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The Living age ... / Volume 136, Note on Digital Production 0136 000
The Living age ... / Volume 136, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1751 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 832 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0136 /moa/livn/livn0136/

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The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1751 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 5, 1878 0136 1751
The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1751, miscellaneous front pages i-vi

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. E PLuRIBtTS 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 XXI. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CXXXVI. 7ANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, I878. BOSTON: LITTELL AND GAY. 4 N . 1W 2 tic/A I - ~ TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CXXXVI. THE TWENTY-FIRST QUARTERLY YOLUME OF THE FIFTH SERIES. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, 1878. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Ulfilas, the Apostle of the Goths, Dr. Schliemanns Exploration of My- cen~e 195 643 QUARTERLY REVIEW. Lord Melbourne 387 A French Critic on Goethe, . . . 451 March of an English Generation through Life 515 BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. Precious Stones, WESTMINSTER REVIEW. Charles Sumner The Education of Girls: Their Admissi- bility to Universities, The Telephone BLAcKwooDs MAGAZINE. Schools of Mind and Manners, 352 French Home Life. Religion, . 559 A Ride for Life 631 Above the Clouds: a Reverie on the Bel Alp 678 FRASERS MAGAZINE. Murder of Commissioner Fraser, The Great Fourfold Waterfall, GENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. 707 Quevedo, 579 68~ 761 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. On the Hygienic Value of Plants in Rooms and in the Open Air, . 47 Russian Aggression, as Specially Affect- ing Austro-Hungary and Turkey, 94 The Ninety Years Agony of France, . 131 The Greek Mind in the Presence of Death, Interpreted from Reliefs and Inscriptions on Athenian Tombs 280 The Little Health of Ladies, . . . 302 FORYNIGHYLT REVIEW. Humming-Birds, . Florence and the Medici, The Dutch in Java, 3 - 67 323 NINETEENTH CENTURY. Hydrophobia and Rabies, . . . 220 France as a Military Power in 1870 and in 1878 259 Afi Oxford Lecture by Ruskin, . 502 Shakespeare in France 533 Benedict de Spinoza 771 How the Turks Rule Armenia, . . 809 440 493 - 736 COENHILL MAGAZINE. Charlotte Brontd, . . - . . 23 The Cdt of Wales and the Celt of Ire land 151 The Czars Clemency: a Polish Priests Story 294 Will o the Mill 366 Congregational Singing 419 A Ring of Worlds - 797 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. - 178 445 477 - 525 619 Heligoland, . Modern Life and Insanity, Dulcissima! Dilectissima! Natural Religion, Docteur Lavardin: a Sketch, Constantinople, GooD WORDS. Doris Barugh EXAMINER. Irrigation in India,. The Vice of Talking Shop, - Lay-Figures SPECTATOR. The Prince Consorts Savings, Forgetfulness,. . Smiths Poor Kin, . Pepperiness Charles Dickenss Verse, 34, 76, 241 189 380 - 818 55 62 i86 191 237 III IV CONTENTS. The Decay of the Monarchical Prin ciple 315 Short-Sight 320 The Death of Victor Emanuel, . . 378 Baron Munchausens Frozcn Words, . 381 The Cruelty of Pecuniary Crime, . . ~o8 The Emotions Due to Christmas Bills, . 510 The Mobility of Asiatics, . . . 821 SATURDAY REVIEW. CHAMBERS JOURNAL. Charles Dickenss Manuscripts, . . 252 NATURE. Fetichism in Animals 254 Ruhmkorff 256 Antoine C~sar Becquerel, . Liquefaction of Oxygen 640 The Salaries of the Officers in the British Museum 823 French Dinners 317 Pleasant People 570 PALL MALL GAZETTE. Milk Supply 383 TATLER. Walking in Winter 573 Rugby Football 127 INDEX TO VOLUME CXXXVI. ALBERTS, Prince, Savings, . . . 55 Above the Clouds, . . . . . 6~8 Armenia, How the Turks Rule . . 8o9 Asiatics, The Mobility of . . . BRONTE, Charlotte. . . . . 23 Becquerel, Antoine Cdsar . . . 574 Bel Alp, a Reverie on the . . . 678 British Museum, Salaries of Officers in . 823 CELT, The, of Wales and of Ireland, . Czars Clemency, The: a Polish Priests Story 294 Congregational Singing, . . 419 Christmas Bills, The Emotions Due to . 510 Constantinople, . . . . . 6i9 DORIS Barugh, 34, 76, 241 Dickenss Verse 237 Dickenss Manuscripts 252 Death, The Greek Mind in the Presence of 280 Dutch in Java. The . . . . 323. Dulcissima I Dilectissima . . . 445 Docteur Lavardin: a Sketch, . . 525 ERIcA, 14, io8, 143, 271, 338, 410, 546, 6o6, 663, 785 English Generation, March of a, through Life 515 FORGETFULNESS Florence and the Medici, Football, Rugby . . France, The Ninety Years Agony of Fetichism in Animals France as a Military Power, French Dinners Fraser, Commissioner, Murder of Fourfold Waterfall, The Great Freoch Home Life, . GOTHS, The, Ulfilas the Apostle of Greek Mind, The, in the Presence of Death Goethe, A French Critic on Garsoppa, The Falls of . Girls, The Education of. 62 67 127 3 254 259 317 440 493 559 95 280 45 493 685 HUMMING-BIRDS 3 Hygienic Value of Plants in Rooms and in the Open Air 47 Heligoland 58 Hydrophobia and Rabies, 220 Health of Ladies 302 IRELAND, The Celt of, and of Wales, . Insanity and Modern Life, 178 Irrigation in India 189 JAVA, The Dutch in . . . . 323 LADIES, The Little Health of 302 Lay-Figures 818 MEDIcI, The, and Florence, . . . 67 Macleod of Dare, . 163, 213, 428, 489, 721 Maximilian at Miramar and at Quere taro 171 Modern Life and Insanity, . Monarchical Principle, The Decay of the 315 Mind and Manners, Schools of 352 Munchausens Frozen Words, 381 Milk Supply 383 Melbourne, Lord 387 Mycenle, Schliemanns Exploration of . 643 NATURAL Religion 477 OXFORD Lecture, An . . . . 502 Oxygen, Liquefaction of . . . 640 PLANTS, Hygienic Value of, in Rooms and in the Open Air, . 47 Pepperiness 191 Pecuniary Crime, The Cruelty of ~o8 Pleasant People 570 Precious Stones 707 QUEVEDO 736 RUSSIAN Aggression 94 Rugby Football 127 Rabies and Hydrophobia, . 220 Ruhmkorff, Henry Daniel, Death of 256 Religion, Natural 477 Ruskin, John, An Oxford Lecture by . 502 V VI INDEX. Ride for Life, A 631 TELEPHONE, The 761 Ring, A, of Worlds 797 Turks, The, How they Rule Armenia, 809 SMITHS Poor Kin i86 ULFILAS, The Apostle of the Goths, . 195 Short-Sight 320 Shop, Talking, The Vice of 380 VICTOR Emanuel, The Death of . 378 Singing, Congregational 419 Shakespeare in France 533 WITHIN the Precincts, . i i8, 231, 462, 746 Sumner, Charles 579 Wales, The Celt of, and of Ireland, . 151 SchliemanWs Exploration of Mycen~, 643 Will o the Mill 366 Stones, Precious 707 Waterfall, The Great Fourfold . Spinoza, Benedict de . 771 Walking in Winter 573 Worlds, A Ring of. . . . 797 POETRY AUTUMN Autumn Song, At her Door Arran, A Song of At the Last, . Beguiling of Merlin, The Bloom of the Heart, The Before the Snow, Cassandras Speech, Child lit would he your undoing, Fons Bandusi~, Florentine Carnival Song, A Farewell Fiat Justitia Flower of the Field, The Greek Mothers Song, Honest Farmer, The Holy Communion How Long? Heine, Verses by . Japanese Love-Song, A Let Bygones be Bygones, 2 Mans Regret, A 2 Moment, A . 66 Motherhood, . 322 Miserere 578 Northern Lights, The 194 386 October Garden, An 770 One Dread 258 Picture, A . 578 Poets Proem, A 2 Rouen 450 450 Summer Evening, A 514 Sleep 578. Sonnet 706 Still is the Night, Sleep, and in Peace? 578 66 Unequal Game, An 194 Vixi Puellis 642 Valentines Day, 1873, 642 Whittier, . . 386 Wanted, a Secretary of State, 130 TALES DORIS Barugh, . 34, 76, 241 Macleod of Dare, , 163, 213, 428, 489, 721 Dulcissima! Dilectissima! . 445 Docteur Lavardin 525 Within the Precincts, . uS, 231, 462, 746 Will o the Mill . 366 Euica, 14, ioS, 143, 271, 338, 410, 546, 6o6, 663, 785 66 66 386 770 130 2 642 322 322 258 .66 194 450 706 770 2 2 130 322 514

The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1751 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ M 17~S1 January 5 1878, From Beginning, Volume XXI. S ~~~ ~ Vol. CXXXVI. CONTENTS. I. HUMMING-BIRDS. By Alfred Russell Wal- lace II. ERICA. Part VII. Translated for THE LIVING AGE, from the German of III. CHARLOTTE BRONTE IV. DORIS BARUGH. A Yorkshire Story. By Katharine S. Macquoid, author of Patty. Part X. V. ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS IN ROOMS AND THE OPEN AIR. By Prof. Max von Pettenkofer VT. THE PRINCE CONSORTS SAVINGS, VII. HELIOGOLAND VIII. FORGETFULNESS AUTUMN, Vixi PUELLIS, AN UNEQUAL GAME, Fortnightt~y Revi Frau von Ingersiebe Cornhill Magazine, Good Words,. Contemporary Review, Spectator, Macmillans Magazine,. Spectator, P 0 E T R T. 2 AN OCTOBER GARDEN, 2! FONS BANDUS1A~, 21 AN AUTUMN SONG, MISCELLANT .3 54 23 34 47 . 55 6z 2 2 2 64 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARs, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,Jree oJ$osilage. An extra copy df THE LIVING AGE is soot gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent io 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 L1TTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. 2 AUTUMN, ETC. AUTUMN. THE dying leaves fall fast, Chestnut, willow, oak, and beech, All brown and withered lie. Now swirling in the cutting blast, Now sodden under foot they teach That one and all must die. This autumn of the year Comes sadly home to my poor heart, Whose youthful hopes are fled. The darkening days are drear, Each love once mine I see dcpart As withered leaves and dead. But is it all decay? All present loss no gain remote? Monotony of pain? Ahnoi Ihearalay The robin sings how sweet the note, A pure unearthly strain. And, of all flowers the first, Beneath these leaves in spring shall blow Sweet violets blue and white. So all lost loves shall burst, In springlike beauty, summer glow, In Heaven upon our sight. Macmillans Magazine. M. C. C. VIXI PUELLIS. (Hor. jjl. 26.) WE loved of yore, in warfare bold Nor laurelless. Now all must go; Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old. Here let them hang, the torches cold, The portal-bursting bar, the bow, We loved of yore. But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite, smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore. Spectator. AUSTIN DOBSON. AN UNEQUAL GAME. A MOMENT of loving and laughter, A jest and a gay good-bye. If you one short week after Forget, why may not I? To you but a moments feeling, A touch and a tender tone; A wound that knows no healing To me who am left alone. A wound, and an aching wonder That lightly you go from me, That we must be kept asunder By the cold abiding sea. Blackwoods Magazine. AN OCTOBER GARDEN. IN my autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses: Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To autumns languid sun and rain, When all the world is on the wane Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune. Broad4aced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which unel oses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk A rose it is tho least and last of all, A rose to me tho at the fall. Athemeum. CHRIsTINA G. ROS5ETTI. FONS I3ANDUSIIE. (Hor. iii. 53.) 0 BABBLING spring! than glass more clear, Worthy of wine, and wreath not sere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, Sure sign l of loves and battles near. Child of the race that butt and rear! Not less, alas l his life-blood dear Shall tinge thy cold wave crystalline, O babbling spring l Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, The wandering flock. This verse of mine Shall rank thee one with founts divine; Men shall thy rock and tree revere, o babbling spring! Spectator. AN AUTUMN SONG. THE wind is sighing, The rose is dying, The swallow is flying Over the sea; The leaf is yellow, The fruit hangs mellow, The summers knell, low, Sounds oer the lea. Winter is coming, East winds are dumbing, The golden bees humming, The reapers at rest; Young Love, a rover Mong corn and clover, His wanderings over, Flies to my breast. HORACE L. NICHOLSON. St. Jamess Magazine. From The Fortnightly Review. HUMMING-BIRDS. THERE are now about ten thousand different kinds of birds known to natural- ists, and these are classed in one hundred and thirty families which vary greatly in extent, some containing a single species only, while others comprise many hun- dreds. The two largest families are those of the warblers, with more than six hun- dred, and the finches, with more than five hundred species spread over the whole globe; the hawks and the pigeons, also spread over the whole globe, number about three hundred and thirty and three hun- dred and sixty species respectively; while the diminutive humming-birds, confined to one hemisphere, consist of about four hundred different species. They are thus, as regards the number of distinct kinds collected in a limited area, the most re- markable of all the families of birds. It may, however, very reasonably be asked, whether the four hundred species of hum- ming-birds above alluded to are really all distinctas distinct on the average as the ten thousand species of birds are from each other. We reply that they certainly are perfectly distinct species which never intermingle; and their differences do not consist in color only, but in peculiarities of form, of structure, and of habits, so that they have to be classed in more than a hundred distinct genera or systematic groups of species, these genera being really as unlike each other as stonechats and nightingales, or as part ridges and blackcocks. The figures we have quoted, as showing the proportion of birds in gen- eral to humming-birds, thus represent real facts; and they teach us that these small and in some respects insignificant birds constitute an important item in the animal life of the globe. Humming-birds are, in many respects, unusually interesting and instructive. They are highly peculiar in form, in structure, and in habits, and are quite unrivalled as regards variety and beauty. Though the name is familiar to every one, few but nat- uralists are acquainted with the many curious facts in their history, or know how much material they afford for admiration and study. I propose, therefore, to give a 3 brief and popular account of the form, structure, habits, distribution, and affini- ties of this remarkable family of birds. The humming-birds form one compact family, named Trocliilidce. They are all small birds, the largest known being about the size of a swallow, while the smallest are minute creatures whose bodies are hardly larger than a humble-bee. Their distinguishing features are, excessively short legs and feet, very long and pointed wings, a long and slender bill, and a long extensible tubular tongue; and these char- acters are found combined in no other birds. The feet are exceedingly small and delicate, often beautifully tufted with down, and so short as to be hardly visible beyond the plumage. The toes are placed as in most birds, three in front and one behind, and have very strong and sharply curved claws; and the feet serve prob- ably to cling to their perch rather than to support the weight of the body. The wings are long and narrow, but strongly formed, and the first quill is the longest, a peculiarity found in hardly any other birds but a few of the swifts. The bill varies greatly in length, but is always long, slen- der, and pointed, the upper mandible being the widest and lapping over the lower at each side, thus affording complete protec- tion to the delicate tongue, the perfect action of which is essential to the birds existence. The humming-birds tongue is very long, and is capable of being greatly extended beyond the beak and rapidly drawn back, by means of muscles which are attached to the hyoid or tongue bones and bend round over the back and top of the head to the very forehead, just as in the woodpeckers. The two blades or laminle, of which the tongues of birds usually seem to be formed, are here greatly length- ened, broadened out, and each rolled up; so as to form a complete double tube con- nected do~vn the middle, and with the outer edges in contact but not united. The extremities of the tubes are however, flat and fibrous. This tubular and retrac- tile tongue enables the bird to suck up honey from the nectaries of flowers and also to capture small insects, but whether the latter pass down the tubes or are en- tangled in the fibrous tips and thus drawn HUMMING-BIRDS. 4 HUMMING-BIRDS. back into the gullet is not known. The outer feathers on each side long and ta- only other birds with a similar tubular pering to a point; or larger, and either tongue are the sun-birds of the East, square or round, or deeply forked, or which, however, as we shall presently ex- acutely pointed; or with two middle feath- plain, have no affinity whatever with the ers excessively long and narrow; or with humming-birds. the tail very long and deeply forked, with The colors of these small birds are ex- ceedingly varied and exquisitely beautiful. The basis of the coloring may be said to be green, as in parrots; but, whereas in the latter it is a silky green, in humming- birds it is always metallic. The majority of the species have some green about them, especially on the back; but in a considerable number rich blues, purples, and various shades of red are the prevail- ing tints. The greater part of the plumage has more or less of a metallic gloss, but there is almost always some part which has an intense lustre as if actually formed of scales of burnished metal. A gorget covering the greater part of the neck and breast most commonly displays this vivid color, but it also frequently occurs on the _ head, on the back, on the tail-coverts above or below, on the upper surface of the tail, on the shoulders or even the quills. The hue of every precious stone and the lustre of every metal is here represented; and such terms as topaz, amethyst, beryl, emerald, garnet, ruby, sapphire, golden, golden-green, coppery, fiery, glowing, iridescent, refulgent, celes- tial, glittering, shining, are constantly used to name or describe the different species. No less remarkable than the colors are the varied developments of plumage with which these birds are adorned. The head is often crested in a variety of ways; either a simple flat crest, or with radiating feathers, or diverging into two horns, or spreading laterally like wings, or erect and bushy, or recurved and pointed like that of a plover. The throat and breast are usually adorned with broad, scale-like feathers, or these diverge into a tippet, or send out pointed collars, or elegant frills of long and narrow plumes tipped with metallic spots of various colors. But the tail is even a more varied and beau- tiful ornament, either short and rounded, but pure white or some other strongly contrasted tint, or with short pointed feathers forming a star, or with the three broad and richly-colored feathers; or with the two outer feathers wire-like and having. broad spoon-shaped tips. All these orna- ments, whether of the head, neck, breast, or tail, are invariably colored in some effective or brilliant manner, and often contrast strikingly with the rest of the plumage. Again, these colors often vary in tint according to the direction in which they are seen. In some species they must be looked at from above, in others from below, in some from the front, in others from behind, in order to catch the full glow of the metallic lustre. Hence when the birds are seen in their native haunts, the colors come and go and change with their motions, so as to produce a startling and beautiful effect. It is a well-known fact that, when male birds possess any unusual ornaments, they take such positions or perform such evo lutions as to exhibit them to the best ad- vantage while endeavoring to attract or charm the females or in rivalry with other males. It is therefore probable that the wonderfully varied decorations of hum- ming-birds, whether burnished breast- shields, resplendent tail, crested head, or glittering back, are thus exhibited; but almost the only actual observation of this kind is that of Mr. Belt, who describes how two males of the Florisugr mel/ivora displayed their ornaments before a female bird. One would shoot up like a rocket, then suddenly expanding the snow-white tail like an inverted parachute, slowly de- scend in front of her, turning round grad- ually to show off both back and front. The expanded white tail covered more space than all the rest of the bird, and was evidently the grand feature of the per- formance. Whilst one was descending, the other would shoot up and come slowly down expanded.