not seem to be satisfied. I answered broke out. I had spent five years in ask- that, even if General Ducrot and I exag- ing uselessly for indispensable objects. gerated the dangers of the situation, it These two stories supply good illustra- was painful for me to return to Strasburg tions of what was manifestly the general without having obtained anything what- condition of the French army. The mm- ever. istry was convinced that its managenient Then appeared General Ducrot, who was excellent; it would listen to no com- gave the commission the following infor- plaints, it would follow no advice; it mation I commanded the Strasburg calmly continued its habits and traditions, division for five years. When I first ar- the essential principle of which was to rived there I wished to know what was in leave things as they were. store, for there were large magazines full After this indication of the situation of objects. I found 2,000 cannon, of during the period which preceded the war, which about 400 or ~oo were fit for use. we will now give details of what occurred All the others were old bronze. There at the moment when the war began. were stone cannon-balls of the time of As regards the numerical force of the Louis XIV., and an enormous quantity of army, which is naturally the first question flint-muskets. I wrote at once (in 1865) to to consider, no absolutely exact data are the minister of war, calling his attention obtainable. The various official statements to the fact that all this was very much out which have been published are not only of place in a frontier fortress, and asking incomplete, but disagree frequently with that the useless objects should be trans- each other. It is, however, quite possi- ported into the interior of France, that ble to crroup the figures according to the they should be replaced by serviceable seemlnb probabilities of the case, and so stores, and that the cannon should be put arrive at an approximative result. The on carriages. I found that we had cook- nominal peace footing was 400,000 men, ing-pots for 2000 men and water-flasks and the reserve of the active army stood for 15,000, and so on with everything else. at 165,000; 50 that, on this showing, there Many absolutely indispensable articles ought to have been 565,000 men immedi- were altogether wanting. There were no ately disposable. But the very first thing halters or picket-ropes for horses; but we discover is, that the 400,000 men who there was black cloth enough to dress were counted in the budget were not un- more than Ioo,ooo men. der the colours; and, though it is not I wrote to the minister that all this possible to determine with precision the was inadmissible, and I insisted on the number who really were there, we shall necessity of relieving us of our useless find good reason for presuming that, on stock and of sending us what we needed. i~th July i8~o, it could not have exceeded I talked about it all to M. de la Valette, 300,000 altogether the other ioo,ooo who was then my intendant. He drew up having evidently been sent away on leave, a statement of what was wanted for a so as to economize their pay and rations. corps of 30,000 men, with a reserve of It is true that, at the plebiscite of the 8th Io,ooo, showing exactly vhat we had in of May, 330,000 soldiers had apparently excess and what we had not got at all. voted in France and Algeria; but it will We verified this statement together, and be seen directly that we cannot find that I sent a copy of it to M. Blondeau. I re- number in July. It is therefore probable member particularly that we required 144 that, directly after the plebiscite, 30,000 wagons, and that we had only i8; and I more men were sent home, in addition to begged M. Blondeau to remedy this at the 70,000 who were already evidently ab- once. He replied by a -polite letter, say- I sent in May. These figures do~ not pre FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 7 tend to be strictly exact; but as to the main fact that the effective force of the French army had been reduced to a very low ebb indeed in the summer of 1870, no doubt is possible; for General de Palikao, who was minister of war from ioth Au- gust to 4th September 1870, uses the fol- lowing words in his book, (In Miisjst?rq de Ving/-quatre 7ours. In speaking of the plebiscite he says: The result of this political act was to show Europe that the total number of men present in our army was only 250,000. This figure is, however, too low, and was used probably as expressing the number of fighting men, after deducting the non-combatants. Still, reduced as the army was in fact, the theo- retical number of disposable men stood, as we have said, at ~6~,ooo. Let us see what this produced in reality on the out- break of war. In his evidence before the commission of the Chamber, Mar~chal le Bceuf put in a written statement, from which it results that, on the 2d of August, the entire army of the Rhine, including the troops of MMahon, and even the corps of Canro- bert, which was not then really formed, amounted to 244,000 men; and that fig- ure is confirmed by General Frossard in his book on the operations of the corps which he commanded. But this included, necessarily, such of the men on leave, and such of the reservists, as had had time to reach their regiments since they were called out on the 14th of July, nineteen days before. It may be guessed, under all the circumstances, that the men of these two classes who had managed to join their corps by the 2d of August must have represented somewhere about 44,- 000; SO that, if that estimate be correct, the number of men of the Rhine army who were with the colours before the war was about 200,000. If the number of leave-men and reservists exceeded 44,000, then the 200,000 must of course, be propor- tionately diminished, which would make the previous situation worse still; for it appears in the evidence that all the other troops in France, in Algeria, and at Ci- vita Vecchia, irrespective of those incor- porated in the army of the Rhine, did not, on or about the 20th of July, exceed 93,000, made up as follows : Eleven regiments of the line, . 14,500 men. Three battalions of African in fantry 2,500 Eight regiments of cavalry, . 6,ooo The part of Canroberts corps which had remained at Chalons Io,ooo And the depots, which are put at about . . . . 6o,ooo men. So giving a general total of . 93,000 Consequently, we can only discover, altogether, about 293,000 men (which we have previously put roundly at 300,000) as having been under arms before the decla- ration of war, instead of the 400,000 voted in the budget. To this original basis of 293,000 men we have now to add the 107,000 who (to make up 400,000) must evidently have been on leave, and also the 165,000 of the reserve. The former were of course sol- diers, but the same cannot possibly be said of the latter. All the reservists, it is true, had been in the army, and had con- sequently received a military education; but since they had finished their term they had never been called out for exercise, and scarcely any of them had ever seen a chassepot, for that arm had been intro- duced into the service after the greater part of them had left it. Furthermore, most of them considered themselves to be virtually freed from any further obliga- tions towards their country; and it was proved by thousands of lamentable exam- ples, that it was not with any lively feeling of discipline or duty that they found them- selves called upon to rejoin. It is worth while to quote one instance out of many, of the disorder which reigned amongst them. We will take it from an interesting book on the action of the railways during the war, which has been published by M. J acqmin, manager of the Eastern Com- pany. He says: From the third or fourth day (after the declaration of war), our stations, like those of every line in France, were encumbered with soldiers of the reserve belonging to every regiment in the army; they w~re grouped by the district intendants under the orders of non-commissioned officers, but the latter had no authority over their detachments, and knew nothing of the men who com- posed them. The result was that men kept dropping off on the way, and that these isolated soldiers soon formed a floating mass which wandered about the roads and railway stations, living at the cost of any charitable persons they could find, but never reaching their corps. At the end of August the station at Reims had to be defended against an attempt at pillage made by a band of 4,000 or 5,ooo of these men, who had given up all idea of joining their regiments. It is fair, how- ever, to add that, in many cases, these 8 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. men had to go enormous distances to that the remaining 226,000 must have join; several regiments were more than been at that date either at the depots 400 miles from their depots, to which all of their regiments, or else on the road- the men had to go in the first instance; sides all over France. Of course it is not and General Vinoy quotes, in his book, as possible to say how many of them had got a specimen of the organization which pre- to their dep6ts; but there is good reason vailed, the famous story of the Zouaves for believing that the number who were who were sent~ to Algeria to get their uni- wandering along the highways and round forms and then brought back to France the railway-stations was enormous, for all to fight. He says: In the war of i8~o, the histories and reports are full of lamen- reserve men belonging to the regiments tations on the subject. The majority of of Zouaves, but residing in the northern these 226,000 men were utilized after- departments, had to cross the whole of wards, that is evident; but there is no cx- France and to embark at Marseilles in or- aggeration in presumino that, during July der to get themselves armed and equipped and part of August, at least ioo,ooo of at Coleah, Oran, or Philippeville, and then them were straying about the country liv- come back to their corps at the point ing on public charity. whence they had started. They travelled This is indeed a frightful story, and it 1,300 miles by railway, and crossed the would be impossible to believe it if it were Mediterranean twice. Another tale, of not told, directly or indirectly, by the nu- exactly the same kind, was related by M. merous Frencb witnesses on the subject. Blondeau in his evidence. He said that It is so sad and strange that it is worth by far the greater part of the reserves of while to resume it in one sentence, and to infirmiers and of workmen required for repeat once more, that at the moment the army belonged to sections of those when the war broke out, the French army services which had their depots in Al- consisted nominally of 400,000 men, of geria; that when the war broke out he en- whom about 107,000 appear, according to treated that these men might be sent the probabilities of the case, to have been direct to the army of the Rhine, where absent on leave, the remaining 293,000 be- they were most urgently required; that he ing present with the colours; that when was told in reply that such an arrange- these 107,000 men, and also the 163,000 ment would be too complicated, and men of the reserve, were ordered to join, that the men must go according to rule; only 44,000 of the two classes (which num- and that, in fact, a very large number of bered together 270,000) had reached the them (nearly 3,000 apparently, though, as army of the Rhine in nineteen days; and the statement is rather confused, that fig- that, of the remaining 226,000, one-half ure may be incorrect) were embarked at may be presumed to have got to their Toulon and sent to Africa because routine depots or their regiments elsewhere than required it. in the Rhine army, while the other half Between the want of discipline of the continued to wander about France without men and the disorder of the management, any apparent intention of .joining volun- the incorporation of the reserves went tarily at all. on with extraordinary slowness; indeed, We get next to the Garde Mobile. we have just supplied evidence enough of When war was declared it existed on paper that slowness by showing that the number only. It is true that, in 1869, a little drill- of those who had joined the army of the ing of the Parisians belonging to it had Rhine on the 2d August, nineteen days taken place; but the experiment had given after they were called out, could not the worst possible results; the men had probably have exceeded 44,000. Now, behaved dis, racefully, and the attempt had according to a document emanating from been abandoned. A slight commencement the minister of war, 163,000 reservists of organization had also been sketched were started off to their regiments be- out in the eastern departments; but when tween the i8th and 28th of July; and we Mar~chal le Buuf became mihister of war must necessarily suppose that the 107,000 in 1869, he had suspended the further men whom we imagine to have been on preparation and instruction of the men, on leave were also on their way to join, so the ground that he did not believe there making 270,000 men in all who were tray- was the slightest use in it. It may there- elling to their destinations during the fore be observed, before we pass on, that second fortnight of July. If, therefore, Mar6chal le Bceuf appears to have intend- we are right in our computation, that only ed to fight Germany with nothing but the 44,000 of them had reached the army of 565,ooo men of the regular army and its the Rhine on the 2d of August, it follows reserve. The nominal effective of the FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 9 Garde Mobile stood originally at 500,000, as we have stated; in 1870 it was given officially at 420,000, but it does not appear that even 20,000 men thereof had been really utilized at the end of August. Such of its members as had been called up at that date were exclusively in the eastern fortresses; for it is not possible to count the Parisian battalions which conducted themselves at Chalons in such a fashion that they had to be recalled to Paris as being not only useless, but dangerous. From all these figures it results that the whole nominal force of the French army, regular troops, reserves, and Mobiles in- cluded, amounted to about 985,000 men; and Mar6chal le Bceuf has stated in his evidence that, out of this general total, 567,000 really serviceable men could be relied upon; but, if we allow for the sick and the non-combatant services, which would represent on this latter total 74,500 men, and also for the gendarmerie and the troops absolutely required in the interior and in Alberia, the number to be so de- ducted may be put altogether at 130,000. There would therefore remain only 437,000 men to bring into line, from which again we must deduct the number of the reserv- ists who did not join. So that, whichever way we turn the question, it seems indis- putable that the total forces of every kind which could be seriously employed against the enemy at the first commencement of the campaign could not have much exceded 300,000 fighting men, only five-sixths of whom were on the frontier. It should be repeated that these figures cannot be ab- solutely relied upon, for some of them are hypothetical and the rest are extracted from a mass of contradictory official evi- dence; they seem, however, to present a reasonable appearance of truth. The ma/driel was in an even worse state than the men. General Suzanne, who, in 1870, was director of mat6riel at the ministry of xvar, informed the parlia- mentary commission that, when the war broke out, France possessed 21,000 can- nons, of which io,ooo were field-pieces. So she did; but, unfortunately, these num- bers included, as Duke dAudiffret Pas- quier observed in his speech to the com- mission on 13th June 1873, cannons of the time of Louis XIV., and the artillery of Gribeauval; all the old smooth-bore guns were also counted in it as forming part of the disposable armament. Fur- thermore, though there really were 4,000 rifled field-guns, only 2,376 of them pos- sessed carriages and limbers; the others were all lying on the ground. And even this reduced quantity could not be utilized, for the number of horses required for them was 51,548, with a corresponding supply of harness; so that, as only 31,904 horses were forthcoming, it was not possible to send more than iso batteries (900 guns) to the army of the Rhine; and even this number included mitrailleuses, so cutting down the cannon, properly so called, to 85o. As, however, we have shown that the army of the Rhine was limited to 244,- ono men, it follows, after all, that, in con- sequence of its numerical weakness, the theoretical number of four guns to each 1,000 men was really reached. It should be added that there was harness for 47,000 horses; it was therefore found possible, by making limbers and buying horses, to turn out eighty more batteries by the latter half of August, just in time to send them to Sedan to he taken by the Prussians. The story of the muskets is of the same nature. The official reports showed that there were 3,350,000 of them in hand on 1st July 1870, and it was argued that, with so vast a supply, an army of 900,000 men would fight for several months. But it turned out that only one million of those muskets were chassepots, that 1,750,000 of them were percussion-guns, and that the rest were modified Mini6s (taba/i?res). As an example of the fashion in which these arsenal statements were made up, it may be mentioned that 57,000 of those very guns had been sold as old iron, for six shillings each, and were in process of de- livery to the buyer; but they continued to be counted as available foVservice in the event of war! The result was that, after the first month, there were virtually no chassepots left, and that the contest had to-be carried on with such inferior weap- ons of varied types as it was found possi- ble to make or buy. The stock of ammunition was so insuffi- cient that only about 120 cartridges ex- isted for each chassepot: in the very first battles of the campaign the supply was exhausted, and special manufactures had to be set up. As for uniforms and kits, it was sup- posed that far more than enough were in store; but they ran short immediately, and contracts for every sort of article had to be made in all directions before the month of August was half over. Of food it may be said that scarcely any- thing was ready. There were 38,500,000 of biscuit-rations for the army, but no stocks had been laid up in the fortresses; in Metz, for instance, according to the evidence, there was a quantity of corn and I0 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. flour, and some bacon, but neither rice, coffee, salt, nor wine. The telegrams sent by the various com- manders reveal the state of the supplies at the very commencement. On 19th July, General de Failly telegraphed: I have nothing not even money; we require supplies of every kind. On the 24th the intendant of the ~th division telegraphed: Metz, which supplies the 3d, 4th, and ~th corps, has no more biscuit or oats. The same day the intendant of the 3d corps says: The 3d corps leaves Metz to-mor- row: I have no iiyirmiers, no workmen, no ambulance-waggons, no field-ovens, no carts, and not one intendant in two divi- sions. On the 25th July, the sous-in- tendant at M~zi~res sent word: There is neither biscuit nor salt-meat to-day at M6zi~res or Sedan. On the 28th, Mar6- chal le Beuf telegraphed: We cannot march for want of biscuit. On the 29th, General Ducrot telegraphed to Strashurg, from Reichshoffen, where he was with his division: The question of food is becom- ing more and more grave; the intendance gives us absolutely nothing; everything is eaten up around us. And all this, let it he borne in mind, took place in France itself, with the bases of supplies close to the army, and before one battle had been fought. The same disorder existed in the for- tresses; not one of them was in a state of defence. We have already described the state of Strasburg; the Bazaine trial has shown the condition of Metz; the con- struction of the outlying forts there was scarcely commenced; at Belfort nothing was done until two or three months after the declaration of war: Toul, a most im- portant strategic point, was not armed. In Paris the state of things was almost worse; the forts contained one guardian each; not a gun was in battery in them. Whichever way we look through this long, saddening testimony, the story is the same. M. Wolf, intendant of MMahons corps, says that there were no orders and no plans; that, though the railway com- pany could carry nearly all that was re- quired, it could not, for want of men, un- load the waggons when they arrived at their destination, and that the unloading had to be done by the troops; that it often happened that a mile of waggons stood for a week full of objects which were most urgently required, because it was impossi- ble to discharge them. Everybody de- clares that there were no ambulances, no hospitals, and no nurses; and that if it had not been for private charity and for the society for helping the wounded, the men would have been left to die where they dropped. But let it be remembered that, while all this was happening in Alsace, hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of hos- pital attendants and army-workmen were at that very moment on their way to Africa, in obedience to routine. General Ducrot says that, before his division quitted Stras- burg, he applied for permission to leave the shakos of the men in store there; that the ministry of war had not dared to con- sent to so bold a measure; and that, in consequence, as his men preferred to fight with their k~5is, they flung their shakos into the ditches to get rid of them, and that they became the playthings of all the boys in Alsace, who picked them up on the roadsides. In many of the regi- ments the men had no spare needles for their chassepots; no one knew how to fire a mitrailleuse, except one officer; a few shots, with powder, were fired from them before starting, so as to see how these machines were to be employed. The cavalry was organized on five differ- ent bases between i~th July and 15th Au- gust; it often happened that regiments and even divisions of cavalry were an- nexed to divisions of infantry; the plans and projects varied every day, and some- times several times each day, as is proved by the orders and counter-orders which were telegraphed to Paris as to the sup- plies of food to be sent by rail to the army. Such is, in all truth and fairness, with no exaggeration, and with no selection of exceptionally bad facts, the story told by the witnesses. Such was the state of the French army at the commencement of the campaign such was the practical effect produced by the system of military management which was then in force in France. This was the condition of things down to the ioth of August. On that day the Ollivier government was turned out and the Palikao ministry came in. The first stage of the story ends there. On the roth of August the Germans were stream- ing across the Saar and through the Vos- ges and were close to Metr, where the larger part of the army of the Rhine was waiting to be shut up; the rest of it had been defeated and had fallen back on Chalons. A new army was required, with new arms and new stores. Then the second series of preparations commenced. General de Palikao says in his book that he provided a reconstituted army of 140,000 men, at Chalons; that he got FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. II together three other corj5s darmJe (in- cluding thirty-three new regiments), with their armament, their artillery, and their supplies; that he organized 100,000 Mo- biles in the provinces, and brought them up to aid in the defence of Paris; that he placed Paris in a state of defence; that he armed the forts; and that he did all this between the ioth of August and the 4th September. If really he did all this, then the situation on the ioth of August could not have been so bad as it looked: but, in fact, he .did nothing of the kind. The truth about his administration is as follows. The 1st corps (MMahon), the 5th (De Failly), and the 7th (Donay), which had been organized at the beginning of the war, had retreated, after the battle of Woerth, towards Chalons, and all that the ministry of war had to do for them was to send them the men and supplies which they required. The 12th corps, which was added to them at Chalons, was mainly composed of infantry of marine, completely organized. Furthermore, several regi- ments belonging to the 6th corps at Metz had not been able to join it, and had been sent to Chalons. So far General de Pali- kao had only to direct he had nothing to create; and even as regards the new 13th corps (Vinoy), he did not do much more, for that corps consisted of the garri- son of Civita Vecchia, which had been re- called in all haste, and of new regiments made up out of the depots and reservists. All these troops existed; they had but to be grouped together. The i4th corps was nowhere, even on the 4th of Septem- ber; it did not acquire a form until a later period. The 100,000 MoWles called into Paris were neither armed nor equipped; it was during the month of September that their percussion-muskets were ex- changed for breech-loaders, and that cloth uniforms were made to replace their cot- ton trousers and blouses. It is true that the fortifications of Paris were hurried into condition by General de Palikao; but there was so much to be done to them, that when the Prussians reached Paris on the i9th of September, the place might still have been taken by a cozq5 de main. In reali& y General de Palikao utilized the cb#bris of the defeated armies, emptied the depots, collected the reservists, and got out the last muskets which had been overlooked in the magazines, and the can- non for which no horses had been forth- coming at the beginning. As for provid- ing fresh arms, it is evident from his own book that he did not do so, for he states that he only bought 38,000 rifles while he was minister. Still, though he did a vast deal less than he claims to have done, he deserves praise for having shown energy and resolution in a desperate position, and for doing probably the best that could be done with the pre-existing materials at his disposal. One only of the members of the min- istry of the ioth of August dared to innovate, and to inaugurate the system of contempt for rules and routine which was to be so vigorously carried out by the gov- ernment of the 4th of September. M. Cldment Duvernois, minister of commerce, spent 8,ooo,ooo in a fortnight in buying food for Paris. He did this, of course, with much disorder; but he did it, and by doing so, he rendered an enormous serv- ice to his cOuntry, for it was solely in consequence of his work that Paris was enabled to stand a siege ~of four and one- half months. And here it may be worth while to mention a curious fact which does not seem to have ever become generally known. All this tremendous effort to fill Paris with food, though carried out with the utmost publicity, was completed without one word of it reaching the ears of the Germans. Here is the proof thereof. The crown-prince of Prussia arrived at Ver- sailles on the evening of the 20th Sep- tember. The next morninb, while walk- ing in the picture-galleries of the palace, he met Mr. W. H. Russell; with Mr. Rus- sell was an Englishman who had left Paris three days before, and it was from that Englishman that the crown-prince learnt for the first time, with much astonishment and some incredulity, that Paris had been supplied with food and would stand a siege. The prince immediately called General von Blumenthal, his chief of the staff, and told him this unexpected and disappointing news. The German army arrived round Paris with the conviction that the city could not resist, and that they would take it at once. The siege was a painful surprise to them. It was through the energy of M. Cl~ment Duver- nois, and through his contempt for rules, that they were kept outside till Febru- ary. .~Unfortunately for M. Duvernois, he has since shown his contemptfor rules in another manner; he is now undergoing two years imprisonment for frauds com- mitted in the management of a company of which he became a director after the war. We now reach the third phase of the war preparations. On the 4th of Septem- ber all real hope had disappeared; France 12 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. was beaten; she had no army left; half a large number of the conscripts of 1870, her troops had been taken at Sedan, the who had just been called out. There other half were blocked up in Metz. were, in addition to this large force, about Scarcely any old soldiers remained ex- 12,000 francs-tireurs, and 266 battalions of cepting a part of Vinoys corps, which National Guards, whose exact number had been unable to reach Sedan and was never known, but who may be roughly had come back to Paris; the arsenals estimated at about 300,000 men. It is were empty; the situation was desperate. generally believed that about 120,000 of But then, when it had become manifestly the latter might really have been made useless to bo on fighting, a series of efforts into soldiers, but it was mA till the end of was made which, though they came too November that the slightest attempt was late to win back victory, proved at all made to utilize them. The total number events that, even after routine bad de- of men of all kinds under arms in Paris stroyed all chances of success, something was therefore about 586,000, and that vast could still be attempted by strong will and mass allowed itself to be shut in, on the vigour. 19th September, by a German army Here, however, the subject changes its which, at that date, did not include more character. Thus far we have been de- than 120,000 fighting men, and which had scribing results attained by the ministry of to guard a circle of fifty miles! xvar, by the official military system under The details of the armament which had which France had been manabed during been got into Paris were as follows. The the preceding twenty years. We now cannon for the forts had been brought up arrive at the moment when professional at the beginning of August; ~zp tons of direction was replaced by civil direction, powder were ready, but there were no when the ministry of war disappeared as loaded projectiles, and the cannon for the a motive power. But at the same date the fortifications themselves were still in the preparations for defence became divided country. On the 8th, Paris was declared into two parts, so entirely distinct from in a state of siege; and in four days, by each other, that we must cease to regard working very hard, 525 guns were got into the work done as a whole, and must look their places on the ramparts. Ammuni- separately at what was effected in Paris tion was brought up in large quantities; and what was effected in the provinces, the marine arsenals supplied 228 rifled We will take Paris first. cannon of very large size, with ammuni- In Paris there were men enough, in all tion for 200 shots for each of them. On conscience, to create an immense army; the 25th of August there were 1,700 tons there were, indeed, a vast deal too many of powder in Paris; the tobacco-works of them, for the ioo,ooo Mobiles, added were turned into a cartridge-factory, and to the regular troops who had re-entered private contracts were made for projec- Paris, absorbed all the really serviceable tiles of all sorts. On the 3d September, arms and accoutrements that could at first 703 cannon were in battery in the forts of be provided, and rendered it impossible, Paris and St. Denis, and the forts were for that reason, to make any immediate largely supplied with ammunition. As use of the inflabitants. And here it may regards muskets, there are no exact re- be observed that, if the law enrolling all turns; but it is known that 280,000, of dif- men under thirty-five years of age bad ferent types, had been issued to the Na- been practically enforced in Paris, the Mo- tional Guard by the end of September hues could have been left in the country, that 153,000 were delivered to the Ger- and would have formed another army mans after the siege by the regular troops there. The number of soldiers available and Mobiles; and that about 25,000 more in Paris, at the commencement of the were retained by the troops who were not siege, appears to have been as follows: disarmed: but the total thus indicated is certainly much inferior to the reality. Of Regular troops, . . . . 135,000 field-guns there were a large quantity; Gendarmes 6,ooo the army had 93 batteries, the sailors i6, Mobiles xi6,ooo the Garde Mobile i5, and the National Sailors . II~000 Guard 9. On this showing there were Custom-house and Forest Guards, . 6,000 field-guns, 602 of which were handed _____ 798 Total, . . . 274,000 over to the Germans. A considerable number of these field- The regular troops were composed (in guns were made in Paris during the siege, addition to Vinoys corps) of the ele- and a large quantity of muzzle-loading ments of the unformed 14th corps, and of muskets were simultaneously converted FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 into breech-loaders. One manufactory of sewing-machines transformed ~o,ooo. Finally, as regards food, the position was as follows : The Bulietin de la Muncz~5alitd de Paris of i6th September 1870 stated that the stock of flour which had been got in before the investment amounted to 45,700 tons; so that, as the consumption each day was about 700 tons, it was cal- culated that the place could hold out for sixty-four days. But, very luckily, this estimate was far under the reality. It turned out that Paris contained much more flour than was supposed, and that there was in reality enough for 131 days; so that, allowing for diminutions which were afterwards effected in the daily rate of eating by putting the population on re- duced rations, it is evident that the real quantity of flour in hand at the origin must have been nearly 90,000 tons; and that quantity does not include either the supply for the troops or the provision laid in by private persons. Meat appears to have been furnished by 24,000 bullocks, 150,000 sheep, 6,ooo pigs all got in by M. Duvernois and 6o,ooo horses. It should, however, be added, that none of these figures can be regarded as positively exact: they are probably tolerably near the truth; but as no official statistics have ever been published on the subject, they are only put forward here as estimates based on such information as it has been found possible to collect. But all these preparations, after all, were as nothing compared with the aston- ishing efforts which were made in the provinces. In Paris the will to struggle usefully, if, indeed, it really did exist at all, was manifestly paralyzed by the in- competence of the military direction which continued to prevail there: but in the provinces the entire power was exclusive- ly in the hands of civilians; and what they did, though useless and in wild disorder, was altogether amazing under the circum- stances. Notwithstanding the exhaustion of the country, there still remained some scattered forces to collect. By the i6th September a hundred companies were formed out of the remnants of each of the regimental depots. The best of the Mo- biles were collected into regiments and brigades. Three line regiments which had been left in Algeria were brought over. With these troops the 15th corps was created, which became afterwards the nucleus of the army of the Loire. All the Mobiles of the south and centre were called up. A separate group of 13,000 men was got together at Rouen under General Gudin, and another of 4,000 men at Evreux under General Delarue. At Chartres and Amiens other groups were formed; and an army of 20,000 men grew up at Le Mans. In the eastern depart- ments Cambriels rallied 5,000 or 6,ooo stragglers; and in addition to all this, the formation of a i6th corps was commenced at Tours. But all these agglomerations were of no real military value; most of the men who composed them were raw labourers, who were armed with percussion-muskets pend- ing the arrival of breech-loaders from abroad. Indeed, if we are to judge by the evidence of General Lefort, who was, at the commencement, secretary-general of the ministry of war at Tours, no very clear idea seems to have existed at first as to the possibility of using any of these men. He said to the commission, I ought~to tell you that, when we began the organization of the 16th corps, I did not really expect that it would be called upon to take any part in military operations. Under that impression I observed to the minister of war (Cr~mieux), that, though this new army was perhaps not destined to really act, I regarded its formation as indispensable, for the sake of the consid- erable moral effect .that it might have not only on the defenders of Paris, but also on the population of the south and centre, who would feel that there was a French army between them and the Germans. On the 9th October, however, a differ- ent spirit was thrown into the wrok. On that day M. Gambetta arrived from Paris and put an end to the ridiculous follies of M. Cr6mieux and M. Glais Bizoin, who were disputing which of th~m should be minister of war. The new dictator knew no more about the matter than they did, but, at all events, he was young and fiercely energetic. His first act was to call to his aid a man whose acts have been judged with much diversity of opinion M. de Freycinetwho became, in reality, minister of war at Tours. This gentle- man was an engineer of the imperial corps of mines, and it was he who, under the title of d6idgud ~i la g erre, managed all the details of military organization at Tours and Bordeaux. The second act of M. Gambetta was to suspend the laws rel- ative to promotion, and to decree that ex- traordinary promotion might be granted either for supposed capacity or for serv- ices rendered, and that military grades could also be bestowed on persons who were flQt in the army. 4 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. At the same date the formation of an do so, in which case we will try to help you. auxiliary army, to be composed of Mo- For the organization of your corps in ma- biles, National Guards, and francs-tireurs, Mriel we will give you the necessary pow- was decreed. This new army was assim- ers for making requisitions in the depart- ilated in every respect to the regular ments of the Manche, Calvados, Orne, army, so as to he capable of being amal- Sarthe, Mayenne, Eure et Loir, and Eure. gamated with it at any moment. Futher- Go on, then. Form your cadres yourself; more, all the departments within sixty if you want a few officers we will give miles of the enem.y were declared to be in them to you; but do your utmost to suf- a state of war; a committee composed of fice for yourself, and to quickly get a ver- officers and civil engineers was formed in itable army into line, formed of all the each of them in order to fortify the de- dgbris around you, and of the new ele partment. ments which you will create yourself. On the 3d of November, each depart- These impossible orders were positively ment was called upon to provide, within executed! General Jaur~s took up his two months, as many batteries as it con- command on 20th November, got to- tamed ioo,ooo inhabitants. All francs- gether stragglers in all directions, and tireurs were ordered to become part of formed a corps which, when compared the army in the territory where they might with others of the army of the Loire, was happen to be; every man under forty singularly solid; for it was that corps years of age was called out; camps were which stopped the Duke of Mecklenburg formed for concentration and instruction; for three days at Le Mans, and fought the an intelligence department was established last fight of the war at Sill~ le Guillaume. in the war-ministry; civil engineer and It is needless to pursue further the civil commissariat services were organ- story of the efforts made in the west. ized; horses were collected. During No- Those efforts serve to show the differ- vember and December seven new cor2i5s ence between the tremendous energy of darmie were formed, each of them com- the amateur civilians, and the stolid inca- posed of about 30,000 men. But of course pacity of the professional authorities; but these corps were virtually useless; it that fact,after all, only proves what we could not indeed be otherwise. To give knew before that strong will can attain one example of the fashion in which they results which are beyond the reach of in- were set going, it is worth while to quote dolence and routine. The old system re- a letter which was written by M. de Frey- sisted the German army for one month, cinet to Captain Jaur~s of the navy, when the new one held out against it for five the latter was named general of the 21st months hopelessly, uselessly, madly, it corps. This letter has never been pub- is true but it held out. lished, but it well merits to be known for And now let us revert to the question the sake of the strange picture which it which was implicitly raised at the com- presents. It said: mencement, and see if we can form a dis- You are appointed general of brigade tinct opinion as to the distribution of re- in the auxiliary army, and are intrusted sponsibilities. It cannot be supposed with the command of the troops who were that, even if the French army had been formerly under the orders of General thoroughly well organized, it could have Fierr~ck, with whom you will immediate- stood successfully before its tremendous ly make arrangements. You will also foe, for mere numbers would have inevi-. make arrangements with Colonel Rous- tably beaten it in the long run. But cer- seau, who will become your chief of the tainly, weak as it was numerically, we are staff. You will eliminate from the troops justified, by the nature of the earlier bat- of whom I have just spoken all the men tles of the war, in believing that it could belonging to the x6th and i8th corps, and have fought on for months, if only it you will send them to their respective had commenced the campaign in good chiefs. With the remainder, and with the order, with supplies and with capable com- Mobiles that you may be able to get to- manders. Whose fault is it that neither geiher, you will form a corps darme!e of order, nor supplies, nor generals were forty or fifty thousand men, in three di- there, and that the entire army was hope- visions, which will be called the 21st lessly vanquished in four weeks, between corps, and which you will command. Woerth and Sedan? You will form your artillery yourself, The French press has passionately dis- so as to have eighteen batter~ies, if you can. cussed this question; but, unfortunately, You will, also form your proper quantity of it has almost invariably considered it from cavalry, unless, indeed, it be impossible to political points of view, so as to serve FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 5 party interests, and not at all with the im- partiality which is needed in order to solve so tangled a problem. The Re- publicans, the Orleanists, and the Legiti- mists of course declare that the omnipo- tence of Napoleon III. renders him alone responsible. The Bonapartists reply by counting up the hostile votes and speeches of the opposition deputies, and try to prove from them that the plans of military action put forward by the imperial gov- ernment after i866 were paralyzed by the Chamber. The eager reformers who have risen up in such abundance since the peace attribute the greater part of the blame to the prejudiced routine of the minister of war. The English press has added one more explanation by asserting that the temperament and dispositions of the whole French people had a not in- considerable share in inducing the break- down. It would be a very difficult perhaps even an impossible task, to apportion the blame with critical exactness between these various elements; and here there is no space for the long developments which such an inquiry would necessitate: bu~t, as foreigners, we have, at all events, an advantage over the French in the matter, because, having no personal interests and no political party to serve, we are able to recognize that blame is merited in each one of the four directions mentioned; and that, even if it be impracticable to allot it everywhere in precise degrees, the great fact is clear to us that it is deserved all round. But, though we will not attempt to weigh out judgments so as to fit them ac- curately to the relative guiltiness of the accused, we may, in safety, indicate the general proportions of censure to which we are led by the evidence which has been given here. It seems impossible to deny that the great first culprit was the ministry of war, taken as a collective whole expressing the system and the principles on which the French army was administered. It was in the hands of that institution that all the working power was deposited, that all information was collected, that all initiative was concen- trated; it was the supreme master of the army. We have seenthat it did its work with negligence, incapacity, conceit, and disorder; it is on it that, without any pos- siblity of reasonable doubt, the great con- demnation of history will rest. Next in culpability stands, incontestably, the emperor himself. No argument, no evidence, can set him free; on the con- trary, in the eyes of all impartial persons who study the arguments and the evi- dence, whatever be their sympathy for the fallen or their respect for the dead, his share in the wretched tale is frightfully heavy. Without alluding to the collate- ral details of the question, to the councils of generals which, according to M. dAu- diffret Pasquier, he held during the spring of I87o, so as to get all ready; or to the pamphlet, evidently written or inspired by him, which was privately printed in Paris two months before the war, showing that the North-German army alone amounted to 895,000 men, and that France was no match for it,* and limiting his responsi- bility to mere questions of technical prep- aration and forethought, it is manifest that a terrible load weighs upon him. He had voluntarily assumed a position of in- dividual power, and consequently of indi- vidual responsibility; and his position be- fore France and before history is scarce- ly less grave than that of his acting agent at the ministry of war, for he approved, maintained, and applied the system which brought about defeat and ruin. The Chamber may be put third in the list. It was both incapable and ridicu- lous; its habitual subservience to the em- peror on the one hand, and its sudden as- sumption of independence on the subject of military organization on the other, were as comical as they were lamentable. It understood nothing of the great questions which it presumed to touch; but, by the act of touching them, it assumed a share of the onus of failure. And then comes the nation at large, im- pulsive but mistrustful, self-confident but credulous, abandoning everything to its rulers, but reserving boundless faith in it- self, convinced that French soldiers could not fail to conquer, but grumbling at the cost of keeping them; and, with all this, adoring detail and routine a repetition on a vast scale of the ministry of war it- self. It may be said, in general terms, that in the universal race to ruin, the nation en- couraged the Chamber, that the Chamber encouraged the emperor, and that the emperor encouraged his minister. It was between them all, by their collective acts, that they arrived at the result. The blame of it must lie upon them all. With few exceptions, the entire people, * An original copy of thui pamphlet, found in the palace of the Tuileries, is in the hands of the writer of this article; it is entitled, li/ne Zifauvaise Economie, and was printed at the Imprimerie Imp& iale in May 5870. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. whatever may be said now to the contrary, entertained substantially the same views before the war; the immense majority was convinced that France was irresisti- ble. The opposition deputies went farther than any one in that belief; for they per- sistently asserted in the Chamber that no regular army was required at all, and that, with liberty and a National Guard,~~ France would be a match for all possible enemies. The government profited so eagerly by every possible opportunity to assure the nation of its strength, that it is worth while to give a few examples of the sort of talking it indulged in. Mar& hal Randon, then minister of war, said, in April 1867: What! a nation like France, which, in a few weeks, can assemble 6oo,- ooo soldiers round its flags, which has 8,ooo field-pieces in its arsenals, i,8oo,ooo muskets, and powder enough to make war for six years, that nation is not always ready to sustain by arms its honour and its right? The army is not ready to com- mence a campaign when it counts in its ranks the veterans of Africa, of Sebasto- pol, of Solferino ? when it has to lead it these experienced generals and this crowd of young officers, prepared by the expeditions of Algeria and Mexico to ex- ercise hibber commands? What army is there in Europe which possesses such ele- ments of experience and energy? Our infantry is not yet entirely armed with the needle-gun; but has the forward march of our voltigeurs ever been stopped, in our old wars, by the Tyrolese sharpshooters, armed with their rifled carbines, or by the English riflemen? Oh! then let us recall the military virtues of our fathers: they are worth more than needle-guns I And this was proclaimed by a marshal of France in the year after Sadowa! On the i8th of January 1869, the em- peror said to the Chambers: Our im- proved armament; our arsenals and our magazines all full; our reserves well exer- cised; the Garde Mobile now forming; . . our fortresses in perfect condition, give our power an indispensable develop- menL . . . The military resources of France are henceforth suited to her des- tiny in the world. On the 20th of March 1869, Mar~chal Niel said, in a speech to the Corps L~gisla- tif : The soldiers of the Garde Mobile are all inscribed in the control lists, and are organized in territorial circumscriptions, by companies and battalions. We are organizing the officers. If danger came, and a rapid result were necessary, we are in a position to attain it. We have an excellent army, well instructed, full of ardour, perfectly organized, and provided with everything. . . . I do not know what is generally felt in France, but, for my part, I regard with much philosophy the questions of war or peace which are being discussed around us, and, if war were necessary, we are perfectly ready for it. And on 12th April of the same year he said: Whether it be peace or war is abso- lutely the same to the minister of war. He is always ready. I will not repeat what I have said several times already, but the army can be put on a war footing in a week. I have nothing but an order to give. On the i6th August 1869, the Moni- leur published the following note : An army of 750,000 men disposable for war; nearly 6oo,ooo men of the Garde Mobile; instruction everywhere pushed on to a degree hitherto unknown; 1,200,- ooo muskets manufactured in eighteen months; the fortresses ready; an im- mense matiriel prepared for every event- tuality, of every kind, in such a situa~- tion France stands confident in her force. All these vast results have been attained in two years ! Such was the language held by the em- peror, by his war-ministers, and by his government. The nation believed every word of it, not so much because the gov- ernment said it that, perhaps, was rather a reason for doubting but because those wordy boastings about military power were exactly what it liked and wanted; because they fitted in exactly with its tem- perament and its wishes; because, in fact, it would have been indignant if such speeches had not been made. It impera- tively required declarations of this sort from its government, and its government was weak enough to give them. -Since 187o a great wake-up has taken place; but still France longs for the same official assurances that she is great and powerful. There is no sign yet that the old spirit has been driven out, either amongst the people or at the ministry of war; on the contrary, there is too much reason to believe that it continues to ex- ist in both directions, in little-weakened strength. The events of 1870 supply a starting-point from which progress can be measured; that progress has com- menced; in some respects it is both real and serious, in others it is scarcely per- ceptible: but though it will be recognized, HOW I WON A WIFE. 7 after the story which has been told here, that there is room for it all round, it will indeed be wonderful if the ministry of war does really shake off routine. Few people will venture to indulge the dream that such a result can ever be realized; for most of us are convinced that Dr. Chent? was right when he said, in his famous book on the mortality of the French army, that if an official of the ministry of war had been present at the creation, he would have cried out to the Creator, Stop, stop! this will not do at all; you are disturbing chaos. And we English, have we nothing to learn from this woful story? Is it sure that none of its teachings apply to our- selves as well as to the French? HOW I WON A WIFE. TRANSLATED FROM THE PLATT-DEUT5CH OF REUTER, BY M. S. FRITZ After the marriage tis too late, Before the wedding tame your mate. MEANTIME I had become an old bach- elor. I had wandered about the world hither and thither, had often laid my head on a soft pillow and often on a bundle of straw; but as I grew older the straw didnt suit me so well as at twenty, for one who is glad to eat turnips in childhood doesnt exactly despise roast goose in after years. People said Get married, and I said, Consider, and circled around the holy estate of matrimony like a fox round a goose-pen, thinking, You can doubtless get in; you can easily get in! But when youre once there, can you get out again? But then when I thought of the inn-keepers eternal roast pork and mutton, and that my room looked like the world before the first day of creation, and that one of my confounded old buttons was always coming off, I said Get married, and then the stupid people said, Con- sider. So I still remained between the tree and the bark, the years of considera- tion passed by, and my head was begin- ning to grow grey, when one day I stood by the stove, after lighting my pipe, and gazed at the weather. The snow fell gently from the sky; everything outside was silent, no carriage- wheels were to be heard, only in the dis- tance the ringing of sleigh-bells; and I felt so lonely, for it was the hallowed Christmas-eve. As I stood gazing ab LIvING AGE. vOL. xii. 626 sently through the panes, my shoemaker Linsen stopped before his door with a sled full of wood he had gathered in the city forest; and on the top of the sled lay a green fir-tree. Now just see that ras- cal! said I. He ought to be making me that other pair of boots, and instead of that hes gathering wood! I wont let the fellow work for me any longer. I was still standing there, when sudden- ly a shiver ran through my limbs, my flesh crept, and I said to myself, Of course! A cold, a bad cold! And why not? My boots are worn out, and Frau Biitoun darns her own stockings with the yarn I gave her, while mine have no feet. Its all perfectly natural. I still stood in the same place till it grew dark, and when I wanted to light a lamp could find no match, and when I did find one the lamp wouldnt burn, Frau Biitoun hadnt trimmed the wick; and when after a great deal of trouble I made it burn freely it suddenly went out, Frau Biitoun had put in no oil. Under such circumstances, its a fine thing to have somebody at hand to scold; but I had no one there, and what was I to do? I looked out of the window again. The shoemakers over the way was brightly lighted, and there was a rapid moving to and fro accompanied by merry shouts; but I could distinguish nothing, for the curtains were tightly drawn. Now just see that shoemaker! said I. He actually has curtains! I had no cur- tains, Frau Blitoun didnt understand them; she once put some up for me which looked like nothing on the earth or under the earth, and I tore them down when somebody asked me if I had chil- drens shirts drying at my window. Of course I felt provoked with the shoemaker; the fellow hadnt made my boots and wanted to live like a lord, while I sat in the dark without curtains and a cold coming on. I started up and went down into the street, thinking, Just wait! Ill give the fellow a good lesson! When I entered the room, the fir-tree was~standing on the table with lights burn- ing around it, and the shoemakers little boys Carl and Christian were blowing a fife and a trumpet, ~vhile the shouting and screaming was done by little Marie, who was stretching her tiny hands towards the lights and 1~icking merrily in her mothers lap, for she was not yet able to walk. The shoemakers wife, who had put her spinning-wheel aside, tied on a clean apron, and donned her Sunday cap nnd Sunday face, was laughing at the children i8 HOW I WON A WIFE. and wiping little Maries mouth, when she smeared it with gingerbread. The shoe- maker had covered up his work-bench, put on his slippers, and was now sitting by the stove with a king pipe and mug of beer. Well, nobody could come in here with angry words. So I only said, Good evening, and pretended I merely wanted to see what the fun was about. Every- thing was then shown me; the ginger- bread and the apples, the strings of bright- coloured beans, the seven wheat rolls, and the one bit of candy that hung on the fir- tree. Coveted prizes, said the shoe- maker; we have now brought up three children safely, except for a blow from the tail of a hussars horse, which hurt Christian a little, when his mother wasnt taking care yes, I mean you, he add- ed, shaking his finger at the little fel- low. I wont take my work away from him, I said to myself, and felt very happy, though I had a most vi~lent headache. But while Linsen was showing and ex- plaining the masterpiece it was Adam and Eve before the Fall, beautifully mod- elled in gingerbread and coloured yellow with eggs and saffron and the two little Linsens, standing on the right and left of our revered first parents, began to toot and blow the fife and trumpet, I felt exact- ly as if the old wheel-maker Langklas was boring with his silent awl ~iano,for/e, piano,forte in my head, till it buzzed and rattled, asking me meantime if that was not delightful? The shoemaker probably saw I was ill; for, when his two little cherubs had trumpeted me out of his par- adise, he went across the street with me, wanted to light my lamp, and asked whether I had any matches. I have everything, I answered, but only our Lord and Frau Biltoun know where anything is to be found. The shoemaker took off my boots and said, Wet feet! And I havent finished your other pair of boots! helped me to bed, and added, Wait a mjnute, my wife shall come over and make you some tea. This was done, but of what happened during the next fortnight I can tell very little. I lay in a heavy stupor. It seemed as if my whole room was full of fir-trees glit- tering with lights, and on each hung a beautiful cake representing Adam and Eve and all paradise; and when I stretched out my hand for it I held only a worn-out boot and a footless stocking, while Carl and Christian, with trumpets blowing and fifes squealing, stood between me and the Christmas gifts, and the thousand lights danced before my eyes, and when I called out, Let me alone! let me alone! Ill let your father make boots for me again! and held out my hand for the beautiful cake, the words were shouted and trumpeted into my ears: Make boots, make them, make them, make them! Heres the wherewithal to make them! But bachelors like you, old boy, Have naught to do with Christmas joy. Then the old red pipkin, that stood at the head of my bed, began to laugh all over its broad, shining face; and the whole room was filled with worn-out boots, which ~iil thrust out their tongues, and shoemaker Linsen seized them one after another, tied them up in a bundle, and hung them at my window instead of cur- tains. At the foot of my bed two people were perpetually sawing wood, one sawed fine wood, the other oak branches; and when the fine wood was sawed Frau Bii- toun constantly danced her nightcap up and down before my eyes up and down, up and down; and when the oak timber was sawed it seemed as if I saw a large red strawberry in a green wood, and I was not mistaken, for it was my Uncle Matthias red nose peeping out over my green dressing-gown. Well, one night, when the oak timber was again being vigorously sawed, I felt as if I was coming out of the darkness into the light, and groped around me to dis- cover where I was: I was lying in my bed, the night-lamp burned dimly, and in the arm-chair with the large stuffed back lay my Uncle Matthias, wrapped to the nose in my green dressing-gown, and snoring horribly. Uncle Matthias! I called. At first he did not hear, but finally stirred, and rubbed his eyes. Uncle Matthias, I asked, where is Linsen? Boy, said my uncle he always calls me boy, with about as much propriety as old neighbour Hamann always calls his twenty-two-years-old horse that filly boy, are you beginning that all over again? What have you to do with Linsen, the shoemaker? The man does nothing for you. Uncle, said I, as he stretched him- self out ag~ in to attend to the sawing busi- ness, is it true, or did I dream, that old bachelors have nothing to do with Christ- mas-trees? 110W I WON A WIFE. 9 Stuff and nonsense! said my Uncle Matthias. Lie still ! Have I been very sick? I asked. God knows you have, said my uncle, creeping out of the dressing- gown, taking the lamp, and holding it before my eyes. But really, really, I believe youll pull through, for you look quite different, here he patted me, my little boy. Can you really see that Im your Uncle Mat- thias, and that this is my nose, and not a strawberry? And will you stop your strawberry-picking now? Last night you dashed your fist into my face twice, when I was nodding a little. I promised to behave better, for I now had my senses again. And it was even so; the sickness was over, but my suffering now first began. I was so tired and faint that I could not stir; and if I turned my eyes Frau Biitoun stood before me, with the red-glazed pip- kin in one hand and a spoon in the other, feeding and stuffing me with some kind of gruel as thick as bookbinders paste, and very much like it in flavour, while she said, Eat it! eat it! If you dont eat, you 11 never get better. And during all this torment, the kind-hearted old creature had such a pitying look as she gazed over her pot of paste, that I was forced to swal- low it, willing or not. Everything has an end, and a sausage has two. I got out of the bed, and sat for hours talking with Uncle Matthias, and discussing various subjects. Uncle, said I one day, for the dream of the fir-tree and the old bachelor still lingered in my head, uncle, we must really both get married. Nonsense, said my uncle. Do you suppose when I served as an Austrian sergeant in the Imperial army in the year 13 I oucrht to have founded a petty Hun- b garian race? No, I replied, Im really talking about myself. You see, I think if I had a wife that is, an orderly wife, and a good, and a a pretty little wife, and you came to live with us And take care of the children? Much obliged to you, said my Uncle Matthias. I didnt mean that. But I want to get married, for Frau Blitouns nursing in this last sickness _____ Seems to me, he interrupted, you were nursed well enough. I myself Im not talking about that, I replied, you did everything in yourpower; but a wife Well, are you on the track? asked my uncle. I know one, said I. Will she have you? I dont yet know, I replied. I suppose shes handsome, he said, winking one eye at me. You can see her yourself. Unluckily, I cant go with you. She passes every afternoon, between three and four oclock, through the gate near the mill; and you cant mistake her, for shes the prettiest of all who go there. Of course, said my uncle. And has a tassel on her cloak, and leads a little boy by the hand, I added. Are you going to marry the child, too? What do you mean? I cried, angrily. Its her sisters child. Heaven preserve us! said my uncle. Dont get into a rage. What do I know about it? She might be a young widow. Well, Ill take a look at her! So saying, he left the room. About five oclock in the afternoon he came in again, lighted his pipe, sat down, and said nothing at all. This naturally vexed me, and I also kept silence. We both smoked like chimneys. But I was too curious; so I rose, and, standing where he could not peer into my face, asked, Have you been to the gate? That I have, he replied. Well? I asked. Well, said he. Did you see her? Ive seen her and talked with her. The deuce you have! said I, turning. What did you have to say to her? I havent spoken to her myself yet. Thats just it, said he. One of us must make a beginning, and I suppose I can speak to my nephews betrothed. We havent got so far as that yet. But what is not, may be, said he, leaning back in the old leather arm-chair, and stretchitig out his legs. Ill tell you all about it, he continued. As I was walking along the street, she came behind me; and I prepared to take a good look at her, for she led a little boy by the hand. I couldnt see the tassel, because it hung on her back. Yes, I understand. I suppose you looked very hard at her. When I want to see anything, I open my eyes, said my uncle, and I did so, and she cast hers down with a look as if she were drawing her bed-curtains together at night; and when she had passed by I saw the tassel too. You doubtless stared at her finely, said I. 20 HOW I WON A WIFE. That I did; but its none of your busi- ness. Did you like her? Oh, yes! She has several qualities that please me. In the first place she hasnt much wound around her head, and secondly she doesnt sweep up the street with her clothes; and these are two virtues, my son, which are of more importance than is generally supposed: for women who have so much on their heads usually have very little in them, and those who wear long dresses all have crooked legs, or, which is still worse, their shoes are shabby. My son, in choosing women and horses, you must always look first at the legs; if the gait is graceful the legs are all right, and if the shoes are neat you can depend upon industry, order, and cleanli- ness. So you think I asked. I think nothing at all, he interrupted. Let me first tell what has happened. As she walked before me towards the mill, and I followed her, I could not help saying to myself, Really! you are a pretty girl! Very likely your head may be a little turned, but that will do no harm; thats natural for a woman, but, I thought to myself, how does she talk? Thats the main thinol You must begin a conversa- tion with her. So, when she came back again, I stood with my back against a tree and pretended to be filling my pipe; and when she was only a few paces from me I took my tinder-box from my pocket, and seized the opportunity to pull out a little money with it do you see, my boy? all done intentionally so that the two- groschen pieces rattled on the frozen path. I stooped slowly down, as if it were very hard for me to collect them, and when she saw it she instantly told the little boy to help me pick them up, and gathered some herself. I thanked her, and we entered into conversation and walked back to ether to the gate. What did you talk about? I asked. Oh~ nothing of any consequence. I said I was your uncle, and asked if she did not know you you were always walk- ing up and down here. She said she had not that pleasure; pleasure, she called it. Then I asked if she had not seen a young man with a yellow-grey skin, a yel- low-grey overcoat, yellow-grey trousers, and yellow-grey hair? No, she said; but she had seen an elderly gentleman in such clothes. Well, I replied, the elderly gentleman was the young man of whom I spoke: that was you. Then the little boy cried out, Aunt, thats the gentleman you always say looks like a wheat roll dipped in coffee. Then she blushed scarlet, and I could not help laughing, and said, Yes, that was you.~ ~ I too blushed scarlet, for I was very an- gry, and said to my uncle, If you had nothing to do except to make your nephew ridiculous in other peoples eyes, you would have done better to stay at home. Oh, I had, said he, bt~t I wanted something more I wanted to find out whether she would marry you.~~ Good heavens ! I exclaimed; you didnt ask her? Boy, said my uncle, smoking furi- ously, when I take a thing in hand I do it thoroughly, but delicately. So I asked her whether she knew what you were. No, she said, perhaps you were a doc- tor. Heaven forbid! said I, how should he be one? A lawyer? Nor that either. Well, this and that? And she guessed from counsellor to barber; but I always shook my head, and at last said she hadnt guessed yet He is nothing at all! This surprised her a little, and she said you were probably liv- ing on your money. Yes, I replied, she was right in one respect; you had always shown most inclination for that kind of business from your childhood, but that you had obtained a situation I could not ex- actly say. You were now thinking of something else. What was that? she asked. Of marriage, I said, and asked what she thought of it. But first I said to myself, If she turns pale at this question, she does not like him; if she blushes, shell marry him. She grew scarlet, stooped down and tied the little boys hat, and when she rose looked at me from head .to foot; made a sort of curtsy, and away she went. So I lost the oppor- tunity to ask a question I wanted to put on my own account. That would doubtless have been a fine question, too, I said, biting off the end of my pipe in my rage. Oh, no, replied my uncle, I only wanted to ask her whether she can cook fish well, and the old fellow looked as grave and important as if my marriage concerned him more than myself. A few days after, when I could walk a little, I did not go near the mill, for I felt ashamed to see her. Ill ride up to the lake for a little while, I thought, and look on at the skating and sleighing. I did so; and, as I approached the building where beer, brandy, and punch were bought, I walked about a short time, and there was my Uncle Matthias putting an eight- HOW I WON A WIFE. 21 groschen piece on the counter, and asking for four groschens worth of cakes and a four-groschen glass of punch. This amazed me, for he preferred ruin to punch, and never tasted cake. Why, what does this mean? I thought; he is probably going to treat some children. But, no! Without perceiving me, he went with his pile of cakes and glass of punch to a sleigh in which sat a lady with a grey veil, bent his body forward as if he wanted to sprain his back, and slipped about on the ice so comically that I thought the old man would lose his balance, and was on the point of springing forward to seize him by the arm: just at that moment the lady threw back her veil, and what did I bee? My dear sweetheart, the light of my eyes! I felt as if some one had slapped me in the face. The deuce! I exclaimed; the old fellow is spoiling the whole courtship, and went home furiously angry. I sat in the dark, fretting internally, when the door opened and my uncle came in. Good evening, said he. Why are you. sitting here in the dark? Light a lamp. This is the only time in my life I ever failed to say good-day to my mothers brother; but I rose and lighted a lamp, looking like a salt herring that had lain a fortnight in vinegar, What ails you? he asked. Nothing, I answered curtly, but thought, He is my mothers brother, and added, I dont feel well. I do, said he, looking as jolly as an old donkey which has been standing in his stall a fortnight eating oats. Ive been talking with her again, he added. I dont care, I replied. What am I to understand by that? he asked, with a very solemn face. Ive done with the dream, said I. You dont want to marry her? he asked, putting both arms on the back of the arm-chair, and looking me sharply in the face. Ive managed the matter so delicately so delicately that a dog might howl if nothing came of it and now you wont marry her! No, uncle, I wont. Do you suppose Ill let you take the cream, and be satisfied with the sour milk? For in this they all agree see here! Amalie Schoppe, nie Weise, and Elise von Hohenhausen, n6e von Ochs, and all the rest who have writ- ten about this relation the fairest part of marriage is the intercourse of betrothed lovers; and this you are monopolizing yourself, and I must look on and see you treat my betrothed to punch and cakes. My uncle took the books, tossed them on the sofa, planted himself in front of me, and said, I ask~ you for the last time, will you marry the girl or not? No, said I. Well, he replied, gazing steadily at me with a very grave face, as if he had just made his will and was going to sign it, well, the girl shall come to no harm through me, fbr Ill marry her myself! and with these words stalked proudly out of the room. This was a pretty piece of business. At first I stood bewildered, then threw myself on the sofa and burst into a hearty laugh. My uncle, who was at least twenty years older than I, would marry, while I at my age had not courage! I tried to laugh again, but did not succeed very well,, for my heart was not untroubled; and though I made my face broad enough the laugh stuck in my. throat, and when I caught, in the looking-glass, a glimpse of myself with the stupidest expression in the world, I started up, paced up and down the room with long strides, raged against myself, struck the table with my fist, and said, Hell do it hes capable of it! When Frau Biitoun came, she of course gave me many occasions for scolding; and when I had put things to rights I went to the club, and played ombre, constantly say- ing to myself, You cant allow that, and lost, und then murmured, You would not let that heart be bought! and was beaten. I went sulkily home, threw myself down and tried to sleep, but could not. I raged against myself all night, for I could not give up that sweet child she had done me no wrong and was I never, in all my life, to adorn a fir-tree on Christmas eve? If I said to myself, Why not? all my scruples darted through my brain like a swarm of bumble-bees; and before my eyes appeared a huge interrogation-point, which, if I interpreted~ it, always said, But will she marry you? Well, that no one can answer better than she herself that I perceived; and when the grey winter morning shone into my cold room and chilled me to the bones, as I made my coffee, I murmured, Now I have decided. What must be, must be, and said to Frau Biltoun, Frau Biltoun, go to Bohnsackens shop, and buy me a pair of the nice yellow gloves young law- yers always wear, when they are on some important business. They must be very yellow. About eleven oclock I put on my black 22 HOW I WON A WIFE. frock-coat, black pants, shining boots, and new yellow gloves, placed my hat above the whole, went to the looking-glass, and said with good reason, Is it possible I shouldnt have known myself! Then I glanced around the room, and added, Things wont probably remain in this state long. I looked at my old slippers, which stood before the bed, saying, Youll be astonished if all goes well, and in a few weeks a pair of pretty little shoes come to visit you. I walked down the street, reached my Uncle Matthiass door, and thought, One should be at peace with all the world, be- fore he takes such a step; for I felt as if I were going to execution. S.o I knocked and went in. Well, Ive seen a great many things in this world; I once saw a fellow eat lire; I once saw a man eat tow and draw a beautiful silk ribbon out of his mouth; but never was I so astonished as at the moment I beheld my Uncle Matthias that morning. There he stood in his room in the self- same costume as I~ only that his black coat was a green hunting-shirt, and his yellow gloves were of buckskin, while mine were kid, and his white moustache hung over his mouth like a pair of icicles, and mine twisted upward, and was all sorts of colours. Uncle! I cried, as I came in, and my hat rolled off on the floor in my amaze- ment. What do you want, my boy? he re- plied. What do you want? I shouted. I want what you dont, he replied. But I do want it. And, I added, I only came here in this dress, to tell you that I was too hasty, and ask you to be my dear old uncle again. Is that what you want? he said, sit- ti~1g down in his arm-chair, and looking me steadily in the face. Well, then, Ill tell you that I was going to your house in this dress to give you a little fright. I learned while I was a soldier that a little fright does men good, for then shame comes in. And, my boy, he said, rising, and laying his hand on my arm, I wont stand in your way, and make a wrinkle on the white sheet of your happiness, for the little girl is born for you, and she is a good girl. With these words he gave my arm such a pinch with his huge old fist that I thought, If she is like that, she is more than good. My uncle now brought out aglass of his old port wine, saying, Here, my boy, take something to strengthen you first. Where are you going to begin? Ah! said I,if I only knew. Put your leg on the chair, said he. Why? I asked. Nothing, he replied, unbuttoning the straps of my pants, only you must begin by falling on your knees, and these might be in your way. Well, said I, you commence well. What is proper, must be done, said he. I never went through the affair my- self, but Ive always seen it in pictures. What do you say? Stop! Ill help you I and with these words he hastily pulled out his chest of drawers and rummaged in the, one that contained his most sacred treasures. Yes, he appeared with his book of genealogy. This was rarely touched, and, when he did move it, only in the evening when everything was still. Then he first put on clean linen and his best clothes, placed two lamps on the table, one on each side, pondered over every page, read all the verses, and marked the death - record with black crosses. The following morning he was always very melancholy; and the last time he had looked at it he came to me the next morning, and said, So far as I know, there is one alive still, Christian Bunger, the son of old Bunger, the tailor, who used to live next door to my parents. If God spares my life, Ill visit him this summer. Here! said he, when he had taken out the book and laid it on the table, sit down here and look out a verse and learn it by heart. There are some which pray to our Lord in heaven, no doubt you can also find one for the best girl on earth. Uncle, said I, taking the book and turnincr the leaves, I know what to do: I will say what my heart dictates, and there is a great deal in my heart to-day. Thats well, my boy, replied my un- cle, nay, perhaps, still better. Stop! he added, as I was turning to leave the room, the white string on your shirt is hanging half a yard down your back, and he fastened it under the collar. There, now, go in Gods name. I went; but as I left the house I heard a noise over me, and when I looked up there was Uncle Matthias stretching him- self half out of the window, nodding and winking at me, and whenever I looked back on my way down the long street he nodded, and waved his red pocket-hand- kerchief, till I was afraid people might guess what secret we had between us. I might tell a tale, but shall avoid doing HOW I WON A WIFE. 23 so. Such affairs dont go as smoothly in real life as in novels. Ninety-nine out of every hundred make the most absurd blunders on this occasion; and, even if the whole hundred return as the happiest be- trothed bridegrooms, the ninety and nine would still say to themselves, God grant that we may never be in that fix again, but, if we do undertake the business, well manage more cleverly. God grant that I may never be in the position again! At the end of an hour and a half I came back, the happiest of men, and probably looked so; and, as in my lonely bache- lor life I had acquired the foolish habit of talking to myself, I cannot, on calm re- fiection, blame people for moving out of my way as I came down the street, and looking somewhat sharply at me. When about three rods from my uncles house, he rushed forward to meet me, threw his arms around my neck he had been standing outside the door the whole hour and a half, watching for me and cried, Hold your tongue! hold your tongue! I know all, and when will the wedding be? I silenced him, saying, Hush! At least wait until we are out of the street, took him by the arm, and dragged him home with me; but when we came in, though Frau Biitoun was setting the table for dinner, he could control himself no longer, but poured out his whole heart, and, when the woman stared at him, pointed over his shoulder at me, saying, Look there, Frau Biltoun, there he stands my sis- ters son. Hes a betrothed bridegroom. And when Frau Biitoun congratulated me, and wished to know who the fortunate lady was, I had to hush him again; and when she had gone he talked and looked at me very indignantly. I was a hypo- crite, a very obstinate fellow, and I had a black heart if I could conceal such happi- ness so long. I was obliged to sit down and tell him the whole story, after which he became a little more friendly, nodded, and said, Ex- cellent; then shook his head, remarking, That was not exactly to his mind. When I had told the whole, he rose with a face like the sky in haying-time, when it is uncertain whether to rain or let the sun shine; he shook his head and nodded, nodded and shook his head, and at last said, For his part, he would have done better; and then asked at which verse of this chapter I had gone down on my knees. I was obliged to confess that I had not come to that at all. Uncle Mat- thias took his hat, saying, Well, then, I wish you a good appetite. Hold fast to what you have, the wolf will eat what comes after. You crowed too soon; the affair is still a long way from being set- tled; kneeling is a part of every betrothal, and the agreement is good for nothing if it isnt sealed on both knees. I shouldnt be in the least surprised if the engage- ment was off to-morrow. Another time take my advice! With these words he left the room. Nevertheless, wonderfully happy days now dawned for me, wonderfully happy days. Once more I might find much to tell, but will refrain. The greatest joys and deepest sorrows must not be public to every one; and, although I am ready to believe that all who read these lines are well-bred, worthy people, some Hans Quast might slip in among them and make jokes at my expense, and that would be extremely unpleasant to me. But every good honey-cake needs a small sprinkling of pepper, and I, too, did not fail to receive it. In the first place, my Uncle Matthias scattered a few grains; but when he saw that the affair was likely to last, and had himself paid a friendly visit to my betrothed, and ascer- tained her skill in cooking fried fish to his satisfaction, he dropped his spice and dipped deep into his honey-pot too deep, I said, for he described my happi- ness to everybody who would listen to him in such glowing terms, that so many flies were soon buzzing in my honey-moon that I did not know where to hide myself, and as many comical stories were in circulation concerning me as if I had become not only a bridegroom, but a butt for everybodys amusement. I was the object of jests whenever I appeared. At every fifth step in the street some fool grinned at me, and if I asked what there was to laugh at all said, as if they had made some agree- ment, Oh ! nothing, nothing! If I went to my old club in the evening for that I had instantly announced my inten- tion of doing, I wouldnt have given it up under any circumstances, in the first place because it was, so to speak, the home of my mind, and secondly because I thought it conducive to my culture well, when I went there, there was a whispering and hushing and nudging; stories were told of what such a person had said before marriage, and what he had said after mar- riage, and what the shepherd had said to his dog; and if I grew angry and asked what they meant, and how the point con- cerned me, all said, Heaven forbid! We mean nothing. If for these reasons I did not go to the club in the evening, 24 HOW I WON A WIFE. Frau Biitoun opened her little pepper-mill, proverb. What does the fellow mean? and scattered the fine dust in my nose and My w~f~ wants what I want, and I dont eyes. Should this thing be so Y or should want this. You must ask Uncle Mat. it be so? She didnt know where I wanted thias about it. this now. She was an old woman, and So I went to his house, related the mci- had taken care of a great many gentlemen dent, repeated the words, and asked, Un- in her lifetime, but none who were be- cle, what does the fellow mean by it ? trothed. I must have patience with her, Why? said he, walking thoughtfully for things would soon be very different, up and down the room, and the fellow And as for removing all this stuff she was thrown out by his womenkind, you thought I was perfectly right, it was not say? good enough for my betrothed bride, who, Yes, I replied, he said so himself. she had heard, had been reared like a And he was sitting in the gutter? princess and never dipped her fingers in Yes. cold water; but her eyes were too old to Well, said my uncle, after a few mo- see every spot on the coat. And if my ments reflection, then this was probably betrothed wanted to visit me soon she his meaning, for his wife threw him out, might do so; for her part she had no objec- and that would agree with this proverb, tions, and if the linen and the floor and for it runs, My wife wants to be master the bureau-cover didnt suit her, or the in the house, and I want to be master too; little cupboard she had put in one corner and my wife wants her way, and I wont of my room for her convenience, she consent. But, he added, if she was in wasnt going to wear herself out. And if the house and he sitting outside in the I wanted a fire in the evening I might gutter, she was doubtless master. say so she didnt know. I always used I dont know why this conversation to go to the club, why didnt I now? And made me feel so troubled and anxious. I then she sat down before the stove, and had never looked at my design from this puffed, and puffed, and the coals glowed point. Uncle, said I, you know me, on her fat red cheeks, so that I could not and know her too. Which of us do you look at her without thinking, God forgive think will be master in the house? me for my heavy sins! I know very well Why, said he, she doesnt seem to that this is my Frau Biitoun, and a Chris- me at all as if she would like to sit outside tian widow why must I always think of the house in the gutter. I believe she the distinguished people who dwell in a would rather remain indoors. place that is said to be very hot? And The devil! I exclaimed. when she blows the fire why do I always Oh! she probably wouldnt make it so think that possibly in that place somebody bad as that, said Uncle Matthias; she is sitting, blowing coals to warm up my would doubtless exert a gentle, feminine beautiful married happiness a little. rule, as people call it, over you, you From this any one may suppose that would be somewhat tightly tied to her my scruples were not all thrown out of apron-string. the window; and they became still worse Im not afraid of that, said I; after as I walked down the street one afternoon the marriage. Id soon get het out of the on my way from a visit to my betrothed habit of havin6 the first bushel of rye. bride. Dont rely upon that, said my uncle. As I walked along the street on this You know the proverb: day, I heard a loud noise in the distance, Before the wedding tame your mate, the people looked out of the windows, and After the wedding tis too late. before one of the doors a little group had assembled. Just as I was passincr the No, I replied, thats something door, the furrier Obst shot out o~ his new, and looked as if my uncle had told shdp and landed in the gutter. Good me I had been made pope. heavens! said his neighbour Grajin, Well, then, sit down, said he, and what are you doing there? Ill tell you a story. Oh! thats easy to tell, said the fur- Go on, I replied, but dont try to rier, my womenkind pitched me out. give it a useful moral. Im too old for But why? asked the other. that. Ill tell you, said the furrier, rising; Dont worry, said lie, your dear my wife wants what I want, and I dont wife will apply the moral, if you dont fol- want this. low my advice. As this story gave me no information, I sat down in my uncles room, and he I walked on, thinking, Its some foolish began~ the story. HOW I WON A WIFE. 25 In Rumpelmannshagen, where I spent the first years of my apprenticeship, lived two fine young fellows, one named Wolf, who was a blacksmith in the village, and the other named Kiwitt, who was a mil- ler. The smith was smart and knew what he was doing, the miller was stupid, but had money. Well, in due time a rumour ran through the village: Gossips, have you all heard? The smith and the miller are courting the magistrates Sophie and Marie, and they say the weddings will come off at Martinmas. And it proved true. They were both married at Martin- mas, and the old father gave a splendid wedding, and we young people were in- vited; and I remember to this day what jolly times we had; for towards morning Ludwig Brookmann turned a mug of beer over my head, and when I was angry said, One ought surely to take a joke. After the wedding everything went smooth- ly for a time, but ere long there was a whisper in the village: Gossips, have you all heard the news? The millers wife beats her husband. And this was true. One Sunday afternoon the miller came to the smith, who was sitting in the inn play- ing solitaire. Well, said the former, I know what has happened to you to-day. How so? asked the smith, rising and going out with his brother-in-law. XVhy, said the miller, dont try to humbug me! we have both gone into fine service. If you mean my wife, said the smith, I must tell you I have gone into excellent service. Yes, said the miller, when she isnt in the house. Come with me, replied the smith. I killed a hog yesterday, and you know my wife is very fond of black sausage. Ill give you a proof of it. They went to the smiths house, and standing before the door the latter called, Sophie! His wife looked out of the window, and asked, What is it? Sophie, said the smith, take the dish of black sausage and throw it out into the street. What? cried his wife. Throw the dish of black sausage into the street. Directly, said Sophie, and the dish whirled through the door as the furrier did this morning. Thats right, said the smith. And now, Sophie, throw out the pot with the rest of the black sausage, too. This was all done, and the smith said, Very well, Sophie. Dont get tired, if I come home late this evenino He then went back to the inn with the miller, and asked, Well, have you seen? Yes, said the miller, thats splendid. How did you begin this? In a very simple way, replied the smith. Did you lock her up? No. Did you beat her? Well, what did you do then? Ill tell you, said the smith. When we were betrothed, I watched to discover what article of dress she liked best, and I found it was a pretty little red silk hand- kerchief; so I seized the opportunity when we had had breakfast, and the table was smeared with goose-grease, to wipe it off with her beautiful handkerchief. Well, you can imagine how she stormed at me I But I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her, saying, Sophie, you surely have me. What do you care for such a handker- chief? You can get another like it, but you wont so easily find a man as fond of you as I am. Well, she submftted, and when we afterwards went to the royal shooting-match, she bought a pot, a very handsome pot, and while she was admir- ing it I took it and played with it, and baff I threw it on a stone. She again began to storm a little, but I kissed her and said, Never mind, Sophie, its bet- ter for the pot to be broken than if I had come to harm, for I shall earn our bread all our lives. Well, lastly, I broke three teeth out of her comb, but then she only laughed, saying, I wonc~er if youll buy me a new one at the Teterowsehen fair this fall. Well, I did that too, and so the thing has remained; she is satisfied with everything. But I must go in to my game. The smith went into the tavern, but at the end of half an hour the inn-keeper ran in, saying, Come out here, Wolf! Kiwitt the miller is standing outside in a pitiful plight. The smith went out, found his broth- er-in-law with a scratched face and a swol- len eye, and, not a little startled, asked, Why, Kiwitt, whats the matter izow V Yes, thats all very well to say, re- plied the miller; this comes of your con- founded stories. How so? asked the smith. Yes, ask once more, said the miller. I remembered your nonsensical story, and thought what had served with one sister might serve with the other; at least 26 HOW I WON A WIFE. I might try it. So I went home. My wife was standing before the looking-glass brushing her hair, and on the table lay her best cap. I said to myself, This is a lucky chance, took the cap, and thought, If you throw it into the dirty water in the wash-basin, it will be just the thing.~~ Well, I did so; and she saw my move- ments in the looking-glass, and before I had any idea what was coming scratched me in the face, and when I said, Marie, you have me, and can easily get another cap! she shouted, Yes, I have you, and you shall get your pay for the cap. And see, said the miller, passing his hand over his swollen eye, this is what she did, and all on account of your confounded story. You simpleton, replied the smith, didnt I tell you I played the trick before marriage? What serves before marriage is useless after. And this is the story, my son, said my Uncle Matthias, rising; and, if you are wise, you can act accordingly. I also rose, walked to the window, thought the story over in my mind, and at last turned, saying, Its a confounded anecdote, uncle. You generally tell much better ones. Yes, cried my uncle laughing, be- cause I generally tell you the practical ap- plication at once, and now you must find it yourself. You dont expect me to throw my betrotheds cap into a wash-basin, or wipe off the table with her silk handkerchief? You can try it, laughed the old rogue. ~ said I, that will do me no good. The old man laughed still more, and at last said, Boy, how old are you really? I did not care to hear much about my age during the time of my betrothal, and thinking, Aha, you are sprinkling a little pepper again! asked, What do you mean ? Oh, said he, I mean nothing. Then let me tell you, I said some- what sharply, I was forty-one years old the 7th of last November. So, said he, you are in the forties. Yes, perhaps that doesnt suit you? Oh, I dont care, he replied, I was only thinking of the proverb: He who in the twenties is not handsome, in the thir- ties not strong, in the forties not wise, and in the fifties not rich, can be let alone, and will amount to nothino~ And you dont seem to be wise in the forties. Uncle Matthias, said I, drawing my- self up proudly, he who takes me for a fool will be mistaken. I must have looked very absurd, for my uncle laughed, saying, And for all that you can make no use of the story? Of course what the smith did with the handkerchief and the pot and the comb wont answer for you. You must try something else. For instance, you can doubtless, at your age, perform before marriage three foolish acts. Foolish acts? I asked. Foolish acts, said my uncle; and I paced up and down the room reflecting on the matter, and finally said, Yes, I be- lieve, uncle, I can soon set everything to rights. Do so, then, said my uncle. And you think I shall then remain master of my house? Yes, my son, I think so. Foolish not wrong acts. You see, if she begins to scold, you can throw your arms around her neck, and say, Let it pass! let it pass! Dont mind that affair, look in- stead at my heart, which belongs to. you, and will heat for you forever. And then, my boy, he added, then you can still bring in the kneeling; for you may say what you like it belongs there. I reflected upon the matter a short time, and then said to myself, He is your mothers brother, and you ought to let him have his own way.~~ I might here relate what acts I per- formed, but will refrain. Some accident might suffer the account to fall into my wifes hands, and she might possibly no-. tice that all these things had been secret- ly planned, and she had been tricked into her goodness, and therefore say, Stop! this game wont do; you have been cheat- ing me. Ill shuffle the cards. There I have the lead, and now take care. Well see if you cant be fooled. But often when now, as my wife, she flits silently and busily about, constantly attending to my wants, and affectionately yielding to my wishes, I think, You ought to be ashamed of yourself for hav- ing commenced with deception; and a short time ago I said to my uncle, Ill tell you what, Im going to confess to her the cause of my foolish acts before mar- riage. Do they trouble you? asked my uncle. Every clever fellow must do one foolish and one sensible act; but he ought not to speak of them himself, or both will lose their virtue. You are living very happily; be content with that. Yes, said I, its all very well for you to talk so; but I often feel as if we GERMAN HOME LIFE. 27 might be still happier, if she had the rule. My son, replied old Uncle Matthias, putting his hand on my shoulder, all the happiness possible in this world does not fall into one pair of hands, be satisfied with what you have. As for the married state, dont you know old Jochen Smith? I mean old Jochen Smith who lived with his wife till he was eighty, and was buried with her on the same beautiful summer Sunday morning. Well, he once said to me, for I myself know nothing about it, Herr Sergeant, married life is like an apple-tree, one sits in it and plucks and plucks; but the fairest and reddest apples grow near the top, where nobody is tall enough to reach. If a man is foolish, and wants to get the apples by force, he takes a stick and knocks down the finest ones, spoiling them, and also breaking off the branches on which are the buds: the sen- sible man lets them quietly remain, and waits until late in the autumn; then they will fall into his lap of their own accord, and taste much sweeter. And therefore, my boy, added my old uncle, while his dear old face wore a grave, kindly expres- sion, dont knock off your red apples be- fore the time, but wait till late in the au- tumn; then, when you take your wife the last beautiful one, tell her the story of your tricks before marriage, and she will laugh over them herself. man, but also tour dicourager les autres; les autres being the enterprising ladies from out of whose midst his critics are supposed to have singled him. These papers being avowedly written by a woman, she perhaps ought to leave all opinion or comment on the head and crown of things to the more competent virile pen. She would only venture, by way of apology and justification, to say thus much: that if some power have given the giftieto men to see themselves and each other all round as other (men) see them, women are not altogether out in the dark; they see men from their own (i.e. the feminine) standpoint, and this coign of vantage is not an altogether unimpor- tant one. A man in his dressing-gown and slippers may show more of the real man that is in him to his wife than is ever likely to be known to his fellow-swagger- ers at the club, or the Major Penden- nises of life with whom he lounges along the Row in the morning, or sneers lan- guidly through a summers afternoon. To say of men , generally, that they are of the superior sex, is to say very little when applied to German men. Unfortu- nately, the genius of the language and the scheme of creation do not admit of supe- riorest; so we must go round about it, and say that in Germany the relative posi- tion of the sexes is what one imagines to be conveyed in the sentence, And the sons of God took unto themselves daugh- ters of men. It is not, however, my pur- pose here to speak specifically of the Ger- man husband, because that, though an From Frasers Magazine. essentially feminine view of the subject, GERMAN HOME LIFE.* would be to limit it to an inconveniently BY A LADY. narrow sphere; and a man, whether bond VIII. or free, whether bachelor or benedick a mans a man for a that. MEN. And, to begin with the physical aspects WHEN a man, as will now and again of the matter, we may venture to affirm, happen, has the misfortune to write and without fear of contradiction, that from publish a more than usually feeble story, earliest childhood the German man has the critics, by a simple yet ingenious privileges above the German woman, and method, gently convey to him that he has these privileges grow always and increase. mistaken his vocation in life. Miss We know what their respective physical So-and-So, they say, will probably be education is: the boy belongs to his surprised to hear that all her men are Turn- Verein; he mixes with his inferiors, monsters; that the archangelic do not as superiors, and equals; he profits by his yet walk amongst us clothed in tweed and holidays to take long walking-tours; he broadcloth; nor do Oxford shoes disguise lives entirely during these summer excur- the cloven foot of our acquaintance, and sions in the rough, carrying his modest so on, through paragraphs of infinitely wardrobe in a knapsack, eating how, when, cruel jocosity, admirably calculated not where he can; falling in with parties of only to extinguish the well-meaning young other youthful students like himself, frater- nizing on the road, hob-a-nobbing in the It has been found impossible to finish these papers inns, singing with his full young voice within the limits of our present number. An article on the Vot/estieder, the .Studenteniieder, the Marriage will conclude the series. 28 GERMAN HOME LIFE. Soldatenlieder of his fatherland. He comes across ruined castles, ancient for- tresses, Druid circles, quaint old hunting Sc~kliisser, convents, churches. Straight- way he learns all about what he sees; if he be not himself a student or an antiqua- rian, one or other of the party is; his young chest is bared to the breeze; his strong young limbs climb the mountain; his eye roves keenly and restlessly to right and left; what there i~ to be seen he will see; what there is to learn he will learn; what may be known he will know. The scents of the thyme and the pine linger in his tawny young mane; he takes a draught of milk, a draught of water, with the simple food his wallet affords; he lies down, with his plaid under his head, in the shadow of the rock, or be- neath the murmuring pines and the hem- locks, and enjoys his noonday nap. He saw the sun rise this morning, and has walked many an upward mile since day- break. Seeing him lying there; you may, perhaps, take him for a young artisan (auf der Wanderschaft), as perhaps he is (for boys of all ranks will go out to spend their holidays in the summer woods), or perhaps you discern, despite his rough clothes and his modest equipment, signs of that good blood in him which, as the proverb says, ne teut mentir. In any case, though he may not look what you would call a gentleman, he looks a man; with manly purpose and intention even in his sleeping eyelids and smiling mouth. He will get up presently, and go singing through the sunlit woods, a gay, a cheery, enviable young athlete. So, with a certain rough freedom, breathing nature, full of quaint simple prose and poetry, with infinite capabilities of enthusiasm, with dim aspirations and vague yearnings after possible impossibilities, the German youth goes his way, through ideal paths into the great reality of the future. Speak of the German, and you see the soldier. It is not only that the warlike element is the predominating one, it is that obedience, punctuality, endurance, high courage, silent perseverance, mark the whole manner of the man. The com- pulsory military service, so much bespok- en, bewritten, commended, condemned, has had its fine moral influence on the nation at large. A ma~ has served his time as Freiwilli~g-er; and he returns to his groceries, his farmeries, his draperies. He has learned exactitude, punctuality, obedience. Can there be a finer practical education? He has learned to hear, not to speak, and to obey. In turn, he will bring such habits of order and thorough- ness into civil life with him as shall com- pel promptness and obedience, and make the refractory look and the insubordinate word alike impossible. Taken from the receipt of custom, from the yard-wand or the coffee-mill, and set down in the bar- rack-yard, he learns new things, other things, more things, than if he passed his life behind a ledger, measuring ribbons, or weighing out groceries. His officers are men of noble blood, of fine type, of fair presence. The very aspect of them is an education for him; he admires, with- out envying them; he acknowledges their superiority, and does not hate them for it. For, to the honour of the German nation let it be said, that even the rankest rad- ical spits out his spite less at the person than at the thing he hates. With this promptness to obey the word of command we find the corresponding roughness and readiness in giving it; dismissed from volunteer duty, he is apt to carry so?- datesque forms into private life, to indulge in laconic utterances, and look for military exactitude of obedience. So much for the non-professional soldier; for the man who may yet have to do real hard service in the Laudwekr, or harder yet in the Lands/urm, but who, for the time being, is released from his military duties, may go back to citizen life once more. Hitherto, for men of gentle birth, the army has been the only profession in Ger- many. No man who wrote von before his name had any other career open to him, unless it were diplomacy; but, it must be remembered, that in the pre- imperial days, when Prussia was a third- rate power, diplomacy could offer but very limited prospects in life to men of good family and small means. The diplomatic representatives of the smaller States not unfrequently resolved themselves into modest consuls, who, though perhaps not quite so ornamental as an ambassador, envoy, or minister, were at least equally useful, with the further advantage of being infinitely less expensive. Then there was the higher civil service (Adhere Beam/en- S/and). But even the highest of such posts represented but a dwarfed ambition; and again the posts were not many, and the ladder to be climbed, rung by rung, pain- fully long; so that by the time a man had attained to the dignity of Finanz-Minis- ter, or Wirklicher Geheimer-Rath, wintry snow would already be lying on his fros- ty pow. Attorneys a clamorous, noisy, cack- ling crew have ever been inodorous in GERMAN HOME LIFE. 29 the nostrils of the refined, and in Ger- many you would search in vain for scions of noble blood amongst their turbulent ranks. I do not like, said Dr. John- son, referring to a person who had just left the room, to speak ill of any one behind his back, but I believe the gentle- man is an attorney! The Church (in Protestant Germany), in spite of the late king of Prussias at- tempted episcopacies and Anglicanism, remains utterly unattractive in aristocratic eyes. They were literary episcopacies. The king who invented the bishop could not create the see. Bankers are almost exclusively children of Israel (occasionally ennobled; bczronisirt, if they had beeh accommodating in the matter of timely loans), and whilst commerce seemed to be the prerogative of the plebeian, the army remained a patrician monopoly. But al- ready, if they have not changed, circum- stances are changing all that. However great Germany may be as a military nation, bristling all over with hel- met-spikes and fortresses, she can only become really and abidingly great when years of peace shall have consolidated her position. Commerce, the child of peace and the mother of plenty, is after all the furnisher of the thews and the sinews of war. The country of the milliards knows, as well as any other country nay, better, if the history of her past finance be worth anything the value of full coffers and the dignity of no national debt. That she cannot remain politically great unless she become commercially great; that the fruitful rivalries of peace are the balm and oil her bleeding wounds require there are abundant evidences to show. In her desire for a wider field and ampler opportunities, she has stretched out tentative fingers across ticklish fron- tiers, warily touching this or that border- town, casting covetous eyes towards this or that convenient port, sending out con- suls to the east and to the west, and estab- lishing relations to the north and to the south. And these very facts, this very attitude, open up vast future prospects to the young manhood of Germany. As a great power, Prussia (and her dependen- cies) will be able to dispense with petty pride; noble fathers will see no dishonour in having rich sons; bankers and mer- chants will be admitted into society, and honest independence will know how to exact respect and hold its own against expiring prejudice. Marriages with the daughters of rich speculators and contract- ors are already quite the order of the day; and though one would prefer a more independent standpoint, and would rather a man should make money for himself than take it from another, yet we must nc~t be impatient. Patrician blood is found to mix very kindly with plebeian money; the young lad y is charmed to write the magic prefix before her name, and to find her- self launched into higher circles; the young gentleman discovers that an opu- lent father-in-law is extremely convenient on occasion, and forgives the want of a pedigree in consideration of the plethora of pelf. One or other of the offspring of such a marriage may come into the world with commercial instincts (as some babes are said to come mouthing silver spoons), and a purely ornamental young gentleman and lady thus become the unconscious founders of a race of merchant princes. It has been said that the well-born Ger- man is distinguished for his morgue and disregard of those in a lower station than himself. This was, and is, his chief re- proach in the eyes of his middle-class fel- low-countrymen. He does not conceal that he despises their want of manner, their glaring solecisms, their extraordina- ry coarseness of behaviour and absence of tact. They, who perhaps know as much as he does, are richer than he is, are unconscious of all that jars and grates upon one of a finer fibre than themselves, and are apt to declare that he trades on his nobility, and assumes a merit that he is far from possessing. Not from the so- called lower orders is resentment ever likely to become dangerous, but from the well-educated, underbred middle class; the very middling if refinement of speech, suavity of manner, and gentleness of utter- ance count for anything. The middle class as we understand it one brother a merchant, another in the Guards, the eld- est son of the house heir to a baronetcy, the youngest walking the earth in an MB. waistcoat, and waiting for the family living is almost incomprehensible to the ordinary German mind; but let us hope that the day may not be far distant when the arrogance of the aristocrat may be tempered, and the tone of the citizen refined. So long as commerce means mere shop-keeping, every petty grocer writes Kaufinaun (merchant) over his shopdoor, and every Jew usurer signs himself Ban quier, it is to be feared that a commercial career will not Prove very at- tractive in the eyes of, or draw many re- cruits from, the upper ranks of society. It is not given to every man to be what in common parlance is called born a gen 30 GERMAN HOME LIFE. tleman; but if his birth be not gentle, his manners may make him so; and we all know that a cotton lord may be a truer gentleman than the descendant of a hundred earls. The modest independ- ence and self-reliance which bring about suavity of manners and an absence at once of the servile or the arrogant in a mans intercourse with those of another rank is not at a premium in Germany, where either self-assertion or obsequious- ness strikes the outsider with a sense of pained surprise. The German gentleman, the man of noble birth, of splendid presence, of pol- ished if of cold and arrogant manners, fails where we might expect him to fail. Without love, says our great humour- ist, I can fancy no true gentleman love that is, not of the individual, which may be but mere sublimated selfishness, but that chivalrous devotion which high-mind- ed manhood ever bears to gentle woman- hood. The German gentleman may be gallant, he may be a man of pleasure, a lady-killer, a grand viveur; as a rule he is perfectly ready to flirt with any pretty woman, to make daily Fenster parades be- fore her windows, to whisper soft senti- mental nothings to her during the course of the cotillon, it may be even slightly to compromise her. She is, of course, a married woman (for these attentions would mean marriage to a girl), so she knows, and ought to know, how to take care of herself. He will go away, and laugh over his little social successes, when his com- rades banter him on his ~5onnes fortunes; and she will be backbitten in the Kaf fees, and a tolerant society will view the matter with indifference, unless indeed it comes to such a climax as makes indiffer- ence no longer possible; and even then, an easy-going temper disposes the lookers- on generally to be tolerably lenient. Their bark is much worse than their bite in these matters, and after all, one must not draw the line too tight. Marriage is beset with a thousand difficulties; life is more amusing behind the sdenes of a the- atre than in the dull domestic round. One likes to have ones moments of relaxation, and eternal parade, civil as well as milita- ry, is rather a gilding of the lily. Women are well enough to be a moments orna- ment, but life is easier en gar~on. One has a thousand egotisms and ambitions to occupy ones time and thoughts, and a man gallooned all over with gold, and staggering under orders, cannot be ex- pected to sit like Hercules at Omphales feet. German ladies are not accustomed to the entire and untiring devotion which Englishwomen accept with all the calm unconsciousness of a right. No man rises to open the door for you when you leave the room; if cups of tea or coffee have to be handed about, it is the lady of the house that will carry them round; she will be rewarded with a Tausend Dank, meine Gnddigste, but the most gra- cious will be allowed to trot about all the same. A man need not wait (in that happy land) for pain and anguish to. rack the brow before the ministering angels appear upon the scene. You (one of the angels) may search an hour for your sortie de ha? in a cloak-room, before one out of that group of glittering beings assembled round the door will put out a helping hand. When at last you emerge from your difficulties and pass down the stairs, they will draw themselves up, in stramme ;nilitdrische Haltung, click their heels together, and bring their heads to the level of their sword-belts; and if that is not devotion, chivalric behaviour, and splendid respect, the world has none to show, and you are an exacting and ir- rational malcontent. In everything the German is controlled. He is controlled in his love-makings and marryings; he is controlled in the utter- ance of his opinion; he is controlled in his goings-out and his comings-in. The journalist is liable at any moment to fine and imprisonment; the caricaturist to ar- rest; of liberty of the press there can be no question; of the license of the law no doubt. In the old gambling days of Ba- den and Hombourg, no native officer was permitted to play at the tables; the money of the State must remain absolutely in the State pocket; but this fatherly solicitude for the coin of the country did not extend itself to the pocket of the peasant, who would stand gloating through long Sun- day afternoons at the heaps of gold, ven- ture at last his form or his thaler, and retire into his workaday world on Mon- day a disillusioned chaw-bacon. Control touches even the follies and flirtations of the young. Lately, in a northern capital, garrisoned by Prussian troops, an ardent young lieutenant and a coy and bashful maiden found themselves f or a moment, by some rare chance, in a deserted tea- room alone. The enamoured youth had just caught his fair one by the hand, when her most intimate of intimate bosom- friends entered. The poor girl started up in terror, and, forgetful alike of her love and her lover, broke out, Pray, pray, best Evelina, do not say what you have GERMAN HOME LIFE. 3 seen. Evelina promised, and the impru- dent maiden returned at once to the ball- room. But lo! next day the story, with various embroideries, was circulating through all the Kaffees, and behold, the day after, the ardent lieutenant sum- moned to an irate generals presence. Youno~ man, said his stern Vorgesetz- ter, glooming down upon him in grim regulation wrath, you are transferred to depot duty on the frontier; there you will have ample time to reflect on your indis- cretion. ( Es ist fhnen nicht erlaubt fungen Damen aus den hdkeren Stdnden Zn com~romittiren / ) And forth, like ball from the cannons mouth, behold our gay young militaire shot over the frontier! Hear this, gallant young English gentle- men, horse, foot, and dragoons; hear it, too, young English maidens inclining ten- der ears to manly pleadings, and be thank- ful that your bosom-friends ~are not spies, nor, as a rule, the colonels of our regi- ments martinets in matters of the affec- tions. Resistance in any shape is hope- less; it wlll be put down, in whatever form or in whatever rank it makes its sporadic appearance, with an iron hand. Beneath the drapery of that flowing white mantle, that reminds you of the crusaders of old, you may plainly perceive the steel gauntlet of armed despotism. Whilst all the others were boastino says Heine, of how proudly the Prussian eagle soared towards the sun, I prudently kept my eyes fixed upon his claws. The German makes a good colonist be- cause he is frugal, patient, and hardy; but he seems to need a transplantation to another soil to shine forth in all the ex- cellence that not unfrequently becomes his. The German workman at home is dilatory, unpunctual, slow, and often ex- tremely bungling in his work. There is not the same competition as with us; if he do not choose to hurry himself, you must abide his pleasure; he is the obliger, you the obliged. You give him a model, and he executes his copy not amiss; it only falls short of supreme excellence; a little more finish, and it would have been absolutely well done. The German la- bourer is a marvel of heavy artfulness: he seems always to have something to do that interferes with continuous work; either he has to spit upon his hands, or to adjust his raiment, or to take a dram, or have a crack with a comrade, or pick a quarrel with an enemy; in short, he is in- ventive in this respect to a degree that his general stolidity would never lead you to suspect. The writer remembers watch- ing throughout a period of some months an English navvy who had command of a gang of Germans engaged upon some waterworks. Abuse flowed freely from the lips of the stalwart Briton, and though he spoke an unknown tongue, the desired effect was produced; the instant, how- ever, his attention was withdrawn, or his amenities ceased, the stolid crew aban- doned all active labour, and became pas- sive spectators of the general scene. Id liever have one o ourn nor five on em, said that British navvy, in a tone of rueful indignation, one day to a sympa- thetic auditor who was watching the slow progress; even the stalwart frame, the loud voice of the man, and the free use of his choice vernacular had ceased to have its effect, and the gloom of despair hung heavy on his brow. Yet we know that two-thirds of the sugar-bakers, ba- kers, and tailors in London are German, and that America speaks largely the lan- guage of Hans Breitmann. It seems that the sight of incessant activity and untir- ing energy universally prevailing around is necessary to arouse the German, and make him shake off the lethargy that otherwise possesses him. Crimes of vio- lence are of very rare occurrence in Ger- many; the German is not cruel, he does not murder, he does not assassinate, he does not beat his wife, or kick her with hobnailed shoes: he does not love blood. Bloodshed is distasteful to him, unless, as in the Franco-Prussian war, it be his duty to shed blood; then he consents to butcher and be butchered (as during the awful days of Gravelotte and Mars-la- Tour) with almost automatic endurance. But whilst we allow for the difference of temperament that distinguishes the Teu- ton from the Celt, we must concede that education counts for something in this matter. Educate the masses, and they will not love, as the French lower orders do, to welter, when excited, in the blood of their fellow-men, to lick their lips in savage lust to lap it again. The German is generally rough, and sometimes brutal, but humanity, on the whole, prevails, and the brute in him is less than the man. indeed, that sort of sentiment, which is so marked a characteristic of the mod- ern Teuton, is to be found even in the drama/is ~ersonce of the police reports. It is characteristic, says a modern writer, speaking of his fellow-countrymen, that our German rascals have always a certain sentimentality sticking to them. They are no cold-blooded knaves of cal- culation, but are blackguards of senti 32 GERMAN HOME LIFE. meat. They have Gemilik, and take the holding a double office about the court, warmest interest in the fates of those should not have had a first-class decora- they have robbed, so that one cannot be tion; another would weep that she whose quit of them. Even our distinguished family was of the ancient of the earth must chevaliers d industrie are not mere ego- endure the slight of seeing her spouse re- ists who steal for themselves, but court ceive an order of the third class, while the coy mammon to do good with their ill- little pert upstart who had married the gotten gains. Oberstali-Meister pranced past her with In the old historic days of the small an ornament made of the diamonds picked Residenz-towns, the unwary stranger who out of the Grand Cross, that he, the mas- found himself at court, was, if of unso- ter of the horse, ought never to have had! phisticated mind, literally blinded and The infinite littleness of such a life was bewildered by the blaze of stars and deco- the fair butt of fermenting patriots; no rations that glittered in the firmament. wonder that radical writers brought what Awe-struck by the cloud of heroes and wit they could to bear on the subject, or veterans, he prepared, as though wander- that the reformers were great on fossil ing through the Walhalla of the universe, feudalism. For a pleople that had dis- to put off his mental shoes from off his covered gunpowder, printing, and the feet, in acknowledgment that he was critique of pure reason, such a spectacle standing on the holy ground of heroism. included almost every humiliation, and the But when, upon enquiring, he ascertained wonder to all lookers-on is not so much the truth of the matter, and learned that how, as by whom, that vast revolution every serenity, transparency, or impalpa- which is called imperialism has been bility passing by that way and dining at brought about. The united fatherland, the grand-ducal board, would have to the old dream of national unity, is realized, send, as a matter of mere routine, the but the very dreamers themselves must, order of his State to the court officials, one would think, be still rubbing incredu- first, second, or third class, each accord- bus eyes, seeing after what an unforeseen ing to his kind; when he learned that fashion they have awakened. this blazing star had been conferred on Yet Prussia has indisputably this one the occasion of the grandes chasses; that glory above all the other countries of Teu- that noble order was bestowed on the tonia; that, whilst they have h~ad gossip- dukes representative at the baptism of an ries, scandals, intrigues, nests of squab- archduchess, and the other resplendent bles, and parish politics, she has a history. decoration but the evidence of an imperial Her electors have been the elect, her dinner-party, he would not unfrequently kings have been the ken-ning men; they go his sardonic way, sneering the sneer of have known and they have done; abstract the cynic at the tinsel and frippery of such knowing could not help them, only con- supreme sham. The writer of these lines crete doing. Alert, restless, thorough; remembers a most worthy, inoffensive looking into everything, exarni ning, prov- man upon whom fate had most inappro- ing; scant mercy, short justice; frugal, priately conferred the combined offices of thrifty, hardy, sharing common perils grand chambelian de Za cour and Thea- with the common soldier, keeping kingly ter-Intendant. He had accompanied his state when kingly state was demanded; royal master to every court in Europe, rewarding, punishing, reprintanding, with and his sovereign being of convivial turn here a genial act, and there a jovial word, and addicted to dining the princes who the Landesvater, not the king alone, but passed by his way, stars and garters con- the father of his people. Other knowers tinued to flow in upon the first official of and doers looking upwards, not because the court. The wags were pleased to sug- of the mere kingship of their chief, but gest all sorts of incongruous and incom- with fullest confidence in his power and patible positions for the thick-coming will, both to know and to do, arose in decorations, and it was feared that he their places, each in his Each; the thing would at last, however unwillingly, be done varying according to time and cir- forced, all the rest of his person being cumstance, according to person and preoccupied, to sit upon the orders of the place; valuable chiefly, not for the mag future. nitude of it, but for the reality of it. Great were the envy, hatred, and malice, The history of the house of Hohenzol- and all uncharitableness, that fermented in lern is the history of Prussia; nay, if female breasts on these occasions. The aught of prophecy~ be ours, bids fair to adjutants wives had always a grievance; prove the history of Germany. We have one would complain that her husband, seen a gallant old king at the head of a GERMAN HOME LiFE. 33 sorely tried army, enduring hardships with the courage of an adolescent; we have seen the crown-prince sharing com- mon perils with the common. soldier: we have seen all the available princes of the blood fighting, marching, watching, endur- ing, conquering, and dying side by side with the peasant; rained upon, snowed upon, bailed upon, stormed at by shot and shell, travelled - stained, blood - stained, mud - bespattered, war - betattered, not mere men with muskets but soldiers to the backbone, one and all, prince, peer, and peasant, willing to die for the father- land. True valour, not rash daring, patient endurance, not foolhardy escapades, steadfastness of heart and stability of mind, inspired these men who stood up to fight for their belief, to die for what they thought the justice of their cause. Not the light Greek fire of inflammable enthusiasm, such as caught the boule- vards one day in July, and set all Paris like straw blazing; but the deep vOlcanic fire of conviction, long smouldering, dark- ly hidden, portentous, unquenchable, un- less, indeed, by crimson seas yet to flow. It is supremely characteristic of the gen- ius of the two nations, that whilst the French were hysterically shrieking A Berlin! falling upon each others necks, and vowing to celebrate their emperors birthday in the palaces of Prussia, the Geman polished his arms, sang his Watch on the Rhine, said no word of Paris, and before many months were over crowned his gallant old king em- peror in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. This is the history of the German army; all honour to it and to those who led it on to victory. In civil life, it was in old days the pride of the Prussian official that he lived narrowly; that only by a close econ- omy was he able to make those two pro- verbial ends meet which is such a desir- able result in domestic economy. Parsi- mony was his pride; his private econo- mies went to enrich the coffers of the State, and his patriotism was of the type of which Virgil says, The noblest, mo- tive was the public good. For him a dinner of Spartan broth, and the rne;zs conscia recti therewith, was better than all the fleshpots of the fatherland unsea- soned by the antique virtues. The Fa- bricius type is, alas! extinct, gold-scorners impossible, and the austerity of Cincin- natus a thino of obliges, and b the past. Imperialism ostentation is now the order of the day. Representative officials re LIVING AGE. VOL. 2~II. 627 ceive handsome salaries; splendid emolu- ments rain down on the worthy; the day for small economies is over; the father- land has to be represented, and the country of the milliards must show itself great in all directions. It is little understood or realized in England that pomp and circumstance illus- trate at Berlin the glories of the new em- pire after a brilliant fashion. There is, indeed, not one court, but many; not only the emperor and the prince imperial, but all the other princes of the house of Hohenzollern keep up official state, where- of the exponents are gorgeous uniforms, resplendent liveries, showy equipages, and brilliant entertainments. We may think how dull by comparison our deserted quasi-republican capital appears in the eyes that prize pomp and pageantry, and how strange the utter absence of all offi- cial glitter and grandeur to those accus- tomed to the presence of a court. We take our German friends to the Horse Guards (all we have of magnificence to show), and point out the imposing appear- ance of our household troops. Have you ever seen our gczrdes tin co~~i5s? is the only comment; splendid giants, mounted on huge chargers, wearing a classic silver helmet, crested with eagles wings, a dazzling silver cuirass, and juste- ctu-corj5s of white samite, mystic, wonder- ful ? You perhaps say no. Ah then, indeed! replies your Prussian friend, as one who makes allowances for your igno- rant worship. The modern German is likely to become a thorn in the flesh of humanity at large, not because he is vic- torious; but because he is forever blowing the blast of his victories on the trumpet of fame. The braying of that brazen instru- ment is, of necessity, not so sweet in his neighbours ears as in his own; yet should you venture to remonstrate, he will fix a quarrel upon you, and you will have ab- jectly to ask him to continue his melodious strain. It is not enough that his country has become one of the great powers of Europe, he wants you to say that it is the greatest. Success is so sweet to him, power so new, triuihph so intoxicating, and the old radical dream of a united fatherland realized, he himself hardly knows how, in Bismarcko-Imperialism is such a bewildering experience, that he stands on the highway, pistol in hand, and exacts your admiration or your life. It is. not enough that you have at an earlier stage of the journey already paid your tribute of admiration; you must pay it abain. Youare to go on admiring; your 34 awe and your respect are t@ become vo- cal; if you are not loudly, consistently, persistently with the fatherland, you are against it. It is by sufferance that your humble vehicle rolls along the emperors highway; get out and grovel, then all shall be well with you; resist, and you shall be torn out of your coach, and the great jackboots will kick you ignomini- ously into space, and the big man will go his swaggering way with a grim smile be- hind his tawny moustache, as one who exterminates the lively pertinacious j5uier irrifans, otherwise sublimely big and in- different. The crumpled roseleaf on Germanys bed of glory is, that she cannot get every other nation to admire her as much as she admires herself; and in her present ego- tistical attitude would fain extract what she covets, if not otherwise, then d force d arm es. It is this uneasy tone, this monopoly of adulation, this exacting, suspicious rest- lessness, that tells tales of the fever of ambition pulsing through every vein of the new system. Fever has a false strenb th that looks to the sound man much like health; let him look again, and in the glare of the patients eye he will see evidences of the distempered blood, and will be careful to soothe rather than to irritate. When we speak of the one crumpled roseleaf in Prussias bed, we speak hyperbolically. Hers is no rose- strewn couch; on the contrary, it is, as those who know her best, best know, an uneasy bed; a bed that will have to be made again and again, lucky if at last it become a place of rest. To leave meta- phor her extent of frontier is immense; she will yet need all that is best in her best men. At any moment Bavaria may break axvay. Hanover harbours resent- ment; Scandinavia hates her for her ruth- less want of faith; it is known that the coming czar is intensely anti-Prussian, and that the long lists of German names filling distinguished positions in army and State are offensive, beyond any present possibility of expression, to a very large party in Russia. Alsace and Lorraine have, as Elsass and Lothringen, to be kept under, and increasing vigilance must inspire fear where no love is. When we speak of the German of the present day, we have all of us, uncon- sciously, the grand modern prototype in our minds the man of blood and iron; the Hammer-man; the Thunderer; the Baresark; the Bismarck the great typi- cal heroic figure, that will go down to future ages. colossal, momentous, immor- tal. He, thegreatest, comes home to the smallest, to mens business and bosoms in a special manner; the likeness of him hangs in the humblest hut; but for him Hans and Michel had not laid down their lives in French mire and clay; but for him food were not so dear, nor widows so many, nor wives so few; but for him, taxes had not been so rigorous, nor money so scarce. Yet, he is the idol of the popu- lace of that populace which, erewbile, stoned, lampooned, caricatured, and re- viled him; of that populace that was noth- ing more than mud-seas at his feet, on the vast field of the fatherland. Now he reigns supreme; the contempt he once showed for them is become the enemy s portion; the people are grown his willing instruments; he has known how to read the signs of the times, to seize the chances of the moment, to wield and to weld; to mould the old order of things into a new order; to root out the republican rabies; to crush down the rad- ical spirit; to grasp the national mind; to hold the nations heart; to venture, to succeed, to dare, and to do. The national vanity, the popular pride, have been flat- tered by his miraculous successes; surely a grateful people will foster their hero. Their good old emperor is well enough, but even he had not been but for Bismarck. He, gallant old gentleman, has scruples, hesitations, tendernesses of conscience, regrets; is not much other than any pri- vate man him we do not specially care to go out and greet. As for princes, clothed in soft raiment, in kings palaces, their name is legion; but this man, der Einzz~e, the only one, unique his like not again to be seen this side of eternity; a prophet, and more than a prophet him we will worship, before him we will fall down. A gigantic mass of all that makes manhood, he carries a high look with him; fire and reality, as well as blood and iron, are in that great figure and big brain. He speaks, and it is as though the king of beasts sent his leonine roar before him through the for- ests of which he is lord. That orator, erst so eloquent, seems now but froth and fribble; the attempted epigram of the penultimate patriot dwindles into mere spite; prudence becomes pedantry; warn- ing, the mumblings of blind senile leaders of the blind; threat, the niere futile squeak of peevish incompetence. The little sneers have struck too low, they fall unheeded at his feet; he will not stoop to notice them; let them lie: but from his height, god GERMAN HOME LIFE. HER DEAREST FOE. 35 like, d~monic, he will pour forth his lava- self and the good-looking young vaga. stream of scathing eloquence, which, by bond connected with the press. mere attraction of gravitation, reaches its If there was one point upon which Kate destination in the infinite flats beneath Travers was more specially sensitive than him. This stinging tongue, this arrogant another it was on the respect she thought intellect, this ruthless will, this keen dar- she deserved. Naturally of a sunny dis- ing, and restless ambition, what are they position and easy temper, loving pleasure, but the outcome of the age? In him you and luxury, and beauty with a certain see the typical German; the guerre-man, amount of graceful indolence, which in the war-man; the gar-man the whole prosperous times entirely masked the man; nay, rather a demigod unfathoma- strong will and untiring energy stored up ble, terrible. There is, in all modern his- against the day of need, she ncver dreamed tory, no figure like this figure, no mind anyone would suspect her of the fleshy like this mind, unless it be the brief ap- weaknesses to which others were liable; parition of a Mirabeau on a background she knew the childlike purity of her own of unaccomplished destiny. A man for life, and suspected that the long winter of men to fear; for women to love; for, such chilling circumstances as hers had beside that primeval titanic force, there been, might have had a hardening influ- dwells another man in him in strange and ence on her nature; but she shrank from striking contrast with the Briareus of the a disrespectful word as from a blow, and tribune a gentle, genial, human-hearted had her knowledge of men been equal to man; witty, winning; loving the soft her knowledge of books, she would no sound of womens voices, the beauty of doubt have resisted the temptation to play bright eyes, the prattle of children, the with the grave surprised admiration yellowing woods, the setting sun. A evinced by Galbraith lest it might lead to Triton, indeed, but not amongst minnows, unpleasant results. No great general, says Froude, ever Now she could not draw back without a arose out of a nation of cowards, no great display of stiffness and a change of tone statesman out of a nation of fools. That which might lead to awkward explanations, the mute Moltkes and bashful Bismarcks and as her enemy progressed towards of the fatherland are many, we may be complete recovery, she told herself that it sure; but history is careful only of the did not matter, he would soon be gone, type. Looking at such a man as this, sur- and not remember much about the adven- rounded by such men as these, we, who ture until she reopened the will-case and are but spectators of the drama, are al- defeated him. Then, indeed, their present most tempted, since finite man cannot go acquaintance might lead to his accepting on infinitely, to re-echo the prayer of Para- some portion of the property he had so celsus, and cry: Make no more giants, long considered his inheritance, for after God, but elevate the race at once! the friendly fntercourse they had hdd, she never could contemplate robbing him of everything. These thoughts flitted through her From Temple Bar, brain in and out of her daily routine of HER DEAREST FOE. answering inquiries and matching colours, finding patterns and making out bills. It CHAPTER XX. had been a busy and a profitable day, but IT would not be easy to disentangle and although the lenothenino eve tempted ~ ,, mugs define the mixed feelings which brought many to keep their shops open later, the the bright colour to Kate Traverss cheek, shutters of the Berlin Bazaar were always and made her heart beat indignant as she up at seven. The sweet repose of the perused the foregoing effusion. She after-hours was too precious to be curtailed scarcely herself knew why Mr. Fords even for the chance of a trifle more profit. pretensions were so peculiarly offensive, On this particular evening the one fol- nor did she take the trouble of inquiring, lowing her first perusal of Fords letter but had that devoted friend been within Mrs. Temple was considerably bored by a reach he would have received a crushing summons from Dr. Slade to speak to him rejoinder. The passage about Sir Hugh in the best sitting-room, as tea was being Galbraith annoyed and yet amused her. laid in the shop-parlour. She had now grown tolerably familiar with Well, Mrs. Temple, I suspect you will his modes of thought and expression, and soon lose your tenant, and I dare say you she could well picture the quiet profound will not regret him, cried the doctor, who scorn with which he had spoken of her- looked rather displeased as he stood by the 36 HER DEAREST FOE. window in the waning light, his head erect, his very shirt-frill bristling with indigna- tion. ~ A more quietly insolent personage I have never met. He has just told me I was a gossip me! merely because I made a harmless jest. He is evidently an ill-tempered, crotchety fellow, and must be a great nuisance to his sisters the Hon. Mrs. Harcourt and Lady Lorrimer to whom I have written on his behalf. Nothing can be more charming than the letters I have from them, fully recognizing my care and attention, especially Mrs. Harcourt, who wanted to come and nurse him, only he forbade it in terms I should be sorry she heard. I have given him a great deal of time over and above profes- sional attendance, and written, as I said, to his sisters and a cousin of his for him, and now he repays my well-meant attempts to amuse him by telling me I am a gos- sip! Very rude, indeed, doctor, said Mrs. Temple, sympathizingly. However, he resumed, I only wanted to tell you that he has been asking me when he will be fit to go to London, and I really cannot advise his leaving for an- other week. He has still symptoms about the head which indicate that he requires perfect rest freedom from excitement and London would just be the worst place for him. No medical man likes to see a case he has treated successfully going out of his hands, but I suspect if he chooses to go, nothing will stop him. I suppose not, said Mrs. Temple. I thought it right to warn you, as you might like to make some other arrange- ment, and I hope the letting of your rooms has been a help, a A decided help, and I am very much obliged to you, returned Mrs. Temple, pleasantly. Thats all right. Now you must not keep me talking here when I have twenty places to go to. Do you know I met that young schemer Bryant walking with one of Miss Monitors girls three miles off, on the Barmouth Road, near Joness, the curate of Drystones. You know Jones? Well, near his house. I believe Joness wife is Bryants sister. It did not look well at all. I wouldnt trust Bryant far- ther than I could throw him. Good even- ing, Mrs. Temple; good evening. Kate politely attended him to the door, and as she turned to join Fanny, was seized upon by Mrs. Mills, who carried her into the kitchen to speak to Sarahs mother. She was in great tribulation, be- ing afflicted with a wild son, who turned up every now and then to work mischief. On the present occasion he had got hold of the poor womans little hoard, had ab- sconded, and left her penniless just as the weeks rent was due. She, had, therefore, made so bold as to come and ask if Mrs. Temple would be so kind as to advance a little of Sarahs money. This, in the mouth of Sarahs mother, was a very long tale. But Kate listened with the gentlest untiring sympathy, for hers was a very tender heart, and a- full half-hour and more was occupied in giving help and comfort. When at last she returned to the par- lour she was not surprised to find the lamp lighted and Fanny seated behind the cosy -covered teapot; but she was surprised to find Sir Hugh Galbraith seated opposite to her, apparently quite at home, leaning easily across the table as he talked pleasantly ~vith the pretty tea- maker. Kate could not help being struck by the altered expression of his face since she had first beheld it. It was softer, brighter, younger-looking, but while she paused, still holding the handle of the door, Sir Hugh rose quickly and came a step towards her. I have ventured to ask admittance,- although I have no letters to write, or rather to have written for me, and Miss Lee, as com- manding in your absence, has graciously assented, he said. Pray sit down, replied Mrs. Temple, moving to the place Fanny vacated for her. She was startled and disturbed -at finding him there: but he was going away next week; it was really of no moment, this unexpected visit. Still Fords letter and her own previous reflections ruffled her composure. She coloured and grew pale, and felt Gaibraiths eyes fixed upon her, though she did not look up to see them. You are not well, or somethincr he exclaimed. I bad better go away. No, Sir Hugh. I am happy to see you, a little stiffly. But the light affects me after the dusky kitchen, where I have been listening to a tale of woe. Fanny dear, will you bring the shade? Thus, effectually sheltered from observa- tion, Kate quickly recovered herself and dispensed the tea, stretching out a hand white and delicate enoubh foraladyof high degree, as Galbraith observed, when she offered him a cup, which Fanny fol- lowed with a delightful slice of brown bread and butter. HER DEAREST FOE. 37 A tale of woe! exclaimed that young I lady; and in the kitchen ~? What took Dr. Slade there? Mrs. Temple briefly explained. I could not think what kept you, and Sir Hugh said he was sure the doctor was gone.~~ Old humbuo- observed Galbraith. I thought he would never go. I had to tell him some unpleasant truths before he would stir. Did you? asked Fanny, who, in con- sequence of Toms note, was in towering spirits. What did he say? I know, said Mrs. Temple, slyly. He was making his complaint. Indeed ! exclaimed Galbraith, look- ing under the shade to get a glimpse of her smile. What did he say? That you are an ungrateful man; that he has devoted himself to your service, and that your return is to tell him he is a gossip. Galbraith smiled rather grimly. Did he tell you what led up to it? he asked. No; he did not give the context. He is not a bad sort of fellow, re- sumed Sir Hugh, only spoiled by a country-town life and associating with women I mean old women. And pray why should women, young or old, spoil him? cried Fanny, aggres- sively. I am sure we are much better than men in many ways. I think you are, returned Gaibraith, gravely; still I dont think men or wom- en the better for associating exclusively with each other. Military women, for in- stance, are not pleasant. Have you ever met any? addressing Mrs. Ternpl~. No, said she, answering the real drift of the question; I have never, of course, been in that sort of society, and have never reckoned any military ladies among my customers. Galbraith was silent until Mrs. Temple asked him if he would have any more teas If you please. I assure you no old woman likes tea better than I do. I have always found it the best drink when hard worked in India, he returned with a smile. Some fellows have a great craving for beer, and I confess it is very tempting in a warm climate. And are you strong enough to resist temptation? asked Kate, carelessly, as she again held out her fair hand with his cup in her long taper fingers. As far as eating and drinking go, yes; but I suppose all men have their assaila- ble point. Pray, what is yours? asked Fanny, who, in her present state of spirits, was irrepressible. I really cannot tell. And I am sure, if you could, you are not bound to answer a decidedly imper- tinent question, said Mrs. Temple. Fan- ny, you are rather too audacious. I knew you would scold me! ex- claimed Fanny; but I could not help it. Galbraith laughed. Suppose you set me the example of confession, Miss Lee. What is your weak point? I could not possibly tell, like you; but for a different reason: all my points are weak; the puzzle is which is the weakest. Then I suspect your friend has enough to do to keep you in order; irregular troops are generally mutinous. I am the meekest creature in crea- tion, cried Fanny. The moment K Mrs. Temple, I mean, even looks as if she was goin~ to find fault with me I am ready to confess my sins and go down. Only to rise up abain the next instant not one bit the better for your penitence, said Mrs. Temple, walking over to the bell toying for Mills. That is exactly like irregular cavalry. They disperse the moment you charge them, and immediately gather on your flanks and harass your march, remarked Galbraith. I cannot say Fanny has harassed my march, replied Mrs. Temple, smiling kindly at that delinquent as she placed the cups and saucers and plates neatly on the tray to save Mills trouble. But I sup- pose it would be easier to keep a reginient of superior men I mean educated men in order, than the waifs and strays you pick up. I assure you soldiers are not on the whole bad fellows; but as to educated men, I cant say I should like to command a regiment of straw-splitting, psalm-sing. ing troopers who would probably dispute every order they didnt fancy. But you, you are an educated gentle- man, and dont you think, rejoined Mrs. Temple, that if you had undertaken cer- tain work and certain service, you would be more obedient, more dutifully subordi- nate, than a poor, ignorant, half-blind creature who cannot see an inch beyond the narrow bounds of his own personal wants and pleasures, while you could grasp some idea of the general good? There is, of course, some truth in your view, said Galbraith, somewhat sur- prised; but a regiment of gentlemen, in the first place, is out of the question. There have been, I grant, body-guards of 4 HER DEAREST FOE. kings who were all gentlemen, but from concentrated the whole essence of liberal-. what we know of them they were not ism in those words. That is exactly what exactly models of sound discipline or se- progress does; it makes people strive to rious behaviour. be better. I have no doubt the firsf of our And in the heat of argument Sir Hugh British ancestors (if they were our ances- rose, drew his chair near his antagonist, tors) who suggested making garments in- and clear of the obstacle presented to his stead of dyeing the human skin, was looked vision by the lamp-shade. upon by the orthodox Druids as a danger- There is your work, interrupted ous innovator. Fanny; you know you promised that That has been said too often to be should be ready to-morrow: (hat was worthy of such an original thinker as you a banner-screen of beads and silk, and are, returned Galhraith, leaning forward each section of the pattern was to be be- and taking up some of the bright-coloured gun, in order to save the fair purchaser silks which lay between them. from too severe exercise of brain. It cannot be said too often, observed Thank you, Fan, and Mrs. Temple Mrs. Temple, stoutly, for it contains the proceeded quickly and diligently to thread whole gist of the matter. I will trouble needles and sew on beads, glancing up you for that skein of blue silk. Thank every now and then with eyes that spark- you. Their hands touched for a mo- led and deepened, and laughed and grew meat, and Galbraith felt an unreasonable, dim with a slight suffusion if she was very but decided, inclination to hold hers, just earnest. Fanny placed a large work-bas- to keep her eyes and attention from being ket before her as she took her seat oppo- too much taken up with that confounded site their guest, who felt wonderfully in- stitchery. terested and at home. But, he resumed, you cannot sup- Oh! the people you mean would n& t pose men born to a certain position like to be called gentlemen now; they were only feel those of a lower sphere intruding polished barbarians, incapable of self-con- upon them, and treading on their heels? trol; any tolerably educated shopboy Step out then! Put a pace between woutd conduct himself better than the you and them, and keep the wonderful des and vons of those days, said start ahead that circumstance has given Kate. you, she returned with great animation. By Jove! men were better bred, more You are too ferocious a democrat, high-bred, then. I never heard that said Galbraith, laughing; and to look at doubted before, cried Galbraith; you, who could believe you had ever been, High-bred! that is, they took off their even for a day, behind a counter? hats and bowed more oracefully, and There ! he exclaimed, I am the clum- treated their inferiors with insolence none siest fellow alive. I have made a horribly the less brutal, because it had a certain rude speech. steely glitter, and were more ferocious I quite absolve you, said Mrs. Tern- about their honour; but they were mere ple, frankly, and looking at him with a dangerous, mischievous, unmanageable sweet half-smile. A counter has not children compared to what men ought to hitherto been the best training-school to be. form a gentlewoman; but the days are You are a formidable opponent, Mrs. rapidly passing when women could afford Temple. Still I will not renounce my to be merely graceful ornaments. We ancestors; they were gallant fellows, if must in the future take our share of the they had a dash of brutality here and burden and heat of the day. God grant there. And you will grant that without a us still something of charm and grace! It regard for honour they would have been would be hard lines for us both if you still more brutal. could not love us. I do. Nor do I by any means under- Not love you, repeated Galbraith al- value the good that was in them, only it most unconsciously; he had hitherto been seems so stupid either to want to go back thinking the young widow rather too to them, or to stand still. strong-minded a description of character And what good does progress do? It he utterly abhorred. I imagine your only makes the lower classes dissatisfied ideal woman will seldom be realized, un- and restless, and wanting to be as well off less, indeed, in yourself. as their betters. There is nothing they Oh, dear me! exclaimed Fanny, I dont aim at. have run the needle into my finger, and it Oh, Sir Hugh Galbraith! you have is so painful. HER DEAREST FOE. 39 Due commiseration being expressed, Fanny said she must put it in warm water, and darted away. Do not imagine I am such a narrow idiot, said Galbraith, drawing his chair a trifle closer, as not to respect a man who fights his way up to fortune from a humble origin, but then he ought always to remem- ber the origin. Yes ; you of the upper ten, said Mrs. Temple, smiling, while she hunted with her needle an erratic white bead round an inverted box-cover, are decently inclined to recognize the merits of such a man when he has achieved success in the end, but you do your best to knock him on the head at the beginning. How do you mean? By creating difficulties of all sorts. Mountains of barriers for him to climb over: barriers of ignorance it is unwise to educate the masses; barriers of caste none but gentlemen must officer army or navy; barriers of opinion; social bar- riers oh, I talk too much! and I am sure so do you. Dr. Slade told me just now you were to be kept as quiet as possi- ble and undisturbed; and here am I con- tradi cting you most virulently. Do go away and read a sermon or something, or you will never be able to go to London next week. Next week! Does that confounded old humbug say I am to go away, next week? I intend nothing of the kind. He said you wished to leave for town; so I warn you to give me due and proper notice, or I shall charge accordingly. Mrs. Temple glanced up as she sptke to see the effect of her words; but no an- swering smile was on his lip. He looked grave and stern, and was pulling his mous- taches as if in deep thought. There was a moments silence, and then Galbraith exclaimed, in his harshest tones, with an injured accent, You never let one forget the shop. It was the lodgings this time, said Mrs. Temple demurely. I did not sup- pose you would mind. Do you want me to go away? asked Sir Hugh. I can go to-morrow if you do. I am very glad you feel so much bet- ter. Pray suit yourself. I could not be in a hurry to part with so good a tenant. Galbraith muttered something indis- tinct and deep. There was a few mo- ments silence, and then Sir Hugh said gravely, I am quite aware what a nui- sance an invalid inmate must be; and I hope you believe I am grateful for all the care you have bestowed upon me. Indeed, I do not. I have not bestowed any care upon you; Mills has, a little, and your servant a good deal. The fact is, returned Galbraith, with a tinge of bitterness, I have never had much care in my life, and I am, therefore, especially grateful when I find any, or fancy I have any. Grateful people deserve to be cared for, said Kate, laying her pattern on the table and gravely regarding it. And you have been very good to write my letters, continued Galbraith. I never knew the luxury of a private secre- tary before, and as I believe the appetite grows with what it feeds upon, I shall miss your assistance greatly. I never found my correspondence so easy as since you were good enough to write for me. A private secretary would not be a serious addition to your suite, returned Mrs. Temple without looking up. There are many intelligent, well-educated young men would be glad of such an appoint- ment. Pooh! exclaimed Galbraith. I never thought of a man secretary. Indeed, said Mrs. Temple. No; men are so unsympathetic and slow to comprehend. I always thought so, replied Mrs. Temple frankly; but I didnt think a man would. Sir Hughs face cleared up as he looked at her, and laughed. We are agreed then, he said; and I dont think you put a much higher value on Slade than I do. I do not know what your value is; I like him,, because he has always been a friend to me from the first. And that is how long? asked Gal- braith shrewdly. Oh! if you want gossip you must ap. ply to himself. I shall never put a question to him, you may be sure, said Galbraith gravely. But I confess I should like to know how it happens that you are keeping a shop here. Nothing will ever persuade me that you are to the manner born. You are mistaken, Sir Hugh Gal- braith he always fancied there was an echo of defiance in the way she pro- nounced his name my grandfather and great-grandfather, nay, so far as I know, all my aficestors if such a phrase may be permitted were knights of the coun- ter. The best I can hope (with a smile HER DEAREST FOE. 40 indescribably sweet and arch) is that I am both indignant and disgusted, they never gave short measure. Fanny, because there is so much levity Its incredible! said Gaibraith sol- and vulgarity in what you say, cried Mrs. emnly. Temple warmly. But we have some- Nevertheless true, she continued, thing else to think of; read this and Dont allow your imagination to create she drew forth Fords letter, doubling it a romance for my pretty partner and my- down at the passage adverting to herself, self, though we are weird women, and as having for sole confidant a good-look- keep a Berlin Bazaar. ing young vagabond connected with the As she spoke Fanny entered. It is press. all right now, she said. Sir Hugh, if I suppose, cried Fanny, that stupid you ever run a needle into your finger, conceited old duffer means Tom. plunge it into hot water immediately, and I suppose so; but pray remember it you will find instantaneous relief. is Hugh Gaibraith who is represented as I shall make a note of it, replied Gal- speaking. Now you say Tom is coming braith; and in the mean time must say down on Saturday; it is most important good-night. he should not meet our tenant. I imagine How fortunate you are, cried Fanny. Sir Hugh knows his name. You are going to London next week and Oh yes, very likely; but Sir Hugh has will go to the theatre, I suppose? never intruded on us on a Saturday, and I scarcely ever go to the theatre, said we must try to keep them apart. How de- Galbraith, but I imagine most young lightful it will be to see Tom and this is ladies like it. Thursday! I would give a great deal to see Reck- Yes; I shall be very glad to have a oning with the Hostess, cried Fanny, talk with him. Have you written to unable to restrain herself. him? Suppose we all meet at Charing Cross, To be sure I have. and go tdgether, exclaimed Galbraith, No more was said; and Mrs. Temple who felt convalescent and lively, pondered long and deeply before she was It would be perfectly delightful, said successful in composing herself to sleep. the volatile Fanny, while Kate, who felt XVhat was she doing? was she acting keenly the absurdity of the proposition, fairly and honestly? was she quite safe hid her face in her hands while she in trusting to the spirit, half-defiant, half- laughed heartily. mischievous, which seemed to have taken I must say good-night, repeated Sir possession of her? Well, at any rate, it Hugh, bowing formally. could do no harm. In a few days Hugh I trust you will not be the worse for Galbraith would be removed out of the our argument, said Mrs. Temple, rising sphere of her infiueii~e, and nothing courteously. would remain of their transient acquaint- I am not sure, he replied. I shall ance save the lesson she was so ambitious tell you to-morrow. of teaching him, viz., that whatever her Well, Kate, cried Fanny when he circumstances were, she was a gentle- was gone, has he proposed? I really woman, and that some excuse existed for thought he was on the verge of it when I Mr. Traverss weakness in making her ran the needle in my finger. It would be his wife. such fun. Fanny, you are absolutely maddening! CHAPTER XXI. What can put such nonsense into your HUGH GALBRAITH was a very English head? To tell you the whole truth, and Englishman. In opinion, as in battle, he nothing but the truth, I have permitted was inclined, even when beaten by all the Sir Hugh Galbraith the honour of our rules of combat, to resist to death. His acquaintance, simply because I wish him prejudices would have been rigid to ab- to feel, however appearances may be surdity but for a thin, nevertheless dis- against me, that his cousin married a tinct, vein of common sense which gentlewoman; for he will yet know who I streaked the trap-rock of his nature; am. while here and there, carefully hidden, as That sounds very grand and mysteri- he thought, from all observers, and scarce- ous, Kate. I wish you could contrive to ly acknowledged to himself, were sundry make him give you a proper allowance out softer places faults, as with uncon- of the estate. Well, there; I did not scious technicality he would have termed mean to make you look like a sibyl and a them which sometimes troubled him fury all in one! I with doubts and hesitations a consistently HER DEAREST FOE. 4 hard man would never have known. A vague, instinctive sense of justice an- other national characteristic saved him from being a very selfish man, but did not hinder him from an eager seeking of his own ends, so long as they did not visibly trench on the rights of others; and at times, if the upper and harder strata of his character was, by some morally arte- sian process, pierced through, capable of giving out more of sympathy than his kins- folk and acquaintance in general would believe. But he possessed very little of the adaptability, the quickness of feeling and perception, which gives the power of putting oneself in anothers place; and, therefore, possessing no gauge by which to measure the force of other mens temp- tations, he had, by a process of unreason- ing mental action, accumulated a rather contemptuous estimate of the world in general. Men were generally weak and untrue not false, habit and opinion pre- vented that and women he scarcely considered at all; the few specimens he had known intimately were not calculated to impress him favourably. His sisters, accustomed to the amenities of foreign life, never disguised their opinion that he was a hopeless barbarian, until, indeed, their last few interviews, when they showed a disposition to treat his brusque- ne as the eccentricity of a noble sin- cerity. The younger sister, who had al- ways clunb to him, and whom he loved with all the strength of his slow-develop- ing boyish heart, had chilled him with an unspeakable disgust by bestowing herself on an artist, a creature considered by Gal- braith in those days, and, with some slight modification, still considered, as a sort of menial as belonging to a class of upper servants who fiddled and painted and danced and sang for the amusement of an idle ~tristocracy. He would have been more inclined to associate with the village blacksmith, who, at any rate, did real man~ s work when he forged horseshoes and ploughshares by the strength of his right arm. In short, he was a medi~val man, rather out of place in the nineteenth century. In polftics a Tory, yet not an ignoble one. He would have severely punished the oppressor of the poor. Indeed, he thought it the sacred duty of lords to pro- tect their vassal, even from themselves; but it must be altogether a paternal pro- ceeding given free gratis out of the pleni- tude of his nobility. Of the grander gen- erosity to our poorer brethren that says, Take your share of Gods world, it is yours; we owe each other nothing save mutual help and love, he knew nothing; he had never learned even the alphabet of true liberality; and his was a slow thouoh strong intellect, very slow to assimilate a new idea, and by no means ready to range those he already possessed in the battle array of argument. Nevertheless, he was very little moved by his charming lahdladys opinions; they were a pretty womans vagaries prettily expressed; still, as he thought over every word and look of hers that night while smoking the pipe of peace and meditation before he went to rest, he felt more and more desirous of solving the mystery of her surroundings. That she and her friend were gentlewomen he never for a moment doubted, driven by poverty to keep a shop, though it was an unusual resource for decayed gentility. For poor gentry Gal- braith had special sympathy, and had a dim idea that it would be well to tax suc- cessful money-grubbers who would per- sist in lowering the tone of society in gen- eral and regiments in particular by thrust- ing themselves and their luxurious snob- bish sons into those sacred ranks he had, we say, a dim idea that such mem- bers of the coimmunity ought to be taxed in order to support the helpless descend- ants of th6se who had not the ability to keep their estate together. Still, how any woman with the instinct of a gentlewom- an could bring herself to keep a shop, to measure out things to insolent customers, perhaps to old market-women, and stretch out that soft white hand to take their greasy pence, he could not conceive. She ought to have adopted some other line of work; yet if she had he would not have known her; and though h~ put aside the idea, he felt that he would rather have missed far more important things. She was different from all other women he had ever known; the quiet simplicity of her manners was so restful; the controlled animation that would sparkle up to the surface frequently, and gave so much beauty to her mobile face her smile, sometimes arch, often scornful, occasion- ally tender; the proud turn of her snowy throat ; the outlines of her rounded, pli- ant figure; the great, earnest, liquid eyes uplifted so frankly and calmly to meet his own Gaibraith summoned each and every charm of face and form and bear- ing that had so roused his wonder and admiration to pass in review order before his minds eye, and behold, they were very good. It was the recollection of their first interview, however, more than 42 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. a month hack, that puzzled him most. Allerton, the family seat, for the close of She must have fancied she knew some- the hunting-season; and should Lady Eliz- thing of me, he thought, as he slowly abeth stand the test of ten days or a fort- paced his sitting-room, restless with the night in the same house, he would try his strange new interest and fresh vivid life luck. A wish to enjoy his friend Uptons that stirred his blood, and in some mys- society to the last of his stay, induced terious way, of which he was but half Gaibraith to postpone his visit for a week; conscious, deepened and brightened the and then he met with the accident which colouriub of every object, until Fanny made him Mrs. Temples inmate ; and, declared, as shebid Kate good-night, that lo! all things had become new. What- Sir Hugh must have a bad conscience to ever his lot might be, it was impossible he keep tramping up and down like that, could marry a pretty doll like Lady Eliza- and something to my discredit, he beth a nice creature, without one idea mused. I shall not soon forget the first different from every other girl, without a look I had from those eyes of hers! It was word of conversation beyond an echo of equivalent to the Draw and defend your- what was said to her. No; he wanted self, villain! of old novels. How could I something more companionable than that; have offended her, or any one belon6ing something soft and varied enough to draw to her? Ill ask her some day some out what tenderness was in him; some- day! By Jove, I cant stay here much long- thing brave, and frank, and thoughtful; er! Yet why should I not? I have noth- to be a pleasant comrade in the dull places ing to take me anywhere. This accident of life. At this point in his reflections, has knocked my visit to Allerton on the Galbraith pulled himself up, with a sneer head. The countess and Lady Elizabeth at the idea of his dreaming dreams, wak- will be in town by the time I am fit to go ing dreams, at that time of his life. Ill anywhere. That pretty little girl, Miss just stay a week longer, he thought, I Lee, is not unlike Lady Elizabeth, only she really am not quite strong yet, and then I has more goin her but Mrs. Temple! will go to town; by that time I shall man- even in thought Galbraith had no words age to penetrate that puzzling womans to express the measureless distance be- mystery, or I shall give it up. I shall tween his landlady and the Countess of have Upton or Gertrude coming down Gs graceful, well-trained daughter. here to see what keeps me in such quar- The truth is, Galbraith had, after his ac- ters, and, b.y Jove! I would rather neither cession of fortune, seriously contemplated of them did. Size would make mischief matrimony. He had no idea of being with or without grounds. So saying, al- succeeded by a nephew of a different most aloud, Galbraith lit his candle, and name, or a cousin whom he disliked, turned down the lamp. Moreover, it behoved him to found the family anewto impose a fresh entail especially if he could buy back some of the old estates; and Payne had written to him that it was probable a slice of the From Macmillans Magazine. Kirby Grange estates might before long DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. be in the market. If he married, he THE idea that a schoolmasters exist- would go in for family; he did not care ence is nothing but a continual round of so much for rank. Accident had sent monotonous drudgery appears to be dying him down to dinner at his sisters house out. It may be quite true that there is a with Lady Elizabeth, who seemed a pretty, great deal of monotony and drudgery to inoffen3ive, well-bred girl; and he even be endured in the scholastic life; but it began, by deliberate trying, to take some has evidently been discovered that, as far interest in her, after meeting at several as these disagreeables are concerned, the parties by day and by night, where he life of a schoolmaster contrasts favoura- bad, rather to Lady Lorrimers surprise, bly with that of a merchant, a lawyer, a consented to appear. Lady Elizabeth, al- medical practitioner, or even of a curate. though her father was not a wealthy peer, Highly intellectual men may find deep had a few thousands, which would not be interest in the work of a good sixth unacceptable; and, though Galbraith had form, and to the less intellectual a mas- bid her good-bye in Germany, where they tership offers considerable attractions. had again encountered, with his ordinary One may find plenty to inter~st one in cool, undemonstrative manner, he had middle-school forms, and it does not re- made up his mind to accept the invitation quire the highest attainments to make then given him, if duly repeated, to go to a really good middle-school form-master. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. 43 And what may be called unintellectual z.e., non-bookish men, as well as oth- ers, are quite open to the allurements of cricket, football, fives, and the like, which may be freely enjoyed by those who ac- cept the life of a master in a large school. The number of men who, on leaving the universities, seek masterships is really re- markable. Nor is it only the bookish or the athletic-bookish who are drawn to school life. It is not a rare thing to find, on answering advertisements in the Guard- ian or some scholastic paper, that the man who i~ anxious for a mastership is one who has been remarkable at the uni- versity only for a kn& wledge of boating or critket shop: possibly only for the attendant circumstances of a velvet coat and a sweet bull-dog~ Most people, however, would be dis- posed to imagine that the school-hours passed with a low or a middle form must be unmitigated boredom: that the time spent in actual teaching must be grind, pure, simple and dismal: that the interest excited b.y one or two promising boys must be swamped by the stupidity and in- difference of the many. The true pedagogue will take an entirely different view from this. To him the la- dies-school expression, a finished edu- cation, is unknown. He will regard him- self as a learner with those whom he teaches, a learner with a few years start of his pupils. That lead in all probability he will maintain or increase against the majority of his form, but now and then he will see himself being caught up, and pretty safe to be beaten in the long run. He and his form are all runners in the same race. His stupid and ignorant boys are not a set of dummies. He recog- nizes in each a greater or smaller degree of intelligence or dulness. In many a correct answer he will see stupidity; in many an incorrect one, a degree of intel- ligence. He will be able to classify his stupid just as well as his clever boys. And if he chooses to look into the meth- ods by which his boys arrive at their most astoundingly foolish conclusions, he will often find that their methods are not alto- gether stupid; and that in the most won- derful displays of ignorance and the dark- est depths of denseness may be discerned rays of light and sense. And thus he will find his form capable of being not only interesting, but at times immensely amusing. The non-reading undergraduate has been shown to be amusing in The Art of Pluck. Perhaps the following experi ences will show that the schoolboy has great powers as a humorist. But let it be observed that while the characters in the volume just quoted are for the most part fictitious, and their delusion the inven- tions of ingenious scholars, I am no~ about to affront my readers by offering them a collection of jokes invented for the occasion, and put into the mouths of fabu- lous beings. Mira, sed ac/a loquor; and it is hoped that these actual and veri- table scholastic experiences may not only amuse, but also serve to throw some light upon the nature of that extremely com- plex subject, the British schoolboy. The large majority of the translations and an- swers here given have occurred within the writers own experience as a teacher, and almost all the authors of these face/ice are personally known to him. These humorists and their utterances he will classify as best he can. i. The Stupid-Good. Under this head it is meant to include boys of a lit- eral and utterly unimaginative turn of mind; boys of little power, and free from eccentricities of any kind; who do their work honestly, but trust simply and solely to their dictionaries and lexicons to bring them through their difficulties. First take one or two instances of their powers of translation, with the help of the books mentioned. The consul spoke for his family, is neatly rendered Cousul ra- dius narn elus familia. Naval force no less neatly Umbilica vis. Again, To scale a wall is carefully rendered Aliururn desquamare. The author of this deserved a mark for carefully con- sulting his dictionary. A good story is told of a party of boys engaged on a les- son of Virgil. They are puzzled by the line Mene incepto desistere victam? What can mene be? At last in tri- umph a small boy cries out from the depths of his dictionary, I have it mena, a small fish, resembling a pil- chard, which accordingly xvent down. A too great reliance on the same book produced the following translation of Referen/ dis/en/a cape//ce ubera, They will carry back the she-goats with dis- tented chitterlings. It does not appear what idea, unless that of a performing bird, was present to the mind of a boy who translated Tarquinio advenien/i aquila pileum sus/uii/, On Tarquins arrival an eagle supported a hat. ~6~wty- ~n abXoi5vr ~ can only be turned, by those whose sole hope is the lexicon, into DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. Playing the flute on trumpets. Evoe,~ Who spacious regions gave, ~z5arce Liber, Hail, thrifty book! and A wasteful beast! Si torrere /ecur qqceris idoneum, ~ where the original has a waste for you wish to warm your useful liver~~ I beasts. these are two examples of what Horace suffers at the hands of the stupid-good. 2. The Muddled. These are boys who are not without sense and knowledge, but who come to grief for want of power of arrangement and discrimination. Their vis consul ex~ers mole mu sud. They remind one of Tennysons Delirious man, Who mingles all without a plan. Such a one is asked, How long was Jonah in the whales belly? He an- swers, Three days. How long be- sides ? Forty nights, he replies. The muddled appear to the worst advan- tage when called on to express themselves in writing. As a rule they abstain from punctuation, which is liable to. lead them into fresh complications. Here is an answer from a Scripture-history paper. Rahab sent Ruth out to glean in the fields of her kinsman Laban. The fol- lowing is meant for a short account of the siege of Samaria In the siege of Samaria there was a great famine, and as the king was walking along the wall a woman cried unto him and said that if she would boil her child they would eat it that day, and that she would boil hers and eat it the next; but she said that she boiled hers and they ate it, but the other woman hid hers and would not boil it. The next is from an essay on Jersey A large quantity of apples are grown there, which are made into cider and pota- toes. The inhabitants are chiefly engaged in the fisheries of cod and mackerel, which abound there and in the mines. 3. The Simtle boys who are not afraid of using slang, but who use it with- out at all meaning to be slangy; who ap- ply the most homely expressions to the grandest subjects, and, in their simplicity, make such childish mistakes as do honour to their hearts, if not to their heads. The simple come to much grief in writing from dictation. The following are speci- mens : Where waddling in a pool of blood The bravest Tuscans lay, where for waddling read wallowing. This provoked Popes ayah, where for ayah read ire. In a passage on William Rufus occur the lines No triumph flushed that haughty Brown only differs from the original by the capi- tal and the addition of the final letter to the last word. In writing out Lord Ullins Daugh- ter from dictation, one of the simple has a very curious reading: Come back, come back! he cried in Greek Across the stormy water. Here is a new version of Scott: He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain When our need was the saw.dust. Here a variation on Macaulay : And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burglars of Carlisle. Another, Herminius on Black Auster, Grave chaplain on grave steed. From a description of a waterfall: From rock to rock the giant elephant Leaps with delirious bound, where, of course, qephant is a varia lecilo for element. One of the simple, to the writers knowl- edge, had the following passage in his dic- tation, If ever two great men might seem during their whole lives to have moved in direct opposition, Milton and Jerry my tailor were they. Another variation on Scott was this The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infernal old. Another on Macaulay Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his vittles down, Virginius caught the vittles up and hid them in his gown. Such marks of resentment do the simple show on being dictated to. Now we will take a few examples of their translations. Ire per hanc noli quisquis es: omen habet is rendered Go not out by this (gate) whoever thou art: it has a smell. Poor Naso! Here is another example of what he suffers at the hands of the simple : Ipsa ego, ,qu~ dederam medicamina, pallida sedi, I myself, who had taken medicine, sat pale. 44 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. 45 And Horace fares thus : Me lentus Glycerie torret amor me~, The gluey love of my Glycera frightens me. Ke~ i~r~ov wve,5uart e2~, And they sailed to the good spirit, is a touching instance of the simplicity we are illustrating. The following is good: K& ?~xac Oeai-opi6y~, oiwvon-62xov 6~ ~ipw~og, O~ y6q Ta T ovTa, r4 T faa61ucva, JrpO T ~ovra. Calchas, son of Thestor, by far the best of au0urs, who knew both the present, the future, and the perfect. When the heart-broken Dido sees the ships of iEneas gett~ng under sail she cries, Pro 7up I/er, ibit / which one of the simple translates, By Jove, he is going! The following from Sopohcles opwcpiv (Wi) ffetrovvra, rol a[~t1cpov 6frt [trios ~ povrct, elicited this rendering, Demanding little, and yet paying for that little with a lamb. Another simple youth gave, as an equiva- lent of the first three words, Poor beggar! Here are some more speci- mens of the simple as translators (~y 6 Op6vi-iic, He said 0 Orontes! . Vere fruor sem~er, Truly I always feed. Thu & ir2~ Vp& JV ~ arepLdv duo TO2J lrpra/3VTaTOV arparyyo~ [a-qze2awOov, And let two of the oldest generals take care of each others flanks. N6jzo~ roiJg ~v & youra~ dtd6vat i-~ ~3aetAei, ro(~ 6~ ~ (,~ovut dtd6vat rbv /3eatA[a, A custom that those who had anythin~ should. give it to the king, and that those who had nothing should give it to the queen. This evidently refers to the mon- arch who was in his parlour counting out his money, whose queen, for want of some- thing to count, amused herself with bread and honey. When Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of war, but the pre- ceding show that when the simple meet Greek much the same may be looked for in the battle-field of the form-room. And they, do not make much more of Latin, as witness the next elegant extracts. Vic- tory was worshipped at Rome under the form of a feathered (alat~) virgin. Zn- signis Turuns, Ensign Turner. Durn tizyazo ~ scun/ur apes, While monkeys are fed on thyme. Ra~ien/ibus esseda mannzs, The chariot with captivated cobs. In what they are pleased to call composition, the simple are equally amusing, e.g., These birds have long tails, HeR ayes Zongce sunt fundamen- los. She came with bare feet and di- shevelled hair, Nuda caj5ut z~eni/, se- lam d~Pisaque nzgram. The next is from an original copy of verses entitled Via/ores: ter sol crelo dimoverat umbras, Ex quo M~c~nas escis compleverat alvum. Take again a few answers given by the siml)le : Q. What is the difference between -ne and net A. Ne enclitic is used for a proper question: the other ne for an improper question. Q. A nnus (year) properly means a ring. What does annulus mean? A. Ear-ring. Q. Mention a comedy by Shake- speare. A. The Taming of the Mole. Q. Why was Metellus called Cal- vus? A. Because he was such a calf. Q. At the Comitia Curiata the patri- cians met in their ? A. Togas. It is not often that a joke is to be got out of a Euclid lesson, but we remember a master asking for a dePnition of a circle, and being answered by a pupil, who de- scribed a ring in the air with his forefin- ger, ejaculating, A dodge like. We will take our leave of the simple with Variations on Allan Cunningham, i.e., a part of a favourite lyric, introducing the various blunders made under dictation by a form of small boys : A wet sheep and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like an evil free, Away the good sheep flies, and leaves An old man on the lea. While the hollow oak our parish is the last line is too profane for quotation. 4. The Careless. Under this head come a 4arge proportion of schoolboys. The careless are, generally speaking, boys whose form-affairs, so to put it, are at a low ebb; whose credit with their master is as nearly run out as is their masters forbearance with them; boys whose position is becoming desperate, and who do not shrink from wild statements and violent imaginings, because at any risk theymust make an effort to improve their condition. The careless stick at nothing. They make their wildest shots when questions are being rapidly passed round the form. 46 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. What is meant by much kine ?is asked. One of the careless promptly answers, Male cows. 9. Who was Herods son? A. Herodotus. 9. Derive an English word from Necto, I bind. A. Neck-ties 9. A word derived from d2L2~totv. A. Alleluja. 9. We do not speak of Enochs as- cension, but of his ? A. Transportation. 9. What was the comparafive dura- tion of the kingdoms of Judah and Is- rael? A. Their comparative duration was long. 9. What were the three principal Jewish feasts? A. Purim, Urini, and Thummim. 9. What was the eastern boundary of Samaria? A. The Jordan. 9. And the western? A. The other side of Jordan. 9. For what god was St. Paul taken at Lystra? A. Venus. 9. What fruit did Aarons rod bear? A. A kind of plum. 9. What Italian poet did Surrey im- itate? Ans. i. Plutarch, leading to Ans.2, Pluto. Now for specimens of translations by the careless : Ca?sar duodecim millia i5assuum hac node ~rogressus e.rt, C~esar this night marched twelve million miles. This his- torical fact was received with perfect equanimity by the remainder of the form in whose presence it was propounded. A boy put a ready repartee, on the tu quoque principle, into the mouth of his teacher by translating Dira virofacies, You will make an awful man.. Phi Zzj5~5us Nea~oliest, Philip is Napoleon. ~i %atp AO{tvi~, xaipe Atoyrv~ rbwov, 0 hail Athene, daughter of Diogenes! Dc- format faciem non una cicatrir, Not a single cockatrice shows its ugly head. Pecori vago, The wandering peccary. As~ice bis senos cycnos, Behold two old poets such flowers of translation are culled from the careless. It was evi- dently one of the same desperate race who wrote, under dictation, this version of a stanza of Tennysons on Milton: Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starred from Jehovahs gorgeous armouries, Tower, as the deep-domed Epicurean Rings to the roar of an angel onset. The last word of line three, of course, should be empyrean. From the same class came he who, giving the rule for prepositions governing the ablative, pro- duced this new version of the concluding lines : His super, subter, sub, addemus, Et in, de statu Nicodemus, where for Nicodemus the Public- School Latin Primer gives si dicein us. 5. A large class is that of the f?on- ceited~i~grnorant, productive of rich fruit in the way of scholastic facetice. From his- tory papers by the conceited-ignorant we select a few examples of their involuntary witticisms : 9. What were the causes of the great rebellion? A. The causes of the great rebellion were the excommunication of England by the pope, the pulling down of churches by the Commonwealth, and then the king- dom rang with the cry No popery. 9. What do you know of Milton as an author? A. Miltons pen laboured in the reign of Charles, and he wrote Paridise Lost and Paridise Found. 9. Define democracy. A. Government by dukes and dea- cons. 9. What was the end of Tiberius Gracchus? A. He was dragged out of the Senate- House by a beagle and murdered. 9. State what you know about Mith- ridates. A. Mithridates was clever and used to write poems, some of which are very beautiful. 9. Give an account of Cromwells continental policy. A. Cromwell was a kind father and husband, and had nine children. 0. What was the origin of the Church of England? A. Sir Martin Luther introduced Christianity into England. 9. Explain alto brake his scull. A. This perhaps is a little confusing to uneducated minds now, but was a com- mon phrase in the time when the Bible was translated. Jael drove the tent-peg into Siseras head, in order that she mzg~ht break his scull. 9. What was the end of Pausanias? A. Pausanias was killed by a young man, who was chaste and ran away. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. The following is also from a history paper by a conceited-ignorant: In the reign of Charles II. no one was allowed to hold a high position in the army or navy or in the Church. Consequently Bucking- ham and others had to leave, because they did not belong to the Church. Habeas Corpus Act was that no one need stay in prison longer than he liked. The next is from an essay on York: There is something that it is noted for called the Euburacum of the Roman period. It is also noted for its cathedral, which is built in the most Gothic eficial stile in the world. Of Durham we are told that it is celebrated as the place where the Ven- erable Archdeacon Beed died. So much for the conceited-ignorant. Only one class now remains, viz. : 6. The Eccentric. This class of boy exhibits perhaps more involuntary displays of humour than any other. The eccentric are boys who, seem to suffer from an ob- liquity of mental vision. They see more in words than is meant. A thing goes into their heads one thing and comes out quite another. They are caught by a sim- ilarity of sound or form in words. One expression reminds them of another, for which it is at once mistaken. The eccen- tric are never dullards : they show very often a considerable amount of a perverse kind of ingenuity, as may be seen in their translations, e.g. k~O~3l y)p 4 iriovra ,tnrpvia re,cvo~ ro rcpoo0, eAyli)i~ o~ckv 4irtcoi-i pa. For hateful is the stepmother who drinks before her children, and nothing is more soothing than an adder. The next specimen points to a more primitive state of things than Xenophon meant to describe, oi5rot diX qs6 rarot 4aav, icai el~ zctp~ic 4eaav, These men were very warlike, and went on their hands. Dido vento reditura secundo, Dido soon to return with her second wind. Effigies veterum avorurn, Likenesses of old birds. This would seem to be a disre- spectful way of speaking of the great men of old. Nulla mora est, No woman is a character. Was this rendering sug- gested by Popes malicious line Most women have no character at all? One of the eccentric, meeting with the words Rornul s ~ro~e-r~vi~ (the verb being thus divided at the end of the line), produced as the meaning, Romulus near- ly talked himself hoarse. AJihil tarn volucre est guam ~~~ledict~nis ingen- iously rendered, Nothing is so fowl as 47 slander. The blind ~Edipus says to An- tigone, ar4a6vjw ic4Thdlpvaov, d~ ~ir& O4ueGa OWOV irot not meaning to express himself in such a despairing way as one of the eccentric imagined, when he translated, Place me and put me in a sitting posture, that we may moulder wherever we are. The next is rather wild : Purpureos quoties deperdit terra colores, Formosas quoties populus alba comas! How often is the earth discoloured with blood! I-tow often have handsome people grey hair. We give a few more translations by the eccentric : dvu~bt?o)~ KaT OtKOV 74IVTaL yvv4, The use- less woman sweats about the house. Ipsique in pu~5j5ibus auro ductores late effulgent, os/rogue decori, The captains themselves glitter from afar, decorated with gold and purple on their sterns. El penitus toto divisos orbe Britan- nos, And the Britons with tails sepa- rated from the whole world. Ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros, Hector had caught three hundred Trojan mice. Paterarn grave;n, A heavy father. Sno lateri assidere jussit, He ordered him to sit down on his tile. Sequitur non passibus aguis, (i) He follows with impassive horses, (2) Through rough passes. Si adeptusforet, If he had been adaptedfor it. Q uos ego dilexi fraterno more sodales, Companions that I have loved more than a brother. Trej5idos cives, Three-footed citi- zens. Ccesar cohmortatus suos, C~esar having drawn up his men into cohorts. Pilumnnusgue ihhi guartus paler, And Pilumnus his four father. Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet, She wears a thousand adornments, she wears one thousand two hundred. Duratcegue solo nives, And snows hardened by the sun. Dura navis, Dura fug~ mala, dura belli, The hard ship, and the hardship of flight and war. Regio victu algue cultu vitarn age- bant, They lived in a conquered and cultivated land. Vitaverat ;norte;n, He had survived death. Pr~esentemque viris intentant omnia mortem, And all things portend immediate death by poison. 48 Sedesque discre/as tiorurn, Re- served seats for the pious. oi~ aO~vw ~r6ot, I do not groan for my husband. Le mule romain i/alt de miMe 15as, The Roman mile was not a mile. It is chiefly in translations such as these that the eccentric show their wit. Now and then they are good in composition, as thus, lie complained that he was ill-used, Questus est se iliusum esse. He swears that this is true, Damnat hcec vera esse. Sometimes they are good as catechu- mens, e~g. Q. What is a dependent sentence? A. One that hangs on by its clause. Q. Derive Pontzftx. A. From Eons, a bridge, as we say Arek bishop. The following character of Gideon will repay examination. It is curiously ingenious, though very absurd. Gideon was a true unbelieving Jew. Still he was a good man, thou0h rather idolatrous. This random~ collection of scholastic jests shall be concluded with two remarks. One has been made before, viz., that a large majority of these face/ice are to the writers knowledge genuine. He believes them all to be so, and has refrained from adding to the list others, the genuineness of which, though perhaps not doubtful, is not within his own personal knowledge. Who shall say, then, that a schoolmasters life can never be amusincr? Secondly, these jokes lose much of their flavour when thus printed one after an- othcr. Think how refreshing to the wearied examiner, sitting up half the nibht to look over papers, to come now and then across an oasis of this kind in the desert of stupidly correct or stupidly incorrect performances. In form, too, think how much the humour of the thing is enhanced by the innocent, or puzzled, or conceited, or sheepish, or desperate look of the vic- tim as he utters his follies. Think how tickling the inappropriateness, the semi- impropriety, of these utterances in a scene where a certain amount of decorum must be observed, and then consider whether the hours spent by a schoolmaster in school have not their amusing side. He is like some of the books he uses. He combines amusement with instruction. J. H. RAVEN. From Frasers Magazine. A MONKS DAILY LIFE. WE have all some faint poetical, picto- rial, or theatrical notion of monks. Ribe- ra at the National Gallery shows us how They prayed with wan faces, half-darkened with the shadowing cowl. Sir Walter Scott has sketched them in a hundred picturesque ways before altars and beside graves. Novelists have given us many a good monk, and checkmated us with many a wicked one. In volume after volume we have had the murderous monk, the rob- ber monk, the hermit monk, the bibulous monk, the felonious monk, and the poison- ing monk, and yet, after all, we know very little how monks really lived, or how they spent their hours. We are apt to forget that the duties of monastic life were very varied that there was scope in the abbey and the priory for intellects of all degrees that there were as many sorts of employment within a monastery as there are in a modern factory, and that monastic establishments were, as a rule, admirably governed, and conducted in a business-like way. Let us take, first, the sacristan. It was his duty to provide bread and wine, and wax li~hts for the high altar and the chan- try chapels. He kept a tun of wine at a time in.his exchequer, which was some- times (as in Durham Cathedral) in the aisle of the church. He had to go his rounds daily, see to the great stained glass windows, and inspect the leaden roof; he had also to mind that the bells were sound, and the bell-ropes safe, and he attended the scrubbing and wash- inn of the church. He spent many hours, we may be sure, on roof and tower, and in the dusty belfry among the bells, with none but the whirling martins witness of his peering watchfulness. The sacristan had also the responsible duty of nightly pacing nave and aisle, and locking up the keys of every shrine, which were required to be laid ready for the priests of each altar between seven and eight A. M. Severe punctilious men, no doubt, these sacristans were, with a due sense of the rich jewels and golden plate of the altars they locked up, and never tired of turning their torches or lanterns on dark corners where fel6ns mi~ht lurk in ambush for gem-adorned pix or gilded chalice. To the sacristan the bishop, on his installation, always solemnly confided the great keys of the cathedral. Then there was the chamberlain, some- times a prebendary, who provided the A MONKS DAILY LIFE. A MONKS DAILY LWE. 49 linsey-wolsey shirts and sheets for the monks. He kept tailors at work, to make their woollen socks and underclothing; he was overseer over the dormitory, and kept it supplied with beds, linen, and towels; he found shoes and gowns for the monks; and provided for the accommoda- tion of that ceaseless flood of guests who poured into monasteries in the ages before hotels. The cellarer was a red-faced person, more busy with pots and pans than psalm- book or breviary addicted to diving into subterranean cellars, and coming up repeating a holy text and wiping his blush- ing lips; he had charge of all the brim- ming granaries, bursting store-houses, and odorous cellars of the monastery. It was he who solemnly doled out flour to the bake-house, malt to the brewery, salt meat to the kitchen, cheese, ~vine, and beer tothe refectory, hay to the stables, and wood to the ovens; and he had many obsequious, grumbling, and thirsty servants under him. The hospitalarius (hostler) presided in the guest-hall, and attended to the wants of pilgrims, and, in deed, of all strangers. To the almoner was confided the dis- tribution of the loaves and other alms of the monastery to the jostling and quar- relling poor. Every cathedral was trustee for endless bequests of this kind. There was also the pittancer, who gave out all pittances or bequests for extra allowances and indulgences to the brotherhood, on the seven great festivals or the anniversaries of founders, when the convent held back its regular commons. To quote Mr. Val- entine Green, the pittancer was, in aca- demic phrase, the furnisher of the gaud- ies. The pittancer had also a good deal of country riding, for all the live cattle of the convent were under his care. The priors chaplain had, besides his prayers, to act as steward to the prior. He received all the broad gold pieces paid to the prior by his tenants and purchased for him his fur robes, his pouches, shoes, and general raiment. He had to look after the hall-furniture, and to see that the priors servants were honest, diligent, and good-tempered. He sometimes kept the priors plate and treasure, and, in such cases, always gave it out and personally received it again. He had the right to engage and pay off all the priors gentle- men and yeomen, and it was his duty to discharge (when he could) all the priors debts. There was often attached to a monas- tery an officer who was called the master of the common room. His duty (in Dur LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 628 ham Priory) was to provide figs, nuts, and spices to comfort and console the diges- tions of the monks when worn out by the prayers and austerities of Lent, and to keep constant fire in the common room, so that the brothers might warm them- selves whenever they pleased. It was his duty to always have a hogshead of wine ready for the use of the brothers, especially for the 0 Sag5ientia, or an- nual festival between Martinmas and Christmas, when the prior and convent were modestly feasted on cakes and ale. But, leaving the farm-servants, the shepherds, the swineherds, the red-faced cooks, etc., we must pass to the convent barber. Whether he was as nimble, gos- siping, and sly as Figaro; or whether he was subdued by the cloister gloom into a sort of mere humble ecclesiastic, quite chapfallen, without joke or jibe, except in surreptitious whispers to younger brothers, we know not, but this is certain, that all his avocations were not of the liveliest, for in some monasteries at least it was his province to act as undertaker and grave-digger to the whole convent. It was his special duty, we are told, for instance, when a grave and reverend prior died to put boots on the corpse and to wind it in a cowl. He had to remove the body, immediately after death, from the priors lodgings to the terrible apartment in the infirmary called the dead mans chamber. The night before a funeral, the barber with assistants helped to re- move the body again from the dead mans chamber to a chapel opposite, where it was watched all night by the alms-chil- dren of the convent, who read Davids Psalms over the waxen corse, while the monks sat bowed at its feet mourning silently. The next morning there was a solemn funeral service in the chapter room, amid fumes of incense and waving censers, and then the sable procession moved on in funeral march, through the priors parlour into the cemetery garth of the monastery, where many previous priors, good and bad, lay under their grand marble stones. The barber had to take due care to lay on the priors cold breast a silver or wax en chalice, and his own bed was generally held over the body by four monks, up to the edge of the grave. The tumbary had care of the tombs, and probably received and accounted for the offerings on the various shrines. This post was in the gift of the bishop. The precentor or chanter was a very pope among the chorister-boys. He had the direction of the whole choral service. 50 A MONKS DAILY LIFE. He provided the missals and anthem-books, the chapel, and the watchful tumbarius and saw to the repair of the organs. He were called oLAientaries, and were the was also the librarian and reoistrar of the principal fixed officers of the monastery b convent, penned warrants and letters for under the prior. Imagine any morning of the chapter, and had custody of the ab- the week, at the same hour, the sacristan bey seal. The precentor had also the counting out hu,~e candles for a Candle- supervision of the scriptorium or tran- mas festival, the chamberlain giving out scribing-room (in Worcester, a glazed-in robes to the monks, the almoner doling part of the cloister) where the novices his alms to a hungry crowd, the pittancer copied MSS~ There is at present, in the buying his fowls and pigeons for a gaudy library of Benet College, Cambridge, a day, the coquinarius cutting up a fat deer, very fine manuscript Bible in folio on vel- the infirmarius feeling the pulse of a sick lum, clearly and beautifully written, which brother, the barber shaving a long-locked was copied in Worcester scriptorium in novice, the tumbarius watching the repair the reign of Henry II. The salary of a of a knights tomb, and oiir readerh will precentor, prior to 1314, was about 40s. see that the monkslife was neither a dull, per annum. a monotonous, nor an idle one, and that At Worcester there was also a magister there was scope in a monastery for many capell~, who it is supposed presided over tastes, tempers, and degrees of intellect. the priests of the chapels in the cathe- The monks life, we hold from these dral, particularly St. Marys and the in- facts, was by no means necessarily an in- firmary. active one. If no student, and incapable The bell-ringers were sometimes em- of unceasing return to prayer and praise, ployed in cleaning the church, and taking the energetic monk had many openings care of the church - vestments and the for his surplus energy. He could sweep church-plate. They slept over the vestry, the church or toll the great bells; he or in some little rooms leading out of the could learn masonry, and study the struc- aisles. It was the care of these men to ture of those beautiful arches which he brush those great masses of cloth-of-bold helped to raise; or if of a financial turn and rich coloured needlework which were there were the prior s accounts to keep worn by the abbots and bishops of the and rents to~regulate. He could cook, or Middle Ages, and to polish those bowls brew, or wash, or dig, or build; he could and chalices that were sent by wagon- work in the orchards or assist in the ab- loads to the goldsmiths furnace at the hots stables; he could drive the plough Reformation. or wield the axe; he could visit the poor Of the social importance of the coqui- or tend the leper at the gate; he could narius or kitchener no one can dispute who lend the infirmary help, dig a grave, or knows how often, when other vices are make the robes of the brethren; he could checked, the old Adam breaks out in glut- fish for the convent, or tend the fowls tony. That fact is seen every day among and turkeys. For the studious in those temperance~~ missionaries. The coqui- wild times, the convent library must haVe narius had to roast the venison haunch, been a foreshadow of p. radise; there devise the subtleties of the dessert for they could pore over the subtleties of On- the abbot, and frame the marchpanes and gen, or the glories of him of the golden scented delicacies of powdered almond in mouth; they could spend years over the fashion in the Middle Ages. It appears inexhaustible fathers; or could knot their from the records of Evesham Abbey that brains with theological difficulties. The he also marketed and bought meat and ambitious could study the various modes fish for the convent. He probably also of attaining ecclesiastical power, and the hired the inferior cooks, and ruled the enthusiast could think himself into trances whole hot region of the kitchen with a rod such as had visited the saints of whom he of iron, the spit. read. Those important officers the stern The monastery treasury, the novices sub - prior, the pompous sacristan, the school, and the singing-school were fre- red-f aced cellarer, the~polite chamberlain, quently situated in the cloister, or very the courteous hospitalarius, the mild al- near where the dormitory door opened. moner, the cheery pittancer, the jolly co- The rap of the ferule and the cries of the quinarius, the mournful infirmarius (who boys, were less disturbing there in the superintended the sick monks, provided long arched walk where the studious and physic and a11 necessaries, and washedthe contemplative loved to pace till thefr and dressed the bodies for burial), the en- feet hollowed out the very stones. The thusiastic precentor, the stately master of abbey treasure was sometimes stored over A MONKS DAILY LIFE the gate-houses. The treasury was grated with iron and had a well-locked and bolted iron door. The chief furniture within was a table of green cloth for telling the money on, whether tenants rents or pil- grims gifts. In this treasury was kept the chapel-seal, the deeds and law-papers of the monastery, and also the deeds of gentlemen near the town who thought them safer there than in their own houses. -The cloister porter prevented strangers interrupting the novices in their school, and the singing-classes in theirs. Prayers were. read daily at six AM. in the cloister school, except on Sundays and holidays. The dormitory frequently opened on one side of the cloister. Here the tired monks came to dream of saints and mar- tyrs, and sometimes no doubt of ghastly temptations that excelled even St. An- - thonys wildest nightmares. Amon~ the Benedictines at least every monk in the convent dormitory had a little chamber to himself, with a window towards the chap- ter-house. Each room contained a desk and supply of books. The dormitory at Worcester was 120 feet long and 6o feet wide, a vaulted stone roof being supported by five large pillars. It was at first an open hall, presenting to the eye of the sub-prior, who was keeper of the dormitory, the whole range of beds at one view. In later ages the monks had their cells divided, in strict convents monks slept in all their day-clothes, not even removing their girdles. The spital or lodging for poor travellers and pilgrims was sometimes over one of the gates of the cloister. - The novices dormitory also faced the doister, and every novice had a chamber to himself. At each end of the long dor- mitory there were often a dozen cressets or fire-baskets burning, to light the monks when they arose more or less reluctantly. Every night, at a certain hour, the sub- priors footsteps were heard on the stairs, it being the custom for him to see that every cell contained its monk, that peace and good-will prevailed, and that there was no dicing, carding, or brawling going on. The sub-prior generally sat at dinner and supper with the brethren, and when supper was over, and the bell rang for grace, which was abNays repeated mod- estly by one of the novices, the sub-prior then rose and left the head of the table, and went to the chapter-house to meet the prior, and spend the time with him in pvayer and devotion till six oclock. At -that hour a bell, no doubt much detested 5;i by the novices, rang, and all the doors of cells, frater-house, dormitory and cloister were at once locked, and the keys deliv- ered to the sub-prior, not to be surren- dered by him to the punctual janitor till seven oclock the next morning. The monks dining-hall, sometimes called the loft, was above the convent cel- lar. The meal was served from the great kitchen in through the dresser-window. A novice mounted a pulpit and read from the Gospels while the brethren dined. Imme- diately after dinner the novices in some convents rose and xvent to the garden or the bowling-alley, where their master at- tended to preserve order and decorum. Then the older monks ascended add paced through the cloisters under the priors lodgings to the quiet cemetery garth, where the dead lay, and there stood bare- headed for a space, praying softly among the grassy and mossy tombs for the souls of their past brethren. It was a pious cus- toi~, though no doubt among unworthy brothers and in lukewarm times, it some- times became a mere burdensome for- niula. Good monks must always have been numerous we know; still what a picture Chaucer gives us of the monks of Edward III. s reign! What sensual , guzzlin0 cat~ tle he makes the monks and friars, and their greedy retainers the summoners. Stewards for the poor! Stomachs only for fat capon and stubble goose. How they canter about and philander and hawk, and bellow forth ribald jests; no more serving God than the lowest attorney does who grinds down the widow and orphan to make his bread. No devotion among them; no abnegation of self, only the pride of Belial and gross sensual indulgence. Servants of Christ, indeed! rather slaves of Asmodeus and Mammon. Look at the monk in the Canterbury pilgrimage, who loved drinking, and had many a dainty horse in his stable; and when he rode, the jin~ling bells on his bridle sounded as clear and loud in the whistling wind as the bell of the monks own chapel. This was the precioua monk who let old things go, and who held fast and close to the mere world, the flesh, and the devil. The saying that hunters are not holy men he qared no more for than for a pullet hen. He was an arrant prick~ spur, and had greyhounds swift of foot after the hare, and for them he spared no money. He was no sackcloth-wearing gril~y monk. He was a dandy. His sleeves were trimmed at the hand with the finest fur in the land, and a curious pin of 52 A MONKS DAILY LIFE. gold, fashioned like a love-knot, fastened the humbugs hood under his chin. His bald head shone like glass, his face glowed as if it had been anointed, for he was a fat lord and in good case, his deep-sunk eyes rolled in his head, that steamed as a fur- nace of lead. His boots were supple, his nut-brown palfrey was in first-rate order. He was not pale like a tormented ghost, this worthy monk, but loved a roast swan before any dish. Nor is the friar who rode near this monk one whit nobler or purer. He, too, was riding in the district where he had license to beg. Many a marriage he had paid for at his own cost, and is hand-in- glove with half the rich franklins (gentle- men farmers) in his country, and also with many women. He was a licentiate of his order; pleasant was his absolution and. easy his penance, and he used to boast that he had more power to confess than the curate himself. The great sign of re- pentance with him was a good gift: some silver to the poor friars was in his opinion worth all the tears ever shed. His tippet was stuffed full of pretty little presents for fair wives. He sang and played well. His neck was as white as a lily, he was stalwart as a champion, and in every town well he knew the taverns, and cared more for sly hostler and gay tapster than poor leper or shivering beggar. He cared not for such cattle, but preferred rich men and sellers of vitaille; and yet this rogue he could be courteous and deprecating, and was avowedly the best beggar in all his house. If a poor widow had only one shoe he would get a farthing out of her, on arbitration days. H~ was no poor cloisterer with threadbare cope, like a poor scholar, but he looked a very pope; his semicope was of double worsted, and for very wan- tonness he lisped To make his English sweet upon his tongue; and when he harped and he sang his eyes twinkled in his head like stars on a frosty night. Then how dark Chaucers colours grow when he sketches that tool of the monks, the rascally summoner. Look at him, with his fire-red pimply cherubim head. His coarse brows are thick, and his beard scurvy and thin. Quicksilver, litharge, brimstone, borax, ceruse, and oil of tartar, nothing could cure those pimples. Right well loved this summoner onions, leeks, and garlic; and right well he relished the strong wines red as blood. Then he would shout as he were mad, and when the wine was well in his head not a word would he speak. Doubtless he had a few phrases that he had learned out of some decree, and as a jay can chatter, and aye Q~ices- lb quid~uris would he cry. Yet he was a good worthy fellow, and for a quart of wine would pardon many an offence. He had at his control the youth of the diocese, and was in their councils. This worthy summoner wore a garland on his head, as large as for a maypole, and he carried a big cake for a buckler. Then, ye honest but misguided Ritual- ists, only read Chaucers description of the pardoner (seller of indulgences) who rides beside the summoner. He was just fresh from Rome, and sang loudly the popular love-ditty, Come, hither, love, to me, and to that ditty the summoner sang in deep chorus. The pardoner had yellow hair that hung smooth as flax over his shoulders. He wore no hood, but kept it in his wallet; and rode bare and dishev- elled. His eyes stared like a hares; he had got a handkerchief from Rome mirac- ulously stained with the figure of Christ; his wallet lay on his lap, brimful of par- dons hot from the pope. His voice was small as a goats; he had no beard, his chin was smooth as it were new-shaven. Yet after all there was no pardoner like him from Berwick to Ware. In his mail he carried a pillow-case, which he said was Our Ladys veil, and he swore that he had a fragment of the sail of the boat in which Saint Peter went uoon the sea of Galilee to meet Christ. He had a brass cross, full of sham stones, and in a glass he kept pigs bones. With these remark- able relics, whenever he found a credulous poor person, he got more money in a day than the parson got in two months; and thus with flattery and humbug he made the parson and his people his puppets. But, after all, says the inimitable old poet, he was in church a noble ecciesiast. He could read well a lesson or a story, and best of all he sang the offertory, for that was what brou~ht in the silver, and therefore he sang merry and loud indeed. That our poets satire had a foundation in observed facts we cannot possibly doubt; though a satirical picture is far from being a representation of the whole truth. The following extracts from the rules of the grey or Francisian friars serve very well to show the original high ideal of the order. The treatment of candidates wives is perhaps somewhat monastic in its severity, but how can men know the charm of ties which they have never felt? The many possible abuses hinted at A MONK S DAILY LIFE. 53 prove to us the evils to which the system had given rise. i. They are to keep the holy gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ living in obedience, with- out anything they can call their own, and in chastity. Brother Francis promises obedience and respect to our Lord Pope N. and his successors canonically promoted, and to the Church of Rome. And the other brothers shall be obliged to obey Brother Francis, and his successors. 2. The provincial ministers alone shall re- ceive candidates for admission into the order, and shall examine them diligently as to the Catholick faith and ecclesiastical sacraments. And if they believe all these things, and will faithfully confess and observe the same to the end, and that they have no wives, or if they have, their wives will also go into monasteries, or else they give them leave, having made a vow of continency, by the authority of the bishop of the diocese; and that the wives are of such an age as that there may be no cause to suspect them; let them pronounce to them the word of the holy gospel, viz., that they go and sell all that they have, and take care to bestow the same on the poor, which, if they cannot do, their goodwill shall suffice. 6. All the brothers are to be clad in mean habits, and may blessedly mend them with sacks and other pieces; whom I admonish and exhort that they do not despise or censure such men as they see clad in curious and gay garments, and using delicate meats and drinks, but rather let every one judge and despise himself. 8. The brethren are to be meek, peaceable, modest, mild, and humble. 9. They are not to ride unless some mani- fest necessity or infirmity oblige them. 10. Whatsoever house they go into they shall first say, Peace be unto this house; and according to the gospel, it shall be lawful for them to eat of all meats that are set before them. ii. I firmly enjoin all the brothers that they upon no account receive any money, either by themselves or by a third person. How- eVer, to supply the necessities of the sick, and for clothing of the other brothers, special care shall be taken by means only of the ministers particular friends, and the guardians, accord- ing to times and places, and cold countries, as they shall find necessity requires; saving always, as has been said, that they receive no money. 21. The brothers are strictly commanded to keep no suspicious company, or to be familiar with women, or to go into the monasteries of nuns, excepting those who have special license granted them from the See Apostolick. NQr that they do not become gossips of nuns or women, lest upon this account there arise any scandal among the brethren or upon the brothers. The Benedictines were obliged to per- form their devotion seven times within four-and-twenty heurs. At cock-crowing, or the NOcTURNALS: this service was per- formed at two oc1ock in the morning. The reason for pitching upon this hour was taken partly from Davids saying, and partly from a tradition of our Say- iours rising from the dead about that time. MATINS: these were said at the first hour, or according to our computa- tion, at six oclock. At this time the Jew- ish morning sacrifice was offered. The angels likewise were supposed to have acquainted the women with our Saviours resurrection about this time. The TIERcE: which was at nine in the morning, when our Saviour was condemned and scourged by Pilate. The SEXTE, or twelve at noon. The NONES, or three in the. after- noon: at this hour it is said our Saviour gave up the ghost; besides which circum- stance, it was the time for public prayer in the temple of Jerusalem. VESPERS at six in the afternoon; the evening sacri- fice was then offered in the Jewish tem- ple, and our Saviour is supposed to have been taken down from the cross at this hour. The COMPLINE: this service was performed after seven, when our Saviours agony in the garden, it is believed, begun. The monks going to bed at eight had six hours to sleep before the NOCTURNE be- gan; if they went to bed after that serv- ice it was not, as we understand, reck- oned a fault, but after matins they were notallowed that liberty. At the tolling of the bell for prayers the monks were im- mediately to leave off their business; and herein the canon was so strict, that those who copied books, or were clerks in any business, and had begun a text-letter were not allowed to finish it. Those who were employed abroad about the business of the house were presumed to be present and excused other duties; and that they might not suffer by being elsewhere they were particularly recommended to the divine protection. The monks were obliged to go always two together; this was done to guard their conduct, and to prompt them to good thoughts, and furnish them with a witness to defend their be- haviour. From Easter to Whitsuntide the primitive Church observed no fasts; at other times the religious were bound to fast till three oclock on Wednesdays and Fridays, but the twelve days in Christ- mas were excepted in this canon. Every day in Lent they were enjoined to fast till six in the eVening. During this so- lemnity they shortened their refreshment, allowed fewer hours for sleep, and spent A MONKS DAILY LIFE. 54 more time in their devotions; but they On their entry into their order these alms- were not permitted to .go into voluntary men gave their beads to be consecrated, austerities without leave from the abbot. and then swore to sacredly observe all the They were not to talk in the refectory at secrets of the monastery. meals, but hearken to the Scriptures read The monks service of the canonical to them at that time. The septimarians, hours originally consisted of eight divi- so called from their weekly offices of read- sions, four for night and four for day, but ers, waiters, cooks, etc., were to dine by in the Saxon times they were reduced to themselves after the rest. Those who seven, to follow Psalm cxix., verse 164 were absent about business had the same Seven times a day I praise thee, and hours of prayer prescribed, though not the partly perhaps to reduce the labour. At same length of devotion. Those sent matins were said the Paternoster, Ave abroad, and expected to return at night, Maria, Credo, the Invitatorum of the day were forbidden to eat till they came home; and its psalms. On double and semi- but this canon was sometimes waived, double feasts nine psalms with their anti- In the case of monks there were many phons and verses, with as many lessons modes resorted t& to evade the rules. and eight responses. Lauds consisted of The language of signs was adopted, and a hymn, Te Deurn, the psalms of the day, a perfect system of the motions of the the Capitulum, hymn, canticles, and Bene- hands was as thoroughly systematized in dictus with its antiphon. Prime, thirds, convents as among our modern deaf and sixths, and nones had all their special dif- dumb. A horizontal wave of the hand in- ferences. The choral regulations of Os- dicated a fish; a movement of the finger mund, Bishop of Salisbury, who compiled and thumb, like turning over a leaf, read- a general rubric with all necessary details ing, etc. of the choral service, became generally From the laws of Worcester, Lincoln, used in English cathedrals, so that the, and Gloucester, we gather that certain ex- Bishop of Salisbury claimed the privilege isting evils are implied by its being for- of acting as precentor to the college of bidden to monks to return to the refecto- bishops whenever the Archbishop of Can- ry from the dormitory to drink and gossip. terbury celebrated divine service. No woman was to be introduced into the The rules of Sarum required ~ll clerks, infirmary without special license from the without exception, to wear black copes snb-prior. Immoderate potations were during the whole year, except on double forbidden there, proving that they some- feasts, when there were processions. On times did take place in that locality. No the vigil of Easter, when the Gloria in brother was allowed, unless in presence Excelsis burst forth, the clerks, after of his officer, to eat elsewhere when he making their genufiexions, threw off their had once dined or supped in the refectory. black copes, and appeared in white sur- Any brother who had a double pittance of plices. The same custom also prevailed food was allowed to sell or give it away at the vigil of Pentecost. At all single without license from the sub-prior. There feasts from Easter to Michaelmas sur- was always to be reading-at meals, and no plices were, worn in choir and at all hours. speaking but in a low voice, or in Latin; The regulations of the choir were always and on fish days no. extra refreshments to wear silk copes and red habits on both were to be taken out, of the refectory ex- feasts of the Iloly Cross, and at every cept by the old or sick who had obtained feast of a martyr, also at all single feasts dispens~ttion. Monks being forbidden by durinn Lent, and on the Passion and Palm the Council of Vienna (Clement V.) to Sunday. hunt or hawk, no monk was to keep hunt- It is probable, from various allusions in ing dogs or birds of prey. All fine and monkish chronicles, that the elder and showy dresses were prohibited as a scan- superannuated monks were troublesome dal to religion, and unbecoming men of in convents, dictatorial, finding fault, and one brotherhood. frequently missing the daily sacrifice . The almsmen of a convent were gener- For such misconduct the offender had to ally old servants of the monastery or dis- receive his pardon in chapter, prostrate abled servants. There was usually a before the dean and canons; and if guilty prior appointed to overlook these alms- of disobedience and rebellion the offender men, who wore black gowns and hoods, was sometimes degraded from his state, given them every year on the Feast of St. and compelled to stand in humiliating John the Baptist. They carried large penance at the door of the choir behind rosaries, and had the arms of the monas- the dean, or in the choir amongst the low- tery broidered on their right shoulders. est of the boys. A MONK S DAILY LIFE. The consumption of candles in the old ~athedrals must have kept the wax-chand- lers the most devout of men. In the Sarum rules we find such directions as the following Ai~ong the duties of the treasurer, he is to provide on Advent Sunday, both at vespers and matins, and at mass, four wax lights namely, two above the altar, and two others on the step before the altar. The same on Palm Sunday. All other Sundays of the year, and ~vhenever the choir is regulated and the Invitatorum is said by two, he is to supply two others; at mass and on all Sundays, four; on Christmas-day, at ves- pers, and at mass, eight each of a pound at least about the altar; and two before the image of the Blessed Mary. At matins the same, and six besides, on the elevation before the relics and crucifix, and the images there placed; and on the chandelier corona~ before the step, five of half a pound at least. Five also are to be placed on the wall behind the desk for reading the lessons. The same is to be observed mall double feasts, with proces- sions, from Whitsuntide to the nativity of the Blessed Mary. The punishment of monks guilty of any offence was severe, but if the whole con- vent was committing the same crime, as often happened, they escaped all harm. At the weekly chapter an accuser would often stand up and say, I accuse Broth- er -~ of . The accused monk made no answer, but at once left his seat and advanced to the abbot, bowing. The accuser then simply stated his charge. If gl4ilty, the accused man at once asked pardon, and confessed his fault. If not guilty, he replied that he did not refnem- ber to have done what Brother af- firmed. The accuser bowed and returned to his seat, and then called the witnesses. A reprimanded monk stood in a central place in the room, called the judgment, and when the final sentence was pro- nounced he bowed and retired to his seat. If condemned to receive discipline, the culprit was sometimes stripped to the waist, seated in a chair, and then beaten with a rod. During the discipline the monks hung down their h eads. A hand- bell, according to Du Cange, was some- times hung behind the delinquent. For other offences convicted monks had to carry large lanterns for penance, stood with arms expanded in the form of the cross, or sat down on chairs in the middle of the choir, walked barefoot to the cross, repeated penitential psalms, and joined in penitentiary processions. For other of- -55 fences monks were banished from the dinner-table, sent to coventry, and com- pelled to publicly prostrate themselves. For extreme faults a keeper was appointed to the prisoner, and whenever th~ bell for divine service the culprit had to remain prostrate at the gate of the don- vent, and bow to every one who passed. As the order left the church the prostra- tion was renewed, and the monks, as they passed their abject brother, said each one, Lord, have mercy upon you. After various disciplines at several chapters, promise of amendment, and the interces- sion of his brothers, the offender was at last pardoned. In some cases a monk was sent to board at another convent for a certain term. In the lesser excommuni- cations the offenders had to fast on bread and water purposely defiled, or were kept in church during dinner till the abbot sent the prior to summon them. Among the amusements of the monks we must include the Feast of Fools and the Feast of Asses, when there was much noisy buffoonery and inconsistent horse- play, and they acted those religious plays which presented vivid pictures of bibli- cal events to the eyes of the poor. In these representations the monks pent-up minds found, as it were, a secret way to the drama. And now, after these brief scenes of monkish life, let us end with the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history. At the death of a monk the new~ of the event was at once forwarded to all nei~,hbouring religicius houses, of whatever order. The body was at once washed and clothed in the hood, cloak, and cowl, and carried to the church, the bearers singing psalms, and the bell toll- ing. There was no great delay about the funeral ceremonies; he was usually buried the day he died, after mass and before dinner. If it was found difficult to keep up the psalm-singing, the body was buried almost immediately. The ceremonies observed during the days vigil were numerous. A cross was placed at the head of the corpse, and lighted tapers stood at the head and feet on the breast was a chalice of wax or sil- ver; the body was anointed on a stone table in the infirmary, and it was censed by the deacon. The abbot absolved the corpse after a sermon to the chapter, si- lence was preserved in the cloister, the grave and corpse were sprinkled with holy water, and a written absolution was placed on the breast of the deceased. And so passed away the poor brother, A MONKS DAILY LIFE. in most cases only too well rid of this tearful and miserable world, and of an en- slaved and unnatural if not altogether wasted life. Whatever were the vices of those great armies of celibates who fought the battle of the Church during the Middle Ages, whatever their ambition, voluptuousness, gluttony, and avarice, their greatest en- emy must own that we owe them much for the learning they hoarded, the educa- tion they encouraged, the charity they dis- played, and the buildings they reared. Who can stand up and say that the build- ers of such churches as York Minster and Salisbury Cathedral were mere half- transmuted pagans? Was there no wor- ship of the soul in the men who reared that pile and raised those towers who hollowed those cloisters and carved those altars? It is not for us to point out the faults of those men. Who are we, to judge of their vices or their sins? It is a sufficient proof that the monastic system was a nec- essary phase of Christianity that the mo- nastic system existed. It was not the finger of a poor monk that could stop the rolling world. These convents were the fortresses of piety; their system was the reaction of sword-law, violence, and ra- pine. St. Bernard and King John, Ro- chester and Penn, St. Paul and Tiberius, Wesley and Wilkes, such are the typi- fied reactions of every age. The very pastimes of these men were useful to ourselves. From the madness of alche- my sprang modern chemistry; from the dreams of astrology the certainties of as- tronomy. Faraday and Chaucers Cheat with the Alembec, Galeotti and New- ton, had still something in common. To the monks scholastic theology we owe the preservation of Aristotle; and the labours of their copiers saved Homer and Plato from the tate of Ennius and Sappho. Their ideal was too perfect for our nature yet. They were the first missionaries and the first colonizers the defenders of the serf, the educators of the poor. The monk and the knight were necessary phases of a civilization dangerous and ridiculous only when their use was past. Every nation has given its art some pe- culiar attribute of divinity. That of the Mexican was terror, that of the Greek beauty, of the Egyptian repose, of the Assyrian power, of the monks love. Their faults were of their age. We should no more complain of St. Bernard preaching the crusade than. we should of Elizabeth fill- ing her prisons with the Jesuits, of Crom- well burning (he priest, or Calvin drown- ing the Anabaptist. For the majority of honest monks the convent was no doubt the whole world, and the cathedral a threshold of heaven. On that high altar, fifty years before, they had made their vow, by that altar they knelt on the eve of death; those huge windows, like the blazoned doors of para- dise, had cast ~on their choir-books half a century of light and shadow. By this shrine they knelt the day when Brother Jerome died. In that cloister they used to pace together, and the greenest spot in the garth is where he lies, waiting for his old comrades in good works. Those great bells in the tower for them had the voices of friends. Let us be satisfied by owning, then, that the monks were, after all, good and bad like other men, and that they led a more varied and useful life than has been generally imagined. It could not have been a wholly dissolute and selfish class from which such men as Chaucers good parson sprang. When we read of the dregs of the convent, let us not forget those beautiful lines which paint a man who might have been a friend of Gold- smiths honest vicar. A good man ther was of religioun, That was a poure persone of a town: But rich he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. Benigne. he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversite ful patient. Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, In sicknesse and in mischief to visite The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite. Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf, This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, That first he wrought and afterwards he taught. He was a shepherd and no mercenarie, And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful men not dispitious, Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, But in his learning discrete and henigne. To drawen folk to heaven, with fairenesse, By good example was his h~sinesse: But it were any persone obstinat, What so he were of highe or low estat, Him xvolde he snibben sharply for the nones, A better priest I trowe that nowther non is. He waited after no pompe ne reverence, Ne maked him no spiced conscience, But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, HE TAUGHT, BUT FIRST HE FOLOWED IT HIaISELvE. W. T. MISQUOTATION. 57 From The Spectator. posed to the tedious process of verifica MISQUOTATION. tion. So we find him, in his last published WE have read somewhere of a young volume, making Wordsworth say , preacher who, after he had delivered an There was a roaring in the woods all night, eloquent sermon before a learned assem- bly, was beckoned aside by one of the when Wordsworth wrote in the wind fathers, who thus addressed him and when the word woods coming in a Mr. So-and-So, twice in your sermon to- rhyme immediately afterwards would have day you quoted Scripture, and oddly made it extremely awkward. A more un- enough, in both instances, you misquoted. fortunate instance still is his paraphrase You didnt alter the sense of the passages, of Tennysons famous lines to be sure, but you used a sort of off-hand The old order changes, giving place to the translation of your own, instead of the new, grand old Authorized Version. Take And God folfils himself in many ways, an old mans advice, and never do~ 50 the first line having lost all rhythm and again. When you quote from a writer, lapsed into awkward prose. whether sacred or profane, always be at But of all recent offenders Mrs. Charles the pains to verify the quotation. Mis- the accomplished author of The Schdn- quotation is not, however, limited to ener- berg-Cotta Family, who cunningly com- getic pulpiteers. In the hurry of modern bines a faint odour of Evangelicalism with requirements daily newspapers, maga- a zines, and reviews it has become rather certain mystical breadth, is decidedly tied by rule, among the worst. You can hardly open a an unfashionable thing to be book of hers but they leap into your eyes, and authors of repute, whose example may as the French say. She has furniture prove infectious, clearly do not conde- scend to verify, and often fall into danger- For common too bright and good ous forms of paraphrase. Emerson says natores daily food, that there are gre at ways of borrowing, which is hardly allowable, even though and that next to the originator of a good the copulative and be consciously used sentence is the first quoter of it ; but he for or, and common for human. cannot have meant to give any sanction Furniture as food is surely a refinement for a gypsy-like disfiguration in the pro- far beyond the native simplicity of Words- cess of transference. It is because things worth! Over and above her unques- have come to a very bad pass indeed, even tioned facility of misquotation, however, among those who should know better and this lady has an almost unique power of show better, that we venture to give a few theological perversion. When she is in samples, culled from a very long list of the very act of proving Gods oneness of recentoffences against all ethics of quota- presence through all events and through tion. all time, she makes Mr. Tennyson come Mrs. Oliphant, usually a very conscien- to her support, as if he spoke thus of tious writer, is far from blameless in this One divine event, matter. For example, one of the most unlucky of recent citations ran right For which the whole creation waits, through all the forms her pleasant Rose instead of in June enjoyed, and is now elevated That far-off, divine event, even to the glory of stereotype in the cheap To which the whole creation moves, edition. It is one of Tennysons finest lines. To dying eyes moving, and not waiting, being the idea she herself wishes to enforce. Worse still The casement slowly grows a glimmering if indeed worse could be is a case square; which has just come under our eye as we but to the dying eyes of Mr. Damerel, the, write, where she credits the laureate with rector, on his own statement, The hands which comefrom darkness The casement slowly grows, a glittering square, Moulding men, which really it could not well help be- instead of ing, and, moreover, the cruel comma after And out of darkness came the hands grows makes the line still more gro- That reach throogh nature, moulding men. tesque. The late Canon Kingsley was not seldom an offender in similar wise. His Her rendering is expressive of a senti- memory was good, but notverbally exact; ment the very reverse of the laureates and latterly, at all events, he was indis- and of her own, and would favour a theolo gy the antipodes of theirs. German hymns and French memoirs of the pietistic or mystical cast, which she loves so much, all come alike to her; she misquotes them all. Miss Dora Greenwell is a thoughtful writer; but she grievously offends when- ever she quotes. With her An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry, becomes, As infants crying in the dark, As infants crying for the light, etc. It is lucky that her last volume is not like- ly to l~e opened by a certain class of read ers, for both infants and in the dark have, with them, a meaning all their own. Another exquisite verse in her hands becomes, Of the moth that shrivels iii a useless fire, The anguish that subserves anothers gain. It is simple torture to remember the beauty of the original, with this travesty printed before us: That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves anothers gain. Even Shakespeares hackneyed schoolboy lines escape not, but take on a new colour from her pen: There is a tide in the affairs of men XVhich, taken at the rise, leads on to fortune. The beautiful couplet, How difficult it is to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain, becomes with her, The heights which man is competent to win, Incompetent to keep. And Mr. Andrew Wilson, the versatile author of the justly praised Abode of Snow, almost keeps pace with these ladies in his powers of prosifying poetry. By the insertion of turfs for tufts in this fine verse from Wordsworth, can there be two opinions that he improves it for the worse ? - Through primrose turfs, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle traild its wreaths And tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. This may be, and probably is, an error of the press, but Coleridge does not fare much better at Mr. Andrew Wilson s hands. One of the finest touches in the MISQUOTATION. Chamouni Hymn is reduced to prose. Coleridge wrote : Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering thro the pure serene, in which it will be observed that the silence in the movement of the mighty mass is a pervading idea. But not so with Mr. Andrew Wilson, of The Abode of- Snow. He translates it, Oftfrom whose feet the mz~hty avalanche Shoots downward, which is lame enou~h truly! Wordsworth, we may note, fares partic- ularly ill at the hands of later writers. Even Mr. Stopford Brooke, who has done so much to trace out the leading lines of his theology in a lofty spirit, in his last vol- ume of sermons, comes very near to de- stroying one of the finest touches of the- ology in his poems. This is how he gives a famous passage from The Ode to Duty: Eternal Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godheads most benignant grace; Nor know we anything more fair TA n is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee in their beds, And fragrance in their footing treads Thou dost preserve the stars from ~vrong, And the immortal heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. Immortal here, instead of most an- cient, does entfrely change the sense. A most curious case, and one of the most originalif any originality can be claimed in misquotation was that of Mr. John Forster, who gave, in his second volume of Landors Life, a facsimile of a letter written in acknowledgment of a visit paid by Dickens and himself to the veteran on his seventy-fifth birthday, in which there occurs the following verse : I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks; and I am ready to depart. With the facsimile before his eyes, the word before, which has a sweet hint of alliteration became, in Mr. Forsters let- ter-press copy, against, which is pro- saic, incorrect indeed, and such as Lan- dor could hardly have written. Then the pointing is all wrong and common-place. A very characteristic clause of the letter besides is left out in Mr. Forsters copy. As we write, Macmillans Magazine MISQUOTATION. for November is laid on our table. We lift it up and glance over its contents. Having been concerned with the niceties of poetic expression, we not unnaturally turn at once to see what A Lincoinshire Rector has to say of Virgil and Tenny- son, poets of so widely-separated eras. But here misquotations, and mispointings such as destroy accent and sense together, are truly presences not to be put by, and sadly disturb our enjoyment, all the more, that we feel the worth of many -of A. Lincolnshire Rectors remarks. A fine stanza of Locksley Hall is thus printed, rhyme and music being wholly ruined: Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandyfats, And the hollow ocean-ridge roaring into cata- racts. instead of Locksley Hall. that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts, An s seems a small matter, but it may dislocate a foot, and A Lincolnshire Rec- tor immediately gives a positive illustra- tion by adding sto wave, in this fine couplet from Maud: Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship-wrecking roar, Now to the scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the wave. But far worse than either of these is this unpardonable botch of quotation from The Last Tournament: They fired the tower, Which half that autumn night like the live north Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alior Made all above it as the waters Moab saw Come round by the east. And out beyond them flushed The long, low dune and lazy-plunging sea, instead of this : They fired the tower Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up thro Alioth and Alcor Made all above it, and a hnndrcd mere.r About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flushcl The long low dune, and lazy plunging sea. Once more, from The Princess : The lists were ready empanoplied and plumed, We entered in, and waited; fifty-three 59 To fifty, till the terrible trumpet blared At the barrier Yet a moment and once more The trumpet and again at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In the middle, with the crash of shivering points, And thunder, etc., etc. Now This punctuation gives the page a look quite unlike Mr. Tennysons usual contour of blank verse, for dashes, on the whole, he uses sparingly. But this is how we find this passage in all the editions we have access to : The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed We enterd in, and waited, fifty-three Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared At the barrier like a wild horn in a land Of echoes, and a moment, and once more The trumpet, and again ; at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In conflict with the crash of shivering points, And thunder. In the exquisite illustrative quotation from Elaine a line is omitted : And a spear, Down-glancing, lamed his charger. If it should be objected that these are very trifling departures from the text to justify such harsh criticism, let us remind our readers of what Wordsworth inferred from one of Sir Walter Scotts superficial- ly insignificant misquotations from him. W. Scott quoted as f Wordsworth, rom me, says The swan on sweet St. Marys lake Floats double, swan and shadow, instead of still, thus obscuring my idea, and betraying his own uncritical princi- ples of composition. Walter Scott is not a careful composer. He allows himself many liberties, which betray a want of re- spect for his reader. For instance, he is too fond of inversions, i.e., he often places the verb before the substantive, and the accusative before the verb, etc.* That versatile writer, the author of Guy Livingstone, who is always quoting in every lanouao-e under heaven, at one place gives us the following lines : She stood up in bitter case, With a pale and steadfast face Toll slozoly, Like a statue thunderatrook, That, though shivered, Seemed to look Right against the thunder-place. * Prose Writings. Edited byRev. A. B. Grosart. vol. III., p. 462. 6o MR. STORYS NERO. But turning to the original, the latest edi- tion, we find it reads thus She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face; Toll slowly. Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though 9uiveriflg, seems to look Right against the thunder-place. Now, the importance of correct quotation is seen in the impossibility of a statue which has been shivered looking, or seeming to look, against anything, and the tense absolutely precludes the idea of shivering. So Mrs. Brownings del- icate and beautiful fancy is wholly lost, and the verse prosified. These errors errors of a most fla- grant kind lie at the doors of writers of mark.. We do not refer to second-rate magazines, far less to newspapers, that would be a never-ending task. XVe may note, however, that, not very long ago, the Cornkil4 usually very correct, gave as the title of Thackerays unfinished story Denis Donne, instead of Denis Du- val, and followed it up in a page or two with an unpardonable misquotation; and only the other week that usually well-edit- ed journal, Land and Water, gave the following as the last verse from Cole- ridges Ancient Mariner: He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the great God who loveth us, He made and loves them all. To account for such grave misrepresen- tations of standard poets, whose writings lie ready to the hand of any person of or- dinary culture, is not difficult, and two words suffice, haste and carelessness. It is worth inquiring, however, how it is that, whilst English authors suffer so se- verely, foreign quotations are usually much more correctly given. The reason is ob- vious. The writer is then on his guard; he considers, ref~rs, deems his reputation to be at stake. But a jealousy over our own classics should be paramount, and writers constantly offepding by misquo- tations such as these should be systemat- ically and periodically exposed and pil- loried. The enormities of careless citations of prose are as patent, if not more so, and would need a separate celebration. One of the most extraordinary instances on record of clear misreading of an author is perhaps that of Dean Stanley, who, in a sketch of Hooker, quoted the following as characteristic of Hookers all-including tol- erance and geniality: I am persuaded that of them with whom in this cause we strive, there are whose betters would hard ly be found, if they did not live amongst men, but in some wilderness by them- selves. And the dean actually intro- duced this quotation by the words, To the Puritans against whom he wrote he acknowledged that it was impossible to find better men than those who were amongst them. The truth is, that Hook- er was so~full of calm, unmoved sarcasm, that we sometimes cannot help feeling a little of sympathy with his wife ; and the above is an instance of his cool and ir- ritating attitude, so hiding itself under assumed politeness as to cheat even a master like Dean Stanley. In this case certainly the dean has been a little too facile in forcing men of the old type to illustrate the breadth and ready sympathy which he so admirably illustrates and pleads for. Perhaps a still worse case than the deans was that of Colonel XVent- worth Higginson, author of Atlantic Essays, who, when speaking of the su- periority of American magazines in re- spect of style, in that they were, as he held, more finished, careful, harmonious, and less slangy, chanced to pounce upon Dean Alford, asking, What second- rate American writer would see any wit in describing himself, like Dean Alford in his recent book on language, as an old party in a shovel? * Now it happens that Dean Alford never did so describe himself, but chose rather in his Queens English to expose the vulgarity of those who lent themselves to such modes of speech, as any one may see by reference to p. 228 of that very interesting, if some- times opinionated hook. But Colonel Wentworth in this illustrates the tenden- cy to that overhastiness in his country- men which Griswold seriously had to de- plore, as doing injury to literature in even more important ways than failing to read your author, a fault in which we, on this side, are but too closely following them. ~ Atlantic Essays, p. 30. From The Examiner. MR. STORYS NERO* MR. STORY, in one of the poems con- tained in his Graffiti 1Jtalia (a collec- tion of dramatic studies and lyrics con- structed somewhat after the model of * Nero. By W. W. Story. London: William Blackwood and Sons. MR. STORYS NERO.~~ 6i Mr. Browning), gives us the views of a duke of Urbino descanting as a contem- porary critic, on a letter received from Raffaelle, in which are urged the for and against of confining ones self to a single art. This note is again touched lightly in another poem in the same volume, where the diverse jottings contained in the sketch- book of Leonardo da Vinci that full chord of many tones are commented on rather disparagingly by the prior of Sta. Maria della Grazie. In the play of Ne- ro we find yet another allusion to one who tries so many forms of art. These expressions in dispraise or support of ver- satility are especially interesting when viewed in connection with Mr. Storys varied taskingof his own mind; for though the passages we have mentioned blend most naturally with their respective contexts, we cannot help half wondering whether they may not be an unconscious vindication (if, indeed, any such were needed) of a perception of the beautiful, which could not satisfy itself with less than sculpture, prose, poetry, and the dra- ma as its outward expression. This ver- satility is not the graceful dilettanteism whose light ephemeral wings carry it easily from flower to flower with honied but un- substantial result; rather is it the out- come of a rich fancy and clear realistic perception that cannot with one medium express satisfactorily to itself all that it apprehends and feels. But please rememher, of the famous names, Who is there hath confined him to one art, Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No, Or our great living master, Angelo, They are whole men, whose iounded knowl- edge shames Our narrow study of a single part; Not merely painted, dwarfed in all their aims, But men who painted, huilded, carved, and wrote: Whole diapasons not a single note. est in studying this conception of an out- ward and visible beauty made manifest to the senses in connection with the psycho- logical effect supposed to be produced by it on Marcus Antonius, as described in the dramatic poem. We have selected these two instances as being classical subjects, though not perhaps classically treated, and we now have before us yet another inspiration caught from Italy and the past. In the play of Nero we see few traces of Mr. Storys former work, if we except the colloquial facility, and an utter absence of inflation or fine writing. Re- membering all the information and detail contained in Robc~ di Rorn~, we are im- mediately struck by a total absence of any archaisms or apparent erudition in this new drama; and, as,~if we had here some mental reaction against statuesque passivity and the quiet dignity of repose, we are hurried along by a full narrative which hardly pauses, and by brlsk dia- logues which are rarely if ever interrupted by soliloquies or disquisitions. All that is said or done by the different characters actively helps forward the action of the piece, and if there are very few scenes or points that stand out from the rest for quotation, one is uniformly absorbed and interested. This kind of treatment is eminently realistic, and instinct with life and movement; but though it produces a livelier general effect, it does not afford the same opportunities fo~ dignified beauty and sonorous passages as a more didactic style. We would almost question whether Mr. Story has not selected too large a subject for one dramatic composition ; his canvas seems to us so big that the figures appear a little isolated, and we consequent- ly miss that concentrated intensity and completeness which are essential to a great dramatic composition. Nero mi~,ht, we think, be more properly called an histor- One is naturally led to look for reflected ical romance than a play, its personages light in Mr. Storys different works. In being far more noticeable for what they do the perfect statue in its pale repose we or endure than for what they are. On lay- seek for some of that fixed and stationed ing down the book we seem to be in an melody which lingers dreaming round atmosphere if not of battle at any rate of each subtle line; in the dramas and murder and of sudden death; and even verses for some of the perfection of form here Neros death hardly seems the cul- and sobriety of intensity and passion minating point after Agrippinas and Sen- which he has achieved in his sculpture; or ecas and Poppa~as far more piteous fate. again in the latter for traces of that almost The play extends over some twelve or colloquial charm which makes half the thirteen years, beginning when Nero value of that very captivating book Roba no longer a lad but a man gifted with phys- di Roma. Even were his Cleopatra ical strength and beauty, with intellect less pre-eiriinently beautiful as a statue, and grace of mind beo~ins to realize that with its almost divine imperiousness, power of place and personality which ulti- there would yet be a deep testhetic inter-I mately wrecked his life, and choked all 62 PETS. nobler feelings with a deadly ~rowth of lust, vanity, and cruelty. The opening scenes, in which the young emperor first feels the weight of his mothers tutelage and guidance, and ultimately fiercely re- sents her authority, consenting to her death, are finely rendered. It would take too long to recapitulate the events of that short, eventful life, even as recorded by Mr. Story, who has worked out with good dra- matic purpose the gradual degradation of a character that originally had great poten- tialities of good the legitimate con- sciousness of a general aptitude turninb into an overweening and grotesque vanity, the fatal admixture of impatience and re- lentlessness, the young ardent nature sink- ing into mere sensualism, seekino for new, strange ways to satisfy its lust. There is a fine touch towards the end of the play in the love of Sporus for his master, one of those instances of subjection to a personal charm to whkh chronicles and por- tr its give us no clue. The character of Popp~a is also drawn with much skill. She is in no way attractive when ~ve see her first; faithless to her husband, Otho, plausible and calculating in her passion for Nero, a passion that has none of the real reticence of virtue or the abandon of the time. Then follows the slow retribu- tion la grande fatalitd, as Michelet somewhere calls itof belonging body and soul to a man whom it is her doom and her moral degradation to love. We soon get to pity rather than to blame her for having usurped by her wiles and beauty the place of the virtuous Octavia; and when she is brutally struck by her husband, just when the hopes of coming motherhood had aroused within her heart something natural and pure in the midst of so much bedizened corruption and vice, we almost wish we could forget that the murder of A0rippina still cries aloud for vengeance that The god is great against her, she will die. When critically analyzed Nero is not perhaps a thoroughly great work, but it is very good and pleasant reading, and we quote, certainly not against himself, but genuinely re-echoing the feeling of his lines, with a present sense of pleasure re- ceived in many ways Blest the poets song, The sculptors art, the painters living hues, That thus can make a transient form, a glance, A smile immortal; time and age defy; Seize the swift-hurrying thought, and bid it stay To be a permanent perpetual joy. From The Saturday Review. PETS. MAN has been distinguished from brutes as a cooking animal. But he has another characteristic almost equally distinctive. He k~ps pets. It is true that sometimes this characteristic is shared by individuals of other races. A horse has been known to become attached to the stable-cat, and to pine in the absence of pussy. So, too, do~ s have often allowed a corner of their kennel to some stray animal domesticated about the house, and odd friendships have been cemented between creatures as dif- ferent as a goat and a j tckdaw, or a rabbit and a foxhound. Such brotherhood be- tween tame beasts, all living in a state more or less artificial, is only as natural as the talking of a parrot, the piping of a bull- finch, or the trained labour of a canary taught to work for its livin~ by drawing its xvater with a bucket and a dhain. We never heard of a cat that loved a dear cricket to cheer with friendly chirpings her leisure on the hearth. No puppy has been known to lavish tender caresses on the radiant head of an iridescent bluebottle. The hen whose limited intellect reels before the watery instinct of a brood of ducklings is the victim of parental affection labouring under a base deception. But men pet many creatures besides their offspring, supposititious or other. It is true that a modern naturalist finds in an ants nest certain well-cared-for beetles, and endeav- ours in vain to account for such a myste- rious fact. Are the beetles scavengers, or are they pets? Or are the ants endued, like men, with superstition, and do they venerate, like the ancient Egyptians, a coleopterous insect? St irlings show a preference for certain sheep. Every croc- odile may be supposed to be the favourite of a particular lapwing. But these in- stances answer rather to the sportsmans predilection for a well-stocked moor, or the fly-fishers love for a shady pool. No kitten leads about a mouse with blue rib- bon round the little victims neck, as a child caresses the lamb which it may one day devour. The child shows its petting instinct at the earliest age, and loves a woolly rhinoceros as soon as it loves sugar and apples. Long before the baby can speak, as soon as it can open and close its tiny hands, it longs for something soft and warm, and, above all, something moving, which it may grasp and pinch at will. No worsted poodle, however cunningly con- trived in the toy country, cai~ comoete for a moment with a real puppy. The pleas- PETS. 63 ure of breaking all the legs from off all the quadrupeds in Noahs ark pales into in- significance beside the rapture of pulling pussys tail, and half blinding a living ter- rier. The cat and dog endure from the infant the tortures of Damien without com- plaint, and purr or wag their tail at each fresh infliction as a new manifestation of regard. Vivisection is a trifle compared with some of the unwitting cruelties of the nursery; but the victims seem to un- derstand that their pains are not intend- ed, and it would be well if a like self-sacri- ficing enthusiasm could be fostered in the scientific laboratory. That people do keep pets and do misuse them is a plain and unquestionable fact. Why they keep them is another and much more difficult question. Some, it is true, have a dislike to the destruction of ani- mal life. Cardinal Bellarmine would not disturb the fleas which got their livelihood in his famous beard. Others, again, have been driven to love a swallow from the mere loneliness of prison life, and the only reason for doubting the truth of the legend which connects the name of Bruce with a spider is that similar tales have been told of other famous men. The story of a Lady Berkeley who insisted on keeping her merlins to moult in her bed- chamber, and her husbands consequent displeasure, occurs among the annals of the fifteenth century. Little dogs fig ure on brasses; and the names of Ter- ri, Jakke, and Bo have come down to us as memorials of pets beloved five hundred years ago. Cowper, besides his hares, petted all kinds of animals, and re- monstrated in verse with his spaniel for killing a fledgling. Oldys apostrophized~a fly, and Burns a mouse. We think it was Carnot, in the Reign of Terror, that lav- ished caresses on his dog, while he sent hundreds of human victims to the slaugh- ter. In fact, there are few people come to mature years who at some time of their life have not loved a dear gazelle or other domesticated animal, and been gladdened by its affectionate eye. A taste which is so peculiarly human may be humanizing if properly directed. The child, indeed, will rob a nest to satisfy its longing for a pet. But it is easy to demonstrate the cruelty of interfering with natural laws, and the speedy death of the half-fledged nestling demonstrates clearly enough the futility of the childish aspirations. The sympathies of Bill Sykes, callous as he was, were awakened towards his dog, and even Charon may be supposed occasionally to bestow a friendly pat on one of the heads of Cerberus. Although it has often been rem rked that love of the horse accompa- nies, if it does not cause, the degradation of many a man, yet it would be hard to ascribe the iniquities of a blackleg to any true love of the animal on which, he lays his money. Doubtless the horse of Calig- ula preferred his oats ungiIt, and it is the uncertainty of racing rather than any fault of the racer that attracts rogues to New- market and Epsom. A horse would run quite as well, the race would be even more often to the swift, if betting could be abolished. And our prize costerinongers and cabmen find kindness to their ani- mals, like honesty, the best policy. The donkey that is starved and beaten seldom favours his driver with more than a spas- modic gallop, while the sleek ass we now occasionally notice in- our streets draws more than his own weight of heavy men at a cheerful and willing trot. The prin- ciple on which pets are kept is, however, sometimes difficult to find. We were all horrified lately to read of an old lady who starved a houseful of cats, and every In- dian traveller tells shocking tales of the cruelty of the Hindoo to the humpbacked cow which he worships as~ a divinity. Cruelty to pets is only one aspect of the matter. There are people, especially in towns, whose kindness to their pets is ex- ercised at the expense of their neighbours. So long as they are an amusement to their owners without being a nuisance to the public no one can complain. There are, it is true, crusty people who would like the world better if it contained neither kittens nor babies. But it cannot do real harm to anybody that an old lady should turn rabbits loose in her, garden in order to reduce the excessive corpulence of her darling pugs by a little wholesome coursing. It is good for her pets, and does not hurt the rabbits. Nor does it injure the public that twice a year she finds herself under the necessity of posting to the seaside in order to give her favourites the constitutional refresh- ment of a few walks on the shore. She must post all the way, because it would be impossible to let them enter the cruel den set apart for mere dogs on the railway, and the company will not let her hire a first-class compartment for their use. Even the collier who feeds his bull-pup on beef- steaks and milk, at the cost of half-starving his wife and children, may at least plead that he does not interfere with the com- fort or convenience of his neighbours. But it is a little odd that there is no way of restraining him if he would go further. He may, as far as the present state of the 64 PETS. law can control him, cause his dog to be a ates an unusual noise and disturbance in nuisance and annoyance of the worst kind the night-time is guilty of a nuisance; to all who live within hearing; yet it is but it makes no provision for cases in apparently impossible to interfere with which the noise is produced without the him. It may be right enough that a man intervention of the horn, and apparently should be free to make the lives of his does not forbid even a noise and disturb- wife, his children, and his servants as mis- ance, provided only it be usual. True, a erable as he pleases, but it does seem civil action may be brou0ht against the strange that he may extend his attention owner of the animal making the noise, if to his neighbours with equal impunity. the sufferer has been injured in the pursuit The general public, and especially that of his lawful calling or occupation; but, as considerable section of it which consists he probably carries on his occupation of helpless invalids, have no remedy miles away in the quiet recesses of the against a crowing cock or a barking dog. city, and is chiefly employed at home in In extreme cases it is possible that a phy- what appears to be the unlawful occupa- sician may be able for a time to abate such tion of resting himself, he has no ground a nuisance as being dangerous to his pa- for action. We have some imperfect sort tients life; but there seems to be no re- of protection against brass bands and dress unless in cases of life and death. barrel-organs; why not against singing- In London a sufferer from such a coin- birds, which might, as in Charles OMal- plaint as chronic neuralgia may be kept in ley, be interpreted to include fighting torture all day by the barking of a dog in cocks? An extreme course alone is open the mews behind the house, and may pass to the sufferer at present. We are not a wakeful night owing to the howling of concerned to point it out too plainly. But, the same animal when chained up. There short of this desperate and certainly oh- is no choice but a change of residence, if jectionable remedy, there is no way, so far the invalid cannot bear the noise of cabs as we can see, of interfering with any de- and milk-carts at the other side of the velopment, however disagreeable, of the house. An appeal to the police magistrate petting faculty. We may habitually wear only elicits another and perhaps more dis- cotton-wool in our ears, or, if we like it mal tale of suffering. His worship is but better, we may leave our house and take human, and he too has had days of illness another, but it is not clear we have any prolonged into weeks owing to the zoolog- power at present to prevent our next-door ical propensities of his neighbours. He neighbour from confining a pack of hounds can do nothing for himself, and nothing for in his stable, suspending a row of macaws the complainant. The law says nothing on his balcony, keeping choruses of cats about such annoyances. It says that on his leads, and a laughing hyena in his every person who blows a horn or cre- back kitchen. THE Russian correspondent of the KJ?nische Zeitung states that letters have reached St. Petersburg from members of the exploring ex- pedition which was recently sent to the Attrek territory by the imperial government. They had advanced to Krasnowodsk, in Tschikish- lau, without misadventure, and after a weeks rest had proceeded along the Attrek to Schot, where it was proposed to take in new supplies. It was expected that the expedition would reach the mouth of the Attrek on their home. ward passage about the end of last or the be- ginning of the present month. In General Lomakins official report of the expedition, which came to St. Petersburg at the same time, it was announced that, although hitherto the Turkomans had everywhere shown them- selves friendly towards the Russians, there was reason to know that the Afghans were endeavouring to incite them to rise against the strangers and prevent their further ad- vance. The Turkomans had on several occa- sions given information in regard to these attempts, which had enabled the general to seize two of the Afghan emissaries, who had been executed as spies. The Attrek expedi- tion is regarded by the Russian government as especially important, from the information which it is anticipated it may supply in regard to the various degrees of practicability of the differentroutes leading to Merv, which is in- teresting as a central point of junction for ~many lines of way opening upon districts in which the British as well as the Russians are interested.