* The bill differs greatly in length and shape, being either straight or gently * The Naturalist in Nicaragua, p. xsz. HUMMING-BIRDS. S curved, in some species bent like a sickle, in others turned up like the bill of the avoset. It is usually long and slender, but in one group is so enormously developed that it is nearly the same length as the rest of the bird. The legs, usually little seen, are in some groups adorned with globular. tufts of white, brown, or black down, a peculiarity possessed by no other birds. The reader will now be in a posi- tion to understand how the four hundred species of humming-birds may be easily distinguished, by the varied combinations of the characters here briefly enumerated, together with many others of less impor- tance. One group of birds will have a short round tail, with crest and long neck- frill; another group a deeply-forked broad tail, combined with glowing crown and gorget; one is both bearded and crested others have a luminous back and pendent neck-plumes; and in each of these groups the species will vary in combinations of color, in size, and in the proportions of the ornamental plumes, so as to produce an unmistakable distinctness ; while, with- out any new developments of form or structure, there is room for the discovery of hundreds more of distinct kinds of humming-birds. The name we usually give to the birds of this family is derived from the sound of their rapidly-moving wings, a sound which is produced by the largest as well as by the smallest member of the family. The Creoles of Guiana similarly call them bourdons or hummers. The French term, oiseau-;nouche, refers to their small size; while cotibri is a native name which has come down from the Carib inhabitants of the West Indies. The Spaniards and Por- tub uese call them by more poetical names, such as flower-peckers, flower-kissers, myrtle-suckers, while the Mexican and Peruvian names showed a still higher ap- preciation of their beauties, their meaning being rays of the sun, tresses of the day- star, and other such appellations. Even our-modern naturalists, while studying the structure and noting the peculiarities of these living gems, have been so struck by their inimitable beauties that they have endeavored to invent appropriate English names for the more beautiful and re markable genera. Hence we find in corn. mon use such terms as sun-gems, sun- stars, hill-stars, wood-stars, sun-angels, star-throats, comets, coquettes, flame- bearers, sylphs, and fairies; together with many others derived from the character of the tail or the crests. The Motions and Habits of Hu;n;ning- birds. Let us now consider briefly the peculiarities of flight, the motions, the food, the nests, and general habits of the humming-birds, quoting the descriptions of those modern naturalists who have per- sonally observed them. Their appear- ance, remarks Professor Alfred Newton, is entirely unlike that of any other bird. One is admiring some brilliant and beau- tiful flower, when between the blossom and ones eye -suddenly appears a small dark object, suspended as it were between four short black threads meeting each - other in a cross. For an instant it shows in front of the flower; again another in- stant, and emitting a momentary flash of emerald and sapphire light, it is vanishing, lessening in the distance, as it shoots away, to a speck that the eye cannot take note of. Audubon observes that the ruby humming-birds pass through the air in long undulations, but the smallness of thefr size precludes the possibility of fol- lowing them with the eye farther than fifty oi sixty yards, without great difficulty. A person standing in a garden by the side of a common althma in bloom, will hear the humming of their wings and see the little birds themselves within a few feet of him one moment, while the next they will be out of sight and hearing. Mr. Gould, who visited North America in order to see liv- ing humming-birds while preparing his great work on the family, remarks that the action of the wings reminded him of a piece of machinery acted upon by a pow- erful spring. When poised before a flower, the motion is so rapid that a hazy semicircle of indistinctness on each side of the bird is all that is perceptible. Al- though many short ii~termissions of rest are taken, the bird may be said to live in the airan element in which it performs every kind of evolution with the utmost ease, frequently rising perpendicularly, fly. ing backward, pirouetting or dancing off, 6 HUMMING-BIRDS. as it were, from place to place, or from one part of a tree to another, sometimes descending, at others ascending. It often mounts up above the towering trees, and then shoots off like a little meteor at a right angle. At other times it gently buzzes away among the little flowers near the ground; at one moment it is poised over a diminutive weed, at the next it is seen at a distance of forty yards, whither it has vanished with the quickness of thought. The rufous flame-bearer, an exquisite species found on the west coast of North America, is thus described by Mr. Nut- tall: When engaged in collecting its accustomed sweets, in all the energy of life, it seemed like a breathing gem, a magic carbuncle of flaming fire ,stretching out its glorious ruff as if to emulate the sun itself in splendor. The Sappho comet, whose long forked tail barred with crimson and black renders it one of the most imposing of humming-birds, is abun- dant in many parts of the Andes; and Mr. Bonelli tells us that the difficulty of shoot- ing them is very ~reat, from the extraor- dinary turns and evolutions they make when on the wing; at one instant darting headlong into a flower, at the next describ- ing a circle in the air with such rapidity that the eye, unable to follow the move- ment, loses sight of the bird until it again returns to the flower which at first attracted its attention. Of the little vervain hum- ming-bird of Jamaica, Mr. Gosse writes: I have sometimes watched with much de- light the evolutions of this little species at the moringa tree.* When only one is present, he pursues the round of the blos- soms soberly enough. But if two are at the tree, one will fly off, and suspend him- self in the air a few yards distant; the other presently starts off to him, and then, without touching each other, they mount upwards with strong rushing wings, P~- haps for five hundred feet. They then separate, and each starts diagonally to- wards the ground like a ball from a ride, and wheeling round comes up to the blos- soms again as if it had not moved away at all. T,he figure of the smaller humming- birds on the wing, their rapidity, their wavering course, and their whole manner of flight are entirely those of an insect. Mr. Bates remarks that on the Amazons during the cooler hours of the morning and from four to six in the afternoon humming- * Sometimes called the horse-radish tree. It is the Moringag5/erygos~5erma, a native of the East Indies, but commonly cultivated in Jamaica. It has yellow 1~owers. birds are to be seen whirring about the trees by scores; their motions being un- like those of any other birds. They dart to and fro so swiftly that the eye can scarcely follow them, and when they stop before a flower it is only for a few mo- ments. They poise thefnselves in an unsteady manner, their wings moving with inconceivable rapidity, probe the flower, and then shoot off to another part of the tree. They do not proceed in that me- thodical manner which bees follow, taking the flowers seriatim, but skip about from one part of the tree to another in the most capricious way. Mr. Belt iemarks on the excessive rapidity of the flight of the hum- ming-bird giving it a sense of security from danger, so that it will~ approach a person nearer than any other bird, often hovering within two or three yards (or even one or two feet) of ones face. He watched them bathing in a small pool in the forest, hov- erin over the water, turning from side to side by quick jerks of the tail, now show- ing a throat of gleaming emerald, now shoulders of glistening amethyst, then darting beneath the water, and rising in- stantly, throw off a shower of spray from its quivering wings, and again fly up to an overhanging bough and commence to preen its feathers. All humming-birds bathe on the wing, and generally take three or four dips, hovering between times about three or four inches above the surface. Mr. Belt also remarks on the immense numbers of humming-birds in the forests, and the great difficulty of seeing them; and his conclusion is, that in the part of Nica- ragua where he ~vas living they equalled in number all the rest of the birds together, if they did not greatly exceed them. The extreme pugnacity of humming- birds has been noticed by all observers. Mr. Gosse describes two meeting and chas- ing each other through the labyrinths of twigs and flowers, till, an opportunity oc- curring, the one would dart with seeming fury upon the other, and then, with a loud rustling of their wings, they would twirl together, round and round, till they nearly came to the earth. Then they parted, and after a time another tussle took place. Two of the same species can hardly meet without an encounter, while in many cases distinct species attack each other with equal fury. Mr. Salvin describes the splendid Eugenes fztlge~vs attacking two other species with as much ferocity as its own fellows. One will knock another off its perch, and the two will go fighting and screaming away at a pace hardly to be followed by the eye. Audubon says they HUMMING-BIRDS. 7 attack any other birds that approach them, and think nothing of assaulting tyrant- shrikes and even birds of prey that come too near to their home. The food of humming-birds has been a matter of much controversy. All the early writers down to Buffon believed that they lived solely on the nectar of flowers; but since that time every close observer of their habits maintains that they feed largely, and in some cases, wholly, on insects. Azara observed them on the La Plata in winter, taking insects out of the webs of spiders at a time and place where there were no flowers. Bul- lock, in Mexico, declares that he saw them catch small butterflies, and that he found many kinds of, insects in their stom- achs. Waterton made a similar statement. Hundreds and perhaps thousands of spec- imens have since been dissected by col- lecting naturalists, and in almost every instance their stomachs have been found full of insects, sometimes, but not gener- ally, mixed with a proportion of honey. Many of them in fact may be seen catch- ing gnats and other small insects just like fly-catchers, sitting on a dead twig over water, darting off for a time in the air, and then returning to the twig. Others come out just at dusk, and remain on the wing, now stationary, now darting about with the greatest rapidity, imitating in a limited space the evolutions of the goatsuckers, and evidently for the same end and pur- pose. Mr. Gosse also remarks: All the humming-birds have more or less the habit, when in flight, of pausing in the air and throwing the body and tail into rapid and odd contortions. This is most observ-. able in the Poly/mus, from the effect that such motions have on the long feathers of the tail. That the object of these quick turns is the capture of insects, I am sure, having watched one thus engaged pretty close to me. I observed it carefully, and distinctly saw the minute flies in the air which it pursued and caught, and heard repeatedly the snapping of the beak. My presence scarcely disturbed it, if at all. There is also an extensive group of small brown humming-birds, forming the sub-family PhaJ/Izornithiuce, which rarely or never visit flowers, but frequent the shady recesses of the forest, where they hunt for minute insects. They dart about among the foliage, and visit in rapid suc- cession every leaf upon a branch, balanc- ing themselves vertically in the air, passing their beaks closely over the under sur- face of each leaf, and thus capturing, no doubt, any small insects that may lurk there. While doing this, the two long feathers of the tail have a vibrating mo- tion, serving apparently as a rudder to assist them in performing the delicate operation. Others search up and down stems and dead sticks in the same man- ner, every now and then picking off some- thing, exactly as a bush-shrike or a tree- creeper does, with the difference that the humming-bird is constantly on the wing; while the remarkable sickle-bill is said to probe the scale-covered stems of palms and tree-ferns to obtain its insect food. It has also been often stated that, although humming-birds are very bold and easily tamed, they cannot be preserved long in captivity, even in their own country, when fed only on syrup. Audubon states that when thus fed they only live a month or two and die apparently starved; while if kept in a room whose open windows are cov- ered with a fine net, so as to allow small insects to enter, they have been kept for a whole year without any ill effects. An- other writer, Mr. Webber, captured and tamed a number of the ruby-throat in the United States. He found that when fed for three weeks on syrup they drooped, but after being let free for a day or two they would return to the open cage for more of the syrup. Some which had been thus tamed and set free, returned the following year, and at once flew straight to the remembered little cup of sweets. Mr. Gosse in Jamaica also kept some in captivity, and found the necessity of giv- ing them in sect food; and he remarks that they were fond of a small ant that swarmed on the syrup with which they were fed. It is strange that, with all this previous experience and information, those who have attempted to bring live hum- ming-birds to this country have fed them exclusively on syrup; and the weakness produced by this insufficient food has no doubt been the chief cause of their death on, or very soon after, arrival. A box of ants would not be difficult to bring as food for them, but even finely-chopped meat or yolk of egg would probably serve, in the absence of insects, to supply the necessary proportion of animal food. The nests of the humming-birds are, as might be expected, beautiful objects, some being no larger inside than the half of a wal- nut-shell. These small cup-shaped nests are often placed in the fork of a branch, and the outside is sometimes beautifully dec- orated with pieces of lichen, the body of the nest being formed of cottony sub- stances and the inside lined with the finest and most silky fibres. Others suspend 8 HUMMING-BIRDS. their nests to creepers hanging over water, or even over the sea; and the Pichincha humming-bird once attached its nest to a straw rope hanging from the roof of a shed. Others again bi~ild nests of a ham- mock form attached to the face of rocks by spiders web while the little forest- haunting species fasten their nests to the points or to the under sides of palm-leaves or other suitable foliage. They lay only one or two white eggs. Geograj5liicai Distribution and Varia- tion. Most persons know that humming- birds are found only in America; but it is not so generally known that they are almost exclusively tropical birds, and that the few species that are found in the tem- perate (northern and southern) parts of the continent are, migrants, which retire in the winter to the warmer lands near or within the tropics. In the extreme north of America two species are regular sum- mer visitants, one on the east and the other on the ~vest of the Rocky Mountains. On the east the common North American or ruby-throated humming-bird extends through the United States and Canada, and as far as 570 north latitude, or con- siderably north of Lake Winnipeg; while the milder climate of the ~vest coast allows the rufous flame-bearer to extend its range to beyond Sitkato the parallel of 6i~. Here they spend the whole summer, and breed, being found on the Columbia River in the latter end of April, but retire to Mexico in the winter. Supposing that those which go furthest north do not re- turn further south than the borders of the tropics, these little birds must make a journey of full three thousand miles each spring and autumn. The Antarctic hum- ming-bird visits the inhospitable shores of Tierra del Fuego, where it has been seen visiting the flowers of fuchsias in a snow- storm, while it spends the winter in the warmer parts of Chili and Bolivia. In the southern parts of California and the cen- tral United States three or four other species are found in summer; but it is only when we enter the tropics that the number of different kinds becomes con- siderable. In Mexico there are more than thirty species, while in the southern parts of Central America there are more than double that number. As we go on towards the equator they become still more numerous, till they reach their maximum in the equatorial Andes. They especially abound in the mountainous regions; while the luxuriant forest plains of the Amazons, in ~vhich so many other forms of life reach their maximum, are very poor in humming- birds. Brazil, being more hilly and with more variety of vegetation, is richer, but does not equal the Andean valleys, pla- teaux, and volcanic peaks. Each separate district of the Andes has its peculiar species and often its peculiar genera, and many of the great volcanic mountains possess kinds which are confined to them. Thus, on the great mountain of Pichincha there is a peculiar species found at an elevation of about fourteen thousand feet only; while an allied species on Chimborazo ranges from fourteen thousand feet to the limits of perpetual snow at sixteen thousand feet elevation. It frequents a beautiful yellow- flowered alpine shrub belonging to the Asteracea. On the extinct volcano of Chiriqui in Veragua a minute humming bird, called the little flame-bearer, has been only found inside the crater. Its scaled gorget is of such a flaming crimson that, as Mr. Gould remarks, it seems to have caught the last spark from the vol- cano before it was extinguished. Not only are humming-birds found over the whole extent of America, from Sitka to Tierra del Fuego, and from the level of the sea to the snow-line on the Andes, but they inhabit many of the islands at a great distance from the mainland. The West Indian islands possess fifteen dis- tinct species belonging to eight different genera, and these are so unlike any found on the continent that five of these genera are peculiar to the Antilles. Even the Bahamas, so close to Florida, possess two peculiar species. The small group of ,islands called Tres Marias, about sixty miles from the xvest coast of Mexico, has a peculiar species. More remarkable are the two humming-birds of Juan Fernan- dez, situated in the Pacific Ocean four hundred miles west of Valparaiso in Chili, one of these being peculiar; while anoth- er species inhabits the little island Mas- a-fuera, ninety miles further west. The Galapagos, though very little further from the mainland and much more extensive, have no humming-birds, neither have the Falkiand Islands; and the reason seems to be that both these groups are deficient in forest, and in fact have hardly any trees or large shrubs, while there is a great paucity of flowers and of insect life. The three species which inhabit Juan Fernandez and Mas-a-fuera present certain peculiarities of great interest. They form a distinct genus, Eustej5kanus, one species of which inhabits CNli as well as the island of Juan Fernandez. This, which may be termed the Chilian species, is greenish in both sexes, whereas in the two HUMMING-BIRDS. 9 species peculiar to the islands the males are red or reddish-brown, and the females green. The two red males differ very slightly from each other, but the three green females differ considerably; and the curious point is, that the female in the smaller and more distant island somewhat resembles the same sex in Chili, while the female of the Juan Fernandez species is very distinct, although the males of the two islands are so much alike. As this forms a comparatively simple case of the action of the laws of variation and natural selection, it will be instructive to see if we can picture to ourselves the process by which the changes have been brought about. We must first go back to an un- known but rather remote period, just be- fore any humming-birds had reached these islands. At that time a species of this peculiar genus, Ellste~hanzs~s, must have inhabited Chili; but we must not be sure that it was identically the same as that which is now found there, because we know that species are always undergoing change to a greater or less degree. After perhaps many failures, one or more pairs of the Chilian bird got blown across to Juan Fernandez, and finding the coun- try favorable, with plenty of forests and a fair abundance of flowers and insects, they rapidly increased and permanently estab- lished themselves on the island. They. soon began to change color, however, the male getting a tinge of reddish-brown, which gradually deepened into the fine color now exhibited by the two insular species, while the female, more slowly, changed to white on the under surface and on the tail, while the breast-spots became more brilliant. When the change of color was completed in the male, but only par- tially so in the female, a further emigration westward took place to the small island Mas-a-fuera, where they also established themselves. Here, however, the change begun in the. larger island appears to have been checked, for the female remains to this day intermediate between the Juan Fernandez and the Chilian forms. More recently, the parent form has again mi- grated from Chili to Juan Fernandez, where it still lives side by side with its greatly changed descendant.