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The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1648 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 8, 1876 0128 1648
The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1648 65-128

67 So 91 LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ? Volume xiii~ ~ 1648k January 8, 1876k From Beginning, ol CXXVIII CONTENTS. I. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. By Ed. ward A. Freeman Fortnz~hdy Review, II. THR DILEMMA. Part XVI.,. . . . Blackwoods Magazine, III. WALT WHITMANS POEMS. By Peter Bayne, Contemporary Review,. IV. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. By Mrs. Oh. phant. Part VII Macmillans Magazine, . 103 V. IN A STUDIO. By W. W. Story. Part VI., Blackwood.~ Magazine, . 112 VI. WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS, . Contemporary Review, . 117 VII. HINDoo PROVERBS 126 POETRY. A GERMAN BAD, . . . . 661 DUST AND ASHES, 66 MISCELLANY 128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Pnbiiskers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of postage. An extra COPY of THE LIVING Aoa 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 ney-order, if possible. If neither ot 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 nsouey-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE Lsvsssu Auz, s8 cents. 66 A GERMAN BAD. DEEP within a narrow valley, lies a busy little town, While set as for its coronet, each mountain bears a chapel crown. Every tongue on earth thats spoken, in that Babel mingled go, Those whose characters are broken, those whose lives are white as snow. Some for pleasure, some for play, ever march, ing to antI fro, Sick and well and grave and gay, up and down thecrowd doth flow. Through khe valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift, Where the wave with many a quiver, plays around the pine-trees drift. But within the town the streamlet forms a Eh clear and shallow pool, detail reflecte& clearly, down amidst its shadows cool. All the men, and all the houses, all the hanging flower-pots, Booths and bonnets, beards and blouses, and the Baroness de Kotz. And the grey cliffs overhanging, and the grim and solemn pines, Whose forests with ,their mighty shadows, close us in with dark green lines. All, except the cross which towers, high aloft into the sky, Alone upon that mountain summit, as its Master here did die. For the mirror was too narrow, and could not the whole contain, So it took the lower portion, left out what oer all should reign. And methought our living mirrors, in that busy little town, Gave back all that eager bustle, to and fro, and up and down. Faithfully we there reflected, all the chatter, all the noise, All the talk on one another, all the flowers, all the toys. Only we left out the presence, and forgot the thought of Him Whose calm and holy memory, in our hearts should neer grow dim. Like an old Italian picture where the men and women sit, Unconscious of the glorious vision, which above their heads doth flit. A GERMAN BAD, ETC. So the upper, better portion of our picture heeding not, Broken, selfish, narrow, trivial life becomes in that sWeet spot. Good Words. DUST AND ASHES. I. BETWIXT your home and mine, Oh, love, there is a graveyard lying; And every time you came, Your steps were oer the dead, and from the dying! Your face was dark and sad, Yoiir ey~s had shadows in their very laughter, Yet their glances made me glad, And shut r~y own to what was coming after. Your voice had deeper chords Than the A~olian harp when night-winds blow; The melancholy music of your words None but myself may know. And, oh, you won my heart By vows unbreathed by words of love un- spoken; So that, as now we part, You have no blame to bear, and yet tis broken! II. How shall I bear this blow, how best resent it? Ah, love, you have not left me even my pride! Nor strength to put aside, nor to repent it Twere better I had died! You came beneath my tent with friendly greeting; Of all my joys you had the better part; Then when our eyes and hands were ottenest meeting, You struck me to the heart! No less a murderer, that your victim, living, Can face the passing world, and jest and smile! No less a traitor, for your show of giving Your friendship all the while Well, let it pass! The city churchyard lying Betwixt our homes is but a type and sign Of the waste in your heart, and of the eternal dying Of all sweet hopes in mine Transcript. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 67 From ~he Fortnightly Review. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. A VISIT to the eastern coasts of the Hadriatic, planned long ago with objects bearing wholly on the history of past times, has lately given me a glimpse of a stirring piece of modern history, and has called my thoughts back to subjects which were more familiar to them twenty years back than they have been of late. I had longed for years to see the palace of Spalato, and the other wonders of the land which gave Rome so many of her greatest emperors. This year I had for the first time the op- portunity of carrying out this wish of many years, and its carrying out in this particular year causgd me to hear and see somewhat, not only of the palace at Spalato, but also of the revolt in Herze- govina. I was able to hear much of the matter from men familiar with the seat of war, and myself to get a glimpse, though only a glimpse, alike of enslaved Herze- govina and of unconquered Montenegro. These sights called up again old thoughts and old controversies. I have ever been one of those, a body sometime very few in number, who could not understand why our love of right and freedom, our hatred of wrong and oppression, should be bounded by the Hadriatic Sea. I could never understand why, while ~ve de- nounced the oppression of the Austrian or the Russian, while we admired and sympathized with all who rose up against it, we were bound to uphold the far blacker oppression of the Turk, and to hurl every name of contempt and dislike at those who strove to shake off his yoke. I was one of thosewho raised their protest one and twenty years back, when we were en- trapped by a crafty tyrant into waging war against a sovereign and a people who had never wronged us, on behalf of the foulest fabric of tyranny on earth. I could see no glory, no wisdom, nothing but the deepest national shame, in lending the arms of England to support the cause of pope and Turk against the nations of Eastern Christendom. To me the names of Alma, of Balaklava, and of Inkerman are names of national humiliation. They are records of blood shed by English hands in the cause of wrong; and blood shed in the cause of wrong, whether it be shed in victory or in defeat, is matter for shame, and not for boasting. Thus I thought and spoke when they were but fewa few ~there always werewho thought and spoke with me. Now that the madness of the moment is past, now that we can see things by the light of twenty more years of experience, there are more who speak, there are many more who think, as a few of us thought and spoke during the national frenzy of the Russian ~var. But few or many it matters not; truth is the same in either case. At Alma and Inkerman England fought for wrong, as a generation before at Nava- rino she had fought for right. In 1827 we fought to free a nation from its tyrants, and the good work was called an un- toward event. In 1854 we fought to keep nations in their bondage, and it be- came the fashion to glory in our shame. We have again the choice of good or evil opened before us; we have again to choose between the precedent of the right- eous act of which we were ashamed, and the precedent of the unrighteous act in which we gloried. We can again, if we will, do something, perhaps not by fighting but certainly in some other way, either for the cause of good or for the cause of evil~ We may use such influence as we may have in the councils of Europe, either on behalf of the Turkish oppressor or on behalf of the victims who have at last turned against him: God grant that whatever we do, by act or by speech, it may be in the spirit of 1827, and not in the spirit of 1854. When I spoke and wrote about these matters twenty years back, the subject was one which had for me, as it still has, a twofold attraction. I felt that, setting aside all associations which might sway us in the matter, all considerations of past history of religion or races or language; we who spoke up for the oppressed against the oppressor were only speaking the lan. guage of simple right. We spoke on be~ half of the Greek and the Slave, only as both we and others were wont to speak on behalf of the Pole, the Lombard, and the Hungarian. We spoke on behalf of Chris- tians under Mahometan oppressors as I trust we should have spoken on behalf of 68 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. Mahometans under Christian oppressors. But for myself personally the matter had also an interest of another kind. The polit- ical wrong against which we strove was but the continuation of a great historic wrong. The historic wrong had in truth no small share in bringing about the political wrong. The schism between the Eastern and Western Churches, the rivalry between the Eastern and Western Empires, had wrought a lasting effect on the minds of many who had never heard of either Church or either Empire. A kind of dis~ like and contempt towards the Christian nations of the East had been fostered for ages in the minds of the Christian nations of the West. The Greek of the Lower Empire was held up to scorn as the type of everything that was vile, and the mod- ern Greek was held to be, if anything, a little viler than his Byzantine forefather. Of the great mass of the Christian sub- jects of the Turk, the Slaves and the Bul- garians, many people seem never to have heard at all. All members of the East- ern Church were jumbled together under the common name of Greeks. Up to that time the Eastern Church had often been looked at with some sympathy by Protestants, as having a common enemy at Rome; but that Church was now suddenly found out to be something worse even than the pope himself. Peo- ple in Western Europe who protested against the oppressions of Russia or Austria often had no more real knowl- edge about Italians, Poles, and Hun- garians than they had about Greeks, Slaves, and Bulgarians. But they had at least not been brought up with a preju- dice of ages against Italians, Poles, or Hungarians. People therefore came to look with sympathy on the victims of R~ussia and Austria, while they looked with a kind of suspicion upon the victims of the Turk. They also made the great discovery that the Turk had some of the virtues, or apparent virtues, which are commonly found in masters, while his vic- tims had some of the vices which are al- ways found in~ slaves. It would have been too much trouble to stop and think that the vices of the slave ought to go in some measure to the account of those who made him a slave. It was enough that the Turk had some virtues, and his Christian subjects some vices. He was, by force of this argument, ruled to be al- together in the right, and his Christian subjects to be altogether in the wrong. Then there came in the great Russian bugbear. We were told that, even if the Christians of Turkey had grievances, it was no time to think about them or talk about them, when all Europe had a much greater grievance. Greek, Slave, Bulga- rian were to be taught a lesson of self- sacrifice; they were to be taught to sit down quietly under real and undoubted evils at the hands of the Turk, because Western Europe had chosen to take into its head that some unknown and shadowy evil was corning on mankind at the hands of the Russian. Then, as usual, to the help of all this mass of falsehood, falla- cies, and half-truths, came that dense mass of invincible ignorance which al- ways plays so great a part at all times of popular excitement. Many people could not be made to see the difference between Turkey and the Turks. Because in West- ern Europe England and the English, France and the French, mean much the same things, they could not understand a state of things in which the Turks were not Turkey, but simply the invaders and oppressors of Turkey~ I remember a meeting in some midland town, Derby, I think it was, where a resolution was passed in honour of the glorious patriotic spirit of the Turkish nation. The same peo- ple would certainly not have passed a res- olution in honour of the glorious patri- otic spirit of the Austrian nation, when Radetzky set forth to. win back Lombardy. That the glorious patriotic spirit of the Turkish nation simply meant the obsti- nate determination of a horde of robbers to keep possession of the houses and lands of other men, certainly never en- tered the heads of the good people who passed the resolution. They doubtless thought that there was a Turkish nation living in Turkey, just as there is an Eng- lish nation living in England, and a French nation living in France. We heard much in those days about the rights of the sultan, and it was not everybody who THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 69 understood that the rights of the sultan over the houses and goods of Greeks, Slaves, and Bulgarians were exactly the same as the rights of a burglar to the house into which he has broken, and to the goods which he has found in it. In short, the moral confusion which con- demned oppression on one side of the Ha- driatic and admired it on the other, though it was largely strengthened by wilful and interested perversion, rested in the main on a deep and solid foundation of honest ignorance. The clamourers on behalf of the Turk were undoubtedly one class of that large order who call evil good and good evil; but in a vast number of cases they did so simply because they had been led honestly to mistake evil for good, and good for evil. The worst is that, when a general delusion of this kind has taken possession of the mind of a nation, the delusion cannot be got rid of till it is too late. Truth commonly gets the better in the long run; but for thetime falsehoods and half-truths get so firm a hold that truth is not listened to. People may now endure to be told that it i~ a truer patriot- ism to try to keep ones country out of an unjust war than to join in a wild cry for rushing into such a war. But twenty years ago all that those who did so got for their pains was to be called unpatri- otic and un-English. There is now time to pause and think before we again irrev- ocably commit ourselves to the cause of unrighteousness. When all these confusions were rife twenty years back, the history of South- Eastern Europe had been for a long time a favourite subject of my thoughts and reading, though I do not profess to have ever studied it in the same detail in which I have studied some parts of western history. But I had learned enough to know Mr. Finlays writings alone could teach that much how large a part of European history has been utterly mis- conceived through the traditional con- tempt for the Greek of the Lower Em- pire. As commonly happens, error with regard to past history and error with re- gard to present policy went together; for in truth the one error was built up upon the other. In those days a writer in BZackwoods Magazine could talk, seem- ingly with glee, about the last Byzantine historian being blown into the air by our brave allies the Turks. The man who wrote this nonsense perhaps really thought that, because the Turks were unluckily allies of England in the nineteenth cen- tury, therefore they must also have been allies of England in the fifteenth century. He certainly did not think it worth while to stop and think that more than one last Byzantine historian contrived to write the history of the very storm in which it was thus taken for granted that he must have been blown into the air. About the same time it was the fashion to write little books about the history of Crimea, in which there was always a great deal about Mithridates, always a grea.t deal about Catherine the Second, but in which the most instructive thing in the history of the peninsula, the long life of the Greek commonwealth of Cherson, was always left out. Perhaps the writers had never heard of the fact; perhaps it was thought inexpedient to let it be known that there ever had been anywhere, least of all in Crimea, so dangerous a thing as a Greek commonwealth. There was therefore a good deal of work to be done by the mere lover of historical accuracy as well as by the lover of political freedom, and both I and others did what we could to spread abroad truer ideas on both branches of the subject. What we generally got for our pains was to be called j5hiZheZZ~nes, and~ to be laughed at for troubling our- selves about petty states. As I have read history, petty states have generally been the salt of the earth; and, as for the name pizilkelibi, I am in no way ashamed of it, if only it be not used in any exclusive sense. I am simply for right against wrong, for all the victims of the oppressor as against the oppressor, not for any one class of his victims as against any other class. I will accept the name of thilizel- Z~n with gladness, if only I am allowed to add that I am equally ~hiZosZave and fiziZobulgarian. Those days have long passed away. Since then it has been only by fits and starts that the affairs of Eastern Christen- dom could be the chief object of the 70 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION.~ thoughts of any man in the western lands. It was no more than human nature if, in the face of the great events of the last six- teen years, in face of the reunion of Ger- many and Italy, in face of the overthrow of tyranny in France and of slavery in America, the best friends of the Greek, the Slave, and the Bulgarian might some- times forget them for a season. Now and t$en indeed the East became again upper- most in the thoughts of men who could think and feel. There was the moment when Montenegro secured her freedom at Grahovo; there was the moment when Crete rose against her tyrants. Of that last tale of English shame I have before spoken in these pages. I have spoken of the crime of that flinty-hearted man who, when men who had hearts, English con- suls and En~lisl~ sailors, were doing what they could to save Cretan women and chil- dren from their destroyers, bade that the common rights of humanity should be re- fused to the oppressed, for fear forsooth that we should open the Eastern ques- tion, or disturh the integrity and inde- pendence of the Ottoman Empire. Then too was seen that other shameful sight of an Englishman sold to the barbarian, abus- ing English naval skill and science to press down again the yoke of the barbarian on nations who were striving to cast off his yoke. I suppose that the highest de- gree of glory and of infamy to be found in the annals of naval warfare may be seen in the two contrasted pictures of Hastings in command of the Karteria and Hobart in pursuit of the Hen6sis. But the climax of our national shame was not yet reached. That an English- man should hear arms in the cause of a barbarian despot, that an Englishman should forbid the offices of humanity to that despots victims, were after all only the crimes of particular men. But it was something like a national humiliation when the very moment of the Cretan war was chosen to give the oppressor of Crete and of so many other Christian lands a public reception in England. There is some- thing very strange in the way in which we deal out our favours to foreign potentates. When any king comes among us who, either on account of his own character or on behalf of the nation over whom he rules, is really entitled to respect, hardly any notice is taken of him. It may be in some cases that such a prince wishes to avoid the burthen of having any great no- tice taken of him; but the fact is plain; a respectable king passes almost unnoticed in England, while, when some despot or tyrant or perjurer comes amohg us, people at once fall down and worship him. Such an one is always received with every hon- our; crowds assemble to cheer him in the street; orders of chivalry are bestowed upon him; he dines with the lord mayor, and the lord mayor is made a baronet on the strength of the dinner. The red hand is in truth not unhappily chosen as the symbol of the guest for whose sake the honour is conferred. So we received Louis Napoleon Buonaparte, when his words of perjury were still fresh upon his lips, ~vhen his hands were still reeking with the blood of his December massacres. So we received the Turkish sultan at the very moment when a Christian people were striving to cast off his hated yoke from their necks. The Turk got his dinner and his garter; the badge of Saint George was thrown around the neck of the successor of Mahomet; and the lord mayor got the rank which seems specially reserved for those who have tyrants to dine with them. But, far worse than this, we were told in the papers that the popular recep- tion given to the sultan could be compared only to the popular reception which had been given to Garibaldi. Had it come to this, that the English people were ready to cheer anything? that to a London crowd an oppressor and a deliverer were the same thing that Englishmen were equally ready to shout when Sicily was set free, and when Crete was again bowed down in slavery? So it was. And the cup of our folly and ignominy was filled up by giving a ball to a man who was not the least likely to dance, and by charging the expense of the costly foolery on the purses of the people of India. It was suddenly: found out that England was a great Ma- hometan power, and, to keep up our Ma- hometan character, the unoffending vota- ries of Brahma were made to pay for the caperings at which our Mahometan guest sat and looked on. Our zeal for the Turk and his prophet was so great that Christian and heathen alike were to be muicted to do them honour. The sultan came with his hands reeking with Christian blood, decked in pomp wrung from the tears and groans of Christian subjects. Not to lag behind our guest, the cost of his entertain- ment was to be wrung out of men of yet a third religion, men who had hitherto deemed that the rule of the Christian had at least delivered them from the rule of the Moslem. Of all the strange ,forms which oppression and homage to oppres- sion ever took, surely the most grotesque ,was that of making the people of India pay THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. for a ball given in London to the Grand Turk. These things too are now passed away. The Turk went hack; Crete was again bowed down under his yoke, and I sup- pose the people of India paid his bill. I remember saying my own say at the time pretty much as I have said it now. Then came a lull. There was comparatively little to make us think of Turks, Greeks or Slaves, till the beginning of the pres- ent struggle for freedom. Of course, as will always happen where there i~ unceasing oppression there has been unceasing discontent and occasional out- breaks. But till this year there was noth- ing to make the affairs of South-Eastern Europe the chief object of ones thoughts. But now that time has come again. The deliverance of Eastern Christendom has again become the thought which must stand foremost in the mind of every one whose love of right and freedom is not pent up within certain limits on the map. The great strife between right and wrong has again begun, and it has begun in a shape which leads us to hope that we are now really seeing the beginning of the end. For my own part, such news as has been now coming for months from Bosnia and I-Ierzegovina would in any case have stirred my soul to its inmost depths. The wrongs of the West have been redressed; the rod of the oppressor has been broken; Italy is free; Germany is united; France is humbled; Austria is reformed. Is not then the moment come for the yet bitterer wrongs of South-Eastern Europe to be re- dressed also? Lombardy and Venetia are set free from the whips of the Austri- an; has not the day at last come for the Greek and Slave and Albanian and Bul- garian lands to be set free from the scor- pions of the Turk? Thoughts like these would have been stirring even in the quiet of ones own home; but they have pressed themselves upon me with tenfold force since a journey planned long ago with other objects has given me the means of seeing and hearing somewhat for my- self. I have been able to tread the lands where the strife for freedom is actually going on, to speak with men who have borne their part in the struggle, to learn what is the feeling of men in lands which are themselves free from the dangers of the strife, but whose sons look with broth- erly friendship on the men who are en- gaged in the great and righteous work. In saying this, I do not wish any one to suppose that I can give such readers as I may find any special information which 7 they cannot find elsewhere. In the present war the English public has had the great advantage of having the facts of the case clearly and truly set before it. It is a great gain that in this matter the Times has mainly taken the right side, and still more that it has been well served by its correspondent on the spot. Every letter in that paper which comes from Ragusa is worth reading and pondering over. By great good luck, the usual purveyor of chatter, the correspondent who tells us what he had for dinner and how many princes he talked to, seems to have found a more congenial sphere elsewhere. The paper from which many Englishmen take their opinions as well as their facts is luckily represented at the present seat of war by a well-informed and trustworthy man, who has had long experience of Turkish doings and of revolts against them, and who is not above putting plain facts into rational English. I have no means of adding anything in the way of mere fact to the accounts which it is to be hoped every one at home has read for himself. All that I can do is to put for- ward again an old story, old arguments, but a story and arguments which have lost none of their strength by being old. And with me at least they have gained a certain freshness now that they are to me no longer merely matters of book-learning, but are in part at least founded on actual eyesight. Even a few hours on Turkish ground brings more clearly home to one what Turkish rule is. And one cannot be long in the land to which the Turk is a neighbour without finding out that his neighbours have very different notions about the Eastern question, about the integrity and independence of the Otto- man Empire, from those which have been so long thought the correct thing in the West. Those cant phrases of diplo- macy may still satisfy some readers, and even some writers in England; the5r do not satisfy anybody in Dalmatja. These men see the wolf at their door, preying on their neighbours flocks if not on their own, and it is not so easy as it is here to make them believe that the ravenous beast is a harmless and useful watch-dog. Here in the West we are told of a succession of beautiful promises of reform made by sultan after sultan to their Christian sub- jects. Some of us are actually simple enough to believe that these promises were meant to be fulfilled, or even that they have been fulfilled. In Dalmatia, where the victims of these broken prom- ises come trooping bodily over the fron 72 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. tier, men know better what Turkish prom- ises are worth. We are told here of the stainless good faith of the Turk; they see with their own eyes that Turkish faith is much the same now as it was when Bra- gadino capitulated on the promise of life and liberty and was flayed alive as hi~ re- ward. We are told that the nations now under the foreign yoke must be kept under some foreign yoke or other, lest everything should fall into chaos. They look up to the mountains above their heads, and see there a native State under a native prince, where life and property are as safe as they are in any Western land, where even the Mussulman refugee finds a sure shelter. The Slave under Austrian rule himself enjoys, if not a na- tional government, yet at least a govern- ment which protects life and property and family l~onour, and does common justice between man and man. He sees in Mon- tenegro men of his own race and speech enjoying all this and something more. It is therefore not so easy to persuade him as it is to persuade people here that it can anyhow be for the common good of man- kind that a third class of men of the same race and speech, differing in nothing from the Dahuatian and, the Montenegrin save in the ill luck of their history, should be kept down any longer under the yoke of a power in whose mouth government means brigandage, under whose rule no justice can be had by the weak against the strong, whose promises are, as schoolboys used to say, like pie-crust, made to be broken. Perhaps they are wrong in their conclu- sions; perhaps the advantages of all these things may be more clearly seen at a dis- tance than they are at a mans own door. But it is at least hard to make men who see these things at their own doors think otherwise than as they do. In Dalmatia and Montenegro in short men think very much as men would think in Hampshire, if, while Hampshire was under a civilized government, Berkshire was under a power from which no redress could be had for the bitterest wrong if a Berkshire man were the sufferer. Perhaps they are quite wrong; perhaps they need tobe enlight- ened as to the blessings of Turkish inde- pendence, as to the existence of Turkish integrity. But at least their mistake is natural, and, in the lands where the mis- take is natural, it is also beyond doubt universal. This then at least I caii say, that Dal- matian feeling is unanimous for the insur- gents and against the Turks. And surely the feeling of those who see what is going on without being immediately touched by it is worth something. There is at least a chance that it may come nearer to the truth than the theories of men who sit in London or elsewhere, and say that a thing must be so and so because it suits their preconceived theories that it should be so and so. Here people simply go on re- peating a number of stock phrases, which, if they ever had any meaning, have ceased to have any meaning now. They repeat them as if they had a kind of oj5ze~s oj5e- rtztum efficacy; as if something was proved by merely saying the same form of words over again. A diplomatist or a newspaper- writer says that the Eastern question must not be opened;~ and perhaps he really thinks that, in so saying, he has proved something or settled something. But if he is asked what is meant by opening the Eastern question, he will not find it easy to explain. Most likely, however,. he will say something about Rus- sia; it is the received traditional rule that he should say something about Rus- sia. Now what the Eastern question really means is the question whether a horde of invading barbarians shall still be allowed to hold the nations of South- Eastern Europe in bondage. It means whether insolent oppressors shall still re- fuse to them, not only political freedom, but those common persohal rights which even a decent despotism secures to it~ subjects. It means whether England and other European powers which have hith- erto agreed, for their own supposed inter- ests, to back up this fabric of oppression shall any longer go on doing so. That is the real Eastern question. No one thinks that the Turk can stand by his own strength. He stands, because hitherto the powers of Europe have fancied that it suits their purpose to let him stand. England, France, and Sardinia went to war one and twenty years ago with the avowed purpose of keeping him standing. By so doing they made themselves ac- complices in the doings of the power whose existence they undertook to prolong. The true Eastern question is whether Eu- ropean powers shall go on condemning the nations of South-Eastern Europe to remain under barbarian bondage. Diplo- matists and newspaper-writers may sit and say that the Eastern questi9n shall not be reopened. But the Eastern question has been reopened by the swords of the pa- triots, of Bosnia and Herzegovina. With one voice they say, Come what may, we will never again submit to the Turk. He may kill us; he may lay the land des- THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 73 olate and drive us out of it; but we will never again be his subjects. The ques- tion is what those who have hitherto made it their business to keep certain nations under the Turkish yoke are to do, now that those nations have declared that they will endure anything rather than the Turkish yoke. There may be many ways of breaking the yoke, but those who are under it have made up their minds that it shall be broken in some way or other. Even now diplomatists are chattering about for their promises of reform, about a separation of this and that district, about the change of this and that gov- ernor. None of these things touch the root of the matter. The people of the revolted lands know that no faith is to be placed in Turkish promises. They do not want reforms at the hand of the Turk; what they want is freedom from the Turk and all that belongs to him. Some years back the people of Lombardy and Venetia told the world that what they wanted was not reform at the hand of the Austrian, but freedom from the Austrian. There were men then who thought that the bondage of Italy was as needful for the interests of mankind as some think that the bondage of Bosnia and Herzego- vina is now. But Europe in general did not think so; and Italy is free. Now in Turkey the state of things against which the Italians rose would come in the shape of a great and blessed reform. The Christian subjects of the Turk would be glad indeed to find themselves now no worse off than the Italian subjects of the Austrian were then. But mark the differ- ent measures meted out to nations east and west of the Hadriatic Gulf. On one side we applaud men for rising against a government, because it is offensive to na- tional feeling. On the other side we bid men lie down quietly under a government which refuses them the common rights of human beings. Such a government they declare as one man that they will endure no longer. By so doing they have re- opened the Eastern question. That ques- tion cettainly admits of more than one answer; but before we get any answer, we must settle what is to be the shape of the question. Here, with many minds the Eastern question means how to keep the Turk in. In the lands where the Turk is something more than a name, the East- ern question means how to turn the Turk out. I have in the course of this article more than once, of set purpose, made use of phrases which I know will provoke con- troversy. I have called the Turks bar barians; I have called them an invading horde. These are the kind of phrases which I know are specially offensive to those who have taken on themselves the strange mission of defending the contin- ued bondage of a large part of Europe. But it is well to set before men~s minds, even at the risk of repeating a thrice-told tale or a hundred-times-told tale, what the real state of the case is. It is well again to show what the system really is which the victims of the Turk are striving to overthrow, and which his abettors in En~ gland and elsewhere are striving to pro- long. To them no phrase is more offen- sive than to be told that the Turks are an Asiatic horde encamped in Europe. No phrase is more offensive, because no phrase is more true. The usual art of the defenders of the Turk is to speak .Qf the Turkish power as if it were an ordinary government, to speak of revolt against it as if it were an ordinary case of revolt against a government. They perhaps do not go so far as to say that the Turkish government is a good goyernment; but they certainly wish people to believe that it is a government, in the same sense in which the monarchies and commonwealths of other parts of Europe are governments. Now the one point to be clearly under- stood is that the state of things in South- Eastern Europe is not an ordinary case of government,good or bad. It is a case of subjection to a power which has no right to be called a government at all. The governments of civihzed countries may be, and are, better or worse, more or. less in accordance with national feeling. There may be under them more or less of political freedom: the judicial and admin- istrative system may be more or less well contrived, more or less purely carried out in practice. Still, in all of these govern- ments, in all the various shades between pure despotism and pure democracy, the government at least professes to act on behalf of the general body of its subjects or citizens, for the good of that general hod y. The worst European government professes to do equal justice between man and man in private causes, and, for the most part, the profession is . pretty fairly carried out. When it is otherwise, it is commonly owing to some defect in the particular law, to some corruption on the part of the particular administrator of the law. It is not com~nonly owing to any- thing in the constitution .of the, governing power which makes it absolutely incapable of doing justice, even if it wishes to do it. 74 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. Such governments may be better or worse; Nowhere do the Turk and the Christian some n~ay be positively bad; but they are look on one another as fellow-country- not essentially and incurably bad. A gov- men, as all the inhabitants of France or of eminent may be bad, because it is a gov- England look on one another, however eminent of strangers offensive to national distinct and hostile their forefathers may feeling, or because, though it is not a gov- have been in remote ages. At the end of eminent of strangers, yet it is in the ex- half a millennium, the so-called Turkish clusive possession of one class of the na- government remains what it was at the tion. Such governments are bad govern- beginning. The Turks remain as they ments; still they are governments. They were then, an army of occupation in a discharge at least there is nothing to conquered land. The chief difference is hinder them from discharging the pri- that the army of occupation was under far mary duties of a government; life, prop- better discipline then than it is now. The erty, female honour, may be safe under early sultans were all of them wise rulers: them, and equal justice may be done in some of them were, according to their all matters of merely private interest, light, just rulers. Some of them had no But the so-called Turkish croverninent mind to oppress the conquered any more does none of these things; it b can do none than was needful to secure the power-of of these things. The Turks are still, as the conquerors. Under the great sultans, they have been ever since they landed in the lot of the conquered was a hard one; Europe, a mere horde of invaders. That still it was a lot marked out according to they landed five hundred years ago makes certain rules and laws. Oppression might no difference. A government is not un- go so far but no further; and there was lawful merely because it had its beginning some hope in the last refuge of the op- in a foreign conquest. A government ~pressed, that of flying from petty tyrants which began in foreign conquest may be to the throne. Under the little sultans, lecralized in the course of time, sometimes this last hope has long passed away. Read in~the course of a very short time. It is in the letters from Ragusa in the Times legalized as soon as the conquerors and what the people of Bosnia and Herze- the conquered feel themselves parts of govina suffer at the hands of their petty one nation, with common national inter- tyrants, and judge whether they are likely ests and feelings. It matters nothing to to gain anything by flying to the throne of a modern Englishman, it mattered very Abd-ul-aziz. little to an Englishman of the reign of The so-called Turkish government is Henry the Second, on which side his fore- then, I say, no government at alL It has fathers had fought on Senlac - or at Ely. no claim on the allegiance of those whom It matters nothing to a modern French- it calls its subjects. Founded on wrong man whether his forefathers were Gaul or in the beginning, it has kept on the first Frank, Iberian or West-Goth. But it wrong to this day. It has never, even matters now, just as much as it mattered after five hundred years, become a national five hundred years back, whether a man government. It has never, in all those in Turkey is a Turk or a subject of the ages, had any feeling or interest in com- Turk. England is the land of the En- mon with those pf the nations over whom glish; France is the land of the French; it has borne sway. It has never done for but Turkey is not the land of the Turks; them even those common duties of gov- it is the land where the Turks hold other eminent which the worst of civilized gov- nations in bondage. The process of con- ernments does for its subjects. The Turk quest which in other cases came to an is still as mtich an alien in European Tur- end sooner or later, in some cases mar- key as he was when the hnd first began to veilously soon, has in South-Eastern take his name. The sultan may be our Europe gone on to this day. The dis- dear and cherished ally, he may be knight tinctions, national and religious, which ex- of the Garter and guest of the lord mayor, isted five hundred years ago are as broadly but he is none the less the chief of an in- drawn now as they were then. The truding horde, dwelling by force in the Greek, the Slave, the other nations under lands and houses of other men. What the Turkish power, remain now as distinct kind of treatment it is that Turkish rule from the Turk as they were in the days carries with it, Englishmen may learn of the first conquest. The sultan is to from the letters from Ragusa in the Times. his Christian subjects no more a national In Herzegovina, as elsewhere, the causes sovereign now than he was five hundred of revolutions and their immediate occa- years back. He was an alien master then, sions are not always the same. The cause and he remains an alien master now. is doubtless the abiding determination of the people to shake off the hateful yoke. The immediate occasion of the outbreak was of that kind which has been the im- mediate occasion of so many outbreaks, the old tale of the Sicilian Vespers and of the daughters of Skedasos of Leuktra. One necessary accompaniment of Turkish rule is what the Greek poet sang of in Byrons day xai6cov, ~rapOfvcov, yvvat~iv (v?jKeciO~ ~Oopeia. Every pretty girl, so I heard at Ra- gusa, is carried off as a matter of course. It was a specially foul outrage of this kind which immediately led to the revolt. The Eastern question then simply means whether this kind of thing is to last; it means whether men are to be left under a form ~of local administration which, when the doer of a murder or suspected murder is not at hand, at once puts all his kinsfolk to the torture. And all this comes on the top of the grinding fiscal exactions both of the local landowners and of the sultans tax-gatherers. These last, it is well known, have been raised in defiance, as usual, of a distinct promise made by our knight of Saint George to the European powers. Something more was wanted for the vices and follies of a barbarian palace, and the subject Christians had to pay. Men suf- fering under wrongs like these see but one answer to the question whether such things are to be any longer endured. They do not take things quite so calmly as a writer in the last number of this review. To drive the doers of such deeds beyond the Bosporus or anywhere else may seem wild and sensational to gentlemen sit- ting at their ease in London; to those who have to endure their presence, the attempt to get rid of them seems at once a right and a duty. It is easy calmly to tell the Christians of the East that they have but to marry and give in marriage to settle the Eastern question. The encourage- ment to marry and give in marriage must indeed be specially great, as long as those who are given in marriage are likely to be dealt with as they are dealt with by the Turkish masters of Bosnia and Herze- govina. And now I shall perhaps be taken to task for the use of the phrase Turkish masters. I shall be told that the Ma- hometan inhabitants of Bosnia and Herze- govina are not Turkish but Slave. I shall perhaps further be told that, even in the other provinces, the Turks are really no Turks, but Europeans, descendahts of European mothers, in many cases of EuroDean fathers. I know all this as well 7S as any man. I have myself put forward these facts over and over again; but I am qnite prepared to be told them over again as a great piece of news. I use the word Turkish, because it serves, better than any other word, to express the dominion of men who, if not Turks naturally, have become Turks artificially. The Turks in Europe are an artificial nation, just as the modern Greeks are. That is to say, there is a Turkish kernel and a Greek kernel, round which a number of other elements have gathered and have been assimilated. Multitudes of men who are not Turks or Greeks by natural descent have, in this way, become Turks or Greeks for all prac- tical purposes. Nothing is more certain than that, during the great days of Otto- man dominion, the bravest soldiers and the wisest ministers of the sultans were hardly ever Turks by blood. They were renegade Greeks, Slaves, not uncommonly western Europeans. The tribute of chil- dren paid by the subject nations formed the strength of the empire. As long as it was paid, the subject nations could not re- volt; those who would have been their natural leaders in revolt were taken from them in their childhood. But renegades of all these classes practically became Turks. There were few indeed among them who, like Scanderbeg, ever xvent back to the nationality and religion of. their childhood. And in Bosnia and Herze- govina, the case is, as is well known, a special one. At the time of the Turkish conquest, the bulk of the landowners in those countries apostatized in order to. keep their lands, while the mass of the nation remained faithful. In these prov- inces then the immediate oppressors are not Turks by blood, but men of the same race as the oppressed. But this in no way makes matters better, b~ut rather worse. A foreign conqueror may com- mand a certain kind of respect which a native renegade certainly cannot. In some cases it is a certain softening of tyr- anny when ones tyrants are one s coun- trymen; but that rule can hardly apply to the domination of such a caste as this. It is said that among the Bosnian oh. garchy there are many who speak nothing but Slave, to whom Turkish and Arabic are unknown tongues, and who are not remarkable for any deep knowledge of the Koran. In this there may be an element of hope. In the case of a revolution the right way, such men may turn back again as easily as their forefathers turned in the first instance. But for the present they are practically Turks. They are a part, THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 76 and one of the worst parts, of the great West-Saxon shires. The only difference fabric of Turkish oppression, and it is in between them is that the man of Monte- accordance with all experience every- negro is free and the man of Herzegovina where that their dominion should be even is in bondage. Is it a crime then for the more galling than that of the genuine freeman to help his enslaved brother? Is Turks themselves, it a crime to think that one good turn de- Another objection is sure to be made, serves another, that2 as many men of so easy is it for the advocates of wrong Herzegovina fought on the great day to find objections to every movement on which secured the freedom of Montene- behalf of right. We are told, sometimes gro, it is only common gratitude if some glibly enough, with that kind of ease men of Montenegro fight in their turn to which often comes of over and over again enable Herzegovina to win her freedom repeating a well-worn formula, that the re- also? The wonderful thing is, not that volt is no real revolt at all, that its chief some Montenegrins have joined the insur- leaders and agents are not natives of the gent ranks, but rather that, at such a mo- country, that it is a movement got up ment, any one Montenegrin can keep his from without, a movement stirred up pistol and yataghan idle in his girdle. by Prussia, a movement stirred up by That any one Montenegrin can hold back Austria, a Pan-Slavic movement, any- is a sign of the power of a wise prince thing in short rather than a real rising of over a law-abiding people. The traveller an oppressed people against its tyrants. in Montenegro is almost inclined to These things are always said whenever mourn that, while the great strife of right there is a revolt among the subjects of and wrong is going on below, a single one the Turk, and there is just enough truth of her valiant sons should be forbidden in sayings of the kind to make them mis- to share in the good work. But it may chievous. There is no doubt that the perhaps be better that those free heights movement is a genuine native movement; should still remain a city of refube, where there is no ground for saying that the the Christian flying from the Turk, aye leading men among the native Christians and the Turk flying from the Christian, keep aloof from it. There is no doubt may seek shelter, and never seek in vain. that the mass of the actual insurgents are The revolt then is in truth a genuine re- really natives of the revolted provinces, volt of an oppressed Christian people stirred up by the wrongs which they them- against Mahometan masters, whether selves have suffered. But, on the other Turks by blood or apostates of their own hand, there is no doubt that their ranks race matters not. It is a revolt of men have been swelled by symp4thizers from who have made up their minds to cast kindred but happier lands, and that even away the yoke or to perish. The conven- some of the leaders of the movement tional talk about reforms is the mere child- come under this latter head. So it al- ish babble of diplomatists. The time for ways will be in such cases; and why reform is past, or rather thei~e never was should it not be so? As a rule, the peo- such a time at all The experience of pie of an enslaved district, if left quite to twelve hundred years of history ought by themselves, really cannot rise. They this time to have taught us a very simple need help from without to enable them to lesson. The state of things in the Euro- do anything. And shall we dare to blame pean provinces of Turkey is one where the Slave who, under the rule of Austria, the evil is far too deeply rooted for any at least enjoys the common rights of hu- mere attempts at reform to mend it. The inanity, or the Slave who, on the heights truth is that no real reform can be made of Montenegro, rejoices in a freedom won as long as Mahometans, whether Turks by his own right hand, if he goes to the by blood or not, bear rule over men of help of his suffering brother who is still any other religion. In so saying, I need under the yoke? To take the analogy hardly disclaim any intolerant feelincr which I started before, if Hampshire were towards the Mahometan religion or its pro- free and Berkshire enslaved, should we fessors. I have, in more forms than one, think it a great crime if a Hampshire man striven to do justice to the Arabian proph- went to help a revolt in Berkshire, or if he et as one of the greatest of reformers in even suggested to the men of Berkshire his own age and country. I know as well that a favourable moment for revolt had as any man that there are large parts of come? Between the men of Montenegro the world where the preaching of Islam and the men of Herzegovina there is no has carried with it a wonderful advance in wider difference in blood and speech than every way, moral, social, and political. there is between the men of the two Towards a Mahometan nation, living in its THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 77 own land, I have no ill-feeling whatever. I have no ill-feeling towards Persia. The Persian nation gradually adopted Mahom- etanism, though, in adopting it, they gave it a new form of their own. Persia is really a Mahometan country: the few men of any other religion, Christian or heathen, are, in the strictest sense, dis- senters. It is open to them to make the same claims, and to fight the same battle, as a dissenting minority anywhere else: but they cannot claim to be themselves the nation; they cannot call the Mahome- tan majority intruders or invaders. And what is true of Persia is true also of a large part of the Ottoman dominions in Asia. The country is really Mahometan, and I have no wish to meddle with its Mahometan occupants. It is true that they have displaced a Christian popula- tion; but they displaced it so long ago that no practical question can arise out of the displacement, any more than out of our own displacement of the Welsh in Britain. But the case in European Tur- key is quite different. There the Mahom- etans are in no sense the people of the land; they are an army of occupation, holding down subject nations in their own land. That welding together of conquerors and conquered into a single nation, which has legalized conquest in so many other cases, has never happened in the case of the Turks in Europe, and in truth it never can happen. The peaceful fusion of the two races, the absorption of the Frank by the Gaul or of the Norman by the En- glish man, never can happen where the con- querors are Mahometans, and where the conquered cleave to their national faith. One of the first principles of the Mahom- etan religion is that, wherever its votaries have dominion, men of all other religions shall be their subjects. Koran, tribute, or sword still remains the alternative as it was in the days of Omar. By payment of tribute, the conquered Christian, firewor- shipper, or Hindoo secured his life, his property, and the free exercise of his re- ligion. But he still remained one of a subject class in his own land. Then and now alike, he is not only politically the subject of a Mahometan sovereign; he is civilly and socially the inferior of every one of his Mahometan fellow-subjects. What the Mahometan law prescribes for tributaries of another religion is a con- temptuous toleration. If persecution is forbidden on the one hand, any real equal- ity with men of the dominant religion is forbidden on the other. When such a state of things as this has been the law, it has naturally followed that the treatment of Christians and other non-Mahometan subjects of Mahometan powers has varied greatly in different times and places. Cases may here and there be found in which the subject, the Giaour, got better terms than the capitulation of Omar gave him. In most cases he has got far worse terms. The Turk has everywhere been worse than the Saracen whom he sup. planted, and the Ottoman Turk has been the worst of all Turks. In fact, when it is laid down as a matter of religious princi- ple that men of other religions are the nat- ural inferiors and subjects of the Mussul- man, it is hardly to be expected that the Mussulman will keep himself within the letter of any capitulation. Where the law prescribes a contemptuous toleration, oppression and persecution are always likely to be the rule in practice. So it ever has been; so, in the nature of things, it ever must be. Let the capitulation of Omar be carried out to the letter throughout the Ottoman dominions; the Christian popula- lation will still be in a state worse than the state which in other lands has been commonly looked on as fully justifying re- volt. They will still be worse off than ever Lombard was under Austrian or Pole under Russian rule. But it is quite cer- tain that the Christians of Turkey are far worse off than the capitulation of Omar would make them, and it is quite certain that they will remain so as long as t hey remain under a Mahometan government. The Porte may make endless promises of reform; but, even if it wishes to carry them out, it cannot. A Mahometan gov- ernment cannot, if it will, give real equality to the subjects of other religions. If it does so, it sins against the first principles of the Mahometan law, and it must draw upon it- self the ill-(vill from their own principles the perfectly just ill-will of ~ts Mahome- tan subjects. One Mahometan ruler did give perfect equality to his subjects of all religions; but, in so doing, he had to cease to be a Mahometan. If Abd-ul-aziz has strength to follow in the steps of Akbar, let him do so, and the blessings of man- kind will be on him. That would settle the Eastern question at once. But there is no intermediate choice between that settlement and that other settlement which the patriots of the Slave provinces are seeking with their swords. As a Chris- tian, as an Akbarite, sovereign, the Turk- ish sultan may go on and reign as the Ciesar of the New Rome, and the weap- ons which are now lifted against him may be used for his defence against a male- 73 ~THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. content Mahometan minority. But no re- eign word; by its etymology it would form short of this will answer. A Ma- seem to have something to do with the hometan government may rule well, as far tricks of a juggler. As for honour, I as any despotism can rule well, over a know of only one way in which true hon- Mahometan people. Over a people not our can be won, and that is by doing Mahometan it must ever be, even in spite right fearlessly at all hazards. The most of itself~ a government of sheer force and honourable thing of all is never to do oppression. It must ever be a govern- wrong; next after that comes the true ment towards which its subjects have but courage of the man or the nation who, one duty, the duty of throwing off its yoke when wrong has been done, is ready to whenever they have the power. confess the wrong and to redress it. Our The Turk then must go or he must true honour can never demand that we cease to be a Turk. As he is not likely should go on propping up a rotten fabric to cease to he a Turk, it is enough to say of evil; it does demand that we should that he must go. It does not follow that undo the wrong that we have done in he need go all at once. From Servia he helping the evil cause thus far. As for has gone already. Bosnia and Herzego- interests, questions about Central Asia or vina have given him notice to quit, and the Suez Canal, I do not profess to be from them he must go at once. It will he any judge of such matters; but if our time for him to go from Bulgaria and Al- Atlantic island has any real interest in bania when Bulgaria and Albania give them, I suppose that those questions, like him notice to quit also. But Bosnia and other questions of interest, come under 1-Ierzegovina have made up their minds the head of the eternal rule that interest that they will get rid of him or perish, should give way to right and duty. Which of these two alternatives is to ~a. e~ ~iKata, r~v cp~v xpei~~ 1-4d8. take place is the true Eastern question. It is the question which the powers of We were told one and twenty years Europe have to settle. No one supposes back that our interests were so pressing, that, if the combined voice of Europe that the Russian bughear was so frightful, speaks, the sick man whom Europe has that we had no time to listen to the claims so long swathed and bolstered up for its of oppressed nations, even when we had own ends will dare to disobey. An awful ourselves doomed them to oppression. responsibility therefore rests on those So I would say back again, that, when a who now guide the counsels of the Euro- plain duty calls on us to help the cause of pean powers. It is nothing short of the our suffering brethren, I at least can find responsibility of deciding between good no time for nicely calculated questions of and evil. Shall the lands which have interest, not even for countino how near risen against the yoke be forced down Russia may, in the discharge of her civil- aoain beneath the yoke, or not? To talk izing mission in barbarian lands, have reform is childish. The Turk, as long come to the bounds of our own distant as he remains a Turk, cannot reform. dominion. I can only say that the inter- The revolted lands ask, not for reforms ests of Russia or Austria, the interests of which cannot be had, but for freedom France or Germany or England, must not which may be had. It is freedom for be thought of in the face of the interests which they ask; never mind what form of humanity. Happily one specially sor- freedom takes; freedom from the Turk did form of interest will now be driven to will be a blessing, in whatever form it hold its peace. Europe will hardly be comes. Be it the freest of common- called upon to prop up the black fabric of wealths, be it only a despotism which does Turkish tyranny in the interest of Turkish common justice between man and man, in bondholders in England. The Turk has, either case it will be freedom to men who fittingly enough, played the Turk with his have so long groaned under the yoke of creditors as well as with his subjects. mere brigandage. One change may be Englishmen were not ashamed to lend better than another, but any change will their money to the barbarian, knowing be better than what is now. that every penny which they lent could be And now at such a moment as this is it used only in propping up the foulest of too much to ask that the wretched talk tyrannies, and in enabling a sensual des- about interest and honour and prestige, pot to spend yet more on his luxuries and which has so long grated on the ears of his vices. They lent their money, know- all who love right for its own sake, may at ing that every penny of interest that they last be hushed? As for prestige, I were to receive was to he wrung by the hardly know the meaning of the ugly for- minions of a tyrant out of the scanty eara THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. ings of an oppressed people. They have their reward. The Turk, true to his tra- ditions, has broken faith; the pleasures of the sultans court have been found too costly; the resources of his victims have been found too scanty; and the men who strove to prop up wrong by gold have found that gold is no longer forthcoming out of the abyss of Turkish misrule. While I write, the news comes that the deputations from the insurgents have gone to the three courts of Berlin, Vienna, and Saint Petersburg, to formulate, as the telegram runs, their demands. Later still come other rumours that their deputa- tions are not likely to be attended with much success because the demands of the insurgents menace the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. Let them ask for re- forms, let them ask for decentraliza- tion; these the great powers may per- haps be inclined to guarantee; but free- dom they must not hope for. Later again come, one after another, utterances from Vienna and Saint Petersburg, each one darker and more meaningless than the one which went before it. I know not what truth there may be in all this. I know not what may be the shape taken either by the demands of the insurgents or by the answer of the powers; but I do know that all talk about reforms and de- centralization and guaranteeing this and that is simply childish. The three pow- ers can guarantee reform in one way, and in one way only; but that is a way which is certainly menacing to the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. The only way in which any reform can be guaranteed is by giving the lands which are to be reformed full practical emancipation from the Turk- ish yoke. Talk about new divisions of provinces, about giving Christians a greater share in the local administration, even about putting this or that district under a Christian governor, is not to be listened to. A Christian governor is not necessa- rily better than a Mahometan governor. A Christian who stoops to be the agent of the sultan is not likely to be among the most high-minded of Christians, or among those who enjoy the greatest confidence among their brethren. The one thing which is needed, the one thing which will meet the wishes of the revolted provinces, the one thing which will ease the powers of the thankless labour of propping up the sick man, will be to give each prov- ince, as it demands it, full practical eman- cipation from the Turkish yoke. Thus the Eastern question may be solved. Such a solution is doubtless inconsistent with 79 the integrity of the Ottoman Empire; but no other solution can be riotteo no other solution is possible. b us; I just now used the words7 full prac- tical emancipation. I made the qualifica- tion advisedly. If practical independence is to be had only at the cost of a nominal homage, or even of a fixed tribute, to the tottering despot of Constantinople, I do not think that practical independence should be refused on those terms. Servia, I believe, still keeps some forms of vas- salage, and I have always held it to be one of the misfortunes of Greece that she was at once cumbered with the trappings of an absolutely independent kingdom in- stead of being allowed to march gradually towards the crown of perfect independ- ence. The nations of the Byzantine pe- ninsula must never be allowed to become wholly isolated from one another. They must never lose the tradition of looking to the New Rome as their natural centre. As longas the Turk sits in New Rome, he may well be the overlord of all of them, provided his overlordship remains as purely formal as it now is over Servia and Roumania. It will be enough if the lands which are striving for their freedom are put under some government which shall secure to them, if full political freedom, so much the better, but at any rate the common rights of human beings. Every- thing else isa matter of detail. The most obvious course would be to attach the re- volted lands to Montenegro or to Servia, or to divide them between Montenegro and Servia. A glance at the map will show how near independent Montenegro and practically independent Servia come together. The Slave provinces which are still under the yoke are all but isolated from the mass of the Turkish dominions; they form a kind of peninsula of bondage. The main difficulty either in attaching them to Servia or Montenegro, or in form- ing them into a third Slave principality, lies in this. In Servia, at the time of its emancipation, there were very few settled Mahometan inhabitants. When the Turk- ish soldiers and officials had marched out, the land was left wholly Christian. In. Montenegro of course there never were any Mahornetan inhabitants at all. In Bosnia and Herzegovina, on the other hand, there is both a Mahometan and a Catholic minority; and, in settino- free the great Orthodox majority, care must be taken not to perpetuate wrong, by giving the Orthodox any undue supremacy over the Catholic and the Mahometan. It might be feared that, either in a newly- 8o THE DILEMMA. formed Slave state or in an extended Ser- via or Montenegro, there might be danger of old wrongs being repaid in kind by a dominant Orthodox majority. And again the question presents itself, whether an extended Montenegro might not lose its distinctive character, and the Montene- grin experiment, the experiment of civil- izing a small warlike tribe, without de- stroying its distinctive character, without bringing it down to the dead level of com- mon European life, is so interesting, and has hitherto been so successful, that one is loath to do anything that may disturb it. Annexation to the great neighbouring monarchy has an ugly sound, and I should certainly not advocate it for its own sake, or in case anything better can be found. Still it has something to be said for it. We must not forget that the Austro-Hun- garian monarchy of 1875 is not the Aus- trian Empire of i86~. It is giving it less praise than it deserves to say that its rule is better than that of Turkey, and that Herzegovina would greatly gain if it were raised to the level of Dalmatia. Under the rule of the Apostolic King Catholic and Orthodox contrive to live side by side; and under that rule Catholic, Or- thodox, and Mahometan would have more chance of doing so than they would have under a purely Orthodox government. The great difficulty in the way of annexa- tion in this quarter is the dislike of the Magyars to any strengthening of the Slave element in the united monarchy. Zealous Slaves have been known to an- swer that the Magyars are Turanian in- truders no less than the Turks, and that Turks and Magyars might with advan- tage march off together. But the king- dom of the apostolic Stephen can be hardly got rid of so easily as this. Hun- gary and the other lands joined under the rule of her king seem marked out as called on to be the leading Christian state of South - Eastern Europe. Within the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, even within the Hungarian kingdom itself, there is al- ready the strangest jumble of national- ities and religions. And the like jumble of nationalities and religions there must be in any considerable state which may arise in South - Eastern Europe. The present union between Hungary and Aus- tria supplies a precedent for a quasi-fed- eral union, which, if a greater number of states were joined together, might be- ,come more truly federal. For the king of Hungary and Dalmatia to become also king of Bosnia is not ideally the best remedy for the evil. But that, or any- thing else, would be a relief to lands which have been so long bowed down un- der the yoke of the barbarian. Here are great issues, issues so great that but few of us can have any direct control over them. But one thing we can all of us do. All of us, far and near, can stretch out a helping hand to the hapless and homeless fugitives who have fled be- fore the face of the barbarian invader, to seek shelter in the friendly lands of Ser- via, Montenegro, and Dalmatia. Won~en, children, old men, helpless beings of every kind, have fled from the face of the de- stroyer to throw themselves upon the charity of their happier brethren. I, who have seen their distress, can bear witness to its being the saddest sight that my eyes ever saw. Not that either private or pub- lic charity has been lacking; but it is as when Burke spoke of the victims of an- other desolating war, It was a people in beggary; it was a nation that stretched out its hands for food. There are men on the spot, in hospitable Ragusa, who are doing all that single men can do; but the cry of these unhappy refugees is one which should speak in the ears of all Christendom, in the ears of all the civil- ized world. England is not commonly the last in such good works, and the cause of these helpless refugees has been strongly represented by the Times correspondent at Ragusa. Let me add my word to his. If there ever was a voice which ought, to go to the heart, if there ever was a time when we ought to stretch forth a kindly hand, it is to help these helpless victims of a stern necessity. While their kinsfolk are fighting for faith and freedom and all that is dear to the heart of man, they can only suffer in silence, unless the hand of charity is stretched out to help them from every land where faith and freedom and the common rights of human beings are no longer things which have to be striven for on the field of battle. EDWARD A. FREEMAN. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE DILEMMA. CHAPTER xxxvii. KIRKES Horse was allowed only a brief respite from the labours of campaign. It had scarcely settled down in its sum- mer quarters when orders were received to be ready to march on active service with the first break of cold weather; and a few days before the appointed time, its THE DILEMMA. 8x commandant returned from the hills quite set up again by his visit, as active as ever, plunging eagerly into all the business of regimental equipment. In reply to Yorkes inquiries after Mrs. Falkland, he said that she too was in excellent health and spirits. Yorke of course expressed his pleasure at this, hardly knowing whether he was really gratified to hear it he had pictured her as pensive, though resigned, and yearning for sympathy and observed, for want of something better to say, that the events at the residency, and especially the death of her husband so soon after their marriage, must have been a great shock; to which Kirke replied that she had pretty well got over that. Marriage, you see, he went on to say, must be a different sort of thing from an ordinary love-affair, when a woman marries a man so much older than herself. It was hardly to be expected that my cousin should be very long get- ting over the loss of Falkland, poor fel- low. By the way, she is never tired of talking about you, and cant say too much in your praise. Notwithstanding the pleasure this remark gave him, something in Kirkes hard way of talking jarred on Yorkes feelings; and yet, he asked him- self, what could he wish more than that she should have forgotten her first love? Was not that exactly what he was hoping for? There was little more said between them about Olivia. Kirke was a reserved man on private affairs; and Yorke, not being sure if Olivia had told her cousin that she was in corresp~ndehce with him, did not mention it himself. The regiment now marched southwards, six hundred strong, the vacancies having been more than filled up with picked re- cruits, equipped now as lancers, with three additional subaltern officers, all promising young fellows eager to distinguish them- selves, and the whole body, men and horses, in splendid order. But this cam- paign, although laborious and fatiguing, was not productive of much in the way of hard fighting. The enemys spirit was now broken, and the principal duty of the cavalry was to wear them down, to follow up the roving bands which still kept the field from place to place, giving no rest until they should be all cut up or dis- persed. This work, which fell mainly to the cavalry, was calculated to try mens power of endurance, as well as the officers intelligence; but only one incident of the campaign shall be here mentioned, as it nearly occasioned at the time a quarrel between Vorke and his commanding offi LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 630 cer, and led afterwards to serious conse- quences. It was on the evening of a day marked by the surprise of a large body of the enemy, horse and foot, who had been fol- lowed up during a forced march perse- vered in for many days with only brief halts; the enemy had broken up after a slight struggle, and a destructive pursuit had been maintained all the afternoon, the pursuers indulging to the full the passion for taking life inherent in most human hearts, till the general in comniand, a man who seemed never to know what fati~, ue was himself, was fain to order a halt, the infantry being far behind, and the horses of the cavalry dead beat. Kirkes Horse were encamped for the night in front of the scattered column on a bare spot of ground interspersed with scanty bushes; and Kirke and Yorke, with one native officer and an orderly, were riding slowly along the front inspecting the pickets, when Kirkes quick eye detected some object behind a bush a little way in ad- vance, and he rode towards it followed by the others. It proved to be a deserted palanquin, apparently, from the elaborate external gilding, belonging to a person of rank. After looking at it for a few mo- ments, they were about to turn their. horses heads backwards, when the order- ly with the point of his lance suddenly pushed open one of the sliding doors, ex- posing a veiled figure sitting upright within. Holloa! said Kirke, some member of the zenana left behind. Heres a chance for you, Yorke you might man- age to console the lady, I daresay. She looks rather a stout party, re- plied Yorke; probably an ancient of days. What on earth are we to do with this poor old beebee? We cant leave her here to die in the jungle. It isnt a beebee at all, sahib, said the native officer, a swaggering young Pat~n, in his own language, who, catching the word beebee, had guessed the nature of the remark; and stooping down he pulled aside the shawl in which the face of the figure was enveloped, and displayed the features of a stout elderly man. The shawl will suit me, he continued, whisk- in~ it off and placing it in front of his sad- dle. And heres another for me, said the orderly, fishing up on the point of his lance the end of another shawl which was round the mans body, and then pulling it off. As he did so, a small box fell out and rolled on the ground, the lid opening 82 THE DILEMMA. at the same time. The contents seemed to be something white. The orderly dismounted and picked the box up. He lifted the white substance off: it was cotton-wool, below which lay some ornaments set with stones, which glittered even in the twilight. jewels! said the man, with a grin, holding the box up. to his colonel. Kirke took it from him, and held it out so that Yorke could see the contents. There were several layers of cotton, and jewels betx~en each which seemed to be of value. Perhaps there are some more things worth havingjust see, said Kirke to the man, who thereupon began to pull off the other garments of the occupant of the palanquin. He found a dagger with a jewelled hilt, some money rolled up in muslin round his waist, and a couple of gold drinking-vessels. Kirke told him to keep the money for himself, and to hand the dagger and vessels to the ressaldar; and, so saying, put the case of jewels in his pocket. - The captive meanwhile sat in the pal- anquin, holding up his joined hands in prayerful supplication, and constantly re- peating the formula that Kirke was a pro- tector of the poor and his father and mother. What is to be done with the rascal, sir? said the ressaldar to Kirke, in his own language. Oh, we dont want any prisoners, of course, said the colonel, as he turned away and rode off; whereupon the res- saldar made a sign to the trooper, who, poising his lance for an instant as if to take aim, ran the man through the body as he still sat in the palkee with supplicat- ing hands. The poor wretch fell back groaning and raising his arms as he writhed under the wound; but the trooper, drawing out his lance from the body, with a grim smile drove it in again through his chest, and, after a convulsive struggle, the body settled down into the stillness of death. That man must have been some one of mark, said Yorke to the colonel, as they rode away: would it not have been worth while bringing him in as a prison- er? The general would certainly have hung him in the morning; besides, our fellows are too tired to be bothered with guarding prisoners all night. Well, I can run a pandy through with as much gusto as any man in fair fight, but I am getting sick of this executioners business in cQol blood after the battle; it is beastly work. It mtist be done, though, saidKirke; the rogues have given enough trouble already, without being allowed to get off free, and begin playing the mischief again. I suppose it is necessary, but it isnt pleasant, and the looting part of it is not much nicer. I declare I felt little better than a Pindaree robber when we were stripping that poor wretch. Happily one has the consolation of feeling that it is plundering for the benefit of the army generally, and only indirectly for one s self. That haul we have just made may turn out to be a good one for the prize- fund. Kirke did not reply at once. After a pause he said, I dont think it is expect- ed that those who do all the work should hand in every trifle they pick up for the benefit of a lot of fellows who are potter- ing about, taking things easily, in the rear. I dont call jewellery a trifle. jewellery is a big word; I suppose there is about enough to make a couple of trinkets for our respective lady-loves; and, as Kirke said this, he looked towards his companion, smiling, as if in jest, but looking also somewhat eager to see how he would receive the suggestion. How- ever, he added, in a low tone for they had reached the spot where the other of- ficers were assembled you may leave me to make the report of the matter. The mule which carried the light mess- equipment of the regiment had now come up, and a tin of English soup was already warming on the fire, while the troopers around were preparing their frugal meal of corn-flour, or contentedly munching the parched train they had brought with them. The meal despatched, all who were not on duty lay down on the ground without blanket or cloaks for the baggage had not come up almost too tired to smoke their cheroots before falling a~4eep. Next day Yorke spoke to his command- ing officer, as they were riding along to- gether, about the things taken the even- ing before, and said he supposed they would be given up to the prize-a~,ents. You dont expect Futteh Khan and my orderly to disgorge the things I let them take? said Kirke. Their ideas on such points are not quite so nice as yours. And there was something of a sneer in the tone of his voice. No, replied Yorke; the things they took will be kept by them, of course. I was thinking of the jewels. THE DILEMMA. 83 My dear fellow, they are not worth making a fuss about. I suppose if you were to pick up an old pistol, or a grass- cutters pony to replace the one you lost, you wouldnt feel that you had done the rest of the army out of their rights. But that is different. These jewels may be very valuable. Not much in that way, I fancy; but they are prett.y little things, I admit. Look here, continued Kirke, taking the box out of his breast-pocket and holding it out fowards Yorke look here, Yorke; you would like to take your choice, wouldnt you? Which will you have? And Kirkes manner was such that it could not be said he was not speaking in jest, although it seemed as if he would certainly like to be taken at his word. But Yorke, looking straight before him over his horses head, merely waved away the offer, and said, You are joking, col- onel, of course; I take it for granted that you intend to hand the jewels over to the prize-agent. Oh, of course, replied the other, I was only joking; but he could not con- ceal from his manner that he felt as if he had sustained a rebuff; and the silence which followed as they rode along, was a little awkward on both sides. Both officers, however, had plenty of work to occupy their attention, and Yorke had ceased to think about the matter when, a few weeks later, it was brought to his recollection. He was detached from headquarters with one squadron of the regiment, at a station which had lately been reoccupied by the civil officers of government. The last embers of the great conflagration were~ noxv extinguished, and the detachment was peacefully encamped on ah open space before the town, expecting orders to go into summer quarters. One even- ing Yorke was sauntering through the ~ camp inspecting the horses picketed in two lines before the troopers tents, while the ressaldar Futteh Khan attended him. The latter was dressed in his loose na- tive garments, both of them being off duty and the inspection purely non-offi- cial, when Yorke noticed in his girdle the jewelled dagger which had been taken from the rebel in the palanquin. That is a handsome da~,ger, said Yorke in Hindustani, and if those jewels are real it must be worth somethincr Ab, sahib, these little stones are mere trifles, replied the ressaldar; it was the colonel sahib who carried off the loot. They say that the man whom we found in the palkee was the rajas dew~n, and that the jewels were worth a lakh of rupees. So much the better, replied Yorke; we shall all get the larger share when the prize-money comes to be distributed. So the colonel sahib had actually made them over to the prize-agent? asked the man, respectfully enough, yet as if surprised to hear it; and the conver- sation arousing an uneasy feeling in Yorkes mind, he took the opportunity of a messetiger going to regimental head- quarters next day to ask Kirke about it. ~ I take it for granted, he said at the end of a letter written about other matters that you have made over the jewels to the prize-agent as you said you intended to do; but the men in the regiment ap- pear to be talking about the thing, and to suppose that they were worth far more than their real value; while I infer from Futteb Khans manner that he thinks he ought to have had a share. The capture having been a joint one, it is perhaps now a little unfortunate that the things were not publicly given up, so that the men might have been without any ground for suspicion that we had taken any benefit by it. It would be a great satisfaction to hear from you that the transfer has been actually made. Pray excuse my troubling you about the matter. To which Kirke replied by the following postscript in his letter sent back by the messenger: Make your mind easy about the jewels, which were duly handed over to the proper party. . They turned out to be trumpery things. The great war having come to an end at last, and it being now the height of the hot season, the field force to which Kirkes Horse was attached was broken up, and the different regiments composing it, call- ing in their detachments, marched off to their respective summer quarters. Mus- taphabad was the station allotted to Kirkes Horse, several hundred miles off, and not to be reached till long after the fierce Indian summer should have passed its greatest heat; but the men veterans in campaigning, although young in years set out on the long march in high spirits, for Mustaphabad was not far from the dis- trict in xvhich the regiment was raised, and they. might now expect to get fur- loughs to visit their homes. What strange chance is it, thought Yorke, which brings us back to the old eventful scenes? Can it be that the dream of my youth is really to be fulfilled, and that Olivia will be won to share my lot in that very place? a lot just as I used to picture it a humble 84 THE DILEMMA. home, if not quite the shabby cottage of my subaltern days. But she, too, has since then known discomfort and simple ways of life, and whatever place she lives in will be sufficiently adorned. Surely it must be a good omen which takes me there again! Plenty of time had the young man to build his castles in the air, searching over and over ?gain in her let- ters for something substantial on which to erect a foundation for his hopes. At times it seemed as if her letters breathed a tenderness which, as if she was won already, at any rate invited him to declare his passion; and then , again, reading them under the influence of the reaction which would follow any excess of hopefulness, he thought he could detect only a spirit of resignation and sorrowful clinging to the memory of the past, which would ren- der his tale of love an insult. These let- ters were of old date, for during the late campaign he had received no news from her. The regiment had, however, been wandering a mid wild parts, difficult to communicate with; mails had been lost, and Olivias letters might have miscarried her notions about Indian geo~raphy and the movements of the different armies he knew to he somewhat vague, while he, for his part, had been too constantly on the move to write often; but now that they were marching along the main line of road, he would surely receive some news. Thus he thought and hoped, as the regiment slowly covered the long track, marching by night, and getting through the stifling day in their tents as best they could, for the heat seemed much harder to bear now that the excitement of active service was ended, and each camp- ing-ground looking the exact counterpart of the last a brown, barren, burnt-up plain. Now and then they would come to a European station, where the officers of the famous regiment were sure of a hos- pitable reception from the residents, and would pass the day in the comparative coolness of a house, setting out again at midni~ht on the dusty road. It was at one of these stations that Yorke heard for the first time of the death of Mr. Cunningham in England, which it appeared had been known in In- dia for some weeks. This accounts for her silence, thought~ he; no wonder she had not spirits to write when bowed down with this fresh calamity. And how heart- less my last letter to her must have seemed, for she could not have supposed that I was ignorant of what everybody in India seemed to know! And being full of the news, he naturally spoke to Kirke about it the first time they met. They were spending the day as guests at differ- ent houses, but were to dine together at a regimental mess, and he met his command- ant when riding into the mess-garden at dusk. They had never once referred to Olivia in conversation since the first day after Kirkes return from the hills in the previous autumn. Yorke was not sure if the other had guessed the state of his own feelin~s, hut Kirke was a man who was wont to speak somewhat contemptuously of women in general, and had often ex- pressed the opinion that soldiers were spoilt by marriage; and Yorke thought he would not look favourably on the idea of having a married second in command, still less one married to his cousin. In- deed Yorke fancied he could detect a tone of pique in Kirkes manner when congrat- ulating him on the high regard entertained for him by Olivia, which induced him to abstain from talking about her, still more from any expression of wonder at not getting letters from her; and a reserve of this sort once set up became every day more difficult to break through. Now, however, Yorke made the attempt. 1-lave you heard the news, colonel? he said, as the two met at the garden en- trance, and rode slowly up the drive to- gether to the mess-house. Have you heard the news of poor Cunninghams death?~ Oh yes, of course, replied Kirke; I heard~of that some weeks ago: I thought everybody knew it. A case of liver, I be- lieve; he ~vas very bad, as it turned out, when he xvent home. I only heard of it this afternoon. This will alter Mrs. Falklands plans, I suppose, and even delay her journey home? I have understood that she has no near rela~tions to whom she could go. It is a sad situation for her; I have been able to think of nothing else all day. When he said this, the young fellow felt himself like a selfish hypocrite, being sensible in reality of a sensation of rapture, as if the loss of her father brought her one step nearer to himself. Very good of you, I am sure, replied Kirke, drily, and speaking slightly through his nose, as was his manner when intend- ing to be sarcastic. Yes, indeed, it is difficult to say what she is to do under the circumstances, isnt it? A handsome young woman like her wants a protector of some sort, doesnt she? Here they had arrived at the mess- THE DILEMMA. house, and the conversation perforce end- ed. Nor did Yorke feel disposed to re- new it, for Kirkes tone jarred~ on him. And the subject was not referred to again during the rest of the march. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MUSTAPHABAD was reached at last, some time after the rainy season had set in. It was still very hot, but the country had now put on its green mantle again, and was no longer a wilderness; and it seemed to Yorke another good omen that on the very day of their marching in, the English mail arrived with another batch of honours; Kirke was promoted to a full colonel, and Yorke made a C.B. The regiment was met on arrival by the general for Mustaphabad was now the headquarters of a division no less a person than our old friend Tartar, now Sir Montague Tartar, K.C.B., who came out to meet it at the head of his staff as a compliment to this distinguished ~corps; and after a brief inspection, and some praise bestowed for the excellent appear- ance of both men and horses after the long march, the regiment proceeded to occupy the quarters allotted them, the na- tive cavalry lines on the right flank of the station, the officers taking possession of such of the vacant bungalows as they had engaged beforehand, comfortable houses enough, especially by contrast with tents, which had been lately rethatched and re- paired, and, with their neat gardens, looked none the worse for the mutiny damages. Kirke alone of the officers had not been able to make up his mind about hiring a house beforehand, and took possession of a couple of rooms in the mess-house until he could choose one for himself. During the first few days after their arrival, regimental business kept all the officers employed. Horses had to be cast, and mens furlough papers made out, and arms overhauled and replaced; but when this was all set in train, and Yorke thought he could be spared, he asked Kirke to forward his application for the usual sixty days leave. I cant let you go just now, my dear fellow, said Kirke, for I am just going to take privilege leave myself, and we cant both be absent together. But you shall have your leave as soon as ever I come back. Yorke thought this a little selfish, as Kirke had had long leave the previous season, and he not a day; however., the latter was commanding officer and could please himself, so there was no more to be said about it. And Yorke set himself to getting as best he could through the sixty days which had to be passed till his turn should come. It was pleasant to find that the station had quite recovered its ordinary aspect, for the ravage~ of the mutineers and plunderers who followed in their train, although awful to witness, had but a limited scope to work upon. The Anglo-Indian bungalow consists of substantial walls supporting a thatched roof, which, if it could be easily burnt, could also be easily replaced; this done and the walls whitewashed, the house looks as good as new, while the rapid growth of Indian vegetation soon obliter- ates any damage done to Indian gardens by trampling over the shrubs. The little bungalow at the other end of the station in the lines formerly occupied by the 76th Native Infantry, which Spragge and he used to live in, looked just the same as ever; it was occupied again, and there, standinb by the stable-door in the ~orner of the garden, as Yorke rode by on the evening of his arrival, was the new tenant smoking a cigar and superintending the littering-up of his horse, just as he used to do in the days of the gallant Devotion evidently a subaltern as he had been, but who probably surveyed life like a veteran from the vantage-ground of one or two campaigns. The residency, too, which of course he rode out to see on his first spare evening, had been coin- pletely restored, and with a fresh coat of plaster on the walls was looking quite smart; while half a score of scarlet-clad messengers lounged about the portico, just as in the old pre-mutiny days. The new commissioner, a civilian, from another part of the country, being out for his even- ing drive, Yorke took the liberty of dis- mounting and walking over the grounds, recalling the different points rendered memorable in his mind by incidents of the siege. There, for example, was the bush behind which the fellow was crouching whom Egan shot, the first man he saw hit. I-lard by, a stone with an inscription recorded that the body of Major Peart had been disinterred from underneath that spot, and removed to the cantonment cemetery. The bodies of the rebels, too, he learnt, had been exhumed from the well into which they were cast, and the interior filled up. He walked into the west veranda. The family of the new commissioner was in England, and the rooms on this side were unoccupied. Here was her room. How neat and trim she always looked when she stepped forth, even in those times! And 86 THE DILEMMA. here was the spot where was the old beer- rupee to bless myself with, and about as chest on which he used to sit when on much idea of being able to marry as of being guard, and when she would come and sit made governor-general. I tell Kitty she down too sometimes of an evening, and wouldnt have looked at me in those days. Falkland would look in and join in a few What a wonderful event this mutiny has minutes chat. How sweet her gentle been, to be sure! It has been the mak- laugh was that evening when Spragge was ing of us all, hasnt it? They were jolly hunting the scorpion! Only two years days too, though, when we were chumming ago, and it seems like twenty. But ah! if together with the old 76th, werent they? the end of my pilgrimage should now be though I was so awfully hard up then. near at hand! But the married state is the happy one, For the present, however, there was after all; I never could have supposed nothing for it but patience, and it hap- that any girl would have got to care for a pened that there was plenty of employ- rum-looking fellow like me and Kitty is ment to occupy his time, in the task which a wife beyond what words can express. now devolved on him of unravelling the You ought to follow my example, my dear regimental accounts. The financial econ- fellow; why dont you come up and pay omy of a native cavalry regiment, in which us a visit? There are no end of nice the men find their own horses, and a quasi- girls up here, and a swell like you might feudal system used to obtain, some of the have his choice. By the way, your old wealthier sort bringing their own retainers flame is about to console herself immedi- at contract rates, is always more or less ately, as of course you have heard. The complicated, involving the need for the wedding is to take place to-morrow, I be- employment of a native banker, who forms lieve, but it has been kept very quiet, and a regular part of its establishment. The no one is invited I suppose because the fact that the regiment had been raised in lady lost her father such a short time ago. a hurry and been almost constantly on act- Kitty says she was sure your C.O. was ive service did not tend to make matters. very sweet on her I dont mean Kitty, simpler, the men having scarcely ever had but the other when he was up here last a regular issue of pay, but having been rains; but I always thought he was such a maintained from allowances made from tremendous soldier, and woman-hater into time to time on account, which had still to the bargain, that matrimony was quite out be adjusted. Kirke, who. had kept these of his line. However, my little wife is affairs entirely in his own hands, was more knowing in these things than me. moreover not a good man of business, and As Yorke, stopping in his reading of the Yorke found the regimental accounts in letter at this point, looked round the room, such confusion that he would fain have he felt that while nothing in it had changed, abstained from taking them up during his he had entered in these few moments on temporary command; but the discharges anoth~r world. There on the table lay the had to be made out of some disabled men, shabby books of regimental accounts, the and to square their accounts involved floor was littered with Hindustani vouch- going into those of the whole regiment. ers and figured statements, squatting by So he was obliged to apply himself to the which sat the patient moonshee, figured ab- troublesome task. stract in hand, waiting the sahibs pleasute But business and day-dreams were both to proceed with the addition; the punkah interrupted by the news he received one flapped to and fro lazily overhead; out- day. It was in a letter from Spragge, side the door a couple of orderlies were who, like himself, had been campaigning chatting in undertones, discussing proba- during the past season, leaving his young bly, as usual, the price of wheat in the wife in the hills for her confinement, and bazaar. Everything about him denoted had now rejoined her on leave soon after the same monotonous workaday world as the birth of his child. I found my dear it had been a few moments before, but a little wife, said the writer, making a world from which all hope and pleasure good recovery, and baby nearly a month had fled a world now inexpressibly flat old. Both Kitty and I want you to be and dreary for the future. Summoning godfather to the youngster, who is to be up courage, however, he called to the called Arthur Yorke Christopher her moonshee to proceed with the reading of poor father was called Christopher, you his vernacular abstract, while he checked know. I am sure you wont refuse us. It off the corresponding English account be- does seem so funny to be a papa, and to fore him, keeping his attention to it and think that only two years ago I was mere- yet wondering at his own calmness. Is ly a poor beggar of an ensign, without a it that I have really no heart, he asked THE DILEMMA. himself the while, that I am about to do these things? But no; the crushed feel- ing and the utter desolation that possessed him gave up a plain answer on this point. For an hour he continued the plodding occupation in hand hefore dismissing the moonshee, and then, pacing up and down the room, could think over the announce- ment in the bitterness of his heart. Once he stopped and took up the letter from the table to see if any doubt could he gleaned from it; but the facts were too plain to admit of consolation on this score. This was not mere station gossip; besides, it was only too plainly corroborated by what had gone before. Olivias silence, Kirkes sarcastic, triumphant manner, were now plainly accounted for. People call me the lucky major, he said bitterly; and I am the object of envy to half the young- sters in the country what a satire is this on the falseness of appearances! no whipped cuckold could feel meaner than I do now. Then the thought came up whether he was not paying the penalty for his modesty. Could it he that Olivia had accepted her cousin out of pique because he had not declared himself? This fool- ish id6a, however, was soon dismissed; though the young man said to himself, with a sort of savage joy, that after all the real Olivia was something less noble than the image he had carried so long in his heart. I kept back my tale of love be- cause I thought it would offend her gentle breast to hear it while mourning for her husband; and lo! all the while she was already consoling herself with another. Nor is it my Olivia who would he satisfied with the love of such a man as Kirke so hard, narrow, and selfish. Here his bet- ter judgment told him that he was talking nonsense; it was no wonder a woman and a cousin should fall in love with so splen- did a soldier. By heaven, if he is un- kind to her, I will kill him ! But no; Yorkes conscience told him that this would not happen. He was hard and cruel, but not to his own kind. Well, he said at last, what does it matter? My. idol is shattered; but I was a fool to carry about so unsubstantial a thing. I have my profession, and I sup- pose, like everybody else, I shall get over the disappointment. At any rate, there is no need to pose in the character of the jilted lover. No one knows what a fool I have been; even Spragge thinks my old flame, as he calls it, was burnt out long ago; and no one shall now discover my secret. Nevertheless he felt that he could not have faced the regimental mess-dinner that evening, where the approaching mar- riage of the commanding officer would certainly be the engrossing topic, and was glad that he had an engagement to dine out with his old friend General Tartar, at whose house he found himself taking an unconcerned share in the conversation, and a steady hand at whist afterwards. Only one allusion was made to the ~p- proaching event, when his host, .next to whom Yorke sat, said to him, So our pretty widow i~ about to console herself. Well, I shouldnt have thought Kirke was a marrying man; but if he was to commit himself in this way at all, he couldnt have done better. Tartar was a confirmed old bachelor himself, who married, a few years afterwards, a widow with a large family. Yorke replied, in an unconcerned voice, that he supposed Mrs. Falkland would be well off, as she had her first husbands property as well as her fathers. Falkiand didnt leave a penny~ he was notoriously liberal to prodigality but her father must have saved something; although you mustnt suppose, continued Sir Montague, who had the reputation of being very fond of money, and to be serv- ing in India because it was such a favour- able field for profitable investments, that a man living by himself in India cant spend his income easily enough. Well, Kirke will find the money useful; he wont have a rupee more than he has need for. This was an allusion to the fact that Kirke was supposed to be heavily in debt; but Yorke did not care to discuss the pri- vate affairs of his commanding officer with a third party, and the conversation dropped CHAPTER XXXIX. NEXT day Yorke received a letter from Kirke himself. It was chiefly on regi- mental business, but contained at the end the following paragraph You will, of course, have heard of my approaching marriage. My wife for so I may call her, since the marriage is to take place this afternoon will write to you herself in a few days, to explain why the matter has been kept so quiet, even from our mutual friends; but I must take this opportunity to thank you on her behalf for your many kindnesses. She will al- ways retain a grateful recollection of them, and continue to regard you as a warm friend. I dont believe she will write the prom- ised letter notwithstanding, said Yorke to 88 THE DILEMMA. himself (and, indeed, the letter never came); and he sat wondering idly how far the message was really sent by Olivia her- self, and whether Kirke guessed his feel- ings, and wished to express pity for his disappointment. A day or two afterwards the newspapers contained the announcement of the mar- riage of Colonel Rupert Kirke, C. B., Commandant Kirkes Horse, to Olivia, daughter of the late Archibald Cunning- ham, Esquire, Bengal Civil Service. No allusion to her being Falklands wid- ow, thought the young man bitterly, as he read the notice; it is as well, forsooth, that noble fellow should he forgotten. And yet, he added, apostrophizing him- self, why be a hypocrite? You would have been pleased enough, you know in your heart, that she should forget Falk- land for your benefit. Besides, it is not she, but the bridegroom, who has sent the notice to the papers. Yorkes first impulse was to take leave and go away to avoid being present when Kirke should return with his wife; but he was restrained by a fear lest the cause of his absence siould be suspected, and like the man whc lingers in a company be- cause he feels that his character will be discussed as soon as his back is turned, so Yorke held on at his post, determined to face the return of Kirke and his bride, at whatever cost to himself. This took place about a month after the wedding, just as the rainy season was coming to an end, and when a fresh cool- ness in the early mornings betokened the approach -of the charms of an Indian win- ter. Kirkes delay in taking a house had of course been explained by his intended marriage. He wanted to select a house himself instead of choosing one before- hand. And there not being one sufficiently good in the cavalry lines, he had now written to engage a large house in another part of the station. Thither the newly- married pair came, a day sooner than was expected, arriving at daybreak; and Yorke, returning that morning from a visit to the general, was riding at foot- pace down the road bordered by the gar- den of Kirkes house, when he came upon Kirke and Olivia, standing in the garden- drive a few steps within the entrance. Kirke called out to him as he passed by, and advanced towards him, and he had no resource but to turn into the drive to meet him, and dismounting to shake hands and to move on where Olivia stood afew paces behind. Kirke was neatly dressed as usual, in a light morning suit, with a wideawake hat covered with a drab silk turban, his face clean shaven save for the heavy black moustache. Olivia was dressed in a black- and-white muslin robe, with a large straw hat trimmed with black ribbon, her face shaded from the sun by a parasol, and Yorke could not help admitting to him- self what a handsome couple they looked, and how well suited to each other; while Olivias appearance and figure as she stood before him brought back forcibly the recollection of the day when he paid his first visit to~ the residency, and she walked across the park with her father to greet him. How like, and yet how changed! the first freshness of youth had passed away, although in his eyes she appeared as beautiful as ever, and he thought she looked nervous and distraught as he ad- vanced towards her. She held out her hand, which he took gravely. Does she confess that she has jilted me? thought he; and does that anxious look mean an appeal for mercy and forgiveness? But who am I that I should interpret looks a blockhead that is always fancying a light-hearted woman to be in love with him, when really she is handin~ her heart about all round the country? Probably she is wondering whether I am going to stay for breakfast, and whether there is enough to eat in the house. And yet, as he thought over it afterwards, surely, if she was not conscious of wrong-doing, this was a strange meeting for two old friends and constant correspondents. The conversation began with common- place. What sort of a journey had they had down? and was not this first feeling of cold delightful ? Cold I said Olivia, it seems so dreadfully hot after the hills. Then noticing his horse, she said Ah! there is Selim; how well he looks, going up to it and patting its neck, after all he has gone through, dear thing! What good care you have taken of him! Yorke remained silent, for he could not trust himself to speak, being tempted to bid her take back her gift, and an awk- ward pause ensued, ended by Kirkes plun- ging into business, and beginning to ask various questions about the regiment, while Olivia stood by listening. Presently several of the native officers of the regi- ment came up in a body to pay their re- spects, the news of the commandants ar- rival having now reached the lines, and Yorke took his departure, Kirke asking him as he mounted to ride off to come and dine that evening. They would be THE DILEMMA. 89 quite alone, he said, for they had not set- tled down, but were still all at sixes and sevens in the house. And Yorke accepted the invitation. The sooner I get accus- tomed to the thing the better, he said to himself, as he rode off, not knowing rightly whether he had gotten himself free from his chains, or was in closer bondage than ever. Fortunately for him, he was not as it turned out the Kirkes only guest at din- ner that evening, Maxwell the regimental surgeon being also of the party. Olivia was dressed in black, being still in mourn- ing for her father; but except that she seemed a little paler than before, Yorke did not now perceive any change in her; al- ready he was forgetting the old face and remembering only the new. The house, notwithstanding Kirkes apologies, seemed already to be in good order; it was indeed unusually well fur- nished for one in an up-country station; the servants were in livery with hand- some waist-belts and turbans ornamented with silver crests, and all the table ap- pointments were new and costly. The arrangements all showed careful pre-ar- rangement, for a large establishment is not to be set up without notice a thou- sand miles from Calcutta. How far had Olivia been cognizant of all this, and the engagement one of long standing? or had Kirke done it all in anticipation of her ac- cepting him? The conversation interrupted at times by Kirke scolding the servants loudly be- cause something or other had been for- gotten turned principally on the cam- paign, and the later parts of it, for Olivia had not met Maxwell since the residency siege, and there was an awkwardness in going back to those times. Kirke, how- ever, showed no delicacy on that score; for on Maxwell observing that the garden outside looked very neat and well kept, considering that the place had been so long unoccupied, Kirke said that the whole station seemed in capital order; and I am told, he added, that the residency is looking quite spick and span again. We must drive over there to-morrow, Olivia, if we have time, and have a look round the old place. Olivia looked distressed, but her hus- band did not notice it, and went on: I hear that they have moved Pearts body out of the garden, and the other fellows who were buried there. So they have got decent interment at last, which is more than ca~h be said for a good many of our old friends. Then Olivia rose from the table and went into the drawing-room, and Yorke could see that her face was pale, and that she looked hurt and ashamed. The man is perfectly brutal in his want of percep- tion, he said to himself. Decent inter- ment indeed! I wonder what dungheap covers poor Falklarids bones? When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Olivia was outside in the veranda, but she joined them soon after- wards and made tea. Yorke noticed that the tea-service and appointments were all handsome and expensive. Presently Kirke proposed that Olivia should sing; and she xvent to the piano a large one, evidently new like every- thing else. Kirke, who did not know one note of music from another, sat in an easy-chair with his hands behind his head and went to sleep. Yorke felt that polite- ness demanded he should go up and stand by the performer, but he could not bring himself to do what would seem like an act of forgiveness and blotting out old memo- ries; so he too kept his chair. Maxwell did the same: and, after Olivia had sung and played for a few minutes, she stopped and joined them again. The cessation of the music awoke her husband, who held out his left hand as she passed his chair, and gave hers a caress. Yorke remem- bered the occasion when her first husband had done just the same thing, on the day when he first saw them tobether on the outbreak of the mutiny. Truly an old performer in the part, he thought, bitterly; and somehow the act made her sink lower in his estimation, although he could not help admitting to himself that, if he had been the second husband, he should not have thought the worse of her for permit- ting these little endearments. Maxwell and Yorke walked home to- gether, instead of riding, the evening air being now cool and pleasant. They were both silent for a little while, each appar- ently averse to discuss the matter which occupied his thoughts. At last Maxwell said, with some bitterness of tone, The commandant does not grow wiser in mon- ey matters as he grows older. What a foolish beginning, to be sure! It would need twice his pay to live in. that style. And he must be heavily in debt, to start with at least he was before the mutiny. But I suppose Mrs. Kirke succeeds to all her fathers property? He ought to have saved a good deal with his large salary. I doubt if he had saved a farthing. There is nothing easier than to muddle THE DILEMMA. 90 away your income, however large it may be. He told me just before he started for England that he should have nothing but his pension to live on, barely enough for a bachelor who never gave money a thought; and he was saying what a com- fort it was to him that his daughter was so well provided for. No, I can fancy a heedless youngster starting off in ex- travagance like this on his marriage it was just the sort of thing a foolish young civilian might have done in old days; but a man like Kirke ought to have more sense than to begin by buying a lot of things he cant pay for. If he does not pull up soon there will be a smash, take my word for it. Well, I am glad I shall not be here to see it. No, he con- tinued, seeing that the other looked sur- prised, the war is over, and my work i~ done; I am entitled to my full pension, and may as well take it at once. I know we could not have expected you to stay much longe rwith us; it must be close on your time for promotion: but surely it is a bad time to retire, just as you are coming into the good things of the service. Good things of the service, what are they? To become a superintending surgeon, and spend your day in an office making out returns and reports, and never seeing a real case from one years end to the other? No, I am too fond of my pro- fession for that, and I have enough for my wants. Besides, I daresay I may practice a little at home, if needs be. And to tell you.the truth, Yorke, continued the doc- tor, stopping short for they had now got to the point in the road where their ways parted I dont care to stay here any longer. Falkland was a dear friend of mine, and so was her father, point- ing with his hand in the direction of the house they had just left, and I cant bear to see her toying with another man in that way, and so soon, too, after that noble fellows death. I am not a marrying man myself, and may be peculiar in my ideas, but there seems a sort of degrada- tion the thincr Yorke, too, as he walked away, felt that there had been degradation, and yet he knew in his heart that th~ offence would have vanished from his eyes if Olivia had reserved her fondling for himself. And what would my old friend Maxwell think of me, I wonder, if he knew that the feel- ing uppermost in my heart is envy, and not contempt? A big dinner given by the officers of Kirkes Horse at their mess to the corn- mandant and his bride, at which Yorke as second in command occupied the cen- tre of the table, with Olivia on his right hand, was the first of a series of entertain- ments held in honour of the newly-mar- ried couple; and society at Mustaphabad was as lively during that cold season as it had ever heen in pre-mutiny days, the Kirkes soon beginning to return freely the hospitalities they received. A hand- some new carriage for Olivia had arrived from Calcutta, with a pair of fast7trotting Australian horses; Kirkes own chargers were the best that could be got in India; and the officers of the regiment, who during the war had been dressed in plain drab little better than that worn by the men, were now requested to procure an elaborate uniform covered with embroid- ery, of a pattern designed by the colonel, and with horse-appointments to match. It was plain to everybody that this style of living would not be met by the salary of a commandant of irregular cavalry; but, although there were rumours in the station, where gossip as usual was rife, of servants wages and bazaar bills unpaid, the general presumption was that Mrs. Kirke had been left a fortune by her father. A man who had drawn a large salary for many years, and kept only a bachelor establishment, would naturally have saved a good deal, which must have come to his only daughter. So society was satisfied, although pronouncing the Kirkes to be foolish in the matter of ex- penditure, and criticising freely the costly style of entertainment in which they in- dulged. Rather, they might have said, in which Kirke indulged, for he was the sole manager of their domestic concerns. His wife had had no experience of house- keeping, and Kirke found it easier to do things himself than to show her how to do them. Thus he began by ordering the dinner during their honeymoon, and kept up the practice, Olivia being quite satis- fied to leave the matter in his hands, as well as the management of the servants and dealings with tradesmen. Her own toilet once furnished, she had no need for money, for there were no ladies shops in Mustaphabad, and if there had been, cash payments would not have been employed. Thus, beyond ordering the carriage when she wanted it, or sending for her ayah when that domestic failed to appear at the proper time, Olivia took no more part in the management of the household than if she had been a guest in it, even h~r notes of invitation being carried out by one of the colonels orderlies; and of the state WALT WHITMANS POEMS. 9 of his ways and means she was wholly ignorant, as she was equally of the gossip about hi~ debts. She had always been surrounded by easy circumstances, and the sort of life they led seemed quite in the natural way. After all, her establish- ment was not on a larger scale than that of Mrs. Plunger, whose husband com- manded the dragoon regiment now at Mustaphabad; but then Olivia did not know that Colonel Plunger was a man of fortune, whose presence in India was an accident due to the mutiny, and who was anxiously casting about for the means of exchanging out of it again. Any misgivings Yorke might have al- lowed himself to entertain lest Kirke should ill-treat his wife proved to be unfounded. Kirke, though a hard man and cruel in his dealings with enemies and rebels, was gentle with her; although not manifesting much of the little endearments which might naturally have been given to a newly-married wife, he was thoroughly kind, and Yorke could never detect any- thing in his treatment of her to which in his heart he could take exception. Kirke was disposed to be harsh to his men, and somewhat overbearing towards his officers, now that the war had come to an end; and was often violent with his servants, abusing them at meals if anything went wrong, and striking them for trifling offences; and this used at first to distress Olivia, who had never seen anything of the kind before, for her father was a man slow to anger, and Falkland used to treat everybody about him, native and Euro- pean, with gentle courtesy; but after a a time she appeared to get accustomed to these ebullitions, and Yorke could not help admitting that she was both fond and proud of her husband, and that any qualms she might have felt at discarding himself and he Was not sure that she had ever entertained such a feeling had become lulled to rest by the familiarity of the new footing on which they now stood to each other. Thus the time passed on under these new and strange conditions. Among other liberal tastes Kirke indulged in, was that of keeping open house for the officers of the re~iment. Although fond of his wifes society, and frequenting the mess but little, for he neither smoked nor played billiards, he was not a man of much mental resource, and preferred always seeing his wife at the head of the table with more or less company sitting at it, to dining alone with her; Yorke especially was very frequently there, and even when her health no longer permitted her to dine out, or receive general company, he still received frequent invitations as an old friend to join their dinner, and was thus constantly at the house, as constantly making resolutions to break off the inti- macy and to get transferred to another regiment, or at least to go on leave, but nevertheless still hangin~ on, accepting the invitations received almost daily, watching the condition of his hostess with feelings strangely compounded of interest, anger, and self-contempt. From The Contemporary Review. WALT WHITMANS POEMS.* THE critic who calls our attention to true poetry does us one of the best possi- ble services; for no imagery derived from the beauty or the bounteousness of nature from golden islands of the sunset or pearly dews of dawn, from corn, or wine, or glowing fruit can express too strong- ly the goodliness of poetry that is really such; but in proportion to the gracious beneficence of this service is the malefi- cence of critics who, by their wit or their authority, beguile us into reading atro- ciously bad verse. If I ever saw anything in print that deserved to be characterized as atrociously bad, it is the poetry of Walt Whitman; and the three critics of repute, Dr. Dowden, Mr. W. Rossetti, and Mr. Buchanan, who have praised his perform- ances, appear to me to be playing off on the public a well-intentioned, probably good-humoured, but really cruel hoax. I shall state briefly what I found the so- called poetry to be, presenting a few sam- ples of Whitmans work: if these are such as the English public will regard with any other feelings but scorn and disgust, I for one have mistaken the character of my countrymen. The Leaves of Grass, under which designation Whitman includes all his poems, are unlike anything else that has passed among men as poetry. They are neither in rhyme nor in any measure known as blank verse; and they are emitted in spurts or gushes of unequal length, which can only by courtesy be called lines. Neither in form nor in sub- stance are they poetry; they are inflated, wordy, foolish prose; and it is only be- cause he and his eulogists call them * Leaves of Grass. By Walt Whitman. Wash- ington and London. 92 WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. poems, and because I do not care to dis- pute about words, that I give them the name., Whitmans admirers maintain that their originality is their superlative merit. I undertake to show that it is a mere knack, a trick of singularity, which sound critics ought to expose and de- nounce, not to commend. The secret of Whitmans surprising newness the principle of his conjuring trick is on the surface. It can be indi- cated by the single word, extravagance. In all cases he virtually, or consciously, puts the question, what is the most ex- travagant thing which it is here in my power to say? What is there so paradox- ical, so hyperbolical, so nonsensical, so indecent, so insane, that no man ever said it before, that no other man would say it now, and that therefore it may be reckoned on to create a sensation? He announced himself as poet with a con- temptuous allusion we shall see its terms farther on to those poets whose fame has shed lustre on America, and he expressly declares war against all regu- lated and reasonable things. I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them, I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have been had all accepted me; I heed not, and have never heeded, either ex- perience, cautions, majorities, nor ridi- cule. And the threat of what is called hell is little or nothing to me; And the lure of what is called heaven is little or nothing to me. Goethe said that the assent of even one man confirmed him infii~itely in his opin- ion; Whitman is only the more peremp- tory in his egotism when he finds that peo- ple of sense disagree with him. In. spite, however, of his fakir-like gesticulations, his extravagance generally continues dull. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from; The scent of these armpits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, Bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body or any part of it. Mr. Ruskin insists that there are errors and blemishes of such exceeding and im- medicable vileness that, if you find a sin- gle instance of their occurrence in the work of an artist, you may, with assured heart, turn once and forever from his pic- tures, co~fident that, since the tree is cor rupt, its fruit will always be noxious. Whether Mr. Ruskin is absolutely right as to the fact I shall not undertake to de- cide; but I challenge Professor Dowden, Mr. W. Rossetti, and Mr. Buchanan, to produce, from any poet of acknowledged excellence, a single passage so offensively silly as the preceding. I beg readers to force themselves to look well at the lines. It is a man who talks of himself as divine inside and out, and drivels nauseously about the scent of his armpits, whom we are called upon to welcome as a great poet. Whitman, as Professor Dowden will by-and-by attest for us, prints incom- parably more indecent things than this, but the words are thoroughly character- istic. They have exactly the originality of Whitman, and we cannot refuse to a~- mit that they are unique. One of the most favourite extravagan- ces of Whitman is extravagant conceit, and h~ occasionally indulges it in forms which in England would simply be regard. ed as evidence of idiocy. I conned old times; I sat studying at the feet of the great masters Now, if eligible, 0 that the great masters might return and study me! Much good would it do them. Equally silly, but more pompous in its silliness, is what follows : The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place; The suns I see, and the suns I cannot see, are in their place The palpable is in its place, and the impal- pable is in its place. Do men of talent mumble truisms like this? And is there any excuse for such pretentious twaddle after the doctrine that everything is right iii its own time and place had been stated, with a pith and quaint humour not likely to be surpassed, by the author of the Proverbs of Solo. mon? Whitmans writings abound with repro- ductions of the thoughts of other men, spoiled by obtuseness or exaggeration. He can in no case give the finely correct applic?tion of a principle, or indicate the reserves and exceptions whose apprecia- tion distinguishes the thinker from the dogmatist: intense black and glaring white are his only colours. The myste- rious shadings of good into evil and evil into good, the strange minglings of pain with pleasure and of pleasure with pain, in the web of human affairs, have fur- nished a theme for musing to the deepest minds of our species. But problems that were felt to be insoluble by Shakespeare WALT WHITMANS POEMS. 93 and Goethe have no difficulty for this known poetical idea, and inflates it into bard of the West. Extravagant optimism bombast. and extravagant pessimism, both wrong and shallow, conduct him to the entire Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun- (the words are Professor ~ rise would kill me, denial of evil could not now and always send sunrise Dowdens), to the assertion that there is out of me. no imperfection in the present and can be none in the future, and to the vociferous It is a beautiful and touching thought announcement that success and failure are that our joy brightens the summer flowers, pretty much the same. and that our sorrow lends mournfulness to winters snow; but it is mere extrava- gant nonsense to say that sunrise would kill a man unless he sent sunrise out of him. The sun has been the prcy of po- etical charlatans time out of mind, and Whitman cruelly bedrivels the long-suf- fering luminary Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I say also that it is good to fall battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead; I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have faild! And to those whose xvar-vessels sank in the sea And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements! and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the greatest heroes known. Mr. Carlyles lifelong effort to show that the success of the hero is, on the whole, a proof that he deserved to succeed, has, it seems, been a waste o.f power. Vivas to those who have failed! Hurrah for the gallows! I do not know that a bet- er illustration could be found of the evil effeQt of Whitmans obliterating extrava- gance than these lines. They contain the blurred and distorted lineaments of a mys- terious and melancholy truth. Noble in- nocence and courage have been indeed laid low; beauty and virtue have iii every age been seen walking hand in hand the downward slope to death; and all hearts thrill at the thought of murdered Naboth and his sons, and of Lear hanging over the white lips of Cordelia. But the soul of the pathos in all these instances lies in their exceptional nature. It is because we feel that they violate the law of justice, the fundamental ordinances of human so- ciety, that they move us. It is because, whether from a veracious instinct, or from a blissful illusion, we believe success to be the natural reward of merit, and happiness the natural guerdon of virtue, that we are agonized by the death-shrieks of Desde- mona or the slow torture of Joan of Arc. if human affairs were a mad welter of causeless failure and unmerited success, as they are represented in this passage of XVhitmans, there could be no such thing as pathos either in life or in art. Whitman is never more audaciously ex- travagant than when he takes some well- I depart in air I shake my white locks at th~ runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. It would be interesting to know what meaning Whitmans admirers attach to the second of these lines: to my thinking it is not one whit more rational, and infi- nitely less amusing, than the talk of. the walrus and the carpenter in Alice through the Looking-Glass. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or halt in the leafy shade ! What is that you ex- press in your eyes? It seems ti) me more than all the print I have read in my life. Whitmans eulogsts tell us that he reads Shakespeare, Homer, and the Bible. Can they pretend to believe it to be anything but fantastic affectation to say that there is more in the eyes of oxen than in these? XVhitman must have been consciously af- fected when he wrote the words: they are stupid as affectation, incredible as any- thing else. But the brutes are rather a favourite theme with our poet. I think I could turn and live with animals they are so placid and self-contained; Istand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their con- dition; They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins; They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God; Not one is dissatisfied not one is demented with the mania of owning things; Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago; Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. Wise men have long been, and are likely to be, content to learn from the bee and the ant; but neither the sage of the past WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 94 northe scientific-man of the present can have anything to say for such teaching as this of Whitmans. His statements are neither accurate nor sagacious; they are a confused echo, extravagantly ab- surd, of teachings which he has not un- derstood. Patiently and closely observant of the animals, Mr. Darwin and his follow- ers have shown that they are much more like men than used to be thought: that they have, in germ, almost all human passions, as well as the institutions of marriage and property; that they exhibit in a pronounced form the human failinus of jealousy, hatred, revenge, and cun- ning, and some faint adumbration of the human virtues of tenderness, faithfulness, and self-sacrifice. But it is a wild cari- cature of Darwins teaching to panegyrize the animals for those qualities in which they are markedly below humanity; and there is curious infelicity in combining with this vague panegyric the particular libel of charging them with lack of indus- try, a virtue which, on pain of death, they are bound to exhibit. In beetledom are no poor-laws, and the beast that will not seek its livelihood perishes out of hand. Loafing and making poems, which Whitman describes as his favourite modes of existence, are privileges or per- versities peculiar to human nature. Nor would Whitman have learned from Dar- win the pitiful extravagance of despising, or affecting to despise, human qualities for no reason, suggested or implied, but be- cause they are human. There is no ap- parent reason why it should be more con- temptible for men to build temples than for crows to build nests; and since it has been in all ages and generations a habit with mankind to discuss their duty to God, it would have been less inhumanly inso- lent in Whitman to evince some respect for the practice than to say that it turns him sick. The sneer about weeping in the dark for sins might have been ex- pressly directed against one of the best- known verses of Goethe, a man not given to sentimental brooding or self-question~ ing, but who knew that tears shed at mid- night on solitary beds are not unpleasing to the heavenly powers. Let it not be thought, however, that be- cause Whitman speaks scornfully of duty to God and of sin, he never praises relig- ion. Self-contradiction is one of the coin- monest freaks of affectation, and Whit- man never hesitates to contradict himself. He oscillates, in fact, from extreme to ex- treme, and parades now this extravagance, now that, consistent only in avoidance of the golden mean. We have seen that it makes him sick to hear men discussing their duty to God. His extravagance in its pious tune is almost equally offensive. I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these States must be their religion Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur: (Nor character, nor life worthy the name, without religion; Nor land, nor man, nor woman,, without re- ligion.) This is just as silly as to praise pigs and foxes for not worshipping God. Here is another illustration of Whitmans habit of exaggerating truth or half-truth into false- hood. I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-dceuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow, crunching with depressd head, surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. This is exceptionally good for Whitman. -Several of the lines have a picturesque felicity. So recently as a quarter of a century ago they might have passed for true science and sound theology; but progress in understanding the constitution of nature has within the specified period been unprecedentedly rapid; truths which, five-and-twenty years ago, were but as streaks of pale crimson on the horizon, have flashed into gfmeral recognition; and the natural theology which revelled in talk like this, about the miracles of nature and the impotence of man, is irrevocably su- perseded. Those who have read with any carefulness in modern science know that throughout nature there is no perfection discoverable by man; everything is in perpetual change, perpetual movement; and the type of perfect, of which Plato dreamed and Tennyson has sung, can be found neither in mouse nor in mountain. It has been recognized that man invents, and that nature, with her task set her at every point by mechanical necessity, does not invent. The hinge in the hand does not put machinery, to scorn; and Helm- holtz, without incurring the charge of arro- gance from any scientific man, pronounces the eye an instrument full of defects. The line about the mouse convincing sex- WALT WHITMANS 1~OEMS. 95 tillions of infidels is a mere platitude of equal terms only then can you under- the kind for which Paley used to stand stand us. We are no better than you; sponsor; and we have to recollect that if what we enclose you enclose, what we en- the sextillions of infidels, when convinced joy you may enjoy. Did you suppose by the miraculous mouse, began to discuss there could be only one Supreme? We their duty to God, they would immediately affirm there can be unnumbered supremes, make Mr. Whitman sick. and that one does not countervail another, It must be confessed that this last any more than one eyesight countervails would be a frame of mind or of body another; and that men can be good or much more customary with him than that grand only of the consciousness of their in which he points out the unreasonable- supremacy within them. Neither in ness of infidels in declining to be stag- Goethe nor Carlyle will Whitman find gered by mice. Fierce disdain for faith anything but detestation for the sentiment in God, except as a phase of human fan- of these words. Those men migh.t teach cying, is one of his recurrent moods, and hero-worship; he teaches self-worship and though he may not express . it in words, fool-worship. Goethe said that poets there is no maxim which he more ener- raised men to the gods, and brought down getically enforces than this Reverence the gods to men; but that every man was nothing. himself as good as either god or poet, - Goethe would have denied with keenest Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious huck- brilliancy of scorn. Carlyle bade men sters; the reverence the hero, discern the heroic in Taking myself exact dimensions of Je- man as constituting his true majesty, de hovah; tect and honour it under all disguises, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Her- refuse to accept any sham heroism, how- cules his grandson; ever dignified, in its place; but so dis- Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, gusted was he to find that his unmasking Buddha;. . of sham kings and nobles was being mis- In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah taken for a doctrine of anarchic levelling on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, With Odin and the hideous Mexitli, and every and the kingship of blockheads and idol and image; scamps, that, in too violent recoil, he has Taking ~em all for what they are worth and latterly insisted that the rule of one des- not a cent more, pot is better than that of multitudinous With a flourish of his pen, he accounts fools, each fool proclaiming his own su for and effaces all gods. premacy. It is because of their subtle and pervasive flattery of the mob that What do you suppose I would intimate to you Whitmans writings are not harmless as in a hundred ways, but that man or they are worthless, but poisonously im- woman is as good as God, moral and pestilexit. And that there is no God any more divine Whitman is an intrepid destroyer of than yourself? other peoples thouo-hts, but he sometimes speaks a language wholly his own. No other human bein~, would have said this about touch: It is possible to hold with candid intel- ligence, and to teach without irreverence; the doctrine of mans divinity. The higher self of Mr. Matthew Arnold, the heroic in man of Carlyle, the rightly and perfectly developed humanity of Goethe, may, with- out much practical mischief, be an object of admiration to the pitch of worship. But theoretically the insanest, and practi- cally the most pernicious, of all faiths or no-faiths, is the crude self-worship, the de- ification of the ~rofanum vulgus, which, in so far as it admits of definition, is the creed of Whitman. Until I examined his book, I did not know that the most venomously malignant of all political and social fallacies that one man is as good as another had been deliberately taught in print. The messages of great poets, says Whitman, in his preface, to each man and woman are, Come to us on Blind, loving, wrestling touch! sheathd, hooded, sharp-toothd touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me? Parting, trackd by arriving perpetual pay- ment of perpetual loan; Rich, showering rain, and recompense richer afterward: Sprouts take and accumulate stand by the curb prolific and vital: Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized, and golden. Thoughts quite his own being rare with him, he hugs them accordingly. No one, I suppose, will dispute his paternity of the thought, or rather the conceit, that grass is the beautiful uncut hair of graves. In my opinion it is a far-fetched and stu- pid conceit, but it might have passed 96 WALT WHITMANS POEMS. without blame in half a line, if the readers imagination had been left to make the best of it. Whitman wire-draws it thus Tenderly will I use you, curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men; It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken out of their mothers laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers Darker than the colourless beards of old men; Dark to come from under the faint-red roofs of mouths. 0, I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. If this is not mawkish there is no pas- sage known to me in literature deserving to be so characterized. Whitmans poetry contains a vast deal about himself. I celebrate myself, he frankly remarks. He professes to in- augurate a religion, of which the one duty, the sole worship, is to be the dear love of comrades, and he speaks with the authority of a founder of a new church. No dainty dolce affettuoso I; Bearded, sunburnt, gray-necked, forbidding, I have arrived, To be wrestled with as I pass, for the solid prizes of the universe; For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them. The two last lines either mean nothing at all, or announce that Whitman is a god. Whichever alternative is chosen, the man is a demonstrated quack. Take another piece of self-portraiture. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, elec- trical, I and this mystery, here we stand. federated nations, the Mississippi an im- mense river; and he is impressed with the idea that a specially redundant and sonorous style is appropriate to these con- ditions. This feeling for magnitude might be of value if associated with consummate power, if dominated by a fine sense of proportion, grace, and order. But an itch of hugeness has much more frequently aped than evidenced the strength of gen- ius. Every one familiar with the history of art is aware that a multitude of bad painters have betrayed thc~ir badness by spasmodic aspiration after bigness, va- pouring about their capacity to rivcl An- gelo and Tintoret, if they had only walls large enough to display their conceptions. When they were permitted to work on their chosen scale, they did nothing but smear acres ot canvas. It would be an insult to the memory of Barry or Haydon to compare them with Walt Whitman; but the long lists of names, the auctioneer catalogues, the accumulation of words out of all proportion to ideas, which make up the body of Whitmans poems, recall their vain attempt to prove themselves great painters by using very large brushes and filling very large frames. Whitman, how- ever, must speak for himself. Here is part of a birds-eye view with which he favours us of sailors and theii doings throughout the world I behold the mariners of the world; Some are in storms some in the night, with the watch on the look-out; Some drifting helplessly some with conta- gious diseases. I behold the sail and steamships of the world, some in clusters in port, some on their voyages; Some double the Cape of Storms some Cape Verde, others Cape Guardafui, Bon, or Bajadore; Others Dondra Head others pass the Straits of Sunda others Cape Lopatka others Behrings Straits; Others Cape Horn others sail the Gulf of Mexico, or along Cuba, or Hayti others Hudsons Bay, or Baffins Bay; Are these the words of a sane man? Is Others pass the Straits of Doverothers en- there common sense in saying that you ter the Wash others the Frith of stand plumb in the uprights, well entretied, Solway others round Cape Clear strong as a horse, electrical, and side by others the Lands End; side with a mystery? - Others traverse the Zoyder Zee, or the Scheldt; If there is anything in Whitman decid- Others add to the exits and entrances at Sandy edly better than mere extravagant affecta- Hook; tion, anything that may claim the dignity Others to the comers and goers at Gibraltar, of legitimate mannerism, it is a certain or the Dardanelles; feeling for magnitude, an amplitude of Others sternly push their way through the northern winter-packs; mental visioft and descriptive grasp. Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena; America he discerns to be a very large Others the Niger, or the Congo others the place, the United States a republic of Indus, the Burampooter, and Cambodia; WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 97 Others wait at the wharves of Manhattan, steamd up, ready to start; Wait, ~vift and swarthy, in the ports of Aus- tralia; Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Mar- seilles, Lisbon, Naples, Hamburg, Bremen, Bordeaux, the Hague, Co- penhagen; Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama; Wait at their moorings at Boston, Philadel- phia, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, Galveston, San Francisco. In ages when the science of geography was in its earliest dawn when npt one man in ten thousand had heard of towns or rivers beyond the frontiers of his own province a catalogue of names and countries might be what only a pre-emi- nently well-informed poet could give, and what every intelligent listener would ap- preciate and admire. Many interests, besides those of geographical curiosity, interests of a patriotic and clannish na- ture, enhanced the~ eager fascination with which the old Greeks heard the names of the nations that sent ships to Troy, or of the ports at which Jason or Ulysses touched. But any boy or girl of twelve, who can spell names of places on a map and write them down on a page, could fill a volume with such descriptive lines as these of Whitmans. Observe, there is no concatenation, no ordered sequence, no quickening or illuminating thought, in the list. The conception of a coherent and reasoned account of the water-ways of the world, on the principle either of their historical development or their com- mercial or political importance, is beyond him. Nothing could be more void of significance than his throwing together the Wash and Frith of Solway instead of the Thames, the Severn, the Mersey, or the Clyde, by way of indicating the marine activity of Britain. There is no cause why Bristol and London should not be named as well as Glasgow and Liverpool. The thing, in fact, could not be done more brainlessly. A poor piece of mannerism at best, it is here wretchedly worked, and though Whitman sometimes executes it with less dulness, this is a fair average sample of his success. When we consider that nine-tenths of Whitmans poetry con- sists of these catalogues that they, in fact, constitute, in respect both of manner and of matter, one of the differentiatina, elements in his work it will be seen that no small importance attaches to the fa- cility of the artifice. It is, in fact, the most childishly easy of all artifices. Think LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 631 of the materials afforded for such com- pilation in these days. Every town con- tains a library in which there are diction- aries of classical antiquity, translations from foreign languages, travellers volumes on every country under the sun. Every daily newspaper contains correspondence filled with the most picturesque and ex- citing details the correspondent can rake together. There is absolutely nothing in Whitmans lists that you could not match after a few hours turning over of the leaves of Lempriere, Livingstone, Du Chaillu, Figuier, or a few volumes of any one of fifty encyclopaedias. The world could, on these terms, be filled with poet- ry, if it were not an absurdity to apply the name to rant and rubbish. Having got at his secret, you soon learn to take stock of the American bard. Almost anything will do to start him off in his jingle, as all roads will suit if you dont want to go any- where in particular, but merely to raise a d~ist. Take, for example, the glorious burst of noise which breaks from the min- strel when he mentions the broad-axe. The axe leaps! The solid forest gives fluid utterances; They tumble forth, they rise and form, Hut, tent, landing, survey, Flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade, Shingle, rail, prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable, Citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy, organ, ex- hibition, house, library Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, shutter, turret, porch, Hoe, rake, pitch-fork, pencil, wagon, staff, -saw, jack-plane, mallet, wedge,. rounce, Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor, Work-box, chest, stringd instrument, boat, frame, and what not. What not, indeed? There is no assign- able reason why everything else that ever was made of wood might not be added. But why, it is relevant to ask, give these? Ought expression to have no relation to sense? Ought words to have no propor- tion to ideas? Is there any definition of linguistic silliness, of verbiage, of hope- lessly bad writing, more just than that which turns upon extension of sound with- out corresponding extension of meaninb? And this is what Mr. XV. Rossetti pub- lishes in England with eulogistic preface! This is the kind of thing which we are commanded to receive as the rhythmic utterance of Western democracy, the voice of America! It is pleasing to reflect that, if people like such poetry, they may have plenty of it. Every auctioneers clerk will 98 WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. be a poet of the new era. Suppose the gotten,that, throughout nature as known subject to be Occupations a poetical to man, the transition from inorganic to subject enough. Who does not see how organic, and from ruder forms t. finer the bard of democracy would begin setting forms, is from largeness to smallness. A it to music? Here goes bird is a more exquisite piece of natures Oil-works, silk-works, white-lead works, the workmanship than a megalosaurus. And sugar-house, steam-saws, the grist-mills, if amount of work is one measure of great- and factories; ness, there is perhaps no test of the qual Stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for fa9ades ity of genius so sure as ~apacity to excel or window or door-lintels, the mallet, within narrow limits. A weak artist may the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the mask his weakness by showing us enor thumb. mous limbs a-sprawl on ceilings, but only Is this not up to Whitmans mark? Is a consummate artist will conceive and ex- it not the genuine gurgle of the demo- ecute a faultless vignette. You might cratic Castalia? Listen suspect sham work, random smudging and brush-flinging, in Turners great storms, Leather-dressing, coach-making, boiler-mak- or billowy plains, or crowding hills, or ing, rope-twisting, scarlet Distilling, sign-painting, lime-burning, cotton- and golnen sunsets; but you learn picking, to trust them when the same hand traces Electro-plating, electrotyping, stereotyping. for you the shadows, and touches for you the rosebuds, in that garden arbour which The enlightened reader doubtless asks for forms one of the minor illustrations to more Rooer and it is easy to oblicre him ,, ss poems, or wnen it works into a The pens of live pork, the killing-hammer, the few square inches, with tiny flower-pots hog-hook, in fairy-like rows, and gem-like burnish- The scalders tub, gutting, the cutters cleaver, ing of flower-petals, a perfect picture of the packers maul, the conservatory at Farnley. All art And the plenteous winter-work of pork-pack- which is great in quality as well as in ing. quantity presupposes such work as we Am I outrageously caricaturing the fa- have in Turners drawing of Farnley con- vourite of Dr. Dowden, Mr. Rossetti, and servatory. Turner could not have given Mr. Buchanan? Every line, or rather the misty curve of his horizons, the per- every amorphous agglomeration of broken spective of his rivers winding in the dis- clauses, is Whitmans own. Page after tance, unless he had gone through such page of the like will be found flung to- work as is attested in the minute drawing; gether in what he calls a Carol of Occu- and if you take any ten pages in Carlyles pations. Mr. Rossetti expresses majes- greatest books, in his French Revolu- tical pity for us if we have no ear for tion, or his Cromwell, and examine such music. Time was when Englishmen them by reference to the sources, you knew quackery when they saw it. will find that, broad and bold as is his It must be evident that, on the terms touch, magnificently free as is his sweep and by the methods of which we are now of hand, he has been as strenuously care- able to form some idea, there would he no ful in the preliminary mastery of details difficulty in multiplying the number, or as was Turner in conning the grammar expanding the dimensions, of Whitmans of his art. Magnitude without worth, works. They are the most flagrant and breadth of scale without fineness of exe- offensive example ever met with by me of cution, is the refuge of aspiring and im- big badness trying to palm itself off as modest incompetence both in painting great excellence. Quantity of production and in literature. is without q~uestion one index of power; But we must devote more particular at- and it is true not only that the poet who tention to what Whitmans admirers have produces a hundred immortal poems is to say in his favour. We are met at. the greater than the poet who produces one, outset by the circumstance that they make but that the hand of the great artist has a admissions of a disparaging nature, such sweep and freedom, corresponding to the as no critical advocates ever made on be- largeness of scale on which he likes to half of their client.. They enable me, to work. No artist whose characteristic pic- my extreme satisfaction, to refer judge tures cannot be appreciated without a lens and jury to them on certain points which it though he paint, fold for fold, on the would otherwise have been impossible for limbs of Titania, the woven air of Cash- me to make an English audience under- mere is a great artist. But it is equally stand. Quotation of much that is most true, and it is much more apt to be fom- characteristic in Whitmans writings is out WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. of the question, and I am not equal to the task of making description do the work of sample. If there be any class of suh- jects, says Professor Dowden, whiclj it is more truly natural, more truly human not to speak of, than to speak of (such speech producing self-consciousness, whereas part of our nature, it may be maintained, is healthy only while it lives and moves in holy blindness and unconsciousness of self), if there be any sphere of silence, then Whitman has been guilty of invading that sphere of silence. This is a fe- licitiously correct account of what Whit- man has done; and most readers will, I think, agree with me that it is a grave of- fence, an abominable blunder. The man who does not know what to speak of, and what not to speak of, is unfit for society and if he puts into his bobks what even he would not dare to say in society, his books cannot be fit for circulation. As Dr. Dowden has defined for us the nature, he will also kindly tell us the extent, of Whitmans offence against civilized man- ners. Whitman, says Dr. Dowden, in a few passages falls below humanity falls even below the modesty of brutes. This is strictly true; and would, I sub- mit, be enough to sink a ship-load of poems with ten times the merits of Whit- man s; and although I shall not say that he often falls below the modesty of brutes, I do say that, not in a few but in many passabes, he is senselessly foul. But it ought not, pleads Professor Dowden, to be forgotten that no one asserts more strenuously than does Whitman the beau- ty, not indeed of asceticism, but of holi- ness and healthiness, and the shameful ugliness of unclean thought, desire, and deed. If such were his theory, the less pardonable would be his practice; but the truth to which the critics generosity seems to blind h~m is that Whitman has no fixed theory or settled practice in this or in any other case, but confounds good and bad, delightful and disgusting, decent and indecent, in his chaotic extravaganza. He may be foul on one page and condemn himself for being so on another, just as he may say on one page that there can be no man or woman without religion, and on another that it makes him sick to hear people discussing their duty to God. Mr. Rossetti puts in the plea that eminent writers of all ages have sinned in this matter as well as Whitman. He cites no passages, names no authors, and I con- tent myself with affirming generally that his plea cannot be sustained. There is no author of renutation of whom Dr. Dow- 99 den could say that he sinks in immodesty below the brutes. And there is no author whatever who, like Whitman, is indecent from mere extravagance and affectation. They all give us something to redeem what, nevertheless, are blots on their work. Chaucer is gross, but he has humour; Fielding, but he has wit; Whitman has no fun in him. Homer is never gross: he has a vehement sympathy with all natural joys, and there is no monastic coldness in his description of the embraces of Jupiter and Juno, or of the ivory bed of Ulysses; but he is the gentleman always, less than the gentleman never; and his heroes, though they may kill mutton, never in- fringe that first law of good manners which we have heard Dr. Dowden define. Had Whitman ventured upon the hun- dredth part of his grossness in the camp of the Greeks, he would have been cud- gelled more cordially than Thersites. On the intellectual side, Whitmans critics make admissions which ar~ almost as strange as that which certifies his oc- casional descent, in moral respects, below the level of the brutes. Dr. Dowden speaks of the recurring tendency of his poems to become catalogues of persons and things. It is curious, by the way, that our bards panegyrists cannot speak of him without using language that sounds like irony. Selection, says Professor Dowden, seems forbidden to him; if he names one race of mankind, the names of all the other races press into his page; if he mentions one trade or occupation, all other trades or occupations follow. Ex- actly; but it used to be understood that the poet was bound not only to apply the process of selection, but of selection so searching and so keen that, like dross and slag from metal placed in a furnace heated sevenfold, every imperfection was purged away by it, and only the~ fine stream of liquid gold flowed out. Writing down the headings of a trades-directory, says Dr. Dowden again, is not poetry. No. But this, he adds, is what Whitman never does. I respectfully insist that it is a literal description of what Whitman, on Dr. Dowdens own showing, frequently e does; but Professor Dowden must admit, at least, that there are no other composi- tions passing current as poetry of whicli he would have thought it necessary to make the remark. He states that the logical faculty is almost an offence to Whitman, and owns to suspecting that his matter belongs at times rather to chaos than to cosmos, and that his form corre- sponds to his matter. But of all the con- WALT WHITMANS POEMS~ 100 cessions made by Whitmans eulogists, one tendered by Mr. Rossetti pleases me most. Each of Whitmans poems is, he says, a menstruum saturated with form in solution. To this I explicitly sub- scribe; when the solution crystallizes, it will be time to inquire whether the crys- tals are poetry. A marble statue in a state of solution is mud. We find, then, that the gentlemen who propose to assign Whitmans writings a place of honour in the literature of the world admit that logic is an offence to him, that his matter is occasionally cha- otic, that the form of his poems is form in solution, and that his immodesty passes the immodesty of brutes. Having reached this point, might we not expect to be told that the right thing ~o do ~~ith his productions is to cast them away, accept- ing, with philosophical resignation, the implied suggestion as to their treatment made by the poet himself, in the most reasonable of all his prophecies ? I bequeath myself to the dirt. If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles. But Whitmans admirers, of course, re- fuse to take the hint, and we are bound to give them audience when they attempt to prove that the unparalleled concessions they have made as to his defects are more than balanced by his merits. The main ground on which they commend Whitman is, that he has at last founded a distinct- ively American school of poetry. The new world, argues Dr. Dowden, may be expected to give birth to literary and artistic forms corresponding to itself in strange novelty, to a fauna and flora other than the European, requiring a new nomenclature, like other American things hickory, for example, and mocking-bird. American democracy being a great, new, unexampled thing, with faults enough, but yet deserving recogni- tion and respect, the poet of American democracy may, in like manner, though his works are surprising and questionable, deserve applause. Whitman himself set out, as was mentioned, with a determina- tion to write differently from his contem- poraries and predecessors. The Ameri- can poetry which he found existing was, he intimated, either the poetry of an ele- gantly weak sentimentalism at bottom nothing but maudlin puerilities, or more or less musical verbiage, arising out of a life of depression and enervation as their result or else that class of poetry, plays, etc., of which the foundation is feudalism, with its ideas of lords and ladies, its imported standard of gentility, and the manners of European high-life-below-stairs in every line and verse. I am the poet of America, virtually says the mod- est Whitman ; and our English critics bow assent. When we reflect that, among~the Ameri- can poets thus slightingly waived aside, were, to mention no others, Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell, and Edgar Poe the justice of the remark that Whitman shows effrontery will be apparent. But his feeling as affected by the abundance, apart from all question as to the excel- lence, of existing poetry, when he first thought of becoming himself a poet, was not unreasonable. It arose from a more or less vague but substantially just per- ception of the fact that literature is old, that the libraries of the world are well stocked, that subjects, motives, images, incidents, plots, which were novel some thousands of years ago, have become stale. The first broad aspects, the salient facts and features, of that nature which man seeks to present again represent in his art, have long since been seized. The interest of dart-throwing and of heroic skull-cleaving was pretty well exhausted by Homer. Goethe says that if Shake- speare had written in German, he (Goethe) would, at the outset of his literary career, have been oppressed with something like despair; and the years which have passed since Goethe experienced this feeling, with their Scott poetry, their Byron poetry, their Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Campbell, Tennyson poetry, not to men- tion half a dozen American poets whose names are known throughout Europe, have incalculably enhanced the difficulty and hazard that face one who, using the English language, aspires to the fame of a poet. Under such circumstances, the temptation to false originality, to one or other form of affectation, is almost irre- sistible. I am deliberately of opinion that no young poet or painter, for what has been said applies, rnzitatis mutandis, to pictorial as well as to literary art, be his powers what they may, wholly escapes its influence. It causes men of undoubted genius to say things with a queerness, a quaintness, which I, at least, cannot con- ceive to be natural to them. Mr. Morris, for example, thus describes an occur- rence which, though interesting and de- lightful, has for many ages been a poetical commonplace In that garden fair Came Lancelot walking; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting day, ~ that spring I scarce dare talkof the remembered bliss, When both our mouths went wandering in one way; And, aching sorely, met among the leaves, Our hands being left behind strained far away. To say that Lancelot and Guinevere kissed each other would certainly have been ordinary, and Mr. Morriss way of stating the fact is original; but since it is not possible that the kiss could havQ been performed as he describes it for al- though the lovers might hax~e restrained their natural impulse to embrace as well as kiss, and might have kept their hands before them or at their sides, it is incon- ceivable that they should have poked their hands out behind them while craning their necks forward to bring their lips together we must conclude that Mr. Morris con- sidered it a less evil to be fantastic than to be commonplace. Mr. D. G. Rossetti has written several poems which seem to me imperishably great; but he also has suffered from the tyrannical necessity of being original, after nature has been laid under contribution by poets for thousands of years. It would have been as common- place for Mr. Rossetti to say that he sat musing on the grass, as for Mr. Morris to say that Lancelot took Guinevere into his arms and kissed her. Accordingly Mr. Ro~setti writes thus The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill I had walked on at the winds will, I sat now, for the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was, My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas l My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass. Original, no doubt, but is it not some- what odd? The posture described is gro- tesque, and in a room, when attempted by persons making no claim to the character of poet, cannot be achieved; but even on a peculiarly formed bank in the country, it would be uncomfortable. The feat per- formed by Mr. Rossetti might be recom- mended to professors of gymnastics, and, perhaps, if one sat with his head between his knees and his hair in the grass for an hour, the acoustic nerve would become so sensitive through torture that he could hear the day pass; but it is not easy to believe that the lines would have been as they are, if Mr. Rossetti had felt it ad- I0I missible to say so commonplace a thing as that he sat on a green bank and meditated. From the works of Mr. Browning, and even from those of Mr. Tennyson, illus- tration might be derived of the shudder- ing horror with which modern poets avoid commonplace; and the oddities and eccen- tricities of painters, during the present cen- tury have been equally conspicuous. I recollect seeing a picture of St. George and the dragon, by an artist admired by many eloquent young ladies, in which the dragon looked like a large green lizard, and St. George like a medical gentleman administering to it, by means of a long glass bottle which he poked into its mouth, a dose of castor-oil. I was given to un- derstand that the piece had a profound spiritual significance, but I had not soul enough to comprehend.it. If the necessity of being original lies hard upon poets in these days, is it not all the more, on that account, the duty of critics to press upon them the equally inexorable necessity of resisting the fas- cinations of false and affected originality? Novelty is essential to art; every gen- uine art-product, in sculpture, in painting, in poetry, is unique: but it is intensely untrue that everything that is novel and unparalleled is art; and so easy is it to ape or to travesty ribht newness, that Whitmans conscious and trumpeted pur- pose to produce something original ought to have been, in the eyes of critics so acute as Dr. Dowden and so accomplished as Mr. W. Rossetti, a presumption that the originality forthcoming would be spu- rious. Every art-product is new, but every art-product is also old; and the operation of producing a true poem or picture an operation too subtle to be described in words or executed by rule consists essentially in combining newness of form and colour and musical harmony with oldness of principle and law. An illustration of this union, applicable, to my thinking, with scientific acctu-acy to the case in hand, is afforded by nature every spring. When the brown hillside breaks, as Goethe finely says, into a wave of green, every hollow of blue shade, every curve of tuft, and plume, and tendril, every broken sun-gleam on spray of young leaves, is new. No spring is a represen- tation of any former spring. And yet the laws of chemistry and of vegetable life are unchanging. The novelty that the poet must give us is the novelty of spring; and the transcendant but inevitable diffi- culty of poetical originality lies in this, that the limits of variation within which WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 102 he is permitted to work are narrow. His poetry must be as different from that of any other poet as one spring is different from another; but it must izot be more so. It is a fundamental principle, laid down by that ancient nation which was inspired to write the bible of art, that all gigan- tesque, eccentric, distorted, extravagant art is barbarous. By working in the spirit of the lesson taught it once and forever by Greece, .Europe has gone beyond Greece; but as far as Europe, in Shake- speare, has transcended Greece, so far will America fall behind and below not Europe only, but Egypt, Babylon, and Assyria, if she cast the lesson of Greece to the winds and consent to the identifi- cation of democracy with lawless extrav- agance. It would, I belive, be unfair to the Americans tO speak of them as pledged to admiration of Whitman. They are not afraid to give every one a hearing, and in this they are bravely right; but they have a way, also, of getting, sooner or later, at the true value of a man, and I rather think they have found Whitman out. I have produced abundant evidence to prove that he exceeds all the bounds fixed to sound poetical originality, and is merely grotesque, and surprising. It is instructive to note that, whenever Whitman is, comparatively speaking, r~i- tional and felicitous, his writing becomes proportionally like that of other people. Of really good poetical work there is, in- deed, in those of his poems known to me and I have read, with desperate reso- lution, a great deal both of his prose and his verse, including productions which his eulogists specifically extol very little. Even his best passages have this charac- teristic of inferior writing, that they deal with sensational subjects and fierce ex- citements. His lack of delicate and deep sensibility is proved by his producing hor- ror when he aims at pathos. The true masters of pathos obtain their greatest effects by means that seem slight. A Shakespeare, a Goethe, will make all gen- erations mourn over the sorrows of an Italian girl, of a German grisette; a daisy, a mouse, a wounded hare, evoke touches of immortal pathos from Burns. Whit- man must have his scores massacred, his butcherly apparatus of blood and man- gled flesh, his extremity of peril in storm, his melodramatic exaggeration of courage in battle. Btt it is in the few sketches of such scents; occurring in the poem called Walt Whitman, that he is most success- ful; and then his affectations fall, to a re- freshing extent, from his loins, and he makes some approach to the perspicuity, compression, vividness, and force of good writing in general. If his English critics had contented themselv~s with discrimi- nating between what is passably good and what is insufferably bad in his work, com- mending the former and condemning the latter, not a word would have been written by me upon the subject. Dr. Dowden, Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Buchanan, and, most vociferously of all, Mr. Swinburne, accept him at his own valuation as the greatest of American voices, * and the poet of democracy. To do so is to wrong the true poets whom America has produced, and to strike a pang as of despair into the hearts of those who, amid all short-com- ings and delinquencies, amid Fiske trage- dies and $Iammany Rings, refuse to be- lieve that democracy means~, dissolution, and that the consummation of freedom must be an exchange of the genial bonds and decent amenities of civilization for infra-bestial license. Originality, true and clear, characterizes the real poets of America. There is in them a fragrance and flavour native to the American soil, a something that gives them a charac:er as distinctive as marks Qff the Elizabethans from Milton, or distinguishes Pope and his school from recent English poets. More than this was not to be looked for or desired; the strong presumption was that more than this would indicate mon- strosity, debility, or affectation; and this presumption has been verified by Whit- man. Nature in America is different from nature in Europe, but we do not, in cross- ing the Atlantic, pass from cosmos into chaos; and Mr. Carlyles expression, winnowings of chaos, would be a can- didly scientific description of Whitmans poetry if only it were possible to asso- ciate with it the idea of any winnowing process whatever. Street - sweepings of lumber - land disjointed fragments of truth, tossed in wild whirl with disjointed fragments of falsehood gleams of beauty that have lost their way in a waste of ugli- ness such are the contents of what he calls his poems. If here and there we have tints of healthful beauty, and tones of right and manly feeling, they but suf- fice to prove that he can write sanely and sufferably when he pleases, that his mon * These words are Mr. Swinhurnes, and perhaps would not he endorsed by the others. I take this portnniiy of protesting against ceriain comments made b~ Mr. Swinhurne (in a republished essay on the text Shelley) on an article written by me for this review in the year s867. I do not say what Mr. Swiisburne represents me as saying, and what I did say can be proved to be grammatically correct. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 103 strosities and solecisms are sheer affecta- From Macmillans Magazine. tion, that he is not mad, but only counter- THE CURATE IN CHARGE. feits madness. He is in no sense a superlatively able man, and it was beyond CHAPTER XIV. his powers to make for himself a legiti- MILDMAY made his way back to Oxford mate poetical reputation. No man of high without any delay. He knew that the capacity could be so tumid and tautolog- master of the college, who was a man ical as he could talk, for instance, of the with a family, had not yet set out on the fluid wet of the sea; or speak of the inevitable autumn tour. But I must add aroma of his armpits, or, make the crass that though no man could have been more and vile mistake of bringing into light anxious to obtain preferment in his own what nature veils, and confounding liberty person than he was to transfer his prefer- with dissolute anarchy. The poet of de- ment to another, yet various doubts of the mocracy he is not; but his books may practicability of what he was going to at- serve to buoy, for the democracy of Amer- tempt interfered, as he got further and ica, those shallows and sunken rocks on further from Brentburn, with the enthusi- which if it is cast, it must inevitably, asm which had sprung up so warmly in amid the hootings of mankind, be wrecked.. Cicelys presehce. It would be very diffi- Always, unless he chooses to contradict cult, he felt, to convey to the master the himself for the sake of paradox, his polit- same clear perception of the rights of the ical doctrine is the consecration of muti- case as had got into his own head by nous independence and rabid egotism and what he had seen and heard at the rec- impudent conceit. In his ideal city the tory; and if all he made by his hesitation men and women think lightly of the laws. was to throw the living into the hands of His advice is to resist much and to obey Ruffhead! For Brentburn was no longer little. This is the political philosophy of an indifferent place the, same as any bedlam, un9hained in these ages chiefly other in the estimation of the young don; through the influence of Rousseau, which quite the reverse; it was very interesting has blasted the hopes of freedom wher- to him now. Notwithstanding the bran- ever it has had the chance, and which new church, he felt that no other parish must be chained up again with ineffable under the sun was half so attractive. The contempt if the self-government of na- churchyard, with those two narrow threads tions is to mean anything else than the of paths; the windows, with the lights in death and putres~ence of civilization. In- them, which glimmered within sight of capable of true poetical originality, Whit- the grave; the old-fashioned, sunny gar- man had the cleverness to invent a literary den; the red cottages, with not one wall trick, and the shrewdness to stick to it. which was not awry, and projecting at As a Yankee phenomenon, to be good- every conceivable angle; the common, humouredly laughed at, and to receive that with its flush of heather all. these had moderate pecuniary remuneration which come out of the unknown, and made them- nature allows to vivacious quacks, he selves plain and apparent to him. He would have been in his place; but when felt Brentburn to be in a manner his own; influential critics introduce him to the a thing which he would be willing to give English public as a great poet, the thing to Mr. St. John, or rather to lend him for becomes too serious for a joke. While his lifetime; but he did not feel the least reading Whitman, in the recollection of inclination to let it fall into the hands of what had been said of him by those gen- any other man. Neither did he feel in- tlemen, I realized with bitter painfulness dined to do as Mr. Chester, the late rec- how deadly is the peril that our literature tor, had done to expatriate himself, and may pass into conditions of horrible dis- leave the work of his parish to the curate ease, the raging flame of fever taking the in charge. Besides, he could not do this, place of natural heat, the ravings of de- for he was in perfect health; and he lirium superseding the enthusiasm of poet- could neither tell the necessary lie him- ical imagination, the distortings of tetanic self, nor, he thought, get any doctor to spasm caricaturing the movements, dance- tell it for him. As he got nearer and like and music-measured, of harmonious nearer to the moment which mus.t decide strength. Therefore I suspended more all these uncertainties, he got more and congenial work to pen this little counter- more confused and troubled in his mind. blast to literary extravagance and affecta- The ~master was the college, as it hap- tion. PETER BAYNE. pened at that moment; he was by far the most influential and the most powerful person in it; and what he said was th~ 104 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. thing that would be done. Mildmay ac- cordingly took his way with very mingled feelings, across the qu- drangle to the beautiful and picturesque old house in which this potentate dwelt. Had he any right to attempt to make such a bargain as was in his mind? It was enough that the living had been offered to him. What had he to say but yes or no? The masters house was in a state of confusion when Mildmay entered it. The old hall was full of trunks, the oaken staircase encumbered with servants and young people running up and down in all the bustle of a move. Eight children of all ages, and half as many servants, was the master brave man ! about to carry off to Switzerland. The packin, was ter- rible, and not less terrible the feelings of the heads of the expedition, who were at that moment concluding their last calcula- tion of expenses, and making up little bundles of circular notes. Here is Mr. Mildrnay, said the masters wife, and, thank heaven! this reckoning up is over; and she escaped with a relieved countenance, giving the new comer a smile of gratitude. The head of the college was slightly flustrated, if such a vulgar word can be used of such a sublime per- son. I hope no one will suspect me of Romanizing tendencies, but perhaps a pale ecclesiastic, worn with thought, and un- troubled by children, would have been more like the typical head of a college than this comely yet careworn papa. The idea, however, flashed through Mildniays mind, who had the greatest reverence for the master, that these very cares, this evi- dent partaking of human natures most ordinary burdens, would make the great don feel for the poor curate. Does not a touch of nature make the whole world kin? Well, Mildmay, said the master, come to say good-bye? You are just in time. We are off to-night by the Antwerp boat, which we have decided is the best way with our enormous l)arty. Here the good man sighed. Where are you go- ing? You young fellows dont know youre born, as people say coming and going, whenever the fancy seizes you, as light as a bird. Ah! wait till you have eibht chil- dren, my dear fellow, to dract about the world. That could not be for some time, at least, said Mildmay, with a laugh; but I am not so disinterested in my visit as to have come merely to say good-bye. I wanted to speak to you about Brentburn. Ah oh, said the master; to be sure, your living. You have been to see it? Well! and how do you think it will feel to be an orderly rector, setting a~good example, instead of enjoying yourself, and collecting crockery here? That was a cruel speech, and Mildmay grew red at the unworthy title. crockery; but the masters savage sentiments on this subject were known. What is a man with eight children to be expected to know about rare china? I believe there are much better collec- tions than mine in some country rectories, he said; but never mind; I want to speak to you of something more interest- ing than crockery. I do not think I can take Brentburn. The master framed his lips into that shape which in a profane and secular per- son would have produced a whistle of sur- prise. So! he said, you dont like it? But I thought you were set upon it. All the better for poor Ruffhead, who xvill now be able to marry after all. That is just what I wanted to speak to you about, said Mildmay, embarrassed. I dont want it to fall to Ruffhead. Lis- ten, before you say anything! I dont want to play the part of the dog in the manger. Ruffhead is young, and so am I; but, my dear master, listen to me. The curate in charge, Mr. St. John, is not young; he has been twenty years at Brent- burn, a laborious excellent clergyman. Think how it would look in any other pro- fession, if either Ruffhead or I should thus step over his head. The curate in charge! said the mas- ter, bewildered. What are you talking about? What has he to do with it? I know nothing about your curate in charge. Of course you dont; and therefore there seemed to be some hope in coming~ to tell you. He is a member of our ~wn college; that of itself is something. He used to know you, he says, long ago, when he was an under~ raduate. He has been Chesters curate at Brentburn, occupying the place of the incumbent, and doing everything for twenty years; and now that Chester is dead, there is nothing for him but to be turned out at a moments notice, and to seek his bread, at over sixty, some- where else and he has children too. This last sentence was added at a ven- ture to touch the masters sympathies; but I dont think that dignitary perceived the application; for what is there in common between the master of a college and a poor curate? He shook his head with, how- ever, that sympathetic gravity and defer- ence towards misfortune which no man THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 105 who respects himself ever refuses to show. St. John, St. John? he said. Yes, I think I recollect the name: very tall stoopsa peaceable sort of beincr? Yes. So hes Chesters curate? Who would have thought it? I suppose he started in life as well as Chester did, or any of us. What has possessed him to stay so long there? Well he is, as you say, a peaceable mild man; not one to push himself Push himself! cried the master; not much of that I should think. But even if you dont push yourself, you neednt stay for twenty years a curate. What does he mean by it? I am afraid there must be something wrong. And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong, cried Mi idmay, warmly, unless devotion to thankless work, and forget- fulness of self is ~vrong; for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge. You arc very warm about it, said the master, with some surprise; which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fel- low, what do you expect me what do you expect the college to do? We cant pro- vide for our poor members who let them- selves drop out of sight and knowledge. Perhaps if you dont take the living, and Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to keep your friend on as curate. But I have nothing to do with that kind of arrange- ment. And Im sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start to-night. Master, said Mildmay, solemnly, when you hear of a young colonel of thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what do you say? Say, sir! cried the master, whose sentiments on this, as on most other sub- jects, were well known ; say! why I say its a disgrace to the country. I say its the abominable system of purchase which keeps our best soldiers languishing. Pray, what do you mean by that smile? You know I have no patience to discuss such a question; and I cannot see what it has to do with what we were talking of, he add- ed, abruptly, breaking off with a look of defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he had made in Mildmays face. Hasnt it? said the other. If you will think a moment Ruffhead and I are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as as little Ned there. (Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) Mr. St. John has some thirty years experience, and is thoroughly known and loved by the people. What can anybody think what can any one say if one of us miserable subalterns is put over that veterans head? Where but in the Church could such a thing be done without at least such a clamour as would set half England by the ears? Softly, softly, cried the master. (Get away, you little imp. Ill come presently.) You mustnt abuse the Church, Mildmay. Our arrangements may be imperfect, as indeed all arrangements are which are left in human hands. But, depend upon it, the system is the best that could be de- vised; and there is no real analogy be- tween the two professions. A soldier is helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very little influence, whose talents and virtues alone but you must know that as well as I do. In this case there must be something behind something wrong extreme indolence, or incapacity, or something There is nothing but extreme mod- esty, and a timid retiring disposition. Yes, yes, yes, cried the master these are the pretty names for it. Indo- lence which does nothing for itself, and hangs a dead weight upon friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do? If you were a private patron, said Mildmay, I should say boldly, I have come to ask you to give this living to the best man the man who has a right to it; not a new man going to try experi- ments like myself, but one who knows what he is doing, who has done all that has been done there for twenty years. I would say you were bound to exercise your private jud~ment on behalf of the parish in preference to all promises or supposed rights; and that you should offer the living of Brentburn to Mr. St. John without an hours delay. That is all very well, said the master, scratching his head, as if he had been a rustic clodhopper, instead of a learned and accomplished scholar, and very well put, and perhaps true. I say, ~erIzaps true, for of course this is only one side of the question. But I am not a private patron. I am only a sort of trustee of the patron- age, exercising it in conjunction with va- rious other people. Come, Mildmay, you I o6 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. know as well as I do, poor old St. John, though his may be a hard case, has no claim whatever upon the college; and if you dont accept it, theres Ruffhead and two or three others who have a rio~ht to their chance. You may be sure Ru~fhead wont give up his chance of marriage and domestic bliss for any poor curate. Of course the case, as you state it, is hard. What does the parish say? The parish! I was not there long enough to find out the opinion of the parish. Ah, you hesitate. Look here, Mild- may; if I were a betting man, Id give you odds, or whatever you call it, that the par- ish would prefer you. It is impossible ; or, if they did, it would only be -a double wrong. But Mildmays voice was not so confident as when he had been pleading Mr. St. Johns cause, and his eyes fell before the masters penetrating eyes. A wrong if you like, but its human nature, said the master, with some tri- umph. I will speak to the dean about it, if I see him this afternoon, and Ill speak to Singleton. If they think any- thing of your arguments, I shant oppose. But I warn you I dont think it the least likely. His age, if there were nothing else, is against him, rather than in his favour. We dont want parishes ham- pered with an old man past work. He is just as old being curate as if he were rector. Yes, yes. But to give him the living now, at his age, would be to weight the parish with him till he was a hundred, and destroy the chance for young men like yourself. Yaze dont mind, but I can tell you Ruffhead does. No, no. Singleton will never hear of it; and what can I do? lain going away. Singleton will do whatever you tell him, said Mildmay; and you could write even though you are going away. Hush, hush, said the master, with a half-laugh, that is all a popular delusion. Singleton is the most independent-minded man I know and the others are as ob- stinate as pigs. Talk of turning them as one likes! Poor old St. John, though! we might hear of another place to suit him, perhaps. He has something of his own, I suppose some private income? How many children has he? of course, being only a curate, he must have heaps of children. (Coming, you rascal! com- ing, Ned.) He has two daughters grown up, said Miidmay, and two small children; and so far as I can judge is What is there to laugh at? he added, with a look of the greatest surprise. So, so; he has daughters? said the master, with a burst of genial laughter. That is it? Dont blush, my dear fel- iow; as good men as you have been in the same predicament. Go and marry her, which will be much more sensible; and I hope Miss St. John is everything that is pretty and charming for your sake. Perhaps Mildmay blushed, but he was not aware of it. He felt himself grow pale in a white heat of passion. This is a very poor joke, he said. Excuse me, master, if I must say so. I speak to you of an injury to the Church, and a serious wrong to one of her priests, and you an- swer me with a jest most inappropriate to the occasion. I saw Miss I mean Mr. St. John and his family for the first time two days ago. Personal feeling of any kind has not been my inducement to make this appeal to your sense of justice. But I have made a mistake, it seems. Good morninci; I will not detain you more. Why, Mildmay! a man may have his joke. Dont take it in this tragical way. And dont be so withering in your irony about my sense of justice, said the mas- ter, with a laugh, half-apologetic, half- angry. But he did not ask the young man to sit down again. Justice goes bcth ways, he added; and I have jus- tice to the college, and justice to its more distinguished members, and even to the parish, for whose good we are called upon to act to consider; as well as justice to Mr. St. John, ~vhich really is not our af- fair. But, my dear fellow, all this is very admirable in you and dont think I fail to see that, though you say Imadeapoor joke. Yes, I am in a hurry, there is no denying it; but Ill see Singleton, and leave the matter in his hands. Meet you in the Oberland, eh? My wife talks of St. Moritz, but we never can drag the children all that way. Good-bye. Mildmay marched out of the old house with all his pulses tingling. It seemed to him that poor Cicely, in the midst of, all the anxieties that lurked in her young eyes, had been insulted. Was it that sort of folly he was thinking of, or she, poor girl, who had said nothing to him but re- proaches? But yet, I will allow, that ab- solutely innocent as he felt of any such levity, the accusation excited him more, perhaps, than was needful. He could not forget or forgive it, as on.e forgives a sorry jest at one s own expense, the reason being, he said to himself, that it was an THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 107 insult to her, and that this insult had come upon a young innocent creature, through him, which was doubly hard. He was still tingling with this blow, when he met his second in succession, so to speak, Mr. Ruffhead, who was serving a curacy near Oxford, and who had a slight unspoken, unacknowledged grudge at his brother fel- low who had been preferred before him- self. Mildmay, in his excitement, laid hold upon this probable heir of his, in case he should give up Brentburn, and poured the whole story into his ears, asking with some heat and passion for his advice. I dont see how I can take the living over Mr. St. Johns head; it seems to me the most terrible injustice, he cried. Mr. Ruffhead shook his head. You must not ask m advice, said that sensible person. I you dont take it, and its offered to me, I shall of course. I dont know Mr. St. John, and if one neg- lected ones own interests for every hard. case one heard of, where would one be? I cant afford to play with my chances. I dare say you think I am very hard-hearted; but that is what I should do. This plain declaration of sentiment sub- dued Mildmay, and brought him back to matters of fact. I suppose you are right; but I have not made up my mind to de- cline the living, he said coldly, and did not ask Ruffhead to dinner as he had at first intended. No man, they say, likes his heir, and this kind of inheritance was doubly disagreeable to think of. Cer- tainly, if the only alternative was Ruffhead and his honeymooning (which somehow it disgusted Mildmay to think of, as of some- thing almost insulting to himself), it would be better, much better, that he himself should take Brentburn. He would not give it up only to see it passed on to this commonplace fellow, to enable him, for- sooth, to marry some still more common- place woman. Good heavens! was that the ~vay to traffic with a cure of souls? He ~vent back to his beautiful rooms in a most disturbed state of mind, and drew up impatiently the blinds which were not in- tended to be drawn up. The hot August light came in scorching and broad over all his delights, and made him loathe them; he tripped upon, and kicked away to the end of the room, a rug for which you or I, dear reader, would have given one of our ears; and jerked his Italian tapestry to one side, and I think, if good sense had not restrained him, would have liked to take up his very best bit of china and smash it into a hundred pieces. But after a while he smiled at himself, and reduced the blaze of daylight to a proper artistic tone, and tried to eat some luncheon. Yesterday at the same hour he had shared the curates dinner, with Cicely at the head of the table, looking at him with sweet eyes, in which there was still the dewy look of past tears. She had the house and all its cares upon her delicate shoulders, that girl ; and her innocent name had been made the subject of a jest through him! CHAPTER XV. I DO not suppose that Cicely St. John had really any hope in her new acquaint- ance, or believed, when she looked at the matter reasonably, that his self-renuncia- tion, if he had the strength of mind to carry it out, would really secure for her father the living of Brentburn. But yet a certain amount of faith is natural at her years, and she was vaguely strengthened and exhilarated by that suppressed ex- pectation of something pleasant that might possibly happen, which is so great an element in human happines~ and, with this comfort in her soul, went about her xvork, preparing for the worst, which, to be sure, notwithstanding her hope, was, ~she felt, inevitable. Mab, when the strangers enthusiastic adoption of her sisters suggestion was told to her, ac- cepted it for her part with delight, as a thing settled. A true artist has always more or less a practical mind. However strong his imagination may be, he does not confine himself to fancIes, or even words, but makes something tangible and visible out of it, and this faculty more or less shapes the fashion of his thinking. Mab, who possessed in addition that de- lightful mixture of matter - of - factness which is peculiar to womankind, seized upon the hope and made it into reality. She went to her work as gaily as if all the clouds had been in reality dispersed from her path. This time it was little Annie, the nursemaid Cicely having inter- fered to protect the babies from perpetual posing who supplied her with the nec- essary life. Annie did not much like it. She would have been satisfied, indeed, and even proud, had her picture been taken in her best frock, with all her Sunday ribbons; but to be thrust into a torn old dingy garment, with bare feet, filled the lit- tle handmaiden with disgust and ra6e great enough for .a full-grown woman. Folks will think as I haint got no decent clothes, she said; and Mabs injudicious consola- tion, to the effect that folks would never see the picture, did not at all mend the i o8 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. matter. Cicely, however, drew up her If you please, miss, I cant stop here slight person, and looked Miss St. no longer. Its time as I was looking John, according to Mabs description; after the children. How is Betsy to re- and Annie was cowed. There were at member in the middle of her cooking the least twenty different representations in right time to give em their cod-liver oil ? Mabs sketch-books of moments in which Ill go and look after the children, Cicely had looked Miss St. John; and it said Cicely. What you have got to do, was Mabs conviction in life as well as in Annie, is to stop here. art that no opponent could stand before Upon which Annie burst into floods of such a demonstration. Barefooted, in tears, and fell altogether out of pose. her rag~ed frock, Annie did not look an There aint no justice in it! she said. amiable young person, which, I am Im put up here to look like a gipsy or ashamed to say, delighted the artist. a beggar; and mother will never get over She will do for the naughty little girl in it, after all her slaving and toiling to get the fairy-tale, the one with toads and me decent clothes! frogs dropping from her lips, cried Mab, Thus it will be perceived that life- in high glee. And if it comes well I studies in the domestic circle are very dif- shall send it to Mr. Mildmay, to show we ficult to manage. After a little interval feel how kind he is. of mingled coaxing and scolding, some- Wait till he has been kind, said thing like the lapsed attitude was recov- Cicely, shaking her head. I always liked ered, and Annie brought back into obedi- the naughty little girl best, not that com- ence. If you will be good, Ill draw a placent smiling creature who knew she picture of you in your Sunday frock to had been good, and whom everybody give to your mother, said Mab a prom- praised. Oh, what a pity that the world ise which had too good an effect upon is not like a fairy-tale! where the good her model, drivin~ away the clouds from are always rewarded, and even the naugh- her countenance; and Cicely went away ty, when they are sorry. If we were to to administer the cod-liver oil. It was help any number of old women, what not a very delightful office, and I think would it matter now? that now and then, at this crisis, it seemed But I suppose, said Mab, somewhat to Cicely that Mab had the best of it, wistfully, for she distrusted her sisters with her work, which was a deli6ht to her, words, which she did not understand, and and which occupied both her mind and was afraid people might think Cicely her fingers; care seemed to fly the mo- Broad-Church, I suppose whatever may ment she got that charcoal in her hand. happen in the mean time, it all comes right There was no grudge in this sense of dis in the end? advantage. Nature had done it, against Papa is not so very far from th~ end, which there was no appeal. I dont and it has not come right for him. think, however, that care would have 0 Cicely, how can you talk so! Papa weighed heavily on Mab, even if she had is not so old. He will live years and not been an artist. She would have hung years yet! cried Mab, her eyes filling, upon Cicely all the same if her occupa- I hope so. Oh, I hope so! I did tion had been but needlework, and looked not think of merely living. But he can- for everything from her hands. not get anything very great now, can he, But it was not until Annie was released to make up for so long waitino? So long and could throw off the ragged frock in longer, said Cicely, with a little awe, which she had been made picturesque, and thinking of that enormous lapse of time, return to her charge, that Cicely could be- than we have been alive! gin the more important business that wait- If he gets the living, he will not want ed for her. She took this qujte quietly, not anything more, said Mab, blithely work- thinking it necessary to be on the look-out ing away with her charcoal. How de- for a grievance, and took her work into the lightful it will be! More than double nursery, where the two babies were play- what we have now? Fancy! After all, ing in a solemn sort of way. They had you will be able to furnish as you said. their playthings laid out upon the floor, But not in amber satin, said Cicely, and had some mild little squabbles over beguiled into a smile. them. Zats Harrys! she heard again In soft, soft Venetian stuff, half-green, and again, min~led with faint sounds of half-blue, half no colour at all. Ab! resistance. The children were very mvs- she has moved! Cicely, Cicely, go and terious to Cicely. She was half afraid of talk to her, for heavens sake, or my them as mystic incomprehensible creat- picture will be spoilt! ures, to whom everybody in heaven and THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 109 earth did injustice. After a while she put down her work and watched them play. They had a large box of bricks be- fore them, playthings which Cicely her- self well remembered, and the play seemed to consist in one little brother diving into the long box in search of one individual brick, which, when he produced it, the other snatched at, saying, Zats Harrys. Charky, who ~vanted both his hands to swim with on the edge of the box, did not have his thumb in his mouth this time; but he was silenced by the un- varying claim. They did not laugh, nor did they cry, as other children do; but sat over the bricks, in a dumb con~ict, of which it was impossible to tell whether it was strife or play. Are they all Harrys? asked Cicely, suddenly moved to interfere. The sound of the voice startled the little creatures on the floor. They turned right round, and contemplated her from the carpet with round and wondering eyes. Zats Harrys, said the small boy over again with the iteration common to children. Charley was not prepared with any reply. He put his thumb into his mouth in default of any more extended explanation. Cicely repeated her ques- tion I fear raising her voice, for patience was not Cicelys forte; whereupon Harrys eyes, who was the boldest, got bigger and bigger, and redder and redder, with fright, and Charley began to whimper. This irritated the sister much. You little silly things! she said. I am not scold- ing you. What are you crying for? Come here, I-larry, and tell me why you take all the bricks? They are Charleys too. Children are the angels of life; but they are sometimes little demons for all that. To see these two p le little creat- ures sitting half dead with fright, gazing at her sunny young countenance as if she were an ogre, exasperated Cicely. She jumped up, half-laughing, half-furious, and at that moment the babies set up a unani- mous howl of terror. This fairly daunted her, courageous as she was. She xvent back to her seat again, having half a mind to cry too. I am not going to touch you, said Cicely, piteously. Why are you frightened at me? If you will come here I will tell you a story. She was too young to have the maternal instinct so warmly developed as to make her all at once, without rhyme or reason, fond of her little half-brothers; but she was anx- ious to do her duty, and deeply wounded that they did not take to her. Chil- dren, she said to herself with an internal whisper of self-pity, had always taken to her before; and she was not aware of that instinctive resistance, half defiance, half fright, which seems to repel the child- dependant from those whose duty it is to take care of it most unreasonable, often most cruel, but yet apparently most uni- versal of sentiments. Is it that the very idea of a benefactor, even before the mind is capable of comprehending what it is, sets nature on edge? This was rather a hard lesson for the girl, especially as, while they were still howling, little Annie burst in indignant, and threw herself down beside the children, who clung to her, sob- bing, one on each side. You have made em cry, miss, cried Annie, and missuss orders was as they was never to be allowed to cry. It is very dangerous for boys; it busts their little insides. Did she frighten em, then? the naughty lady. Never mind, never mind, my precious! Annies here.~~ To see this child spread out upon the floor with these chicks under her wings would have been amusing to a cool spec- tator. But Cicely did not take it in that light. She ~vaited till the children were pacified, and had returned to their play, and then she took the little nurse-maid by the arm, and led her to the door. You are not to enter this room again or come near the children, she said, in a still voice which made Annie tremble. If you make a noise I will beat you. Go down-stairs to your sister, and I will see you afterwards. Not a word! I have nothing more to say to you here. Cicely went back again to her seat trembling with the excitement of the mo- ment, and then said to herself, what a fool she was! but, oh! what a much greater fool Miss Brown had been to leave this legacy of trouble to two girls ~vho had never done any harm to her. Though, I suppose, Cicely added to herself with a sense of justice, she was not thinking about us. And indeed it was not likely that poor Mrs. St. John had brou6ht these babies into the ~vorld solely to bother her husban& s daughters. Poor Cicely, who had a thousand other things to do, and who already felt that it was impolitic, though necessary, to dismiss Annie, pon- dered long, gazing at those pale-faced and terrible infants, how she was to win them over, which looked as hard a~s any of her other painful pieces of business. At last some kind fairy put it into her head to sing: at which the two turned round once more upon their bases solemnly, and stared at her, intermitting their play till THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 110 the song was finished. Then an incident occurred almost unparalleled in the nursery chronicles of Brentburn. Charley took his thumb out of his mouth, and looking up at her with his pale eyes, said of his own accord, Adam. Come here then, and sit on my lap, said Cicely, holding out her hand. There was a momentary struggle between terror and gathering confidence, and then, push- ing himself up by the big box of bricks Charley approached gradually, keeping a wary eye upon her movements. Once on her lap, however, the little adventurer felt himself comfortable. She was soft and pleasant, and had a bigger shoulder to support him and a longer arm to enfold him than Annie. He leant back against her, feeling the charm of that softness and sweetness, though he did not know how. Adam, said Charley; and put his thumb in his mouth with all the feelings of a con- noisseur in a state of perfect bodily ease prepared. to enjoy the morcean specially given at his desire. Thus Cicely conquered the babies once for all. Harry, too much astounded by thus seeing h?is lead taken from him to make any remonstrance, followed his brother in dumb surprise, and stood against her, leaning o~ her knee. They made the prettiest group; for, as Mab said, even when they are ugly, how pretty children are! and they compose so beautifully with a pretty young woman, making even a commonplace mother into a Madonna and Lady of Blessing. Cicely sang them a song, so very low down in the scale at once both of music and of poetry that I dare not shock the refined reader by naming it, especially after that well-worn comparison; and this time both Harry and Charley joined in the encore, the latter, too happy to think of withdraw- ing that cherished thumb from his mouth, murmuring thickly, Adam. But, oh, what a waste of time what a waste of time it will be I cried poor Cicely, when she took refuge in the gar- den, putting the delicate children to play upon agreat rug, stretched on the grass. To be sure there will be one mouth less to feed, which is always something. You must help me a little while I write my letters, Mab. Who are you going to write to? said Mab, with colloquial incorrectness which would have shocked out of their senses the Miss Blandys, and all the excellent persons concerned in bringing her up. Oh yes, I will try to help; but wont you forgive Annie, just for this little time, and let her stay? I cant be defied in my own house, said Cicely, erecting her head with an air which frightened Mab herself; and I must take to it sooner or later. Wher- ever we go, it is I that must look after them. Well! it will be a trouble at first; but I shall like it when I get fond of them. Mab, we ought to be fond of them now. Mab looked at the children, and then laughed. I dont hate them, she said; they are such funny little things, as if they had been born about a hundred years before their time. I believe, really, they ~re not children at all, but old,. old men, that know a great deal more than we do. I am sure that Charley could say something very wonderful if he liked. He has a great deal in him, if he would but take his thumb out of his mouth. Charley is my boy, said Cicely, brightening up; he is the one I like best. I like him best, too. He is the funni- est. Are you going to write there? I must keep my eye upon them, said Cicely, with great solemnity. She was pleased with, her victory, and felt it to be of the most prodigious importance that she should not lose the influence she had gained; for she was silly, as became her age, as well as wise. She had brought out her little desk a very commonplace little article, indeed, of rosewood, with brass bindincrs and seated herself under the old mulberry-tree, with the wind ruf- fling her papers, and catching in the short curling locks about her forehead. (N.B. Dont suppose, dear reader, that she had cut them short; those stray curls were carefully smoothed away under the longer braids when she brushed her hair; but the breeze caught them in a way which vexed Cicely as being untidy.) It was as pretty a garden scene as you could see; the old mulberry bending down its heavy branches, the babies on the rug at the girls feet; but yet, when you look over Cicelys shoulder, a shadow falls upon the pretty scene. She had two letters to write, and something still less agreeable than her letters an advertisement for the Guardian. This was very difficult; and brought many a sigh from her young breast. An elderly clergyman, who has filled the office of curate for a very long time in one parish, finding it now necessary to make a change, desires to find a sim- ilar THE CURATE IN CHARGE. III Do you think that will do? said Mr. Mildmay. He meant it; yes, tears Mab. It is as if poor papa were a but- came into his eyes, cried Cicely, with a ler, or something filled the office of look of gratitude and pleasure in her own. curate for a long time in one parish it But when he goes back among those does not sound nice. Oxford men, those dons, do you think We must not be bound by what they will pay any attention to him? They sounds nice, said Cicely. It is not will laugh at him; they will say he is a nice, in fact is it? How hard it is to Quixote; they will turn it all into fun, or put even such a little thing as this as one think it his folly. ought! Will this do better? A clergy- Why shoi~ild Oxford dons be so much man, who has long occupied the position worse than other men? said Mab, sur- of curate in charge, in a small parish, prised. Papa is an Oxford man he wishes to hear of a similar What, is not hard-hearted. Dons, I suppose, Mab? I cannot say situation, can I? that are just like other people? is like a butler again. Oh, dear, dear; it No, said Cicely, who was arguing is so very much like a butler altogether. against herself, struggling against the tide Tell me a word. of fictitious hope, which sometimes threat- Position, said Mab. ened to carry her away. They live by But I have just said position. A themselves among their books; they have clergyman who has long held the an nobody belonging to them; their hearts aj5~oin/rnent as curate in charge there, dry up, and they dont care for common. that is better wishes to hear of a simi- troubles. Oh, I know it: they are often lar position in a small parish. I think more heathens than Christians. I have that will do. no faith in those sort of people. He will Isnt there a Latin word? Locum have a struggle with them, and then he something or other; would not that be will find it to be of no use. I am as sure more dignified? said Mab. as if it had happened already, cried Cic- Locurn tenens. I prefer English, ely, her bright eyes sparkling indignant said Cicely; and now I suppose we behind her tears. must say something about his opinions. At least we need not think them so Poor dear papa! I am sure I do not bad till we know, said Mab, more chari- know whether he is High, or Low or ta Broad. , bly. Cicely had excited herself by this im Not Broad, said Mab, pointedly; for passioned statement, in which indeed the she was very orthodox. Say sound; I Oxford men were innocent sufferers have often seen that, and it does not com- enough, seeing that she knew nothing mit you to anything, sound, but not ex- about them. I must not let myself be- treme, like Miss Blandys clergyman. lieve it; I dare not let myself believe it, Of sound, but not extreme princi- she said in her heart; but, oh! if by ples, wrote Cicely. That sounds a chance things did happen so What little strange, for you might say that a abundant compensation, what lavish apol- man who could not tell a lie, but yet did ogy, did this im.petuous young woman feel not mind a fib, was sound, but not ex- herself ready to offer to those maligned treme. Church principles is that dons! better? I3~ut I dont like that either. The advertisement was at last fairly Stop, I have it He is a sound, but not written out, with the exception of the ad- extreme Churchman that is the very dress to be given. Papa may surely tell thing and has much experience~ (Ah, me where they are to apply, Cicely said, poor papa!) in managing a parish. Ap- though with doubts in her mind as to ply but that is another question. whether he was good even for this; and Where ou6ht they to apply? We cannot then she wrote her letters, one of which give; I suppose, the full name and address was in Mr. St. Johns name to the lawyer here? who had written to him about the furni I wonder if any one will apply? But, ture, asking that the sale might not take Cicely, suppose all comes right, as I am place until the curates half year, which sure it will, you may be deceiving some ended in the end of September, should be one, making them think, Here is the out. Mr. St. John would not do this him- very person I want; and then how dis- self. Why should I ask any favour of appointed they will be !. those people who do not know me? he Oh, if there is only tAeir disappoint- said; but he had at length consented that ment to think of! Mab, you must not Cicely might write if she liked; and in think there is any reliance to be put on any case the lawyers letter had to be 112 answered~ Cicely made this appeal as business-like as possible. I wonder how a man would write who did not mind much to whom this was only a little convenience, she said to her sister. I dont want to go and ask as if one was asking a favour of a friend as if we cared. But we do care; and it would be a favour Never mind. I wish we knew what a man would say that was quite independent and did not care. If it is the same to you, it would be more convenient for me not to have the furniture disturbed till the 22nd of September that is the kind of thing. We girls always make too much of a favour of everythino~ said Cicely, writing; and she produced an admirable imitation of a business letter, to which she appended her own signature, Cecil St. John, which was also her fathers, with great boldness. The curates handwrit- ing was almost more womanlike than hers, for Cicelys generation are not taught to write Italian hands, and I do not think the lawyer suspected the sex of the production. When she had finished this, she wrote upon another sheet of paper, My dear aunt, I am and then she stopped sharply. It is cool now, let us take them out for a walk on the common, she said, shutting up her desk. I can finish this to-night. It was not, however, the walk on the common Cicely wanted, but to hide from her sister that the letter to Aunt Jane was much less easy than even those other do- lorous pieces of business. Poor Cicely looked upon the life before her with a shudder. To live alone in some new place, where nobody knew her, as nurse- maid to these babies, and attendant upon her father, without her sweet companion, the little sister, who, though so near in age, had always been the protected one, the reliant dependent nature, believing in Cicely, and giving her infinite support by that belief! How could she do it? Yet she herself, who felt it most, must insist upon it; must be the one to arrange and settle it all, as so often happens. It would not be half so painful to Mab as to Cicely; yet Mab would be passive in it, and Cicely active; and she could not write under Mabs smiling eyes, betraying the sacrifice it cost her. Mab laughed at her sisters impetuosity, and concluded that it was exactly like Cicely to tire of her work all in a moment, and dash into something else. And, accordingly, the childrens out-door apparel was got from the nursery, and the girls put on their hats, and strayed out by the garden- door upon the common, with its heathery knolls and furze-bushes. Harry and Charley had never in all their small lives had such a walk as this. The girls mounted them upon their shoulders, and ran races with them, Charley against Harry, till first one twin, and then the other, was beguiled into shrill little gusts of laughter: after which they were silent themselves frightened by the unusual sound. But when the races ended, Char- ley, certainly the hero of the day, opened his mouth and spoke, and said Adam ! and this time when they laughed the ba- bies were not frighter~ed. Then they were set down and rolled upon the soft grass, and throned in mossy seats among the purple fragrant heather. What an even- ing it was! The sky all ablaze with the sunset, with clouds of rosy flame hanging like canopies over the faint delicious openings of that celestial green which belongs to a summer evening. The cu- rate, coming from a distant round into the parish, which had occupied him all the day, found them on the grass under the big beech-tree, watching the glow of col- our in the west. He had never seen his girls taking to his babies before so kindly, and the old man was glad. But it is quite late enough to have them out; they have been used to such early hours, he said. And Harry wants his tea, piped that small hero with a half-whimper. Then the girls jumped up, and looked at each other, and Cicely grew crimson. Here was a beginning to make, an advan- tage terrible to think of, to be given to the dethroned Annie, who no doubt was en- joying it keenly. Cicely had already for- gotten the childrens tea! From Blackwoods Magazine. IN A STUDIO. BY W. w. STORY. MaZieft. Come in. Bet/on. Eccomi quci / Here I am again! as the clown says when he leaps into the arena. Ma/left. And all smile and cry bravo, and are delighted to see him, being sure that something pleasant is coming. Be/ton. Servo umi/issimo di vostra szgnoria! Mifa tro~ftj5o onore. A/a/left. Yes; it is a satisfaction to have some one to talk with who can sympathize IN A STUDIO. 0 IN A STUDIO. with what one is interested in. For the most part talk is so bald and shallow that it seems like a feeble stream running over pebbles, making a constant noise and bab- ble, as it were, out of fear of silence. With ordinary persons one runs into two dangers first, of not being understood, and second, of being misunderstood; and the latter is the worse predicament. Be/ton. For the most part people do not think at all. They have little phrases and formulas which stand in their minds for thoughts and opinions, and they repeat them parrot-like. Most of their notions and ideas and prejudices are mere extra- neous accretions, barnacled on to them by men and books in their passage through life, as shells are on a vessel, but not grow- ing out of them, or really bel6nging to them. Ma//ett. Or, if you will allow me anoth- er simile, they are facts and opinions which they have swallowed but not digest- ed. All real knowledge and thought must be transmuted and assimilated into our nature, absorbed into our being, as our food is changed into our blood, and then only is it ours, or rather is it us. Nothing is more striking among men than their utter absence of thinking outside the groove of their practical occupations and interests; and this is specially manifest in matters of faith, religion, and art. Many of those who think they are thinking, are merely rePeating dead formulas and phrases which they have accepted without investigation of their real meaning. In- deed I am persuaded that phrases and formulas rule the world more than ideas. They are easy to say, they have a gloss of truth, and they save the trouble of think- ing. By dint of constant repetition they get to be accepted for a time as axioms, and in religion words become a fetish in- dependent of their significance. And, apropos of this, I remember a story of Chief-Justice Marshall and Mr. Calhoun. Mr. Calhoun was a man of a vague meta- physical tendency of mind, who was al- ways philosophizing about the principles of government and politics, and endeav- ouring to reduce them to formulas. One day while calling upon Chief-Justice Mar- shall, he began to broach some of his the- ories, to which the chief-justice listened in silence. At last Mr. Calhoun said, I have been deeply reflecting of late upon the principles of government, and I have come to the conclusion that they are founded solely on organization and distri- bution. Undoubtedly, said the chief- justice; but what organization, what dis LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 632 3 tribution, Mr. Calhoun? Ah, said Mr. Calhoun, that I have not yet determined. Is it not amazing that a man with such ability should allow himself to be fooled by the mere phrase organization and dis- tribution? Be/ton. I am not surprised. The for- mula or phrase enunciated in a speech at Newcastle by Earl Russell on the great civil war in America, that the two par- ties are contending on the one side for empire, the other for power, is of the same kind and it went from mouth to mouth over all England, and was repeated everywhere as an admirable summary of the whole question. But does it mean anything? Which party was contending for empire and which for power? What is empire as distinguished from power? The formula is concise but does it mean anything? Ma//ett. I never could see that it did, but it had a great success in England. It was a formula that saved the trouble of thinking; a sort of Liebigs extract put up in a portable can and capable of dilu- tion into infinite twaddle. Be/ton. In the same way intelligent per- sons will quote with pleasure images and phrases in the form of verse, which made in simple prose would only provoke their laughter. Ordinarily there seems to be little or no common sense exercised in re- gard to poetry. There is, I suppose, something in the rhythmical measure of verse which carries the mind away from considering its exact meaning. Certainly the popularity of a quotation has little re- lation to either its sense or its poetic merit. Indeed it has always been a mystery to me why certain quotations are popular. As far as simplicity in writing is con- cerned, we are better in all respects than we were in the early part of the century. We seek at least to be more natural in our expressions, and have rejected in great measure that strained and artificial dic- tion which charmed our grandfathers. We no longer pour the lay or strike the lyre when we write a poem. Faults enough we have, but at least we strive to write intelligibly. Ma/left. I am not so sure of that. We have not the same kind of unnatural jar- gon, but we have not entirely rid ourselves of all jargon; and a new reaction is now beginning against the previous reaction of simplicity. I cannot but feel that among some of the latest writers of the present day there is a tendency to over-refinement and over-elaboration both of phraseology and of thought. Words are strained into IN A STUDIO. 4 new senses, and ideas rarefied into meta- physical and sentimental va,,ueness. Be//on. One is certainly disposed some- times to ask with Antonio, Is that any- thing now? Al lie/I. Ay, and to answer with Bas- sanio, Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothino~. His reasons are as two grains of wheat tied in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you shall find them, and when you have found them they are not worth the search. Be/ton. We do not exercise the same kind of judgment in poetry as in prose. The commonest and tritest moral axiom acquires with most persons a special value if it be put into a rhythmical form. Ma//e//. I was very much struck with this in reading one of Carlyles essays the other day. After quoting the following lines of Goethe Die Tugend ist das hochste Gut, D~s Laster \Veh deni Menschen thut he adds, In which emphatic couplet does there not, as the critics say in other cases, lie the essence of whole volumes such as we have read? Now I ask you, is there anything in this bald couplet, which, lit- erally translated, is Virtue is the highest good Vice does injury to man, that. entitles it to such praise from such a man? Be//on. It seems to me utterly flat. Ma//e//. Is it any better than Honesty is the best policy Hope is the anchor of the soul All is not gold that glitters, in which lies the essence of whole vol- umes? But put some of these prov- erbs into verse and see what a different effect they have. For example Virtue is the highest blessing; All that glitters is not gold Evermore be onward pressing; Oh be boldbut not too bold. Not unto the swift the race is, Nor the battle to the strong; Dear to man are commonplaces; Life is short and art is long. Up then when the mornings pearly, Water every feeble germ; Tis the bird that rises early That alone secures the worm. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Be//on. Go on go on. Mci//elI. No, that is quite enough one might go on forever as Tenny- sons Brook says, only Spake full well in ages olden One of the Teutonic race, Speech is silvern, silence golden Everything should have its place.. Least said is the soonest mended; We must give as we would take; And the bow too rudely bended, In the end is sure to break. Be//on. Such noble sentiments in such noble verse ought to be popular. Ma//cIt. I anticipate immortality from them. Are they not moral, are they not wise are they not intelligible to the meanest intellect are they not apples of gold in plates of silver? Ever place lifes golden apples Upon Fortunes silver plate Victory crowns the soul that grapples Sternly in the toils of fate. Be//on. I dont see how the last two lines are a sequitur to the first two. Ma//e//. Oh! if you demand meaning, .1 give it up. The poet is not to be judged by such low rules. He is above meaning. I will rhyme no more for you. So long as you praised me it was all very well, but no true poet is ready to accept blame or crit- icism. You ask for meaning; I do not see the absolute necessity of having any meanino For instance, are you not al- ways a~fected by the allusion to little birds going to their nests at night? Does not many a poet, and prose-writer too, for the matter of that, speak with perfect se- riousness of this, as if it were a fact. Whenever night comes on and twilight draws her gradual dusky veil over the world, are you not pretty sure that- the little birds will be going to their nests, in half the poems descriptive of twilight? Every one who thinks for a moment, knows, of course, that birds do not live in nests, save female birds while they are hatching their young, and then that they do not go there solely at night, but remain there all day. Yet by poetic license they always have a nest for their home at night. The truth is that people do not think Thinking is nothing but a waste of thought, as one of the Smiths writes in Rejected Addresses. Be//on. And Nought is everything, and everything is nou6ht. Do not leave out the following line which so grandly completes the couplet. Do you remem- ber those famous lines in Drydens In- dian Emperor that all the world used to admire and quote as exquisite? What you were saying about the birds reminded me of them. Listen, and say if anything could be more senseless and incorrect. Cortez appears alone in a night-gown and thus describes night: All things are hushed as natures self lay dead, The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head, IN A STUDIO. 5 The little birds in dreams their songs repeat, Be/ton. And this was in the dedicatory And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew epistle to The Spanish Friar, which is sweat, one of the most bombastic plays Dryden Even lust and envy sleep; yet love denies ever wrote. I-lad he been describing Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes. some of his own work, be could not have Can anything be mere faAse and unnatural done it better. But this sbows how blind than this? we are to our own faults, and how lynx- Ma//ett: It is not much worse than eyed to the faults of others. Popes translation of the night-scene in Ma//ett. When Dryden wrote prose he the Trojan camp, in which he has turned was strong, nervous, and pointed. So, the simple Homeric description into ab- too, when he wrote satire in verse he surdity, distorting every image, and set- spoke directly and to the purpose. But tino it to an artificial see-saw of verse, when he tried the higher phases of poetry, Yet these lines are even now quoted with and attempted the ideal or the dramatic, approbation as a description of nature, he constantly fell into bombast and non- Be/ton. No one can deny that these sense; not always, indeed, for there are were remarkable men. How was it that scenes in his dramas which are striking they could so stultify their minds and as, for instance, that between Aufidius their senses? and Antony, in which he strove to imitate Afa//eft. Because they aimed not at Shakespeares scene between Brutus and truth or nature, but at a sort of vague Cassius; and the play in which this occurs will-o-wisp called poetry, which demand- Dryden tells us, in his essay on poetry ed to he clothed in fantastic and far- and pa~nting, is the only one he ever wrote fetched imagery; and they thought to ob- for himself. tam this by adopting an artificial diction Be/ton. It is certainly a striking scene removed from common usa6e. They but how inferior to Shakespeares! could speak with great directness and vig- Ma//eft. Yet nobody has spoken in a Our when they chose, and their satire bites more noble m nner of Shakespeare: If with sharp enough teeth. Look at Popes Shakespeare were stripped of all the bom- attack on Addison, when he was thoE- basts in his passions (he says in the oughly and bitterly in earnest. There is preface to Troilus and Cressida ), and no lack of savao-e directness there, in lan- dressed in the most vulgar words, we guage or Images. Or read, for instance, should find the beauties of his thoughts Drydens noble essay on dramatic poetry, remain. If his embroideries were burnt and especially those passages in which he down there would be still silver at the bot- speaks of Shakespeare. There is no tom of the melting-pot; but I fear (at least more vigorous piece of English in our lan- let me fear it for myself) that they who guage. Yet Dryden, bombastic and un- ape his sounding words have nothing of natural as he himself could be at times, his thought, but are all outside. There is can vituperate soundly the bombast and not so much as a dwarf within one giants swelling hyperbole of others. In the clothes. dedicatory epistle to The Spanish Friar, Be/ton. Yet, if I remember right, he has he thus condemns the Bussy dAmbois in his adaptation of Troilus and Cres- of Chapman : sida cut out all that magnificent dia- I have sometimes wondered in the logue between Ulysses and Achilles, and reading what was become of these glar- has besides so hacked and spoiled the- ing colours which amazed me in Bussy play that it is scarcely recognizable; as dAmbois upon the theatre, but when I for his substitutions and insertions, noth- had tal~en up what I supposed a fallen ing could be worse. But in his adaptation star, I found I had been cozened with a of The Temp-ast he has shown even jelly; nothing but a cold dull mass, which less judgment and poetic sensibility. It glittered no longer than it was shooting; requires all ones patience to read it. a dwarfish thought dressed up in gi~antic Afa//eft. You must not lay all that to words, repetition in abundance, looseness Drydens door. The adaptation of The of expression and gross hyperboles; the Tempest~ was chiefly Davenants work. sense of one line expanded prodigiously Be/ton. Ay, but Dryden abetted him; into ten; and to sum up all, uncorrect and I am not sure if all the embroideries English, and ~a hideous mingle of false of both were burnt down there would be poetry and true nonsense; or, at best, a silver at the bottom of the melting-pot. 5cantling of wit, which lay gasping for Ala//ett. You must judge Dryden by life, and groaning beneath a heap of rub- the taste of his age, as you jud~e every bish. second-rate man. It is only first-rate ii6 IN A STUDIO. men that lead their age. But listen to what he says of Shakespeare: He was the man who of all modern and perhaps an- cient poets had the largest and most com- prehensive soul. All the images of na- ture were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously but luckily: when he describes anything you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning give hint the greatest commendation: he was naturally learned: he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature: he looked inwards and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike: were he so, I should do him injustice to com- pare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flatly insipid: his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is pre- sented to him. No man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit and did not raise himself as high above the rest of poets, Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. That is what I call good strong English. BeZton. It is indeed. Mallett. Listen again to what he says of Ben Jonson: He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them. There is scarce a poet or historian among the Ro- man authors of those times whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Cati- line. But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. But he could rail as well as he could praise. Witness his attack on Littles play, The Empress of Morocco, which is as bitter and biting as satire can be. He takes the poor author up as a mastiff would a cur, and shakes the very life out of him. This upstart literary scribbler, he says, who lies more open to censure than any writer of the age, comes among the poets like one of the earth-born brethren, and his first business in the world is to attack and murder all his fel- lows. This, I confess, raised a little in- dignation in me, as much as I was capa- ble of for so contemptible a wretch, and made me think it somewhat necessary that he should be made an example to the discouragement of all such petulant ill writers and that he should be dragged out of the obscurity to which his own poetry would have forever condemned him. I knew, indeed, that to write against him was to do him too great an honour; but I considered Ben Jonson had done it be- fore to Dekker, etc.; and with this pro- logue to battle he begins, and tears his ad- versary to pieces. Belton. I like this less than the praise. Little would have perished without all this savagery; and, vigorous as it is, it would have been better unsaid. Alallelt. At all events, it is not weak, bombastic, or artificial, as much in his drama is. But poetry in his day was already in the decline, while prose was still in the strength of its manhood. After- wards poetry made an alliance with non- sense, exiling sense from its domains, and welcoming in its stead gilded furious fee- bleness and swelling distortion. England has many great examples of bombast and artificiality of diction, but I doubt if she can show a single author who in these qualities is superior to the American poet, (God save the mark!) Robert Treat Paine, who wrote at the beginning of this cen- tury. His bombast and artificiality sur- pass everything in literature. And yet he was famous in his day, and his contempo- raries placed him in the front rank as a poet. Listen to this passage in his poem on the Invention of Letters, where he is celebrating the virtues of Washing- ton : Could Faustus live, by gloomy grave resigned, With power extensive as sublime his mind, Thy glorious life a volume should compose As Alps immortal, spotless as its snows; The stars should be its types, its press the age, The earth its binding, and the sky its page. Belton. Magnificent! Absurdity, or, to use Drydens words, the rumbling of robustious nonsense, can truly go no fur- ther. AIaZlett. Listen, too, to what his biogra- pher calls the following nervous lines~ in his famous poem of The Ruling Pas- sion. Yet such there are, whose smooth perfidious smile Might cheat the tempting crocodile in guile. May screaming night-fiends, hot in recreant gore, Rive their strained fibres to their hearts rank core, Till startled conscience heap in wild dismay Convulsive curses on the source of day. Is not that a pretty periphrasis? J3elton. Amazing! nervous indeed! Ma//elf. I must give you one other touch of this stupendous poet. He was the author of the most famous political WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. 