* Let us now see how far these facts are in ac- cordance with the general laws of varia * In the preceding account of the probable course of events iu peopliog these islands with hummiog-birds, I follow Mr. Sciaters paper oo the Laud-birds of Juso Fernandez, Ibis, 1871, p. s83. Jo what fol- lows, I give my own expisuation of the probable causes of the change. tion, and with those other laws which I have endeavored to show regulate the de- velopment of color.* The amount of va- riation which is likely to occur in a species will be greatly influenced by two factors the occurrence of a change in the physical conditions, and the average abundance or scarcity of the individuals composing the species. When from these or other causes variation occurs, it may become fixed as a variety or a race, or may go on increasing to a certain extent, either from a tendency to vary along certain special lines induced by local or physiological causes, or by the continued survival and propagation of all such varieties as are beneficial to the race. After a certain time a balance will be ar- rived at, either by the limits of useful variation in this one direction having been reached, or by the species becoming har- moniously adapted to all the surrounding conditions; and without some change in these conditions the specific form may then remain unaltered for a very long time, whence arises the common impression of the fixity of species. Now in a country like Chili, forlning part of a great continent very well stocked with all forms of organic life,the majority of the species would be in a state of stable equilibrium, the most favorable variations would have been long ago selected, and the numbers of individ- uals in each species would be tolerably constant, being limited by the numerous other forms whose food and habits were similar, or which in any way impinged upon its sphere of existence. We may, therefore, assume that the Chilian hum- ming-bird which migrated to Juan Fernan- dez was a stable form, hardly if at all dif- ferent from the existing species which is termed Ezes/ephanus galeri/us. On the island it met with very changed but highly favorable conditions. An abundant shrub- by vegetation and a tolerably rich flora; less extremes of climate than on the main- land; and, most important of all, absolute freedom from the competition of rival spe- cies. The flowers and their insect inhab- itants were all its own; there were no snakes or mammalia to plunder its nests; nothing to prevent the full enjoyment of existence. The consequence would be, rapid increase and a large permanent pop- ulation, which still maintains itself; for Mr. Moseley, of the Challenger expedi- tion, has informed the writer that hum- ming-birds are extraordinarily abundant in Juan Fernandez, every bush or tree having * See Macrnill~z*s Magazine, Sept., 1877, On the Colors of Animals and Plants. I0 HUMMING-BIRDS. one or two dartino~ about it. Here, then, ~ve have one of the special conditions which have always been held to favor va- riation a great increase in the number of individuals; but, as there was no strug- gle with allied creatures, there was no need for any modification in form or struc- ture, and we accordingly find that the only important variations which have become permanent are those of size and of color. The increased size would naturally arise from greater abundance of food with a more equable climate throubhout the year, the healthier, stronger, and larger individ- uals being preserved. The change of color would depend on molecular changes in the plumage accompanying the increase of size; and the superior energy and vital- ity in the male, aided by the favorable change in conditions and rapid increase of population, would lead to an increased in- tensity of col6r, the special tint being de- termined either by local conditions or by inherited tendencies in the race. It is to be noted that the change from green to red is in the direction of the less refrangi- ble rays of the spectrum, and is in accord- ance with the law of change which has been shown to accompany expansion in inorganic, and growth and development in organic, forms.* The change of color in the female, not being urged on by such intense vital activity as in the case of the male, would be much slower, and, owing probably to inherited tendencies, in a dif- ferent direction. The under surface of the Chilian bird is ashy with bronzy-green spots on the breast, while the tail is en- tirely bronze-green. In the Juan Fernan- dez species the under surface has become pure white, the breast-spots larger and of a purer golden-green, while the whole inner web of the tail-feathers has become pure white, producing a most elegant effect when the tail is expanded. We may now follow the two sexes to the remoter island, at a period when the male had acquired his permanent style of coloring, but was not quite so large as he subsequently became; while the change of the female bird had not been half com- pleted. In this small and comparatively barren island (a mere rock, as it is de- scribed by some authors) there would be no such constant abundance of food, and therefore no possibility of a large perma- nent population; while the climate would not differ materially from that of the larger island; variation would therefore be * See Colors of Animals ~ Macmillans Maga- zine, Sept., 1877, pp. 394398. checked, or might be stopped, altogether; and we find the facts exactly correspond to this view. The male, which had already acquired his color, remains almost undis- tingui shable; but he is a little smaller than his immediate ancestral form, indi- cating either that the full size of that form had not been acquired at the period of migration, or that a slibht diminution of size has since occurred owing to a de- ficiency of food. The female shows also a slight diminution of size, but in other respects is almost exactly intermediate between the Chilian and Juan Fernandez females. The color beneath is light ashy, the breast-spots are intermediate in size and color, and the tail-feathers have a large ill- defined white spot on the end of the inner web, which has only to be extended along the whole web to produce the exact charac- ter which has been acquired in Juan Fer- nandez. It has probably remained since its migration nearly or quite stationary, while its Juan Fernandez relative has gone on steadily changing in the direction already begun; and the more distant species geographically thus appears to be more nearly related to its Chilian ancestor. Coming down to a more recent period, we find that the comparatively small and dull-colored Chilian bird has again migrat- ed to Juan Fernandez, but it at once came into competition with its red descendant, which had firm possession of the soil and had probably undergone slight constitu- tional changes exactly fitting it to its insu- lar abode. The new comer, accordingly, only just manages to maintain its footing; for we are told by Mr. Reed, of Santiago, that it is by no means common; whereas, as we have seen, the red species i~ ~xces- sively abundant. We may further suspect that the Chilian birds now pass over pretty frequently to Juan Fernandez, and thus keep up the stock; for it must be remem- bered that whereas, at a first migration, both a male and a female are necessary for colonization, yet, after a colony is formed, any stray bird which may come over adds to the numbers, and checks permanent variation by cross-breeding. We find, then, that all the chief pecul- iarities of the three allied species of hum- ming-birds which inhabit the Juan Fernan- dez group of islands, may be fairly traced to the action of those general laws which Mr. Darwin and others have shown to determine the variations of animals and the perpetuation of those variations. It is also instructive to note that the greater variations of color and size have been accompanied by several lesser variations HUMMING-BIRDS. II in other characters. In the Juan Fernan- dez bird the bill has become a little shorter, the tail-feathers somewhat broader, and the fiery cap on the head somewhat smaller; all these peculiarities being less developed or absent in the birds inhabiting Mas-a- fuera. These may be due, either to what Mr. Dar~vin has teimed correlation of growth, or to the partial reappearance of ancestral characters under more favorable conditions, or to the direct action of changes of climate and of food; but they show us how varied and unaccountable are the changes in specific forms that may be effected in a comparatively short time, and through very slight changes of locality. lf now we consider the enormously va- ried conditions presented by the whole continent of Americathe hot, moist, and uniform forest-plains of the Amazon; the open llanos of the Orinoco; the dry uplands of Brazil; the sheltered valleys and forest slopes of the eastern Andes; the verdant plateaus, the barren paramos, the countless volcanic cones with their peculiar alpine vegetation; the contrasts of the east and west coasts; the isola- tion of the West Indian islands, and to a less extent of Central America and Mex- ico, which we know have been several times separated from South America; and when we further consider that all these characteristically distinct areas have been subject to cosmical and local changes, to elevations and depressions, to diminu- tion and increase of size, to greater ex- tremes and greater uniformity of temper- ature, to increase or decrease of rainfall, and that with these changes there have been coincident changes of vegetation and of animal life, all affecting in countless ways the growth and development, the forms and colors, of these wonderful little birds if we consider all these varied and complex influences, we shall be less sur- prised at their strange forms, their infi- nite variety, their wondrous beauty. For how many ages the causes above enumer- ated may have acted upon them we can- not say; but their extreme isolation from all other birds, no less than the abundance and variety of their generic and specific forms, clearly point to a very high antiq- uity. Tue Relations and Affinities of Hum- ;ni;zg-birds.The subject of the position of this family in the class of birds and its affinities or resemblances to other groups, is so interesting, and affords such good opportunities for explaining some of the best-established principles of classification in natural history in a popular way, that we propose to discuss it at some length, but without entering into technical details. There is in the eastern hemisphere, especially in tropical Africa and Asia, a family of small birds called sun-birds, which are adorned with brilliant metallic colors, and which, in shape and general appearance, much resemble humming- birds. They frequent flowers in the same way feeding on honey and insects; and all the older naturalists placed the two families side by side as undoubtedly allied. In the year 1850, in a general catalogue of birds, Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a learned ornithologist, placed the humming- birds next to the swifts, and far removed from the Nectarinidce or sun-birds; and this view of their position has gained ground with increasing knowledge, till now all the more advanced ornithologists have adopted it. Before proceeding to p?int out the reasons for this change of view, it will be well to discuss a few of the general principles which guide natu- ralists in the solution of such problems. It is now generally admitted that, for the purpose of determining obscure and doubtful affinities, we must examine by preference those parts of an animal which have little or no direct influence on its habits and general economy. The value of an organ, or of any detail of structure, for purposes of classification, is generally in inverse proportion to its adaptability to special uses. And the reason of this is apparent when we consider that similar- ities of food and habits are often accom- panied by similarities of external form or of special organs, in totally distinct ani- mals. Porpoises, for example, are mod- ified externally so as to resemble fishes, yet they are really mammalia. Some marsu- pials are carnivorous, and are so like true carnivora that it is only by minute pecul- iarities of structure that the skeleton of the one can be distinguished from that of the other. Many of the hornbills and toucans have the same general form, and resemble each other in habits, in food, and in their enormous bills; yet peculiarities in the structure of the feet, in the form of the breast-bone, in the cranium, and in the texture and arrangement of the plumage, show that they have no real affinity, the former approaching the kingfishers, the latter the cuckoos. These last-mentioned peculiarities have no direct relation to habits, and they are therefore little liable to change, when from any cause a portion of the ~roup may have been driven to adopt a new mode of life. Thus all the Old World apes, however much they may 12 HUMMING-BIRDS. differ in size or habits, and whether we class them as baboons, monkeys, or go- rillas, have the same number of teeth while the American monkeys all have an additional premolar tooth. This differ- ence can have no relation to the habits of the two groups, because each group ex- hibits differences of habits greater than often occur between American and Asiatic species; and it thus becomes a valuable character, indicating the radical distinct- ness of the two groups, distinctness con- firmed by other anatomical peculiarities. On the other hand, details of organiza- tion which seem specially adapted to cer- tain modes of life, are often diminished or altogether lost in a few species of the group, showing their essential unimpor- tance to the type as well as their small value for classification. Thus, the wood- peckers are most strikingly characterized by a very long and highly extensible tongue, with the muscles attached to the tongue-bone prolonged backward over the head so as to enable the tongue to be sud- denly darted out, and also by the rigid and pointed tail, which is a great help in climbing up the vertical trunks of trees. But in one group (the Piczernni), the tail becomes quite soft, while the tongue re- mains fully developed; and in another (Mez~ly~fes) the characteristic tail re- mains, while the prolonged hyoid muscles have almost entirely disappeared, and the tongue has consequently lost its peculiar extensile power. Yet in both these cases the form of the breast-bone and the char- acter of the feet, the skeleton, and the plumage, show that the birds are really woodpeckers, while even the habits and the food are very little altered. In like man- ner the bill may undergo great changes, as from the short crow-like bill of the true birds-of-paradise to the long slender bills of the Ej5imachincz which latter were on that account long classed apart in the tribe, of Zenuirostres, or slender-billed birds, but whose entire structure shows them to be closely allied to the paradise- birds. So, the long feathery tongue of the toucans differs from that of every other bird, yet it is not held to overbalance the weight of anatomical peculiarities which show that these birds are allied to the bar bets and the cuckoos. The skeleton, therefore, and especially the sternum or breast-bone, affords us an almost infallible guide in doubtful cases, because it appears to change its form with extreme slowness, and thus indicates deeper-seated affinities than those shown by organs which are in direct connection with the outside world, and are readily modified in accordance with varying con- ditions of existence. Another, though less valuable guide, is afforded, in the case of birds, by the eggs. These often have a characteristic form and color, and a peculiar texture of surface, running un- changed through whole genera and fam- ilies which are nearly relat~d to each other, however much they may differ in outward form and habits. Another detail of struc- ture which has no direct connection with habits and economy is the manner in which the plumage is arranged on the body. The feathers of birds are by no means set uniformly over their skin, but grow in certain definite lines and patches, which vary considerably in shape and size in the more important orders and tribes, while the mode of arrangement agrees in all which are known to be close- ly related to each other; and thus the form of the feather-tracts, or the ptery- lography as it is termed, of a bird is a valuable aid in doubtful cases of affinity. Now, if we apply these three tests to the humming-birds, we find them all point- ing in the same direction. The sternum or breast-bone is not notched behind; and this agrees with the swifts, and not with the sun-birds, whose sternum has two deep notches behind, as in all the families of the vast order of Passeres, to which the latter belong. The eggs of both swifts and humming-birds are white, only two in number, and resembling each other in texture. And in the arrangement of the feather-tracts the humming-birds approach more nearly to the swifts than they do to any other birds; and altogether differ from the sun-birds, which, in this respect as in so many others, resemble the honey- suckers of Australia and other true pas- serine birds. Having this clue to their affinities, we shall find other peculiarities common to these two groups, the swifts and the humming-birds. They have both ten tail- feathers, while the sun-birds have twelve. They have both only sixteen true quill- feathers, and they are the only birds which have so small a number. The humming- birds are remarkable for having, in al- most all the species, the first quill the longest of all, the only other birds resem- bling them in this respect being a few species of swifts; and lastly, in both groups the plumage is remarkably com- pact and closely pressed to the body. Yet with all these points of agreement, we find an extreme diversity in the bills and, tongues of the two groups. The HUMMING-BIRDS. 