7 song of his time, entitled Adams and Lib- erty, which was sung everywhere in Amer- ica with the utmost enthusiasm to the air now known as The Star-Spangled Ban- ner, and thought to be a wonderful pro- duction of genius. Wonderful indeed it is, though not exactly in the same sense. But let me read you the account of one of the verses of this song as given by his biogra- pher. There was, he says, never a political song more sung in America than this; and one of more poetical merit was, perhaps, never written. An anecdote de- serves notice respecting one of the best stanzas in it. Mr. Paine had written all he intended, and, being in the house of Major Russell, the editor of the Senti- nel, showed him the verses. It was high- ly approved, but pronounced imperfect, as Washington was omitted. The sideboard was replenished, and Paine was about to help himself, when Major Russell famil- iarly interfered, and insisted in his humor- ous manner that he should not slake his thirst till he had written an additional stanza in which Washington should be in- troduced. Paine marched back and forth for a few minutes, and suddenly starting, called for a pen. He immediately wrote the following sublime stanza, afterwards making one or two trivial verbal amend- ments: Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts neer could rend Freedoms temple asunder; For unmoved at its portal would Washington stand, And repulse with his breast the assaults of the thunder. His sword from the sleep Of his scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep. For aieer shall the sons, etc. Belton. Bravo, Paine! what an image! what a picture! He must have been a wonderful man! How is it that he is not known throughout the world? Mallett. The world knows nothing of its greatest men, and ungratefully has suffered him and his works to pass away into oblivion. Belton. It is certainly clear, when such verses are written and admired, that neither poet nor public can think it worth while to exercise their common sense, and that there is some charm quite beyond any intelligible meaning that they must have. But it comes back to what we were saying. For the most part people do not think at all. They like what they are taught to like; they believe what they are taught to believe. They learn certain phrases and formulas, and these stand in their minds for thoughts and opinion. But after all it serves the same purpose. Mallett. No, it does not; on some ques- tions, as those of religion, for instance, it is not permissible for men not to think, and deeply consider what they profess to believe. Belton. Too much thinking might lead to unbelief, since we cannot satisfactorily solve anything if we begin to inquire too curiously into it. It is better, therefore, to accept a ready-made creed, established and recognized by fifty generations of men for which heroes have died and martyrs have gone to the stake than to vamp up a new one out of our own individual ideas. At all events, it is easier to drop anchor in the Chdrchs port than to war with the winds and waves of controversy, and ex- pose ourselves to the dangers of heresy or atheism. Why should I set up my opinion against the mass of authority? I like the Roman Church because it takes all the trouble of thinking off my mind. It thinks for me, and tells me what to believe : I accept it, and am perfectly happy. From The contemporary Review. WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. IN bringing such a subject before the English public, one has the advantage of entering upon comparatively unbroken ground. The number of these supersti- tions is so great, that some, at least, will almost certainly be new to every reader of this review. Even to West-Indians them- selves, familiar with many of these ex- traordinary beliefs from their childhood, some mentioned in this article will be new, from the fact that they vary greatly in different islands of the Caribbean group, so greatly that sometimes the superstitions connected with the same thing are almost directly opposite in islands geographically very near each other. The character, too, of many of the superstitions is such that fhere is an in- terest attaching to them not dependent upon the way in which the subject may be treated. The study of them is, and has always been, to the writer a very fascinating one. It would naturally be so from his profes- sion. But it has other attractions besides its bearing upon professional duties. There is in these things a wide enough I i8 WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. field for guessing as to their origin and meaning. It is but guess-work, as of course we possess but few data to give us any clue to the meaning of many opinions that have always had a firm hold on the minds of the ignorant in these islands, or to the purpose of many practices that ob- tain among them, whether these be of directly African origin or otherwise. They are amusing enoubh from their very absurdity. But he who would root them out of negro minds will find he has a harder task than he bargained for. Many generations must pass; education must be much more widely diffused; and religion must become much more of a reality, before the hold of these notions can be even loosened, whether they be only West-Indian forms of European or American superstitions, or whether they be direct African importations. The writer has found great difficulty in inducing people who believed in these su- perstitions to tell them to him. They have a sort of feeling that these things are in themselves wrong, and therefore they shrink from telling them to the par- son. And they have an instinctive per- ception that you xviii laugh at them. Some superstitions, common in these parts, are not peculiarly West-Indian. They have been transplanted bodily, and the only thing to be remarked about them is that they find a con~enial soil in the Caribbean Archipela6o, and flourish as vigourously as in their native homes. Such, for example, is the belief about a parsons giving a vessel a bad passage a superstition that has evidently sprung from the bad results of Jonahs presence in a certain vessel. An old West-Indian skipper once told me that he had remarked that if you carried more than one parson at once you were all right. The old fel- low thought that one acted as an antidote to the other. The trouble is when you have only one, sir, he said to me; no matter how favourable the wind has been, it is sure either to go dead ahead or to fall off entirely. Such another superstition, prevalent in almost every Christian land, is that thir- teen is an uiilucky number at dinner unlucky, at least, for the one who leaves the table first. This belief is by no means confined to the lower orders. There is no wonder it should be so wide- spread and so deeply rooted when its origin is remembered. Most know that it sprang from the fatal result which at- tended Judas, the first who left the table at that most wonderful supper ever known on earth the supper at which the Great Master and his chosen apostles made the thirteen. As might be expected, the most abun- dant of all West-IncUan superstitions are those connected with dead bodies and funerals. When one of our people has a sore or bruise of any description, he will on no account have anything to do with a dead body. The sore is made incurable there- by, or almost so. This notion is very prevalent both in St. Croix and Grenada, two islands widely different in every re- spect, as unlike in their physical confor- mation, in the habits and manners of their people, indeed in their character alto- gether, as txvo West-Indian islands can be. But in neither of them will any per- son who has a sore, follow a funeral. Even if the sore be on the leg or foot, and thus be covered, it matters not. Go to that funeral you must not, if you wish the sore to get well. Even if the deceased be so near of kin to you that you must needs be one of the funeral procession, beware how you have anything to do with getting the body ready for the grave. You must not be about the corpse in any way. Instances of the firm grasp this notion has on the negro mind can be readily furnished by any clergyman in these islands. And it is far from being relaxed even in minds that have received some cultivation. I recollect a black man in the island of Grenada, who was very in- telligent, and had re~d a good deal, and was also a member of the Grenada House of Assembly, who assigned a bruise on his foot as the reason of his absence from a funeral where I had expected to see him. He alluded to it as a matter of course, and was apparently astonished at my being unable to feel that his excuse was a good one. This was a mcn, who, though entirely self-taught, could quote Shakespeare, of whom he was very fond, with great accuracy, and at much length. Doubtless, even on that occasion, he con- soled himself with his favourite author; and, although he did not say so, he thought that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy. In St. Croix, a very slight bruise indeed is sufficient to make it highly dangerous for you to have any dealings with a dead body. At one of the first funerals I at- tended here, I was putting on my gown and bands at the house where the corpse lay, and I happened, in fastening the WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. I 19 bands, to give my finger a prick with a pin, sufficient to draw a drop of blood. One of the people present earnestly en- treated me not to go into the room where the dead body lay in the yet uncovered coffin. You must not look upon the dead now, sir, said the woman a good woman too. Possibly this belief in the harmful pow- ers of dead bodies may be connected with the Jewish notion of the uncleanness that came from touching the dead. Not that there is any repugnance in these countries to touching, or being with a dead body as such. Our people are only too ready to crowd in to see a dead body, to sit up with it at night, to wash it, or aught else, provided only there be no sore in the case. Then they give the corpse a wide berth. Even sore eyes are made much worse by lookinb on the dead. But yet, strange to say, the superstition in Barbados is that, if any ruin be used in washing the corpse, the person who will use it afterwards for washing the eyes, may then and there dismiss all fear of bad eyes for the future. You are thus safe from cataract, or any other eye-ailment such is the magic power of this disgusting remedy. And, verily, any one who could be found willing to go through such an ordeal ought to have his reward in eyes made strong enough to last him his life- time. Some of the authorities in Barba- dos, however, hold that it is not necessary for the living to use the very rum which has been used for the dead, so the wash- ing of the sore or weak eyes be performed in the presence of the dead body. In another respect, too, the Barbadian superstition about contact with a dead body differs from the St. Croisian. The touch of a dead hand has a wonderfid ef- fect upon all swellings and chronic pains. I believe that, even in Barbados, there ought to be no abrasion of the skin; but of this I am not quite sure. Anyhow, as regards the pain or swelling, any old Bar- badian negro woman will tell you bow to cure it ay, even when the great doc- tors have given it up. You have only to get into the room at night with the corpse, take its hand, and pass it carefully over the swollen or painful place. You can then go away quite sure that the swelling will go down, or the pain diminish, con- temporaneously with the decay of that dead body in the grave. But now comes the important point. You must go into the room alone, and re- main in it alone all the time, or else there is no more virtue in your friends dead hand than there was in his living one. Yes, alone you must encounter him. And what, then, will you do with the dup- pies, as they call ghosts i Barbados, or jumbies, as they say in St. Croix? It is true you can take a light when you go in to do the rubbing, and we all know that jumbies, or duppies, or whatever they are, cant bear light, except it be pale, dim moonlight. That will be a little help. But still there is a risk. Woe betide him who dares in Barbados, pass a light, whether lamp or candle, across a dead persons face, or even hold it over it! Such an outrageously venturesome person would soon have the lamp of his own life extinguished as the price of his temerity I Alluding, as I did just now, to the prac- tice of washing the dead, reminds me of a custom prevailing in St. Croix among those who perform that unpleasant office, or who otherwise assist in preparing the body for the coffin. They are almost sure to take home with them, and keep in their own homes, something immediately con- nected with that body. It may be a lock of hair, or it may be some garment, or even a fragment of a garment. But be it what it may, something must be taken, if the spirit of the dead is to be prevented from molesting those d arin~ ones who ventured to tamper with the place of its late habitation. Of course it is difficult to give the ra- tionale of any particular superstition. This last may, however, be perhaps ex- plained. At first ~hought,~ it seems most natural to believe that the surest way to prevent any visit from a dead man is to. tkke nothing of his with you. But not so. A liberty has been taken with his body by one who is probably a total stranger, hired perhaps for the express purpose of pre- parin~ him for his coffin. Now, if you take something of his, something that is either a part of him, or has been on his person, you in a sense identify. yourself with him; you establish, as it were, a kind of relationship, and thus the liberty you take with him must seem much less to him. Kinglake relates, in E~then, a similar custom prevailing among the people of Constantinople. When an Osmanlee dies, one of his dresses is cut in pieces, and every one of his friends receives a small piece as a memorial of the deceased. If it be true that the infection of the plague is in clothes, then, as Kinglake observes, this is certainly a fatal present for it not only forces the living to remember the 120 WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. dead, but often to follow and bear him company. The disgusting and heathenish practice of having dancing during the night, while a corpse is in the house, prevails among the negroes in many West-Indian islands. Revolting superstitions are probably con- nected with this custom, which seems at once to transplant us to lands where the light of the gospel has not yet penetrated. All old negroes, when asked about it, say that this custom came from Africa. We pass now to superstitions connected with funerals, where also we have a wide field too wide, indeed, to be occupied within the limits of a single article. These are perhaps more plentiful in Grenada, St. Lucia, and Dominica, than in other West-Indian islands. In all the islands rain at a funeral, or on the day of a mans burial, is thought a good sign about him. The old supersti- tion, expressed in the saying, Blessed is the dead that the rain rains on, prevails here as in Europe. There is a curious practice, not uncom- mon among the very ignorant in Grenada. When a corpse is passing through the door on the way to interment, the bearers will let down the head of the coffin gently three times, tapping the threshold with it every time. I have been told that this was to let the dead bid farewell to his house in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. We say to let the dead bid farewell, for that the body is merely the tenement in ~vhich the man lived, the ma- chine through which he acted, is an idea which the negroes have in no wise realized yet. They are far, generally speaking, from believing that the living, sentient man is gone, and is living for the present in a separate existence. The body to them is still the man. Sometimes a gourd, or a small cup, will be thrown into the grave just before the coffin is lowered. It is brought from the house of the deceased, and contains earth, or perhaps, if the people are Roman Cath- olics, it has holy water, brought from church on Good Friday, and kept hitherto as a great charm. I have in Grenada, seen the bearers of a corpse running at a tolerably quick pace, and, on remonstrating about the improprie- ty, I was told that the bearers could not help it, as the dead was running. Both the bearers and my informant firmly believed this; and he was a shrewd black man, who could read and write, who was thriv- ing as a cocoa-planter on a small scale, and was even a communicant of my own church. He proceeded on that occasion, in proof of his statement, to relate to me many cases he had known of this wonder- ful desire on the part of a corpse to have a run, as also some in which the corpse had almost refused to go, from an objec-. tion to some one of the bearers. It had, of course, been always found that, on the substitution of some one else for the ob- noxious bearer, the dead ni-in had gone to his grave cheerfully enough. This is another proof how far from the negro mind, is any notion of the person, the individual I, being anything else than the body itself. It must be remarked, however, that corpses do not play these funny tricks in every island. I have never known then. in St. Croix for example, to have any de- cided propensity either to run or to stand still, so the bearers have an easier time of of it. In measuring a dead body for the -cof- fin, the thing generally used in Grenada is one of those reeds called wild canes~ These grow in swampy places, and are very common in Grenada. A clump of them looks from a distance exceedingly like sugar-canes. But whether it be the wild cane or any other stick, the measur- ing-rod is taken to the grave, and thrown in on the coffin as soon as this is lowered. It is worth while knowing, too, that to take the rod that has measured a dead body and measure yourself against it is certain death at no long interval. The custom common in St. Croix, and all but universal in Grenada and some other islands, for every person present at a funeral to cast in at least one handful of earth on the coffin, after the funeral service is over, has been variously ex- plained to me, as an asking for the dead person s prayers, as an act of praying for him, as a formal taking leave of him, or as a helping to do the last act for him viz., make his grave. I think the second is the prominent idea in most negro minds, for I have often heard a God bless you, or a God rest you, accom- panying the act. I have also myself heard, along with the throwing-in of the earth, the request made for the dead mans prayers. Among the more edu- cated of our lower orders, the last is per- haps the reasonthe taking a share in making up your friends last resting-place. Whether this throwing in earth is an imi- tation of any ceremony in use among the illustrious body of Freemasons, who cer WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. 121 tainly cast things into graves, the writer, in his utter ignorance of their tenets, can- not determine. Next in our course, we naturally enough come to the superstitions connected with illness. And it is wonderful to think of the risks we run through ignorance, or through our obstinate unbelief of the queer stories we hear. The only thing more wonderful is the beautiful simplicity of some remedies remedies not to be met with in any phar- macopceia, or any doctors book whatever. Only think that a few hard red seeds of one of the leguminous plants common here, worn round the neck, will prevent a rush of blood to the head, whatever that terrible expression means! Only think, too, that a little bit of scarlet cloth round the neck, no matter how narrow a strip it may be, will keep off the whoop- ing-cough. Perhaps the sanguineous col- our of the seeds is a sort of homceopathic remedy like curing like; but why the cloth cures the whooping-cough, and why it must be scarlet, who can say? Simplest of all cures, however, is a small bit of paper, carefully made in the form of a cross, then wet, and stuck on a babys forehead, to take away the hic- coughs. This is a true homceopathic rem- edy in another way. It cant hurt you, even if it do you no good. In the island of Nevis there is an un- failing cure for warts. They must be rubbed with a bit of stolen meat. The peculiarity about this remedy is that it does nQt matter what the meat is, whether pork or mutton, beef, veal, or venison, or anything else. It is true it must not be fowl or fish, but meat. But the virtue is in the theft. The meat must be stolen, or you may rub with it until you rub it all away, and no result will follow. All West-Indians are familiar with the virtue of the wedding-ring for rubbing a stye, as those disagreeable little boils on the eyelid are called. One can under- stand the use of the friction or of the heat that is produced thereby. But the thing is that the ring must be a wedding-ring. Not every plain gold rin.g will do. The reason probably is that a wedding-ring is something which, once given, can never be taken back. It is therefore regarded as a suitable antidote to these styes or cat-boils, as the Barbadian negro calls them, for, in my small-boy days, it was firmly believed by m~ old black nurse, and so taught to me, that if you gave any- thing away, and then took it back, you were sure of a cat-boil. In these cases, one can be ones own doctor, even though you have.a fool for your patient. But there are some horrible troubles, in which you need the aid of an adept. Such, for example, is the pres- ence in the body of bits of broken glass, old nails, and such like, which can be drawn out, rubbed out, squeezed out, or got out somehow through the sufferers skin by the man or woman supposed to possess some mysterious power. Hard as it may b~ of belief, it is nevertheless true, that not more than two years ago an instance occurred in the chief town of St. Croix, of two old negroes, natives of the island, one of whom was foolish enough to fetch in from the country an Antiguan nebro man, to rub nails out of his wifes leg. The Antiguan man was well paid for the job, and after a great deal of soaping, he got an immense number of nails through the old womans skin. They dropped from her leg freely through his hands into a basin, an indefinite number having been, of course, provided for the occasion by him. If he had not been in- terrupted by the entrance of an unbe- liever, in the person of the old womans son, who caused him to make a hasty exit through the window, there is no telling what he might have drawn out of her, as nothing was too hard for him to do, or for his victims to believe. In a multitude of instances the illness comes from the presence of some evil spirit. Rarely, if ever, do we find among negroes any such idea as that the spirits of the departed dead revisit earth with a good intent. Joined with the gross ma- terialism of these people there is yet a strong conviction of the agency of spirits, but almost always as doing actual hurt as being an influence decidedly hostile to living people. The jumbies in some islands notably St. Croix are evil- disposed. The only innocent propensity they have in that island is to wear juinby- beads. These are little red seeds, very bright, and with a black spot on every one. One would presume they are called jumby-beads because they are the par- ticular wanity that the jumbies indulge in by way of ornamentation. The same seeds are called crabs eyes in Barba- dos, from their resemblance to the eyes of a very active little red crab well known there. The Barbadian ghosts are not so elaborately got up, it seems, as their St. Croisian brethren. The power of seeing jumbies is hardly one to be coveted; but it is possessed, whether they like it or not, by those mdi 122 WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. viduals in these islands who are fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be born with that little membrane called a caul, which sometimes encompasses a child when born. This membrane is generally kept by the family with the utmost care as long as it will last. Such is the power of jumbies to hurt little children, that I have been told by a mother whose child was ill that it could not recover, as de spirits dem bin and walk over de child. But there is a won- derful charm in the mere outside of a Bi- ble or a prayer-book. Put one of these under the pillow on which the babys head lies, and you can keep off the most mis- chievous jumbv. This will do for the day- time; and at iiight a bright light must be kept in the room. Otherwise, the jum- bies will take advantage of the dark to do their evil deeds, to take their eccentric perambulations over the child,or to blow in its face. This last is quite a common jumby-trick. But they are poor, cowardly fellows, these West-Indian ghosts, after all. They will never come near a door that has the hag-bush huu~ up over the threshold. Or should any ghost, more courageous than the ordinary run, boldly pass under the magic bush, you can still laugh at his arts if you have much of it hanging about in the room. The hag-bush, with which I am familiar, is the lilac. I have had, before now, to refuse to baptize a sick child on an estate in St. Croix until all the branche~ of lilac hanging around the room were thrown out, as I naturally felt a re- pugnance to admit a child into the Chris- tian faith with emblems of heathenism hanging around it. I have never found out whether it is the scent or the sight of the lilac which is so disagreeable to jumbies, or whether the anti-jumby virtue is in something more in- tangible than sight or scent. Nor do I yet know if there is more than one hag- bush. Probably so, for the lilac is not abundant enough to furnish supply for the possible demand. Would that this were the worst use to which plants are put by some negroes in the West Indies! There is no doubt whatever that the medicinal properties of many common West- Indian herbs are known to them herbs of whose delete- rious or beneficial powers science as yet knows nothing. And it is sad to record my firm conviction that in many West-In- dian islands murders are still committed sometimes bythe administration of subtle and powerful vebetable poisoI~s, given in such a way as to preclude the possibility of detection. In Nevis, the poisoner is safe from be- mb haunted by the ghost of his victim if he will go to his brave, dig down to his body, and drive a stake throucrh it. An instance has been known in that island where the family of a man supposed to be poisoned have secretly watched his grave every night for ten nights, with the ex- pectation of detecting his supposed mur- derer when he came to stake him. No one coming, the idea of foul play con- nected with the death was given up. With certain plants and with certain animals there always goes bad luck. The St~p/zanotus, rich in leaves and flowers though it is7is an unlucky plant in some mysterious way. But, considering of how slow growth it is, you have, at least, a very long time during which the storm is brexvinb before it actually bursts upon you. There is another plant, however, that brings much more serious trouble upon any house near to which it grows. And this is of quick growth. It is the plant which a Barbadian may be pardoned for thinking the most beauteous of all flow- ers. I mean the Poinciana ~uickcrrima, or pride of Barbados, or flowering fence, as it is also called. In St. Croix, where it goes by the unpoetical name doodledoo, it is never used as a hedge. Exceeding beautiful as it is, it only springs up here and there, without culti- vation or care. People are unwilling to run the risk of the unknown troubles and all the more alarming because un- known which will follow the planting of it. That other splendid and most showy tree, the Poinciana regia the flamboy- ant or flame tree, sometimes called in St. Croix giant doodledoo, is not hurtful in itself, but it is remarkable as a tree under which jumbies like to sit. An old man, who transplanted a large one to my rectory, actually charbed more for his work on account of the danger that he said attended the meddling with such a jum- by-tree. As regards animals, guinea-pigs may be mentioned as specially unlucky, at least in St. Croix. There are families there, among those from whom one would not expect such things, whose children would on no account be allowed to keep these pretty little pets. What precisely is the harm they do is n6t stated. All you can get out of any one is, Oh, they always bring trouble to a house; theyre very un- lucky. And yet, if the writer of this was WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. 123 a dab at one thing more than another in his small-boy days which were spent in Barbados it was at keeping guinea- pigs. They were kept by him on a scale so large that he could set up some of his schoolfellows as guinea-pig-keepers. He even ran the risk of keeping them some- times in his desk at school, boring holes and 6utting slits in the lid, to give the lit- tle bright-eyed creatures air. And it was a great risk to run, for those were the good old licking times now, happily, almost over for schoolboys. The master of the school was one of those men who are now, it is to be hoped, nearly as ex- tinct as the dodo men who believed that you could teach a boy through his back, or through the palms of his hands, or the seat of his pantaloons. But yet the guinea-pigs never brought a thrashing upon their owner or his friends. Some of the boys at this very schQol were possessed of a sovereign plan for making you perfect in your lessons, which may have kept off the trouble the guinea- pigs would otherwise have brought on the school. Although not a negro supersti- tion, it may be mentioned here, being, as far as I know, only West-Indian. When you had learned any lesson thoroughly (and some fellows kept the talisman in their hands all the time of learning the lesson), rub the page up and down, or across, with a large seed, called a good- luck seed. Then return it to the pocket, where it ought to be kept. This done, you need not fear. Be the subject of study what it may, the power was as great in that seed to conquer every lesson, and just about as real, as in Holloways Pills to cure every ill that flesh is heir to. The only thing in which the good- luck seed could not help was in arithme- tic. There memory was of very little use, and so this wonderful substitute for, or rather whetstone to memory, was power- less. But alas! that venerable custom of the good-luck seed has entirely gone out of date. The present generation of Bar- badian boys, high and low, I fear know it not. It has gone out with the almost equally absurd practice of making chil- dren say lessons entirely by rote. In these days children are happily taught to use their brains more; and in every school worth the name, whether in or out of the West Indies, reasoning and com- J)arison, and other mental faculties higher than memory are cultivated more. Birds have apparently more ill-luck at- tending them than animals. For any bird whatever to fly into your house and over your head, is at least indicative of sonie ill tidings you are to hear before long. Birds have always had, ever since Solomons days, a propensity to carry news. He warns us not to curse the king or the rich, lest a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter. And most of us can remem- ber some little bird being jokingly given to us by our grandmothers or some old friend of our childhood as the author- ity for some piece of news. But the only news that birds in the West Indies carry is ill news, it would seem. It is reserved for the black bee, or carpenter bee, so-called because he bores holes in wood, to coma buzzin6 with any kind ~f news he can catch, good or bad. He is a true gossip. Only give him a piece of news, and away he flies, buzzin~ in the ear of this one and the other one, telling it to every one he meets, whether they wish to hear it or not. Your efforts to get rid of him are as vain as those of Horace, when victimized by his friends loquacity. Nil agis, usqzie l~- nebo, ~ersequar, is the spirit in which the fellow acts. The ne0 ro belief about him is that when he comes buzzing up to you, you are sure to hear some news before long. He can scarcely, however, be con- sidered abundant in any West-Indian is- land. There is, to say the truth, such a plentiful supply of human gossips, male and female, in these islands, that there is hardly room for an insect with that pro- pensity. But to return to our birds. The black and yellow creeper of St. Croix, Gerthi- ala flaveola, sometimes calh~d yellow- breast, is apt to betoken sickness or trouble if he frequent a house. But he only does this in St. Croix, not having a bad name in other places, except amon~ planters. He certainly has the reputation of stealing sugar, whence another name of his, the sugar-bird. Even this is, however, questionable. Perhaps he much rather goes after the flies that attack the sugar than after the sugar itself. The gentle little ground-dove, or turtle-dove, as they call him in !3arba- dos, Gharncrj5elia trochila, is, on the other hand, an innocent bird in St. Croix, whereas his going on the top of a house is a sure sign of death to one of the inmates in Barbados. The bird who is the gre at prophet of evils is the black witch, or old witch, Croto~h ga ani. And certainly- if it is allowable at all to believe evil of any bird, this must be the one. The singu. 124 WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. larly knowing look the creature has, with its hooked beak to give emphasis to the queer and malevolent expression of its eyes, the shabby-genteel appearance of its rusty black coat, the unearthly screech it utters, and its entire freedom from fear of man, allowing any one, as it does, to come very close to it all these things combine to make it a most disagree- able bird. The very name black witch tells a tale of the unsavoury reputation the bird has. Some among our lower orders not only give these birds credit for supernatural powers as witches, but consider them the spirits of the de- parted returned to earth in this form. I have myself been told that when they were screaming round a house, they were really the jumbies calling on sume one inside to come out and be one of themselves. There are people who will assure you that these old witches are so particular at times as to provide the usual number of bearers for the corpse. When a crowd of them is near a house, and some are apparently set apart from the rest, or are iiiore vehe- ment in their screaming, these are the ghostly bearers waiting to convey the spirit to its abode, just the same in nuin- her as those that shall take the body to its long home. This is the most distinct trace I have met with among negroes of the doctrine of metempsychosis. These black witches are abundant in many West-Indian islands: in others they do not exist. It is said in Grenada that they came there by being blown over in numbers from Trinidad or Tobago. If so, one can imagine what consternation there was among the superstitious, when one morning they awoke and found these new colonists and fellow-citizens. How they came to St. Croix is not sure. It is almost the only one of those West-Indian islands whose ornithology has been looked into, that has no bird peculiar to itself. All the virgin forests of the island were set on fire by some early French settlers, who adopted this plan to cure it of real or supposed unhealthiness. They took to their ships, and did not return till the fire had burnt itself out. All the fauna of the island probably perished, and of the few varieties of birds in it (and they are very few) the originals must have been import- ed. Have the St. Croisians then to thank some kind friend for the first wizard and witch? Or did the birds come over en rn~zsse, a whole flock of jurnbies? Everywhere in the West Indies a super- stition prevails among servants in refer- ence to spiders. Not that the insect is unlucky, but quite the contrary. The mis- chief is in killing him. The housemaid may sweep down any cobwebs, destroy ruthlessly any web, however old it be, but the spinner of the web she will allow to escape. Woe betide her if with broom or other instrument, and whether wittingly or unwittingly, she kill a spider! She is then certain to break some piece of crock- ery or glass in the house. The connection is undoubted. But what the connecting link is who can tell? The tradition is a very old one. A long procession of black ants in a room is a bad sibn, especially if among them there be those large ones with white wings, which are called parson ants, from the resemblance to a clergyman in his surplice. They always, of course, sig- nify a funeral from the house before long. West-Indian houses are subject to the attacks of two or three kinds of ants, in great numbers at times, but superstitious housewives, at least in St. Croix, have two very efficacious remedies for them. First, they try the simple plan of preparing some fowl soup, but not for the family. They must have none of it. It is to be given over entirely to the ants. It must be put on the top of a press, or in some other private place, so that there may be a grand ant-banquet, undisturbed by the fear or presence of man. Appeased by this par- ticular mark of respect, the ants will gen- erally emigrate in a body. But should this be impracticable, a plan may be adopted, involving more trouble, but less outlay. Let one ant be cau~,ht, some one whose daring or appearance betoken him a leader, let him be wrapped up carefully in a small piece of meat, and then take him with you, either on foot or in some vehicle, as far as possible from your house. Cast him out with his meat, make all speed home, and sleep peacefully with the assur- ance that the ants will have left you before next day. A.moAg insects, crickets too play an im- portant part for good or evil, according as they are sick or money crickets, the very names of which indicate the super- stitions respecting them. The latter makes a steady, hissing sound, loud enough to penetrate a large room in every part. It is held strongly by our negroes that the presence of this insect in a house is an indication of the approach of money. The melancholy, fitful chirping of the sick cricket, betokens, with equal certainty, the nearness of illness. But the causes of trouble are not in any wise confined, in the opinion of our credu WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS. 125 bus people, to plants, or insects, or ani- mals. Inanimate objects have as much, or still more, to do with trouble. And of them there are things which actually bring it, and those which only foretell it. It may be as well to give illustrations of both classes. The feeling is by no means uncommon that to talk much of the health of a fam- ily, is a way~to bring sickness on them. In the course of pastoral visitations, the clergyman will perhaps say, in a house where there is a large family, that he nev- er has occasion to go to that house for visitation of the sick, so healthy is the household. He will be respectfully, but very decidedly asked not to speak too much about it, as it has been noticed that if this be done, sickness comes upon the family soon after. And sure enough perhaps it does come, as it must needs come sometimes to every large family. And thus the superstition gets firmer hold. All the many instances in which no re- sult followed are forgotten, and this one case, in which the sickness did happen to follow soon after your congratulatory re- marks, is given as a proof how well- founded the belief is. On such coinci- dences rests the public faith in Zadkiels Astrological Almanack, a mass of ab- surdities. The old man who publishes it owes his present large income partly to the fact that his predictions are generally, like the Delphic oracles, couched in such ambiguous language, that they can be ful- filled in many ways. But still more is the rapid sale of the book due to the fact that the astrologer has been fortunate enough to make some successful guesses. Ahd who, that guesses upon so large a scale, and about so many things, but must be right sometimes? This objection to speak too much about health may be an exaggeration of a proper dislike to anything like boasting, the same feeling that led Joab, while praying that the Israelites might be an hundred- fold as many as they were, to recommend King David not to see how many they actually were, and thus indulge his own pride in them. There is another superstition, deeply rooted in St. Croix, that to add any build- ing to your house a wing, or any small- er shed is sure to be followed by the death of some member of the family. Is it possible that the origin of this, too, was the feeling that it was a vain show, this adding to houses, and therefore deserved punishment? Strange notion, surely, of the merciful Lord, who is not extreme to mark what we have done amiss, but knoweth our weakness, and pitieth as a father pitieth his children. To something of the same feeling may also be referred the dislike that exists in certain West-Indian islands to repairing an enclosure within which the remains of the family lie. If you do so, it is likely that soon it must be taken down again for the entrance of another member of the family. It is not improbable that the original feeling here was that one had no right to take it for granted that his family burying-place could not be wanted again directly. But if the last-mentioned superstitions are the development in a wrong direction of certain right feelings, the same cannot be said of the absurdities which I have now to mention. The mere turning upside down of the calabash that is used to bale the passage- boats in St. Vincent, is a fearful thing, be- tokening sure destruction to the boat, and imperilling the lives of the passengers. And in St Croix it is terrible only to open an umbrella over your head in a house, a sure way to bring trouble, either on yourself or on some one in that house. Any reason for this I must leave to some more fertile imagination than my own to suggest. Now, one can easily see why the pres- ent of a pair of scissors should be an un- ~suitable one, as dividing love. This belief is not at all purely West-Indian, but it is greatly prevalent in these islands. It is certainly held that the gift of a crooked pin, along with the knife or scissors, will do away with their ill effects. But au- thorities seem divided on this point, so it is better to be on the safe side. Circumstances over which you have no control there are which will cause your troubles to come, or, rather, which will show that they are coming, not single spies, but in battalions. Let a glass break in your house, as glasses sometimes will, without any reason that appears, and you are in trouble. The writer well re- members the consternation among the ser- vants in his fathers house at the sudden bursting of one of those large barrel- shades that have now almost gone out of use. Another pretty sure sign of coming grief is when a horse neighs at your door. This is as deeply-rooted a superstition in negro minds as any I have mentioned, notwithstanding the hundreds of instances in which the sign iriust prove false. But. yet a horse, accustomed to be driven 126 HINDOO PROVERBS. double, and neighing frequently when de- prived by any chance of its companion, can carry trouble up one street and down another, and can certainly fill many a heart with dismay. As might be expected, there are West- Indian superstitions enough connected with particular days, notably with Good Friday. It may be known in England that eg,, s laid on Good Friday will never spoil, but the virtue of Good Friday bit- ters is hardly known there. Any hitters made on that day have not only the ordi- nary properties of such a compound, hut are invaluable cures for disease. So firm is this belief, that there is among the ne- groes quite a general making of bitters on Good Friday, which are put up and spe- cially kept to be used in cases of dire ill- ness. Well would it be for the West In- dies, to say the truth, if the upper classes believed a little less in hitters as an article of diet, and confined themselVes more strictly to the merely medicinal use of them. It would extend this article far beyond its proposed limits if I were to enter at all upon the superstitions connected with dreams. Suffice it to say, that of them also we have our full share. We dream in these warm climes as often as, perhaps oftener than, those living in temperate latitudes. And there is the usual amount of nonsense believed about dreams, such as.that they go by contraries, and the like. Far be it, however, from the writer to say that warnings are never given in dreams. He would not so impugn the veracity of some unexceptionable witnesses. He would not so question the truth of that say- ing of Elihu in the Book of Books, that the Almighty openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their instruction sometimes in a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumber- ings upon the bed. In concluding this sketch of West- Indian superstitions, I cannot forbear mentioning one which I have met with among the negroes in St. Croix, and which is at least a beautiful one. It is the be- lief that the baptism of children ought always to be performed with rain-water. In going to a house for the private bap- tism of a sick child, and finding only well- water, I have been requested to wait un- til some rain-water could be got from a neighbouring house. The explanation was given me simply enough by a man: Tis de rain-water does come down from heaven. These people have a notion that the spring-water, being of the earth, earthy, is hardly the fitting vehicle for enrolling children as members of Christs Church, and subjects of the kingdom of heaven. One would like to deal tenderly with such a poetical superstition, and almost wish to retain it rather than other- xvise. But how shall the hold be shaken of such gross superstitions as form the sub- ject of this article? And all have not been mentioned. Would that they were only so many as could be embraced in the compass of ovie article! The story of them, though in every point of view inter- esting, though in some respects amusing, is a sad story after all. While such things are believed by any people, their notion of a personal loving Lord, without whom not a sparrow can fall to the ground, and by whom the very hairs of our head are all numbered, must be very imperfect. Practically, He is looked upon as too great a Being to concern Himself with the af- fairs of this world a notion held by some xvho pretend to be much wiser than poor West-Indian negroes, but a foolish and devilish notion surely or else too weak to be able to control all things. It is well to labour for the enli htenment of those who have such feelings about Him. It is well to use all our influence against every one of these absurd superstitions. It is well to use reasoning, and ridicule, and every available weapon against them, so that we may compel theni to abide in holes and corners for sheer shame, until we can drive them out altogether. But it is best ourselves to live such a life of daily, childlike dependence on our God and Saviour, the Almighty Lord, . to whom all things in heaven and earth do bow and obey, as shall lead others like- wise to feel that under His care they are safe, that nothing can really harm those that are His, but that all things are ever converging together for the good of them that love Him. CHARLES J. BRANCH. From The Globe. HINDOO PROVERBS. THERE is a strong local flavour about Hindoo proverbs, and they are full of allu- sions to musk-rats, crocodiles, monkeys and tigers, niango-trees, the jack-fruit, the banana, and the rice-plant. In reading a collection of them you can never forget the country that uses them. They con- tain constant allusions to caste and suttee, HINDOO PROVERBS. and the tyrannical power of cruel rajahs, and to the sayings of learned Brahmins. Hundreds of Hindoo proverbs turn on the words. and deeds of Vishnu and Krishna, or of the savage Siva. The servility and cunning of the people is visible in them as well as their superstitions, and the fre- quent allusions to sham devotees and hypocrites give one a clear impression that corruption has gained much ground even among the worshippers of Brah ma. We do not think that, takin~ an equal number of proverbs, there is half so much shrewd sense or original thought in Hin- doo as in Arabic or Persian proverbs. But the Hindoo adages are so essentially Indian that the idea they contain acquires an interest from the novelty with which it is treated. The power of money, for in- stance, is alluded to in the proverbs of every nation, but only a Bengalee would think of saying, One could buy oneself tigers eyes if one had only money; or when in a difficulty declaring it was as hard to do as to kill seven snakes with one stroke. Old servants and old rice are best, is a kind of Hindoo proverb re- minding us that fidelity is now unknown in the East. In many ,Indian proverbs we find that half-humorous observation of the habits of animals which we in; ht ex- pect in the authors of so many fable-books. They say of a hypocrite, The crane is a choice saint, referring to the sanctimoni- ous gravity with which that bird waits for its prey; and they compare a fussy man to the small saphari fish splashing in a basin of water. The sandal-tree does not grow in every wood, is a thoroughly Hindoo proverb, and so is You can never wash charcoal white. Some of these sayings require a knowledge of Hindoo customs before they can be understood, as Hes oiling his hands while the jack-fruit is still on the tree, a saying applied to people who count their chickens before they are hatched it being necessary to oil the hands before touching jack-fruit, which exudes a gluti- nous juice. The blind in Hindostan have the credit, especially when they turn beggars, of being rogues, and there is a proverb, The blind man is to the house what the rank weed is to water. Nor are all provcrbs that ap- ply to Brahmins equally complimentary, for there are some as bitter as the old medfreval jokes against greedy priests. A furious encounter the Bengal people call a serpent and ichneumon fight, from the inveterate hostility of these two ani- mals. 127 A terrible phase of Hindoo life is sug- gested by a curious Bengalee proverb that ~says a man in a tigers mouth is not so much afraid of the tigers teeth as of the jungle he is going to; meaning that even in the presence of great calamities, small future ones ~seem more terrible. An equally cruel enemy of the Hindoo is al- luded to in the following prudent proverb: What! dwell in the water and quarrel with the crocodile. Many of these proverbs turn on mytho- logical and traditionary illusions; for in- stance, a man impatient of waiting for an appointment will say, How much longer shall I stand and hold Lakshmans fruit? The gentleman referred to held some fruit for his legendary brother, Ram, fourteen years without eating it.. Here is one which is full of oriental colour: The bracelets tinkle on the ladys arm, and the fool cries, She is taking up rice for me. Here, too, . is one Hindoo all over : The snake-charmer can hear the snake sneeze; intimating that a man under- stands the business on which he is always enga6ed. And here are two more: I wont give you the water I wash my cowries in, and, The pin fish goes on falling into the hands of a bad cook. The pin fish is a great delicacy, and the proverb means that a clever person can never be understood by a fool. He breaks the cocoanut on anothers head, is a Bengalee way of saying that a man has gained something to the loss of anoth- er. Plantain sauce and parched rice, is a Hindostanee way of expressing a complete incon~ruity. The mother of many never reaches the Ganges, is a Hindoo way of saying, Everybodys business is nqbodys business, and that the body will remain unburied. There is a good, wholesome spite. in some of these proverbs of Hindostan, that prove a fair amount of scolding can be carried on either in Benoalee or Mabrat- tab. If one low fellow praises another, a Hindoo says, The ballad-singer praises the cowherd, two very low castes. If a poor man gives himself airs he is pretty soon told at the bazaar or the bath-room that he is only the horn-bearers has- bearer. If a trader is sluggish in busi- ness, the proverb thrown at him is Rub your nose with mustard oil and go to sleep, an allusion to a custom of the poorer Hindoos of snuffino induce sleep. b up lamp-oil to A truly lazy proverb, and thoroughly characteristic of the country, is this one: If I can find mangoes at the plantains 128 HINDOO PROVERBS. foot, why should I look under the mango- tree? If an upstart talks like a rich or great man, they say, Heres a hireling on thirty cowries giving drafts on Chitta- gong. Useless trouble is called Going to Ceylon for a grain of turmeric. There is no country where the proverhs are founded more on local customs than in Hindostan. A great mans word is like the elephants tusk (not to he con- cealed or withdrawn), is a common Hin- doo saying. A false devotee they com pare to a tiger in a sacred grove. To a vulgar, boastful fellow, strutting about over-dressed, some one is sure to cry, A red mango in the apes paw and the ape cries Ram, ram, words of delight; and lastly, to close our specimens, when one man has gained an object by hard labour and another tries to gain the same without work, the saying used is, One man kills himself with pounding the rice and an- other fills his cheeks with it smoking hot. IN his just published report to the foreign office, her Majestys consul at Yokohama gives some interesting information respecting the preparation of lacquer-ware in Japan. Some Japanese, he says, give A. B. 724 as the date when the art of lacquering was first dis- covered, hut those among them who have given attention to the subject fix the date as A. B. 889 or 900. It would appear to have at- tained to some perfection in 1290, for the name of a distinguished painter in lacquer at that time is still handed down as the founder of a particular school of art in lacquer-paint- ing. Having described the manner in which the lacquer-varnish is obtained, Mr. Robert- son gives some details of the mode in which designs in lacquer are worked. The first thing, he says, is to trace out on the thin- nest of paper the required pattern or design, and the tracing is then gone over with a com- position of lacquer-varnish and vermilion, afterwards laid on whatever it is proposed to impart the design to . . . and well rubbed over with a bamboo spatula. The outline thus left is now gone over with a particular kind of soft lacquer-varnish. When this in- dustry is pursued in hot weather the varnish speedily dries, and consequently where the pattern is a good deal involved . . . a small portion only is executed at one time, and the gold powder, which enters largely into most of the lacquer-ware for the foreign mar- ket, is applied to each part as it is being exe- cuted. For this a large and very soft brush is used, and by its aid the gold powder is well rubbed in with the lacquer or varnish. The work is then left to dry for about twenty-four hours, after which the pattern is lightly rubbed over with charcoal made from a particular kind of wood, this process securing evenness of surface. The work is next rubbed with polishing powder, and afterwards carefully wiped. After all this outlining has been done there still remains a good deal of fin- ishing work, such as the tracing of leaves on trees, the petals of flowers, the wings of birds, etc. . . . Into all this gold powder enters, the working-in of which requires a light brush and a skilful hand. . . After this has well dried, a particular kind of lacquer-var- nish, known as yoshim~ urushi, is well rubbed in, and the whole then polished with horn- dust. The polishing process is done with the finger, and is continued until the gold-glitter shows out well. Academy. M. BERTRAND (Revue Arch6ologique, Sep- tember), gives an account of a very remark- able discovery of antiquities at Graeckwyl in the canton of Berne, in 1851. Two tumuli were opened. one of them yielding a bronze vase with ornaments in relief and in the round on the neck and handles of which an engraving accompanies the article. It is cer- tainly curious, as M. Bertrand remarks, that a vase which from the artistic character of its ornaments can only be compared with Etrus- can work, or better still with the gold orna- ments from Camirus in Rhodes (in the British Museum and in the Louvre), should be found in the district of Berne, because it is not sup- posed that much of what is called civilization had reached that quarter till Roman times, whereas the Camirus gold ornaments, which are exact counterparts of those on the Graeck- wyl vase, can be confidently assigned to the seventh century B.C. Perhaps the more ar- chaic works of this kind are studied,the more it will be found that they prevail in the Greek islands see, for instance, as to vases and terra-cottas, the guide-books to the first and second vase-rooms of the British Museum. From this evidence such objects could be traced to a period of activity in maritime trade which might readily have attracted patrons or traders from even higher regions of Europe than Berne.

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The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1649 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 15, 1876 0128 1649
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LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ C Volume XIII. No. 1649. January 15, 1876. jrom Beginning, ol. CXXVIII. CONTENTS. I. THE ARTS, CONSIDERED AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY, II. HER DEAREST FOE. By the author of The Wooing Ot. Part XI. III. DUTCH GUIANA. By W. Gifford Paigrave,. IV. THE DILEMMA. Part XVII., V. THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAI- NABHAL. By William Black, author of The Princess of Thule, etc., VL KISAWLEE: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRT TOWN Church Quarterly Review, 7emj5le Bar, Fortuightly Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, POETRY. HYMNUS RESPONSORIUS. By Rt. Hon. Two SONNETS, XV. E. Gladstone, . . 1301 3 146 154 169 179 130 MISCELLANY 192 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tile Publiskers, the LIVING Ana will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of~ostage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting op a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances shoold be made by bank 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 re ister letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made pay able to the orc~er ef LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, sS ceuts. HYMNLTS RESPONSORIUS, ETC. HYMNUS RESPONSORIUS. I. Scis te lassum? scis languentem? Luctu contristaris? Audin Veni, veniensque Pace perfruaris. II. Notas habet, quas agn~rim Istum consectatus? R. Manus, Plant~, cruentat~, Cruentatum Latus. III. Ecquid portat, pro corona Q me Monarchas ornat? R. Diadema, sed spinarum, Frontem Hanc adornat. IV. Sin obnitar, sin attingam, Qul remunerabit? R. Luctfis, fietfis, ac laborum Largitatem dabit. V. Sin obstrictus adh~rebo, Quis in fine status? R. Vke meta, luctfis fuga, Labor exantlatus. VI. Si receptum supplicassim, Votum exaudiret? R. Quanquam Terra, quanquam Ccelum In ruinam iret. VII. Persistentem, perluctantem Certus est beare? R. Vates quisque, Martyr, Virgo, Angelus, testare! W. E. GLADSTONE. Nov., 1875. I. ART thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distrest? Come to Me, saith One, and coming, Be at rest! II. Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my guide? In His Feet and Hands are wound-prints, And His Side. III. Hath He diadem as Monarch That His Brow adorns? Yea, a Crown, in very surety, But of thorns. IV. If I find Him, if I folldw, What His guerdon here?, Many a sorrow, many a labour, Many a tear. V. If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last? Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan past. VI. If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay? Not till Earth, and not till Heaven Pass away. VII. Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? Angels, Martyrs, Prophets, Virgins, Answer, Yes! [By Dr. JOHN MASON NHALH (No. 254, Hymns An- cient and Modern, Revised and Enlarged); taken from the Greek of St. Stephen the Sahaite. Contemporary Review. TWO SONNETS. I. WINTER SORROW. A GREY and leaden sky, without a break, Shuts in the narrow world whereon I look, And, day by day, mine ears almost forget To miss the babbling of the ice-bound brook. The woods stand rigid, ghostlike, draped in snow, Life is no longer there, nor pleasant sound, No breath is stirring in the bitter air, To bid them drop their burden to the ground. The drift lies deeply piled before my door, My little garden, touched by winters breath, Laid cold and smooth beneath his icy hand, Looks stark and changeless as the bed of death. Tis thus my heart, thy desolation chill Holds me, like cruel winter, dumb and still. II. SPRING SORROW. Spare me that clear, triumphant song of praise, Sweet thrush, with which thou welcomest the morn; It wakes too keen a sorrow in my heart, Who si h to think another day is born. Ye opening buds, ye sounds and scents of spring, So deeply interwoven with the past, XTe touch the inmost fibre of my grief, And bring the bitter memories thronging fast. Not less the lilac crowns herself with bloom, And bright laburnums shake their tasselled gold, Nor does the violet breathe one odour less Because nsy life is left me dark and cold; Only while earth and sky such joy express, I fain would turn me from their loveliness. Spectator. A. E. J. X 30 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. 3 From The Church Quarterly Review. THE ARTS, CONSIDERED AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of Lights. THE question, which of the older races of men attained to the greatest height in thought, and art, and life, and to which we owe the most of truth and sweetness and light, has been continually coming up to the surface throughout the present re- naissance of historical research, and it is being continually settled afresh and in different ways by different writers, and that in rather positive modes, by large conclusions and narrow generalizations. We are continually being instructed that all ancient creeds stand on one common level as to authority, and to historical value: that the revelation made in the Old Testament, or, as some prefer calling it, the religion of the Jews, was in no sense more from God than the religions of Brab- ma or Zoroaster; that it had even less of divine power over men than these. We constantly learn that Greek faith was ab- solutely on a level with it was far higher in itself, and as a preparation for the fuller light of Christ; and then another teacher will show us, that Greek thought is on a level with Christian thought in truth; or that it is as a school for the intellectual and artistic side of mens life and nature, what Christianity is for the moral emo- tions; that it is even a much higher school; or that each (especially Christiani- ty) must be kept to its own half of man, the one forbidden to rule our moral ac- tions, the other to guide intellectual effort or inspire true art. Tossed about by these conflicting dog- mas, it has seemed to us that if we take the fine arts as our measure, and compare the arts and dramas and songs of each faith and race together, we may pos~ibly find they afford us a more certain standard than we can get from the ever-changing aspects of thought driven hither and thither in vague seas of words; and liable, so far as this question of standard is con- cerned, to be vitiated, by reason of our seeing them only through the subsequent light of Christian truth and Christian morality. To see how in the arts bequeathed to us by successive races of men, we have real, though not complete flood-marks of the comparative heights of thought and feeling, to which these nations rose, we must glance back to the origin of the arts. These~ if we are not mistaken, are found to have sprung up amongst every nation so far civilized as to have satisfied the first necessities of life and gained any leisure for reflection. Nearly every such race has had its poetical myths those splendid flowers, as Mr. Symonds calls them, expressing in form and colour to the mental eye the thoughts and aspira- tions of whole races; has had its archi- tecture, its sculpture, its painting and mu- sic, or its dramas. And we find also that everywhere these arts have been exercised primarily and chiefly in the representation of their religious faith, or to add dignityto their worship. The myths relate the do- ings of their gods; the best architecture of men of all races is, we believe, without exception, to be found in their temples. Their most elaborate, carvings and noblest sculptures have striven to represent their gods or to symbolize the divine attributes; and their most enduring poetry has been religious hymns. Looking further into these early works of art, we find a second characteristic. Beside and together with their notions of the Deity, we see forcibly expressed their own aspirations, vague perhaps, but obvi- ously powerful, towards a better, a hap- pier, a more glorious and satisfactory life than men live on earth; we see their yearning for something unseen, enduring, perfect. The type of perfect in their mind, in nature they could nowhere find;~ but by thus visibly embodying in sculptured stone or on pictured walls, or in sacred songs and dramas, their ideas of God and of that Godlike human life for which they yearned, they sought to grasp the dim notions and aspirations continually floating before them, and as constantly eluding them and fading away before the hard or sordid physical necessities of their lives; they sought to fix them for themselves, and to hand them on to their children, as records of the Deity they were to worship, and of 132 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. the perfection to which they might as- pire. If this be the true account of the mat- ter, it will follow that art is the offspring of mans religious nature: wishing to use our words with as much distinctness as we can, we will not say of his spiritual life, for it was the struggle to rise to some- thing truer and more satisfactory than the physical, intellectual, and moral life they already enjoyed, which drove men to art as an aid, and then for a time, as a conso- lation under failure. But still the root of all art, as of all religions, is this, that noth- ing short of union with God can satisfy any human soul. As Professor Maurice said, The longing for the manifestation of God is the mystery, which lies beneath the history of the ancient world and inter- prets it; and so it lies beneath its art. There were in fine two questions lying at the root of all their creeds, the answers to which their artists and poets strove to give: Can men rise up to God? was the first; failing that, came the second, Will God come down to men? Ac- cordingly, it is in their works of art that we find the most certain record of the highest ideas they could form at once of Divine perfection and human happiness; and by comparing the arts of one race with those of another, we may in some sort estimate the relative height of their conceptions, and the comparative value of the ideas they have to give us. In making this comparison, it is obvious, that of the two factors present in all art, the idea or conception embodied, and the execution, it is the first which we must mainly consider. The comparative excel- lence of the execution would tell us much about the comparative culture of the races and the skill of the artists; but it would tell us little of the thoughts and wishes of the men themselves. A very noble idea may be found with rude execution, just as we very often find very great skill of exe- cution thrown away in expressing mean or coarse ideas, or even destitute of any thought ~vhatever. To be art at all, for our present purpose, the thought expressed must have some reality ; ~to be high art, it must be ideal. To be the highest art, it must, amongst other qualities, have that of being the most suggestive of the noblest, truest, and purest thoughts; on every side it touches, its spirit must be e~t-celsior. It would be impossible in the short space of a single article to enter seriously on so wide a subject; the most we can hope to do is to suggest, by a few exam- ples, the way in which it might be workcd out at large. We will begin with the As~ syrian sculptures, which, judged from this point of view, naturally come first, as low- est of all. The animal forms they de- lighted in are marked for strength of tal- ons, or swiftness of flight: cruel eagle heads, huge winged bulls, impassive, yet with a kind of majestic strength and stu- pidity; fierde Assyrian countenances, with keen, murderous, eagle eyes; animal, king, and god, all presented in the same form, giving forth their conception of the powers that ruled over them, letting us into the secret of what they and their peo- ple would wish to be. * For here we see their kings in the circumstances that ap- peared to these Assyrians the most glori- ous; seated on thrones, while long lines of chained captives are being driven up to them with whips; or else, as bound, but headless figures, are still kneeling before them. Divine and human nature, as they interpreted them, were akin to that na- ture red in tooth and claw, which shrieks against the law of light and love. All their sculptures deify physical force; all hold up slaughter and savage victory,more savagely used, as the delight of the gods, and the chief glory set before kings. We saw lately an engraving from a Grecian bas-relief, exquisitely simple and graceful in its clear outlines, representing a solemn celebration of the conquest of Troy. The three Grecian chiefs are slaughtering Trojan captive youths. Each prisoner is slight in figure, young in face; each has a great gashed wound, from which the blood is spouting; each has been stripped, and has his hands tied be- hind him, denoting his utter helplessness. Agame mnons captive has already been thrown into a hollow in the ground, in which he is made to sit up, whilst the king is gravely and calmly cutting his * Professor Maurice: Religions of the ~ THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. 33 throat. The other chiefs are watching him, each having one hand on the shoul- der of a captive, the other holding the sword with which he is about to be butch- ered. There is a similar scene described in the play of Hecuba the sacrifice of Polyxena, in honour of the dead Achilles. Very superior in the perfect drawing of the sculptured group, in the artistic draw- ing of the dramatic one, to those rude carvings from Ni neveh, the thought ex- pressed is no nobler, whilst the beauty of the representation makes them but the more deliberately cold-blooded. In the gallery of Roman sculpture at the Louvre, we find a treatment of the conquered very different from these. Instead of calling on us to witness the triumph of Rome in the slaughter of weak and naked striplings, or lovely girls, her barbarian captives are sculptured as stately stalwart men of middle age, and gigantic strength. Mighty men of valour, their faces worn and furrowed with the hardships of their past and the griefs of their present lives, with long wild hair and rough beards, their heads bowed in grief, their heavy mantles folded about them from head to foot, no indignity has been put upon them. They inspire reverence and even awe, as well as compassion. Perhaps the finest of these is a group of four gigantesque figures, who bear on their shoulders a massy cornice, intended to be surmounted by a statue of Domitian. The date of this must, therefore, have been about A.D. 90. Different, as they are, yet, in~ the im- movable calmness of the winged Assyr- ian bulls, we find some link to the arts that come next before us, those of E~ypt and of India. In the Egyptian sphinxes the ideal aimed at seems to be that of complete arid eternal repose. Living, calm, majestic, imperturbable, above the reach of passion, of circumstance, of time itself, they watched the ages pass across the level plains of burning Egypt, as free from the tumultuous joys as from the cruel anxieties of mortal life. Such seems to have been their ideal of godlike happi- ness; whilst their pyramids, at ont3e guarding the remains of the dead, and pointing to the skies, seem to say, Not here, but there is rest; we wait. The Hindoo gods of the south share this character. The countenance of Vishnu, asleep on the lotus leaf, or on the many- headed serpent of eternity, is, we are told by those acquainted with Indian sculpture, an almost perfect realization of ideal rest. Those of the north have striven for more of the life and beauty of Grecian art, but all seem to place perfec- tion in calm. All teach men to seek in the annihilation of all emotions and in ab- sorption into the unmoved deity, the remedy for all the evils of life, and all the sinful weaknesses of men.* This, too, is the root idea of Buddhism, as Maurice tells us. Rest is not so much the attri- bute of Buddha as his essence; and in silence and contemplation men may at last be absorbed into rest. There was, therefore, an excelsior in these arts, but it was not the excelsior of life not, therefore, truly of men. We know of no passage of Greek art intended to express this idea of perfect rest. Many of their gods are very calm, but it is a calm of quite another kind. Good judges, we believe, consider the figure of the Dancing Faun at Naples to convey the expression of perfect satisfaction, but it is the satisfaction of active joy, of young vigorous life, absolutely content in the perfect rhythm of its own health and beauty. And Roman sculpture expresses the stern and strong calm of endurance, not the perfect rest of satisfied contempla- tion. The Hebr9w prophets and singers held forth the promise of peace great peace, as the work of righteousness, with quietness and assurance forever; a less chilling peace than that of the Buddhists, and yet containing that element of rest in sure dwellings and in quiet resting. places, which is nearly always missing in Greek art; for, perhaps, the Farnese Hercules, with its aspect of touching and unsatisfied melancholy, is hardly to be Compare Aristotle, E/k. Nicomack. lib. ii. cap. iii. section ~. Though Aristotle would evidently re- gard this teaching as an excess, the philosophy of the Cynics and others, as Democritus, tended in this direc- tion, when they declared the virtues to be ~hraOeio~ rivi2~ ica~ 2~pe/sia~. See Sir Alex. Grants note on the passage. 34 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. counted an exception. There is one sculptured group of Christian art, which, combining together both these ideas of consummated victory and of absolute peace, may serve as our contrast with the arts of which we have been speaking. But it is impossible adequately to describe it, for the thoughts those figures breathe are for silence, not for words; nor could any drawing convey the lessons, ones in- most spirit learns on the roof of Milan Cathedral. As you walk along those white marble terraces, mounting ever higher, you see below you the rich level plains of Lombardy, teeming with villages, and churches, and cities, with their long busy white roads, with fields and groves and glistening rivers stretching far away and on into the distance; until at last the dark purple of the horizon lies slurp against the clear circling blue of the sky, and the world seems ended, a perfect cir- cle everywhere, except to the north, for there a veil of white mist conceals it, and far above that mist the snowy summits of alps upon alps hang, in their glittering majesty, high up against the sky. Not less silent and unchanging stand the victorious saints, in white and glistening raiment, on countless pinnacles, on every side, above, below, and around you. Some of them are leaning on the spear, or sword, or cross, by which they died; others bear the palm- branch, which marks them as conquerors. Even without these tokens, and without the angel figures which bear them com- pany, their countenances alone would tell you they are conquerors conquerors over doubt and sin, over sorrow and pain and death, over themselves; their whole being is satisfied, all the stains and the weariness of their warfare are past and over; they rest as those may rest, xvho have heard the words, Well done ,good and faithful servants. They rest, and yet they watch, as men that wait for their Lord; without a shadow of impatience, without a shadow of doubt, with all the certainty of those who know in whom they have trusted. You turn again to the tow- ering alps, and by the side of that steadfast strength, that deep peace, that immovable faith, even the mountain peaks seem to you weak and unstable. The execution of some amongst these statues is very unequal: but the idea, the truth sought to be expressed, is unmis- takable. We must, however, now go back for many centuries. In Greek art, as in those ruder and ear- lier arts, it is the gods and the godlike with which the artist is chiefly employed, but his ideal is different, and more com- plex. It is no longer repose, but life; no longer the dreamy content of passive con- templation, but the active joy of beauty, of vigoir, and of freedom, in every variety of mode possible to humanity. One can imagine Greek art turning away, wearied and unsatisfied, from the calm of her elder Egyptian sister, with the passionate cry Tis life whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant, More life, and better, that I want. The first-fruits of this changed ideal we may note in the wider compass and rich variety of Greek art; for repose is one, and life is manifold and many-sided. And here we find life, passionate, beautiful, tri- umphant in its gods, conquered, strug- gling, conquering, but still always beauti- ful in its heroes; with its various inter- pretations of the Divine government that directs the course of life, and of the mean- ings of life and death; with its dark hints of a supreme Nemesis ever in the back- ground, with its vague guesses at the shadow-life beyond. Instead of imaging humanity rising to divinity with the loss of half its nature, the Greeks delighted to exhibit it as already half-divine, by cloth- ing their divinities with human forms and enduing them with human passions. They peopled the woods, and hills, and rivers, with nymphs and demigods lovel~~ as na- ture and wilful as Undines, and so they took from nature her steadfast order, took from her all symbolism of a Creators love, left her full of lovely, lawless, wanton life. They peopled Olympus with personal deities possessed of human natures and of divine powers, governing the world mainly in the interests of truth and jus- tice, but not governing their o wnpas- smons; sustaining a kosmos into which they themselves were continually bringing a moral chaos. In going to their poets and dramatists, to see what account they gave of the Deity, and how they fulfilled. their mission of interpreting the ways of God to men, we can compare the Greek interpretation with that given by the seers and poets of an almost cQn- temporary race, a race to them barba- ri itns, to us the God-instructed Israel- ites. But we would ask our readers,, in making this comparison, to lay aside for the moment all thought of a higher reve- lation in the Hebrew singers, and to look at them from the same~ standing- point, as though equally inspired or equally human; THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. 35 and so to judge, which of these two races, the cultured Greek or the ruder Hebrew, has left us the highest tidemark or taught us the most ennobling truths. In describing Phidias glorious statue of Zeus, the supreme God of the Aryan race (?), the purest deity of the Greek cultus, Macrobius tells us that the sculp- tor declared that in designingit he had in mind those lines of Homer, which de- scribe Zeus nodding his ambrosial locks and shaking Olympus. Without some such high authority as Phidias, we might hardly perhaps have ventured to as- sume, that this celebrated passage is to be considered as one of the grandest de- scriptions of their supreme God to be found among their poets. As many will remember, it runs thus The silver- footed queen, the goddess Thetis, has come to Olympus to pray Zeus to avenge her son Achilles on the Grecian host: at first he is silent, and she renews her prayer: Then much disturbed the cloud-compeller spoke. She is, he says, making sa4 work between him and his wife, who taunts him quite often enough as it is: nevertheless, only desiring her to get away without letting Hfir~ catch sight of her, he grants her prayer and says: To confirm thy faith I nod my head, For neer my promise shall deceive or fail Or be recalled, if with a nod confirmed. He said, and nodded with his shadowy brows; Waved on the immortal head the ambrosial locks, And all Olympus trembled at his nod. Or, as Pope has it, perhaps for once more nobly High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, And all Olympus to the centre shook. The Israelitish singers had expressed this thought of Gods power and truth dif- ferently: Let all the earth fear the Lord, Stand in awe of Him all ye that dwell in the earth; For He spake, it was done; He com- manded, it stood fast. And again the seer, for whom Balak sent his princes: God is not a man that He should lie, neither the son of man that He should repent: Hath lie said and shall He not do it? or, bath He spoken, and shall He not make it good? Homer inded had no scruple in making Zeus himself ridiculous in his relations to his august and very disagreeable spouse. And his other gods and goddesses he uses rather as the foil and occasions of his heroes than as examples which it would be good for men and women to fol- low. Indeed the contrast between the brave and earnest struggles of his heroes in the midst of their mortal weakness, and snared as they are in the toils of fate, with the whimsical likes and dislikes of the gods in their wanton and remorseless, and even at moments cowardly, exercise of their immortal strength, forms 6ne of the most pathetic elements of the Iliad: whilst their quarrels, of the goddesses especially, with each other, come in as playful and almost at times comic epi- sodes, relieving the too great strain of the serious human tragedy. But going down the river of time for some shall we say? seven hundred years more, in /Eschylus we find so very different a conception of the inhabitants of Olympus, that little but the names ap- pear at first sight to remain the same. Supreme and just administrator of eter- nal law, Zeus no longer kept awake at night by thinking how he may defeat his consorts schemes, and make his own wishes prevail is depicted as preserv- ing the universe, and specially society, from chaos, and making all things stable by unswerving justice: he is recognized with awe and reverence, but abiding in the background he does not appear: the lesser gods who are seen, profess to be the ministers of his decrees and the teachers of his will. Miss Swanwick attributes this change of the capricious elemental Zeus of the Iliad into the venerable deity of the Oresteia, to the interfusion of Persian elements modifying Greek thought. We feel considerable doubt as to any very co- gent evidence on behalf of this view be- ing obtainable. If it could be proved, it would be curious to inquire how far Per- sian thought had been influenced by the 1-Jebrew prophets, of whom Cyrus knew so much, and whose nation he so greatly favoured. Evidently, however, we have reached in ~schylus a much higher /idem~zrk. It is certainly one of the highest, possibly the very highest in respect of the conception of God and of His providential rule, which their poetry ever reached, and it was one which they did not long maintain. Miss Swanwick thus collects together the evi- dence, and sums up the grandest as- criptions of omnipotence to the Olympian 136 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. king. He is invoked, she rightly says, as king of kings, most blessed of the blest, among the perfect power most per- fect, Zeus supreme in bliss; character- ized as mighty Zeus, protector of the great, the highest, who directs destiny by hoary law; Zeus, lord of ceaseless time, almighty ruler of the earth; and apostrophized as the great artificer, su- preme ruler, who knows no superior, whose deed is prompt as his word to exe- cute the design of his deep-counselling mind. We will take one out of the many He- brew passages that run parallel to these, the proclamation of Gods name to Moses about 1450, B.C. The Jehovah, the Je- hovah God, merciful and gracious, long- suffering and abundant in goodness and in truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children and upon the childrens children unto the third and fourth genera- tion. This last sentence brings to mind at once the Nemesis of iEschylus; it might, taken by itself, form the motto of the Oresteia. It is difficult to give by se- lected passages full utterance to tEschylus coiiception of the supreme justice; it is the history, not the speeches of these trage- dies, which embody it. We find in them a world founded on and preserved by hoary law, just and righteous; which, if not originating in the will of Zeus, is, at any rate, formulated for mortals in his mind, and administered by his decree. Vengeance awaits every crime, bringing woe, not on the criminal only, but entail- ing fresh crimes on his race, and even on the place where the crime was perpe- tuated. Ate, the Eumenides, fate, exe- cute this law of vengeance with a blind and relentless fury: Slow she tracks him and sure, as a lyme- hound sudden she grips him, Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign - and a terror for mortals. But Phcebus, under his title of Loxias the king, administers the decrees of Zeus with intelligent discrimination; for the higher justice of Zeus has the attribute of mercy also, as all true justice must have; and thus Against their will Rebellious men are tutored to be wise; A grace, I ween, of the divinities Who, from their holy seats, mankind arraign. So we find Loxias interposing to rescue Orestes from the Furies~, on the ground that in the murder of his mother he has obeyed the higher law, avenging his fa- ther in compliance with the express com- mand of the god. Very different, and yet not unfreqitently coincident, is the conception of the rela- tion between affliction and sin, between God and man, given us in the grand dra- matic poem of Job. The notion that the evils which befall men. are tokens of the divine vengeance for their own or for ancestral crimes, is the very notion con- tended against throughout and finally re- futed.* Here misery, sickness, death itself are evils which come from without, from the accusing foe, who seeks by these outward afflictions to destroy the faith of Gods servants and overcome their obedi- ence. Here Jehovah himself permits the trial, watches over it, causes it to turn to good instead of evil, so that the fiery persecution, through which Job passes, re- sults not only in his securer happiness, but in placing him in a far higher condi- tion, morally and intellectually, than that in which at first we find him. The Oresteia ends by Pallas, as ruler of Athens, substituting for the old rude law of the blood-avenger answering to the government of the Eumenides the administration of justice by the high court of the Areopagus, which is to copy in its decrees that higher justice, of which she and Loxias have just given the example, This court august, untouched by bribes, Sharp to avenge, wakeful for those that sleep, Establish I a bulwark to these lands. The whole of this passage reminds us forcibly of the similar substitution made for the blood-avenger, by the provision of cities of refuge and public trial at their gates, in the Mosaic law; but this lies be- yond our present purpose. The Wessing bestowed by Pallas on Athens, too long to quote, may be compared with the blessing decreed for Zion in Isaiah xxv. 8. But whatever be the agency by which the worlds government is carried on, the whole is referred absolutely to the will of Zeus. Thus the chorus laments Alas, ill-oinened praise of Fate, Baneful and still unsatisfied, Alas, tis Zeus in will, in deed, Sole cause, sole fashioner; for say What comes to mortals Lindecreed By Zeus, what here that owneth not his sway? Woe I woe! * Even if we adopted which we are by no means prepared to do the view of those who regard the speeches of Eiihu as of a later date than the rest of the poem, this would not affect the argument. We simply take the book as it stands in the Jewish canon. THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. 37 I girded thee [the Lord had said to Cyrus by Isaiah], I girded thee, though thou hast not known me. I am the Lord, and there is none else. I form the light and create darkness; I make peace and create evil. Woe unto him that striveth with his Maker; let the potsherd strive with the potsherd of the earth. Again, when Orestes says Weighing all, no power I know Save Zeus, if I aside~would throw This grourklless burden of distress; his voice may sound to many like a dim whisper of those tender words Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God, Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem and cry unto her That her warfare is accomplished, That her iniquity is pardoned, For she hath received of the Lords hand double for all her sins. Agamemnon says, Zeus with propitious eye Beholds the victors sway with mercy crowned. He hath showed thee, 0 man, what is good, and what doth the soul require of thee, but to do justly and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God? Or again, I desired mercy, and not sacrifice. We have dwelt too long perhaps on ~schylus, but we must find room for two more of his higher notes An untainted mind Is heavens best gift; and this This the sum of wisdom hear; Justices altar aye revere, Nor ever dare, Lusting after worldly gear, With atheist foot to spurn; beware, Lurketh retribution near. But who unforced, with spirit free, Dares to be just, is neer unblest, Whelmed utterly he cannot be. Unto the upright there ariseth light out of darkness, Surely he shall not be moved forever; the righteous shall be in everlasting re- membrance; He shall not be afraid of evil tidings, His heart is fixed, trusting on the Lord. beautiful description of a thoroughly suc- cessful life, as imagined bya Greek: That man is happy and songworthy by the skilled, who, victorious by might of hand or vigour of foot, achieves the greatest prizes with daring and with strength, and who in his lifetime sees his son, ~vhile yet a youth, crowned with Pythian wreaths. The brazen heaven, it is true, is inaccessible to him, but, whatsoever joy we race of mortals taste, he reaches to the furthest voyage. The following out of many is perhaps the most exact Hebrew parallel; the source of the happy life is different, for to the Israelite the heavens were neither brazen nor inaccessible,* whilst the welfare of his country was as necessary an element of his happiness as the prosperity of his children: Blessed is every one that feareth the Lord, that walketh in His ways, For thou shalt eat the labour of thy hand; oh! well is thee and happy shalt thou be: Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thy house, Thy children like the olive branches round about the table; The Lord from out of heaven shall so bless thee, that thou shalt see Jerusalem in prosperity all thy days long, Yea, thou shalt see thy childrens children, and peace upon Israel. Psalm cxxviii. The next passage is Pindars desclption of the future state of weal. We again adopt Mr. Symonds translation; he is speaking of those souls~of the dead. From whom Persephone Due atonement shall receive For the things that made to grieve in their early life; and this is their bliss: Shines for them the suns warm glow When tis darkness here below; And the ground before their towers, Meadow land with purple flowers, Teems with incersse-bearing treen, Teems with fruit of golden sheen; Some in steed and wrestling feat, Some in dice take pleasure sweet, Some in harping And then, after he has described the pains of the guilty souls, we come on these two additional and to us rather incongruous lines, Whilst pious spirits tenanting the sky Next to /Eschylus in point of time, and Chant praises to the Mighty One on high. often at least equal to him in elevation of By way of comparison we will give only thought comes Pindar. From him let us two lines from the Psalmist, when, look- first take though it is by no means a specimen of his loftiest flights what Mr. Neither were they always inaccessihie to Pindar, this truly as a suhseqoent quotation will show. The first Psalm Symonds with justice terms gives another parallel to this passage. 138 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. ing on to the future life, he sums up his sure and certain hope: I shall behold Thy presence in righteousness, When I awake up after Thy likeness I shall be satisfied. Ps. xvii. i6. Whether Sophocles, the next of the Greek dramatists to iEschylus, sounded so high a note as the bright and splen- dour-loving Pindar, is a question on which opinions will differ. This is the ac- count of the Divine providence which he puts into the mouth of Philoctetes: Never have I known That the base perish: such the gods protect, Delighting from the realms of death to snatch The crafty and the guileful; but the just And generous they in ruin always sink: How for these things shall we acconnt Or how approve them? When I find the gods unjust, How shall I praise their heavenly governance? The Hebrew Psalmist had felt the same perplexity some seven hundred years be- fore, but he had gone deeper than the sur- face enigma of life, knowing where to look for light, and humbled by that knowledge. My feet were almost gone, my treadings had well nigh slipped: And why? I was grieved at the wicked, I do also see the ungodly in such prosperity. For they are in no peril of death, but are lusty and str~g. They come to no misfortune like other folk, neither are they plagued like other men. And I said, Then have I cleansed my heart in vain and washed my hands in innocency. For all the day long have I been plagued, and chastened every morning. Then thought I to understand this, but it was too hard for me: Until I xvent into the sanctuary of God, then understood I the end of these men. So foolish was I and ignorant, I was even as a beast before Thee. Ps. lxxiii. [probably about 1040 B.c.] This again is the lament of the faithful and noble Antigone, as she is led to death Thus I, unhappy wretch, come living, to the caverns of the dead. What righteous law of the gods have I transgressed? Why must I yet look to the gods, unhappy that I am? What helper must I summon to my aid? for by righteous dealing I have obtained the re- ward of unrighteousness. Not less passionate is Jobs cry, whilst as yet equally certain with Antigone of his own rectitude: Surely I would speak to the Almighty, and I desire to reason with God; Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him. The epilogue spoken after the death of Heracles by his son is still more outspoken than Antigone; they are bearing the body to the funeral pyre: Praise him, ye attendants, being sensible of the great injustice of the gods, who, though they gave him being and are called l~is par- ents, can endure to look on these sufferings. The future, indeed, no one can foresee: but the events now present are lamentable to us and disgraceful to them. . . . And nought is there of these sufferings which is not Zeus. The following passage from an unknown Jewish writer, living probably much about the same time as Sophocles, is surely a far truer estimate of death, even in rela- tion to the great and rude Heracles of the tender heart, than that: The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise. they seemed to die, and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us to be utter destruc- tion. But they are in peace. For though they be punished in the sight of man, yet is their hope full of immortality; and having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded, for God proved them, and found them worthy for Himself. Wisdom iii. 2, etc. Again Sophocles sums up human life thus: Not to have been born is beyond contro- versy the best; and when one has seen the light, to return as soon as possible to the place whence he came, is by much the next best lot. For when youth comes bringing thoughtless follies, what troublous woe wan- ders apart from it? what woe is not therein? Murders, factions, strife, wars, and envy: and the last scene is allotted to loathsome old age, impotent, unsociable, unloved, where the worst of ills dwell together. Pindar had written more nobly and with a hi~her faith than this: Brief [he says] is the growing time of joy for mortals, and briefly too doth its flower fall to earth, shaken by fell fate. Things of a day, what are we, and what are we not? A shadows dream is man. But when the splen- dour that God gives descends, then there re- mains a radiant light and gladsome life for mortals.* This is the Psalmists view of human life: Like as a father pitieth his children, So the Lord pitieth them that fear him, For lie knoweth whereof we are made. He remembereth that we are but dust. The days of man are but as grass, For he flourisheth as a flower of the field, * Translated by Mr. Symonds: vide The Greek Poets. THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. For the wind passeth over it and it is gone, And the place thereof shall know it no more; But the merciful goodness of the Lord en- dureth forever and ever, And His righteousness upon childrens chil- dren. Ps. ciii. And instead of the loathsome old age, impotent, unsociable, unloved, we have this: Thou shalt guide me with Thy counsel, and afterwards receive me into glory. My flesh and my heart faileth, but Thou art the strength of my heart, and my portion for- ever. Had the Grecian poets been able to speak thus, Plato would hardly have de- sired to banish them from the Republic. In passing from them we must note how great is the similarity of all the human sorrows, perplexities, fears, the expres- sions of which we have been contrasting in Greek and Hebrew song; it is the hope and the faith that are so often far asunder. The Greeks faith is vague, beautiful at times, but doubtful; he is as one that beats the air. Whenever the problems of life and futurity come before him, he is tossed about with every changing mood. He guesses, and knows that he is only guessing. The Israelites faith is fixed, and his hope is sure: sorrow or sin, pas- sion or haste, may obscure it for a time, but he knows that it is there: he grasps it with the grim hold of intellectuil intui- tion, he knows that he is standing on the Rock that is higher than he, and that the everlasting arms are underneath him, however thick the darkness may be about him. It is difficult indeed to sum up the char- acteristics of Judaism and of Christian- ity, as distinguished from heathenism, more briefly and more beautifully than in the words of the lamented Arthur Hallam. Even those who know them well and they are far too little known will pardon us for citing them once more: What is the distinguishing character ~of Hebrew literature, which separates it by so broad a line of demarcation from that of every ancient people? Undoubtedly the sentiment of erotic devotion, which pervades it. Their poets never represent the Deity as an im- passive principle; a mere organizing intellect removed at infinite distance from human hopes and fears. He is for them a Being of like passions with themselves, requiring heart for heart, and capable of inspiring affection, be- cause capable of feeling and returning it. Awful, indeed, are the thunders of His utter- ance, and the clouds that surround His dwell- ing-place; very terrible is the vengeance He 39 executes on the nations that forget Him; but to His chosen people, and especially to the men after His own heart, whom He anoints from the midst of them, His still, small voice speaks in sympathy and loving kind- ness. Every Hebrew, while his breast glowed with patriotic enthusiasm at those promises, which he shared as one of the favoured race, had a yet deeper source of emotion, from which gushed perpetually the aspirations of prayer and thanksgiving. He might consider himself alone in the presence of his God; the single being to whom a great revelation had been made, and over whose head an exceed- ing weight of glory was suspended. His personal welfare was infinitely concerned with every event that had taken place in the mirac- ulous order of Providence. For him the rocks of Horeb had trembled, and the waters of the Red Sea were parted in their course. The word given on Sinai with such solemn pomp of ministration, was given to his own indi- vidual soul, and brought him into immediate communion with his Creator. That awful Being could never be put away from him. He was about his path, and about his feet, ~d knew all his thoughts long before. Yet this tremendous, enclosing presence, was a pres- ence of love. It was a manifold, everlasting manifestation of one deep feeling a desire for human affection. Such a belief, while it enlisted even pride and self-interest on the side of piety, had a direct tendency to excite the best passions of our nature. Love is not long asked in vain from generous dispositions. A Being, never absent, but standing beside the life of each man with ever watchful ten- derness, and recognized, though invisible, in every blessing that befel them from youth to age, became naturally the object of their warmest affections. Their belief in Him could not exist without producing, as a neces- sary effect, that profound impression of pas- sionate individual attachment, which, in the Hebrew authors, always mingles with, and vivifies their faith in, the Invisible. All the books in the Old Testament are breathed upon by this breath of life. Especially is it to be found in that beautiful collection, entitled the Psalms of David, which remains, after some thousand years, perhaps the most perfect form in which the religious Sentiment of man has been embodied. But what is true of Judaism is yet more true of Christianity, metre puZchrc2fiZia pc/- c/i nor. In addition to all the characters of Hebrew monotheism, there exists in the doc- trine of the cross a peculiar and inexhaustible treasure for the affectionate feelings. The idea of the Oc& vGpoirot~ (God-Man), the God whose goings forth have been from everlast- ing, yet visible to men for their redemption as an earthly temporal creature, living, acting and suffering among themselves, then (which is more important) transferring to the unseen place of His spiritual agency the same hu- manity He wore on earth, so that the lapse of generations can in no way affect the concep 140 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. tion of His identity; this is the most powerful thought that ever addressed itself to a human imagination. It is the woiJ oi-~i which alone was wanting to move the world. Here was solved at once the great problem, which so long had distressed the teachers of mankind, how to make virtue the object of l)assion, and to secure at once the warmest enthusiasm in the heart, with the clearest perception of right and wrong in the understanding. The char- acter of the blessed founder of our faith be- came an abstract of morality to determine the judgment, while at the same time it remained personal and liable to love. The written Word and established Church prevented a de- generation into ungoverned mysticism, but the predominant principle of vital religion always remained that of self-sacrifice to the Saviour. Not only the higher divisions of moral duties, but the simple, primary impulses of benevo- lence, were subordinated to this new absorb- ing passion. The ~vorld was loved in Christ alone. The brethren were members of His mystical body. All the other bonds that had fastened down the Spirit of the Universe to our narrow round of earth were as nothing in comparison to this golden chain of suffering and self-sacrifice, which at once riveted the heart of man to One, who, Wke himself, was acquainted with grief. Pain is the deepest thing we have in our nature, and union through pain has always seemed more holy and more real than any other.* There are two or three other points of divergence which it may be well to note. One is the vast difference of the Greeks faith amongst themselves, and the almost complete unity of the Hebrews through these seven centuries. Between the relig- ion of Homer and the faith of iEschylus, nay even between the faith of ~schvlus and that of Sophocles, there is a ma{ked divergency. From Moses to Malachi there is hardly any fundamental or real difference. We mean that the unity of the God- head, the love of God as the prime duty of man, the conviction of retribution and reward, are taught from first to last. Even if we listen to critics like Mr. Mill, who seem to us inclined to exaggerate what- ever amount of difference does exist be- tween the tone of the Mosaic Law and that of the prophets, it must still be ob- served, that even they admit that this difference is all in favour of the later writers, and that whatever change has occurred has been wholly in the direction of improvement. Certainly, it in no wise affects our argument, if we are called upon to recognize some degree of change, so long as even opponents of revelation * Remains, pp. 275278. [The italics are ours.] admit such change to be wholly in the way of a wider humanity and a deeper spirit- uality. Bii~t how different is the case of heath. endom. We have paused, for l4ck of space, at Sophocles. Need we say that to go on to the works of the next great artist in dramatic poetry, Euripides, would be to encounter a declension, so far as religious feeling is concerned. It is, no doubt, possible, that Schiegel and some other critics have dealt hardly with Eurip- ides, both as poet and as teacher. But, after making all allowances, he must, in the matter of faith and reverence, be placed on a distinctly lower level than iEschylus, or Pindar, or Sophocles. Then look at the rise of the school of Epicurus, and its effect on the poetry of both Greece and Rome. We do not wish to forget that the song of the minstrel and high-priest of the system, the unhappy Lucretius, contains many elements of solemn truth, as well as of intense beauty. That philanthropic temper, and also that deep sense of infinitude which has struck religious readers, such as Keble; nay, even the very fierceness of the poets pro- tests against the claims of religion, as he knew it, against the ideas of sacrifice and of endless woe, all testify to his convic- tion that he is not declaiming against cob- web-like fairy-tales, that can be blown away with a breath. We cannot tell whether a presentation of a truer view of the Divine providence might have altered the impressions af the gifted author of the De Rerurn.Naturd; but the history of the man and of his poem, as it stands, is fraught with sorrow and awe. And yet, perhaps, to many minds, there is some- still sadder in the light and careless Epicureanism of some others of the poetic choir, such as the pseudo-Anacreon, and Catullus, and Horace. And though a brief protest, such as the noble hymn of Cleanthes the Stoic, may occasionally be heard, yet there can be little doubt but that Epicurism, as taught by the poets, did much to lower the general tone of heathen society. M6hler declares and we can well believe him that there is evidence to show that the treatment of slaves became worse under its blighting influence. We will not go into any of those details, which prove the correctness of the painful description given in the opening pages of St. Pauls Epistle4o the Romans. Mr. Farrar, in his Life of Christ, seems half inclined to censure those who, with D6llinger, in his Heiden- Ihum und ~7udenthum, or Ernest Renan, THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. 4 in his LAntechrist, have furnished such evidence. Yet, it must be borne in mind, that, if sceptics have full liberty to trace the sins and errors of Christendom, an entire silence on the previous and on the present condition of pagan lands must inevitably lead to false conclusions. With the Greek, so far as divine truth and human faith are concerned, we seem to be on the sea of fancy; with the Israel- ite, we are in the land of reason, experi- ence, and conviction. Then, again, be- tween their conceptions of the divine glory one idea which runs through the Greek poems, and which affects the whole character of Greek sculpture, is wholly absent in Hebrew poetry. To the Greeks, happiness is an essential characteristic of the Deity, most blessed of the blest, Zeus is supreme in bliss. This is never denied, it is simply wanting in the He- brew singers, as in all true Christian art; to them it is divine to impart bliss, to com- passionate suffering, to remove sorrow, but the personal enjoyment of happiness is never spoken of as divine, it is an acci- dent, a result, not an element of perfec- tion. The~ do not hesitate to affirm that God is grieved at the wicked every day, and that the Messiah is to prove a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. On the other hand, how joyfully strong in hope and peace these Hebrew poets can be, whilst the most joyous passages of the Greek dramatists have so often an under- tone of melancholy. For ever and anon a sigh peers through their lavish mirth, and however bravely they tune their lay to drive away all sorrow, it is with the constant sense that bliss, alas, to-night must pass, and woe may come to-morrow. Again, it is instructive to compare the Iliad, the Bible of the Greeks, as it has been called, with the Bible of the He- brews, and ask, which is the widest-mind- ed, the many-sided book which comes home the most universally to the hearts and minds and longings of men of every race and every age and every condition of life? Doubtless He, who in executing his purpose of raising mankind nearer to himself, com.mitted the revelation of the divine nature and world-government to the Israelites, allotted also to the Greeks the task of idealizing the human nature and of developing and cultivating all its ca- pacities, both mentally, physically, and ~esthetically. And yet, or rather because the Hebrew was being taught to know and worship God, whilst the Greek was learn- ing to understand and cultivate men the narrower-minded Hebrews Bible gives a fuller, more varied, and more in- tensely human picture of men than does the Greeks. One more comparison. In the Greek drama, the interest and the tragedy consist in this, men conquered by circumstance. In the single dramatic poem remaining to us of the Hebrews, God is so controlling circumstance that his servant shall conquer. In the modern drama the tragic interest turns on men conquering circumstance: thus all uncon- sciously the light and tfie victory of the incarnation and the cross is reflected, even by those who thought they drew their inspiration from ancient Athens alone. It was probably in the realm of sculp- ture that Greek art reached its height; for its perfection in the matter of execution Greek artists had obvious advantages above every other race, and we suppose that so far as beauty is concerned, and the power of completely expressing their idea, no other sculptors have approached them. We can only take one specimen, but surely no one can study the Venus Victrix of the Louvre without being al- most enthralled with her loveliness. It is impossible to describe the mingled grace and dignity of her figure the idea it gives you of overflowing life and elasticity, the queenly pose of her head, the expression of freedom and of triumph, conveyed, not in the face alone, but in her whole atti- tude. As far as such mingled power and loveliness can satisfy you, there is nothing more to be desired. But the merely earthly beauty of her face, the self-assertion of her attitude, the stony scorn on her lovely lips hardly satisfy ones ideal of pure womanhood, and certainly do not raise our thoughts to anything higher than that. She might very well stand for Venus looking on, whilst at her own command Psyche is being tortured at her feet. Ve- nus, Morris tells us, has been very wroth because Psyche is too lovely, but now at last she has her in her power, and she stands Calm and very fair, Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair, Into her heart all wrath cast back again As on the terror and the helpless pain She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile. There are in the same gallery several statues of Diana, ~he graceful and mighty huntress, with much of calm dignity, with beautiful self - contained, self- regarding faces, all of the same type as the Venus; r 142 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. they go so far and they go no further. Let us go up into one of the picture-gal- leries above, and seek out among Chris- tian works of art one to contrast with this.* The Suisse cannot direct you to Raphaels S. Marguerite: he politely in- quires for you of a comrade; neither of them have heard of it; nevertheless it is there, though not so easily found as Ru- bens savage beasts or large Flemish beauties. Very young, younger than Ve- nus, little more than a child, S. Margaret has come through the gloomy valley that stretches far behind her, and now at its end, amidst desolate rocks and gloom, she has met the dragon who came out to drive her back or to destroy her. And she has conquered her foe: she too is Victrix. It may be the palm-branch in her little out- stretched hand, it may be her most inno- cently lovely face, that has overthrown him: however that may be, he lies pros- trate before her, gnashing his teeth and helplessly clutching the air with his tre- mendous claws, whilst he lashes the ground with huge coils of his serpent tail, vainly seeking to enfold her. She has conquered, but she is not conscious of her conquest, though her little feet are tread- ing on his loathsome bat-like wing; she does not even see him: forgetting all that is past, all her mind is bent on that which lies beyond, as with a modest childlike grace she steps carefully onward, without triumph as without fear; her pure wide- opened eyes are earnestly fixed upon the upward path that leads her to her Lord. Setting aside Christian and Greek faith for the moment, we ask our readers to consider how essentially different are these two types, not in degree, but in kind; how wide apart is the finite life expressed in the Venus, and the life foreshadowed in S. Margarets wistful gaze; between the self- contented, self-regarding soul of the one, the purity and self-forgetfulness of the other. And which of these two is the highest, and therefore the truest ideal of woman- hood, which ennobles our thoughts and elevates our aspirations the most when we study it? With the Greeks wonderful artistic power, it can never be said they were less able to express their highest ideal than * It has been said, that it is impossible to compare ~ statue and a picture together; as works of art ii may be, so subtlety different are their objective modes of e ression and their subjective results on the beholder. nut the ideas respectively revealed by each may surely be coiapared, the one wijh the other; it is this common quantity, the value of which we are now concerned with, and this alone. the Christian artist has been. And yet we may ask, is there any statue of Zeus com- parable in majesty of thought or in moral power to the Moses of Michael Angelo, with, as some say this Moses has, the face of him who talked with God on the mount. Even considering only the energy ex- pressed, is there any Grecian statue so full of the conquering fire of the higher life as are some of his prophets Ezekiel we think it is, or Jeremiah. Those faultless heads of the Apollo, perfect in physical beauty and in intelli- gence, are not very high conceptions of the young man in his glory. There is nothing in them inconsistent with the legends that told of his shooting down the children of Niobe one by one before her face; of his flaying Marsyas and hanging him on the plane-tree: all the statue tells one is, that if he did such things, he did them with a splendid smile and a perfect grace.* Contrast these with the S. John the Evangelist, the one that holds the pen and has the eagle by his side; with Raphaels S. Michael (also at the Louvie); or with that most wonderful face passing all de- scription, the central figure in Leonardos Last Supper, as given in the life-size engraving taken about 1849, before which silence is the only possible attitude of the soul. Possibly the union of intellectual grandeur and moral power and purity can- not be approached in a human form with- out those traces of toil, of sorrow, of self- negation, of reverence, of holy anger or holier love, which not only override but disturb the physical beauty of form and colour. But Greek sculpture, uniting in- tellectual grandeur with physical beauty alone, makes their sensuous result the chief, if not the whole, of human excel- lence. It represents to us the perfection of that part of mans nature whereby he is akin to nature and to matter; and it must therefore take a lower standinn~ than the art which gives us, with less perfect ekecution, the higher humanity which is drawing nearer to the divine. Then the Greeks sought to express the perfect for which they craved by propor- tion. All the misery, all the meannesses, all the errors of humanity, are owing to these ever being too much or too little; all will be right when mcn have learned to balance their natures rhythmically, music- ally, as the Deity does. And so their * Mr. Matthew Arnold somewhere in his poems so describes him, watching how the whetting sped. For the other side, see Mr. Ruskins Modern Paint era, vol. 1. THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF hISTORY. 43 temples arose in exquisite proportions, as though built to the music of Apollos lyre, a joy to the eye forever. But there was no aspiration in those level lines, there was no suggestion of infinity in those com- plete proportions; in attaining perfection they had shut out the divine. It was not so with the temple of the Hebrews, which very possibly fell far short of the perfec- tion of the Parthenon to the eye, but whose builder opened his prayer of dedication with the words Behold the heaven and the heaven of heav- ens cannot contain Thee, how much less this house that I have builded? yet hearken unto the prayer Thy servant shall make in th~s place. And it is very different in a noble Gothic cathedral, with its endless variety, its rich traceries, its clustering columns and up- springing arches, and fretted pinnacles, and massy towers and soaring spires, all partly seen and partly hidden, all with a unity of spirit in a multiplicity of forms, all stimulating the imagination and raising the thoughts, each noble in itself, all sug- gestive of something higher than itself. Here again the same strange difference meets us; in all Greek art you come to an end. It is very perfectly beautiful; you can look at it a long time, you can come back to it from time to time to bathe in its loveliness, to rest your mind in its fair proportions. But you cannot find its meaning grow upon you every time you see it; it is not a sacrament of inward strength and purity to your spirit. The artists skill is beyond you, but the idea he had in his mind is not. He leads you a long way perhaps, but it is up to a dead wall at last, where his work is ended without pointing to anything beyond it- self: it is complete, and therefore it does not satisfy, it does not even excite, our nobler aspirations. Thus, there was an excelsior in Greek art, and it was an excelsior of life; but it was the psychical and physical, not the spiritual life. Nearly perfect in its kind, its kind was not divine, and, therefore, not fully human. This, at least, is certain, it failed to sat- isfy the best of the Greeks themselves; to these the gods became types of all that men should shun. Its effects on the Greeks generally are suggested by its own brief life. One of its latest critics, to whom we have referred so much (and, we may add, despite our differences, so gratefully) Mr. Symonds, dating its glo- rious outburst at Athens at 477, and the commencement of its decay at 413 years before the birth of our Lord, limits its glory to sixty-four years. For two gener- ations, for sixty-four years, Grecian art and philosophy had been educating the youth of Greece, and the fruit of this edu- cation was not excelsior, it was decline. Why? Surely because it had no sure faith, no growing life to give them; but satisfying their senses with its own ex- ceeding loveliness, it dragged them down to its own sensuous level. History did i)ut repeat itself when, in the progress of the Renaissance, the artists of Italy, for- saking the Christian art of Michael Ange- lo and Raphael, of Fra Angelico and An- drea del Sarto, strove to be purely clas- sical, in idea as in execution, and fell. The character of Greek art and thought (for the two are inseparable), during the. subsequent period, from the conquests of Alexander to the final extinction of classical civilization, from 323 B.c. to 300 AD., we will give in Mr. Symonds own words : * Athens (before 323) has ceased to be an empress; has become a garrulous housewife, contents herself with amusements. Later on : The art of writing without anything to say, the sister art of quarrying the thoughts of other people, and setting them out in elaborate prolixities of style, are brought to p~rfection: at the same time, side by side with liter- ary moths and woodlice, are the more in- dustrious ants, students of the paste-brush and scissors sort, to whom we owe much for the preservation of scraps of otherwise lost treasures. . . . The genius of 1-lellas has nothing better to do than to potter about like a dilettante among her treasures. Her chief honour in these days is that she has founded the Alexandrian school; but then we read: Alexandria in idyhls and epigrams is carving cherry-stQnes, after the sculptors mallet has been laid aside. And though Athens educated Rome, and grafted Roman strength on her own subtle beauty, yet, at the end of this last period, the genius of Greece was effete. Then, strangely enough, he de- clares it was the iconoclastic zeal and piety of the Christian which put an end practically to Greek art and literature; thus achieving that mysterious task of slaying the dead. For four hundred years, then, before the birth of Christ, the vitalityof Greek thought and art had been steadily declining; and if we look round at the close of that period, * The Greek Poets: J. A. Symonds, chap. i. 44 THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. what shall we see? Assyrian conquests, long forgotten, are buried out of sight in the desert sands. Egyptian sphinxes and pyramids are barely known as the dead memorials of the long-forgotten dead. Hindoos, instead of ~gaining calm repose in the contemplation of purity in Brabma, of intelligence in Buddha, are seeking safety in self-torture, or happiness in self- ish power. The Hebrew prophets have ceased to speak; the people waiting for their Messiah are for the most part fond- ly dreaming that when He comes, He will come for none but themselves. Gre- cian art is nearly lifeless; of Grecian thought one thing remains living and life-giving, their language, itself an idea, as Sara Coleridge says, cultivated to the utmost, and made fit as human lan- guage can be, to receive, without obscur- ing, and to preserve, wit bout degrading, the spiritual truths about to be poured into it from heaven. But for this treas- ure, Athenians themselves have now no higher use than daily to hear or to tell in it some new thing; Athens is filled with idols; the genius of Greece is dying. Rome, indeed, has her poet, will have her Stoics; but the last of the Romans has slain himself, not stoical enough to sur- vive the death of his country. There is not one free nation left; of Grecian .art and thought, of Roman pa- triotism and law, this is the practical re- sult, There is no help from the gods, and no hope for men; let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. Then, when all human efforts had failed, and all human aspirations seemed quenched in despair, without the efforts of men, without the wisdom of the schools, without the aid of artist or of poet, the Day-star arose, and once for all despair for men was slain. The great conqueror of anarchy and of slavery, the Prince of Peace, and the life of men, He for whom, far and wide, though all unknowing, all human hearts had been yearning, the incarnate one, whom Socrates may have dimly foreseen, and whom Isaiah had plainly foretold, was come; and Galikean fishermen were proclaiming far and wide the answer to those questions which artist and sage had vainly, sought to divine, God has come down to men; henceforth men can rise up to God. We are not wandering from our sub- ject: for if the Christian record be divine, we have here, given us from Heaven it- self, the vast and still onward-moving epic poem of the human race. And for those who question its divine origin, the Chris- tian record itself, with its amazing, un~ speakable, awful tragedy, must stand up as the one transcendent work of art, at once answering every question and satis- fying every aspiration of the soul, and actually being the turning-point of the worlds history. It has been also the turning-point in the worlds art. Art indeed holds a lower place as an elevator of men now than it did of old. Then we had to seek foil the highest ideas and most certain record of mens actual faith and hopes from their arts and their poets. But human art is unequal to the task of embodying the ideas and the aims revealed to us in Christianity, and we have therefore only to ask new, how this revelation has affected the still merely human arts of Christian races. If what Maurice said of ancienthistory be true, as we have tried to show it is, of ancient art; if the longing for the manifesta- tion of God was the mystery which lay beneath and explained the art of the an- cient world; it is yet more completely true that the gift of eternal life is the mystery which lies beneath and inspires the true art of the modern world. Is it not this which is whispered to us in the vast cathedral? this which glorifies the saints on the summits of Milan? this which has drawn S. Margaret out of her- self, which has quickened and solemnized the soul that shines upon us in those sweet earnest eyes ? * Is it not this, too, which our noblest music is telling out, when it pours around us, sometimes whispering as from far-off lands, its mystery of awe or of life; some- times overwhelming us with its multitudi- nous throbbing, swelling strains of prayer and of praise, prophesying to us of things which eye bath not seen, nor ear heard, neither bath it entered into the heart of man to conceive? And what is that strange power that some of our modern landscape paintings have over us; why indeed do the mount- ains and woods, the seas and the sunset skies, entrance us, as they never did the old world when filled with nymphs and demigods and fauns? Is it not because even in nature there is now A presence that disturbs us with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused; Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man? * Compare again on theae pointa Mr. Ruskins Modern Painters, vol. i., and Mr. Brownings poem, Old Pictures in Florence. THE ARTS AS TIDEMARKS OF HISTORY. And surely it is this which makes Chris- tian art so much more varied, so far more suggestive. We have said that no one can ponder long in thought on the revela- tions made to us in the Venus Victrix: and we find the worshippers of classic art have been struck by this want of suggest- iveness; they call it the reserve of the gods. But to the Christian cathedral, the Christian oratorio, the Christian pic- ture, you can come again and again, and every time you come learn something more, gain some new insight, some strong- er aspiration for that which it reveals. There is no end which we can reach, when through the outward form we are brought nearer to the mystery of eternal life, or catch a glimpse of the soul that is silenced in the vision of God. We may take as instances of this over- flowing su~gestiveness, Raphaels S. Ce- cilia, as, transfixed and rapt, she is listen- ing, with upturned face, to the distant strains that float down to her from the angelic choir. Take The Light of the World, The Shadow of Death, The Scapegoat. Of quite another kind, take Leonardos Medusa;~ why is this so terrible in the intensity of its beauty and horror, compared with the merely painful physical anguish of the Lao- coon? Or La Gioconda, the Mona Lisa of the Louvre.* What makes her beauty so mournfully, so overwhelmingly sad? is it not because the artist has com * La ~ is in the truest sense masterpiece. In suggestiveness uuly the Melanchulia of Ditrer is cuinparable with it; and no crude sym- bolism disturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. We all knuw the face and hands uf the figure set in its marble chair in that cirque uf fantastic rocks as in some faint light under sea. The presence that thus so strangely rose beside the waters is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire. Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world have come, and the eyes are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from svithin upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts, and fantastic reveries, and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment by one of tlsose volute Greek goddesses, or beautiful women of an- tiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty into which the soul with all her maladies has passed l All the thoughts and experiences of the world have etched and moulded there in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the reverie of tlse Middle Age, with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than she rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants~ and, as Leda, was mother of Helen of Tiny, and, as S. Ann, the mother of Mary; and all this isas been to her but as the sounds of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments and tinged the eyelids and the hands. W. H. Paters Studies of the Renaissance.,~ LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 634 pelled you at one and the same time to look with a fascinated gaze on such beauty, such capacities of being, and to listen to the echoes of that forever and forever. in the horror of a great darkness, and the loss of the vision of God? Surely, too, it is this revelation of that higher life, which we are taught to call eternal life, which has given to Christian art that higher value for that deeper sense of that fuller sympathy with all forms of life, which is manifested, in such works as Landseers Chief Mourner, or The Challenge and the Defeat; or made it possible for Thorwaldsen to sym- bolize in the Dying Lion of Lucerne all the faithfulness and heroic devotion of the Swiss Guard. How much of the beauty of Christian art in modern days is due to the arts of Greece, we need not hesitate to confess. All we maintain is, it is the beauty of ex- ecution, not of thought or idea, that it learnt from Greece. Just as in philoso- phy, it was the forms of thought and the fitting langua~e which Greece gave to Christianity, not the truths themselves, so it has been in art. The thought made visible to us in The Shadow of Death, for instance, is one far more akin to the Psalmists cry My soul thirsteth for Thee, my flesh longeth after Thee, In a dry and thirsty land where no water is, To see Thy power and Thy glory, so as I have seen Thee in the sanctuary, than to any passion of which we can find the smallest trace in classic art. And even in this matter of execution, the influence of classical art may easily be overrated. Christian architecture was at its best before the Renaissance began; our music owes nothing, we are told, to the ancient world. None of their paint- ing~ had survived to instruct Cimabue, or Giotto, or Perugino. But it was the oflice of the Christian faith here, as everywhere, to accept and to rekindle whatever there has been true or lovely or of good report, as in human nature, so in all the efforts of men to rise. It does not so much bor- row from earlier arts, it accepts and puri- fies all that was true in them, completing their broken hints, satisfying their weary longings, and adding the revelation which at once included and completed them. But to attempt now to go back to pagan art or pagan thought separated once more from Christian art and truth and many are attempting it is folly, and worse. Their aspirations were a reality; ours, if 45 146 HER DEAREST FOE. they are no higher than theirs, are a sham. Their love of physical beauty was human: whilst they had not the incarna- tion, they were right in seeking for the highest perfection they could realize. Ours, being a wilful rejection of a higher beauty, would be merely bestial. It is not possible for us to grow back into an age that is past; if we will return to child- ishness, it will not be to the healthy child- hood of a vigorously growing life, but to the morbid dotage of decay. Vain thought which shall not be at all, Refuse ye or obey, Ye who have heard the Almightys call Ye cannot be as they. From Temple Bar. HER DEAREST FOE. CHAPTER XXI. (continued.) ON Saturday morning, after due con- sultation with Fanny, Mrs. Temple wrote a little note to Sir Hugh, presenting her compliments, and begging to say they ex- pected their agent from London that even- ing, and would be engaged on business, but if Sir 1-lugh Galbraith wished any let- ters written, Mrs. Temple or Miss Lee would be happy to do so between two and live. There, said Mrs. Temple, as she wrote these lines rapidly in pencil, that ouoht to keep him out of the way. ~ Yes, it ought, and will. Poor fellow! how moped he must be all Sunday, and, indeed, every day, by himself. Well, he need not stay if he does not like. I am sure he is quite strong enough to travel. He was out driving for three hours yesterday. Oh, it is the quiet Dr. Slade recom- mends. Oh, Kate! how I wish he would lend us his dog-cart to take a drive with Tom to-morrow! I am sure he would if I asked him may I? it really ought to be yours, you know. Oh, Fanny! you do not know what you are talking about, you are so deli~hted at the idea of Tom beinb here this even- ino ~ Of course I shall be glad to see him, but if you think I am out of my mind with joy you are quite mistaken. I feel as calm and collected as possible. Which calmness was manifested by the most erratic conduct throughout the day total forgetfulness on various matters, and frequent rushings to and fro between the shop and the kitchen, just to see, that Mills. did not forget this or that ingredi- ent in her preparation of oneor two nice- ties devised by Fanny herself, who had a delicate taste for the liner branches of cooking. Saturday being market-day, the morning was always a busy time at the Berlin Ba- zaar; but the rush of customers was gen- erally over about three, as most of the Saturday visitors had a long way to go home; and on Fannys return from one of her excursions, she found only two old ladies of the better class of farmers one requiring a pair of gloves for her daugh- ter, the other some worsted yarn, where- with to knit her husbands stockings simple needs,, which yet took an uncon- scionable time to satisfy. At last they were gone. I feel quite tired, said Mrs. Temple, sitting down. I wish, Fanny, you would go up and write for Sir Hugh Galbraith. He sent word that he was sorry to trouble me, but if I could write a few lines for him before five oclock he would be greatly obliged; you had better go, dear, for you are no par- ticular use here. And I am sure I should make a fear- ful confusion of Sir Hughs letter! In- deed I cannot go, Kate ! I feel quite dazed to-day. Oh, I thought you were peculiarly cool and collected! No matter! mistakes in Sir Hughs letters are not so fatal as mis- takes in our business. If you will not go he must do without a secretary. Well, cried Fanny, with sudden Tes- olution, I will write for him this once. Do you know I ~m half sorry to be obliged to hate Sir Hugh Gilbraitlm ; but dont be afrail! I never allow myself to think well of him for a moment! I have not a doubt he is a deep designing villain, but he doesnt look like it; though there is something intolerably haughty in the sort of snuff the moon~ air with which he looks over one s head. Dont talk such nonsense, Eanny, dear! I wish Sir Hugh would go; he is, growing troublesome. Not to me, returned Fanny, gravely shaking her head; he takes no more notice ~f me than if I was a kitten when you are by. I will see how we get on without you to-day. Pray be prudent and steady, cried Kate, laughing, though I am sure Sir Hugh is a patiern of propriety. Fanny ran away up-stairs, dashed hasti- ly into her own room, pinned a blue bow HER DEAREST FOE. on the side of the pale brown plaits into which her hair was braided, re-arranged her collar, and put on a fresh pair of snowy cuffs; then with a pleasant ap- proving nod to her own imnge in the glass, walked away softly and tapped at the drawing-room. Come in, said Galbraith; and Fanny entered in some nervous dread, but never- theless with a firm determination to tease and annoy the enemy so far as in her lay. He was standing near the window and looking towards the door with an eager, kindled look in his eyes, which altered visibly and unflatteringly. Mrs. Temple desired me to say, be- gan Fanny, advancing, with evident timid- ity, she is sorry not to be able to come as she is very busy, and would you mind having me? A smile a rather kindly smile brightened Galbraiths face again. You are very good to come, he said, I ought to consider myself fortunate in having so charming a little secretary; but I must. say your cousin is the better amanuensis of the two. He is very impertinent, thought Fan- ny; he never would venture to talk like that to Kate. He wants to find out all about her! he shant I So I told Mrs. Temple, she said aloud, and that I was more stupid than usual; but she said it was better to make mistakes in your let- ters than her business, concluded Fan- ny, looking up in his face with an inno- cent smile. The deuce she did !. exclaimed Gal- braith, looking grim for a moment, and then lau~hing, I am much obliged to her; possibly she is ri~ht! Did she tell you to say this? Oh, no! and pray, Sir Hugh, dont tell. I never was a tell-tale. Come, I will not keep you long. And he placed a chair for her at the table, where he had already laid the writing-materials inreadi- ness. He was indeed bitterly annoyed and disappointed. When Mrs. Temples note had reached him that morning he de- termined not to let all Saturday and Sun- day, and probably Monday, pass without having a letter written by his interesting landlady and not a word with her either ! No, it was the only shadow of amusement or occupation he had, and he wasnt going to resign it. Of course if he hadnt been unhin~ed by that con- founded accident he never would have been driven so hard for one or the other, but it is wonderful how soon a fellow gets 47 used to things, and then there was the oddity and curiosity. So he framed his verbal reply, as he thought very cun- ningly, to secure one interview before five oclock, and now that provoking wid- ow had sent her silly, insignificant little assistant in her place, and cheated him after all. Still he must not confess that he could do without a letter being written very well, and when Fanny was seated, he began rather rapidly. Standing op- posite to the little half-frightened, wholly daring scribe, and grasping the back of the chair with his bony, sinewy hand My dear Upton, Thanks for yours of the 30th. I am nearly all right, only not quite able to manage my own correspond- ence, as you see. Stop, stop, stop! cried Fanny who in the world could keep up with you? I am sure you do not run on like that when Mrs. Temple writes for you. I have only got to all right, now; do for- give me, and go on again. I beg your pardon, returned Gal- braith smiling, and recommenced. Are there two rs in correspondence? was Fannys next query. Its not the least matter, he replied. He will know what you mean. What I mean, repeated Fanny, still writing. What you mean rather; but it would be better this Mr. Upton thought you were with properly educated people than real shopkeepers. Galhraith made a mental note of the ex- pression, and grew less anxious to dis- miss his secretary. Upton must be deliohted to have nice legible letters,Iimagin~sdoublee, spelt Fanny, I have done that. I am much obliged for your offer of a visit, but I hope to leave this in a few days; it is a dull hole, with nothing in the shape of sport or occupation, and not a soul to speak to hut a gossipin~ old doc- tor; I would rather meet you in town. At any rate it would be an infernal bore to have him here! Galbraith had dictated the first of the sentences slowly, and then unconsciously spoke out his reflection. Have you that down? he asked, after a pause. Just finished, said Fanny, with an air of great diligence, and spelllnb as she wrote b o r e. Why, you havent written //i I Yes, of course I have ! I thou~ht it was a little uncivil. Oh, dear! I am so sorry ! I knew I should he stupid! Pray dont be angry. I will make a nice clean copy if you will tell me the rest. 148 HER DEAREST FOE. Angry! what business have I to be angry? I am under great obligations to you and Mrs. Temple; besides it was my own fault. Just add, if you please, that I hope to be able to write in a few days my- self at greater length, and that will do. Fanny wrote diligently for a few min- utes, and then with an air of profound attention read over the letter, crossing out here and there. I really feel quite ashamed of myself, she said, taking a fresh sheet of paper. But Mrs. Temple would send me. To this Gaibraith made no immediate reply he even moved away to the win- dow, not to draw his secretarys attention from her taskbut as soon as it was ac- complished, he said as he glanced over the result, Then it bores Mrs. Temple to write for me? No, no! returned Fanny in a tone of palpably polite denial. She is always very obliging; but to-day she was busy, and anxious to get everything out of the way before our London agent comes his coming is always an event, you know. ~ Indeed, said Gaibraith, availing him- self of her disposition to talk. Perhaps he is a friend as well as an agent. Oh, yes, replied Fanny, dotting the is and crossing the ts of the letter he returned to her to be folded and ad- dressed, and just glancing up at intervals to see the effect of her words, he is a dear old friend of Mrs. Temples. She knew him before she was married, and he is so kind. Indeed, said Sir Hugh, pulling out his moustache and staring away into va- cancy, indeed! I suppose he is an old experienced man of business? Oh, very experienced! But as to age well, he is older than I am. Older than you are ! echoed Gal- braith. Why, you are youn6er than your sister, or cousin, whichever it is? You mean Mrs. Temple, said Fanny, avoiding a direct reply as to the relation- ship. Yes, she is older than I am; but you know the great firms dont like eld- ely travelders. He is a traveller, then? Fanny nodded. Galbraith hesitated: he felt it would not be honourable to cross-examine this little, oood-humoured chatterbox; still he longed to have some more talk upon the interesting topic of the London agent, for he felt strangely savage at the idea of a confounded commercial traveller a fellow redolent of bad cigars, audacious with the effrontery acquired by bar and billiard rooms, vulgarly fine, and hideously ill-dressed, coming into close contact with his queenly landladyindeed, the notion of any man, high or low, coming into that quiet, simple Eden where he had hitherto been the Adam, was infinitely disgusting and vexatious. Meantime, Miss Fanny watched with supreme satisfaction the dropping of his brows and general cloud- ing-over of his countenance; silence had lasted long enough she thought, so she said softly, You will not mention what I repeated just now? I mean, what Mrs. Temple said. You~ may trust me. Would the con- sequences be dreadful? Would she give you a wigging? No; but it would vex her, and she has had enough to vex her. I feared so. Reverses, and that sort of thing? Yes; oh, she has been robbed and plundered in the most shameful manner, and basely treated altoo~ether Did you know the late Temple? No; but I have seen him. Well, said Gaibraith, gallantly resist- ing his inclination to get the whole truth from Fanny, I shall have a melancholy evening all alone here. You have been very good to let me come and have a talk with you sometimes; I imagine you have done more for me than old Slade. How- ever, I must make up my mind to solitude for to-night. And to-morrow night, said Fanny, pressing the top of her pen against her lips, as she looked up mischievously. You need not warn me off the prem- ises, said Galbraith, with a smile. I did not intend to intrude to-morrow even- ing, nor until I am asked. Now, there! I never can do or say anything right! cried Fanny in pretty despair. I only meant to say, that al- though to-morrow will be Sunday, we must talk of business, because he comes so sel- dom, and then you might not like Tom, and Tom might not like you Tom, might not like me, eh? So you call your agent Tom. You would not have me call him Mr. Jones, cried Fanny, picking herself up just in time; and then reflecting, with horror, That is a shocking story, I wish I hadnt said it. Tom Jones, repeated Sir Hugh, laugh- ing, a dangerous sort of name. No, you are quiVe right to prefer Torn to Mr. Jones. I must go away, exclaimed Fanny. I have quite finished the letter. Oh! I forgot Dr. Slade left word that he could not call this evening, because Lady Styles has returned, and he is o~oinc~ to dine with her. Lady Styles! repeated Galbraith. Does she not live at a place called Weston? I believe she is an aunt, or cousin, or grandmother of Upton~ s. Of this gentlemans, said Fanny, hold- ing up the letter. Then I am sure you will not be at a loss for society any longer: she will come and see you every day and tell you everything, and make you tell everything. She is fond of K Mrs. Temple, remembering the strict injunc- tions she had received not to breathe the name of Kate; but she nearly drives her mad with questions. But xvhat would induce her to trouble herself about me? She was here the evening you were brought in like a dead creature what a fright we had! and you maybe sure she has written to this Mr. Upton to know all about you. This will be a visitation! I am glad you have given me a hint, returned Gal- braith. And you must go? you 6ouldnt leave Mrs. Temple and her agent to talk business, and make my tea? Indeed, I could not, said Fanny in- dignantly. Well, good morning, Miss Lee, re- joined Galbraith, laughing; remember, I will not venture down-stairs ao~ain unless J am asked. And then Mrs. Temple will know I have been committing some stupidity, cried Fanny, forgetting her dignity. Do come down to tea on Monday, Sir Hugh! What! even if Tom is there? Ah! there is no chance of that, said Fanny, shaking her head. If I have any letters to answer I will venture down, then, to ask for assistance, replied Gaibraith, smiling, and opening the door for her to pass out. As he did so the sound of a mans voice, and some slight commotion rose up from below; while Fanny started, blushed, and bright- ened all over, like some rippling stream when the sun suddenly shines out from behind a cloud; and, with a hasty good- morning, went quickly away. I suspect Tomis in clover when he comes down here, thought Galbraith, closing the door and resuming his arm- chair and a tough article in the Quar- terly. He cant make love to both of them, and that nice little thing takes no common interest in his coming. Who the deuce can he be? What can they all be! 49 They are more than tradespeople. I wish I could get at their history. Miss Fanny let out they were not real shopkeepers. Pooh! what is it to me? I have no busi- ness to pry into Mrs. Temples affairs; she would pull me up very short if I tried. I will go away next Week if I feel strong. The doctor says I must take care of my head, and I shall never be so quiet any- where as here. I wish that old woman may break her leg, or her neck, or any- thing to prevent her coming here to de. stroy ones comfort, for Galbraith felt it would never do to have his fair land- ladys letter-writing and general inter- course with a man of his position known: over and over again he revolved the sub- ject in his mind. The Quarterly was thrown to the other end of the room. He could not bear the idea of leavino; and yet go he ought, he must. At last he started up, put on his hat, and walked away to the stables he had taken, to have a chat about the bonnie beasts with his servant, a Yorkshireman, and get rid of himself. He had not yet given up his invalid habits of early dinner and a some- thing mild and strengthening before he went to bed. ~3oth in going out and re- turning he heard the sound of merry voices and laughter, pleasant, refined laughter, as he passed the door of the best sitting-room; evidently Tom~~ was an acquisition; it was no wonder they did not want him, Hugh Galbraith! His servant noticed that he was more than usually silent, and very severe about some trifling neglect in the stable. Even Mills did not get a civil look when she brought him some admirable scol- loped oysters; but at last the uncomforta- ble evening was over, Galbraiths last wak- ing thought being interrogative, Who the deuce is Tom? CHAPTER XXII. THE three friends, oblivious of the moody, bored baronet up-stairs, talked far into the night. Tom Reed had to give an accurate and detailed account of his play, or rather after-piece ; they had just be- gun to be called curtain-lifters by peo- ple who had been to French theatres, and custom was veering round to the habit of having, by some Hibernian process, the after-piece first. Both Mrs. Temple and Fanny were burning to see the production of Toms pen; they had, of course, greedily read all the notices and criticisms which had come in their way, still that was but judg HER DEAREST FOE. HER DEAREST FOE. 150 ing at second hand, and to see it was the grand desideratum. We could in any case only go to town by detachments, said Mrs. Temple; we could not both be away together, and though I could go up alone very well, it would hardly do for Fanny, unless you have some friend who would take her in, Tom. We must manage it somehow! cried Torn. It will run a tolerably long time, at any rate, and I will settle some plan. Of course, turning to Kate, you will have to come up soon to lay in your spring goods isnt that the term ? and then you can easily pay the Lesbian a visit. I really should like to know your opinion; you are a tolerable critic. There! exclaimed Fanny, with af- fected indignation; you dont care a straw what I think! But I can assure you my judgment would be much more origi- nal, because I dont stuff my head with other peoples notions out of books, like Kate. Bravo! said Tom; your own opin- ion pure and simple. To tell you the truth, my darling, I am half afraid of those keen little eyes of yours~ they spy out ones failings so unrelentingly! Little eyes, indeed! Mr. Joseph Tur- ner thinks them big enough. No doubt he does, said Mrs. Temple, laughing. But I ima~ine Fanny has choked him off, for we have seen little or nothino~ of him for some time; not since Fan supped at the paternal residence. I am surprised to hear it, returned Tom gravely. She is such an arrant flirt, that, in the absence of hi~,her game, she would not mind keepinb her hand or eyes in by practising on the nearest haber- dasher. Another word of that description, exclaimed Fanny, and I will try my hand, as you say, on Sir Hugh Gaibraith! He is sulking up-stairs, poor fellow, all alone! and wanted me to stay and make his tea for him. Its not too late to give him his supper. You know, said Tom Reed, with a slight change of tone, I warned you to steer clear of Galhraith when I was down here last. He only knows you as the as- sistant in a shop, and he will very likely presume upon your supposed inferiority of position. If he had met you at say at Mrs. Traverss table formerly, would he have ventured to ask you to m5ke his tea? Confound his impudence ! Fanny clapped her hands with delight at this ebullition, and laughed aloud. Do not be ridiculous, dear Tom, cried Mrs. Temple; do you think either Fanny or I would go near Sir Hugh if he was inclined to give himself such airs? I assure you no one could behave in a more unobtrusive, unobjectionable manner than he does. The only trouble he gives is caused by his perpetual desire to write abrupt, and it seems to me objectless let- ters he certainly has not a talent for composition and his scarcely-concealed curiosity to know who we really are. He openly professes his disbelief in our seem- ing; but I hope and think he will go away next week. There is really nothing to keep him. And still he stays! That is odd, re- marked Tom, looking at his mischieyous ftanc~!e. It is not me ! cried Fanny, too ear- nest to he correct; so dont think it. Do you know it is gettin~ very late? said the fair hostess. Eleven, by Jupiter! exclaimed Tom, looking at his watch. Mrs. Temple, he continued, is your resolution to go to church to-morrow as fixed as fate? Why? Because I want a long f~te-~i-h~tc con- sultation with you about my own affairs. Suppose Fanny represents the firm at morning service, and then she shall direct my steps in the evening to some pleasant glade, where we can discuss the result of the cabinet council? Very well; that will suit me exactly, returned Mrs. Temple. I too want a h~te-d-t~1te consultation with you; so Fanny shall be devotional for us all. -That is very fine, said Fanny, who had blushed becomingly when Tom spoke of consulting Mrs. Temple about his own affairs. I am to be banished whether I like it or not. Good-nights were exchanged, and Tom persuaded his pretty cousin to see that the front door was safely fastened after his exit. The succeeding Sunday was the first real spring day which had visited Piers- toffe that year. The sky was brightly blue, and the sea, stirred by light airs, soft and balmy as though it were June instead of April, broke into dimples and laughed in the sun. The tide, which had been full at an early hour, was ebbinb gently Pierstoffe bay was too open to be afflicted by a long reach of bare black seaweed and sludgy sand when the water was low, and the difference of ebb and flow was not great: a soft feathery fringe of wavelets lapped the beach as if they loved it. On HER DEAREST FOE. 151 the slip before the Berlin Bazaar the gaily- painted pleasure-skiffs were not yet dis- played ; but the strong brown fishing-boats, battered though still sturdy, were drawn up for their legitimate Sunday rest, and dotted about among them sundry fisher- men, in their dark-blue guernsey jackets, with hands deep in their trousers pockets, and the indescribable lounging movements indicative of respite from toil, smoked pipes of peace and made short interjec- tionary remarks. The cliffs behind the North Parade lay bathed in the young sunshine, so distinct in its tender radiance from the fierce glare of summer. The grey crags, cushioned here and there with patches of soft green turf draped with long pendant tangles of bramble and tufted with heather, showed wondrously clear, beautified by the magic of light; and Sir Hugh Galbraith, who dearly loved to look upon the face of nature as dearly as though he could have written reams of verse to express his admiration, perhaps the more deeply because he could say very little about itfinding himself too early even for the active Mrs. Mills, strolled out to taste the delicious breeze, and talk, in exactly the abrupt unstudied manner that suited them, to the lounging fisher- men. Ill have a yacht, thought Galbraith, walking slowly away past the empty lodg- ing-houses of the North Parade; a small one need not cost a fcrtune. I wonder could I manage to put up in the old place for the summer? I hate London, I dont care for the Continent the regiment will not be home for another six months; and perhaps, after all, I may leave it and go into Parliament. What the deuce is Payne about, that he has given me no more intel- ligence of the purchase he hoped to man- age ? Ill write to him to-morrow ; that is if Mrs. Temple can spare the time to write for me. By Jove ! moving the hand that lay in his sling, I believe I could write myself; but it would be more prudent not to try just yet. This is a pretty spot but very dull. I suppose I was a good deal shaken by that spill, or I should never be satisfied to stay here so long. At this point his reflections grew less clear. He knew in his heart that he neverwould have endured a life so different from all he had been accustomed to, had he not found such a fascinating secretary. Neverthe- less he could not stay much longer; even the pleasure of his sojourn was largely intermingled with annoyance, aye, with pain. Interviews with his landlady were always difficult to contrive, and required an amount of scheming most abhorrent to his straightforward and someWhat domi- neering disposition. Still, to go away and never see her face again, or look into her eyes and try to understand their varying expression ! Galbraith felt, and for the first time acknowledged to himself, it was a sacrifice for which he hardly had strength: Still it must be done. He was no trifler, nor was she a woman to be trifled with. I will ask Slade to-morrow if I may go up to town next week, thought, Galbraith, turning sharp round to walk back, and frowuFag to himself at the mockery of asking the doctors consent. I shall he all right when I am away. I am past the idiotic period of boyish spoonyism which was true, but he forgot that child- ish disorders are always more dangerous in maturity. Comfortinb himself with this incomplete generalization, he strolled on slowly, enjoying the delicious mornin~, air, the contagious joyful spring aspect of everything. As he approached the open, where the main line bifurcated into the Stoneborough road and North Parade, his attention was attracted by a gentleman who was approaching from the town. Thats not a Pierstofflan, said Sir. Hugh to himself. Perhaps he is some yachtsman, who has got afloat early; at any rate he has a London tailor, yet its not a yachting rio The object of his remark stopped for a few moments at the slip tc ,look about him, and then turned and walked straight and decidedly to Mrs. Templ& s door, which was opened the moment he knocked; and, unless Galbraiths eyes, which were keen and far-sighted, deceived him, by the young widow herself. By Jove! exclaimed the mortified baronet, by Jove! its Tom! and he is a gentleman or looks like one. Here was an additional shade of mys- tery to meditate upon during breakfas t,to which Galbraith did not do so much jus- tice as he ou~ ht after his early stroll, and which he permitted Mills to remove with- out the brief but emphatic commendation he usually bestowed. In truth, Mills was an irreconcilable, and all the more so be- cause she chose to interpret the genuine satisfaction expressed by Sir Hugh as feeble efforts to conciliate her, which she saw through and despised. Whereas, Galbraith was in some odd way taken by her gruff civility and stiff uncommunica- tiveness, and, quite unconscious of her carefully-nursed dislike, ranked her in his own mind as a first-rate old woman, with no humbug about her. 152 HER DEAREST FOE. Wasnt the fish right? asked Mills, jealous of her reputation. Oh, yes; all right, thank you. They have the same down-stairs, and Mr. Tom says its as good as anything he ever had at somewhere in Paris. Oh he does? burning to ask Toms name, but disdaining surre pti- tious information. It is very good. You can take away the things; and oh, nothingI forgot what I was going to say. Mills is evidently an old family serv- ant, has known her mistress in better times, pondered Galbraith, and she too was familiar with Tom, who was no Ber- lin-wool agent, not he ! that was only a blind! which Galbraith did not like. Mrs. Temple and Miss Lee had every right to keep their affairs to themselves but false appearances! that was another matter altogether. Here Sir Hugh hailed with pleasure the entry of his servant with the ordinary de- mand for orders, and so disposed of a quarter of an hour. By that time the church-bells began to ring out, and Galbraith, arming himself with the Field, took his place in the window and watched a few proprietors of the deserted lodging-houses going to church. Presently he heard the entrance door open and shut. He was instantly on the alert, but instead of the two figures he had seen so regularly sally forth on preceding Sabbaths, there was only Fan- ny, in her pretty Sunday half-mourning attire. She turned as she came to the corner of the house, and kissing her hand with an arch smile to some one, vanished round it. So Miss Fanny is sent to church, and Mrs. Temple stays to discuss business hte- ~i-t~te with Tom, a pleasant arrange- ment for the dear old friend, as that lit- tle minx called him, thought Galbraith, gloomily, as he resorted to his favourite method of relief when perturbed, a species of quarter-deck walk far from soothing to the dwellers beneath him, while he strove to divert his mind by planning his future movements with an odd, irritated, in- jured feeling; for he resolved stoutly to quit the rascally hole where he had been so long yet so willingly imprisoned, next week at the furthest. But somehow no suitable scheme presented itself. The people, the places, the amusements of which he thought were all unutterably dis- tasteful, absolutely revolting. At any rate, he said to himself as he seized the paper once mire with a desperate deter- mination to occupy his thoughts, Iwill go to London in the first place. I will find out something to do with myself there. In the mean while, Tom Reed and his fair client settled themselves for a long confidential talk as soon as they had seen Fanny off. Tell me your affairs first, Tom, said Kate. I do not fancy they will take so much time as mine. Oh, mine is a plain unvarnished tale; but I thou~i~t I should like to talk it over with you before I spoke to Fanny. I rather fancy I know the burden of your song, she returned, smiling. Say on. Well, you see, began Reed, drawing his chair closer; things are looking up with me at last. This little piece of mine has made a hit; I have another bespoke and on the stocks. I have had a private note from poor Pennin~, ton, telling me that he does not think he can resume his editorial duties; and I believe I am pretty sure to be his successor. This advance will bring me in a decent income; and so I begin to think I may venture on matri- mony! I thought so, said Mrs. Temple, quietly. LQoking at it coolly and passionately, resumed Tom, with sparkling eyes, I think I may; but, my dear Mrs. Travers, neither Fanny nor I would dream of tak- ing any step, even in a right direction, without due regard to the interest and wishes of so good a friend as yourself. If Fanny leaves youand she must some day what will you do? I do not know I do not know, re- turned Kate, thoughtfully; then looking suddenly at Tom with suspiciously moist eyes, I dare say it is. selfish, but I can- not face the idea of living here without her. She makes home for me; but do not let us think of this. It will be much better and happier for Fanny to be your wife than my assistant; only, dear Tom, make sure that you can afford to marry before you rush into matrimony! You may be sure I will; but listen to me: I want to settle somethin,.~ with you before I open the subject with Panny. If she leaves you, will you nail your colours to the mast and go on with the Berlin Bazaar? You know the undertaking wears its pleasantest aspect now; but picture to yourself being shut up with a younger, and, therefore, more objectionable Miss Potter being worse off considerably HER DEAREST FOE. 53 than if you were utterly alone! You couldnt stand it! I know you could not! You would murder the assistant, and throw yourself into the sea, or be driven to per- form some sort of tragedy before three months were over, believe me! It is a dreadful look-out, I acknowl- edge, said Kate, smiling at Toms pro- phetic energy. Still, I should not like to abandon a tolerably successful undertaking merely to avoid a little personal discom- fort it would be cowardly. Not a bit of it, replied her prime counsellor. It is an undertaking in which you ought never to have embarked. I was always opposed to it. I can see clearly enough that one of its attractions was the home and occupation it offered to Fanny; you have stuck to her like a trump; now join her in her home in ours. You will~ge t back your money for this concern; it is worth considerably more than you gave for it. You can af- ford to live till yQu find some more con- genial employment. I will find that for you. If you would only write as you talk, what a lot of pleasant magazine articles you could turn out in a year! Come; give the matter a little serious thought! London, you know, would be the best place to hunt up the tracks of the true will. Tom, cried Kate, holding out her hand to him, you are a good fellow; but such arrangements seldom answer. Set- lie your plans with Fanny; tell her it would be a satisfaction tome to see her your wife; but put me out of the question. I may come and live near you. I may adopt some other line of life; but I will not quit my business yet awhile. And I know Fan wont listen to any suggestion of leaving you, said Tom, gloomily. She may you do not know. Open the subject, and I will follow it up if you wish, replied Kate. Now have you quite said your say? Yes, quite; and I am all ears to hear yours.~~ First, I want a v!vc2 voce description of your interview with Mr. Ford. Your letter was a little hurried, though it was very good of you to write at all in such a whirl. Tom recapitulated all he could remem- ber of the conversation, and answered many questions. Then after sitting quite still and silent for a few minutes, Kate exclaimed quickly, An~l what impression does all this make upon you? Well, no particular impression. He is just the same crotchetty, touchy,. worthy soul he ever was! The last man in the world to tamper with any document. I know what you are thinking of; but he would not have the pluck believe me, he would not. Perhaps so, said she. However, I will, in the strictest confidence, show you the letter you forwarded from him. Not a word of the contents to Fanny; she could not refrain from laughing and talk- ing about it, dear thing! Of course she could not, returned Tom, as Kate rose, and, unlocking her desk, she drew forth the letter and handed it to him. Reed read through in silence, except for a few indistinct growls. The presumptuous blockhead! he exclaimed, when he finished. 1-Je seems to have lost his senses! Why, he insin- uates that he was almost an accepted lover before old I mean Mr. Travers, came into the field. Which, I am sure, it is unnecessary for me to deny! cried Kate. You, too, then, think him audacious? I was not sure if it was a true instinct or an unwar- ranted assumption on my part. Remem- ber, Tom, I was in a lowly state of life enough when I first knew Mr. Ford. Whatever you were, if he was not a conceited ass he would have felt he was not your equal. And then to raise his eyes to his employers widow a woman of your stamp! It is the height of presumption! Now, Tom, perhaps you think I am justified in doubting him? Well, no! It is scarcely logicaL Why should he try to reduce the woman he loved to penury? Why should he en- rich her enemy, and defraud himself? Why It seems a far-fetched idea, inter- rupted Mrs. Temple, and yet I cannot get rid of it. You know the day he brought me that false will as I shall al- ways consider it; he offered to cancel or destroy it I forget exactly what he said but something to that effect. I scarcely noticed at the time, but I have often thought of it since. Did he? said Reed, who was looking through the letter again. That was queer. What do you suppose was his ob- ject? I can hardly say; he thought prob- ably my dislike and indignation against Sir Hugh Gaibraith might have tempted DUTCH GUIANA. 54 me to consent; and then what a hold he would have had upon me! By George I could never believe that oroper old boy would be such a vil- lain! I think, my fair friend, you romance a little all the better for a literary fu- ture. Do not laugh at me, Tom ; and pray do not lose sight of Ford. My whole soul is as fixed as ever on the hope of clearing myself and my husbands memory from the foul slander of that abominable will. I will help you with all my wits cried Tom, remembering his creditable acquaintance Trapes and his inquiries. But I dare not encourage you to hope. You s~y this Galbraith is going to leave: I would advise you when he is just off to make yourself known, and then Ill take long odds that he will make better offers of a settlement, and you might arrange things comfortably. It need not interfere with another will, should it turn up. Never offer me such advice again! cried Mrs. Temple, indignantly. It is a positive insult. I am dumb then, said Tom, submis- sively. After a few moments thought, he asked, Do you think Ford ever dabbled in any betting or turfy transactions? I should say not certainly not. Why do you ask? Because a very queer character was making inquiries about him the other day. And Tom proceeded to describe his con- versation with Trapes. It is curious, said. Kate, reflectively, after listening with deep attention to his account; but I cannot see that this sup- posed debt of Fords can affect me in any way, even if true; and I presume your friend has some powers of invention, as you say he was once on the press. No doubt. I believe very little he says; but that he wanted to find Ford or the man he resembled is a fact, what- ever the reason; and, moreover, he knows something of Mr. Traverss people. True, returned Kate and then fell into a fit of thought, from which she roused herself by a sort of effort to ask, Where is this man Trapes to be found? Oh! I have not an idea; indeed, I had no inclination to keep up the connection.~~ I wish we knew. Better have nothing to say to him; he would only persuade you to throw away your money. Mrs. Temple made no reply; but again openin~ her desk, took out a memoran- duin-book, in which she began to write. What was the, date of your interview? she asked. Tom gave it, for as it was identical with the first appearance of his play, he knew it well. A few more ques- tions proved she was putting down the substance of Reeds communication. May I ask what that is for? said he. This is my evidence-book, replied Kate, turning over the pages. I put down here everything, great and small, that strikes me as bearing in any possible way upon my case. I protest you are a first-rate solicitor spoiled by your sex! What~ suggested such a business-like proceeding, positively unnatural in a woman? I cannot tell; dwelling intensely on a topic is something like boring for a well, I imagine. If you only go on long enough and deep enough, you are sure to strike an idea or a spring! Then you know poor Mr. Travers was always making notes of ideas and suggestions, and all sorts of things that might by any possibil- ity be useful. Believe me, Mrs. Travers well, Tem- ple ! 1 must try and remember ityou have admirable qualities for a writer. The keeper of a diary, if intelligent, is the pos- sessor of a mine. I trust this will prove one to me; but oh! here is Fanny, as that young per- son entered, prayer-book in hand, and an- nounced triumphantly that she had been escorted back from church by Mr. Turner, junior. Have you finished your consultation yet? she contjnued, or shall I go out again? I dare say Mr. Turner is linger- in~ outside, and will not mind keeping me company a little while. From The Fortnightly Review. DUTCH GUIANA. CHAPTER I. THE COAST. When creeping carefully along the beach The mouth of a green river did they reach, Cleaving the sands, and on the yeilow har The salt waves sod the fresh waves were at war. MORRIS. Tis known, at least it should be, that Surinam, geographically indicated by the easterly slice of Guiana placed between our own South-American possessions on the one sidt~ and French Cayenne on the other, is up to the present day under Dutch rule; while Demerara, or, to speak more correctly, the broad British territory that includes in one the three provinces of Ber DUTCH GUIANA. 55 bice, Demerara, and Essequibo, was, till a comparatively recent period, Dutch also. Now I had often heard it affirmed that the immense superstructure of prosperity raised by British energy on the shores of Demerara owed its oft-tried solidity, if not in whole, at least in no inconsiderable part, to the well-devised foundation work bequeathed us as a parting legacy by our Batavian predecessors. Our form of ad- ministration is Dutch, so said my inform- ants, our local institutions Dutch, our sea- ~valls are Dutch, our canals, our sluices, the entire system of irrigation and drain- age from which the land derives its un- paralleled fertility and we our wealth, all are Dutch; we have made English use of these things, no doubt, and the merit of that use is ours; but the merit of the things themselves is not all our own, it be- longs rather to those who first created them and gave them to the land. How far might this be true? Colonial success amid the many failures recorded and yet recording in these very regions must be, every one will admit, a phenom- enon, the sources of which would be well worth discovery; and here before me was an instance ready to hand, and a cause assigned. Why not investigate its correctness? There was time at disposal, and from Georgetown to Parainariho is no great distance. Besides, I had already received assurance of a hearty welcome from his Excellency Van Sypesteyn, the representative of Dutch majesty in Sun- nam; and an invitation of the sort, when combined with that chiefest of all factors in lifes calculations, neighbourhood, made the present occasion doubly favourable. So I readily determined to follow up my Demeraran visit by another to a region which, while in natural respects hardly differing for good or evil from British Guiana, had all along remained under Ba- tavian mastership; and where conse- quently the original institutions of our own acquired colony might be conveniently studied unmodified, or nearly so, by for- eign influences and change of rule. From Georgetown eastward, an excel- lent carriage-road runs parallel to the coast, though at some distance from it in- land; the drive is a pleasant one, travers- ing a varied succession of large estates and populous villages, interrupted here and there by patches of marsh and wood, till the journey ends on the western bank of a full-flowing river, the Berbice; be- yond which lies the small town of the same name, not far from the Anglo-Bata- vian frontier. Here official kindness had arranged for my further progress, by put- ting at my disposal the trim little revenue schooner Gazelle, that now lay at anchor off the lower town-wharf, waiting to take me for a cruise of a hundred and fifty miles; such being the distance interposed between the harbour of Berbice and the mouth of the Surinam River, where rises the capital of Dutch Guiana. A sailing-c raft, however small, if in good trim, clean, possessed of a comfortable cabin, and under a steady beam-wind, all which advantages were combined in the present instance, is a welcome change from the inevitable smoke, crowding, noise, oily smell, and ceaseless roll of the largest and finest steamer ever propelled by engine. In the present instance, the crew of the Gazelle was to a man com- posed of creole, that is, colonial-born, ne- groes; indeed the pilots memory reached back to the time when the terms negro and slave were identical in his own person, as in the majority of his Guiana brethren. Civil, cheerful, and obliging, as the de- scendants of Ham, despite of their ill-con- ditioned fathers bad example, usually are, they were also, what for a voyage like this amid sand-banks and shoals was of more importance, good seamen, and the cap- tain in charge a good navigator, though a black one. I would rather by any amount have a black crew than a white one under my orders, is a remark which I have heard made by many and many a West-Indian sea-captain, lamenting over the insubordi- nation, drunkenness, and other offences of his men. And in fact negroes, like their half-cousins the Arabs, have naturally in themselves the making of excellent sea- men, active, handy, and daring, besides being far more amenable to the restraints of discipline, and less so to the seductions of the brandy or rum bottle, than the aver- age material of which white crews are nowadays formed. And should our own strangely scattered and disunited West-In- oman possessions ever realize among themselves the ideal cluster of small state~, the not unreasonable hope of other statesmen besides the romantic de- scendant of the Contarinis, such a confed- eracy minht even more easily recruit her indispensable navy than her less neces- sary standing army from among the black creoles of her own islands and coasts. A brisk wind was blowing, and the white cloud-drift scudding before the At- lantic trade-wind over the pale blue vault had in it something more akin to a Med- iterranean than to a tropical sky, as we 156 DUTCH GUIANA. weighed anchor, and taking advantage of the seaward ebb, cleared out of the nar- row channel alongside of the low bush- grown shoal that lies athwart the Berbice mouth, and bears, in common with count- less other small islets and rocks of these latitudes, the name of Crab Island. The crab here in question is not the dainty crustacean of our seas, but the hideous land-crab, known to the students of Rod- erick Random and Tom Cringle; a mon- ster that may he eaten by such, and such only, as are stomach-proof against the un- pleasant associations of burial-grounds and carrion. Soon the tall, formal, semi- Batavian houses of Berbice, and its yet taller market-tower, or look-out, for every town hereabouts has within its circle one of these at least, to serve for a bea- con to the seafarer, and a watch-place whence notice can be given in case of fire or any other sudden danger threaten- ing the townsmen themselves, had dis- appeared from our view behind river-bend and forest; and by noon we were afloat on the open sea. The open, hut not the blue; much less the typical black water of the deep Atlantic. From the Orinoco to the Amazon the aqueous fringe of the South- American coast is a shallow, muddy, brackish, ochrey sort of composition, which overspreads an almost impercepti- ble downward slope of alluvial deposit, that reaches out seaward for ten, fifteen, twenty, or even more miles, and bears witness to the prodigious volumes of water poured unceasingly, with little dif- ference of month or season, by the count- less rivers of the great southern conti- nent~ into the ocean beyond. As we slow- ly make our way up along the coast, tack- ing and re-tacking against the unvarying trade-breeze, broad gaps in the monoto- nous line of low brown forest, the shore horizon on our left, successively indicated the mouth of one or other of these great streams, many among which, nor those by any means the largest, equal or exceed the Severn and the Garonne in length of course and copiousness of flow. Of the latter in particular a further intimation was given by the tossing of our ship where the strong river current, felt far out at sea, crossed and thwarted the reg- ular succession of waves as they rolled slowly on from the open Atlantic, and roughened them into whitening breakers. From the outlet of the Corentyn, that acts as boundary between British and Dutch Guiana, to the mouth of the Sun- nam River itself, hardly anything beside these wide gaps in the forest margin, and the corresponding breaker patches out at sea, occurs to vary the monotony of yel- low waves and level forest-line, that by its utter sameness wearies the eye and de- presses the spirits of the voyager. What a contrast, may that same voyager not improbably say to himself, is the Dutch shore to the coast of Bnit- ish Guiana! There the view by sea or land is not particularly picturesque, to be sure; but, to make up for the want of beauty, we have the prospect scarce less pleasurable to the mind, if not to the eye, of a close succession of tall chimneys, each with its flauntino smoke-pennon, along the whole lenoth of the southern horizon from Berhice to the Pomeroon, or near it, proclaiming an almost continuous cultivation, and the triumphs of the indus- try that has transformed a lonely mud- bank, once productive of nothing hut alli- ators, snakes, and mosquitoes, into a thriving, populous, wealth-coining colony. Here, on the contrary, not a chimney, not a construction of any sort, overtops the impenetrable mangrove growth of the shore; scarcely, and at distant intervals, does an irre,,ular wreath of blue vapour, curling above the forest, tell its tale of clearing and habitition. Whence the traveller may, if so minded, deduce the further conclusion of the inferiority of the Batavian race to the British, of Dutch colonization to English, etc., etc., etc., Q. E. D. But this conclusion, like many others drawn at first sight, would break down on closer inspection of the premises; and, first of all, because the two coasts, how- ever much like each other when seen from five or six miles distance out to sea, are in reality very unlike; so much so indeed that neither for praise nor blame can any correct comparison be made between them. For throughout the whole, or very nearly the whole, breadth of British Guiana, a wide swamp district, lower it- self than the average sea-level, and in consequence very difficult if not impossi- ble to drain, cuts off the available land- strip of the coast itself from the firm but distant high lands of the interior, and by so doing confines the choicest sugar-pro- ducing tracts of the colony to the imm2- diate vicinity of the shore, where they are all arranged side by side in a long, but narrow strip, hemmed in between the ocean to the north and the almost equally unmanageable morass on the south. In Dutch Guiana, on the contrary, a rise, slight bat sufficient, of the continental DUTCH GUIANA. level, has thrust forward the swamp region from the interior down to the very shore, where it forms a barrier behind which the sugar lands and estates ensconce them- selves with no particular background, un- till perhaps the worthy Brazilians conde- scend to define their frontier, which as yet they seem in no hurry to do, and thus remain for the most part out of sight of the seafarer, though not out of easy reach of river communication. This invisibility from the sea and those who go down to their business in the great waters was by no means an adverse cir- cumstance; on the contrary, it was a very desirable one to the old Dutch settlers throughout the seventeenth and even dur- ing the eighteenth century. For those were days when many a gallant Captain Morgan, Captain French, or Captain Cut- throat whatever, would hail his men on the look-out, as their piratical bark hugged the coast on her way to the golden plunder of the Spanish Main, ready enough to shorten sail and let down the boats, had any tempting indication of hoarded Bata- vian wealth, whether in produce or in coin, appeared within the limits of a long- shore raid. But the case was different so long as the dense bush-barrier defended what it concealed; and the river estua- ries, however frequent and wide, afforded no better prospect to the would-be plun- derers than that of a difficult and perhaps distant navigation up stream, far from their comrades in the ships at sea, with the additional probabilities of meeting with a fort or two on the way to bar their passage. And thus, throughout the worst days of piratic menace, the hoards of Dutch Guiana remained, with one excep- tion to be mentioned hereafter, unpillaged, chiefly because unseen; while the more patent treasures of the Frenchman and the Spaniard were harried to enrich the coffers, or decorate the Pollys and Betsys, of these lawless heroes of the Caribbean deeps. The age of pirates and buccaneers is past, and even from regular naval inva- sion a West-Indian colony, under the pres- ent circumstances of warfare, has little to fear. But independently of the mischief- makers, whom of old times it brought on its waves, the sea of this coast is itself a troublesome and occasionally a dangerous neighbour to the planter and his labours. Whether it is that the north-eastern side of this great continent is in very truth slowly sinking, as runs th~ ominous ver- dict of not a few grave sci~ntific judges or whether, as I found to be the prevalent 57 opinion among the long-shore men them- selves, some secular deflection of winds and currents yearly brings a heavier vol- ume of water to war against the unpro- tected low-lying land, I know not; but this much is certain, that the sea en- croaches more and more, and that every equinoctial spring- tide, in particular, is signalled by a wider and more perilous in- vasion of the watery enemy, and bears his usurpations ever farther over forest and plain. Whatever the cause, aqueous or terrene, its effects are only too certain; and a woeful example was soon before our eyes, when, after not many hours~ cruise, we anchored off the little town, or, to speak more truly, remnant of a town, called Nikerie. The name is, I believe, like most of the names hereabouts, Indian, the meaninx of course unknown. The dis- trict, which is also denominated Nikerie, lies immediately to the east of the Co- rentyn River, and is thus the nearest of all to the British territory. It contains at the present day, as official returns tell us, nine estates, comprising between them 2,832 acres of cultivated soil. The num- ber was formerly greater, but no portion of the colony suffered so much from the emancipation crisis, and the other causes of discouragement and depression, from which wealthier and more favoured colo- nies are only now beginning to recover, and that slowly. The estates, mostly cane or cocoa, are all situat~d at some distance inland up the river, safely sheltered behind the tangled mangrove fringe. XVhere goods have to be shipped, remoteness from the seacoast is of course an inconvenience; yet with this the colonists long preferred to put up rather than deviate from their traditionary rule. But when, at the opening of the present century, the British lion, jealous lest so choice a morsel as Dutch Guiana should fall into the jaws of the ravenous French republic and still more ravenous empire, temporarily extended a protective paw over these regions, a new order of things prevailed for a time, and an un- wonted self-confidence took in more than one instance the place of prudential cau- tion. Under these novel auspices the seemingly eligible site of the Nikerie River mouth was not likely to be passed over, and soon a flourishing little town, with streets, shops, stores, churches, pub- lic buildings, and the rest, arose and di- lated itself on the western point, to the great advantage of commerce, and for awhile bravely held its own. DUTCH GUIANA. 158 But wisdom was before long justified of her Batavian children; and the failure of the foreign experiment a woeful fail- ure is now almos.t complete. It was afternoon when we made the port; as we cautiously threaded our way between sand- bank and shoal, before coming to anchor, we passed a broad triangular space of shallow water, lashed into seethinb waves by wind and current, where, a few feet un- der the surface, lies what was once the busy area of populous streets. Mean- while the breakers, not content with the mischief already done, continue cease- lessly tearing away the adjoining land bit by bit. Right in front, a large house, left an empty shell without doors or window- frames by its fugitive inhabitants, is on the point of sinking and disappearing among the waters that unopposed wash to and fro through the ground-floor. Close by the victorious sea has invaded the gar- dens of the neighbouring dwellings, and will evidently soon take possession of the buildings themselves; their basement- work is rotten with the salt spray. Far- ther on, a few isolated fragments of what was once a carefully-constructed sea-dam rise like black specks among the yeasty waters; and the new earth-wall built to protect what yet remains of Nikerie has a desponding make-shift look, as if aware that it will not have long to wait for its turn of demolition. Within its circuit a large, handsome, and solidly-built church, now perilously near the waters edge; a commodious court-house, where the magis- trate of the district presides; a few pri- vate dwelling-houses, and three or four grog-shops stand ranged like the Mac- lachlans and Wilsons of the famous Sol- way martyr-roll, resignedly awaiting the steady advance of the tide. The wind was high, and the roar of the waves, as they burst impatiently on the dwindling remnant of what was once the Nikerie promontory, sounded in the dusky evening air like a knell of doom. There are many sad sights in this sad world, but few give the beholder so dreary a feeling of helpless melancholy as does a town in the act and process of being washed away by the sea. The forces are so unequal, the destruction so wasteful and so complete. Fortunately at Nikerie, however, except for the loss, such as it is, of some acres of sand-bank, and as much building-material as the inhabitants do not think it worth their while to carry away, no great harm is being done. Already the situation of a new emporium for the sugar and other produce of the estates has been marked out farther up the river, and the rise of the level ground, which is here more rapid than to the west along the Demerara coast, will insure it, with the adjoining cultivated land, from any serious risk of Neptunian invasion, for several years to come. Meanwhile the spectacle now presented by Nikerie is undoubtedly a depressing one to the imaginati on, if not to the miiid; and I was glad to learn that it was the only one of its kind on the Surinam coast. Here first I heard negroes speaking Dutch; and I have no doubt that they murdered it as ruthlessly as they do the queens English or the republics French elsewhere. But I will not detain my readers with a minute~ account of the ways and fashions of the inhabitants in this Nikerie district, as we shall have the op- portunity of studying Dutch Guiana life in all its aspects, black, white, or coloured, to better advantage farther on. This, however, need not hinder our availing our- selves in the mean time, where convenient, of the information copiously supplied by his Excellency Van Sypesteyn, who was in youth the talented historian, as now in middle age he is the active and intelligent governor, of Dutch Guiana. From offi- cial documents it appears that the num- ber of sugar-factories in the district of Nikerie is five, all of them worked by steam, and giving an annual result of five or six thousand hogsheads of sugar, be- sides sixty thousand gallons of molasses, and about as niaiiy puncheons of rum; to which must be added nearly fourteen thousand pounds weight of coffee, and three hundred thousand of cocoa; from all which data, we may safely conclude that the 2,832 acres of its reclaimed land are neither unfruitful nor badly cultivated. Yet the total number of inhabitants only reaches 2,346, more than six hundred of whom are coolie or Chinese emigrants, the remainder are negroes; here as else- where under-population is the great stum- bling-block in the way of progress. It is pitiful to think that out of the ten thousand and more acres, all excellent land, conceded by the Dutch government to the occupation of the Nikerie propri- etors, hardly more than a fourth has been, as the preceding numbers show, brought into actual use. Yet it is neither the cli- mate nor the soil that is here in fault. How often, not in Nikerie and the remain- ing districts of Surinam, but in St. Vin- cent, St. Lucia, Trinidad, in almost all these western Edens, nay, even in flout- ishing Demerara itself, has the image of DUTCH GUIANA. little unpicturesque Barbadoes, unpromis- ing in show, unfavoured by nature, yet thriving, prosperous, overstocked, and therefore only prosperous because over- stocked, recurred to my mind! Improved machinery, coolies, Chinese, are all of them excellent things each in their way, but they cannot make up for the absence of that one great requisite of all progress, material or social, a superabundant native population. But how is it to be obtained for our own three-quarters-empty islands? How for Guiana? How for Surinam? Many answers have been given, and more may be given yet; but a wholly satisfac- tory one is yet to seek. We will try our luck at the solution of this problem farther on. And how our trim little craft is once more on the open sea, bounding from wave to wave as she cleaves her onward way to the east. Sand-banks and mud- banks covered with scarcely more than a fathom-depth of water, kept us out at a considerable distance from the coast; but had we been nearer we should have had little to study except a dull uniform growth of mangrove and Azrzua trees; the latter not unlike our poplars in shape and foliage. Behind this woody screen lies the district of Coronie, almost the only quarter of Dutch Guiana where cot- ton, once a favourite speculation, espe- cially about the time of the late American war, is now grown. So far as soil and climate are concerned, there is no assign- able reason why it should not be more widely planted; but a6riculture and com- merce have their vagaries, often not less capricious than those of fashion and dress. Coronie left behind us, a rougher sea than any we have yet encountered gives us notice that we are passing the joint estuary of the Coppename and Saramacca Rivers, each the main artery of fertile and com- paratively-speaking populous re0ions to the south. Not far inland by the banks of the Cop- pename, thou ~ h shut out from our sight by the forest screen, is a settlement bear~ ing the name of Batavia; and composed exclusively, exception made, I trust, of the government inspector and the doctor, of lepers. A hundred and fifty in number, they employ themselves in field labour~ have cottages and gardens of their own, and as the disease is painless, or nearly so, they live on not unhappily their death in life. The motive for keeping them thus apart from every one else is, of course, the idea that their malady is contagious; an idea wide-spread, it is true, but unsup 59 ported by scientific testimony; and prob- ably due to the horror and disgust excited by the sight of so loathsome a disorder. Salt fish, the old established slave-diet throughout the West Indies, is not im- probably responsible in many cases, if not most, for the disease; though not conta- gious and hardly even infectious, it is cer- tainly hereditary. Improved diet, and above all fresh articles of food, put a limit to its ravages~ and give hopes that with proper precautions it may ultimately disappear. For my part I am not sorry to miss see- ing Batavia, but I must regret the invis- ibility of Groningen, where, near the mouth of the Saramacca, a colony of European labourers has been established for several years past. It is one of the many at- tempts made at various times to supple- ment negro by European field-work; and has, like the German and Irish colonies of Jamaica, ahd the Portuguese of St. Kitts, proved a failure in the main ; though its inevitable non-success as a farm has to a certain extent been compensated by the gardeners and artisans whom it has sup- plied tQ the capital. Something of the same kind has, I believe, taken place else- where. Field labour and outdoor life are things, early or late, irreconcilable with European vigour, health, and even exist- ence, in the tropical new world. Nor are they needed there. Of all which also more anon. A ni~,ht and a day have passed since we quitted the melancholy relics of Nikerie, and we are yet tossing on the turbid waves several miles from laud. This grows monotonous, and great was my delight when on the second evening of ou+ voyage, just as the brief twili~,ht deepened into night, we at last sighted, t bough still at some distance, the dull gleam of the light- ship, anchored several miles out to sea, off the mouth of the Surinam River. Cau- tiously, for the shoals are many and the current strong, we made for the signs of harbour, known even through the general gloom to our pilot and crew, till about irid- night we anchored in smooth water just within the entry of the mighty stream, here over three miles in width, and took shelter behind a long, low, mangrove-covered land- spit running out from the east. A wan crescent moon hung dimly over the black forest-line, and gleamed on the smooth seaward-flowing water where we lay at anchor, waiting the rise of the tide that would not take place till after day- break. Not a sign of human habitation, not a sound of beast or bird; only the i6o DUTCH GUIANA. 1ow roar of the breakers outside the bar, and the ceaseless flapping of the idle rud- der against the sternpost. The air was mild; and no fear of marsh miasma de- terred the crew from taking their rest where they lay, each prone on his face along the deck. That negroes always sleep face downwards is a fact long since observed by Tom Cringle, or rather Mi- chael Scott of Jamaican celebrity; wheth- er his further conjecture that this accounts for the flatness of their ndses be correct, let Darwin decide. Nibht dews, so much and so justly dreaded in many parts of the East Indies, seem to be of little account in these Indies of the West; this, to venture a guess of my own in turn, may perhaps be owing to the much lesser degree of variation here occurring between the di- urnal and nocturnal temperature. So we waited while our boats prow pointed steadily up stream, in a weird solitude that looked as if it were the worlds outer fron- tier land, and the great river the portal to mysterious and unexplored regions beyond. Morning broke at last. The tide turned, aild flowed in, while a fresh breeze, with a sprinkling of light showers on its wings, blew from the east, as we hoisted sail for the port of our destination. Very soon it became evident, from the objects around us, that the. drear loneliness we had just left behind extended no farther than the immediate margin of the sbore, and that we were in reality entering on a region of industry, prosperity, and life. What a relief was the change after two days uniformity of turbid water, with nothing but mangrove-grown mud-banks for a horizon! With breeze and tide in our favour, we now went briskly on, while, bend after bend, the river unfolded to our gaze the treasures that lined its banks, more varied and more abundant at every turn. Joyfully I welcomed first one, then two, then several tall factory-chimneys, each flaunting on the ~ir its lon~ grey smoke-pennon, silvered in the level sun- beams; then appeared glimpses of clus- tered roofs and brick walls through the tall trees planted beside them; boiling- houses, distilleries, overseers dwellings; and, not far removed from each group, rose the tall gabled roof of the Dutch-built residence for manager or proprietor, half- screened amid the shades of its garden grove. Under a bright sun, mixed up with glitterin~ foliage, overtopped by graceful palms, and canopied by the most dazzIin~, of skies, even roofs and chimneys combine with the beauty around them, and become part of it in their turn. Or else it was a long row of cottages, evidently pat- tern-built, that announced the presence of coolies, Indian or Chinese, and implied the prosperity of those who could afford to employ such; while the less regular roof- lines scattered amid the thick garden. bushes told of creole or Surinam-born negro labour. Or roofs .and sheds, but without the accompanhnent of factory and chimney, just visible among the boughs of what the inexperienced eye might take for a natural-grown forest, marked the cocoa estate, scarcely less lucrative in Surinam than the cane-field; or perhaps it is a wide green expanse of plantain leaves colos- sal plantains these or the belfry of a Moravian schoolhouse, that shows over the bank; canoes, too some mere 1-iol- lowed tree-trunks, some of larger con- struction covered barges, six-oared pleasure-boats, sloops with shoulder-of- mutton sails, become more and more fre- quent. So we sailed on, and before long came on one of the grandest sights that nature affords, the junction of two mighty rivers. For here, at a distance of some eight or nine miles from the sea, the Surinam and the Commeweyne Rivers meet together; the former from the south, the latter from the east. It was on their united waters that we had sailed thus far. The Sun- nam, which has, like the Demerara, given its name to an entire region, is navigable by vessels drawing ten feet of water for a distance of about one hundred miles up stream; higher yet, rocks and rapids per- mit only canoes to pass. Its sources lie hid among the forests of the equatorial mountain land that forms the watershed of the valley of the Amazon, four or five degrees farther still to the south; its breadth for the last forty miles, before junction with the Commeweyne, avera~,es above half a mile, its depth from thirty to sixty feet. It is the main artery of the colony, which indeed was f6r many years limited to the immediate neighbourhood of its banks. The Commeweyne, of short- er course, but here, at the junction point, little if at all inferior in breadth and depth to the Surinam itself, runs on an inland parallel with the eastern coast for a dis- tance of some forty miles; farther up a number of smaller rivers the Cottica, the Perica, and others deep, though narrow streams, unite their waters to form the main trunk. On the point which divides the two great rivers, a Hindoo ruler of the good old times, and before the unkind interfer- ence of a low-caste government had, Paul- DUTCH GUIANA~ i6r like, commanded widows rather to marry than to burn, would doubtless have erect- ed a graceful temple, and consecrated the spot to the decorous performance of sut- tee. Dutch governors, a more practical style of men, utilized the spot by erecting on it the fortress of New Amsterdam. Its first stone was laid in 1734, shortly after the plundering exploits of Cassard and the French squadron; its object was evidently the protection of the capital from any repetitions of the like visits in future. But though Paramaribo, and New Am- sterdam too, have since that date twice received French, twice English masters within their walls, it has so happened that the fort guns have never had occasion to pour forth any more deadly fire than that of a signal or a salute; treaties having in later times subjected the colony to those changes that hard fighting brought about in former days. However, the position of New Amsterdam is well chosen, the works strong; and should any future age raise up against the Dutch colonies a new Cassard, he would find in the batteries enough, and more than enough, to render a buccaneering excursion up to Parama- ribo by no means so easy a business as of yore. We saluted the national flag, and pass- ing close under a very respectable battery, exchanged a few words of amicable Dutch with a subaltern, who, at the sight of our government pennon, had hastened down for inquiry to the waters edge. Exempt- ed by his courtesya courtesy I have never found wanting in any of his Bata- vian comrades from the delays of an inspectorial visit, we continued our course due south, up the Surinam River; but the breeze had died away, and it was near noon when, after about eight miles of slow progress between banks and scenes much like those already described, but with a continually increasing densePess of estates and cultivation on either side, we approached the capital. Gardens, too, small dwelling-houses, and crowded cot- tages rose thicker and thicker into view, a tall Flemish-looking tower ~littered in the sun, and at last, rounding an abrupt fort- crowned promontory on the left river-bank, we cast anchor opposite the river quay and town-hall of Paramaribo. CHAPTER IL ~In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. TENNYSON. Iv was not afternoon, in fact it was forenoon, and the sun, though mounted LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 635 high, had not yet throned himself in his meridian tower, when, accompanied by those who had come to meet and welcome my arrival, I mounted a red brick flight of steps, leading from the waters edge tip to the raised quay, and found myself on the threshold of the capital of Dutch Sun- nam. Yet there was something in the atmosphere that can only be described as post-meridian; an influence extending over everything around, town and people alike; nor post-meridian only, but distinctly lo- tophagous, befitting the lotus-eating capital of a lotus-eating land, very calm and still, yet very comfortable and desirable withal. For what regards the material atmos- pbere, its heavy warmth even at so early an hour as ten or eleven of the morning need excite no surprise. Paramarib~ stands qn the South-American map at lit-. tle more than five and a half degrees north of the equator, and the equator here crosses the immense breadth of the moist plains, brimming river-meshes, and dense forests, that constitute nine-tenths of the Guianas and Brazil. Fifteen miles at least, in a straight line, removed from the 2 nearest coast, and cut off from the very limited sea-breeze of the tropics by inter- vening belts of plantation and thick wood the air of Paramaribo is not that of wind-. swept Barbadoes, or dry Antigua, but that of the moistest among all equatorial con- tinents; and may best be likened to the air of an orchid-house at Kew and that of a Turkish bath combined. Not, be it well understood, a dry-heated pseudo- Turkish bath of the European kind, but a genuine hammam of Damascus or Con- stantinople. In such an atmosphere Ulysses himself and his crew must, after a very short stay, have betaken themselves, in company with the natives, to lotus-eat- ing; itisad uty imposed by the climate, and there are many less agreeable duties in the world elsewhere. Not that the climate is unhealthy; quite the reverse. That tall, large-made, elderly European gentleman, in a light grey suit, who, parasol in hand, grandly saunters by, evidently domes so not from any want of vig- our either in mind or limb, but because a sauntering step is more conbenial to the place than a brisk one. Those sleek, stout, comfortable, glossy negroes loitering in sun or shade appear, and are in fact equal, did the occasion require it, to any exertion of which human muscle is capa- ble: they are doing nothing in particular, because nothing in particular is just now the proper thing to do. The town itself, its tall houses, its wide streets, its gardens, 162 DUTCH GUIANA. its squares, its shady avenues, its lofty watch-tower, its tree-embosomed palace, its shrub-embosomed cottages each and every particular of the scene, animate or inanimate, is stamped with the same char- acter. Take life easy, seems the lesson they all alike inculcate; and the lesson is a popular one, soon learnt and steadily practised on every hand. But appearances, however real for what regards the surface of which they are part, may yet he very deceptive, if rea- soned from unconditionally to what exists beneath them; and a town that numbers more than twenty-two thousand inhabit- ants, itself the capital of the colony that yearly exports to the average value of a million sterling, cannot he wholly peopled by dreamy lotus-eaters, delicious lotus- eaters only; nor can the sole occ.upation of the dwellers in city or field be lotus-eat- ing, either physical or moral. The solid and underlying fact of Para- maribo is that amid this atmosphere, and on this segment of the great Guiana delta, have planted themselves and taken root, no longer exotic but indigenous, the same Dutch industry, Dutch perseverance; and Dutch good sense, that of old turned the sandy swamps of the Batavian delta into a flower-garden, and erected the Venice of the north on the storm-swept shores of the Zuider-Zee. Surinam, rightly understood, is only Holland under another sky; Para- maribo is Amsterdam by other waters; the colouring and toning of the picture may indeed be equatorial creole, but the lines and grouping are those of the Neth- erlands school and no other. This it is that gives to Paramaribo its two-fold character, at once European and tropical, Dutch and creole; a blending of opposites, a dual uniformity, an aspect that when first beheld leaves on the mind an impression bordering on unreality, as if place and people were imaged in a hot picturesque dream. Yet Paramaribo is no dream, nor its inhabitants dream shapes; very much the contrary. In fact no capi- tal town throughout the West Indies, no offspring of European stem, French, En- glish, Danish, or even Spanish, so ~enu- inely, so truthfully represents the colony to which it belongs as Dutch Paramaribo. Contrary examples are easily adduced. Thus, for instance, Jamaica is pre-emi- nently the land of English country gentle- men, of magistrates, landlords, farmers; in tone, ways, and life, it is an English coun- try district; while Demerara is in no small measure an English, or rather, I should say, a Scotch manufacturing dis trict; Barbadoes an English parish (Little Pedlington its satirists, of whom I beg to state that I am not one, would call it), mag- nified into an island. But neither Jamaica, nor Demerara, nor Barbadoes, possesses a correct epitome of itself in Kingston, Georgetown, or even Bridgeto~vn; each of these three seaports has a character of its own, distinct from, and in some respects opposed to, the colony at large. This is due to many causes; and most of all to the mixed multitude of trade, the camp- followers of enterprise, who, under what- ever banner they congregate, acknowledge in heart and life no hag but that of indi- vidual self-interest. These are they who muster strongest in the generality of colo- nial towns, especially seaports; and tinge, if they do not absolutely colour, the places of their resort. And thus from the merest port of call along these shores, where the co do/ti ri element is at its maximum, to Georgetown~ where it is decidedly at its minimum, a something of a restless, make- shift, egoistic, cheap-jack admixture obscures, or at least jars with the public- spirited nationality, unsettles the popula- tion, debases the buildings, ungroups the unity, and deforms the beauty of place and site. With Paramaribo it is otherwise. The broad straight streets, flanked with spa- cious and lofty houses, shaded by care- fully-planted avenues, adorned with pub- lic buildin~ s that Scheveningen or the Hague need not blush to own, and trim almost as the waysides of Brock; the governors residence, a miniature palace for elegance of style and stately appear- ance; the spacious masonic lodge, Con- cordia, where a grand orient himself I speak as a profane, and if the term be in- correct apologize might hold his assem- bly; the seemly synagogues, Dutch the one, Portuguese the other, the decorous if somewhat heavy-built churches, Reformed and Lutheran, the lighter-constructe~I but more spacious establishments, Mornviaa and Catholic, the lofty town-hall with its loftier tower, that from a hundred and twenty feet of height looks down over fort and river, the court-house hard by, the noble military hospital, with its wide ye- randahs, open staircases, and cool halls, the strong-built fort and barracks, the the- atre, the club-house, the many other build- ings of public use and ornament, all these are Dutch in appearance and character; all expressive of the eleven provinces, though chiefly of Zealand and the steady purpose of her sons. The well-planned and carefully-kept canals that intersect DUTCI-I GUIANA. 163 the town in every direction, the neat bridges, the broad river-side quays, the trim gardens, the decent cemeteries, the entire order and disposition of the place, tell the same tale; witness to the same founders; reflect the same image, true to its original on the north seacoast; all tell of settled order and tasteful method. The site was well chosen. The Sun- nam, here a tidal river of nearly a mile broad, flows past a slightly raised plateau of sand and gravel mixed with caddy, a compound of finely broken fragments of shell and coral, extending for some dis- tance along the left or xvest bank. The general elevation of the ground is about sixteen feet above low-water level, enough to insure it from being overflowed in the rainy seasons, or by the highest tides. Several streams, improved by Dutch in- dustry into canals, intersect this level; one of them connects the waters of the Surinam with those of the Saramacca far- ther west; all are tidal in their ebb and floxv. Drainage is thus rendered easy; and now that the low bush and scrub, the natural growth of every South-American soil, however light, has been cleared away, the citizens of Paramaribo may securely boast that throughout the entire extent of Guiana, from the Orinoco to the Amazon, no healthier town than theirs is to be found. This healthiness is, however, in great measure due to their own exertions; and above all to the good sense that pre- sided over the construction of the town. When the true founder of town and col- ony alike, Cornelius van Aerssen, lord of Sommelsdyk, and the fifth governor of Dutch Guiana, landed on these shores in 7683, Paramaribo, so he wrote, consisted of only twenty-seven dwellings, more than half of which were grog-shops, and close to it the Fort of Zeelandia, so named after its builders, the intrepid Zeelanders, who had already repelled more than one Indian or English assault from its xvalls. But under the vigorous administration of Sommelsdyk the rapidly rising prosperity of the colony was reflected in the town it- self, that henceforth grew and prospered year by year. Its records describe it in 1750 as already covering one-half~f its present extent; and in 1790 the number of houses within its circuit exceeded a thousand; till about the beginning of the present century, the addition of the ex- tensive suburb of Combe, on the north side, brought it up to its actual limits. Then followed a long and dreary period of colonial depression, general indeed throughout the West Indies, but nowhere, Jamaica perhaps excepted, greater than in Suninam; where the uncertainty conse- quent .on a reiterated change of masters, French, English, and Dutch, helped to depreciate the already declining value of estates and produce in this part of the world. Misfortunes never come singly; and while the colony at large suffered, Paramaribo in partitular, ravaged by two severe conflagrations, the one in 1821, and the other in 7832, presented a melancholy spectacle of unreQaired ruins, and aban- doned suburbs. Between 7840 and i86o things were at their worst, both for col- ony and capital. Then came the turn; the shock of emancipation passed, its benefits remained, town and country alike revived together; houses were rebuilt; suburbs re-populated; and of her past wounds the Paramaribo of our day now scarcely shows a scar. The number of her inhabitants, reckoned at barely six- teen thousand in 1854, at present exceeds twenty-two thousand; thus showing an in- crease of six thousand in the course of the last twenty years only. A goodly city is this Antium; but during the hot hours of the day, that is, from eight or at latest nine in the morn- ing till pretty near sunset, I would not willingly incur the responsibility of send- ing a friend or even an enemy, unless he happened to be a mortal one, on a sight- seeing stroll through the streets of Para- maribo. Carriages or riding-horses there are few to be found in the town, and none at all for hire; negro carts are plenty, to be sure, and negro mules too, but the former, independently of other considera- tions, are jolting conveyances, the latter a hard-mouthed, stiff-necked generation; and neither adapted to the furtherance of Eu- ropean locomotion, whether on pleasure or business. As to walking-exercise un- der this equatorial sun, it might possibly be an agreeable recreation for a salaman- der, but hardly for any other creature. It is true that shade may be found even in the hottest hours of perpendicular noon; and when the sun has fairly beaten you, as he will in less than five minutes, from the field, you may take refuge, if you choose, under the broad-leaved, glistening, um- brella-like almond-trees, so called from a superficial resemblance between the ker- nels of their fruit and those of the almond, but neither in foliage nor growth having the most distant likeness to the European tree of that name, which Dutch fore- thought has kindly planted all alono- the river quay. There, in company with any 164 DUTCH GUIANA. number of ragged black loungers, you may improve your leisure by watching the great barges as they float leisurely along the tide, bearing their neatly protected loads of sugar, cocoa, or other plantation produce for the cargo-ships, that wait off the town stellings, or wharfs, patiently moored day by day, with so little bustle or movement of life about them, that you xvonder whether their crews have not all by common consent abandoned them, and gone off to join a lotus-eating majority on shore. Or if you are driven to seek refuge while wandering throtigh the interior of the town, the great hroad streets, all mathematically straight, will offer you the shelter of their noble avenues, where tama- rind, mahogany, sand-box, or other leafy trees, planted with Batavian regularity, cast down a long black streak of shade on the glarin~ whiteness of the hi6hway; or you may rest, if so inclined, beside some well in one of the many rectangular spaces left open for the sake of air or ornament, here and there in the very heart of the town, like squares in London, but without the soot. One such green oasis contains half-hid- den amid its trees the handsome Portu- guese synagogue, of recent construction; another the Dutch, less showy but more substantial, as befits the old standing and wealth of the worshippers within its walls, and the memory of Samuel Cohen Nassy, its talented founder, the Surinam Joshua of his tribe when they camped, two cen- turies ago, on the banks of their newly- acquired Jordan. A third square I use the inappropriate word for want of a better in our own language ; but the French p lace or Arab meidan would more cor- rectly express the thing boasts the pres- ence of the Dutch Reformed church (the building, I mean), a model of heavy pro- priety, suggestive of pew-openers and the Hundredth Psalm, Old Tune; while a fourth has in its enclosure the flimsy, showy construction that does appropriate duty for the gaudy rites of Rome. A fifth has for its centre-piece the Lutheran place of worship; a sixth, the Moravian; and so forth. But whatever be the gods with- in, the surroundings of every temple are of a kind in which Mr. Tylor could legiti- mately discern something of a survival of tree-worship and the groves of old a sensible survival in these sun-lorded equatorial regions Select, then, your city of refuge where you will; but except it be by chance some stray black policeman, whom an unusual and utterly heroic sense of duty keeps awake and on his beat, or a few dust-sprinkled ebony children, too young as yet to appreciate the impropriety of being up and alive at this hour you yourself, and the ungainly Johnny-crows that here, as at Kingston, do an ac- knowledged share of the street-cleanin~ business, will be the only animal speci- mens discernible among this profusion cf vegetable life. For these shade-spots, with all their cool, are delusive in their promise they are mere islets plunged amid an overwhelming ocean of light and heat; and flesh, however solid, though protected by them from actual combustion in the furnace around, must soon thaw and resolve itself into a dew under the influ- ence of the reflected glare. Better take example, as indeed it is the travellers wisdom to do in any latitude, whether tropical or arctic, from the na- tives of the land, and like them retire, after a substantial one-oclock breakfast, lunch- eon, or dinner since any of these three designations may be fairly applied to the meal in question to an easy undress and quiet slumber till four or later have chap- pit in the afternoon. Indoors you will find it cool enough. The house-walls, though of wood, at least throughout the upper stories, are solidly constructed, and are further protected from the heat by any amount of verandahs outside, which, in true Dutch taste, are not rarely dissembled under the architectural appearance of porticos. The house-roofs are highly pitched, and an airy attic intervenes be- tween them and the habitation below; the windows, too, are well furnished with ja- busies and shutters, and the bedrooms are most often up two flights of stairs, occa- sionally three. If, under circumstances like these, you cannot keep cool, especially when you have nothing else on earth to do, you have only yourself, not the climate, to blame. Such at any rate is the opinion, confirmed by practice, of the colonists uni- versally, European or creole, white or col- oured; and as they have, in fact, been up and at work each in his particular line of business ever since earliest dawn, it would be hard to grudge them their stated and, for the matter of that, well~earned after- noon nap. Merchants, tradesmen, ac- countants, proprietors, bankers, and the like, th~us disposed of, his Dutch Majestys officials, civil, military, or naval (for a small fribate is always stationed at Para- maribo, ready at the colonial governors behests), may, I think, sleep securely calm when all around are sleeping; nay, even the watchmen and they are many in these gates of keen, energetic Israel DUTCH GUIANA. I6~ have retired to their tents in the universal luxuriant as in the Government House post-meridian trance. As to the eighteen garden, I am not sure if any of its beau- or nineteen thousand negroes of the town, ties charmed me so much as the exquisite it would he superfluous to say that, no spe- betel-nut avenue, each palm averaging cial persuasion or inducement of local fifty feet in height, and each equally per- custom is needed to induce diem to sleep fect in form and colour, that adorns the either at this or any other hour of the day. central space enclosed by the spacious Follow then the leader, or rather the buildings of the public hospital at the whole band. If, however, you still prefer farther end of the town. Leave all these, to prove yourself a stranger by usin~ your if you can, and which will be better eyes for.sight-seeing at a time when every still enter instead the cool vaulted brick genuine Paramariban has closed his for hall, of genuine Dutch burgher build, that sleep, the open parade-ground will afford serves partly as an entry to the public you while crossing it an excellent opportu- law offices and courts, partly as a deposi- nity for experimental appreciation of the tory for whatever colonial records have intensity of the solar rays, lat. ~ 4om. escaped the destructive fires of 21 and north. This done, you may, or rather you 32. Hence you may mount, but leisurely, certainly will, take speedy refuge under in compassion for your guide if not for the noble overarching tamarind alley that yourself, the central tower, till you reach leads up from the parade-ground to the th~ lantern-like construction that at a front of Government House, and passing height of a hundred feet crowns the sum- through the cool and lofty hall of the build- mit of the town hall. There stand, and ing, left open, West-India fashion, to every look down far and wide over the most comer, make your way ihto the garden, or fertile plain that ever alluvial deposit rather park, that lies behind. It is prob- formed in the new world, or the old able that the peccaries, tapirs, monkeys, either. On every side extends a green deer, and the other animal beauties or tree-grown level as far as the eye can monstrosities, collected the most of them reach, its surface just high enough raised by his Excellency, the present governor, above water-mark to escape becoming a and domiciled in ample wire enclosures swamp, y~t nowhere too high for easy between the flower-beds, will, in their qual- irrigation; capriciously marked at fre- ity of natives, be fast asleep; and if the quent intervals by shining silver dashes, quaint, noisy, screaming birds, the tamed that indicate sometimes the windino~ of representatives of Guiana ornithology, col- rivers broad and deep, sometiinesb the lected here, are asleep also, you may ad- more regular lines of canals, of creeks, mime their plumage without needing to re- and of all the innumerable waterways gret the muteness of their most sweet which in this region supply the want of voices. But the humming-birds and but- roads, and give access to every district terfijes are wide awake, and, unalarmed by that lies between the northern sea and your approach, will continue to busy them- the equatorial watershed, far beyond the selves among flowers such as Van Elst limits of European enterprise, all too nar- himself never painted, nor Spenser sang. row as yet. Long years must pass before Here is a crimson passion-flower, there a the children of Surinam have cause to pink-streaked lily; golden clusters hang complain that the place is too strait for from one plant, spikes of dazzling blue them lono~ before the cultivation that rise from anothor; the humming-birds now forms an emerald ring of exceptional themselves are only distinguishable from brightness round the city, and reaches them, as they dart through, by the metal- out in radiating lin~s and interrupted lie lustre, not by the vividness or variety patches along the courses of the giant of their colours. As to the butterflies, rivers, has filled up the entire land circle who is the greatest admirer of the race? visible from the tower of Paramaribo Let him see the butterflies of Surinam, alone. and die! Beyomid this, the flower-gar- The day has declined from heat to heat, den merges in the park a Guiana park and at last the tall trees begin to inter- of Guiana trees. Their names and qual- cept the slant sun-rays; when, behold! ities it is easy to look out in books, or with one consent, Paramaribo, high and recapitulate from memory; but how to low, awakes, shakes itself, puts on its describe them as they are? Mr. Ruskin clothes, ra~ged or gay, and comes out to says that the tree-designer begins by find- open air and life. The chief place of re- his ~work difficult, and ends by finding sort is, of Course, the parade-ground, ~t impossible; and I say the same of the where, according to established custom, a tree.d-escriber, at any rate here. And yet, Dutch or creole military band performs x66 DUTCH GUIANA. twice a week; and where, in the absence Barbadoes negro and his kinsman of the of musical attractions, cool air, pleasant neighbouring islands, or of the main, is walks, free views, and the neighbourhood one rather of expression and voice than of the river, draw crowds of loungers, of clothes and general bearing, and hence especially of the middle and even upper may readily pass unnoticed in the general classes. But in truth, for a couple of aspect of a crowd. hours, or near it, every road, every street, However diversified the species, the is full of comers and goers, and loud with genus is one. Watch the throng as it talk and laughter. For the negro element, passes: the kerchief-turbaned, loose-gar- a noisy one, predominates over all, even mented market-woman; the ragged porter within the capital itself; the Dutch, and yet more ragged boatman;. the gar- though rulers of the land, are few, and dener with his cartful of yams, bananas, other Europeans fewer still. Indeed, a sweet potatoes, and so forth; the white- late census gave the total number of clad shop clerk and writer, the straw- whites in the town, the soldiers of the fort hatted salesman, the umbrella-bearing included, but little over a thousand. As merchant, sailors, soldiers; policemen to Indians, the pure-blooded ones of their quaintly dressed, as policemen are by pre- kind have long since abandoned the neigh- scriptive right everywhere, exc eptinsen- bourhood of Paramaribo, and now seldom sible, practical Demerara;. officials, aides- revisit the locality to which two centuries de-camp, hi~,h and low, rich and poor, one past they gave a name; a few half-breeds, with another, and you will see that through with broad oval faces and straight black and above this variety of dress, occupa- hair, alone represent the race. Bush tion, rank, colour even, there runs a cer- negroes, in genuine African nudity, may tam uniformity of character a something be seen in plenty from the river wharfs ; in which all participate, from first to last. but they seldom leave their floating houses A few exceptions, indeed, there are; and barges to venture on shore, though but they are confined almost exclusively common sense has for some time past to the white colonists; and among them, relaxed the prudish regulations of former even, the anomalies are few. In general, times, according to which no unbreeked one pattern comprehends the entire cate- male or unpetticoated female was permit- gory of white colonists, men and women, ted to shock the decorum of Paramaribo gentle and simple; and it is an eminently promenades. Coolies and Chinese, too, self-contained, self-consistent pattern, the though now tolerably numerous on the Dutch. Steady in business, methodical estates where, indeed, about five thou- in habit, economical in expenditure, liber- sand of them are employed are rarely al in outlay, hospitable in entertainment, to be met with in the streets of the capi- cheerful without flightiness, kindly with- tal; which in this respect offers a remark- out affectation, serious without dulness, no able contrast to Georgetown and Port of one acquainted, even moderately, with the Spain, where the mild Flindoo ntets you mother country, can fail to recognize the at every turning with that ineffable air of genuine type of the Hague in the colonial mixed self-importance and servility that a official, and that of Maestricht or Amster- Hindoo alone can assume, and Chinamen dam in the business population of Para- and women make day hideous with the maribo. This indeed might have been preternatural ugliness of what flattery fairly anticipated; the steady, unimpres- alone can term their features. The ab- sionable Dutchman being less subject to sence of these beauties here may be ex- what shall we call it ? equatorization, plained partly by the recentness of their than the soon-demoralized Spaniard or introduction into the Dutch colony, where lighter Portuguese. It is a matter of they are still bound by their first inden- more surprise, an agreeable surprise, when tures to field-work, and consequently un- we find much that recalls to mind the able as yet to display their shop-keeping Dutch peasantry and labouring classes, talents; partly by the number and activity distinctly traceable among the correspond- of the negro creole population which has ing classes of creole negroes throu~hout preoccupied every city berth. Of all the delta of Surinam. By what influence strangers, only the irrepressible Barba- is it attraction, sympathy, or master- dian, with the insular characteristics of ship that some nations so eminently his kind fresh about him, has made good succeed in transforming the acquired sub- his footino among the Surinam grog-shops jects of whatever race into copies, and and wharfs, where he asserts the position occasionally caricatures, of themselves, due to his ready-handed energy, and keeps while other nations not less signally fail it too. But the diversity between the in doing so? That Frenchmen, however DUTCh GUIANA. 167 much they may annoy those they annex by their incurable habit of administrative over-meddling, yet make, not always in- deed obedient subjects of France, but anyhow Frenchmen and Frenchwomen out of those they rule, is a fact attested everywhere, and one that will long remain to grieve German hearts in Alsace and Lorraine. How long ago is it since the tricolor has been hauled down to make place for the union-jack at St. Lucia, St. Vincent, Dominica, and Trinidad? Yet in each of these and their kindred isles the French impress still survives, unef- faced as yet by change and time. Much in the same way to run through the list of other national annexations or conquests: Brazil is not merely ruled by a Portuguese emperor, but is Portuguese itself; and even the revolted Spanish colonies are Spanish in almost everything but official allegiance to this day. On the contrary, who ever heard of a land Germanized hv the Germans, however influential thef+ settlers, and absolute their rule? And is there the remotest prospect that the Hin- doo, though reconciled by sheer self-inter- est to toleration of the most equitahle rule that ever race exercised over race, will ever become not merely an English sub- ject, but an Englishman in ways and heart? Still more complete has been the failure of Danish attempts at extra-na- tional assimilation, in whatever land or age, from the days of /Ethelred to our own. But, indeed, where there is diver- sity of blood, mistrust and antipathy are more easily accounted for than sympathy and unison. To return to our Dutch friends. How it may he with them else- where, in Java for instance, I know not; here, on the Guiana coast, they have al- most outdone the French in assimilative results; a problem of which the solution must be sought, partly in history, partly in actual observation. Our best opportunity for the latter will be when visiting the country districts farther up the river. among the estates. Meanwhile let us linger yet a little in Paramaribo itself; and here among the European townsmen, their visitor will find everywhere, so he be one that deserves to find, a pleasant uniformity of unostenta- tious but cordial welcome, of liberal enter- taininent, of thoughtful and rational hospi- tality, attentive to the physical, and not neglectful of the mental requirements of the guest; whatever, in a word, he would meet with, thou6h under a different aspect, on the shores of the Yssel or the Waal. Indeed he might even have some difficulty in remembering, when endeavouring to re- call to mind the events of his stay in the Surinam capital, at which citizens house in particular he passed that pleasant even- ing, at whose table he shared that copious meal, breakfast, dinner, or supper; where it was that he admired the fine old china and massive plate; under which roof the hostess smiled most courteously, the host conversed with most good-nature and good sense. After all, Si vis ut red me- ris, ama holds good in every age and land; and if the Dutch colonists and cre- oles of Surinam are universally popular, it is because they have been at the pains of earning popularity, which, like other good things, has its price, and is worth it too. Much the same, proportion and circum- stances taken into account, may be said of the black creoles of Dutch Guiana. The evils and degradation inseparable from slavery were not, it is true, wantinb here, but in spite of these unfavourahle antece- dents the Surinam negro has amply proved by his conduct, both before and during emancipation, that he had learnt from his white masters lessons of steadiness, of order, of self uiet industry, of kindliness -respect, of q alien from his even, not indeed own native character, b~t too often un- practised elsewhere. And thus the ex- slave has, with a rapidity of change to which, I believe, no parallel can be found in the history of any other West-Indian colony, blended into national, and even, within certain limits, into social, unison with his masters; a unison so little im- paired by the inevitable, however involun- tary rivalry consequent on differences, some artificial indeed but some immanent, of caste and race, as to afford the best hopes for the future of the entire colony. It is remarkable that even the terrible ser- vile wars, which lasted with hardly an in- terruption for sixty entire years, that is from i715 to i775, and not only checked the prosperity, but even more than once menaced the very existence of the colony, should have passed and left behind them no trace, however slight, of hostile feel- ing or memory among the negro popula- tion, whether slave or free; that no out- break, like those of Jam2mica,. St. Croix, and so many other nei6hbouring colonies,, here followed or anticipated emancipation, though delayed in Surinam till m863; and more remarkable yet, that no discontent interfered with the compulsory though paid labour of the ten years following. Slavery quietly faded into apprenticeship, apprenticeship into freedom; and in a land where riot and revolt would have a x68 DUTCH GUIANA. better chance than anywhere else of suc- but dilapidated Lungarno; or have at cess, that chance was never embodied in Genoa seen the contrast of those times act. Facts like these speak certainly between the palatial loneliness of Strada well for the creole blacks, but if atten- Babbi and the pretty grove-embosomed tively considered, they speak even better villas of recent commercial date, they An favour of their white masters. Our might, under all local differences of cir- present business is, however, not with cumstance and colouring, recognize some- these last, but with the negro creoles, as thing not dissimilar in both the meaning they show themselves in the capital, where implied and effect produced in this trans- they muster five or six to one among the atlantic capital of Dutch Guiana. entire population. Cheerful contentment The actual and immediate cause of is, the prevailing expression of every decadence is a very common one, by no dusky face, whether turned towards you in means peculiar to Paramaribo or Surinam: friendly morning greeting as the busy want of capital. Were, however, that swarm presses on talking, laughing, jest- want is in a certain sense doubled by the ing, along ~he highways to the market and circumstance that not only are the means quay; or in the afternoon gatherings on of the colony itself insufficient to its needs, the parade-ground, under the avenues, and but that there is no satisfactom~y prospect alonbside of the river-banks. You watch, of an adequate supply from without. It and soon cease to wonder that the official is, I might almost say, the condition of a statistics of Paramaribo, while enumerat- man indigent at home, and friendless out ing and classifying its twenty-two thou- of doors. The home poverty is readily sand inhabitants, make no distinctive accounted for. It began with invasions, headings of colour or race. I wish many resistances, foreign occupations, treaty- another West - Indian town could with embarrassments, and the other war-be- equal good reason permit themselves a gotten ills of the troublous years that like omission. closed the last and opened the present Glossy, however, as the surface may be, century. Followed next the evil days al- there is a wrong side of the stuff; and to ready alluded to, evil for Transatlantic this we must ~ow turn our attention. colbnies everywhere; and, in. consequence Though a comfortable and, so far at least of the hostilities of 1833 between France as the majority of its indwellers are con- and Holland, doubly evil for Surinam. cerned, a~ contented town, Paramaribo Then came emancipation, long and un- cannot, if compared, say with George- wisely deferred till financfal exhaustion town or Bridgetown, Kingston, or even had reached its lowest depths; and with Port dEspagne, take rank as exactly pros- all these the appalling conflagration of perous or progressive. True, the streets 1821, followed by one scarce less destruc- of the creole quarters of the city are tive in 1832; commercial difficulties of constantly extending themselves; there every kind; the fatal yellow-fever epi- new rows of small neat dwellings, each demic of 1851; in a word, a whole Pan- with gay garden and well-stocked provi- doras box of adversities opened for sion-ground, spring up year by year, but Dutch Guiana in a scarce less disastrous in the commercial and what may in a gen- profusion than for Jamaica herself. And eral way be termed the European quarter thus, to revert to the more special topic of of the town, large half-empty stores, tall this chapter, Paramaribo was brought low neglected - looking houses, a prevailing indeed, almost to the very gates of death; want of fresh repair, here deficient paint, and her cdndition, as we this day see her, there broken woodwork, besides a certain is that of a patient recovering from a long general air of listlessness verging on dis- and dangerous illness, and weak, not in- couragement, and an evident insufficiency deed with the weakness of actual disease, of occupation not from want of will but but the weakness of convalescence. of means, all combine to give an appear- Nor is that convalescence likely to be ance of stagnation suggestive of better a rapid one. With Jamaica, we know, it days for the European colonists at least, has been otherwise; but then Jamaica is in the past, and contrasting almost pain- the child of a parent alike vigorous and fully with the more thriving back streets wealthy, able to chastise, able also to assist. and suburbs beyond. If any of my read- Not so with Dutch Guiana. In more than ers have visited Italy in the sad bygone one respect the good-will of Holland ex- years when Italy was a geographical name ceeds her power; and her comparatively only, and there compared, as they may recent severar~ce from Belgium, a political well have done, the trim Borghi of gain, was yet a financial loss. Besides, Java grand-ducal Florence with her stately is a more popular name by far in the home THE DILEMMA. 