3 swifts have a short, broad, flat bill, with a flat, horny-tipped tongue of the usual character; while the humming-birds have a very long, narrow, almost cylindrical bill, containing a tubular and highly ex- tensible tongue. The essential point however is, that whereas hardly any of the other characters we have adduced are adaptive, or strictly correlated with habits and economy, this character is pre-emi- nently so; for the swifts are pure aerial insect-hunters, and their short, broad bills, and wide gape, are essential to their mode of life. The humming-birds,on the other hand, are floral insect-hunters, and for this purpose their peculiarly long bills and extinsile tongues are especially adapted; while they are at the same time honey- suckers, and for this purpose have ac- quired the tubular tongue. The forma- tion of such a tubular tongue out of one of the ordinary kind is easily conceivable, as it only requires to be lengthened, and the two lamin~ of which it is composed curled in at the sides; and these changes it probably goes through in the young birds. When on the Amazon I once had a nest brought me containing two little unfledged humming-birds, apparently not long hatched. Their beaks were not at all like those of their parents, but short, triangular, and broad at the base, just the form of the beak of a swallow or swift slightly lengthened. Thinking (erroneous- ly) that the young birds were fed by their parents on honey, I tried to feed them with a syrup made of honey and water, but though they kept their mouths constantly open as if ravenously hungry, they would not swallow the liquid, but threw it out again and sometimes nearly choked themselves in the effort. At length I caught some minute flies, and on drop- ping one of these into the open mouth it instantly closed, the fly was gulped down, and the mouth opened again for more; and each took in this way fifteen or twenty little flies in succession before it was sat- isfied. They lived thus three or four days, but required more constant care than I could give them. These little birds were in the swift~ stage; they were pure insect-eaters, with a bill and mouth adapted for insect-eating only. At that time I was not aware of the importance of the observation of the tongue, but as the bill was so short and the tubular tongue not required, there can be little doubt that the organ was, at that early stage of growth, short and flat, as it is in the birds most nearly allied to them. In respect of all the essential and deep- seated points of structure, which have been shown to offer such remarkable simi- larities between the swifts and the hum- ming-birds, the sun-birds of the eastern hemisphere differ totally from the latter, while they agree with the passerine birds generally, or more particularly with the creepers and honeysuckers. They have a deeply-notched sternum; they have twelve tail-feathers in place of ten; they have nine- teen quills in place of sixteen; and the first quill, instead of being the longest, is the very shortest of all; while the wings are short and round, instead of being ex- cessively long and pointed. Their plumage is arranged differently; and their feet are long and strong, instead of being ex- cessively short and weak. There remain only the superficial characters of small size and brilliant metallic colors to assimi- late them with the humming-birds, and one structural feature a tubular and somewhat extensile tongue. This how- ever is a strictly adaptive character, the sun-birds on small insects and the nectar of flowers, just as do the humming- birds; and it is a remarkable instance of a highly peculiar modification of an organ occurring independently in two widely separated groups. In the sun-birds the hyoid or tongue muscles do not extend so completely over the head as they do in the humming-birds, so that the tongue is less extensible; but it is constructed in exactly the same way by the inrolling of the two lamin~e of which it is composed. The tubular tongue of the sun-birds is a spe- cial adaptive modification acquired within the family it self, and not inherited from a remote ancestral form. This is shown by the amount of variation this organ exhibits in different members of what is undoubt- edly one family. It is most highly devel- oped in the Arackno/herce, or spider-hunt- ers of Asia, which are sun-birds without any metallic or other brilliant coloring. These have the longest bills and tongues, and the most developed hyoid muscles; they hunt much about the blossoms of palm-trees, and may frequently be seen probing the flowers while fluttering clum- sily in the air, just as if they had seen and attempted to imitate the aerial gambols of the American humming-birds. The true metallic sun-birds generally cling about the flowers with their strong feet; and they feed chiefly on minute hard insects, as do many humming-birds. There is, however, one species (ChaZco~aria phwni- coils) always classed as a sun-bird, which differs entirely from the rest of the species in having the tongue flat, horny, and forked 9 4 ERICA. at the tip; and its food seems to differ birds often confounded together, the correspondingly, for small caterpillars sun-birds of the eastern hemisphere and were found in its stomach. More re- the humming-birds of America; and in motely allied, but yet belonging to the the interesting fact that the latter are same family, are the little flower-peckers essentially swif s profoundly modified, it of the genus Diceum, which have a short is true, for an a~rial and flower-haunting bill and a tongue twice split at the end; existence, but still bearing in many impor- and these feed on small fruits, and per- tant peculiarities of structure the unmis- haps on buds and on the pollen of flowers. takable evidences of a common origin. The little white-eyes (Zosterops~, which ALFRED R. WALLACE. are probably allied to the last, eat soft fruits and minute insects. We have here ______________ a whole group of birds considerably varied in external form, yet undoubtedly closely allied to each other, one division of which ERICA. is specially adapted to feed on the juices TRANSLATED FOR THE LIVING AGE FROM THE MAN OF secreted by flowers and the minute insects that harbor in them; and these alone FRAU VON INGERSLEBEN. have a lengthened bill and double tubular xi. tongue, just as in the humming birds. We can hardly have a more striking ex- THE ABDUCTION. ample of the necessity of discriminating THE next day brought equally bright between adaptive and purely structural sunlight, and the guests at the watering- characters. The same adaptive character place all went out on the sea. The prin- may coexist in two groups which have a cess yawl appeared garlanded with flowers similar mode of life, without indicating and adorned with tiny flags, and the lovely any affinity between them, because it may woman felt so much flattered by the atten- have been acquired by each independently tion she attracted, that she even bestowed to enable it to fill a similar place in nature. a patronizing smile on Caroline Sternau, In such cases it is found to be an almost who, with her family, had joined the party. isolated character, connecting apparently Erica had only seen the gay throng two groups which otherwise differ radi- from a distance. Seated on the steps of cally. Non-adaptive, or purely structural her veranda, she watched for the return of characters, on the other hand, are such the little flotilla. The distance was too as have, probably, been transmitted from great for her to be able to distinguish mdi- a remote ancestor, and thus indicate viduals, but she knew that the first boat fundamental peculiarities of growth and contained the princess, Elmar, and Caro- development. The changes of struc- line, and endeavored to make her imagina- ture rendered necessary by modifications tion complete the picture. Absorbed in of the habits or instincts of the different her fancies, she remained on the steps for species have been made, to a great extent, some time longer. Evening was closing independently of such characters, and as in, the bright colors in the western sky several of these may always be found in were fading, and one star after another ap- the same animal, their value becomes peared. Erica knew that the princess had cumulative. We thus arrive atthe seem- accepted an invitation to spend the even- ing paradox, that the ies-s of direct use is ing with a neighboring family, and there- apparent in any peculiarity of structure, fore paid no attention to Christine, who the ~*ezter is its value in indicating true, called her as she carried the lamp into the though perhaps remote, affinities; while little parlor, whose glass doors opened any peculiarity of an organ which seems upon the veranda. essential to its possessors well-being is At last she saw a large party come up often of very little value in indicating the street in the twilight. The figure of affinity for other creatures, the princess, in a gleaming white cloak, This somewhat technical discussion was clearly visible, and to her surprise she will, it is hoped, enable the general reader perceived little Carlos beside his mother. to understand some of the more important True, she knew that the latter rarely left principles of the modern or natural classi- the boy, but the hour seemed somewhat fication of animals, as distinguished from late for the little fellow. In spite of her the artificial system which long prevailed, efforts, she could not distinguish the per- It will also afford him an easily remem- sons who followed, but she heard Carolines bered example of those principles, in the radical distinctness of two families of * Copyright xS~, by Littell & Gay. ERICA. 15 musical laugh, and recognized the deep voice of Herr von Wehlen, who seemed absorbed in an animated conversation. When the party had ascended the hill to the neighboring house whose lighted windows gleamed brightly in the darkness she at last rose and went in. Christine had already set the table, and Erica, who always made tea for her mother, ap- proached it to perform her duties. The invalid was lying in an armchair with half- closed eyes, in a sort of lethargy, a condi- tion that frequently overpowered her, and which she was no longer able to shake off as before by her strength of will. She therefore took no notice of Ericas restless manner, and indeed could scarcely hold the cup her daughter handed to her. After the meal was over, the latter, as usual, took a book to read aloud to her mother for an hour. Her mind was not fixed upon what she was reading, and it therefore not only lacked expression, but often distinctness. The listener, who usually criticised everything very subtly, and considered the hour devoted to read. ing aloud more as a lesson than a time of recreation, seemed, however, perfectly sat- isfied, for she made no remark, and Erica went on and on, occasionally glancing at the clock to see whether the appointed time had expired. At last Christine entered the room. She made a pretext of some errand, and then with the familiarity of an old servant, in- stantly commenced a conversation. Nobody would believe what kind of doings are going on in Waldbad. Every day there is some new amusement, and to-day, when they have all been out on the sea for hours, they might surely spend the evening quietly at home. But no, our neighbor who would be much better employed if he kept his childrens rabbits in orderis giving a great party to-night. All the rooms are crowded with people, who are laughing and making such a noise that one can hear it in our garden through the open windows, and theyre playing on the piano and dancing besides. Our well is half empty, for of course everybody wants some water to drink, and none will do except ours. What is to come of it, Im sure I dont know. Her mistress, who slowly rose from her chajr, put a stop to Christines eloquence. I am tired and will go to bed, said the invalid in a low tone. You would proba- bly like to go out this beautiful evening, Erica, and convince yourself of the truth of Christines story, so you will be glad to shorten the hour for reading. Good night, my child, and the bowed figure, leaning on the old servants arm, tottered out of the room. Erica scarcely found herself alone, ere she pushed open the glass doors and went out on the veranda. A soft breexe was blowing, that gently fanned her cheeks and seemed to lure her forward. At first she found herself surrounded by impenetrable darkness, which appeared all the deeper when contrasted with the bright glow that streamed from the little windows of the drawing-room upon a narrow space in the immediate vicinity of the house. But when she had left this circle of light and entered the gloom, the dark outlines of the bushes, the houses, and all solid sub- stances gradually became relieved a~ainst the lighter atmosphere, and she could clearly distinguish her surroundings. The sky had outspread its majestic man- tle of stars, thousands upon thousands sparkled and twinkled above her. Near the horizon, amid the multitude of lesser heavenly lamps, a single star shone forth brightly and majestically, as if it were ruler and the others only vassals. But the illusion could last only a short time, for its changeful light contrasted strangely with the eternal repose of the glimmering little points, and marked it as the fire that blazed in the lighthouse at Swienemiind, as a guiding star to the distant mariners. Proximity alone gave the little shining spot, in the eyes of short-sighted mortals, its superiority to all the radiant lamps of heaven. Worlds, whose grandeur the hu- man mind can scarcely realize, receded into the background before the tiny, insig- nificant light kindled by human hands. What pride, and yet what deep humility, should be inspired by the sight I the boundlessness of the intellect and the nar- row limits of the senses placed in such direct contrast with each other. Ericas eyes rested on the bright shining star; its radiant, changeful light was dear and familiar to her. Ever since her child- hood it had shone every night, often alone, and she had fancied she could not go to sleep without casting a last glance at it. But this evening her eyes soon wandered dreamily away and roved over the dark surface of the sea, whose low murmur sounded like a gentle lullaby. A soft breeze swept gently over the waves, ca- ressed her hair, and sighed itself into silence amid the branches of the neigh- boring forest. A spicy odor of rosin exhaled from the pines; even the bushes, grass, and ferns around sent forth a faint perfume, which ERICA. blended with the pure, soft air, and pro- duced a most invigorating atmosphere, as if all nature were intoxicated by the magic of the night. The leaves rustled softly, as though exchanging loving words, and a low, mysterious murmur ran through the boughs as if they were telling each other the most wondrous tales. The faint twit- ter of a sleepy bird sometimes echoed through the woods, and the monotonous chirping of the cricket blended with the low rustling of the tree-tops, the distant murmur of the waves, into a solemn, divine, and yet sometimes sweet earthly harmony. The enchanting beauty of the night so completely engrossed the thoughts and senses of the young girl, that she scarcely thought of the real object of her walk. She listened to the soft yet distinct melo- dies that echoed around her, and in so do- ing forgot the louder sounds she had come to hear. When, however, she advanced a little farther, memory was again aroused, for the lighted windows of the next house gleamed brightly through the darkness as if they wished to wage a victorious battle against the gloom. Here also the loud confusion of voices that echoed from the dwelling drowned the sweet, eloquent silence of the night. The discord thus created was so great that Erica felt inclined to turn back, but lingered a moment longer and glanced in at the open windows. The distance Was still too great, or her keen eyes were not suf- ficiently eager, for she recognized no one, and perceiving groups of people prome- nading near the house she turned and went back to her former solitude. Evi- dently the guests were not all incapable of feeling the magic that pervaded the outside world, and had left the noisy rooms to enjoy the delightful evening. Erica now wandered up and down the enclosure she called her garden, and at last sat down on the turf near the yew hedge. From this spot she could neither see the lighted windows, nor hear the murmur of voices, she was once more alone. The melancholy chirp of the cricket sounded close beside her, and the soft breeze sighed through the boughs over her head. She turned towards the sea and eagerly inhaled the delicious fresh- ness borne from its surface by the light wind, but started in terror, for the mis- chievous zephyr brought at the same time the -unmistakable odor of an excellent cigar. If she had previously felt the light and noise in the next house as a discord, the artificial odor might well appear in striking contrast with the perfumed breath o nature. The dreamy reveries disappeared as if by magic, and she was thrown into such a tumult of agitation that her heart beat stormily. One of the company had entered her garden, that was certain; but it appeared less evident whether the intruder had en- croached upon a strangers grounds by design or accident, though the latter was scarcely credible, since a low fence en- closed the patch of land. Had the lighted windows attracted him, and he merely wished to satisfy his curiosity, or did he know that this was her home? Erica paused; she was becoming too bold in her conclusions. Yet amid the numerous doubts that assailed her mind, she felt no uncertainty in regard to one thing and indeed the most important, namely that the possessor of the cigar was no other than Elmar. True, she could give no reason for this assurance, but she did not even think of asking for one. Meantime the li6ht breeze, like a mis- chievous kobold, brought the pun~ent odor of the cigar nearer and nearer. At last the young girl rose and glided slowly away into the shadow of the dark bushes, that she might not be seen by the smoker. When, on reaching her hiding-place, she again looked around; she saw his retreat- ing figure moving over the grass, and sud- denly heard Christines shrill voice pierce the silence of the night. Erica was so startled by this unexpect- ed annoyance that at first she did not even understand what Christine was screaming so loudly, but Elmars laugh and musical voice were all the more distinct as he re- plied. My good woman, Im not meditating any attack on your well. Is water so precious in Waldbad that you are obliged to watch and defend the pump? You talk according to what you know about it, sir, replied Christine, not very politely. If you have been in Waldbad even a few days, you ought to know that our well has the best water in the whole place. Are you Frau von Hohenstadts ser- vant? Of course I am, 1. You see I have heard of the well, though I did not know exactly where it was. I shall ask you for a glass of water from it soon. Good-night, and Elmar walked towards the lighted windows of the next house. Erica would gladly have hurried for- ward to check Christines incivility, but ERICA. 17 she could not make up her mind to leave her hiding-place. Meantime Elmar had disappeared in the gloom, and she now saw Christine enter the house. She was again alone, but unfortunately her mind was no longer in harmony with the sol- itude, and she prepared to go in, but in- stantly paused again for she distinctly perceived a figure moving near the house. So Elmar had not left the garden, had perhaps merely waited till Christine entered. This conclusion seemed to be confirmed by the conduct of the wanderer, for he approached so near the house that he was plainly visible in the lamplight, boldly gazing into the open windows, and then walked back so near her hiding-place, that she feared she should be discovered. Crouching almost .to the ground, in order to remain concealed under the shadow of the bushes, Erica glided nearer the forest and remained standing beside the light fence that enclosed the garden. Her keen ear caught the sound of foot- steps echoing along the path through the woods. She stood under the shadow of a little group of pines, perfectly secure from discovery, straining her eyes to distin- guish the advancing figure. The steps approached quickly, but with a smothered sound, as if the pedestrian wished to make as little noise as possible. Not far from the spot where Erica stood, the path descended the hill and led close by the garden fence. She could therefore distinctly perceive that the approaching figure carried some dark object. Just as the man passed her, she thought she heard a cry issue from the large cloth that was fastened over the bundle. It sounded like the low wailing of a child, and she now distinctly heard a faint moan. She recognized the voice, and the knowl- edge flashed upon her mind like lightning. Herr von Wehiens secret suddenly ap- peared like a solved enigma. He had come to steal little Carlos, and was just carrying him away from the lighted house. Carlos I she cried, Carlos ! is it you, do you hear me? The man started violently at the loud exclamation which sounded so suddenly close beside him, muttered a half-smothered curse between his teeth, and then hurried along the path with redoubled speed, while a louder wail came from the bundle. Help! Erica screamed througji the darkness. Help! help!~ But her voice died away unheard, the north wind had risen, and the loud rust- ling of the trees drowned her words. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. Io4a What should she do? If she pursued the fugitive alone, it would probably re- sult only in her own destruction without securing little Carloss freedom. If she ran across the long distance that separ- ated her from the next house, the robber would obtain a start which would render any pursuit impossible. Stop! another expedient now occurred to her. She darted back to her house like an arrow from the bow. Elmar could not be far away, with his help the little fellow might be rescued. In spite of her head- long speed, his name echoed clearly and loudly through the night, and she soon heard his reply. With trembling limbs she flew in the direction of the sound, saw his figure, hurried towards him, and, grasping his hand, drew him resistlessly forward. Comewe have not a moment, they are stealing little Carlos. He will be carried off on that ship, I know it! Hurry, hurry, or we shall not save him. Although Elmar did not understand the affair, and could scarcely comprehend the incoherent words, he perceived that some extraordinary event was taking place. The darkness, together with his ignorance of the locality, made him utterly helpless without the aid of his companion, so he held her hand firmly in his own, allowed her to guide him, and promised any as- sistance she desired. They soon found themselves in the same path along which the man had just passed with his burden. Erica darted over the ground with perfect ease, she knew every obstacle, and understood how to render it harmless to her companion. In broken sentences for the speed with which they were running did not permit any other mode of speech but with per- fect calmness, she now explained the object of her pursuit. Elmar did not un- derstand the cause of the abduction, but Ericas positive assurances convinced him of the truth of her statement, and he exerted all his strength to reach the de- sired goal as quickly as possible. They now heard rapid footsteps on the path before them. There he is! cried Erica. But the ~vords had scarcely died away, when a bright flash blazed close before them, and at the same moment a loud report echoed through the silent forest. Are you hurt, Erica? asked Elmar anxiously. Not at all. How can he see to aim in this darkness? iS ERICA. Stay here, I can follow alone now, and the young man tried to release his hand from his companions. But she clung to him anxiously. Come, come. The robber has gained another start. A second flash gleamed through the darkness, and again a loud report roused the echoes of the forest. Once more El- mar tried to release himself, and again Erica prevented the attempt, and now the path ran through a glade where the fugi- tives figure was distinctly visible. But the forms of the pursuers also appeared, and the robber turned, paused, raised his hand, took aim, and the bullet whizzed by and entered the trunk of a neighboring tree. Let us keep back a little, murmured Erica, we will go round the glade, I have a plan, perhaps it will succeed. Guide me wherever you please,,~ whispered Elmar, I am only a tool in your hands. Both retreated into the shadow, while the fugitive darted swiftly across the glade. The path now turned aside towards the beach, and when he plunged into the for- est again he found his pursuers close at his heels. Again he fired his revolver into the darkness, without avail, as he supposed from the hasty whispers ex- changed behind him. Let us give him a little start again, said Erica softly, in this way he will soon fire all his shots harmlessly into the dark- ness, and I hope will get no time to load again. The fresh sea-breeze blew into their faces, and the grey dusk that brooded over the sea seemed almost light in contrast with the gloom of the forest. The rob- ber must have had the same feeling, for he looked back towards his pursuers as if he now hoped to be able to take a sure aim. Let us show ourselves a moment, and then vanish in the darkness. The moment was enough to bring an- other bullet, which splintered the branch of a tree. He still has quite a long distance to go before he reaches the boat, whispered Erica, it is that little black speck on the beach. Stay under the shade of the trees. You can make your way undis- turbed in a straight line to the edge of the forest. I must leave you now; a wood- cutters hut is close by, I will call him to our assistance. She waited for no reply, but drew her Iaand away, and darted off through the trees amid the dense gloom. Elmar had no time to think of her design, for he was obliged to exert himself to the utmost to find his way and keep in sight of the fugi- tive. Both had advanced a long distance, when Ericas hand was suddenly put into Elmars and her voice whispered, The woodcutter had gone to bed, but he will come soon. Here is an axe for a weapon.~~ He thanked her by a pressure of the hand, took the axe, and weighed it in his grasp. It is high time, Erica. See, yonder black spot is quite near. I must face the danger now, but I insist that you remain in the shelter of the forest. It seemed as if she were conquered by his resolute tone, for she made no remon- strance when he hurried down the little hill to the strand. The fugitive evidently perceived his approach, and perhaps saw the gleam of the axe in his pursuers hand, for he prepared for a struggle. Once more he raised his arm to fire his revolver, but he did not aim at Elmar, but turned the muzzle of the pistol towards the boat and discharged two shots in quick succes- sion. It was a signal to his confederates, and Elmar knew that he must conquer speedily or perish. The robber stood quietly in the spot where he had paused, threw the useless revolver on the sand, and tried to draw the sword that hung at his side, but as the bundle in his arms impeded him, and moreover would have made a successful def~nce impossible, he laid it carefully on the ground close beside him. When the pursuer approached with upraised axe, the sharp sword flashed forth to meet it, and the clash of the two metals striking against each other rang loudly on the silent night. Blow followed blow, but the assailant un- fortunately found himself at a disadvan- tage, for with his strange weapon he was soon co Tpelled to limit his efforts to ward- ing off the strokes of the sword. Just at that moment a dark object glided out of the woods and with supple ease moved down the slope close beside the two combatants; and ere either of them no- ticed it or had the slightest suspicion of its design, the apparition with a hasty ges- ture snatched the bundle from the ground, and, in spite of its weight, darted swiftly back to the protecting forest. A fierce imprecation burst from the rob- bers lips; he attempted to rush after his prey, thereby neglected to be on his guard, and only a hasty movement back- ward saved him from the death-dealing ERICA. X9 blow of the axe. With a cry of fury, he now threw himself upon Elmar, who, de- fending himself with great difficulty, slowly retreated towards the forest. He felt that he was wounded in the shoulder, and could only offer a feeble resistance, but he held the robber in check; Erica could fly with the child. He now received unexpected assistance. A gigantic man emerged from the trees and hastily approached the combatants. The huge axe on his shoulder and his her- culean limbs must have excited the fears of the wearied robber, for he shrank back and gave Elmar time to reach the shelter of the forest. Several men, however, were now hastily running up from the boat; the fugitive looked first at them and then at the gigan- tic figure of his enemy, at whose side El- mar, seeing the approaching foes, had placed himself. If a conflict took place, the men from the boat would doubtless conquer, for there were three of them armed with revolvers. Notwithstanding this, the robber seemed irresolute, glanced into the forest as if looking for the person who had stolen his prey, and then retreat- ed a few steps towards the new-comers. Go! I want no fight, the plan has failed. Let us return to the ship. He himself retired with the others, and as neither Elmar nor the woodcutter felt the slightest inclination to pursue them, their retreating figares soon vanished in the darkness. - Come, sir, said his ally, and if you are wounded lean on me. Ill take you to my hut. XIT. THE RETURN. ERIcAS first act, when she knew that she was safe in the protecting forest, was to unfasten the cloth in which the poor boy was closely bound. She heard no sound, perceived no movement, and the terrible fear that the child was suffocated took possession of her soul. When she at last succeeded in unwinding the numerous folds, and little Carlos appeared, his eyes were closed, and no sign of life was visi- ble. Erica screamed aloud in her grief and terror, and placing him on the ground thr~xv herself sobbing beside him. Life must have just fled, for the little body still felt soft and warm, and as she now covered his face with passionate tears and kisses, it seemed as if he breathed faintly. At this discovery her heart throbbed so violently that she was almost unable to ascertain the truth of her hope. But when she had regained some degree of composure, she distinctly felt his low, regular breathing, exultantly raised him from the ground, and hurried towards the woodcutters hut. On reaching it, she pushed the door open and entered the little room, whose sole furniture consisted of a straw bed, a table, a chair without a back, and a fire. I)lace where a few coals were glimmering, by means of which she hastily lighted a pine knot, and fastened the primitive torch in a recess, which the woodcutter proba- bly used for this purpose. She then sprinkled water from the pitcher that stood on the table into the face of the senseless child, and soon saw him move and at last open his great blue eyes. Carlos! she exclaimed joyously; Carlos, dont be afraid; I am with you, I will take care of you. Dont you know me, Carlos? she asked, bending over him, as she received no reply. Erica! cried a voice from the door at the same moment, and Elmar entered with his guide. Here is our little fugitive, safe and sound, said Erica gayly, approaching Elmar with the child in her arms. Kiss your uncle, little Carlos, and thank him for having saved you. Kiss the good fairy Erica, Carlos, and thank her for having saved you, replied Elmar. I certainly frightened the robber ter- ribly, laughed Erica. No, but you alone wrested his prey from him. Well, we wont quarrel about it. I think we all did the best we could, and good Andreas also deserves a share of little Carlos gratitude. He does indeed deserve gratitude; his appearance probably saved my life, for wounded as I was You are wounded? Ericas cheeks lost their rosy hue so suddenly, that her l)allor was visible even by the flickering light of the pine knot. Probably a mere scratch, cried Elmar hastily, but it was painful enough for the time to be a drawback in the fight. Let me look at it, sir, said the giant Andreas, approaching Elmar. On examination Elmars .coat was found to be completely soaked with blood, and as it was impossible to roll up the sleeve to reach the wound, Andreas ripped it with his knife. The cut instantly began to bleed profusely again; the woodcutter, who knew something about such injuries, 20 ERICA. and had some bandages in his table-drawer, prepared to dress the wound, murmuring incoherent sentences like a conjuration. Elmar smiled, but made no objection. especially as the blood really soon ceased to flow, and Andreas, spite of his huge hands, understood how to fasten the band- age firmly and painlessly. The sleeve of the coat was then sewed together with a few long stitches, and the little party now thought of returning. Andreas will accompany us with his axe, said Erica. The robbers might return, or some other danger threaten us. And if possible carry a lantern to light the way, added Elmar. Andreas laughed. I have no lantern, sir. What use should it be? A lantern would only attract danger, if there were any. So I am taught a lesson from both sides, replied Elmar. Well, you wise foresters, do exactly as you choose. Car- los and I will follow blindly. Unfortunately, however, the little neph- ew did not fulfil his uncles promise, for when the huge woodcutter approached to take him in his arms, he began to scream violently, and insisted upon staying with Erica. He even refused to let Elmar carry him, and with the obstinacy peculiar to spoiled children, would let no one touch him except Erica. As the child could not possibly walk in the darkness, Erica was oblicred to lift him in her arms, though with a faint sigh, while Elmar muttered between his teeth remarks by no means flattering to his nephew. In this way the little procession moved slowly through the forest. Andreas ~vent first, bearing his axe, and Elmar walked beside Erica. When they had moved on in silence for a short distance, Erica sud- denly asked, Did you recognize Herr von Wehlen in the robber? Elmar stood still in amazement. Herr von Wehlen? What a strange idea, little fairy! Does he still hover before your mind as a bird of prey? Yes, as a very dangerous and spiteful one, and I am sure that he alone is the originator of the plot. But I saw the man quite distinctly, and I assure you that there is not a shad- ow of resemblance between him and Wehlen. It may be so, then he did not perform the work himself, but enoacred some one else. Little heather-blossom, you will surely vie with my nephew in obstinacy. Erica, without entering into the joke, answered gravely, First hear what I can tell you about the matter, and then judge for yourself. She then related the ad- venture of the double meeting, her second encounter with Wehlen in the churchyard, after which she had seen Wilms wife approach the spot; and finally the long distance from home that little Carlos had been taken the day before, and in which the fishermans wife evidently had some share, while the boat which was to take him away to-day waited at the same point on the shore, and Wehlen, coming from that di- rection, passed by them. A short pause ensued, while Elmar was reflecting upon what he had heard. At last he said, It certainly seems like add- ing link after link to a chain, but still I do not understand what motive could have induced Wehlen to steal the child. Was he in the fathers service? I might sup- pose that the latter had instigated the boys abduction, not through any love for the child, but for the sake of revenging himself upon the mother. Erica made no reply, and Elmar was also silent, absorbed in his own thoughts. After a second pause, he exclaimed. It may be so, Wehlen has the appearance of a clever adventurer, and the prince throws away his money with lavish hands when the point in question is the gratification of his passions. However, and the speak- ers voice sank so low that his companion could scarcely distinguish the words, I beg you not to inform my sister of your suspicions at present. Her conduct can- not be calculated upon, and unfortunately in moments of excitement she is not dis- posed to listen to reason. Wehlen is a clever, or let us say cunning, man; he ~vill be on his guard, and thus we should only do harm instead of good. And one thing more, Erica. Dont go to the fairy castle wit!] us. Carlos has fallen asleep and will not notice if we change places. I should like to protect you from the sight of Katharinas wild excitement, and besides, your mother will be anxious about your long absence. My mother had already retired, but old Christine will be frightened. We have taken a nearer way to the village, and shall pass close by our house. ~f I dont go with you, I must turn down this cross street. Hark, what is that? The village seems to be in an uproar. There is a con- fusion of voices, and now lights are gleam- ing everywhere. They seem to have lighted pine torches. Probably the boys absence has ERICA. 21 been discovered and the whole place alarmed. Little Carlos, as if suspecting the ex- citement he had caused, suddenly awoke and gazed in astonishment at the approach- ing flames, but at the same time baffled all hope of Ericas escape, for she had scarcely attempted to put him out of her arms when he clung to her and began to cry. It was really hardly worth the trouble we took to bring the obstinate boy back, muttered Elmar indignantly, but made no farther effort to prevent Ericas accompa- nying him. They soon approached the torch-bearers, and the shout of the giant Andreas, whose lungs seemed to be in proportion to his body, guided their steps towards the little party. They were surrounded, and as soon as the boy was seen, a loud exultant cheer echoed far and wide, then the torch- bearers ranged themselves around the group and escorted them in triumph through the village, while everywhere new- comers rushed out of the houses to join the procession, which at last advanced very slowly and with considerable diffi- culty. Meantime, people returning from all directions brought in their reports, though somewhat vague ones, since everybody spoke principally of the alarm he had him- self experienced. In spite of the confu- sion of voices, the little party only learned that the princess, on hearing of the childs disappearance, had fainted, and been car- ried home in an almost unconscious con- dition. The lighted windows of the little fairy castle cast their radiance far into the dark- ness, various shadows moved to and fro, and it was evident that numerous sympa- thizing acquaintances had accompanied the princess home. A crowd of people thronged the en- trance hall and surrounded the new-comers with loud expressions of delight. It was scarcely possible to open the door leading into the room, and when Elmar, pushing forward, at last succeeded in doing so, he stood almost face to face with Herr von Wehlen. Both started back, but the latter quickly regained his composure, and said, cordially, How glad I am to see you! Well, since you are here, you doubtless bring good news of the missing child. What- ever the others might say, I always be- lieved that your disappearance was con- nected solely with the pursuit of the robber I dont know what people could or might say concerning my disappearance; any sensible person, however, must cer- tainly be of your opinion. And you bring good news? asked Wehlen, eagerly. The best, the little fugitive himself, replied Elmar, looking his companion steadily in the face. An expression of anger or suspicion flashed over Wehlens features; but the next moment he controlled himself, and said with every token of joy, Thank God for it. Where is the much- lamented Carlos? If he has not been completely crushed by the good people in the hall, his bearer will, I think, at last succeed in entering the room. At this moment the crowd of people at the door drew back, and gave Erica room enough to slip through with the boy. Wehlen had stepped forward, as if he wished to look at the child, and it seemed to the young girl as if his eyes expressed such furious hatred that she trembled and turned pale. Perhaps, however, it was an illusion caused by her own excitement, for the next instant his face was so radiant with joy that Erica began to doubt the evidence of her own senses. A figure now rose from the sofa at the back of the room, which, as she approached nearer, revealed the agitated features of Frijulein Molly. This agitation, together with her disordered hair and dress, made her almost unrecognizable. She gazed at the boy with a stony stare, and when he bent towards her affectionately, shrank back and said coldly, Go! I hate you! Erica was surprised and indignant at this conduct, but she had no time to give it any farther thought, for Elmar requested her to put down the boy, and. taking him by the hand walked rapidly towards one of the doors, motioning to her to follow him. The large apartment which they en- tered was also filled with people, and from the midst of the throng came low sobs, pitiful wails, and sometimes a loud cry of agony, and when at the sight of Elmar the crowd involuntarily made way, they saw the princess lying on a divan. Her clothes were torn, her hair fell in disorder over her shoulders, and her hands were clenched convulsively. Her eyes were closed, or she was uncon- scious, for she made no sign of recogni- tion when Elmar and the child approached, and did not seem to notice the loud excla- mations of surprise and joy that echoed 22 ERICA. around her. Elmar, leading the boy by the hand, stood close beside the couch, but she still made no movement, and he at last exclaimed, Kathinka! dont you see, dont you know us? She sprang. up so suddenly that her dishevelled hair streamed wildly around her, gazed into her brothers face with a look of hatred, and cried in a tone that only too distinctly revealed the same feel- ing, Robber, how dare you appear in my presence? Elmar laid his hand firmly on her shoulder, and bending over her said calm- ly, but with resolute decision, Your excitement borders on insanity, Katharina. I have brought Carlos to you, but by Heaven you shall not touch him until you look less like a maniac.