169 mart of Dutch enterprise than Surinam; and the eastern colony is indisputably the more attractive, the larger, the wealth- ier, and, more I believe owing to external and accidental circumstances than to its own intrinsic qualities, as contrasted with those of its rival, porportionally the more remunerative of the two. Hence, while the invigorating cordial, to continue our former metaphor, or rather the true and certain panacea for the patients lingering illness is poured out freely in the direction of the Pacific, a feeble and interrupted dribble is all that finds its way to the At- lantic coast. Nor again can the annual subsidy with which for years past the ma- ternal government of the States has striv- en to uphold and still upholds the droop- ing vigour of her western offspring be regarded as a remedy adapted for the case; it is at best a palliative, nor, I think, and in this the wisest heads of the colony agree, one conducive to gen- uine recovery and health. State support after this fashion tends rather in its re- sults to cramp the energies of the recipi- ent than to develop them; it has some- thing of the prop in it, but more of the fetter. Compare, for example, the French colonies, where it is most lavishly be- stowed, with the English, where the op- posite and almost niggardly extreme is the rule; the conclusion is self-apparent, and the corollary too. Periodical subsidy in particular is an error, less injurious it may be than the opposite conduct of Denmark, exacting for herself a yearly tribute from her overtaxed and exhausted colonies, but an error nevertheless; it is the injudicious conduct of an over-indul- gent parent, as the other is that of a step- mother at best. Private enterprise, pri- vate capital, these are what Surinam re- quires; and, on the part of the mother country, not a supplement to her coffers, but a guarantee. Lastly, emancipation and its immediate and inevitable conse- quences, the multiplication of small free- holds, both of them events of yesterday in Surinam, have not yet allowed time for the balance of hired and independent labour to redress itself; nor has the in- crease of creole well-being yet reacted, as react it ultimately must, in a correspond- ing increase of prosperity among the European townsmen and estate-owners themselves. The present moment is one of transition; and transition implies that something has been left behind, a tempo- rary loss even where more has been at- tained, or is in process of attainment. W. GIFFOItD PALGRAVE. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE DILEMMA. CHAPTER XL. BUT the intimacy was rudely interrupt- ed. One day Kirke received a letter from army headquarters, through the general commanding the station, enclosing an anonymous vernacular petition which had been addressed to the commander-in-chief, in which various irregularities were alleged to have been committed by him in regard to the regimental accounts; and, although it was not intended to take any action on an anonymous petition, it was suggested to be desirable that he should furnish any explanations he thought proper upon the allegations made. Kirke kept the matter from the knowledge of the other officers, although it leaked out through the station staff-office that such a letter had been re- ceived; but his suspicions pointed to the ressaldar Futteh Khan as the writer of the petition, son~e of the more specific allega- tions in it referring to transactions principally relating to advances of pay with which this officer was concerned; while the man, he recollected, had been reprimanded, not to say abused, publicly before the whole regiment one day, just about the time this petition was dated. Sending for the man therefore to his house, he taxed him with the authorship. The ressaidar, although denying it, did so in such a way as to confirm Kirkes suspi- cions, and to draw down upon him a vol- ley of abuse from his infuriated command- ing officer, which the man, instead of receiving quietly as would have been usual, losing his temper in turn, replied to insolently; whereon Kirke put him in arrest, and applied to the major-general for a court-martial to try him for insubor- dination. The man now sent in another petition, this time in his own name, con- taining numerous sp cific accusations against his commandant of irregular trans- actions in regard to the regimental ac- counts, improper dealings with the native banker of the regiment, and above all, that he had drawn pay for troopers in excess of the number enlisted, for many months after the regiment was first raised. On this petition being received at headquar- ters, an order was issued from the adju- tant-generals office to Sir Montague Tar- tar to convene a court of inquiry, composed of the senior officers at the station, who had Colonel Kirke and the regimental records under examination for many days, and called numerous native officers and troopers of the regiment as witnesses. 170 THE DILEMMA. Kirke at first made light of the matter; it been properly kept, by a man who was was a mere conspiracy of a scoundrel, who spending day and night in the ~saddle, and of course, after the manner of his race, had so many other things to attend to~ was ready to swear to anything a scoun- among others, to help in saving the em- drel whom he should have got rid of long pire besides keeping muster-rolls and before, and would get rid of now. For cash-accounts? and was it fair to turn although no witnesses were present in the round on an officer whose services had room where the ressaldar had been re- been such as his, and call him to account ceived by his commandant, the orderlies for these matters, and this at the instance in the verandah heard the voices in alter- of a worthless native who had been dis- cation, and on their evidence the court- missed the service? The court evidently martial held upon the native officer found thought so too; and althou~h not alto- him guilty of insubordination, and he was gether satisfied with his mode of explain- dismissed the service those not beinb ing the transactions under inquiry, which times, just after the mutiny had been sup- had not tended to make a complicated pressed, for passing over breaches of business clearer, they were disposed on discipline in the native army. Meanwhile the whole to regard Kirke as an ill-used the protracted sitting of the court of man, who had been at worst care4ess under inquiry created great excitement- among great excuse; and they would have re- the European community, extending far ported to this effect, when another com- beyond the station of Mustaphabad. The munication was received from army head- proceedings of the court were kept secret quarters a letter from the ex-ressaldar, officially, but tolerably authentic rumours accusing his late commanding officer of as to their nature leaked out; and while having appropriated jewels captured dur- the general sentiment was one of dismay ing the war, instead of making them over to and regret that so distinguished a soldier the prize-agents, which accusation also should be subject to the indignity of in- the court was directed to inquire into. quiry into his conduct, there were not The members of the court did not at- wanting others to remind the public that tach much importance to this complaint, Colonel Kirke had already once before it being generally supposed that such ap- been in trouble for irrebularities of the propriations and stray plunder had been same sort; and while some people argued not infrequent during the war, few per- that the fact of his having suffered already sons believing at the time that there would in this way would naturally make him par- be any formal distribution of prize-money; ticularly careful not to commit himself and the prosecutors statements on this again by a similar error, other critics ex- head would have met with but little serious plained the coincidence of events by the attention, but for a turn unexpectedly assumed natural propensities of the man. given to the inquiry. Yorke was under ex- As for Yorke, although he shrank from amination one day on a matter connected suspecting his commanding. officer of any- with the regimental accounts, when the thing like dishonesty, he could not divest president of the court asked him to state himself of an uneasy feeling regarding the what he knew about certain jewels, sup- regimental accounts, calling to mind the posed to have been seized by Coldnel evident disinclination of the former to let IIirke, as it was understood that he also them go out of his own hands, and also was present at the capture. certain points in. them which had come Yorke, who did not know precisely with under observationduring his examination what object the question was put for of the regimental books, and which, al- the fact of the charge having been made though he did not perfectly understand was still kept secret did not immediately them at the time, seemed now, seen by understand what was referred to; but on the light thrown upon them by these accu- the matter coming to his recollection, he satmons, to suggest at least a mystification stated what he knew about it: how the of facts. But the allegations made were colonel had let the ressaldar take the jew- of a kind which it would be almost impos- elled dagger found on the prisoner in the sible to prove. The regimental accounts palkee, and the trooper the bag of money; had no doubt been irre~ularly kept, and while he himself took possession of the there was a want of agreement between little case of jewels. Then, in reply to a the sums charged for troopers pay at the question put by a member of the court, time of first embodiment, and the corre- Yorke added that, so far as he could sponding vouchers in the way of muster- judge, the jewels were ofi some value; rolls; but as Kirke fairly urb ed, how was but, he continued, all this, I submit, has it to be expected that they should have nothing to do with the matter; because, THE DILEMMA. 7 whether they were valuable or not, the colonel gave them up to the prize-agent. And then, being pressed by certain ques- tions, Yorke gave an account of what had passed between them on the subject; how he had written to Kirke to express his uneasiness at the retention of the jewels, and that the latter had replied to the effect that he had already made them over to the prize-agent. Kirke bowed his acknowledgments across the table to Yorke for having thus cleared him from the accusation; but the latter could not help noticing that his com- manding officer did not appear quite at his ease. And one of the members observed that what Colonel Kirke had said to.Major Yorke was not evidence. The explana- tion seemed, however, to be generally ac- cepted as satisfactory by the court; but as Yorke was leaving the room, the presi- dent asked him if he had the letter still in his possession. I really cannot say for certain, re- plied Yorke, without examining my pa- pers, whether I have or not; but I appre- hend my word may be accepted as suffi- cient testimony of what took place. There the matter might have rested, for the members of the court appeared by no means desirous of raking up bygone trans- actions relating to the war; but whether it was that the prosecutorfor so the ex- ressaldar may be styled got word of what had happened, or that he was already pressing the same line of accusation, he now put in an affidavit from a native bank- er who had been employed by the prize- agents as custodian of the jewellery made over to him, to the effect that he had not received any jewels answering to the de- scription of those in question; while the prize-agents, who were now residing in distant parts of India, in reply to the question now addressed to them by letter from army headquarters, stated specifical- ly that no such articles had been delivered up to them by Colonel Kirke. This cor- respondence occupied some days; and meanwhile the prosecutor had submitted another petition to the court, to the effect that he could produce the banker as a wit- ness, with whom some of the jewels had been deposited by the colonel sahib, as security for a loan of money. On the evening of the day on which Yorke had made his statement before the court of inquiry, Kirke came over to his house, ostensibly to talk over some regi- mental business, but obviously with some other purpose, it being unusual to discuss such business anywhere but in the orderly- room at the mess-house, or at his own house. Moreover, the relations of Kirke with his officers were now always some- what constrained; for the absorbing topic of the inquiry could not be referred to, and those of them who knew most.of reg- imental affairs could not help feeling an uneasy suspicion that their commandant had not done his best to make his expla- nation clear of the transactions connected with the accounts under investigation. At last Kirke, abruptly changing the subject of conversation, said, By-the-by, what made you go out of the way to say anything to the court about there being any written corresponde~ace between us regarding that jewellery business? This question, and the way it was put, opened Yorkes eyes to Kirkes character m~ire than anything which had gone be- fore. He did not know, except from ru- mour, how far the ex-ressaldars accusa- tions had tended to criminate his com- manding officer, for the proceedings had been confidential, and each witne~s only knew so much as could be gleaned from his own examination; but he now saw clearly enough that Kirke would like to repudiate the correspondence altogether. It seemed useless, therefore, to reply, that his only motive was to clear the other from the suspicion of having retained the jewels; and he felt, indeed, that had he known so much at the time as he knew then, he would have tried to avoid saying anything about the letter. He replied, therefore I could not do less than give a straight- forward answer to a plain question. Of course not, said the other, with a sort of sneer implied in his tone. Then, after an awkward p~use he added, Per- haps you can show me the letter if you have got it my memory on the subject is not so good as yours appears to be. Certainly, replied Yorke; I will look for it, and if I find it, I will send it you that is, a copy of it. He added these words from a conviction, suddenly forced on him by Kirkes eager manner, that the original letter would not be safe in his possession. Very good, said Kirke, rising from his chair with some heat; then perhaps you would be good enough to search at once, and then to send me this copy; and laying some stress on the last word, he strode out of the house, and, mount] the horse which was waiting for him, rode rapidly away. Yorke at once proceeded to examine the contents of his dispatch-box, contain- 172 THE DILEMMA. ing all the papers and letters which he had thought worth preserving since he entered the service. The contents were not heavy, his correspondence not being voluminous, and were soon examined; hut alt4~ough the impression on his mind was clear that he had not destroyed the note, it was not to be found; and accord- ingly, he wrote a few lines to Kirke to say that he had not been able to find the note among his papers, and concluded that it must have been lost or destroyed. Two days afterwards he was again sum- moned to attend the court of inquiry which was still witting at the mess-house of the regiment, when the president put the following question to him : You stated, Major Yorke, when last under examination, that you had received a note from your commanding offi~er, Colonel Kirke, dated on or about the 30th April 1859, to the effect that he had made over the jewels taken from the body of a rebel to the prize-agents. Can you pro- duce tl~e letter for the information of the court ? Yorke replied that he had searched for the letter, but had been unable to find it. Then do you wish to make any state- ment to the court with reference to the accompanying document? and so saying, the pre~ident placed a letter in Yorkes hands. It was from Kirke, written the previous day, addressed to the president of the court, and to the effect that with refer- ence to a statement made to the court on a previous occasion by Major Yorke, re- gardiug the receipt of a letter from him, Colonel Kirke, relative to the disposal of the jewels, he had to state that Major Yorke must be labouizing under some ex- traordinary hallucination, to put the most generous construction on his conduct which it could be made to bear, for that no such letter had ever been written by him. On reading this letter Yorke under- stood for the first time how matters stood with his unfortunate commandant; every- thing that had before seemed doubtful or confused now became clear. This letter was evidently the last resource of a des- perate man. Yorke remained silent for a space, the letter in his hand, and then returning it to the president said that he had nothing further to state at present. Kirkes case now was bad indeed, but he would at least do nothing to make it worse. It was soon after this, and while the court were still deliberating, that the bankers affidavits and the prize-agents letters already referred to were received. Kirkes object in denying that he had written the letter was now apparent, and the report of the court was much more unfavourable than it would have been if the inquiry had been closed at an earlier stage. There was extreme disinclination at headquarters to take proceedings against so distinguished an officer as Col- onel Kirke; but it was felt that even if the other matters could have been con- doned in consideration of his eminent services, the suspicion of falsehood now attaching to him could not be passed over. General Tartar received orders to place him under arrest, and the judge-advocate- general of the division was directed to frame charges against him on all the dif- ferent allegations. Hitherto the proceedings had been nom- inally secret, although the nature of them had naturally leaked out; but there was now no longer any concealment about them, and the coming Kirke court-mar- tial occupied public attention fully as much as the advance on Pekin, and was discussed in every station from one end of India to the other; and while there was a general sentiment of regret that so dashing a soldier should have fallen into such trouble, there were not wanting prophets after the event to say that it was no more than what they had expeeted from the mans antecedents; while most people felt that, even if acquitted, the very fact that it should have been necessary to bring him to trial must leave an indelible stain on his character. The list of charges was indeed a formidable one: drawing pay for men not on the muster-roll; with- holding prize property; and lastly, con- duct unbecoming an officer and a gentle- man, in having stated in a letter, and so forth, he knowing the same statement to be false. Happily for poor Olivia, the state of her health during the course of these pro- ceedings prevented her from going into society, and so she escaped the allusions and questionings, and possibly the slights, which her husbands present position might have occasioned. She had indeed but a very imperfect knowledge of what was going on, for latterly she had seen no one but her husband, who professed to make light of the inquiry; and although it was plain to her, notwithstanding his efforts at concealment, that he was labour- ing under great anxiety, she ascribed it to the cause he assigned the worry arising out of the misconduct of one of his native officers. The birth of her baby occurred before he was placed under arrest, and, confined to her room during a slow re- covery, she did not know what otherwise could not have escaped her notice, that there were no longer any orderly troopers in attendance about the house, while it seemed only natural that during her ill- ness her husband should be very much at home. No one felt more keen regrets for Kirke than his second in command, al- though no one know better how strong was the evidence against him. They had had no private communication since Kirkes visit to him, the overtures of as- sistance which Yorke made having now been curtly repulsed, the former profess- ing to consider himself an injured man. Yorke did not know any more ttian others what was the precise nature of the evi- dence to be brought forward on the other charges, and he cherished a hope that per- haps he mi6ht be allowed to refuse to give evidence before the court, in which case the charge of falsehood would break down; but he had not ventured to con- sult any third person on the subject, fear- in6 to criminate Kirke still more by di- vulging the facts. Thus the time wore on; the officers of the regiment by tacit consent avoiding when together all refer- ence to the matter which almost exclu- sively occupied their thoughts, and all the news he got of the Kirkes being by in- quiries through the servants of Olivias progress, when a paragraph appeared in one of the loc4l newspapers reflecting upon himself, and which was of course shown to him at once by a good-natured friend. It was in the form of a news- letter from the local correspondent at Mustaphabad a species of inane con- tributions common to Anglo-Indian news- papers full as usual of the absorbing topic of conversation, and ending with the following paragraph: The last and most serious charge against the gallant colonel is that of making a false state- ment to his second in command, to the effect that he had handed over the jewels to the prize-agents. But it is understood that the only evidence on this charge is the verbal statement of the latter; and as the 6allant major in question, who is now acting commandant of the regiment, will probably succeed to the permanent ap- pointment if the charge be sustained, ill- natured persons might say that he has a strong interest in maintaining his point. However, as the matter is szb}udice, I, of course, Mr. Editor, abstain from all com 73 ment upon it; but it is clearly what the knowing ones call a very pretty imbrogilo, for apparently one of the two distinguished officers in question must have stated the thing that is not. But on this delicate point I will of course express no opinion myself. On reading this slanderous letter, Yorke perceived for the first time the bearing of the case as it affected himself. The court of inquiry, indeed, knew the manner in which his evidence had been offered, that it had been given in igno- rance of the case against Kirke, and that the statement about the letter was made in perfect good faith, in view of clearing his commanding officer from the scrape he had fallen into ; but, the public, with their imperfect knowledge of the facts, might take a different view of his conduct, and be disposed to adopt that which the un- happy man himself in his desperation had ventured to insinuate was the real one. No doubt there would be plenty of people to put the same malicious construction on his conduct as had this scoundrel of a news-writer. If Kirke were acquitted of the charge, then would not he be virtually accused of having made a false state- ment? And would not Kirke himself en- deavour to give that colour to thecase? And to the grief which Yorke had felt throughout these proceedin6s, both on Kirkes account and his wifes, there was now added a feeling of shame and indi6- nation on his own account. Is it possi- ble, he thought, as his cheeks tingled, that I am labouring under some horrible hal- lucination, and that it is I, and not Kirke, who has told the lie? But no it was no dream ; and what is more, I have a distinct recollection of keeping the letter by me for a time, and none of destroying it. So saying to himself, he opened his despatch-box and again turned over the, contents. But again without result; pay- certificates, commissions, receipted bills, extracts from newspapers referring to the actions in which the regiment had been engaged, and last but not least, the little packet of Olivias letters, written during the campaign. There, in its well-worn cover, was the last she had ever sent him, the last element with which he had built up the unstable, foundationless structure of his foolish hopes. lie had put these letters aside on hearing of her engage- ment to Kirke, with the resolution of never opening them again to read anew the tale of his infatuation and self-decep- tion; but as he looked at the packet now, he took up this last letter and drew the THE DILEMMA. THE DILEMMA. 74 enclosure from the envelope, contrasting in bitterness of heart his present mood with the different feeling that formerly possessed him when he was wont to per- form that frequent operation. As he did so, another small note fell from under his fingers on to the table. It was Kirkes missing letter short, and concluding with the damning statement on which so mnch depended. The whole circumstances of the case noxv came back to his recollection. He had always carried Olivias latest letter about with him, to read over and over again at leisure moments; and he remem- bered now that the envelope of Kirkes letter, havinb been overgummed, had been much torn in opening, and he had thrown it away and placed his note inside the en- velope of Olivias letter. There it had lain ever since.. Too late now to repair his mistake; but he must at least acquaint Kirke with his discovery. There had been no com- munication between them sin9e the day of Kirkes being placed under arrest, and Yorke felt all the embarrassment of their relations as he wrote, My dear colonel, I have just found your tiote to me about which this unhappy trouble has arisen. It was inside one received from Mrs. Kirke, where I put it at the time of re- ceipt. I opened the letter accidentally just now, and it fell out. Can nothing be done to withdraw from the unfortunate mistake you have made? Ever yours truly. CHAPTER XLI. Two hours after his note was de- spatched, and as the sun was getting low, Yorke, returning from a saunter through his stable, as he caine to the front of his bungalow, met a lady advancing up the little avenue. She wore a thick veil, but no disguise would have concealed her from his eyes. It was Olivia. She walked slowly, as if weak; and as Yorke hurried to meet her over the few paces that separated them, he could see that she looked pale and ill. She held out her hand, which for a moment he grasped ten- derly; then, looking at her wan anxious face, he dropped it, and led the way slowly up the veranda steps and into the little sitting-room. There placing a chair for her, he stood opposite, waiting for her to speak. Olivia raised her veil, and Yorke, gazing on the face so constantly in his thoughts, saxv with pain the change which anxiety and sickness had wrought in the familiar features. Each of the two great troubles she had gone through had left its traces, and yet, thought he, she is as beau- tiful as ever. At last she spoke. Major Yorke, you must have guessed why I have come to you. It is because of your note to my husband. He thought that is, I thought that it might be of more use if I came and spoke to you myself.. We are such old friends, you know, she added, with a smile meant to be cheerful, but which to the other appeared inexpressibly sad. Yorke bowed. Pray go on, he said; you must know my desire to serve you in everythincr It is about this letter which you have found. It seems that he had overlooked having written it you, and incautiously said so. And now he thinks the produc- tion of it might prejudice his case seri- ously; and he is sure you would not wish to do that. I am glad he gives me credit for so much good-feeling, replied Yorke ,grave- ly. I feared he had come to regard me as an enemy. God knows, I would do anything that one man may do for another to help him out of his trouble. Ah yes, she said. I knew we might depend on you as a true friend. And Ru- pert bade me tender you his humble apolo- gies if he had said anything in your dis- favour; and he is sure you would make allowances for him, knowing how sorely he had been tried. These were his very words. And oh! Major Yorke, you know how much that means from him. You know what a proud man he is Pray dont say a word on that score, said he, interrupting her. I am glad, of course, to hear of his kindly feeling, but I wanted no apology. And it is about him and not me you. want to speak. Pray go on, and let me know what it is I can do. That is what I am coming to, she said. Then, speaking with hesitation, and scanning his features anxiously, she con- tinued It is about this unfdrtunate letter. Rupert thinks he can clear him- self of everything else, and that, as nobody knows of its existence but yourself, it would not be too late to prevent the thin~ going further. So he thought I thought that if. I came myself and asked you, you would not mind you would not mind giving it back to me. Making this appeal in flattering accents, she yet laid a stress on the last word, and looked at him with a pleading face. But Yorke stood silently before her, THE DILEMMA. 75 looking down, and shook his head sadly. Rupert said there would be no risks, she continued; I was to destroy the let- ter before you. Risks? said he, interrupting her; do you think I care about risks? It is not the risks I was thinking about; this is a matter of honour. No, he continued; I would do anything that a man may do to serve you or your husband either, but this is impossible. It is easy to make fine professions of friendship, said Olivia in a tone of pique, and turning her head aside; but they do not come to much when put to the test. Olivia Mrs. Kirke, why do you say such cruel things? You must know that they are not true. Dont you understand that the thing has gone beyond my power to stop it? I have already stated before the court of inquiry that I did receive the letter. I did it for the best, knowing nothing of the trap that was laid for him, and heaven knows I would give every- thing I possess to have left it unsaid. But the thing is done, and it cannot be undone. You mean that the suspicion might at- tach to you, if the letter is not produced? Yes, she added eagerly, Rupert spoke about that. He particularly told me to say that you need not be uneasy on that score; no one would think of doubting your word. Yes, that was what he said himself it would all be put down to some mistake; and he would give you a paper, in any form you liked, to clear you now and forever. How much has your husband told you about the case? Yorke asked, sadly. If you knew the whole case you would understand that this wouldnot be enou~h to get him out of the difficulty. You would understand ____ I understand so much, that if Rupert is brought before the court-martial, and the letter is produced, he will be ruined. He told me so himself just now. Oh, 1\lajor Yorke, if not for him, for my sake, and in memory of old days, be merciful ! and as she made this appeal in urgent tones, Olivia, stepping forward, knelt down before him, and taking his hand, looked up beseechingly in his face. Olivia, Olivia! he said, mournfully, why do you tempt me? You know how passionately I have loved you, for al- though you are no coquette, you must have seen how I have been ready to wor- ship the ground you trod on any time for these three years past. I dont say you have played with my feelings, for I was a fool all along, and deserved my fate; but you must have seen through them partly, although I dare say you did not guess the depth of my love. No, you need not be afraid, he continued, quitting his grasp of her hand, as Olivia, whom by this time he had caused to rise and be seated again, looked up at him with a flushed and frightened face, as he stood over her; there can be no harm in my tell- ing you this now, once and for all, and getting rid of the burden on my soul, for all that is past and gone. Dearly as I used to love you, and love you still, I would not marry you now, if you were free to-morrow and would have me. It is brutal of me, is it not, to say so? and I dare say you dont understand me, hut the Olivia of my fancy has passed away, and can never live for me again. But look here, Mrs. Kirke, he xvent on eagerly, and as he spoke it seemed to him that their relations had suddenly altered she was no longer the goddess to be set on a pedestal and worshipped from below; his Olivia would never have asked him to do a dishonourable action for any reason this was merely a weak woman follow- ing her husbands crooked ways, look here, he said; I want you to understand that it is not a matter in which I can really save your husband. If the letter had not been found, people might have said that I had lied about itand thought so too, and they might have been welcome to think so, if it could have saved you from pain and trouble. But what is the good, he added mournfully, of talkin~, about what might have been? The letter has been found. And if the court ask me if I have found it, am I to perjure myself? And if I admit having found it, and re- fuse to produce it, dont you see that this makes thins s look even worse? No, l\Irs. Kirke, you will say I am offerin6 an empty pledge when I declare that I would gladly give my life to save yours; but the thing yo~m want me to do is impossible. Then I suppose, said Olivia, after a pause, rising sloxvly, and lowering her veil, as if to depart, and again turning away her face, there is nothing more to b e said. Offers of service are easily. made, but they will not save my husband from ruin. Well, you have the satisfaction of knowing that you will succeed to the com- mand of the regiment. You may reproach me as you like, said Yorke sadly; hut though I dare say yoJ think very hardly of me, you must at least know that I am incapable of the meanness of profiting by your husbands 176 THE DILEMMA. misfortunes. Yes, Olivia, he continued, as she looked inquiringly into his face, you misjudged me once before, and you were sorry for it afterwards. So I hope it may be again, and yet but no: I was going to say that if it would be any conso- lation to you to think ill of me I should be willing to have it so, but I cannot bring myself to say that. But why trouble you with my thoughts and feelings? I see you in this terrible difficulty and distress, and am unable to help you. That is suffi- cient bitterness. Olivia stepped towards him and laid her hand upon his arm. Forgive me again, she said in a low beseeching tone which thrilled through his heart; you have always been a true friend, and I am an ungrateful undeserving woman; but if you knew how wretched and broken-down my husband is, I am sure you would ex- cuse my injustice. And I dare say you are right I am so bewildered, I know not what is right or what is wrong but it seems very hard. And she turned to bo away, while the large tears started in her dark eyes, and rolled down her pale cheeks. But Yorke saw that she stab - gered in her alk, and was far too weak to make the journey back on foot, and insisted on her resting while his buggy was got ready for her, and he hurried out to the stable to hasten the operation, hardly daring to trust himself any longer in her presence. This was .the second time, he thought, as he helped in nervous haste to put the harness on the horse, that she has been under my roof. The first time how it set my heart dancing for joy, and how I dreamt of a second visit as being almost too great happiness! and now it has come, and in what a way! She is sitting there, and I am actually keeping out of her way. For at sight of her tears his resolution had almost failed him, and he had been asking himself whether it would indeed be so great a breach of honour to take out the fatal letter and tear it up in her pres- ence. He drove the carriage up to the veranda steps, and alighting, handed Olivia in and drove off, the groom hanging on behind after the fashion of his class. It was now dusk, the time affected by An6lo-Indians for taking the air, and a passer-by might have set them down for a domestic couple on their accustomed eveninb drive; but the road to Kirkes house lay at the back of the station, and they met no one. No words were exchanged between them; and short though was the distance, Yorke had time to ponder on the strangeness of the situation, and to reflect how once it had been the dream of his life that Olivia should be driving through Mustaphabad, a wife, and sitting by his side. Now that dream was realized, and in what a way! She was sitting in his carriage by his side, but another mans wife and the mother of another mans child! Soon the entrance gate of Kirkes house was reached, and Vorke, pulling up the horse, broke the silence by saying, I will leave you here; my man will lead the horse up to the door, and got down., He~ stood, hat in hand, beside the carriage while the groom stepped . t~ the horses head, and looked up at Olivia. She held out her hand, and smiling sadly, but with something of the old look of former years, wished him good-bye. Yorke took the proffered hand in his for an instant, and then turning away walked back, unwilling to weaken the recollection of her kindly parting by another word. A few days later, just as all the officers who were ijominated to form the court had arrived at the station for there was not a sufficiency of officers of the needful rank in garrison at Mustaphabad, and sev- eral were summoned from a distance and while all the residents were in a state of expectancy, and the officers of the reg- iment, feeling keenly the disgrace which had fallen on it, hardly showed their faces in public, an order was received from army headquarters to suspend the opening of proceedin~s; and the curiosity which this order evoked remained unsatisfied for two or three days, till an announcement appeared in the Gazette to the effect that Brevet-Colonel Rupert Kirke, C.B, had been permitted to retire from the service. Kirke himself, it appeared, had applied to be allowed to do so~ and the application had been forwarded to government from headquarters, with a stronb recommenda- tion that it should be acceded to on the score of his distinguished service ; and also that, as he had not served long enough for a pension, he should be grant- ed the half-pay of his regimental rank of captain half-pay as an institution being unknown to the Indian army, and each recipient requiring a special decision in his favour. Public opinion endorsed the decision; for notwithstanding the natural disap- pointment felt at being balked of the ex- pected excitement of a long court-martial on a distinguished officer, the general sea- THE DILEMMA. 77 timent was one of satisfaction that so gal- lant a soldier should escape the ignominy of a public prosecution and sentence. But food for local gossip in abundance was immediately afterwards afforded by the sudden disappearance of the Kirkes, who left Mustaphabad on the night follow- ing the publication of the Gazelle, taking their child with them, but unattended by even a female servant. No doubt it would have been easy to trace them, had it been any ones business to do so, but public action in the matter did not go further than to amplify the story with an abun- dance of circumstantial details, although the popular version, to the effect that they had driven out to a place about twenty miles off on the main road to Calcutta, and hence started by dawk across country in palanquins, was not far from the truth. The reason for the flight soon b~came apparent in the complaints, thereon loudly upraised, of baffled creditors, whose claims had in fact begun to pour in when first the court-martial was ordered to as- semble. But small part of the expensive household property, it now appeared, had been paid for; there were promissory- notes of lard e amount overdue to various Europe~in and Arab horse-dealers for horses; the servants wages were six months in arrear. The heaviest claim was that preferred by a native banker, but it was generally understood that his debt was more than covered by the jewels which he held in pawnthe first cause of the unfortunate officers disgrace and ruin. The pay of a captain commanding a na- tive cavalry regiment is sufficient for his position with care and moderation; but as Kirke, far from having any capital in hand to start with, was already loaded with a hurden of old debts, he had at no time the means of maintaining the expensive style of living adopted on his marriage, still less of paying for his extravagant outfit. Whether he had entered on this desperate course in the expectation of getting a for- tune with his wife, or under some vague idea that the jewels would turn out to be of treat value, could not be told but it was plain that, apart from other difficul- ties, a crash must have come sooner or later. The fugitive officer having left the army, the military small-debts court could not take cognisance of the claims; but the station magistrate put the police in charge of the deserted premises; and never be- fore had the good people of Mustaphabad LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 636 obtained such hargains as at the auction- sale of Kirkes effects, which took place soon afterwards. Yorke guessed correctly the course of the fugitives. He felt sure Kirke would make his way across India to Bombay, by which route he would be secure from pursuit, and he would probably pass through a station on the horders of the great northern province where Sparrow was now residing as a deputy-commis- sioner. They would surely be in straits for money, the poor wife, meanwhile, probably only dimly conscious of the cause of their flight, and the extent of their ruin. To Sparrow, accordingly, he remitted all his available cash, the savings of two years campaigning. It was to be given to Kirke, if he should pass that way, as a loan from an old friend still under great obligations, to be repaid at his con- venience; but Sparrow was on no account to give any clue whence it came. His expectatiom~i was justified by the event. Sparrow, acknowledging the remittance, wrote that the Kirkes had arrived that very day, and were staying with him. He wants his coming here kept quiet, of course, and is in. a tremendous hurry to be off again, and his haste is fully ac- counted for, if what one hears be true of the rage of his creditors at his escape. His wife looks dreadfully knocked up, poor thing and no wonder, havino to~ nurse her baby on such a journey; but we hope to get a decent ayah for it before they start again. I have given him the money you sent and a trifle of my own; and indeed he is likely to want it all, for a dawk-journey to Bombay from here will be awfully expensive, to say nothing of the fatigue. it makes one quite sad to think that she, poor thing, should have to go through it, she looks so frail and ilL I suppose many people would not have received them under the circumstances, and it is somewhat awkward for me in my official position, beyond a doubt; bnt as you know, Mrs. Sparrow and Mrs. Kirke were always such great friends, and we could not think of giving them the cold shoulder in their trouble. Trouble, indeed, thou,ht Yorke, as he read the letter; has it then come to this, that Olivia is a suppliant for shelter to her own waiting-maid? Kirke had managed his escape well. Had he remained at Mustaphabad, or ven- tured to travel home by Calcutta, he would certainly have been arrested; but between the north and west of India there stretches a wide expanse of country, which in those 178 THE DILEMMA. days divided them more completely than in the general reduction which followed would an intervening ocean; and Kirke, the restoration of peace in India. once on this line, got to Bombay and dis- Although his well-wishers in high places appeared from the country before any of were somewhat annoyed at what they his angry creditors had time to set about termed his obstinacy in the matter, Yorke intercepting him. was too good an officer to remain long On the day after Kirkes flight Yorke unemployed; and in a few months he was sent in his resignation of his appointment appointed to the divisional staff of the as second in command and officiating com- army and posted to a station on the fron- mandant of the regiment. This, however, tier. The change of employment was a was not at first accepted: he was offered welcome one at first, and in the occupation the opportunity of reconsidering his reso- of learning the duties of this new branch lution, and the great people at headquar- of his profession he sought eagerly for dis- ters even went so far as to let him know traction from the depression of spirit left that they thought such a step foolish and by Kirkes ruin, and all the miserable cir- quixotic; No slur of any kind attached cumstances attending it his own unwit- to him in the affair, it was said, and it was ting share in the catastrophe, and the un- intimated to be the intention of the com- happy fate of the woman whose memory mander-in-chief to make him permanent was still so dear. in the command of a regiment with which Time passed on, and no news came of he had been associated from its first for- the fugitives, all trace of whom had disap- mation, and with which so the great peared; and the event which had created man was pleased to say he had per- such absorbinb interest at the time soon formed distinguished service. But Yorke began to grow dim in general recollection; stood by his resolve. I owe everything hut with Yorke himself there still remained professionally to Kirke, he wrote to a an enduring scar. Until he left it, he was friend on the headquarter staff. He not aware how deeply the interest of his took me up when I was an obscure subal- life had been wrapped up in the regiment tern, selected me out of others, and gave with which the most important part of it me my first start in life. It is to his gen- had been passed, and what a blank the erous praise that I owe my promotion and severance from it had made; still more my honours; I should despise myself for- how deeply he missed the presence of the ever if I allowed myself to step into the one woman who, though she never could poor fellows shoes. The regiment be his, was yet more to him than all the must have a commandant of some sort, world besides. Active and assiduous in retorted his friend; it is not your fault the new business of his profession, he yet that there happens to be a vacancy. Surely found himself now more lonely and friend- it may as well be you, who know the regi- less than at any time since he first landed ment thorough iy, as another. The in the country; and, perversely shunning other, replied Yorke, will not be a per- the society at his command, he yet yearned sonal friend of the late commandant. in his solitary home for the friendship and Then came news that the government sympathy which he would not summon up was about to reduce several regiments; the effort to seek among new faces. There whether Kirkes Horse would be among came up now for the first time the home- those to be maintained, would depend sickness which is wont to beset the soli- probably on who might be in command. tary exile, and at times the inclination was He had to consider the interest of his strong to throw up his appointment and brother officers, therefore, and not only return for a while to England. The joys his own feelings. This argument came of married life could not be his, but there home; but he was firm in abiding by his at least a home awaited him, and the re- resolve, and after a few miserable days newal of family affection. Why should spent in command against his will, he oh- not that suffice for him as for so many tamed Sir Montague Tartars sanction to others? In this frame of mind, growing be struck off the strength of the garrison daily more disposed to be solitary and cyn- pending confirmation of his resignation, ical; hardly perceiving himself how differ- and quitted Mustaphabad. Major Egan ent the man was becoming from the shy therefore succeeded to the command of but ardent lad of ten years before, who Kirkes Horse pending arrival of the new landed in the country full of hope and en- commandantan officer promoted from thusiasm, yet grimly conscious of the folly another regiment, whose term of office, of allowing himself to cherish a feeling of however, was a brief one, for the famous dissatisfaction \vith a career more success- regiment was disbanded a few weeks later, ful than his wildest day-dreams used to THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. 79 picture; Yorke was summoned to join the Umbeyla expedition, and by no man in the army xvas the distraction of active service more eagerly welcomed. To a man suffer- ing from distaste for his own life, there is no medicine so effectual as helping to take the lives of other people. In that short but very sharp campaign Yorke received his first wound, not, however, before he had done enough good service both to gain and to earn another step of brevet rank. A still greater distinction shortly after- wards, while on sick-leave on the hills, he was offered the vacant command of a smart regiment of native cavalry; and ex- changing his staff-duties with delight for his old congenial employment, he hurried down to assume his new command. But although his wound was healed at the time, he had returned to duty too soon. A sharp attack of illness followed~ the wound broke out afresh; and although he would now have wished to remain a little longer in the country, to identify himself with his new regiment, he was fain to act on the doctors advice, and set off to Calcutta as soon as he was well enough, there to ap- pear before the medical board and start on sick-furlough for England. From Macmillans Magazine. THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAL NABHAL. BY WILLIAM BLACK. THE following is a copy of a letter ad- dressed to a lady living in Hyde Park Gar- dens. London, by Alister-nan-Each, of Borva- boat, in the island of Lewis, Hebrides BoavAnosT, Ike 20/k oj7une, 1875. HONOURED MADAM AND DEAR Mis- TRESS TO COMMAND, You waz writen to Alister Lewis, the schoolmaster, that I would tell you the whole story of the Black Horse I sah at Loch Suainabhal; and I am not good at the writen whatever; but I will tell you the story, and I will tell you from the verra beginnin of it the whole story. It waz John the Piper he will go about tellin a foolish tale about me; and it waz many a time I will think of going and breaking his pipes over his head, that 1~e~ will tell such foolish lies. There is no man in the island will drink more as John the Piper himself, not one; and so you will not believe his foolish lies if you will be hearin of them, Miss Sheila. Now the verra beginnin of it waz this, that Dugald MacKillop, that lives by Loch Suainabhal, and his father was my wifes fathers first cousin, ay, and a verra rich man mirover, for he had more az forty pounds or thirty-five pounds in the bank at Styornowa, he will be going away to Portree to marry a young lass there, and Dincan Peterson and me would be for going with him too, and I waz to be the best man. And you will not mind John the Pipers lies, Miss Sheila, for it waz only one gallon of good whiskey we took aboard the Clansman steamer when we waz going away to Skye as sure as death it waz only the one gallon that Dincan and me we waz for taking to the young lasss father but it waz verra xvat on board the boat, and verra cold whatever, and what harm is there in a glass of the goot whis- key? Sez Dincan Peterson to me, he sez, Alister, there is plenty of goot whiskey in Skye, and what for should we keep the whiskey? and both me and Dugald Mac- Killop the two of us both together said he waz a sensible man, and not a foolish man, like John the Piper. And it waz only the one gallon in the char we had on board the steamer. I will tell you now, Honoured Madam, that the wonderful big ship took us quick to Portree, which is a great distance away; but we did not go to bed that night, for there waz two or three waiting for us, and we had a glass mirover and a dance or two. And the next morning we went away to the farm where the young lass waz; and that waz among the hills ;and there waz never in the world such rain as there is in Skye. Ay, in the Lews we have the bad weather, and the goot weath- er; but Gott knows there is no such wat- ter falling anywhere az there is in Skye; but we had a glass and a dance, for the two pipers waz with us; and in the evening of that day there waz a grand supper at the young lasss fathers house. And it waz not ten gallons of whiskey we took in the cart; and Gott knows I will mek John the Piper answer for that some day; but only six gallons; and there waz a goot many people there for a dance and a song. And there waz no one wished to go to bed that night either, for there waz many peo- lile in the house, and a good dram and a dance for every one; and the way the two pipers played the pipes that night would hef made a dead man jump in his grafe if he had been dead for two hundred years, ay, or on~ hundred years mirover. And you will mind, Miss Sheila, that the story about the ten gallons of whiskey is only the lies of that foolish man, John the Piper, who is trunk oftener az any man on the island of Lews. iSo THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. The next day waz the day of the mar- rach; and who is there will not tek a glass at the marrach of a young girl? And after the marrach we went away to this house and to that house, and the two pipers playing in front of us verra fine, and many a dance we had, ay, and the old people too, when they had got a goot tram. And in the evening there waz an- other peautiful supper; and no less az six and twenty hens, and cocks, and chickens, and rabbits, all boiled together in the boiler for boiling the turnips; and the big barn with more as twelve or sixteen, or more az that of candles; and it waz a peautiful sight. And if the father of the young lass will send to Portree for so many, or so many gallons of whiskey, what is that to any one, and to one mirover that waz not there, but will only mek lies about it? I will not interfere with any mans whiskey; no, and I would not go and tell foolish lies about it mirover. There waz one or two of the old people, they will go to bed in the cart that night; and there waz good hay on the ground, and the cart upside doxvn to keep away the rain; but the most of us we waz for no sleepin that night, for a young lass does not get marriet every day. And in the morning Dugald MacKillop and the young lass they will come out to us; and they would hef us trink their verra goot health before we went in to the fresh herrings, and the milk, and the cakes; and when that waz all over, we had the pipcrs to the front of us, and we set away for Portree. And who would not trink a glass, when you call at this house and at that house, to let a young lass say good-bye to her friends? And all the way to Portree there waz this one and the other one come out to shake haAs with the young lass; and many of them came down to the big steamer to see her away. And as for Din- can Peterson and me, there was one or two on board of the big steamer that we knew; and we had a glass or two with them whatever, for it waz a verra cold night; but the lies of that foolish man, John the Piper, are more as I can un- derstand. 1 will not say, Miss Sheila, for it is the whole story I will be telling you, that Dincan Peterson and me we were not verra tired when we got to Styornowa; for it waz five nights or more we waz not in any bed at all; but there waz two or three of our friends will meet us at Styornowa to drink a glass to Dugald MacKillop and the young lass, and who would be thinkin of going to bed then? No, nor waz there any more thinkin of going to bed when we got to the farm of Du~ald MacKillop by Loch Suainabhal; for there waz two or three come to see the young lass he had married; and it waz Aleck Cameron, that lives by Uig, he had brought over two gallons of verra godt whiskeyor perhaps, Miss Sheila, for I will tell you the whole story that you will see what lies old John the Piper would be for telling perhaps it waz three gallons. I cannot mind, now; but it waz of no con- sequence whatever; and to go about speak- ing of me n being trunk that has just drunk a glass or two at a marrach, is no more az foolish and wicket nonsense. It waz the day after this day that Aleck Cameron he sez to me, Alister, you hef not been to Uig for many a day; will yom go back to Borva by the way of Uig; and we will go together, and we will hef a glass at UW AnTd I said to him, It is a long time, Aleck Cameron, since I will be at Uig, and I will go with you, and we will drink a glass with your father and your mother before I will be ~oing on to Bor- va. And it waz about fife oclock in the afternoon when we set out; but Aleck Cameron he is the most quarlsome man in the whole of the Lews; ay, there is no one, note yen John Fergus himself, will be so bad in the temper as Aleck Cameron; and what did he know about the Camphel- ton whiskey? I hef been in Isla more as three times or two times myself; and I hef been close by the Lagavulin distillery; and I know that it is the clear watter of the spring that xvill mek the Lagavulin whiskey just as fine as the new milk. And the bottle I had it waz the verra best of the Lagavulin; and I sez to him, Aleck Cameron, if you do not like the whiskey I hef, you can go back to the farm of Dugald MacKillop, and you will get what whiskey you like; and you are a verra quarlsome man, Aleck Cameron. And he is a coarse-speakin man, Miss Sheila, and I will not be writen to you the words that he said; but he went away back to. the f. rm whatever; and I kept on the way by myself, without any bread or cheese in my pocket, or any- thing but the bottle of the Lagavuhn whis- key. And as for the lies of John the Piper, that he will tell of me all over the island, I will not even speak of them to you, Miss Sheila. It waz about fife oclock, or maybe it waz six oclock, or half-past fife, and not much more dark as if it waz the verra mid- dle of the tay, when I waz bomb along by the side of Loch Suainabhal; and I will put my hand down on the Biple itself and I will sweer I waz as sober as any man THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. i8i could be. Sober, indeed is it to be trunk to trink a glass at a marrach? Ay, and many is the time I hef seen John the Piper himself az trunk that he could not find the way to his mouth for his chanter, and all the people laughin at him, and the wind in the pipes, but the chanter going this way and that way by the side of his face. It is many a time that I will won- der Mr. Mackenzie will let sich a man go about his house; and for him to speak about any one hafing too much whiskeybut I will break his pipes ofer his head some day, az sure as Gott. Now, Miss Sheila, this is the whole story of it: that the xvat- ter in the loch waz verra smooth, and there waz some clouds ofer the sky; but every- thing to be seen as clear as the tay. And I waz going along py myself, and I waz thinking no harm of any one, not efen of Aleck Cameron, that waz away back at the farm now, when I sah something on the shore of the loch, maybe four hundred yards in front of me, and it waz lying there verra still. And I said to myself, Alis- ter, you must not be fri~,htened by any- thing; but it is a stranche place for a horse to be lying upon th~ stones. And he did not move one wayor the other way; and I stopped and I said to myself, Alis- ter, it is a stranche thing for a horse to be lying on the stones; and there is many a man in the Lews would be frightened, and would rather go back to Dugald MacKu- lops farm; but, as for you, Alister, you will just tek a drop of whiskey, and you will go forward like a prave lad and see whether it is a horse, for it might be a rock mirover, ay, or a black cow. So I will go on a bit; and the black thing it did not move either this way or that; and if ]~ will tell you the truth, Miss Sheila, I was afraid of it, for it waz a verra lonely place, and there waz no one within sight of me, nor any house that you could see. And this waz what I said to myself, that I could not stand there the whole night, and that I will either be going on by the beast, or be going pack to Dugald MacKillops farm, and there they would not belief a word of it; and Aleck Cameron, he will say I would be for going pack after him and his Camp- belton whiskey. And I said to myself, Alister, you are beginning to tremple, you must tek a glass of whiskey to steady yourself, and you will go forward and see what the beast is. It waz at this moment, Miss Sheila, as sure as we hef to die, that I sab it mofe its head, and I said to myself, Alister, are you afrait of a horse, and is it a black horse that will mek you stand in the mid- die of the road and tremple? But I could not understand why a horse will be lying on the stones, which is a stranche thing. And I said to myself, Is it a seal you will be seeing far away along the shore? But whoever will hear of a seal in fresh watter; and, mirover, it waz as pig as six seals, or more az that. And I said to myself, Alister,go forwardnow, for you will not hef a man like Aleck Cameron laughing at you, and him as ig- norant as a child about the Lagavulin whiskey. Now, I will tell you, Miss Sheila, apout the terrable thing that I sab; for it waz no use thinking about going pack to the farm; and I will go forward along the road, and there waz the bottle in my hand, so that if the beast came near, I could break the bottle on the stones and gife him a fright. But when I had gone on a piece of the road, I stood still, and all the blood seemed to go out of my body, for no mortal man ever sah such a terrable thing. It waz lying on the shore ay, twelve yards or ten yards from the watter and it waz looking down to the watter with a head as pig as the head of three horses. There waz no horns or ears on the beast; but there waz eyes big- ger as the eyes of three horses; and the black head of it waz covered with scales like a salmon. And I said to myself, Alister, if you speak, or mofe, you are a dead man; for this abfu crature is a terra- ble thing, and with a bound like a teeger he will come down the road. I could not mofe, Miss Sheila; there was no blood left in my body; and I could not look this way or that for a rock or a hush to hide myself, for I waz afrait that the terrable beast would turn his head. Ay, ay, what I went through then no one can effer tell; when I think of it now I tremple; and yet there are one or two that will belief the foolish lies of John the Piper, that is him- self the verra trunkenest man in all the island of Lews. It waz a stranche thing, Miss Sheila, that I tried to whesper a prayer, and there waz no prayer would come into my head or to my tongue, and instead of the prayer mirover, there waz something in my throat that waz like tochoke me. And I could not tek my eyes from the terrable head of the beast; but now when I hef the time to think of it, I belief the pody of it waz black and shining, biit with no hind feet at all, but a tail. But I will not sweer to that whatever; for it is no shame to say that I waz trempling from the crown of my head down to the verra soles of my feet; and I waz watching his head more as the rest of 182 THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. his body, for I did not know when he might turn round and see me standino~ in the road. Them that sez I sah no such thing, will theytell me how long I stood looking at him? ay, until the skies was darker over the loch. Gott knows I would hef been glad to hef seen Aleck Cameron then, though he is a verra foolish man and it waz many a time I will say to my- self, when I waz watchin the beast, Alis- ter, you will neffer come by Loch Suaina- bhal by yourself again, not if you waz living for two hundred years or fife hun- dred years. And how will John the Piper tell me that that I waz able to stand there in the mittle of the road? Is it trunk men that can do that? Is it trunk men that can tell the next morning, and the morning after that, what they hef seen? But you know, Miss Sheila, that there is no more sober man az me in all the island; and I will not pother you any more with those foolish lies. And now an ahfu thing happened. I do not know how I am alife to be writen the story to you this day. I waz tellin you, Miss Sheila, that there waz little thought among us of s leepin for five or six nights before; and many of the nights waz verra wat; and I think it might hef been on board of the big steamer that I will get a hoast in my throat. And here, az I waz standin in the road, fearfu to mek the least noise, the koff came into my throat; and I trempled more than effer for fear of the noise. And I stru~gled; but the koff would come into my throat; and then thinks I, Alister, Gotts will be done and the noise of the koff frightened me; and at the same time I tropped the bottle on the stones with the fright, and the noise of itnever will I forget the noise of it. And at the same moment the great head of the beast it will turn round; and I could stand up no more; I fell on my knees, and I tried to find the prayer, but it would not come into my head ay, ay, Miss Sheila, I can remember at this moment the ahfu eyes of the beast as he looked at me, and I said to myself, Alister, you will see Bor- va no more, and you will go out to the feshen no more, and you will drink a glass no more with the lads come home from the Caithness feshen. Then, as the Lords will be done, the stranche beast he turned his head again, and I sah him go down over the stones, and there waz a great noise of his going over the stones, and I waz just az fright- ened as if he had come do-wn the road, and my whole body it shook like a reed in the wind. And then, when he had got to the watter, I heard a great splash, and the ahfu beast he threw himself in, and the watter was splashed white apout him, and he went out from the shore, and the last that I sah of the terrable crayture waz the great head of him going down into the loch. Ay, the last of him that I sah: for there and then, Miss Sheila, I fell back in the road, just like one that will be dead; for it waz more as mortal man could stand, the sight of that terrable beast. It is ferra glad I am there waz no cart coming along the shore that night; for I waz lying like a dead man in the road, and the night it waz verra dark mir- over. Ay, and the fright waz not away from me when I cam to my senses again; and that waz near to the break of day; and I waz verra cold and xvat, for there waz beinb a good dale of rain in the night. But when I cam to my senses, I began to tremple again, and there waz no whiskey left in the bottle which waz proken all into small pieces, and I said, 0 Lord, help me to rin away from this water, or the stranche beast may come out again. And then it waz I set out to rin, tbough I waz verra stiff with the cold and wat, and I ran neither up the shores of the loch nor down the shores of the loch, but away from the watter as hard as I could rin, and ofer the moss-land and up to the hulls. It waz ferra bad trafelling, for there waz a great dale of rain fallin i~i the night, and there waz a great dale of watter in the soft ground, and many waz the time I will go down up to my waist in the holes. But I will tell you this, Honoured Madam, that when a man haz sich a fright on him, it is not any sort of moss-watter will keep him from rinnin; and every time I will stand to get my breath again, I will think I will hear that terrable beast behind me, and it is no shame I hef that I will be so fright- ened, for there waz no man alife will hef seen sich a beast as that before. And now I will tell you another stranche thins, Miss Sheila, that I hef said no word of to any one all this time, for I waz knowing verra well they would not belief all the story of that terrable night. And it is this, that when I waz rinnin hard away from the loch, just as if the ahfu beast waz behind me, the fright wazin my head, and in my eyes, and in my ears, and all around me I sah and heard such stranche things as no mortal man will see and hear before. It waz in the black of the night, Miss Sheila, before the morn- ing cam in, and it waz not one stranche beast but a hundred and a thousand that THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. 183 waz all around me, and I heard them on the heather, and in the peat-holes, and on the rocks, and I sab them rinnin this way and that by the side of me, and every mo- ment they waz coming closer to me. It waz a terrable terrable night, and I waz thinkin of a prayer, but no prayer at all at all would come into my head, and I said to myself, Alister, it is the tevvle him- self will be keeping the prayers out of your head, and it is this Pight he will hef you tammed for ever and ever. There waz some that waz green, and some that waz brown, and the whole of them they had eyes like the fire itself; and many is the time I will chump away from them, and then I will fall into the holes of the moss, and they will laugh at me, and I will hear them in the darkness of the night. And sometimes I sah them chump from the one hole to the other, and some- times they were for fleein through the air, and the sound of them waz an ahfu thing to hear, and me without one prayer in my head. Where did I rin to? Ay, Gott knows where I will rin to that terra- ble night, till there waz no more breath left in my body~ and I waz sayin to my- self, Alister, if the tevvle will hef you this night, it is no help there is for it, and you will see Borva no more, and Styornowa no more, and Uig no more, and you will never again drink a glass with the lads of the Nighean-dubh. I waz writen all this to you, Miss Sheila, for it is the whole story I will want to tell you; but I will not tell the whble story to the people at Borva, for there are many foolish people at Borva, that will tell lies about any one. And now I know what it waz, all the stranche craytures I sah when I waz rinnin ofer the moss it waz only the fright in my head after I sah that terrable beast. For when I sah a grey light come into the sky, Alister, sez I to myself, you must turn round and look at the tevvles that are by you; and I will tell you, Miss Sheila, that verra soon there waz none of them there at all; and I will stand still and look round and there waz nothing alife ubat I could see except myself, and- me not much alife whatever. But I said to myself, Alis- ter, the sight of the ahfu heast at the shore will turn your head, and mek you like a madman; and the stranche cray- tures you sah on the moss there waz no sich thing mirover; and it is no more thought of them you must hef. And I said to myself, Alister, you must clear your head of the fright and you will not say a word to any one about these strange craytures you sah on the moss; perhaps you will tell your neighbours about the black horse, for it is a shame that no one will know of that terrable peast; but you will not tell them about the stranche cray- tures that waz on the moss, for they will be only the fright in your head. But I will tell the whole story to you, Miss Sheila; for you waz writen to Alister Lewis that I will tell you the whole story; and this is the whole story, as sure as death. And when the grey of the morning waz cam in, I waz safe away from Loch Suai- nabhal; and a man is glad to hef his life; but apart from being alife, it waz lit- tle I had to be thankful for; and when the grey of the mornin waz cam in, I will be near greetin to look at myself, for there waz a great dale of blood about me, for I had fallen on the side of my head on the bottle in the road, and there waz blood all about my head, and my neck, and my arm, and up to the waist I waz black with the dirt of the moss-land, and I think I could hef wrung a tub full of watter out of my clothes. Gott knows I am speaking the truth, Miss Sheila, when I will tell you I would hef gi~en a shellin ay, or a shellin and a sexpence for a glass of whiskey on that mornin; for I wazna verra sure where I waz, and the watter waz lying deep in the soft land. But sez I to myself, Alister, you are verra well away whatever from - Loch Suainabhal now, and the stranche beast he will not come out in the daytime; and now you must mek your way back to Du- gald MacKillops farm. And it waz near to echt oclock, Miss Sheila, when I will find my way back to Dugald Mac- Killops farm. And when I waz going near to the house, I sez to myself, Alister, do you think you will go noxv and tell them what you hef seen about the black horse, or will you keep it to yourself, and wait, and - tell the minister at Uig? for the men about the house, now they hef been trink- ing, and they are not as sober az you, and they will mek a joke of it, and will not be- lief any of it whatever. Well, I waz not verra sure, but I went up by the byre, and I sah one of the young lasses, and when she sah me, she cried out, Gott pless me, Alister-nan-Each! where hef you been this nioht? and it is like a madman that you are~, and I sez to her, Main, my lass, if I waz not a sober man, as you know, I would not believe myself what I hef seen this night; and it is enough to hef made any man a madman what I hef seen I- 184 THE STRANGE HORSE OF LOCH SUAINABHAL. this night. And she xviii say to me, Alister, before you go into the house, I will bring you a pail of watter, and you will wash the blood from your face, and the dirt from your clothes; and I xviii say to her, Main, you are a verra goot lass, and you will mek a good wife to Cohn MacAlpin when he comes back from Glasgow. Cohn MacAlpin, I will say to her, is a verra good lad, and he is not a liar, like his uncle John the Piper; and he does not go about the island tell- ing foolish lies like him. That xvaz what I will say about John the Piper, Miss Sheila. And when I will be going up to the house, there waz a great sound of noise, and one or two singing, and the candles inside as if it waz still the middle of the night, and I knexv that these foolish men were trinking, and still trinking, and making a ye rra fine piece of laughing about the marrach of Dugald MacKillop and the young lass from Skye. And I went into the house, and Aleck Cameron he cries out to me, Gott pless me, Alis- ter-nan-Each! and hef you not gone on to Uig, when you waz having a bottle of Lagavulin whiskey with you all the way? And I sez to him, Aleck Cameron, it is a verra wise man you are, but you will know not any more of Lagavulin whiskey as the children about the house; and I hef seen a strancher thing than Lagavulin whiskey, and that is a great black beast that was on the shores of Loch Suaina- bhal, and you nor no other man ever sah such a thing; and it is the story of the black beast I will tell you now, if you will gife me a glass of whiskey, for it is that worst night I hef had since ever I will be born. Ay, Miss Sheila, there waz not one of them will be for lau0hing any more when I told them all the long story; but they xvill say to me, Alister, it is a stranche thing you hef told us this day, and you will go and tell the minister of it, and Mr. Mackenzie of Borva, and you will hear xvhat they say about it, for there is no one in all the island waz hearing of such a thins before, and it will not be safe for any one to go along by Loch Suainabhal until the truth of it is found out, and who will find out the truth of it like the min- ister, and Mr. Mackenzie of Borva, that hef been away to many stranche places, and gone further away az Oban, and Greenock ay, and away to London, too, xvhere the queen lifes and Sir James himself; and it was a great thing for you to see, Aliste r, and you will be known to all the island that you hef seen sich a strange thino And then I will say to them, Well, it is time now I waz getting home to Borva, and Gott knows when I will be back at Loch Suainabhal any more, but if you will come along by the shores of the loch, I will show you the place where I sab the beast, and you will know that it is true that I sah the beast. There waz one or two were for staying at home until the word was sent to the ministcr; but th others of them they had a goot tram, and they said, Alister, if you will be for go- ing by Loch Suainabhal, we will go with you by Loch Suninabbal, and we will tek the gun that Dugald MacKillops father got out of the wreck of the French smack, and if there will be any more sign of the big horse, we xvill fire the gun, and he will run into the watter again, but first of all, Alister, you will tek a glass. And I said to them, Yes, that is verra well said; and we will tek the gun; but it is not for any more whiskey I am, for I am a sober man, and there is no telling what foolish lies they may hef about any one, for there is ofer in Borva that foolish man John the Piper, and every one in the island, and Miss Sheila, too, will .know that he is the ~reatest one for trinking and for the telling of foolish lies of all the peo- ple in the whole island of Lews. Ay, and Aleck Cameron he xvaz verra brafe now, and he would be for carrying the gun, that had the poother in it, and the flint new sharpened, and the barrel well tied to the stock; but I said to him, It is verra well for you, Aleck Cameron, to be brafe now, but you waz glad to get back to the farm last night. And he is a verra quarlsome man, Miss Sheila; and ~he will say before them all, Ahister-nan- Each, I cain back to the house pekass you waz trunk, and I sah no black horse in Loch Suainabhal or out of Loch Suaina- bhal, and you will do yourself a mischief if you say such things about me, Alister- nan-Each. And I will tell you this, Miss Sheila, that it waz the foolish speech of this man, Aleck Cameron, that gafe the hint to John the Piper to mek a lying story about it. There is no one more sober as me in the whole island, as you know, Miss Sheila; and as for the trink, it waz only a glass we had at a young lasss marrach; and as for Aleck Cam- eron and his lies, did not every one see that he could not walk in the middle of the road- with the gun ofer his shoulter, but he waz going this way and that, until KISAWLEE.: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. I85 he fell into the watter by the side of the road, and Dugald MacKillop himself would be for tekking the gun from him, bekass he waz so trunken a man. I hef no patience with a man that will be going about telling lies, whether it is Aleck Cameron or John the Piper. Well, we waz going down the road, and there as sure as death waz the bits of the bottle that I let slip when the terrable beast turned his head, and it waz many a time we looked at the watter and along the shore, and Peter MacCombie, who is a verra frightened man, keeping to the back of us, for fear of the terrable peast. There waz no sign of him, no, for such stranche cratures, I hef been told, do not like the tayli~ht, but only the afternoon or the evenin ~,; and I said to Du~ ald Mac- Killop, Dugald, there is the verra place where he waz lying. And Dugald said, You hef seen a stranche thing, Alister- nan-Each; and I hope no other man will see the like of it again, for it isnotgood to see such stranche craytures, and if I waz you, Alister, it is the minister I would be for telling. Now, Miss Sheila, that is the whole story of the black beast that I sah, and I waz saying to Alister Lewis, the school- master, Mr. Lewis, I am not good at the writen, but if it teks me two weeks or a whole week to write the letter, I will tell the story to Miss Sheila, and she will know not to belief the foolish lies of John the Piper. And he will say to me, Al- ister, if you will be writen the letter, you will not say anything of Miss Sheila, but you will call Miss Sheila Mrs. Laffenter, for she is marriet now, as you know, and a verra fine lady in London; and I will say to him, Mr. Lewis, you are the schoolmaster, and a verra defier young man, but the old way is the good way, and Miss Sheila when she waz in Borva waz as fine a lady as she is now, and as fine a lady as there is any in London, and she will not mind the old way of speaking of her amon~ the people that knew her manys the day before the London people knew her, when she waz a young lass in her fathers house. And if there is any fault in it, Honoured Madam, it waz no harm I had in my head when I waz writen to you; and if there is any fault in it, I will ask your pardon beforehands, and I am verra sorry for it if there will be any offence. And I am, Honoured Madam, Your most humble servant to command, ALISTER-NAN-EACH, but his own name is Alister Maclean. P.S. I waz not telling you, Honoured Madam, of the lies that John the Piper will be speaking about me, for they are verra foolish and of no consequence mir- over. But if you will hear of them, you will know, Honoured Madam, that there is no truth in them, but only foolishness, for there is no one in all the island as sober az me, and what I hef seen I hef seen with my own eyes whatever, and there is no one that knows me will pay any heed to the foolish nonsense of John the Piper, that was trunk no further ago than the yesterdays mornin. From Macmillans Magazine. KISAWLEE: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. THE town of Kisawlee as the geogra- phy books would say contains a popu- lation of upwards of nine thousand. I should say the town to which I will give the name of Kisawlee for it would be time thrown away to search fdr its where- abouts in Keith Johnston or any other modern atlas even if they deigned to give poor Canada a map worthy of the name. The chances are that if you con- sult an ordinary atlas you will find a space near the end devoted to a map of North America generally; or in a fuller condi- tion for more advanced students, perhaps the United States and British Possessions would be allowed a whole page to them- selves, an honour shared by Sardinia and Corsica, Norway and Sweden, or the islands of the Grecian Archipelago. The names of gre at states, containing several millions of the Anglo-Saxon race, and half a dozen cities, larger than many of the smaller European capitals, are printed in precisely the same type as collections of mud huts on the preceding pa0e, while our own great Dominion would be denoted by a red smudge in the top corner, with Lake Ontario standing on its head, Lake Erie lookin~, as if it were not quite certain where it ought to be, and Superior making off (to use a native expression) in a bee-line towards the Rocky Mountains. British Possessions are xvritten in a general way from Toronto (probably still put down as Little York ) to the Atlan- tic Ocean, and the country behind, where manufacturing towns stand thick, where short-horn stock grazes, is cut off with the simple designation of Unknown Terri- tory, or the lOn~-forbotten and obsolete name of Prince Ruperts Land. Very i86 KISAWLEE LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. good maps of Canada can be procured from the emigration agents, but it is not to be expected that they should fall into the hands of the schoolroom governess or the knickerbockered child of ten, which may be put down as the most advanced age at which it is thought necessary to in- stil into British youths a knowledge of the physical geography of the world they in- habit. So the United States and Canada are dismissed with the same number of useless marks as Grim Tartary and Sibe- ria. The youth goes to school, and even that little is forgotten. Who can wonder, then, when educated Englishmen ask which is Upper and which is Lower Canada, whether South Carolina touches the Canadian frontier, and have a general idea that the country is inhabited by Yankees, Indians, and po- lar bears, or that they do as one individual I know of did come straight from an eminent British seat of learning to the longest-settled part of the oldest state in America, bringing with him an enormous chest of caipenters tools in the expecta- tion of having to build his own house and sleep in the open air till it was finished. The feelings of the Canadians are being continually ruffled as instances come be- fore their notice of what a terra i~zcognita their land (of which they are so proud) is in the mother country. The Yankees are not so sensitive, and they only guess the stranger is behind the times some, and pity him forthwith. But I must cry~eccavi for having rambled so far from my sub- ject, which was to endeavour to give a description, however feeble, of the man- ners and customs of the Canadians, taking a provincial town as my model rather than the old beaten route by way of Quebec, Montreal, and Toronto. Kisawlee, as I before said, boasts of a population of nine thousand and has considerable social pre- tensions. When the towns of A B, or C give a ball, and a brake- full of gentlemen from Kisawlee are ex- pected, it is said that the ladies take extra care with their toilets and that their hearts beat a trifle faster, while the gentlemen of A , B, and C look black. It is not surprising, then, that there are legends which tell of some festive occasions that have not ended as amicably as they should. A very aspiring town is Kisawlee. I have even heard ladies of fashion there whisper treasonable things against Mont- real, in which I thoubht I caught the word shoddy. The gentlemen of Ki- sawlee have long been famous for their gallantry and eligible qualities, and they have always enjoyed the reputation of numbering among their ranks a large number of freshly imported Englishmen, which has turned the scales very heavily in their favour. There used to be a tradi- tion that when the maidens of Toronto had arrived at a time of life at which there was a danger of their lapsing into that state so dreaded in Canada, when for many years they had been treated to candy in King Street by the youth of Toronto, with no more serious results accruing, their friends and those interested in them used suddenly to discover that the only way of recruiting their health, shattered by the dissipation of the metropolis of the West, was to send them to stay with friends in Kisawlee to enjoy rest and quiet, about the time when picnics and dances were most rife in the provincial town. This, however, we must put down to spite; probably it was in return for some mock- ing allusion made by the Kisawleeans when the British regiments were with- drawn from Toronto. A merry time the fair sex had had of it! Not so the law- yers, the bank-clerks,~and other individuals whose misfortune it was to wear a black coat. They wandered through the ball- rooms in vain the whole beauty of the city was entirely engrossed with the dash- ing hussars, and they were fain to content themselves with the once despised wall- flowers. But in due course, the last red coat disappeared from the streets of To- ronto the clash of the sabre, the military music, and the bugle-call, no longer sounded through what seemed to the ladies eyes the deserted highways, and the turn of the neglected civilians had come. Ill-tongued fame says that they had their revenge, and that the idols at whose feet the mess of the 34th Queens Own Hussars had knelt in adoration, for a whole season sat round the ballrooms unnoticed and deserted by their old play- mates, whom in the hour of prosperity they had scorned. But time heals all things, and nowa- days the lawyers and clerks encase them- selves in red, or blue for a fortnight every year, and with long cavalry spurs on, whirl the admiring fair round in the giddy waltz, creating only more havoc with their hearts than with their trains. Before touching on the more delicate subject of the social life of Kisawlee, its business, and its pleasures, let us glance at the place itself. The town lies in a valley on the river B--- (the letter B must here be understood to represent an Indian name of six or seven syllables, KISAWLEE: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. 187 which the inhabitants of Kisawlee are just learning to pronounce without stop- ping to take breath in the middle); the country round is said to be the most hilly in Upper Canada, some of the hills rising to the astounding altitude of three hundred feet. It is summer-time. The river flows gently now, and the sound of the current is drowned by the dull boom- ing and banging of drifting logs o neagainst the other. They have floated two hun- dred miles from the far backwoods, and all through the summer night and day come thundering and crashing down, till the sound gets as familiar to the ears of those living by the waterside as that of the river itself. On their arrival at the town they are caught, sawn up, and sent about their business. All the country round is completely cleared, leaving only enough timber for fire-wood, and now looks dried up and parched; while the grasshoppers, almost as large as humming-birds, start up by dozens at every footstep, and fill the air with their chirruping. The farms, and consequently the fields, are small; roughly built snake-fences obtrude their hideous forms on the sight everywhere, and neatly- built frame and red-brick houses, sur- rounded by verandas, are dotted in every direction, generally inhabited, or it would be more correct to say part of them in- habited, by whilom Scotch or Irish la- bourers who have risen in wealth with the country, though seldom in intelligence. There is a vulgar saying in Canada con- cerning these gentry that they sell every- thing they possibly can off their farms; what they cannot sell they give to the pigs, and what the pigs will not eat they eat themselves. From this we must draw the conclusion that farming is not looked upon in Kisawlee as an elevating or en- nobling pursuit. The road, however, is good and level, and as we draw near the town aspiring mansions rise by the road- side of red brick, stone, or wood. All Canadian towns are much alike. The approach to Kisawlee is by a long, straight, dusty road, lined on each side by rows of little painted frame houses, stand- ing within wooden railings, separated only from each other by a few yards of burnt- up grass, or a feeble attempt at a flower- bed, and fronted by a plank side-walk raised high above the road, a trap for the unwary on dark nights. Gradually the long, straight suburban road merges into a street the street of the town a ghastly array of hideous brick houses, every one of them crammed from cellar to garret with merchandise, the names of their owners painted in flaming characters on boards of all shapes and sizes ~ 1 Americaine. Cross streets run in at intervals, up which are to be foond the churches, with tin spires gleam- ing in the sun, hotels and taverns, banks, post-office, and town-hall, fading away into private residences, the same little red and white villas, and so on, till we get to coun- try road once more, and wind about among the snake-fences, brown fields, and grass- hoppers. Let us glance at the principal hotel. The bar of course is full, for the Cana- dians drink in summer on account of the heat, and in winter to keep out the cold. We enter our name and place of residence in the book, as the custom is; the land- lord reads it, and is at once all civility. He sees we are English, thinks of course we are green, and sniffs the spoils of war afar. Presently he lifts one finger and beckons with his head. This, I afterwards learn, is the Canadian fashion of asking you to drink, or, in their own parlance, to have a horn. If you are passing through as strangers, and more especially Englishmen, he will charge you $3aday. If a friend introduces you, winks one eye, and gives him a dig in the ribs, or some other familiar sign, you will only be $i ~er diem the poorer for your sojourn in his establishment, and if you board there for six months you will get off far cheaper even than that. Such are the anomalies of the charges in Canadian and American hotels! Of what does the upper-crust of society consist in Kisawlee? Let us try and de- fine it. Fpur or five half-pay officers with their wives and families, the managers and clerks of three banks (bank-clerks in Canada, by the way, hold a higher posi- tion in society than their confr?res in the old country, from the fact of its being a professionworth entering from a pecun- iary point of view, and consequently much sought after by the most influential families in the country for their sons), several lawyers, most of whom are in so- ciety, a judge, a parson or two, three or four doctors, and a miscellaneous bevy of people, many of them English, attracted by the cheapness of living. The rear is brought up by a phalanx of bachelors, a large proportion of them young English- men, some farming, and more who have made a hash of it, and quietly subsided into being pursers on lake steamboats or clerks in stores and lumber-shanties. It is no uncommon thing in Kisawlee to find i88 KISAWLEE LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. a clerk in a store with $20 a month going everywhere and made much of in society, while his chief, who lives in a fine stone house, with an annual income of $5,000, would knock ia vain for admission at houses where his poorly-paid clerk reigns supreme. Greatly to the credit of the Canadians generally, it may he said that, let a man he a gentleman, no occupation, so long as it be honest, will at all affect his place in society; while at the same time there are many men retaining their places there, and even courted as fa- vourites, who in England would long ago have been consigned to inebriate asylums, or at all events care would have been taken that their faces should live only in the memory of their acquaintances. There is probably neither a greater nor a less consumption of spirits in Kisawlee than throughout the rest of Canada; that, however, is not saying much. Ry~-whiskey is cheap, and fortunately rather mild; al- most all liquors are retailed over the bar at five cents (2 I-2d.) a drink, while the de- canter each time is handed over, Ameri- can fashion, to the discretion of the drinker. The temptation is too strong for about one-third of the male population another third, we will say, steady them- selves down to about half-a-dozen horns a day; while for courtesy we will suppose that the remainder take refuge in total ab- stinence, although I am afraid it is makinb rather a rash statement to say so. Drink has long been the curse of the country, and always will be till they put a good heavy tax on spirits. As will be gathered from what I before said, store- keepers, with rare exceptions, do not go into society. Where the Kisawleeans draw the line would be difficult to say but that there is a line there is no doubt, and that there.is a great deal of skirmish- ing about the borders of that line is also a well-established fact. One of the great institutions of Kisaw- lee, dear to the hearts of the gentlemen and an unceasing thorn in the sides of the ladies, is the club a ballot-club of about thirty members. It comprises a reading- room, where English and Canadian papers and magazines are taken (when I speak of magazines as connected with Canada, I should, I am afraid, have used the singu- lar number, as I never heard that the Ga- nadian Monthly, edited by a distinguished English scholar, had a rival); a spacious billiard-room, where snug pools and handi- caps take place in the long winter even- ings; and a smoking-room, not to men- tioa a dining-room, where not many years ago at any rate, a first-rate breakfast, cold lunch, and an excellent dinner, with beer and coffee thrown in, could be procured for the astonishingly low sum of $~ or 12S. a week. The heat of summer is greater far than in England, yet in that respect the Kisaw- leeans may look down with pity on the sun-smitten inhabitants of New York and Philadelphia, and have a decided advan- tage over their greater neighbours at To- ronto and Montreal. But it is not too hot for excursions of every kind, picnics, and cricket-matches. The latter sport par- takes of a decidedly fierce character in Kisawlee. When two rival elevens meet it is needless to say that no very great amount of talent is displayed, but that is more than made up for in the hearty ri- valry manifested by the contending sides, which is most refreshing after some of our more refined English matches, where every player is so much occupied with his own average that he has no time to think of anything else. There is nothing of that kind here; and when the two rival clubs of Kisawlee are pitted against each other, the peacefully - inclined spectator would be wise if he were to leave the ground about ten minutes before the con- clusion of the game. A great effort is be- ing made by Canadians of the lower or- ders (if I may apply the expression to individuals who receive as high salaries as their betters, wear a signet-ring on every other finger, and empty a whole pot of pomatum over their head every morning) to stifle cricket and hold up the Indian game of La Crosse as the national pas- time, and placard it as such about the towns. This is surely a mild species of disloyalty! Of course the great obstacle to cricket in Canada is that it involves a whole days absence from work, which in a busy country few people can spare. The Canadian masses I believe to be at bottom thoroughly loyal; but when it comes to be a personal matter between Englishman and Canadian, it is very evi- dent to all who have sojourned in the country, that, in certain ranks of life at all events, the latter does not invariably en- tertain towards the former the feelinga that are supposed to animate brother towards brother. Canoeing-parties, camping-parties up the back lakes, and picnics of all kinds follow each other in rapid succession. The Kisawleean picnics are conducted in the most sensible manner, and no one person ever feels the burden of them. The ladies take the food,which is perhaps a KISAWLEE: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. 189 little better than they would have at home, Then there are the sportsmen, who while the gentlemen provide the needful scorn the beds of hemlock-brush and the in the way of liquids, which it is almost cups and saucers, and would infinitely unnecessary to say is the never-failing rye- rather (bears as they are) see a rifle than whiskey, with a little sherry for the ladies. a lady in the bow of their canoe. These Champagne on such occasions is unheard grim spirits mean business, and they pad- of, and as it would probably be very bad if dle past the white tents, and the newly- it were, it is on the whole well that it is painted canoes drawn up on the shore, not considered a necessity. with an ill-concealed glance of pity and Scarcely anybody in Kisawlee is rich, contempt. Their canoes are old and If there are any millionaires they would dinby-looking, no names in gilt letters be found among the ranks of the store- adorn their sides; their tents and packs keepers. Three hundred pounds a year is look as if they had been through many looked upon as a comfortable income for campaigns and had wdathered many a family raIn; and I believe I am right in storms. But they glide on with eyes in- saying that very few of the people one tent on the far-away back country, where no meets enjoy an income of more than 5007. sound shall break the stillness but the a year, while a bachelor with an annual crashing music of their hounds, the crack income of rool. can live very comfortably of their rifles, and the howling of the and go everywhere, wolves at night. The picnics from Kisawlee are always But every pleasure has an end, and in water picnics, especially when the heat of due course of time ominous cold winds summer has given place to the dreamy, and dismal days and white-capped waves indescribable beauty of the fall, with its tell of approaching winter. Then tents glorious tints, so longed for by the Cana- are struck, and canoes packed, and the dians and so wondered at by the foreign- nymphs of Kisawlee, wrapped up in er, and every colour of the rainbow is shawls, are paddled home over leaden- reflected in the glassy waters of the thou- coloured lakes and throob h windy nar.rows sand lakes within reach of which it is the beneath showers of golden leaves, to bring happy lot of the citizens of Kisawlee to life back into the deserted town. Furs, dwell. Then ledgers are tossed aside, sealskin caps and jackets, have scarcely clients are left to take care of themselves been -hunted up when down comes the or fight out their own quarrels, and pa- iron king, relentless, to reign for six long tients to die or recover as they best can; weary months. while each faithful swain launches his A month of snow to most young people, canoe, seizes his paddle, and xvith the oh- at all events, would be highly enjoyable. ject of his adoration reclinino in the bow, It is scarcely enough to reduce the pleas. spends the live-long day gliding beneath ure and novelty of sleighing to a mere entwinin~ branches of hemlock, beech, means of transit, or to dull the ears to the and maple, till the unwelcome evenin me falls upon them, till the frogs begin to ~ rry tinkling of the bells; and perhaps sing it would hardly give them an overdose of a bellow fron~i the swamps, the whip-poor- skating, even though that pastime had to will to pipe his plaintive and monotonous be carried on in a damp and unhealthy son6, and the long lines of ducks to trail little rink. But six months, six long inter- across the purple sky. Then the head of minable months of white chaos, with noth- the canoe is turned towards the open lake, ing to relieve the eye but snow, deep and it speeds over the dancing waves and snow! There are dances ad 9iauseam all through the evening breeze to the distant through the winter, and their merry even- island, guided thither by the gleam of ings have often been held up by Canadians white tents, the ruddy fire, and the sound as the result of, and peculiar to, their hard of merry voices. Happy times those for winters; but is it, I ask, necessary to the the lovers of Kisawlee! No grim chaper- success of a ball that the thermometer ons to look savage at them when they should stand at thirty below zero, and that get back; while roast duck and muskal- every guest on the way thither should have longe steak is no bad wind-up even to periodically to feel his nose and ears in such a day. Dangerous affairs are these order to satisfy himself that he still pos- camping-parties, and half the weddings in sesses those or6ans? Get a sensible Kisawlee are the result of them, or per- Canadian in a corner towards the end of haps I should say. the engagements, for March, button-hole him, and he will sing the old saying that there is many a slip you a different song. You will gather twixt the cup and the lip holds very from him that, although he has never strong there. spent a winter away from his native land, 190 KISAWLEE: LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. he feels the cold more and more every authorities of the 2)th Military District year, and pines for something that his in- announce that the annual volunteer camp stincts tell him would he more natural and xviii be held at Kisawlee, and when a thou- more a~reeahle. Unless you are a lum- sand red-coats march from the railway her-man which Heaven forbid exer- station through the town, with bands play- cise is next to an impossibility, and you ing and banners flying. The enthusiasm consequently suffer, unless you can do of the populace knows no bounds. Here without it, which few Englishmen can. they come! the gallant and sole defenders Endeavour to walk along a country road of the country, in the uniform of the Brit- and even if you ca~ manage to stagger on ish line, xvith tin pannikins and canvas for a mile or two you will run the risk of bags slung on their backs. The 126th being put into the county lunatic asylum. Choctaw Battalion is in the van, marching Riding of course is an impossibility, so four deep, not quite so steady as they there is nothing for it but to sit in a stove- hope to be in a fortnights time, but the heated room, or to rush through the freez- weather is warm, and the whiskey at ing air, muffled up to the eyes, in a sleigh. M junction notoriously strong. By At this season of the year the farmers, the time, however, that they have marched being throxvn out of xvork, throng the bar- round the town six times, in the proud rooms in great Newfoundland coats with consciousness that the eyes of the Ki- hoods and red scarves round their xvaists, sawlee fair are upon them, they steady and fur caps of vast extent upon their doxvn considerably. Next comes the 125th heads a hard-looking croxvd, to use Battalion from Caybol~in, four hundred their own expression. But a still harder- strong, noted for its famous band, which looking crov~d are the lumber-men, or is at present bloxving itself red in the face shanty-men, xvho, turned adrift from the to the tune of The British Grenadiers far backxvoods, are let loose on the peace- in its endeavour to drown the plaintive ful inhabitants of Kisawlee. They may strain of The girl I left behind me, indeed be reckoned among the evils of xvhich the band of the home battalion in winter English, Irish, Scotch, French, its rear is playing lustily. Great is the and Canadians, all roughened down to cheering, waving of handkerchiefs from that state of existence xvhich lives only to windows, whistling on fin~ers, and chaff, drink or curse. that greet the native warriors as they The streets present, however, a very tramp past, waving the national banner gay appearance, as do also the stores and a beaver in the centre of a union-jack hotels. An unceasing stream of sleighs xvrought for them by some of the fair of every description glides swiftly and hands in the xvindoxvs above. noiselessly throu~h the streets; the steam But the excitement reaches its zenith from the horses rises up between the red- when steel helmets, xvavin~ plumes, and brick houses, throu6 h the cold air, and the flash of bare sabres are espied, and the jangling of a thousand bells continues the two squadrons of carbineers in red from morning till night. and the Kisawlee hussars in a neat uni- But let us have one more glimpse of the form of blue with white facin?,s ride past. more congenial summer xveather, when Some of the horses, probably straight man ceases to be a mummy and emerges from the plou~h, do not quite relish the into the daylight. We will not dwell too proceedings, and some of the riders look long on the mosquitoes and black flies, as if they would uncommonly like to be sand-flies, and deer-flies. They drive the rid of their sabres; but on the whole, for scattered settlers to take refuge in their a non-riding country, they are, or xvill be, log cabins during the whole month of a very creditable lot. A general move June, and, in spite of green veils, reduce takes place towards the selected camping- the faces of the unfortunate raftsmen to a ground two or three miles from town, and bleeding and unrecognizable pulp. The before evening a fifty-acre field is coy- mosquitoes last more or less throughout ered with white tents, from beneath xvhich, the entire summer, but they have their as night falls, issue as decided sounds of times and seasons and methods of attack, revelry as ever were heard in Belgiums and one can be a little prepared for them. mighty capital. A fortnight of continued In the streets of a toxvn they seldom ap- pleasure and excitement for the ladies, pear at all, but let the unwary venture into who every day drive out to see their a road before a shower of rain and I could brothers and lovers beincr transfom med into safely warrant that he would come out warriors, drink lemonade in their tents, quicker than he went in. and admire the lace on their uniforms. Long and loud is the rejoicing when the The road is choked up with vehicles. KISAWLEE LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. Old Scotch settlers, inveigled by their wives and daughters into taking one days holiday from their year of drudgery, come clattering along in farm-waggo ns. Shop- boys (pr store-clerks, I suppose I should say) take their moneys worth out of rick- ety buggies and broken-down screws, while pedestrians struggle along through the dust, mopping their heads with their handkerchiefs, and taking probably their only walk through the year to see our Zack in a red coat. The last day, how- ever, is the day of days. A stout gentle- man in a cocked hat arrives from Toronto, of whom rumour whispers that he is a general, and driving into the field, mounts a spare horse in a majestic manner. Be- neath the searching gaze of this Triton the infantry battalions rush furiously forward, and throwing them selves on their faces in skirmishing order open a terrific fire of blank cartridge on two inoffensive straw- stacks and an antiquated barn. Having expended all their ammunition on these harmless objects they retire as quickly as they advanced, when the entire cavalry force rides forward at a gallop, with drawn sabres, to cover their retreat. But as nei- ther the barn nor the straw-stacks seem inclined to follow up their temporary ad- vantage, they wheel into line and retire, preparatory to the closing scene the march past which I need hardly say is a more satisfactory performance than the one a fortnight previously through the streets of Kisawlee. It is by no means an unpicturesque sight. The hazy light of a Canadian autumn evening falling through the changing foliage on the lines of red coats, the bright helmets and the drawn sabres, the long lines of carriages, the bright colours of the ladies, the white tents behind and the broad river in front. But the general speaks: one may be quite certain beforehand what he is going to say That he feels it an honour to re- view such a fine body of men, and should an enemy invade their country he feels convinced that the troops now before him will give a good account of him. The music of the bands has ceased to play, and gives place to the music of the frogs in the swamps. The crowds melt away and disappear, tents are struck, and in a short time the late busy scene is left to the farmers cows and pigs who no doubt have a fine time of it. Every one who has a ticket hurries home for the great and final event of all the ball. The largest room in the town has been hired, and punctual to the hour three hundred devotees of the dance pour 9 in. Kisawlee exclusiveness is of no avail on this night; every grade of society is well represented. Lawyers, doctors, butchers, bakers, livery-stable keepers and loafers. The judges wife stands up in the same set with her dressmaker, and the parsons wife, if she is not careful, will run into the arms of her cook. Such tatters and such romping! Spurred heels fly in every direction, dresses rip and tear, an occasional thud rises above the din of battle, as some rural~ couple, unaccus- tomed to a waxed floor, go down. The band of the 126th blow as if every vein in their heads would burst and call loudly for whiskey between each dance. Tall men in long black morning-coats, red ties, and thick-soled boats, go through qua- drilles with a double shuffle; while their partners in pea-green dresses, short ring- lets and yellow head-dresses, hold out their skirts with thumb and finger; and go through the contortions of an Irish jig or a Highland reel. But the red-coats and the dashing hus- sars carry all before them on this event- ful night. It is the last night of their sway. To-morrow they will retire into pri- vate life and to a level with their civilian friends, who now hide their diminished heads in the card-room and drink claret- cup fiercely ; and who rejoice in their secret hearts when next day the last squadron files out of Kisawlee and the last train full of shouting red-coats puffs out of the station. Pages could be filled with the life of this stirring little town. I have said noth- ing of surprise parties nothinc~ of New-Years Day, xvhen the ladies sit at home all day behind regiments of glasses and decanters, and the Kisawlee bentle- men rush furiously from house to house, entering the room by sixes and sevens, or sometimes by dozens, sitting down only to jump up again as if there was a live coal in the chair, and after having, accord- ing to strict rule and custom, tossed off a glass to the health of the house, disappear as quickly as they came, only to repeat their interesting performance at forty or fifty other houses. I have made no mention of toboggon- ing, of snow-shoeing ~xcurs ions, of riding- parties, of shooting-matches at a turkeys head; but, on the other hand, I have said little of the very great chances of hav- ing the tip of your ear or your nose frozen off, or of its being absolutely impossible to sleep after sunrise in summer on ac- count of the common house-flies. Nor have I spoken of the excessive dirt and KISAWLEE LIFE IN A CANADIAN COUNTRY TOWN. 792 bad attendance at the best hotels, nor of the difficulty and sometimes of the impos- sibility of getting servants. But the Ki- sawlee ladies, though not very strong in music, painting, or languages, can make an apple-pie or a bed with any one; ne- cessity, if a hard, is a good master, as many a gently-nurtured Englishwoman has found out in places compared to which Kisawlee is a bed of roses. Enolishmen will penetrate into th~ most out-of-the-way nooks and corners of the earth, and their wives who have been brought up in luxury such as no other na- tion dreams of will go with them, and brave hardships, dangers, and troubles which would reduce an American, who has never trodden on a carpet, to a helpless and trembling heap of tears and groans. Truly we are an eccentric nation; but at all events we do not require a standing army of half a million to make us re- spected in regions and by men who have never heard of the emperor of Germany, and to whom the very name of the czar of all the Russias is a closed book. SHEBAUTICON. THE caje Mont/dy Magazine for September contains an article of Dr. Bleeks on his Bush- man researches, the proofs of which he was to have revised and enlarged the very day of his death. It adds little to what he had said on the subject in his last official report; per- haps one of the most curious pieces of new information contained in it is a reference to a Bushman legend, in which the rain-maker is asked to milk a nice female rain which is gentle, the rain being her hair. Compara- tive mythologists have sometimes been ridi- culed for seeing merely the rain-clouds in the cattle of Geryon or the long-haired swan- maidens, and they will appreciate the illustra- tion of their views which comes from the savage tribes of southern Africa. Another point of interest is the proficiency attained by the Bushman in painting and rock-carving, reminding us of the artistic skill of the modern Eskimaux, or of the ancient inhabitants of the Dordogne caves. Dr. Bleek says Bushman drawings and paintings have kindly been copied for me by Mr. Xvalter R. Piers and Mr. C. H. Scisonke. The latter in the first instance sent me a fine collection of copies of pictures scratched on rocks in tise coontry of my principal Bushman. informants; and latterly Ise forwarded a still more important collec- tion of copies of paintings discovered above the narrow entrance of a formerly-inhabited cave near the Kam- manassie waggon-drift, and also upon some rocks in Ezeljagtspoort. Amoun the paintings from the latter locality is one already pourtraved by Sir James Alex- ander. The subject of it (the water-maidens) was ex- plained in a fine old legend to Mr. D. Ballot (who kindly copied it for Mr. Schunke) by a very old Bosh- usan still sorviviug in tlsose parts. . . . The magnifi- cent collection of forty-two Bushman paintings copied from roclcs and caves in the districts of Cradock, Al- bert, Queens Town, Kaifraria, etc., by Mr. G. xv. Scow, IGS., accompanied hynineteen of his drawings of Bushman pictures chipped into rocks in Griqualand West, has been most generously sent by him to us for inspection. . . . They are of the greatest possible in- terest, and evince an infinitely higher taste and a far greater artistic faculty than our liveliest imagination could have anticipated even after having heard several glowing descriptions of them from eyewitnesses. Their publication, which we hope and trust will be possible to Mr. Stow ere long, cannot hot effect a radical change in the ideas generally entertained w~th regard to the Bushmen and their mental condition. An in- spection of these pictures, and their explanation by Bushmen, has only commenced; but it promises some valuable results, and throws light upon many things hitherto unintelligible. Da. ITTIRScHFELD has written home to an- nounce his arrival at Athens, and the success- ful beginning of the German excavations at Olympia. All the necessary preparations had been made for the work before Dr. Hirsch- felds arrival by Dr. Athanasius Demetriades, the commissioner appointed by the Greek government to co-operate with the German directors. The operations are being begun in a line with the excavations made by the French in 1829, when they came upon the spot at which the character of the broken friezes and portions of the roof found indi- cated the site of the temple of Zeus. It is hoped by Drs. I-Iirschfeld and Demetriades that by following this track they may discover some of the numerous other buildings which were enclosed within the boundary-walls of the ancient Altis. It is understood that the German work of exploration will be carried on with the proper degree of efficiency for two years, at the end of which time its further prosecution will have to be determined by a commission at Berlin, presided over by Pro- fessor Curtius. In the mean while we wish Dr. Iiirschfeld all po?sible success, and shall watch with interest for the appearance in print of the journal which he has undertaken to draw up of the progress of the undertak- ing.