~~ Carlos! Carlos! shrieked Katharina, in a tone so piercing that the cry reached the ears of the throng assembledbefore the house; then starting up she tried to clasp the boy in her arms, but he fled screaming from his mother, whom he no longer recognized in this condition. Elmar instantly stepped between them, and pre- vented Katharinas progress. The rest- less eyes roved around as if seeking aid against her brother, but she felt his steady gaze fixed upon her, and at lasts against her will, was forced to let her own uneasy glance meet his. Then she closed her eyes, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks as she said in a gentle, plaintive tone, Why do you keep me from my child? dont you see how I am sufferino~ 7 Come, Carlos! go to your mother, cried Elmar; and the child, though some- what reluctantly, obeyed the call. The princess clasped him passionately in her arms, but no longer showed the frantic agitation she had previously exhibited. She sat down on the divan, took the boy on her lap, and covered him with tears and kisses. Elmar remained standing before the group, while relating to his sister and the assembled guests the events of the night. Scarcely mentioning his own share in the pursuitof the robber, he made Ericas ser- vices in saving the boy especially promi- nent, and also claimed the princess grati- tude in behalf of the gigantic Andreas and his axe. Katharina rose, and taking the boy in her arms, went towards Andreas, who was very awkward in his embarrassment. Her features now wore a gentle, touching expression, joy over the boys restoration was struggling with the effects of her former anguish. She held out her soft white hand to the laborer and thanked him in a few heartfelt words, while tears dimmed her eyes. Andreas also passed his hand over his eyes, and stammered a reply, which perhaps fortunately for him nobody understood and, therefore elicited a universal murmur of applause. But when search was now made for the princi- pal heroine, Erica, it was all in vain, she had disappeared in the crowd. Katharina seemed so exhausted with grief and joy that she sank back upon her divan, half fainting. Elmar therefore re- quested all presentwhom at the same time he thanked, in his sisters name, for their sympathyto leave the princess alone, as she was greatly in need of repose. The room was soon empty, and Elmar went in search of the maid, who most unaccountably had not been in the apartment. When he entered the adjoin- ing room, he saw Herr von Wehlen just gliding out of the door, while Fraulein Molly sat at a table, covering her face with her hands. Where is the princess maid? asked Elmar, in a sterner tone than he had ever used towards the young lady. How does it happen that my sister is deserted by all her servants just at the moment she most needs their help? Fraulein Molly removed her hands, and stared at the speaker. Do you include me among the servants, Baron von Altenborn? she asked with a scornful curl of the lip. I spoke of the maid, Fraulein Molly, replied Elmar in his former harsh tone. I saw you walking in the garden with Herr von Wehlen this evening, and there- fore know that yo~ cannot venture to ap- pear before my sister, so my remark could have no reference to you. And did I hire myself out as a nurse, Molly passionately exclaimed, that I must watch a sleeping child? Oh, how that woman has treated me, how she in- sulted and abused mebefore those people l And all because, for a moment, I forgot the shameful service imposed upon me, and went to walk in the garden a few minutes instead of sitting by the sleeping child. He was lying quietly on the sofa, carefully covered up what harm could befall him in a friends house? Could I have any suspicion of the accident that has happened ? Perhaps not. But as you promised to stay with the boy CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 23 Promised? interrupted Molly vio- lently. Say, rather, I was ordered to do so.,, Very well. As you had submitted to the command, you ought to have executed the commission. And if you recognized me in the gar- den, exclaimed Molly scornfully, why did you not bestow this lecture upon me then, and fri~hten me back to my duty? I have made amends for my neglect by restoring the boy to his mother, although perhaps I have thereby destroyed the dowry which was to have established the new household. What? shrieked Molly approaching the speaker, her eyes flashing with angry excitement. You dare to believe I aided this plot, I she faltered, and after a pause, during which she covered her eyes with her hand, continued, That is a hard punishment for a slight error. Forgive me, Fr~ulein Molly, said El~ mar, now moved in his turn; I have not spoken truly, you were only the uncon- scious tool of this scoundrel. Mollys eyes dilated to an almost terri- ble size, and she gazed into her compan- ions face with a fixed, stony stare. Weh- len? she murmured in a scarcely audible tone. Is Wehien said to be implicated in this deed? I fear so, and I fear his attentions to you had no other object than to accomplish it. I seriously warn you to beware of him. Molly had sunk into a chaii-, and again covered her face with her hands. Elmar bent over her and said cordially: For- give me, Fraulein, if I have caused you pain, but it could not be spared you. And now help me to look for the princess ser- vants, it is high time for her to go to rest. She rose mechanically and followed him; they passed through the empty rooms, and at last found the people they sought, who were discussing what had happened with such eager interest that they had forgotten their duties. When Elmar knew his sister was safe in her maids care, he retired to his own room, as his wound, which no one had noticed, was beginning to be excessively painful. Molly also went to her chamber, but not to rest; she paced up and down the room, murmur- ing broken sentences. Not until morning dawned did she throw herself upon a sofa, and fall into an uneasy slumber. From The Gorohill Magazine. CHARLOTTE BRONTE. THE well-known phrase as to critics being made of poets who h4ve failed, re- quires to be supplemented. The best critics are often the poets who have succeeded; a truth which has been more than once illustrated by Mr. Swinburne. I shall not ask whether this can be said unreservedly in reference to his recent essay upon Miss Bront~. As usual, he bestows the most enthusiastic and generous praise with a lavish hand, and bestows it upon worthy objects. And, as usual, he seems to be a little too much impressed with the neces- sary connection between illuminating in honor of a hero and breaking the windows or burning the effigies of the heros rivals. I do not wish to examine the justice of his assaults, and still less to limp on halting and prosaic feet after his hounding rheto- ric. I propose only to follow an inquiry suggested by a part of his argument. After all, though criticism cannot boast of being a science, it ought to aim at something like a scientific basis, or at least to pro- ceed in a scientific spirit. The critic, therefore, before abandoning himself to the oratorical impulse, should endeavor to classify the phenomena with which he is dealing as calmly as if he were ticketing a fossil in a museum. The most glowing eulogy, the most bitter denunciation, have their proper place; but they belong to the art of persuasion, and form no part of scientific method. Our literary, if not our religious, creed should rest upon a purely rational ground, and be exposed to logical tests. Our faith in an author must in the first instance be the product of instinctive sympathy, instead of deliberate reason. It may be propagated by the contagion of enthusiasm, and preached with all the fer- vor of proselytism. But when we are seeking to justify our emotions, we must endeavor to get for the time into the posi- tion of an independent spectator, applying with rigid impartiality such methods as are best calculated to free us from the influence of personal bias. Undoubtedly it is a very difficult task to be alternately witness andjudge; to feel strongly, and yet to analyze coolly; to love every feature in a familiar face, and yet to decide calmly upon its intrinsic ugliness or beauty. To be an adequate critic is almost to be a contradiction in terms; to be sus- ceptible to a force, and yet free from its in- fluence; to be moving with the stream, and vet to be standing on the bank. It is espec- ially difficult in the case of writers like Miss 24 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. Bront~, and of critics who were in the most enthusiastic age when her fame was in its early freshness. It is almost impos- sible not to have overpowering prejudices in regard to a character so intense, origi- nal, and full of special idiosyncrasy. If you did not love her, you must hate her; or, since hatred for so noble a sufferer would imply unreasonable brutality, we may say, feel strongly a hopeless uncongenial- ity of temperament. The power of excit- ing such feelings is, in deed, some testi- mony to an authors intrinsic force; and it may explain the assertion of her latest biog- rapher. If it be true, as he says, that she has been comparatively neglected of late years, that is what may easily happen in the case of writers more remarkable for intensity than comprehensive power. Their real audience must always be the comparatively small number who are in sympathy with their pecudiar moods. But their vigor begins by impressing and over- awing a large number of persons who do not feel this spontaneous sympathy. They conquer by sheer force minds whom they do not attract by milder methods. In lit- erature, at any rate, violent conquests are generally transitory; and, after a time, those who have obeyed the rule against their natural inclination fall away, and leave an audience composed of those alone who have been swayed by a deeper attraction. Charlotte Bronti~, and per- haps her sister Emily in an even higher degree,. must have a certain interest for all intelligent observers of character. But only a minority will thoroughly and unre- servedly enjoy the writings which embody so peculiar an essence. Some scenery rich pasturage and abounding rivers and forest-clad hills appeals more or less to everybody. It is only a few who really love the lonely cairn on a wind-swept moor. An accident may make it the fashion to affect admiration for such peculiar aspects of nature; but, like all affectations, it will die away after a time, and the faithful lovers be reduced to a narrow band. The comparative eclipse then if eclipse there be of Charlotte Bront& s fame does not imply want of power, but want of comprehensiveness. There is a certain ~rimd facie presumption against a writer who appeals only to a few, though it may be amply rebutted by showing that the few are also fit. The two problems must go together.; why is the charm so powerful, and why is it so limited? Any intense personality has so far a kind of double-edged influence. Shakespeare sym- pathizes with everybody, and therefore every one with him. Swift scorns and loathes a great part of the world, and there- fore if people in general read Swift, or said honestly what they felt, most readers would confess to a simple feeling of aver- sion to his writings. There is, however, a further distinction. One may dislike such a man as Swift, but one cannot set him aside. His amazing intellectual vigor, the power with which he states some of the great problems of life, and the trenchant decision of his answer, give him a right to be heard. We may shudder, but we are forced to listen. If with equal force of character his intellectual power had been less, we should feel the shock without the mysterious attraction. He would be an unpleasant phenomenon, and one which might be simply neglected. It is because he brings his peculiar views to bear upon problems of universal interest that we cannot afford simply to drop him out of mind. The power of grasping general truths is necessary to give a broad base to a writers fame, though his capacity for tender and deep emotion is that which makes us love or hate him. Mr. Swinburne takes Miss Bront~ to illustrate the distinction between genius~ and intellect. Genius, he says, as the most potent faculty, can most safely dis- pense with its ally. If genius be taken to mean the poetic as distinguished from the scientific type of mind that which sees intuitively, prefers synthesis to analysis, and embodies ideas in concrete symbols instead of proceeding by rule and meas- ure, and constructing diagrams in prefer- ence to drawing pictures the truth is undeniable and important. The reasoner gives us mechanism and constructs auto- mata, where the seer creates living and feeling beings. The contrast used to be illustrated by the cases of Jonson and Shakespeare by the difference between the imaginative vigor of Antony and Cleopatra, and the elaborate construction of Sejanus. We must add, however, that the two qualities of mind are not mutually exclusive. The most analytic mind has some spark of creative power, and the great creators are capable of deliberate dissection. Shakespeare could reflect, and Jonson could see. The ideally perfect mind would be 6ipable of apply- ing each method with equal facility in its proper place. Genius, therefore, manifested in any high degree, must be taken to include intellect, if the words are to be used in this sense. Genius begins where intel- lect ends; or takes by storm where in- CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 25 tellect has to make elaborate approaches according to the rules of scientific strat- egy. One sees where the other dem- onstrates, but the same principles are common to both. To say that a writer shows more genius than intellect may mean simply that, as an artist, he pro- ceeds by the true artistic method, and does not put us off with scientific formuke galvanized into an internal semblance of life. But it may mean that his reflective powers are weak, that he has not assimi- lated the seminal ideas of his time, and is at a loss in the higher regions of philo- sophic thought. If so, you are setting limits to the sphere of his influence, and show that he is incapable of uttering the loftiest aspirations and the deepest emo tions of his fellows. A great religious teacher may prefer a parable to a theory, but the parable is impressive because it gives the most vivid embodiment of a truly philosophical theory. Miss Brontd, as her warmest admirers would grant, was not and did not in the least affect to be a philosophical thinker. Andbecause a great writer to whom she has been gratuitously compared, is strong just where she is weak, her friends have an injudicious desire to make out that the matter is of no importance, and that her comparative poverty of thought is no in- jury to her work. There is no difficulty in following them so far as to admit that her work is none the worse for containing no theological or philosophical disquisi- tions, or for showing no familiarity with the technicalities of modern science and met- aphysics. But the admission by no means follows that her work does not suffer very materially by the comparative narrowness of the circle of ideas in which her mind habitually revolved. Perhaps if she had been familiar with Hegel or Sir W. Ham- ilton, she would have intruded undixested lumps of metaphysics, and introduced vex- atious allusions to the philosophy of iden- tity or to the principle of the excluded middle. But it is possible, also, that her conceptions of life and the world would have been enriched and harmonized, and that, without giving us more scientific dogmas, her characters would have em- bodied more fully the dominating ideas of the time. There is no province of in- quiry historical, scientific, or philosoph- ical from which the artist may not derive useful material; the sole question is whether it has been properly assimil- ated and transformed by the action of the poetic imagination. By attempting to define how far Miss Bront& s powers were in fact thus bounded, we shall approxi- mately decide her place in the great hie- rarchy of imaginative thinkers. That it was a very high one, I take to be undeni- able. Putting aside living writers, the only female novelist whom one can put distinctly above her is George Sand; for Miss Austen, whom some fanatics place upon a still higher level, differs so widely in every way that comparison is ab- surd. It is almost silly to draw a parallel between writers when every great quality in one is conspicuous by its absence in the other. The most obvious of all remarks about Miss Bronti~ is the close connection be- tween her life and her writings. Nobody ever put so much of themselves into their work. She is the heroine of her two most powerful novels; for Lucy Snowe is avowedly her own likeness, and Lucy Snowe differs only by accidents from Jane Eyre; whilst her sister is the heroine of the third. All the minor characters, with scarcely an exception, are simply portraits, and the more successful in proportion to their fidelity. The scenery and even the incidents are, for the most part, equally direct transcripts from reality. And~ as this is almost too palpable a peculiarity to be expressly mentioned, it seems to be an identical proposition that the study of her life is the study of her novels. More or less true of all imaginable writers, this must be pre-eminently true of Miss Bront~. Her experience, we would say, has been scarcely transformed in passing through her mind. She has written down not only her feelings, but the more super- ficial accidents of her life. She has sim- ply given fictitious names and dates, with a more or less imaginary thread of narra- tive, to her own experience at school, as a governess, at home, and in Brussels. Shirley contains a continuous series of photographs of Haworth and its neighbor- hood, as Villette does of Brussels; and if Jane Eyre is not so literal, except in the opening account of the school-life, much of it is almost as strictly autobio- graphical. It is one of the oddest cases of an authors self-delusion that Miss Bront~ should have imagined that she could remain anonymous after the publication of Shirley, and the introduction of such whole-length portraits from the life as the Yorke family. She does not appear to have been herself conscious of the close- ness of her adherence to facts. You are not to suppose, she says in a letter given by Mrs. Gaskell, any of the characters in Shirley intended as real portraits. 26 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. It would not suit the rules of art, nor of my own feelings, to write in that style. We only suffer reality to suggest, ne verto dictate. She seems to be thinkin~ chiefly of her heroes and heroines, and would perhaps have admitted that the minor per- sonages were less idealized. But we must suppose also that she failed to appreciate fully the singularity of characters which, in her seclusion, she had taken for average specimens of the world at large. If I take my village for the world,.l cannot distin- guish the particular from the universal; and must assume that the most distinctive peculiarities are unnoticeably common- place. The amazing vividness of her por- trait-painting is the quality which more than any other makes her work unique amongst modern fiction. Her realism is something peculiar to herself; and only the crudest of critics could depreciate its merits on the ground of its fidelity to facts. The hardest of all feats is to see what is before our eyes. What is called the cre- ative power of genius is much more the power of insight into commonplace things and characters. The realism of the De Foe variety produces an illusion, by de- scribing the most obvious aspects of every- day life, and introducing the irrelevant and accidental. A finer kind of realism is that which, like Miss Austens, combines ex- quisite powers of minute perception with a skill which can light up the most delicate miniatures with a delicate play of humor. A more impressive kind is that of Balzac, where the most detailed reproduction of realities is used to give additional force to the social tragedies which are being enact- ed at our doors. The specific peculiarity of Miss Bronti~ seems to be the power df revealing to us the potentiality of intense passions lurking behind the scenery of everyday life. Except in the most melo- dramatic which is also the weakest part of Jane Eyre, we have lives almost as uneventful as those of Miss Austen, and yet charged to the utmost with latent power. A parson at the head of a school- feast somehow shows himself as a Crom- well, guiltless of his countrys blood; a professor lecturing a governess on compo- sition is revealed as a potential Napoleon; a mischievous schoolboy is obviously ca- pable of developing into a Columbus or a Nelson; even the most commonplace natural objects, such as a row of beds in a dormitory, are associated and naturally as- sociated with the most intense emotions. Miss Austen makes you feel that a tea- party in a country parsonage may be as amusing as the most brilliant meeting of cosmopolitan celebrities; and Miss Bront~ that it may display characters capable of shaking empires and discovering new worlds. The whole machinery is in a state of the highest electric tension, though there is no display of thunder and lightning to amaze us. The power of producing this effect with- out stepping one hands-breadth beyond the most literal and unmistakable fidelity to ordinary facts is explicable, one would say, so far as genius is explicable at all, only in one way. A mind of extraordinary activity within a narrow sphere has been brooding constantly upon a small stock of materials, and a sensitive nature has been enforced to an unusual pressure from the hard facts of life. The surroundings must surely have been exceptional, and the re- ceptive faculties impressible even to mor- bidness, to produce so startling a result, and the key seemed to be given by Mrs. Gaskells touching biography, which, with certain minor faults, is still one of the most pathetic records of a heroic life in our literature. Charlotte Bront~ and her sister, according to this account, resem- bled the sensitive plant exposed to the cut- ting breezes of the West Riding moors. Their writings were the cry of pain and of only half-triumphant faith, produced by a lifelong martyrdom, tempered by mutual sympathy, but embittered by family sor- rows and the trials of a dependent life. It is one more exemplification of the com- mon theory, that great art is produced by taking an exceptionally delicate nature and mangling it slowly under the grinding wheels of the world. A recent biographer has given us to understand that this is in gre at part a misconception, and, whilst paying high compliments to Mrs. Gaskell, he virtually accuses her of unintentionally substitutin~ a fiction for a biography. Mr. Wemyss Reids intention is excellent; and one can well believe that Mrs. Gaskell did in fact err by carrying into the earlier period the gloom of later years. Most certainly one would gladly believe this to be the case. Only when Mr. Reid seems to think that Charlotte Bront~ was thoroughly a gay and high-spirited girl, and that the people of Haworth were commonplace, we begin to fear that we are in the presence of one of those well-meant attempts at whitewashing which do justice to a marked character by obliterating all its most prominent feat- ures. If Boswell had written in such a spirit, Johnson would have been a Ches- terfield, and Goldsmith never have blun- dered in his talk. When we look at them CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 27 fairly, Mr. Reids proofs seem to be curi- ously inadequate for his conclusions, though calculated to correct some very important misconceptions. He quotes, for example, a couple of letters, in one of which Miss Bront~ ends a little outburst of Tory politics by saying, Now, Ellen, laugh heartily at all that rhodomontade 1 This sentence, omittted by Mrs. Gaskell, is taken to prove that Charlottes interest in politics was not unmingled with the happy levity of youth. Surely it is just a phrase from the schoolgirls Complete Letter-XVriter. It would be as sensible to quote from an orator the phrase, but I fear that I am wearying the House, to prove that he was conscious of being an intolerable bore. The next letter is said to illustrate the infinite variety of moods of her true character, and its rapid transitions from grave to gay, be- cause, whilst expressing very strongly some morbid feelings, she admits that they would be contemptible to common sense, and says that she had been in one of her sentimental humors. Did anybody ever express a morbid feeling without some such. qualification? And is not infinite, even in the least mathematical sense, rather a strong expression for two? A sentimental mood and a reaction are men- tioned in one letter. That scarcely proves much gaiety of heart or variety of mood. If, indeed, Charlotte had always been at her worst, she would have been mad: and we need not doubt that she too had some taste of the gladness as of the sorrows of childhood. The plain truth is, that Miss Bront& s letters, read without reference to the disputes of rival biographers, are disap- pointing. The most striking thing about them is that they are young-ladyish. Here and there a passage revealing the writers literary power shines through the more commonplace matter, but, as a whole, they give a curious impression of immaturity. The explanation seems to be, in the first place, that Miss Bront~, with all her gen- ius, was still a young lady. Her mind, with its exceptional powers in certain directions, never broke the fetters by which the parsons daughter of the last generation was restricted. Trifling indi- cations of this are common in her novels. The idealized portrait of Emily, the daring and unconventional Shirley, shows her utmost courage by hinting a slight reluc- tance to repeat certain clauses in the Athanasian Creed; and the energy with which the unlucky curates are satirized shows the state of mind to which even a young clergyman is still invested with more or less superhuman attributes. The warmth is generated by the previous as- sumption that a young gentleman who dons a white neckcloth must, in the normal state of things, put off the schoolboy and develop a hidden pair of wings. The wrath excited by their failure to fulfil this expectation strikes one as oddly dispro~ portionate. And, in the next place, it seems that, even in writing to her best friends, Miss Bront~ habitually dreaded any vivid expression of feeling, and per- haps observed that her sentiments when spread upon letter-paper had a morbid appearance. There are many people who can confide in the public more freely than in the most intimate friends. The mask of anonymous authorship and fictitious personages has a delusive appearance of security. The most sacred emotions are for ourselves or for the invisible public rather than for the intermediate sphere of concrete spectators. The letters may dis- sipate some of Mrs. Gaskells romantic gloom, but they do not persuade us that the Bront~s were ever like their neighbors. The doctrine that the people of Haworth were really commonplace mortals, may be accepted with a similar reserve. IJn- doubtedly every Scotch peasant is not a Davie Deans, nor every Irishman a Cap- tain Costigan. There are natives of the mining districts who do not throw half- bricks at every stranger they see; there are Yankees who do not chew tobacco, and Englishmen who do not eat raw beef- steaks. And so one may well believe that many inhabitants of Haworth would have passed muster at Charing Cross; and one may hope and believe that a man like Heathcliff was an exaggeration even of the most extravagant of the squires in Craven. If there were many such people in any corner of this world, it would be greatly in want of a thorough clearing out. And, therefore, one may understand why the good people of Haworth should be amazed when Mrs. Gaskell set forth as common types the gentleman who fired small shot from his parlor window at any one who came within convenient range, and the man who chuckled over his luck at dying just after insuring his life. But, for all this, it is permissible also to suppose that there was a strongly marked provincial character in that region, even if Miss Bronti~s lifelike portraits were not their own sufficient evidence. All people seem to be commonplace to the common- place observer. Genius reveals the differ- ence; it does not invent it. In one sense, doubtless, the people were commonplace 28 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. enough, and in that fact lay part of their ings which are rather more of a jibe than offensiveness. Many of the upper classes, a compliment. When one remembers that one may guess, were hard, crabbed men the originals of the Yorkes were amongst of business, ~vith even less than the aver- her most cherished and cultivated friends, age of English toleration for sentiment or and that they are admittedly painted to the ~sthetic fancies; and their inferiors were life, one may fancy that she had received sturdy workmen, capable of taking a pride a good many of those left-handed compli- in their own brutality, which would have ments which seem to have done duty for shocked gentler races. But the precise pleasant jests in the district. degree in which these characteristics were The soliloquies in which her heroines manifested must be left to the decision indulge proceed upon the same plan. of local observers. We cannot affect to Jane Evre sits in judgment upon herself know accurately in what proportion the and listens to the evidence of Memory charge of originality is to be shared be- and Reason, accusing her of rejecting the tween the Bront~s and their neighbors; real and rabidly devouring the ideal. how far the surroundings were unusually And she decides in accordance with her harsh and the surrounded abnormally ten- witnesses. Listen, Jane Eyre, to your der. In any case, one may assume that sentence; to-i~orrow place the glass be. Miss Bront~ and her sisters were at once fore you and draw in chalk your own pic- even morbidly sensitive and exposed to ture, faithfully, without softening one the contact of persons emphatically intol- defect; omit no harsh lihe; smooth away erantof morbid sentiment. Their ordinary no displeasing irregularity: write under it, relation to the outside world seems to Portrait of a governess, disconnected, be indicated by one peculiarity of Miss poor, and plain! Bront& s writing. When young Mark Similar passages occur in Shirley Yorke sees that Moore has been flattered and Villette, and obviously represent a by hearing a lady describe him as not familiar mood. The original of this por- sentimental, that offensive lad gets down trait was frequently engaged, it would a dictionary and endeavors to dash Moores seem, in forcing herself to hear such pleasure by proving that not sentimental unpalatable truths. When other people must mean destitute of ideas. The trait snubbed her, after the fashion of the is very probably from life, and is at any Yorkes, she might be vexed by their rate lifelike. There are many amiable harshness, but her own thoughts echoed people who take a keen pleasure in dash- their opinion. Lucy Snowe is rather grat- ing cold water upon any little manifestation ified than otherwise when Miss Fanshawe of self-complacency in their neighbors. treats her to one of those pleasing fits of To find out a mans tenderest corn, and frank thinking aloud. She pardons the then to bring your heel down upon it with want of feeling for the sake of the hon. a good rasping scrunch, is somehow grati- esty. fying to corrupt human nature. A kindly Sensitive natures brought into contact wit contrives to convey a compliment in with those of coarser grain may relieve affected satire. But the whole aim of a themselves in various ways. Some might humorist of this variety is to convey the have been driven into revolt against the most mortifying truths in the most brutal proprieties which found so harsh an expres. plain-speaking. Now speeches modelled sion. Poor Branwell Bront~ took the upon this plan are curiously frequent in unluckily commonplace path of escape Miss Bront& s conversations. Hunsden, from a too frigid code of external morality the first sketch of the Yorke family in which leads to the public-house. His The Professor, composes his whole talk sisters followed the more characteristically of a string of brutal home-truths. The feminine method. They learnt to be worse characters, like Miss Fanshawe in proud of the fetters by which they were Villette, thoroughly enjoy telling a bound. Instead of fretting against the friendless governess that she is poor, stern law of repression, they identified plain, and sickly. And even her favorites, it with the eternal code of duty, and Rochester and Shirley and Paul Emanuel, rejoiced in trampling on their own weak. have just a leaning to the same trick of ness. The current thus restrained ran all speech, though with them it is an occa- the more powerfully in its narrow channel. sional bitter to heighten the flavor of their What might have been bright and genial substantial kindness. Miss Bront~ has sentiment was transformed and chas- as little sense of humor as Milton or tened into a kind of austere enthusiasm. Wordsworth; but her nearest approach to They became recluses in spirit, sternly it is in some of those shrewd, bitter say- enforcing a self-imposed rule, though, in CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 29 their case, the convent walls were invisi- ble and the objects of their devotion not those ~vhich dominate the ascetic imagina- tion. Theorists who trace the inheritance of rare characteristics might be interested in the curious development thus effected. The father of the family was an Irishman, and the mother a Cornish woman; the aunt. who succeeded her in the manage- ment of the household, had a persistent dislike for the character of her northern neighbors; even Charlotte herself, we are told, spake in her childhood with a strong Irish accent. And yet, as we find her say- ing in reference to the troubles of 1848, she has no sympathy with French or Irish. She had been spiritually annexed by the people with whom she lived. She was obtru- sively and emphatically a Yorkshire wom- an, though only by adoption; she is never tired of proclaiming or implying her hearty preference of rough Yorkshire people to cockneys, sentimentalists, and that large part of the human race which we describe contemptuously as foreigners. She is a typical example of the patriot- ism of the steeple. She loved with her whole heart the narrowest insular type. She idolized the Duke of Wellington, with his grand contempt for humbug and ideas, terms synonymous perhaps rightly synonymous with many people. When she came in contact with finn foreigners and Papists, it only increased her hearty contempt for forms of character and relig- ion, which one might have fancied ~ priori would have had many attractions for her. If at times she felt the ~sthetic charm of parts of the Catholic system, she was but the more convinced that it was a poison, dangerous in proportion to its sweetness. The habit of trampling on some of her own impulses had become a religion for her. She had learnt to make a shield of reserve and self-repression, and could not be tempted to lay it aside when gentle persuasion took the place of rougher intimidation. Much is said by her biographers of the heroic force of will of her sister Emily, who presents the same type in an intensified form. Undoubtedly both sisters had powerful wills; but their natures had not less been moulded, and their characters, so to speak, turned inward by the early influence of surrounding cir- cumstances. The force was not of that kind which resists the pressure from with- out, but of the kind ~vhich accepts and intensifies it, and makes a rigid inward law for itself of the law embodied in exter- nal conditions. The sisters, indeed, differed widely, though with a strong resemblance. The iron had not entered so deeply into Char- lottes nature. Emilys naturally subjec- tive mode of thought to use the unpleas- ant technical phrase found its most appropriate utterance in lyrical poetry. She represents, that is, the mood of pure passion, and is rather encumbered than otherwise by the necessity of using the more indirect method of concrete symbols. She feels, rather than observes; whereas Charlotte feels in observing. Charlotte had not that strange self-concentration which made the external world unreal to her sister.. Her powers of observation, though restricted by circumstances and narrowed by limitations of her intellect, showed amazing penetration within her proper province. The greatest of all her triumphs in this direction is the character of Paul Emanuel, which has tasked Mr. Swinburnes powers of expressing admira- tion, and which one feels to be, in its way, inimitable. A more charming hero was never drawn, or one whose reality is more vivid and unmistakable. We know him as we know a familiar friend, or rather as we should know a friend whose character had been explained for us by a common acquaintance of unusual acuteness and opportunity of observation. Perhaps we might venture to add, that it is hardly ex- plicable, except as a portrait drawn by a skilful hand guided by love, and by love intensified by the consciousness of some impassable barrier. Mr. Swinburne compares this master- piece of Miss Bront& s art with the famous heroes of fiction, Don Quixote, Uncle Toby, and Colonel Newcome. Don Quixote admittedly stands apart as one of the greatest creations of poetic imagina- tion. Of Colonel Newcome I will not speak; but the comparison with Uncle Toby is enough to suggest what is the great secret both of Miss Bront~s success and its limitations. In one sense Paul Emanuel is superior even to such charac- ters as these. He is more real: he is so real that we feel at once that he must have been drawn from a living modei, though we may leave some indefinable margin of idealization. If the merit of fiction were simply its approach to producing illusion, we might infer that Paul Emanuel was one of the first characters in the world of fic- tion. But such a test implies an erroneous theory of art; and, in fact, the intense in- dividuality of Paul Emanuel is, in a differ- ent sense, the most serious objection to him. He is a real human being who gave 30 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. lectures at a particular date in a tension at Brussels. We are as much convinced of that fact as we are of the reality of Miss Bronti~ herself; but the fact is also a pre- sumption that he is not one of those great typical characters, the creation of which is the highest triumph of the dramatist or novelist. There is too much of the tem- porary and accidental too little of the permanent and essential. We all know and love Uncle Toby, but we feel quite sure that no such man ever existed except in Sternes brain. There may have been some real being who vaguely suggested him; but he is, we as- sume, the creation of Sterne, and the pro- jection into concrete form of certain ideas which had affected Sternes imagination. He is not, indeed, nor is any fictitious character, a creation out of nothing. Partly, no doubt, he is Sterne himself, or Sterne in a particular mood; but Uncle Tobys soul, that which makes him live and excite our sympathy and love, is some- thing which might be expressed by the philosopher as a theory, and which has been expressed in an outward symbol by an artist of extraordinary skill. Don Quixote is of perennial interest, because he is the most powerful type ever set forth of the contrast between the ideal and the commonplace, and his figure comes before us whenever we are forced to meditate upon some of the most vital and most mel- ancholy truths about human life. Uncle Toby, in a far less degree, is a great crea- tion, because he is the embodiment of one answer to a profound and enduring prob- lem. He represents, it has been said, the wisdom of love, as Mr. Shandy exempli- fies the love of wisdom. More precisely he is an incarnation of the sentimentalism of the eighteenth century. It is a phe- nomenon which has its bad and its good side, and which may be analyzed and ex- plained by historians of the time. Sterne, in describing Uncle Toby, gave a concrete symbol for one of the most important cur- rents of thought of the time, which took religious, moral, and political, as well as artistic, shapes. In many ways the senti- ment has lost much of its interest for us; but, though an utterance of an imperfect doctrine, we may infer that Uncle Tobys soul will transmigrate into new shapes, and perhaps develop into higher forms. When we measure M. Paul Emanuel by this test, we feel instinctively that there is something wanting. The most obvious contrast is that M. Emanuel is no humor- ist himself, nor even a product of humor. The imperfections, the lovable absurdities, of Uncle Toby are imbedded in the struc- ture of character. His whims and oddi- ties always leave us in the appropriate mood of blended smiles and tears. Many people, especially earnest young ladies, will prefer M. Paul Emanuel, who, like his creator, is always in deadly earnest. At bottom he is always (like all ladies heroes) a true woman, simple, pure, heroic, and lovinga real Joan of Arc, as Mr. Thackeray said of his creator, in the beard and blouse of a French professor. He attaches extravagant importance to trifles, indeed, for his. irascible and impetuous temperament is always converting him into an iEolus of the duck-pond. So far there is, we may admit, a kind of pseudo- humorous element in his composition; but the humor, such as it is, lies entirely on the surface. He is perfectly san( and sensible, though a trifle choleric. Give him a larger sphere of action, and his im- petuositv will be imposing instead of ab- surd. It is the mere accident of situation which gives, even for a moment, a ludi- crous tinge to his proceedings. Uncle Toby, on the contrary, would be even more of a humorist as a general on the battle-field than in his mimic sieges on the bowling-green. The humor is in his very marrow, not in his surroundings; and the reason is that Sterne feels what every genuine humorist feels, and what, indeed, it is his main function to express a strong sense of the irony of fate, of the queer mixture of good and bad, of the heroic and the ludicrous, of this