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The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1650 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 22, 1876 0128 1650
The Living age ... / Volume 128, Issue 1650 193-256

L ITTELLS LIVING AGE. ~oe~2~j. ~ No, 1650. January 22, 1876. ~Frorn Begismiug, CONTENT S. Fortnz~-htly Review, I. THE PROSE W~ORKS OF WORDSWORTH, II. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. By Mrs. Oh- phant. Part VIII. III. IN A STUDIO. By W. W. Story. Part VII., IV. LAWSONS TRAVELS IN NEW GUINEA, V. LEFT-HANDED ELSA VI. THE LIMITS OF ILLUSTRATION, VII. CONSIDERATION OF OTHERS, . Saturday Review,. VIII. DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF SAMUEL PEPXS Academy, IX. VESUVIUS Athen~vurn, POETRY. 194 I WAITING, MacmiiZans Magazine, BlackwoodXr Magazine,. Edinburgh Review, Biackwoods Magazine, Spectator, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tke Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of ~Iostage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting uo a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by hank draft or check, or by post-office noney-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, tise 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. Single Numbers of-THE LIVING AOE, iS cents. WINTER,. MISCELLANY, 95 208 215 226 237 247 249 252 254 94 256 WINTER, ETC. 94 WINTER. I. BLUE-GREEN firs waver in a water wan, Save where red boles and robes unmoved and dim Show the keen wizard Frost prevails upon Even rivers; a low clink bewrays a slim Bird who hath lighted on the marge to drink. Aerial webs invisible, that link Sere russet fern with glumes of yellow grass, And green fir-needles, are palpable star-chains Of fairy jewels ; from furze points they pass; Every dark green lance of broom sustains Like burden; all are fledged with crystal soft, Mist frozen in plumelets; many a taper tuft Adorns the wine-stained bramble, and the blade, And bronzy twigs of trees bereft of shade. II. Brakes white with frost, and orange reeds are fair, Beneath yon sombre masses of cold firs, Stream-mirrored, while a silver birchs hair Hangs, like dark smoke, athwart the leaden air. Winter upon small m~irish ~pools confers, As on our panes, with palms and wreaths of hers, A delicate starfiower beauty, rivalling All fragile water-petals of sweet spring Sprinkles wine-dark ferruginous fens and ling, Desolate lowlands where the bittern booms. And now at nightfall, from where forest looms, A dragon train wails thwart the solitude Flame-breathing, with a long self-luminous brood, And livid long low steam among grey glooms. III. Snow falls hath fallen all the land is white. Pure snow clings frozen to labyrinths of trees: They in a narrow lane aloft unite; Winter hath clothed with a pure foliage these, Pitying them, bereft of springs delight. How fairylike their veiled pale silences! Feathery shadows a grey mist informing With beauty, as frail corallines dim sea. Some alien planet our earth seems to be Earth lies fair in her shroud and slumbereth; So fair the pure white silence of dim death! Lo! the suns fleeting phantom faintly warm- ing Mists into heavens blue, while they flush and flee: Budding birchsprays hang laughing jewelry Of opal ice athwart the lift that clears; Clinking it falls, or melts in jubilant tears. iv. Gaily snow flounces earthward in the sun, Or frozen glisters with an icy edge To windward of the elmbole; birds in dun Plumage, fair-formed elves, whistle in the hedge, Scatter its ermine mantle; as they run, Dint earths blithe stainless carpet; shake the foam Splashed upon all green brambles, and red- fruited Hollies, or thorns, or briars, where they roam; Our ever sweet-songed robin richly suited, And birds reserving for a leafier home And lovelier lands the voice wherein love luted, Erewbile in you dead summer: shadows blue Nestle where beast or man hath trodden deep In crisp-starred snow; fur mantles fair endue Thatched roof, wain, barn and byre, and slowly creep To a fringe of diamond icicle: the waters are asleep. No skaters whirr and whirl, as er~t, upon the imprisoned grey Smooth water; no chubby children slide and shout and play. Pile the illumining logs within, and let them crackle gay! Bright holly and green mistletoe cheering our hearths we keep: Warm glint the polished chairs and glasses, while yule-fires glow deep. But when dear babes lie dreaming, with a halo near the moon, And at their nursery doors are set small fairy- appealing shoon, There will float a voice of mystic bells over earths pale swound, And sweet sad fays of memory to haunt us in their sound! Good Words. RODEN. NOEL. WAITING. Do the little brown twigs complain That they have nt a leaf to wear? Or the grass, when the wind and rain Pull at her matted hair Do the little brooks struggle and moan When the ice has frozen their feet? - Or the moss turn gray as a stone, Because of the cold and sleet? Do the buds that the leaves left bare To strive with their wintry fate, In a moment of deep despair, Destroy what they cannot create? Oh, nature is teaching us there To patiently wait, and wait. Transcript. A. E. P. From The Fortnightly Review. THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH.* THE prose works of Wordsworth, now for the first time collected, and some of which are now first published, form a gift for which all who have ever truly listened to Wordsworth, and learned from him, will be grateful with no common grati- tude. To some men now in middle life, the poetry of Wordsworth in its influence upon their early years has been some- what like a lofty mountain, An eminence, of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun, which rose as chief presence and power near the home of their boyhood, which was the resort of their solitary walks, which kindled their most ardent thoughts, which consecrated their highest resolves, which created moods of limitless aspira- tion, ~ihich strengthened and subdued, from which came forth clear yet mysteri- ous echoes, against whose front the glories of dawns that were sacred had been man- ifested, and on whose edges stars, like kindling watchflres, had paused at night for a moment in their course. Not less than this Wordsworths poetry was to them, as they can remember now. But for such men the U~anderjakre, the years of travel, needful and inevitable, came; they went hither and thither; they took gifts from this one and from that; they saw strange ways and strange faces of men; they parted, it may be, too cheaply with old tbings that had been dear; they looked, or seemed to look, at truth askance and strangely. And now, if they are drawn hack once more into the hauhts of early years, they return not without dread and foreboding and tender remorse; to pass the barriers and re-enter the soli- tude seems as though it needed prep. ra- tory discipline and penance and absolu- tion; having entered it, however, the con- sciousness of ones own personality and its altering states ceases; the fact which flls the mind is the permanence of that lofty, untroubled presence. There it is, we say, the same as ever, the same, ~ The Prose Works of William ~ Edited with Preface, etc., by the Rev. A. B. Grosart. 3 vols. London: Edward Moxon, Son, & Co., 1875. 95 though to us, who have ranged,it cannot continue quite the same, but seems now a little more abrupt and rigid in its out- lines, and, it may be, seems a narrow tract of elevation in contrast with the broad bosom of common earth, the world of pasture-land and city and sea which we have traversed, and which we shall not henceforth forsake. That three substantial volumes could be collected of Wordsworths prose writings will be to some readers a surprise. The contents of the volumes are miscellaneous, but upon almost every page we find im- pressed the unity of a common origin; all that is here, or nearly all, essentially belongs to Wordsworths mind. Now, a quarter of a century after the writers death, these pieces have been brought to- gether, under the authority of the Words- worth family, by the indefatigable zeal and care of Mr. Grosart. Students of our older English poetry owe a lai-ge debt to the erudite enthusiasm of the editor of the Fuller Worthies Library. This service now rendered to a great poet of our own century deserves a word of earnest gratitude. The editor has done his work accurately, judiciously, and without oh- truding himself between the reader and the author. Some of these intended alms for oblivion, which he has recov- ered from the wallet on Times back. make richer in spiritual possessions the life of each of us, and of our century. The contents, miscellaneous as they are, fall into certain principal groups first, the political writings, which represent three periods in the growth of Wordsworths mind, that of his ardent, youthful repub- licanism (represented by the Apology for the French Revolution ), that of the patri- otic enthusiasm of his manhood (repre- sented by his pamphlet on the Conven- tion of Cintra), and lastly, that of his uncourageous elder years.* Certain es- says and letters upon education, together with a deep-thoughted letter of Advice to the Young, reprinted from The Friend,~~ lie nearest to the political writings, having * years have deprived me of courage, in the sense the word hears when applied by Chaucer to the ani- mation of birds in spring~tirne.~~ Prose W~rks,~~ voL iii. p. 317. THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 196 THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. indirect bearings upon politics, but being 1 immediately, and in the first instance, ethical. The group entitled by the editor KEsthetical and Literary comprises the Letter to a Friend of Robert Burns, not- able for its fine charity, and at the same time strength of moral judgment, the Es- says upon Epitaphs, admirable pieces of philosophical criticism (printed in part from hitherto unpublished manuscripts), and the several essays and prefaces which accompanied the editions of Wordsworths poems. Hard by these is rightly placed Wordsworths Guide through the Dis- tricts of the Lakes ; this, beside being a singularly perfect piece of topographical description, is of unique interest as ex- hibiting Wordsworths mind, in reference to external nature, at work not in the imaginative, but in the analytic manner. The Letters on the Kendal and Winder- mere Railway belong to the same group of writings. In the third volume the ed- itor has placed the notes to the poems, collected from many editions, and the whole of the precious and delightful mem- oranda, having reference chiefly to the occasions on which Wordsworths poems were conceived or written, dictated by the poet to Miss Fenwick, and known to Wordsworth students as the I. F. MSS. Letters and extracts of letters follow, and the volume closes with various personal reminiscences of Wordsworth, among which must be distinguished for its deep sympathy with the character and genius of the poet, and the interest of its details, the notice contributed by a living poet, kindred in spirit to Wordsworth, Mr. Aubrey de Vere. In the present ar- ticle it will be possible only to gather up the suggestions which arise from one division of these various writings, the po- litical division. When a poet on great occasions, and with a powerful motive, expresses himself in prose, it may be anticipated that his work will possess certain precious and faculties takes place under new condi- tions. The imagination, used as an in- strument for the discovery of truth, will pierce through the accidental circum- stances of the hour and the place in its effort to deliver from the incidents of time the divine reality which they conceal; oc- casional and local events will be looked on as of chief significance in reference to what is abiding and universal; and the poets loyalty to certain ideals will prob- ably take the form of a strenuous confi- dence in the future of nations or of man- kind. Thus, if he essays to write a polit- ical pamphlet, it is probable that the pamphlet will come forth a prophecy. No prose writer knows better than the poet (writing, in Miltons expressive words, with his left hand ) the limits to which he has subjected himself; yet he cannot quite subdue the desire to push back the limits, and assert the full privileges of his nature. No poet, indeed, as far as I am aware, has written in that hybrid species, which is the form of ostentation dear to the vulgarly ambitious, unimabinative mind, and which calls itself prose-poetry. The poet who writes in prose has made a surrender, and is conscious of self-denial and a loss of power; but, to compensate this, some of the force and intensity which comes through sacrifice for a sufficient cause may add itself to his mood and to its outcome. There will be in such writ- ing a quiver as of wings that have often winnowed the air; and masterin,, this, there will be a poise, a steadfast advance, and in the high places of contemplation or of joy a strong yet tranquil flight, a con- tinued equilibration of passion and of thought. Mr. Mill in a celebrated essay, with the object of illustrating by typical examples the true nature of poetry, contrasted the poetry of Wordsworth with that of Shelley. The latter was described as the offspring of a nature essentially poetical, vivid emo- tion uttering itself directly in song, while peculiar qualities. While working in this the former, Wordsworths poetry, was set foreign material, he does not divest him- down a~ the resultant of culture, and of a self of his fineness of nerve, of his emo- deliberate effort of the will, its primary tional ardour and susceptibility, nor can he factor being a thought, around which, at disregard the sustenance through beauty the command of the writer, or according of his imagination; but the play of his to a habit which he had acquired, were THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 97 grouped appropriate feelings and images. Any one who has been deeply penetrated by Wordsworths poetry must perceive, in a way which leaves no room for vague statement, that while Mr. Mill received its influences up to a certain point, he yet remained outside the sphere of Words- worths essential power; and perhaps no piece of criticism, seeming to outsiders to possess so considerable a portion of truth, could be more entirely alien to the con- sciousness of those who have adequately felt the power of Wordsworths poetry than that of Mr. Mill. Each writer of high and peculiar genius, whose genius notwithstanding fails to be world-wide, or universal as the sun, may be said to exer- cise over his readers an election of grace one is taken and another left; and that a person who has been thus elected should speak with decision about the mas- ter, implies no arrogance. As a man as- serts confidently what has been clearly shown by the report of the senses, so one who has been admitted to the presence of a writer of such high and peculiar genius as Wordsworth, knows and declares that the fact is so, and not otherwise. There will be no dissent among those who have approached nearest to Wordsworth, when it is. said that a most essential character- istic of Wordsworths writing, when he wrote in his most characteristic manner, is precisely the reverse of what Mr. Mill has stated it to be. In the poems of Wordsworth, which are the most distinctly Wordsworthian, there is an entire consen- taneity of thou~,ht and feeling; no critical analysis can separate or distinguish the two, nor can we say with accuracy that either has preceded and initiated the move- ment of the other; thought lives in feeling, feeling lives in thought; in their dual unity neither is afore or after other, neither is greater or less than another. If ever, indeed, there appears a tendency to severance of these two elements of Wordsworths poetry (it being assumed that Wordsworth is writing at his best), this occurs in those occasional trances of thought and mountings of the mind, when all intellection and all operancy of will seem to be suspended, and the whole being of the man to be transformed and trans- fused into silent rapture In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired. And yet in such an hour thought rather lay hidden in the light of thdught than had ceased to be. The forces of Words- worths nature, like the forces of the phys- ical universe, were correlated by a marvel- lous law, according to which one could pass and be transformed into another, what was at this moment a sensuous affec- tion becoming forthwith a spiritual pres- ence, what was now contemplation appear- ing presently as passion, or what was now a state of passive, brooding receptivity transforming itself into the rapturous ad- vance and controlling mastery of the im- agination. The excellence of writing, whether in prose or verse, Wordsworth has said, consists in the conjunction of reason and passion. And as this may be noted as the excellence of Wordsworths own poetry, the conjunction being no re- sult of an act of the will,, or of mere habit, but vital, primitive, immediate, and neces- sary, so it must be set down as the first distinguishing quality of whatever is high- est and noblest in these his writings in prose. The earliest in date of the more impor- tant pieces in the present collection is An Apology for the French Revolution. It is now printed for the first time, having been preserved in manuscript by the writer during nearly half a century. Bishop Watson, who had been a conspicuous En- glish sympathizer with the great move- ment in France during its earlier sta6es, deserted of a sudden the cause which to Wordsworth at that time appeared the cause of freedom and of the human race. An appendix to a sermon of the bishop a sermon that bore an odious title had signalized his change of faith by an attack upon the principles and the conduct of the Revolution. Word~xvorths pamphlet is a reply to this appendix. In dexterous use of his weapons the bishop is the more practised combatant; Wordsworths style suffers in some degree from a sense of the 198 conventional dignity of the political pam- phlet as employed in the eighteenth cen- tury. A young writer can hardly afford to be quite direct and free in his movements, lest he should he violent and awkward. Alluding to our natural existence, Addi- son, in a sublime allegory well known to your lordsl~ip, has represented us as cross- ing an immense bridge, from whose surface from a variety of causes we disappear one after another, and are seen no more. This simile of the opening paragraph, formed from the Vision of Mirza, with its appall- ing image of the Bishop of Llandaff falling through one of the numerous trap-doors, into the tide of contempt, to be swept away into the ocean of oblivion, belongs to the manner of majestic scorn or indig- nation of the political letter-writer of the period. It is more important to observe that in all higher and stronger qualities of mind the advantage lies with Wordsworth. And very remarkable from a biographical point of view it is to ascertain, as we do from this pamphlet, that not only was Wordsworths whole emotional nature aroused and quickehed by the beauty of promise which the world in that hour of universal dawn seemed to wear, but that his intellect had so clearly comprehended and adopted with conviction so decided the principles of republican government. Wordsworth had reached the a~ e of twenty-three. His character, naturally simple, stern, and ardent, had received at first no shock of either fear or joy from the events in France; they seemed only natural and right. But when he entered into actwfl contact with the soil and peo- ple, he could not but become aware of the marvellous change in progress. On the eve of the day on which the king pledged his faith to the new constitution, Words- worth saw with his own eyes the joy upon the faces of all men. A homeless sound of joy was in the sky; and to such prim- itive, unshaped sounds, whether from trees and mountain torrents, or the waves of the sea, or the tumultuous movement of the people, Wordsworths imagination re- sponded with peculiar energy. France was standing on the top of golden hours ;in Paris the English wanderer had gathered from among the rubbish of the Bastille a fragment to be cherished as a relic; upon the banks of the Loire he had discussed with Beaupuis the end and wisest forms of civil government; he had listened to the speeches of the Girondins in the National Assembly. And now that his republican faith might seem to be tried and tested, perhaps somewhat strained, THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. by the September massacres and the exe- cution of Louis XVI., he still retains un- shaken faith in France and in the repub- lic. Until his twenty-second year external nature had possessed all his deeper sym- pathies, and been the inspirer of his most intimate hopes, and joys, and fears. This, therefore, was the season of the first love- making of Wordsworths soul with human society. The easy-going sociability of his laxer hours at Cambridge had been felt to be a carelessness towards that higher self within him, which when he was alone as- serted its authority and condemned his casual pleasures. But now for Words- worth to unite himself with mankind was to widen the life and reinforce the ener- gies of that higher self. He could not quickly or without a strug~ le renounce the new existence which had opened for him. Acts of violence had been perpetrated but a time of revolution, Wordsworth pleaded, is not the season of true lib- erty. Alas, he goes on, the obstina- cy and perversion of man is such that lib- erty is too often obliged to borrow the very arms of despotism to overthrow him, and in order to reign in peace mjist establish herself by violence. She deplores such stern necessity, but the safety of the peo- ple, her supreme law, is her consolation. A certain sternness and hardness in Wordsworths temperament, his youthful happiness, and his freedom from tender, personal bonds, enabled him to look, with- out shrinking, upon some severe measures enforced by the leaders of the Revolution. Such tenderness as shed tears over the fallen body of a king seemed to Words- worth a specious sensibility. His sorrow was yielded to the violated majesty of public order; he lamented that any com- bination of circumstances should have rendered it necessary or advisable to veil for a moment the statues of the laws, and that by such emergency the cause of twenty-five millions of people, I may say of the whole human race, should have been so materially injured. Any other sorrow for the death 6f Louis is irrational and weak. This is a young mans somewhat haughty devotion to a cause, untempered and uninformed as yet by concrete human sympathies, or the humble cares and delicate fears which come with adult life. In this pamphlet Wordsworths republic- an faith is distinctly formulated. A repub- lic is the least oppressive form of govern- ment, because, as far as is pos~ible, the governors and the governed become one. The property qualification of voters must be set aside; the mechanic and the peas- THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 99 ant may claim their ri~ht to a share in the national legislation the suffrage must be universal. It is indeed necessary to dele- gate power to representatives of the peo- ple; but by shortening the duration of the trust, and disqualifying the legislator for continuous re-election during a series of years, safeguards against the abuse of this delegated authority may be provided. Ar- bitrary distinctions between man and man are to be abolished; hereditary nobility must cease, and with it those titles which are a standing insult to the dignity of plain manhood. Laws should be enacted rather in favour of the poor man than of the rich. The privileges of primogeniture must be abolished. And then upon the grounds of expediency and of justice, and through force of arguments drawn from the nature of man, Wordsworth pleads against monarchy, and the aristocratical institutions which form its support. The Bishop of Liandaff had found it hard to understand what is meant by the equality of man in a state of civil society; Words- worth directs his lordship for an explana- tion to one of the articles of the Rights of Man. Equality, witl~out which liberty cannot exist, is to be met with in perfec- tion in that State in which no distinctions are to be admitted but such as have evident- ly for their object the general good. There is a young mans bold and virtu- ons energy in the arguments of Words- worth, if there be less of deep moral preg- nancy to be found than in his later writ- ings. The chief interest of the pamphlet lies in its relation to the history of Words- worths mind. And it must be noted as assigning its true place to this piece of political reasoning, that the fact that Wordsworth was able to put forward his faith as a series of credenda, and was ready to give an argumentative rea~son for the hope that was in him, is evidence that at this time the most joyous period of Wordsworths revolutionary fervour was already past. So long as the facts of the French Revolution were their own justifi- cation, so long as the movement mani- fested its sacred origin by a self-eviden- cing light, Wordsworths faith was a joyous confusion of thought and emotion, a con- fluence of the mere gladness of living, the hope of youth, instincts and feelings which had existed since his childhood, and the readily accepted theories of the day. But when the facts of the Revolution no lon- ger corresponded with his wishes or his hopes, Wordsworth threw himself, for temporary defence against the threaten- ing danger of disbelief and profound dis appointment, upon theory. As the real cause became increasingly desperate which in i7~~ it was far from having be. come Wordsworth put upon his theory an increasing stress and strain, until at length opinions clung round his mind as if they were his life, nay, more, the very being of the immortal soul. In the proc- ess of attempting to sustain his faith in the Revolution by means which, to one of his constitution of mind, were against na- ture, his inmost being underwenta disrup. tion and disintegration. The powers of his nature ceased to act with a healthy co- operation; until, finally turning upon the opinions which tyrannized over him to test their validity by the intellect alone, dragging all precepts, judgments, max- ims, creeds, like culprits to the bar, Wordsworth escaped from them mourn- fully, through a period of perplexity and intellectual despair. In place of truth he found only a conflict of indecisive reason- ings. The declaration by England of war against France severed WordswQrth in feelinn from the country of his birth and of the traditions of his heart. The ag- gressive action of the French republic against Switzerland gave definite form to his latently growing alienation from the adopted country of his hopes, his theories, and his imaginings. The political part of him became thus a twofold exile; his sympathies, which had been so strong and glad, were thrown back upon himself, and turned into bitterness and perplexity. With Wordsworth political faith and ar- dour could not flourish apart from a soil in which to take root, and shoot upward and strike downward; his passion was not for ideas in themselves, but for ideas as part of the finer breath and expression of a nations life. Though abundant in pow- er of wing, and free in aerial singleness, like the skylark of his own poem, Words- worths faith needed a habitation upon the green, substantial earth; it could not live in perpetual flight, as Shelleys faith lived, a bird of paradise that feeds upon the colours of the sunset and sunrise, and if it sleeps at all, sleeps upon the smooth night-wind. It is easy for us at the pres- ent day, to whom the events of that pas- sionate period come calmed and quelled, bounded in space and controlled by adja- cent events, it is easy for us to declare that Wordsworths loyalty to the ideas of his youth should have survived the test; it is easy for us to see that at no moment in the history of the French Revolution had the vast spiritual agents which brought 200 THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. it into being spent their force, or con- verted that force into a desperate rage of destruction; it is easy for us to discover that before the principles of the Revolu- tion lay a long career. But precisely be- cause the moral nature of Wordsworth, and of others along with him, wns com- pletely roused, and was sensitive in pro- portion to its vital energy, the shock of events was felt severely, and the pain of frustration and disappointment became a blinding pain. The failure of the Revo- lution was felt like the defection and dis- honour of a friend, and when all was quieted by iron bonds of military rule ,it struck with cold finality upon young hearts as though it were a death. From the first there was a point at which Wordsworths adhesion to the French historical movement failed or was imperfect, though of this fact and its significance Wordsworth himself was at first probably not aware; sooner or later the flaw must have become a rift and gaped. Wordsworths sympathy with the national passion of joy and hope in France was spontaneous and involuntary; but with the long intellectual movement which preceded the upheaval of society, and with the methods of thought pursued with enthusiasm in the eighteenth cen- tury, the mind of Wordsworth could at no period have been in harmony. During upwards of eighty years which have elapsed since 1789 the principles of the Revolution have approximated, touched, or united themselves to many various schools of thought, from that of a Chris- tian democracy to that of atheistic com- munism. But originally to have entered into a very close and complete relation to the movement, it would have been neces- sary to have come up with it out of the centre of the eighteenth century illumina- tion or A ujiddrung. Looked at from a comprehensive point of vision, the Con- vention appears but an incident in that great progressive movement, that flinging- forward, wave-like, of the human mind, of which the Encyclop~dia is another inci- dent. But how much of the Encyclop~dia ever came home to the genius of the great transcendental poet of England, or was assimilated by it? Neither a dry, mechan- ical deism, nor a tender, sentimental deism was the theological conception towards which Wordsworths religious feeling could naturally incline him; and reason, even if Wordsworth had lost all faith in a wisdom and spirit of the universe,~ would never have been the abstraction from the nature of man, to which he would have chosen to yield his homage. With Rousseau it might be supposed that the mind of the English poet would find something in common; but the sen- timental return to nature of Rousseau, his self-conscious simplicity, and his singular combination of brooding sensuality with a recoil from the enervating effects of luxu- ry, differed as much as possible from the temper and genius of Wordsworth, on one side simple, hard-grained, veracious as that of a XVestmoreland dalesman, on the other capable of entrance into a plane of idealizing thought and imagination, where for Rousseau to breathe would have been death. From the ~esthetic point of view, the alleged return to nature of the revo- lutionary epoch did not show well~ of what mingled elements it really consisted will appear from the paintings of David, and from the affectation of Roman man- ners in public life upon conspicuous oc- casions. The eighteenth century, speak- ing broadly, had pursued truth by methods of the intellect alone, apart from the sug- gestions of mans instincts, emotions, and imagination. By-and-by these last had leaped into life a~gressively, and caught up as weapons of their warfare the con- clusions which the intellect had forged. With the passionate, instinctive side of the great movement Wordsworth was suf- ficiently at one; but when the revolution- ary passions and instincts, as yet un- trained, and therefore violent and crude, were seduced from their true objects, when an apostolic mission to the nations announcing enfranchisement was ex- changed for a war of vulgar conquest, then those who would retain their faith in the Revolution were driven back, and among them Wordsworth was driven back, to the abstractions of the revolu- tionary creed. Wordsworth, with the log- ical faculty alone, and pursuing the eigh- teenth-century method of truth-discovery that of the pure intellect endeav- oured to verify his republican theories. The result with Wordsworth was that all truth for a time disappeared; certitude with respect to any and every class of be- liefs became for a time unattainable.* * The following reference, in the Apology for the French Revolution, to Priestley deserves to be quoted: At this time have we not daily the strongest proofs of the success avith which, in what you call the heat of all monarchical govermuents the popular mind may be debauched? Left to the quiet exercise of their own Judgment, do you thiult that the people would have thought it necessary to set fire to the house of the phil- osophic Priestley? It may be added that the state- ments made above are not opinions of the writer of this article, hut statements each of which may be verified by reference to The Prelude, or some other ~f Words- wortias writings in verse or prose. THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 201 Two chief streams of intellectual and moral tendency are distinguishable in the period subsequent to the Revolution,- the period during which Wordsworth at- tained the full possession of his powers, and thence onward to our owh days. One of these has endeavoured to sustain and develop the most beneficent influ- ences of the eighteenth century; to it be- long at the present hour modern science including the science of political econ- omy and modern democracy. The other should have aimed at supplement- ing and enriching the best gifts of the preceding epoch with new methods, feel. ings, and ideas in accord with the changed condition of the human mind. Unfortu- nately for the cause of tranquil and en- larged human culture, the two movements, which ought to have heen auxiliaries, and the men representing each, who ought to have been allies, appeared as rival and conflicting forces,, each claiming suprem- acy over the individual mind and over the progress of human society. Hence have arisen on either side excesses and extrav- agances: on the one side Catholic reac- tions, a profound suspicion of modern sci- ence, systems of spurious metaphysics resorted to as an escape from the press- ure of facts, in art an emasculated medi~e- valism; on the other, a materialistic tem- per hard and pushing, an unimaginative and unsympathetic school in politics, the dreary science drearily pursued, a pro- found suspicion of religion, and intoler- ance of religious ideas. It would have needed a greater mind than that of either Bentham or of Coleridgi~ to effect a rec- onciliation, which should not be a com- promise, bedveen the two movements of the age. As things were, it was needful to choose a side. The appropriate work of Wordsworth, and of his companion who worked more in the sphere of pure thought, was rather to supplement the deficiencies and correct the errors of the eighteenth century than to carry on and develop its most precious influences. But, in assuming their appropriate places as teachers, Coleridge and Wordsworth were at the same time condemned to an atti- tude of hostility with reference to one entire side of the culture and the progress- ive thought of their time. Receiving as we do from Wordsworth such a gift of high po~try, such an overflow of impas- sioned contemplation of the universe from a fixed point of view, we know not how we should regret that he entered so abso- lutely and so serenely into his own vision of truth. Had his certitude in beliefs transcendental been disturbed by doubts and questionings, he could not have dis- played a skill of fence and thrust, nor have enjoyed the militant exercise, as in our own day Mr. Browning does, wh o,if he would build the walls of our spiritual city, builds ever with one hand working in the work, and the other hand holding a weapon. Could we conceive the mind of Wordsworth producing poetry at all in a state of divided intellect and feeling, for as a fact that rift would have made Wordsworths music mute, we are com- pelled to imagine the outcome of his mind as resembling the poetry of Clough, though possessing an ampler body of thought and feeling than Clou~hs, a kind of self-revelation, not without curious interest or even peculiar uses in a dis- tracted period, when the head and heart pay separate allegiance to rival authori- ties, but incapable of becoming in a high degree a power with individual minds, or the prophecy to a nation. We cannot, therefore, regret, for the sake of Words- worth himself and of his poetry, that his trust in his own faculties and their mode of operation was complete; for us, too, it is perhaps well that such high, serene, and yet impassioned faith as Wordsworths should have found its adequate record in song; there are times when we are moved to place reliance in it upon the credit of our past selves, as in an intuition, which was once our own during a season of clear and solemn vision, and which cannot be ours again. But it is also true that Wordsworths imaginative faith (such a name he himself bestows upon it) fails to come into direct contact with the intel- lect of the present time, and moves us by its prophet-like enouncement of truth transcendental less than such emotional controversy as Mr. Brownings moves us. Unless we could carry on the conduct of our mental powers upon Wordsworths method, we could not hold in living and immediate possession Wordsworths con- clusions; and the weight and pressure of scientific methods of thought at the pres- ent time render the conduct of the intel- lect in Wordsworths manner possible only by miracle of grace, or by peculiar conformation of mind, or through a vir- ginal seclusion of soul. In the literature of England~ and in the darkest hour of reaction, the Revolution found a banner-bearer, an embodied gen- ius half-formed from the spirit of swift, wild, and beautiful things in nature, and half from the keenest joys and an~uish of humanity; one made to be a saint and a 202 THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. Thy breath, Dear sister! was a kind of gentler spring That went before my footsteps. martyr of revolution, the delicate victim arisen. At this period, as we find record. thrown to the lions of authorized opinion; ed in The Prelude, the influence of his a poet framed for intensities of faith, of sister was peculiarly precious and sana- charity, and of hope; for illuminated tive; but this influence of Wordsworths heights of rapture and of song. But Shel- sister was less like that of one active hu- ley, who, by virtue of his swift-weaving man spirit upon another than that of the imaolnation, his artistic impulses, and the tender tranquillizing and ardent breathing incantation of his verse, belongs to the of the life of external nature: nineteenth century, was by virtue of the intellectual background and basis of his poetry a child of the eighteenth century, a true volunteer against old tyrannies in the wars of enfranchisement of the repub- lic. In order that he should be a revolter it was not needful to Shelley that the Rev- olution should promise an immediate suc- cess. The abstractions created by the intellect and the passions of that age were to him the only realities, and he believed that their history would be long. Livin,, as he did in the idea, concrete facts ap- peared to him but as shadows, ever vary- ing and shifting, thrown from accidental objects which intervened between the world of men and the high, white light of the eternal world. For such poetry, which nourished itself upon abstractions, and existed independently of the accidents of the time, a career, even in a season of re- action, was open. Laon and Cythna may stand bound amid the flames; but in due time the martyrs will reach that radiant isle sanctified by the temple of the spirit. For countless ages Prometheus may hang nailed to the mountain-wall; but the day will dawn of his deliverance, when the whole sphere of earth must break into blossom and into song. For Shelley, whether France were enslaved or free, liberty remained. But such political pas- sion as Wordsworths united itself with an actual cause. It was roused by the presence of the elements of noble national life, not somewhere apart in the air, not in some remote political z5rimum mobile, but in the veritable life of a nation. For such poetry of revolution after the a-e-ime of the Directory and the m8th Brumaire the career was closed. Yet some fruits of his early republican faith remained with Wordsworth; and what is more important that in his own nature which at first made him a sympa- thizer with the Revolution, remained. When, after the time of trial, of intellect- ual perplexity, and moral confusion, there came by degrees light and calm, spiritual restoration and strength, it was not an al- to~ ether new self that Wordsworth found, but his former self changed from youth to manhood, as men have been changed by a bed of sickness from which they have She did not so much compel him to new lines of thought or habits of feeling, as restore him by an atmosphere of loving wisdom to his wiser and more gracious self. It is a remarkable and characteristic fact that Wordsworth, in the poetical auto- biography which he has left with us, attrib- utes no influence of primary importance upon the growth of his mind to any soul, whether kindred or antagonist, of man or woman. The sympathy and the intel- lectual action of Coleridge helped to fos- ter and advance Wordsworths instinctive tendencies of thought; but Coleridge did not contribute any dominant idea to Words- worths mind, nor move him apart or side. ways from the track along which he was progressing. Wordsworth was never driven out of any position by force of ar- gument, nor attracted into a new position by compelling sympathy with another mind. For Mary Hutchinson his love was a deep, tender and enduring feeling; but it was not that kind of passion which lifts a man into a new and strange world of winged li~ht, and swift winds of joy, and rapturous self-abandonment. She was to him like a calm recess among the woods, sheltered from tempest and from extremities of heat, with its refreshment of living water, and .its little solitude of greenest herba,,e. Obstacles were re- moved from Wordsworths way by other hands, flowers were planted in its rugged and bare spots; but he was not diverted from his path, or guided to points of vis- ion whicJm lay to the left or right. His sis- ter led Wordsworth back to nature, and softened down the over-sternness of his earlier temper. In her sensitiveness he seemed to discern a finer kind of justice to which he had been blind, and thus he came to distrust, perhaps over-much, the bold judgments which he had but lately passed upon events. Few thin,,s are more difficult than to receive an acces- sion, even a slight accession, to a man~s powers of moral discernment, without at the same time acquiring a suspicion of his past self either in kind or in degree not THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 203 wholly warranted by fact. With Words- worths aspiring fprce now co-existed a certain loving humbleness, meekness, or docility of senses, affections, and intellect. He was less sanguine than formerly; he cared less for theories of human progress, and less for the abstraction man.~~ Growing into a habit of estimating things somewhat like that of Burke, it seemed to Wordsworth now that there was a cer- tain effeminacy in levelling down the truth to general notions, and so avoiding the difficulties and rough edges of truth, which are felt when we deal, not with abstrac- tions, but with concrete details. But, while these modifications of moral and in- tellectual temper had taken place, Words- worths veneration for the stuff of com- mon human nature, his democratic sense of the dignity of manhood, was not lost. What is most precious in our common hu- man nature seemed to him to be whatever is most simple, primitive, and permanent. This he found among the hardy peasantry of his own north-country district, And if man was less to Wordsworth than - formerly, individual men and women be- came infinitely more. With his demo- cratic feeling for what is best in human nature, corresponded his feeling for lan- guage considered as the instrument of his art. XVhat is best in language, it seemed to Wordsworth, were those simple, strong, and living forms of speech, in which the permanent and primitive feelin5 s of men utter themselves. Wordsworths theory of poetic diction was perhaps not announced with perfect clearness, and has certainly been gravely misunderstood. It was not the language of the peasant, as such, any more than the language of the courtier or the philosopher, as such, which seemed admirable to him; it was the permanent and passionate speech of man, wherever to be found, which he sought after; and in the speech of simple men Wordsworth believed that there was more of such stuff to retain, and less matter to be rejected as belonging to merely local or occasional uses, than in the speech of over-cultivated, artificial refinement. However Words- worth may have failed to convey his pre- cise meaning in his celebrated prose pref- aces, it cannot truly be asserted that his practice and his theory were not in agree- ment. To us of the present day there are few characteristics of Wordsworths po- etry more refreshing, when we turn to it from contemporary writings, which repre- sent, in dramatic fashion, characters and incidents of humble life, than its entire freedom from condescension. It neither studies the persons nor repeats the phrases of shepherd, of cottage matron, of peasant-patriarch, of village schoolmaster with an air of sentimental or of humor- ous superiority. Michael and Matthew, Ruth and Margaret, the leech-gatherer and the pedlar, are figures as great or graceful as those of Dion or Laodamia. Around the body of the l-Iighland girl is effused a light which makes her, while so real and human, radiant as a spiritual vis- ion; into the voice of the solitary reaper gathers all the thrilling power, which pen- etrates and persists, of nature in her furthest and clearest solitudes, with all the stored-up tradition of human sorrow that is deep and dim, and of human strife that is unavailing.* I should think, Wordsworth wrote to a friend in the year 1821, that I had lived to little purpose, if my notions on the subject of government had undergone no modification: my youth must, in that case, have been ~vithout enthusiasm, and my manhood endued with small capability of profiting by reflection. If I were ad- dressing those who have dealt so liber- ally xvith the wOrds renegade, apostate, etc., I should retort the charge upon them, and say, You have been deluded by places and persons, while I have stuck to prin- czum5les. I abandoned France and her rul- ers when they abandoned the struggle for liberty, gave themselve~ up to tyranny, and endeavoured to enslave the world. This is not a mere piece of logical fence, but in large measure a faithful statement of what actually occurred. Wordsworths sympathies attached themselves not to words or abstract notions, but to an actual cause. When once again his gaze was passionately turned upon public events, England stood alone, defending from mor- tal assault the very life of virtue in man- kind. The war, which at its commence- ment had made Wordsworth an alien in heart from th~ country of his birth, now bound him to that country which seemed to bethe one land in which a passionate sense of justice still survived. Words- worth poured his adult com- parison with which his youthful enthusi- asm seems a shallow excitement, into this channel. Indignation and pity, a lofty sense of right, deep sympathy with the spiritual life of suffering nations, a con- * It is worth noting that the personages of many of Wordawortiss poems are not literal portraits, hut ideal studies formed from several individuals. Wordsworth says of Matthew, Like the wanderer in Tise Excur- sion, this schoolmaster was made up of several, both of his class, and men of other occupations. Prose Works, vol. iii. pp. 26S, 269. 204 sciousness of his own maturity, and larger force of intellect and of feeling all these conjoined to lift the whole being of the poet into a nobler mood than it had yet attained. From 1802 to 1815 the shocks of great events followed one another rap- idly, and kept aglow Wordsworths heart and imagination. In the summer of 1802, upon a July morning, before London was awake, Wordsworth left the great city, and from the roof of the Dover coach looked at the gliding river and the sleep- ing houses as he passed on his way to the Continent. During the brief peace he had an opportunity of contrasting the condition of France under the Consulate, when Calais looked sombre upon Buona- partes birthday, with her state in the prouder season of his youth, when the very senselessness of joy was sublime. The calm which followed the Peace of Amiens was the thunderous calm that goes before a storm. In the autumn months the strength of Wordsworths soul lay couchant and brooding; his spirit was gathering up its forces; when his eye turned outward, he saw little at that moment in which to rejoice; the pet- tiness of life, alike though not equally in England and in France, the absence of high aims, heroic manners, and far-search- ing ideas, oppressed him. Yet he did not really despond; within him lay a forefeel- ing of the great destiny which was due to his nation. He sank inwards from thought to thought, with no sadness in the nerves, no disposition to tears, no unconquerable sighs, yet with a melancholy in the soul, a steady remonstrance, and a high resolve.* The declaration of war, and the threat- ened invasion of 1803, roused him to a spirit of more active patriotism: No parleying now! in Britain is one breath. Three years later the conquest of north Germany, that deadly blow which left England to maintain the struggle almost or altogether single-handed, only exalted Wordsworths spirit of resolution: Tis well! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought. In i8o8 the treacherous policy of Na- poleon consummated itself when Ferdi- nand was forced to resign the crown of Spain, and the French troops entered Madrid to proclaim Joseph Buonaparte a king. Until this moment the dominant * ~ apply to Wordsworth at this time words which he used in another connection. Advice to the Young, Prose Works, vol. i. pp. 359, 320. motive that sustained the war was a stern sense of duty; the highest and best state of moral feeling to which the most noble- minded among Englishmen could attain except in rare moments of exaltation was a deliberate and preparatory forti- tude, a sedate and stern melancholy, which had no sunshine, and was exhilarated only by the lightnings of indignation. But the rising of the Spaniards as a nation seemed of a sudden to change the entire face of things. Out of the depth of disappoint- ment and the sense of frustration which followed, Wordsworth thus, in memorable words, describes the change which was effected: But from the moment of the rising of the people of the Pyrenean peninsula, there was a mighty change; we were instantaneously animated; and, from that moment, the contest assumed the dignity, which it is not in the power of anything but hope to bestow; and, if I may dare to transfer language, prompted by a revelation of the state of being that admits not of decay or change, to the concerns and interests of our transitory planet, from that moment this corruptible put on incorrup- tion, and this mortal put on immortality. This sudden elevation was on no account more welcome, was by nothing more endeared than by the returning sense which accompanied it of inward liberty and choice, which gratified our moral yearnings, inasmuch as it would give henceforward to our actions as a people, an origination and direction unquestionably moral as it was free as it was manifestly in sympathy with the species as it admitted therefore of fluctuations of generous feeling, of approbation and of complacency. We were intellectualized also in proportion; we looked backward upon the records of the human race with pride, and instead of being afraid, we delighted to look forward into futurity. It was imagined that this new-born spirit of re- sistance, rising from the most sacred feelings of the human heart, would diffuse itself through many countries; and not merely, for the dis- tant future, but for the present, hopes were entertained as bold as they were disinterested and generous. The pamphlet on the. Convention of Cintra is XVordsworths loftiest, most pas- sionate, most prophet-like utterance as a prose-writer. Although an occasional piece, its interest and importance are of an enduring kind. It may be classed in the small group of writings dealing with occasional incidents and events in their relation to what is everlasting and univer- sal, at the head of which stands Miltons prophetic pamphlet, the sublime Areo- pagitica. Wordsworths Convention of Cintra takes a place in this group not far below the speech of Milton; and THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 205 Wordsworths pamphlet is depressed to that position chiefly because, in its discus- sion of the details of the French surren- der, is retained a larger quantity of the perishable matter of history. Consider- ing the event from a military point of view, we can hardly be warranted in doubtino~ that the decision of Sir Arthur Wellesley, confirmed and justified as it is by the great military historian of the Peninsular War, was a sound and prudent decision. Wordsworth, however, wrote neither as a soldier nor as a mere politi- cian, but with the antipathies and sym- pathies, the loves and hatreds of a citi- zenof a human beino TI military profession cultivates an almost exclusive attention to the external, the material and mechanical side of public events, and a disregard of moral interests, a faintness of sympathy with the best feelings, a dimness of apprehension of the chief truths relating to the happiness and dig- nity of man in society. The practical statesman, skilled in seeing into the mo- tives and managing the selfish passions of his followers, acquires a promptness in looking through the most superficial part of the characters of those men, and this he mistakes for a knowledge of human kind. Of the wisdom which includes a recognition of the deeper emotions, the instincts and ardours of a people, the en- ergy to dare and to achieve at times al- most miraculously brought into being the delicacy of moral honour in a word, of all that is, as it were, the higher func- tion of the living body of society men of routine, who manage the machine of the State, are either unaware or contemp- tuously sceptical. Wordsworths school of political wisdom did not lie amid a host of petty and conflicting self-interests, nor among factions which force men astray against their will versal spirit of man. His purpose was not merely, with the energy of a widely- ranging intellect, to use truth as a power- ful tool in the hand, but to infuse truth as a vital fluid in the heart. It was not knowledge merely which he wished to con- vey, but knowledge animated by the breath and life of appropriate feeling; it was not wisdom alone as a possession, but wisdom as a power. Whether men would listen to him or not, did not in the first in- stance concern Wordsworth. When the singing-robe or the prophetic mantle is on, a man does not peer about anxiously for auditors. The writer felt that he had a work to do, and he was straitened until that work should be accomplished; he ut- tered his prophecy as the night-wind sings to men who sleep, or revel, or toil at the ledger, and do not hear; only one and an- other wakeful and apprehensive may at- tend to th.e dirge or the promise as it passes by; he that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Wordsworths style in this pamphlet is singularly living and organic. With the mechanism of sentence-constructing he did not ever trouble himself to make ac- quaintance, although he had a full sense of the importance of right workmanship in verse. Each sentence here lives and grows before the reader; its development is like a vital process of nature, and the force from which it originates is not sp~edily expended. Lano~uacre Words- worth has said elsewhere, if it do not uphold, and feed, and leave in quiet, like the power of gravitation, or the air we breathe, is a counter-spirit unremittingly and noiselessly at work, to subvert, to lay waste, to vitiate, and to dissolve. Here the thought and feeling are not crystal- like with sharp, clear edges; rather they saturate the language which sustains them as a solvent, and which conveys them to us in such a way that they at once enter Not there; but in dark wood, and rocky cave, into the vital action of the mind. Pas- And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill sages of close inquiry into facts occur, With omnipresent murmur as they rave but these are the least permanently inter- Down their steep beds, that never will be still. esting portions of the pamphlet. At times the progress of ideas seems to be slow, Among such enduring, free, and pas- and the passion studiously deliberate; but sionate presences of nature there were the sweep of mind is wide and compre- seclusion and a refuge from motives of hensive, and the motion seems slow partly petty expediency, and arguments of for- because it is high up, and uninterrupted mal, professional pedantry. Here Words- by the recurring incidents which mark worth could look into the life of things; and measure the advance of thought or here he could submit himself to the vast feeling upon a lower level; justice and in- impalpable motives of justice, and of the dignation, sorrow and hope, hear the deep fraternity of nations; he could pur- thought which soars through large spaces sue those trains of reasoning which origi- of the sky; the motion, when it seems nate from, and are addressed to, the uni- I least rapid, is like that of a broad-winged 206 THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. bird which sails far aloft, and only at long intervals utters a cry. It is not necessary to retrace the argu- ments by which Wordsworth attempts to justify the popular indignation against the Convention and its authors. Whether a defeated French army should have been permitted to depart to France with its arms, its baggage, and its plunder, or not, is a question which we can be content to leave unanswered. What loses nothing of its importance and power is the noble conception of national well-being which this pamphlet displays, its comprehension of the spiritual life of a people, its recog- nition of the superior might of moral over material forces, its lofty and masculine de- votion to justice, its sympathy, deep, ten- der, and empassioned, with the varying moods of hope, resolution, fortitude, rage, despair, of an afflicted land. One or two passages may be selected from the pam- phlet, but the whole has an organic unity, and any passage severed frOm the rest, and thrust forward as a specimen, seems in a measure denaturalized, and deprived of its vital function. Riddance of the French not the object of the war. From these impulses, then, our breth- ren of the peninsula had risen; they could have risen from no other. By these energies, and by such others as (under judicious en- couragement) would naturally grow out of and unite with these, the multitudes, who have risen, stand; and if they desert them, must fall. Riddance, mere ridd. nce safety, mere safety, are objects far too defined, too inert and passive in their own nature to have ability either to rouse or to sustain. They win not the mind by any attraction of grandeur or sublime delight, either in effort or in endur- ance; for the mind gains consciousness of its strength to undergo only by exercise among materials which admit the impression of its power; which grow under it, which bend under it, which resist, which change under its influence, which alter either through its might or in its presence by it or before it. These, during times of tranquillity, are the objects with which, in the studious walks of seques- tered life, genius most loves to hold intercourse; by which it is reared and supported; these are the qualities in action and in object, in image, in thought, and in feeling, from communion ~vith which proceeds originally all that is crea- tive in art or science, and all that is magnani- mous in virtue. Despair thinks of sfety, and hath no purpose; fear thinks of safety, de- spondency looks the same way; but these pas- sions are far too selfish, and therefore too blind, to reach the thing at which they aim, even when there is in them sufficient dignity to have an aim. All courage is a projection from ourselves; however short-lived, it is a motion of hope. But these thoughts bind too closely to the present and to the past, that is to the self which is or has been. Whereas the vigour of the human soul is from without and froth futurity, in breaking down limit, and losing and forgetting herself in the sensation and image of country and of the human race; and when she returns and is most restricted and confined, her dignity consists in the con- templation of a better and more exalted being, which, though proceeding from herself, she loves and is devoted to as to another. Vox Potuli. For, when the people speaks loudly, it is from being strongly possessed either by the Godhead or the Demon; and he, who cannot discover the true spirit from the false, hath no ear for profitable communion. But in all that regarded the destinies of Spain, and her own as connected with them, the voice of Britain had the unquestionable sound of inspiration. If the gentle passions of pity, love, and gratitude be porches of the temple; if the sentiments of admiration and rivalry be pillars upon which the structure is sustained; if, lastly, hatred and anger and vengeance, be steps, which, by a mystery of nature, lead to the House of Sanctity; then it was manifest to what power the edifice was consecrated; and that the voice within was of holiness and truth. Arts qf Peace under a Desj5otis~n. Now commerce, manufactures, agriculture, and all the peaceful arts, are of the nature of virtues or intellectual powers: they cannot be given; they cannot be stuck in here and there; they must spring up; they must grow of them- selves; they may be encouraged; they thrive better with encouragement and delight in it but the obligation must have bounds nicely defined; for they are delicate, proud, and in- dependent. But a tyrant I~as no joy in any- thing which is endued with such excellence; he sickens at the sight of it; he turns away from it as an insult to his own attributes. Wordsworths political writings, subse- quent to the year 1815, are of inferior in- terest. A part of their effect is that of enabling us to stand away from Words- worth, clear of his shadow, that we may receive his influence at an independent point of vision of our own. After the peace and the restoration of Louis XVIII., came the dreary age of politics, the tim of the Holy Alliance and the regency. Wordsworths nature, which had been kept fervent by the impression of great events during the war with France, now inevita- bly in a certain measure cooled, and hard- ened as it cooled. It has been shoxvn that his position as teacher of new spiritual truths condemned him to hostility towards the ideas inherited from the eighteenth century, among which may be found the chief factors of modern politics, as far as THE PROSE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH. 207 modern politics are other than stationary or retrogressive. Wordsworths patriotic enthusiasm on behalf of England, and the English nation and polity, as soon as the ardour kindled and kept alive by the strug- gle with France had died out, left behind it in his nature a certain deposit of the grey ash of English conservatism. And a plea in favour of Wordsworths conserva- tism, as that of a maintainer of things spiritual against the grosser interests of life, may be urged if we consider some of the hard and coarse aspe9ts of the Whig- gisin of his time, if we reflect upon the exa~gerated estimates formed of salvation by useful knowledge, the pushing up- ward by strength and shift of the middle class for ascendancy, the apparent substi- tution in politics of interests in place, of ideas, the general devotion to material comfort, the pride in mechanic arts, the hard and shallow criticism of literature uttered by the chief organ of Whiggism. We have conspicuous instances in our own day of chivalrous and ardent natures, which, being bewildered by the yet unor- ganized civilization of a democratic period, for want of the patience of faith and hope, the enduringuess of nerve needed for sane and continuous action, fling themselves into a worship blind to its vaster selfish- ness and materialisms, or waste their chiv- alry in schemes for the sudden attainment of a miniature Utopia. Such was not Wordsworths case. It needs less of in- sight and imaginative ardour to discover the elements of noble spiritual life in the democracy than in the bourgeoisie. Henry Crabb Robinson has recorded that he once heard Wordsworth say, half in joke, half in earnest, I have no respect ~vhatever for Whigs, but I have a great deal of the Chartist in me. This is literally true. Wordsworth could at no time have become a Whig politician, whose creed must be written in useful prose, not in harmonious song; but had the period of Wordsworths youth, when a spring-like courage and ani- mation flooded his being, fallen in with the days of the Chartist movement, one can hardly doubt that he would have con- ceived it to be his special mission to or- gani ze the aspirations of the working classes around great ideas, and thus to spiritualize the democracy. The descent from the pamphlet on the Convention of Cintra, to the Two Ad- dresses to the Freeholders of Westmore- land (iS i8), is steep and sudden. The addresses were written to oppose the can- didature of l3rougham, and aid in secur- ing the return to Parliament of a member of the house of Lowther. The long years of hostility to France and loyalty to England have m5ifestly told upon Words- worth, and it would require a recession into very broad and abstract doctrines in- deed to discover that his principles are now the same with those which he held in 1793. His sympathy with the earlier stages of the French Revolution, which survived until at least the date of the Cintra pamphlet, has now ceased to exist; his condemnation of the war of England against the republic, also dis- ~inctly declared in i8o8, has now changed into approval. The constitution which Bishop Watson had been reproved for admiring overmuch is now the happy and glorious Constitution, in Church and State, which we have inherited from our Ancestors. The ideal to which his im- a,, ination renders tribute is not now the fierce and fair republic, but our inesti- mable Church Establishment. In 1793 Wordsworth wrote, If you should lament the sad reverse by which the hero of the Necklace has been divested of about 1,300,000 livres of annual revenue, you may find some consolation, that a part of this prodigious mass of riches is gone to preserve from famine some thousands of curls, who were pining in villages unob- served by Courts, In x8~S he wrote, Places, Pensions, and formidable things, if you like! but far better these, with our King and Constitution, with our quiet fire- sides and flourishing fields, than proscrip- tion and confiscation without them! Wordsworth had indee~1 lost courage, as he confesses, when, in the prospect of each possible change, visions of proscrip- tion and confiscation rose before him. The axioms of faith, of hope, of sacred daring, had been recurred to in his earlier writings, and formed the points of depar- ture in his trains of impassioned reason- ing; nowtheir place is taken by axioms of prudence, of caution, of distrust. In Wordsworths new creed there was much that was noble, for, like Burke, he was al- way~s an extraordinary, not an ordinary conservative in politics; but one thing that creed necessarily wanted the power of impulsion, the power of initiating and supporting a steadfast and generous ad- vance. And, as might be anticipated, from this period onward a decline is ob- servable also in the poetry of Words- worth. He did not now ever enter into novel states of feeling; he was not pre- cisely exhausting an earlier accumulation of power, but he was with feebler energy and insight repeating processes which had THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 208 at one time been so admirably productive. According to the Wordsworthian method in poetry, a certain emanation, partly given by the object, partly by the poets mind, a tertiurn quid which is neither mind nor object, but an aspect or an influence par- taking of both, becomes the subject of song. Wordsworth had now acquired a power of applying this method at will to any topic, and the application of this con- templative method had grown into a habit, only at irregular times inspired by new and vivid emotion, or fed by a fresh, quick outwelling of thought. Thus one is com- pelled to state the main fact. But it is also true that in Wordsworths poetry his earlier self, though encumbered by the growth of his later personality, was not extinct. To one who does not wholly fail in sympathy with Wordsworths genius, while the fading of spiritual light from his poetry is manifest, a mild and equable splendour remains as in the western sky at sunset; places still alive and instinct with intense glory may be discerned, and there are mysterious flushings and bright- enings at times; therefore we are unable to withdraw our eyes, though momently we may note how quiescence comes, and the repose which will be long. With those who hold Wordsworths in- fluence to be a beneficent influence, it is a manifest duty to diminish in no degree the impression which he is capable of maki.ng upon the mind of the present time. We are grateful for this gift of his complete prose works. We cannot but express surprise that the English people does not yet possess a complete collection of his poems. We take the present pub- lication as a pledge that now at length we shall be put in possession of that portion of Wordsworths poetry of importance in connection with The Prelude and The Excursion which is known to ex- ist in manuscript. And to this should be added, in compliance with a wish long en- tertained, and formally expressed by the poet, the Continental journals of his wife and sister. The warm welcome accorded to Dorothy Wordsworths journal in Scot- land is evidence that the present moment is a ripe and suitable one for such a pub lication.* EDWARD DOwDEN. * The present pubilcation inciudes one short poem by Wordsworth isitherto unprinted, some verses in- scribed in s copy of Isis poems presented to the queen 50 1846. It breathes the spirit of old age, sod, without soy distinctive power as poetry, possesses a certain pathetic interest. In connection with the suhlect of this article, and the charges of renegade and apostate brought against Wordsworth, the reader maybe directed to a letter from Mr. Robert Browning to the editor From Macmillans Magszine. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. CHAPTER Xvi. CICELY wrote her letter to her aunt that evening, dropping some tears over it when Mab was not by to see; and almost as soon as it was possible she had a very kind answer, granting her request, and more. Aunt Jane declared that she would receive Mab with great delight, ar~l do everything that could be done to further her art-studies, which, as the British Mu- seum was near, and a very good artist lived next door to Miss Maydew, seemed likely to be something worth while. She shall be to me like my own child; though I have never concealed from either of you that you, Cicely, are my pet, wrote Miss Maydew; and she added a still more liberal invitation. If you want to spend a few days anywhere between leaving Brentburn and going to the new place, wherever that may be, you must come here babies and all. I can manage to find beds for you near; and it will be a nice little holiday for us all, said the kind woman. She even added a postscript, to the effect that, if there was a little money wanting at the time of the removal, Cicely was not to hesitate to apply to her and what could woman do more? Sym- pathy and hospitality, and a little money, if wanted. Alas! perhaps it is be- cause the money is so sure to be wanted that so few people venture on such an offer; but Miss Maydew knew she was safe with Hesters child, who was so like her mother. Cicelys other letter was suc- cessful, too. The lawyer who represented the Chester family was quite willing to postpone the sale until Mr. St. Johns time was up. After all, the world is not so very bad as it is called. Nobody was cruel to the St. Johns. The tradespeople agreed to wait for their money. The with reference to Mr. Brownings poem The Lost Leader. (Preface, p. xxxvii.) The private impres.. siOn of the prose works gives a portrait of Words- worth from a crayon drawing by Nash, made for Southey. I suppose it to be a faithful record of the prosasc aspect of Wordsworths face, and, as such, of decided value. It were well if this portrait superseded, in editions of Wordsworths poems, the maudlin Pick- ersgill likeness, the original of ~vhich is at St. Johns College, Cambridge. The portrait by Havdon Wordsworth standing on Helvellyn from which the head was engraved by Lupton, is stated by a competent authority, the Rev. R. P. Graves, to be the true por- trait of Wordsworth in Isis mood of inspiration. Noth. lug, he writes, can be trugr to the original than the droop of the head weighed down by the thoughts and feelings overwhich the active imagination is pleasurably brooding. The portraits by Haydon and by Nash appear to me to be not opposed, but complementary. On the sublect of portraits see the lecture on Words- worth by Mr. Graves in Afternoon Lectures (1869). THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 209 Chesters would not for the world disturb the departing curate until he was ready to go; and Mrs. Ascott, and all the other great people in the parish, called and made much of the girls. The church was more full than usual every Sunday, for a vague expectation of a farewell (or, as old Mrs. Joelcalled it, a funeral) sermon was in the peoples minds. A great many of them, now it came to the point, were very sorry that Mr. St. John was going. They would have signed freely anything that had been set before them to make the cu- rate stay. But nevertheless they were all interested about his farewell sermon, and what he would say for himself, and what account he would give of various matters which stuck fast in their rustic recollec- tions. Thus the weeks stole away quite placidly, and the harvest was got in, and August wore out under a great blazing moon with the utmost cheerfulness. One or two answers came to the advertisement in the Guardian; but they were not of an encouraging kind. Cicely felt that it was better to repeat it and wait; and her father was always pleased to wait under all circumstances ; and the long bright days went away one by one in a kind of noise- less procession, which Cicely felt herself watch with a dreary dismay and restless- ness. Nothing had happened yet to avert the calamity that was impending. Every- thing, on the contrary, seemed preparing for it leading up to it thou~h still Mr. St. John went into, the parish, and still all xvent on as usual at the rectory. The curate showed no symptom of feelinb these last days different from any other; but the girls kept looking forward, and hoping for something, with a hope which gradually fell sick, and grew speechless and nothing came. One day when Mrs. Ascott called, Cicely had got into that state of exhaustion and strained anxiety when the mind grows desperate. She had been occupied with the children all day, not able to get free of them Annie having finally departed, and Betsy being too much displeased at the loss of her sister and subordinate to make any offer of help. The babies had grown more activ~ and more loquacious under the changed r6girne, and this, though it was her own doing, increased poor Cicelys cares. Mab was up-stairs preparing for her departure, which xvas to be a few days before the general breaking- up. Altogether when Mrs. Ascott came in, fresh and cool out of her carriabe, Cic- ely was not in the best mood to receive her. She gave the. children her work- LIVING AGE. VQL. XIII. 637 basket to play with to keep them quiet, and cleared her own brow as best she could, as she stood up and welcomed the great lady.. How fresh her toilette was, how unwrinkled her face! a woman alto- gether at ease, and ready to smile upon everything. She shook hands with Cicely, and took her seat with smiling prettiness. I have come really on business, she said; to see if we could be of any use to you, Cicely in packing or any of your preparations; and to ask if the time is quite fixed? I suppose your papa must have heard from Mr. Mildmay, and that all is settled now? All settled? said Cicely, faintly. The words, so softly and prettily said, went into the girls heart like a knife; and yet of course it was no more than she ex- pected no more! The appointment, as you would see, is in the paper to-day. I am so sorry your papa is going, my dear; but as he must go, and we cannot help it, at least we have reason to be thankful that we are getting such a good man as Mr. Mild- may. It will be some little compensation to the parish for losing Mr. St. John. Is itin the papers? said Cicely, feelinb suddenly hoarse and unable to speak. You feel it, my poor dear child ! of course you must feel it and so do we all. There will not be a dry eye in the whole church when Mr. St. John preaches his farewell sermon. To think that he should have been here so longthough it is a little consolation, Mr. Ascott says, that we are getting a thorou6h gen- tleman, and so well connected an adnii- rable man. Consolation! cried Cicely, raising her head. ~ What consolation is wanted? Papa is pretty well worn out; he has done almost as much work as a man can do. People cannot keep old thin~ s when they are worn out the new are better; but why should any one pretend to make a moan over it? I do not see what consola- tion the parish can want. If you cry at the farewell sermon, Mrs. Ascott, I shall laugh. Why should not your eyes be dry as dry as the fields as dry as peoples hearts ? Cicely, Cicely! cried Mrs. Ascott, shocked; my dear, I am very sorry for it, but a misfortune like this should be borne in a better spirit. I am sure your poor dear papa would say so; and its nobodys fault. It is everybddys fault, cried Cicely, forgetting herself, gettin. up in her pas 210 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. sion, and walking about the room; the you ought to speak to her, Mr. St. John. parish, and the Church, and all the world! She flexv at me (not that I mind that) and Oh, you may smile! It does not touch said such thingsbecause I mentioned you; you are well off; you cannot be put that Mr. Mildmays appointment was in out of your home; you cannot have every- the paper this morning; and that since we tiilng taken from you, and see everybody must lose you which nobody can be smiling pity upon you, and no one putting more sorry for than we are it was well out a hand to help. Pity! we dont want at least that we were getting so good a pity, cried Cicely; we want justice. man. How dare you all stand by and see it Ah! said the curate. The an- done? The Church, the Church! that nouncement took him by surprise, and everybody preaches about as if i~ was gave him a shock too, though of a differ- God, and yet that lets an old servant be ent kind. He caught his breath after it, so treated an old servant that has and panted for a moment. Is it in the worked so hard, never sparing himself! papers? I have not seen it. I have no If this is the Churchs doing, the Church time in the morning; and, besides, I never is harder than the farmers worse, worse see the Times. - than worldly people. Do you think God We hope you will settle to dine with will be pleased because he is well con- us one day before you go, said Mrs. nected? or is it Gods fault? Here her Ascott. How we ~shall miss you, Mr. voice broke with a sob and shudder, and St. John! I dont like to think of it suddenly dropping from her height of and if we can be of any use in your prepa- passion, Cicely said faintly, Papa! rations I hear there is to be a sale, What is it? said the curate, com- too? mo in. Surely I heard something very Not till we move. They will not put strange. Mrs. Ascott, I beg your pardon; us to any inconvenience; indeed, said my ears must have deceived me. I the curate, with a sigh and a smile, thought Cicely must be repeatin~, to everybody is very kind. amuse herself, some speech, perhaps out I am sure everybody, wishes to be of Paradise Lost. I have heard of kind, said Mrs. Ascott, with emphasis. some great man who was caught doing I must not take up your time any longer, that, and frightened everybody who heard for you look very tired after your rounds. him, said Mr. St. John, shaking hands But, Mr. St. John, mark my words, you with the visitor with his friendly smile. must hold a tight hbnd over Cicely. She He sat down, weary and dusty from uses expressions which a clergymans the parish, and there was a painful dauohter ought not to use. pause. Cicely stole away to the corner ~What were you saying to her, my where her little brothers were playing, her dear? said Mr. St. John, coming in again puls.e bounding, her heart throbbing, her after he had taken the lady to her car- cheeks aflame, her whole bein~,, soul and riage; your voice was raised, and you body, full of the strong pain and violent still look excited. What did you say? stimulus of the shock she had received. It was nothing, papa. I lost my tern- She had never expected anything else, per who could help it? I will never, do she said to herself; she had steadily pre- it again. To think of that man calmly pared for the going away, the ruin that accepting the living and turning you out awaited them; but, nevertheless, her of it, after all he said. heart had never believed in it, since that What good would it have done had he conversation with Mildmay at the rectory refused? said Mr. St. John. My dear, gate. Day by day she had awoke with a how could he help it? certainty in her mind, never put into Help it? cried Cicely. Can no- words, that the good news would come, body help anything in this world? Must that all would be well. B~it the shock did we stand by and see all manner of wrong not crush her, as it does some people; it done and take the advantage, and then woke her up into freshened force and life ; think we are innocent and cannot help it? her heart seemed to thrill and throb, not That is what I scorn. Let him do wrong so much with pain as with activity, and if he will, and bear the blame that is energy, and power. honest at least. But to say he cannot Cicely is very much excited, said help it; how could he ever dare to give Mrs. Ascott, in a low tone. I fear she such a miserable excuse? is very excitable; and she ought to be My dear, said the curate, I am too more careful in her position a clergy- tired to argue. I dont blame Mildmay; mans daughter what she says. I think he has done just what was natural, and I THE CURATE IN CHARGE. am glad he is coming here; while in the mean time talking will do no good, but I think my tea would do me good, he ad- ded with a smile. Always tea, Cicely could not help think- ing as she went away dutifully to prepare it or dinner, or some trifle; never any serious thought of what was coming, of what had already come. She was young and impatient and unjust, as it is so nat- ural to be at her years. The curate put his hand over his eyes when he was left alone. He was not disappointed or sur- prised. He had known exactly all along how it would be; but when it thus came upon him with such obvious and unmis- takable reality, he felt it sharply. Twenty years ! All that part of his life in which anything to speak of, had happened to him, and what was almost as hard to bear all the familiar things which had framed in his life the scene, the place, the peo- ple, the surroundings he was used to. He had not even his favourite consolation, forlorn pride in never haying asked any- thino to sustain him, for that was no long~r the case. He was asking some- thing a poor curacy, a priests place for a piece of bread. The pang was moment- ary, but it was sharp. He got up, and stretched his long languid figure, and said to himself, Ah, well what is the good of thinkino.? It is soon enough to make one s self wretched when the moment comes, and then he went peacefully into the dining-room to tea. This was not how the younger people took it, but then per- haps they had more capacity for feeling left. Next morning Cicely got a letter of a very unusual description, which affected her in no small degree. It was from Mildmay, and, perhaps, it will be best to give it in full here DEAR Miss Sv. JOHN, I have de- layed writing to you until I could make sure that you must have seen or heard of the announcement in the papers which will tell the results of my last three weeks work. Do not think that our last conver- sation has been obliterated from my mind. Very far from that. I have seen the mas- ter and all who are concerned, and have done my best to show them the step which bare justice required at their hands, but ineffectually. I made a point at the same time of ascertaining what were the views of the gentleman to whom Brentburn would be offered in case I refused it, and found him quite decided on the subject. What could I do then? Should I have 211 declined and put myself entirely out of the way of being of any use at all? As a matter of simple justice, I refer the question to you. What am I to~ do now? My thoughts on the subject have been many, I need not say, since I saw you. May I ask your father to continue at Brentburn as my curate? I am quite inexperienced; his assistance would be of infinite advantage to me; and, in point of fact, as is natural at our respective ages, I should be his curate, not he mine. May I do this? or what else can I do? The position in which I find myself is a painful one. It would have been much easier, I assure you, to have shuffled the whole matter off upon Ruffhead, and to have withdrawn. But I felt a respon- sibility upon me since I met you; and I ask you now urgently, feeling that I have almost a right to your advice, what am I to do? Yours very truly, ROGER MILDMAY. This letter excited Cicely greatly. By chance it arrived before the others had come into the breakfast-room, and she was able to read it without any looker-on. She put it hurriedly into her pocket be- fore her father and sister appeared. She did not know what answer to make, nei- ther did she feel comfortable about mak- ing any answer, and she said nothing about it all day; though oh, how the letter burned her pocket and her mind! She had scarcely ever known what it was to have a secret before, and not to tell Mab seemed almost wrong. She felt that there was something clandestine about her, going up and down the house with that letter in her possession which no- body knew of. And to answer it to answer it without any one knowino.? This she could not do. She bore the burden of her secret all the day, and surprised Mab very much by her silence about Mr. Mildmay, whom the younger sister abused roundly. Perhaps it was not his fault, Cicely faltered. What had come over her? What change had happened? Mab was lost in amaze. The difficulty, however, was solved in a very unexpected way. Next morning no laterMr. St. John himself had a let- ter from Oxford; a letter which made him change colour, and bend his meek brows, and then smile but not like him- self. Cicely, this must be your doing, he said. I never made any complaints to Mr. Mildmay, nor said anything to call for his pity. He asks me to be his cu- rate, the old man added, after a pause, 212 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. with a strange smile. No one had sus- pected that Mr. St. John was proud, until it became apparent all at once how proud he was. His curate 0 papa! you will stay here, and never go away at all, cried Mab out of the fulness of her heart. Cicely knew better. She grew pale, and to stop that outcry of inconvenient delight, grasped tightly her sisters hand. Stay here! said Mr. St. John smil- ing again. No, Mab, I am not fallen so low as that, I hope. There is no need of a curate at Brentburn. If I could do without one, at double his age, what should he want with a curate? It is pity, pity! Oh yes, my dear, I know, very creditable to him; but I did not expect I never expected to be exposed. Cicely, have you that letter about the curacy in Liverpool? I should like to look at it again. But, papa, we agreed that it would not do; a bad town-district, full of dreadful people The more dreadful people are, the more they want to be looked after, he said. Write and inquire about it, my dear; I am not particular. Work! that is all I want, not idleness and charity. You all know I am old but you dont know how much strength I have in me, nor how I like work! he cried, with a quiver in his voice. The shock had something of the same effect upon him now that it had previously had on Cicely. The latent pride in him rose up in arms. She had to write by that post about the Liverpool curacy; and before the week was out he had accepted this strange, uncongenial post. He was to be one of three curates in a large par- ish, including some of the most wretched quarters in the town; the work very hard; the people very degraded. Papa, you will never be able to bear it, cried Cicely, with tears in her eyes. Nonsense, nonsense, he cried, with feverish energy; write at once and say I accept. It will do me all the good in the world. CHAPTER XVII. THE day after Mr. St. John made this abrupt decision almost the only decis- ion he had made for himself, without stimulation from others, all his life he went out into the parish as usual, but came home very tired, and went to bed early, which the girls thought natural enough. During the day Cicely had told Mab of her letter from Mildmay, and had written an answer to it, thanking him for his consideration, and informing him of the step her father had taken. We shall never, forget how kind you have been, she wrote, gratefully; both Mab and I feel it to the bottom of our hearts. Is that too much? she said, reading it over. I dont want to say too much. But we must not say too little; and if a man who is willing to sacrifice the half of his income is not to be thanked for it, I dont know who is, cried Mab, always practical. It is not so much the income, Cicely said, slightly wounded by this matter-of- fact suggestion; it is the feeling. But the offer proves the feeling, said her sister; and indeed she was right. Mr. St. John came home, as has been said, before his usual hour, and went very early to bed. Next morning he rang his bell the most unusual sound and sent word by Betsy that he thought he would not get up. When Cicely went to him as she did at once in a fright, for the bell and the message together pro- duced a great panic in a house quite unac- customed (at least, so far as the girls ex- perience went) to illness she found him in a partial doze, his large pale hand, looking very nerveless and feeble, lying outside the coverlet. No, no! he said, when she roused him; not very bad ; not bad at all only tired and lazy. I have often thought of late that I should like to lie still some morning; and to-day I have done it. Thats all, thats all, my dear. He would not hear of the doctor being sent for; and wanted nothing, he declared nothing but a days rest. Cicely had to go down-stairs, feigning content with this; but she was far from satisfied. They talked it over all the morning, but there was little enough to be made of it. There was no harm in a days laziness, and nothing but good in a days rest; but yet the girls did not know what to think. Had he been looking ill lately? they asked each other. But, no! he had not been looking ill a little fatigued, perhaps; tired by the hot weather, as he often was; but just as usual, doing as much as he always did; spending the, whole long day in the parish; ready to go out morning or night when he was called to any one who was sick. And what so natural as that he should be tired? Mab said; a days rest will do him good. Cicely, though she was gen- erally the leader, accepted this decision humbly, saying nothing for her own part, THE CURATE IN CHARGE. but feeling a sense of dismay steal into her mind, she could not tell why; for though it was quite natural that he should do this, he had never done it before; and an innovation on habits so long estab- lished and firmly fixed was very alarming and bewildering. But Mab had the cool- est judgment of the two, she said to her- self and no doubt Mab was right. And next day it appeared indeed that Mab had been right. Mr. St. John came down to breakfast as usual, saying cheer- fully that he was quite well, and xvent out into the parish as usual. The days rest had done him all the good in the world ;it had set him up; nor did he say anything more again about feeling tired. How quickly the days passed dur- ing that last fortnight! They seemed to tumble on each other, one following on anothers heels, holding so little of all the work they ought to see completed. It was settled that the curate was to leave on the 25th of September, in order that the sale should he over and everything cleared away before the quarter-day. Mildmay wrote again a pleading note to Cicely, a guarded hut anxious one to her father, pointing out with abject civility that it would be the greatest possible advantage to himself if Mr. St. John would consent to stay. Mr. St. John only smiled and shook his head, and banded the letter over to Cicely, who was not so confiden- tial in return. Write to him for me, my dear, for I have not time. Say how obliged I am, but that it is impossible. Is that all, papa? said Cicely, faltering. All? What could be said more? And that everything will be ready by quarter-day everything ready. As he said this he gave a strange bewildered look round him at the solid mahogany furniture which stood steadfast against the walls, looking as if it never could be changed or taken away. This look was still in his eyes when he went out to the parish, and when he came back a sort of dreamy wonder and confusion. Cicely thought he had the same look next morn- ing, and the next and next, as if he had somehow got astray from his moorings in life, and could not make out what was going to happen to him, or why it was going to happen. Mab said, Nonsense, you are getting fanciful. Papa looks ex- actly as he has always looked; and in- deed everything went on just the same as usual, showing no other difference except this look, if there was a difference at all. He went about just as usual, preached his two little sermons on the Sunday, went to 213 the schools, kept up all the occupations he had been used to for twenty years; but nevertheless continued to have that dazed look in his eyes, sometimes only bewil- dered, sometimes startled, like the look of an animal who dumbly foresees some- thing approaching which it knows to be malign, but can neither avert nor under- stand. This, at least, was what Cicely saw in her fathers eyes; no one else dreamt of looking at his eyes particularly, or cared what they meant. Perhaps his usually tranquil manners were disturbed a little, but how natural that was! In the evening when they were sitting together he would grow quite talkative, telling the girls little stories of his first coming here, and of their mothers trials in the new parish, and would even laugh softly over them, saying, Poor Hester! You grow more and more like her, Cicely, my dear! and then he would drop into long silence, never taking a book or the newspaper which came in the evening, but sitting quite still looking round him. The girls did not know, however, that his parish rounds got shorter; that in several of the cottages he had been compelled to wait and rest, and that here and there he had seemed to forget everything around him, falling into a half-faint or harmless trance, from which he would rouse up, and smile upon. them, and go on. This, however, they were not told till long after, when it seemed to them, that, if they had but knownbut if they had, I dont know what they could have done. On the 22nd Mab went to London to Aunt Jane. It was not to be a parting, for it was arranged that Mr. St. John and the rest of the family were to go there also on the 25th, and rest for the night, and afterwards start on their journey to Liverpool; but still the girls were sad enough as they walked to the station to- gether, Mabs boxes having been sent on before by Farmer Dents cart. Their eyes were dim with tears as they went through the faded heather on the com- mon. You will have plenty to fret about, said Mab, with all you have got to do ; and, oh, Cicely, I beg of you, dont be silly and fret about papa! He feels it, of course but he is quite well, as well as you or me. I hope so, dear, said Cicely meekly, with a tremor in her voice; and when they got to the station they looked through all the carriages till they saw in one a middle-aged homely woman, whose box, labelled for London, was hem6 put in, under the seat. Then Cicely established Mab in the opposite corner. 214 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. It was the best that could be done for her, for no one could be spared to go with her, even could they have afforded the ex- pense. Cicely walked home alone, feel- ing as if the world had suddenly grown dark and lonely round her. Mab had set out upon life, and she for her part was re- turning to hers to the tradespeople, who were all to be paid so much, out of the fifty pounds which the curate had to re- ceive, and to the babies, who had no one to look after them but herself, and to her father, with that bewildered look in his eyes. Next morning the auctioneer was coming to begin his inventory, and ar- range the business of the sale, though the actual auction did not commence until twelve oclock on Thursday, the day they were to leave. On Tuesday morning, however, before he went out to the parish, Mr. St. John suddenly stumbled upon the auctioneer, who had gone quietly into the study as soon as its temporary master left, and was kneeling before the large old-fashioned writinb - table, which Mr. St. John had used for so lonb, examining it, and tap- ping it with his knuckles to see where the drawers were. He had his back to the door, and did not see the surprised spec- tator, who stood and looked at him for a whole minute in silence. The curate went back to the hall where Cicely stood waiting for him with his hat in her hand. Who is that ? who is that man? he said, with his eyes more cloudy and wild than they had ever been, and a sort of pal- sied trembling all over him. No harm, papa, said Cicely, trying to be cheerful; only the auctioneer. Yes, yes, I remember, he said, tak- ing his hat from her. It was stupid of me not to remember. But, papa, you are trembling. You are not well. Come back and rest a lit- tle, she cried. No, no; it is nothing. Go back where? I suppose he is going through all the rooms? said Mr. St. John. No, no; it gave me a little shock, foolishly, but the air will blow it all away, he said, with a smile, recovering himself. What terrors were in Cicelys mind all that day! but fortunately for her she had not much time to indulge them. She had to do all her packing, to take care of the children, to separate the few things her father possessed from Mr. chesters fur- niture, to see after everything and every- body, providing something even (though she had so little) for the auctioneer and his men. And it was a relief to her when her father came back a little earlier than usual, and looking no worse. She said to herself that Mab was right; that he felt it, of course which was to be expected but otherwise was as well as usual. He had a little colour in his cheeks, and ate very well, and afterwards fell asleep in his chair. How natural it was that he should fall asleep! It was the very best thing for him. Notwithstanding, in her anxiety, Cicely went out into the garden to look at him through the open window, and make sure that all was right. How white his venerable head looked lying against the dark corner of the chair, his face like ivory but for the little pink in his cheeks, but he looked well, although he was wea- ried out, evidently; and no wonder! It was the most natural thing in the world. Next day he was stronger and more cheerful in the morning. He went out, and made a round of all the poor people, saying good-bye to them; and half the people in Brentburn came crying to the doors of the cottages, and said Good- bye, sir! and God bless you, sir! curtseying and wiping their eyes with their aprons. All the last sixpences he had went that day to the old women and the children to buy a little tea or some sweets in the little shop. He was very heavy about the eyes when he came home, and took his tea ea6erly. Then he went out for an evening stroll, as he had been used to do before all these troubles came. He did not ask Cicely to go with him, but no doubt he knew how busy she was. When, however, she had put the children to bed, and packed everything but the last box, which was left till to - morrow morning, Cicely perceived that daylight was over, and that it was getting late. Her father was not in any of the rooms. Frightened, she ran out, and gazed about her looking for him; then, seeing no one up or down, in a sudden passion of terror, hurried up the bank to the white churchyard stile. There she found him at once, standing. .close by the cross on her mothers grave. He had one arm round it, and with his other hand was picking away the yellow mosses that had crept over the stone; but he stopped when she called him, and picked up his hat which lay at his feet, and came with her quite submissively. It is late, papa, said Cicely, with quivering lips. Yes, yes, my dear; yes, you are quite right, he said, and walked towards the rectory but like a blind man, as if he did not see where he was going. Two or three times she had to guide him to keep IN A STUDIO. 215 him from stumbling over the humble graves, for which usually he had so much reverence. He went into the house in the same way, going straight before him, as if he did not know where the doors were; and, instead of going into the din- ing-room, where supper was laid as usual, he took up a candle which stood on the hall-table, and went to his study. Cicely followed him, alarmed; but he did nothing more than seat himself at his writing-table.. Are you not coming to supper, papa? she said. Did any one speak? he asked, look- ing up eagerly, as if he did not see. 0 papa, dear, come to supper! she cried. Then his vacant face seemed to brighten. Yes, my love, yes. I am coming; I am coming Cicely did not know what to say or to think. Was it to her he was speaking? She went away, her heart beating loud, to see that all was ready, hoping he would follow. But as he did not come in about ten minutes after, she went back. The room was dark, one corner of it only light- ed by the candle, which threw all its light on his pale face and white hair. He was turning over some papers, apparently ab- sorbed. He did not seem to observe her entrance. She went up to him softly, and put her hand upon his shoulder. Come, please, papa, I amwaiting, she said. He turned to her, a great light shining over his face. Ah! yes, my darling, you are waiting. How long have you been waitino? But Im ready ready. I knew you would come, Hester, I knew you would come when I wanted you most Papa! cried Cicely, in a voice shrill with terror. He started, the light went out of his face, his eyes grew cloudy and bewildered. What were you saying, Cicely? I am getting a little hard ofhearing. I dont think I heard what you said. Come in to supper, papa. Yes, yes; but you need not trouble; there is nothing the matter, he said, re- covering, himself. And he went with her and ate something dutifully, not without appetite. Then he returned to his study. When Cicely went to him there to say good-night he was smiling to himself. I am coming; I am coming, he said. No need to tell me twice; I know when I am in good hands. Good-night, papa you are going to bed.? we must be early to-morrow, said Cicely. Yes, early early, he said, still smil ing. Directly, Hester before you have reached the gate Papa! dont you know me? cried Cicely, trembling from head to foot. Again he turned to her with his old face all lighted up and shining. Know you! my darling I he said. From Blackwoods Magazine. IN A STUDIO. Ma//elf. So you think it is best to go on repeating a creed or formula of words, the meaning of which you. do not take the trouble to investigate. You say this merely out of paradox. Be/ton. Let us leave out the question of religion which we shall not probably agree upon. My notion is that it is best to allow others to have their own way and their own belief. I do not know that I am absolutely infallible, and I find it quite enough to do my own duty. Live and let live is my motto. Think and let think! Ma//eti. With such principles we should never have had a Reformation, a Prot- estant Church, nay, not even a Christian Church. If you had been born a pagan, you would have accepted the creed of your neighbours, and explored, .if you had the good luck to be made an augur, the entrails of beasts to divine the future. Be/ton. Cicero did this. A/a//ett. I know he did, and it never ceases to amaze me. Be/ton. He was too wise to oppose the whole current of belief in his age; and be- sides, his thought undoubtedly was col- oured by his early religious impressions, by the scenes in the temples, and the rep- etitions of formulas, and the sacrifices to the gods, and the invocations by the priests, as the thought and feelings of every man still are by the lessons and dogmas and formalities that were impressed upon his mind before he began to think and ques- tion. Besides, it is easier not to think; easier to run in the old ruts than to make nexv p