world of ours, and of what we may call the perver- sity of things in general. Whether such a treatment is altogether right and healthy is another question; and most certainly Sternes view of life is in many respects not only unworthy, but positively base. But it remains true that the deep humor- ist is finding a voice for one of the most pervading and profound of the sentiments raised in a philosophical observer who is struck by the discords of the universe. Sensitiveness to such discords is one of the marks of a truly reflective intellect, though a humorist suggests one mode of escape from the pain which they cause, whilst a philosophic and religious mind may find another and perhaps a more pro- found solution. Now M. Paul Emanuel, admirable and amiable as he is, never carries us into the higher regions of thought. We are told, even ostentatiously, of the narrow preju- dices which he shares, though they do not make him harsh and uncharitable. The prejudices were obvious in this case to the CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 3 creator, because her own happened to be of a different kind. The Tory arid cler- gymans daughter was rather puzzled by finding that a bigoted Papist with a Jesuit education might still be a good man, and points out conscientiously the defects which she ascribes to his early training. But the mere fact of the narrowness, the want of familiarity with a wider sphere of thought, the acceptance of a narrow code of belief and morality, does not strike her as in itself having either a comic or a melancholy side. M. Paul has the wrong set of prejudices, but is not as wrong as prejudiced; and therefore we feel that a Sterne, or, say, a George Sand, whilst doing equal justice to M. Emanuels ex- cellent qualities, would have had a feeling (which in her was altogether wanting) of his limitation and his incongruity with the great system of the world. Seen from an intellectual point of view, placed in his due relation to the great currents of thought and feeling of the time, we should have been made to feel the pathetic and humor- ous aspects of M. Emanuels character, and he might have been equally a living individual and yet a type of some more oeneral idea. The philosopher might ask, ~or example, what is the exact value of unselfish heroism guided by narrow theo- ries or employed on unworthy tasks; and the philosophic humorist or artist might embody the answer in a portrait of M. Emanuel considered from a cosmic or a cosmopolitan point of view. From the lower standpoint accessible to Miss Bront~ he is still most attractive; but we see only his relations to the little, scholastic Urcle, and have no such perception as the great- est writers would give us of his relations to the universe, or, as the next order would give, of his relations to the great world without. Although the secret Qf Miss Bront& s power lies, to a great extent, in the singu- lar force with which she can reproduce acute observations of character from with- out, her most esoteric teaching, the most accurate reflex from her familiar idiosyn- crasy, is of course to be found in the char- acters painted from within. XVe may infer her personality more or less accurately from the mode in which she contemplates her neighbors, but it is directly mani- fested in various avatars of her own spirit. Among the characters who are more or less mouthpieces of her peculiar senti- ment we may reckon not only Lucy Snowe and Jane Eyre, but, to some extent, Shir- ley, and, even more decidedly, Rochester. When they speak we are really listening to her own voice, though it is more or less disguised in conformity to dramatic neces- sity. There are great differences between them; but they are such differences as would exist between members of the same family, or might be explained by change of health or internal circumstances. Jane Eyre has not had such bitter experience as Lucy Snowe; Shirley is generally Jane Eyre in high spirits, and freed from harassing anx- iety; and Rochester is really a spirited sister of Shirleys, though he does his very best to be a man, and even an un- usually masculine specimen of his sex. Mr. Rochester, indeed, has imposed upon a good many people; and he is probably responsible in part for some of the muscular heroes ~vho have appeared since his time in the world of fiction. I must, however, admit that, in spite of some opposing authority, he does not appear to me to be a real character at all, except as a reflection of a certain side of his creator. He is in reality the personification of a true woman s longing (may one say it now?) for a strong master. But the knoxvledge is wanting. He is a very bold but necessarily unsuccessful attempt at an impossibility. The parsons daughter did not really know anything about the class of which he is supposed to be a type, and he remains vague and inconsistent in spite of all his vigor. He is intended to be a person who has surfeited from the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and addresses the inexperi- enced governess from the heightor depth of his worldly wisdom. And he really knows just as little f the world as she does. He has to impose upon her by giving an account of his adventures taken from the first novel at hand of the early Bulwer school, or a diluted recollection of Byron. There is not a trace of real cyn- icism of the strong nature turned sour by experience in his whole conversa- tion. He is supposed to be specially simple and masculine, and yet he is as self-conscious as a young lady on her first, appearance in society, and can do nothing but discourse about his feelin bs, and his looks, and his phrenological symptoms, to his admiring hearer. Set him beside any mans character of a man, and one feels at once that he has no real solidity or vitality in him. He has, of course, strong nerves and muscles, but they are articles which can be supplied in unlimited quantities with little expense to the imagination. Nor can one deny that his conduct to Miss Eyre is abominable. If he had proposed to her to ignore the existence of the mad Mrs. Rochester, he would have acted like a 32 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. rake, but not like a sneak. But the at- tempt to entrap Jane into a bigamous con- nection by concealing the wifes existence, is a piece of treachery for which it is hard to forgive him. When he challenges the lawyer and the clergyman to condemn him after putting themselves in his place, their answer is surely obvious. One may take a lenient view of a man who chooses by his own will to annul his marriage with a filthy lunatic; but he was a knave for try- ing to entrap a defenseless girl by a mock ceremony. He puts himself in a position in which the contemptible Mr. Mason has a moral advantage. This is by far the ~vorst blot in Miss Bront& s work, and may partly explain, though it cannot justify, the harsh criti- cisms made at the time. It is easy now to win a cheap reputation for generosity by trampling upon the dead bodies of the luckless critics who blundered so hope- lessly. The time for anger is past; and mere oblivion is the fittest doom for such offenders. Inexperience, and consequently inadequate appreciation of the demands of the situation, was Miss Bront& s chief fault in this matter, and most certainly not any want of true purity and moral eleva- tion. But the fact that she, in whom an instinctive nobility of spirit is, perhaps, the most marked characteristic, should have given scandal to the respectable, is sug- gestive of another inference. XVhat, in act is the true significance of this singu- lar strain of thought and feeling, which puts on various and yet closely allied forms in the three remarkable novels we have been considering? It displays itself at one moment in some vivid description, or for description seems too faint a wordsome forcible presentation to our minds eye of a fragment of moorland scenery; at another it appears as an ardently sympathetic portrayal of some trait of character at once vigorous and tender; then it utters itself in a passionate soliloquy, ~vhich establishes the fact that its author possessed the proverbial claim to knowledge of the heavenly powers; or again, it produces one of those singular little prose-poems such as Shirleys description of Eve which, with all their force, have just enough flavor of the devoirs at M. Hegers establishment to su~,gest that they are the work of an inspired schoolgirl. To gather up into a single formula the meaning of such a char- acter as Lucy Snowe, or in other words of Charlotte Bront~, is, of course, impossible. But at least such utterances always give us the impression of a fiery soul impris oned in too narrow and too frail a tene- ment. The fire is pure and intense. It is kindled in a nature intensely emotional, and yet aided by a heroic sense of duty. The imprisonment is not merely that of a feeble body in uncongenial regions, but that of a narrow circle of thought, and consequently of a mind which has never worked itself clear by reflection, or devel- oped a harm6nious aimd consistent view of life. There is a certain feverish disquiet which is marked by the peculiar man- ner of the style. At its best, we have. admirable flashes of vivid expression, where the material of language is the in- carnation of keen intuitive thought. At its worst, it is strangely contorted, crowded by rather awkward personifications, and degenerates towards a rather unpleasant Ossianesque. More severity of taste would increase the power by restraining the abuse. We feel an aspiration after more than can be accomplished, an unsatisfied yearning for potent excitement, which is sometimes more fretiul than forcible. The symptoms are significant of the pervading flaw in otherwise most effective workmanship. They imply what, in a scientific sense, would be an inconsistent theory, and, in an ~sthetic sense, an inhar- monious representation of life. One great aim of the writing, explained in the pref- ace to the second edition of Jane Eyre, is a protest against conventionality. But the protest is combined with a most un- flinching adherence to the proper conven- tions of society; and we are left in great doubt as to where the line ought to be drawn. Where does the unlawful pres- sure of society upon the individual begin, and what are the demands which it may rightfully make upon our respect? At one moment in Jane Eyre we seem to be drifting towards the solution that strong passion is the one really good thing in the world, and that all human conventions which oppose it should be disregarded. This was the tendency which shocked the respectable reviewers of the. time. Of course they should have seen that the strongest sympathy of the author goes with the heroic self-conquest of the hero- ine under temptation. She triumphs at the cost of a determined self-sacrifice, and undoubtedly we are meant to sympa- thize with the martyr. Yet it is also true that we are left with the sense of an un- solved discord. Sheer stoical regard for duty is represented as something repul- sive, however imposing, in the figure of St. John Rivers, and virtue is rewarded by the arbitrary removal of the obstacles CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 33 which made it unpleasant. What would a silver pin. Mortify your affections, Jane Eyre have done, and what would our scourge yourself with rods, and sit in sack- sympathies have been, had she found that cloth and ashes; stamp vigorously upon Mrs. Rochester had not been burnt in the the cruel thorns that strew your pathway, fire at Thornfield? That is rather an and learn not to shrink when they lacerate awkward question. Duty is supreme, the most tender flesh. Be an ascetic, in seems to be the moral of the story; but brief, and yet without the true aim of the duty sometimes involves a strain almost ascetic. For, unlike him, you must admit too hard for mortal faculties. that these affections are precisely the best If in the conflict between duty and pas- part of you, and that the offers of the sion the good so often borders upon the Church, which proposes to wean you from impracticable, the greatest blessing in the world, and reward you by a loftier the world should be a will powerful prize, are a delusion and a snare. They enough to be an inflexible law for itself are the lessons of a designing priesthood, under all pressure of circumstances. Even and imply a blasphemy against the most a will directed to evil purposes has a kind divine instincts of human nature. of royal prerogative, and we may rightly This is the unhappy discord which runs do it homage. That seems to be the sem- through Miss Bront& s conceptions of life, inal thought in Wuthering Heights, and, whilst it gives an indescribable pathos that strange book to which we can hardly to many pages, leaves us with a sense of find a parallel in our literature, unless in something morbid and unsatisfactory. such works as The Revengers Trao~edy She seems to be turning for relief alter- and some other crude but startling pro- nately to different teachers, to the prompt- ductions of the Elizabethan dramatists. ings of her own heart, to the precepts of But Emily Bront& s feeble grasp of exter- those whom she has been taught to revere, nal facts makes her book a kind of base- and occasionally, though timidly and ten- less nightmare, which we read with won- tatively, to alien schools of thought. The der and with distressing curiosity, but attitude of mind is, indeed, best indicated with far more pain than pleasure or profit. by the story (a true story, like most of her Charlottes mode of conceiving the prob- incidents) of her visit to the confessional lem is given most fully in Villette, the in Brussels. Had she been a Catholic, or book of which one can hardly say, with a a positivist, or a rebel against all the recent critic, that it represents her ripest creeds, she might have reached some con- wisdom, but which seems to give her best sistency of doctrine, and therefore some solution of the great problem of life. Wis- harmony of design. As it is, she seems dom, in fact, is not the word to apply to a to be under a desire which makes her rest- state of mind which seems to be radically less and unhappy, because her best im- inconsistent and tentative. The sponta- pulses are continually warring against each neous and intense affection of kindred and other. She is between the opposite poles noble natures is the one really precious of duty and happiness, and cannot see how thing in life, it seems to say, and, so far, the to reconcile their claims, or even for thought is true or a partial aspect of the perhaps no one can solve that, or any other truth, and the high feeling undeniable. great problem exhaustively how dis- But then, the author seems to add, such tinctly to state the question at issue. She happiness is all but chimerical. It falls to pursues one path energetically, till she the lot only of a few exceptional people, feels herself to be in danger, and then upon whom fortune or providence has shrinks with a kind of instinctive dread, delighted to shower its gifts. To all others ahd resolves not only that life is a mystery, life is either a wretched grovelling busi- but that happiness must be sought by ness, an affair of making money and grat- courting misery. Undoubtedly such a po- ifying sensuality, or else it is a prolonged sition speaks of a mind diseased, and a martyrdom. Yield to your feelings, and more powerful intellect would even under the chances are enormously great that you her conditions have ~vorked out some more are trampled upon by the selfish, or that comprehensible and harmonious solution. you come into collision with some of those For us, however, it is allowable to inter- conventions which must be venerated, for pret her complaints in our o~vn fashion, they are the only barriers against moral whatever it may be. We may give our degradation, and which yet somehow seem own answer to the dark problem, or at to make in favor of the cruel and the self- least indicate the path by which an answer seeking. The only safe plan is that of must be reached. For a poor soul so briev- the lady in the ballad, to lock your ously beset within and without by troubles heart in a case of gold, and pin it with in which we all have a share, we can but LIVING AGE. VOL. xx. 1043 DORIS BARUGH. 34 feel the strongest sympathy. We cannot sit at her feet as a great teacher, nor ad- mit that her view of life is satisfactory or even intelligible. But we feel for her as for a fellow-sufferer who has at least felt with extraordinary keenness the sorrows and disappointments which torture most cruelly the most noble virtues, and has clung throughout her troubles to beliefs which must in some form or other b~ the guiding lights of all worthy actions. She is not in the highest rank amongst those who have fought their way to a clearer atmosphere, and can help us to clearer con- ceptions; but she is amongst the first of those who have felt the necessity of conso- lation, and therefore stimulated to more successful efforts. From Good Words. DORIS BARUGH. A YORK5HIRE STORY. BY THE AUTHOR OF CHAPTER XLI. PLOTTING. DORIS despatched her letter, and then she sat in troubled thought. It had been a severe wrench to yield her hopes about George, but she felt that they were groundless; and as she must give them up, she did it at once, without looking back or spending more time in regret. This was not the cause of her trouble. She was thinking of her child, and how baneful Faiths influence would be as lit- tle Phils rapid development progressed. Would it not be safest and wisest at once to send the housekeeper away? and yet Doris shrank from proposing this to her husband. She believed that he would agree to her wish, but still she shrank from making the request. Mr. Burnes- ton had told her more than once that she disliked Faith because the housekeeper petted Ralph. If he would only go away and never come back again! burst from her im- petuously. He blights my life; he makes me unhappy, for he makes me wicked; he makes me feel hard to myself. Till he came home I was as happy as I could wish, except she paused, as a vision of her mother, and a shrinking from her mothers hints that she would like to see Burneston Hall, rose in her mind ex cept for one or two things, and now I always feel wrong and vexed. I am hurt if Philip even speaks about Ralph, and no wonder. I have never told of his conduct to Rose; if his father knew all, he would not be so lenient to him. I only dislike him because he is bad and contemptible. No, I am not hard on him. She had begun to walk up and down as she argued with herself, and she stopped short now as if she were answering a suggestion. If he were good good as my Phil will be, I think I should like him; if he were good he would like me and and She resumed her rapid walk. It is use- less to struggle, she said. Ive strug- gled till I am tired. I hate Ralph! He always makes me feel that I am low-born. I lose my self-possession. I seem not to believe in myself when he is present. I never disliked any one before, unless it was Rose Duncombe. I am determined he shall not make Rica fond of him. She is very impulsive still, and he might set her against me. I cannot give up Ricas friendship; it is more necessary to me than I thought it was. I can tell her things which I could not talk of to Philip; besides, I want to tell her of my doubts about Ralph. She went to the window and looked out. Ralph and Rica were walking up and down the terrace. She was talking eager- ly, and his eyes were fixed admiringly on her flushed, enthusiastic face. A spasm of sudden jealousy brought the blood springing to Doriss cheeks. She leaned forward, and as she leaned she saw that she was not the only gazer. Faith Emmett was also looking from Ralphs window at the young pair as they moved slowly along beside the grey flower and fern wreathed wall that bordered the river. Faith was smiling in most unusual fashion, and Doris felt yet more irritated. That woman shall go if she thwarts me at every turn, she said haughtily. I suppose she thinks Rica is an amusement brought here to occupy Ralph as long as he chooses but how foolish I am! Her opinion is of no consequence.~~ Just then, as if she read her friends thoughts, Rica looked up, and Doris beck- oned with unwonted eagerness. Theres something the matter, I think, said Rica; I must go to Mrs. Burneston. Never mind Mrs. Burneston; she can wait, she can have you any time, and I want you now. Ralph spoke imperi. ously, and Rica laughed. You are nobody beside Doris, she said smilingly, and nodding up at her friends window, she ran indoors. At the foot of the stairs she met Mr. Burneston. Are you going to Doris? he said; then will you teA her that I expect my cousin, Mr. Raine, this evening? I asked him some days ago, and as theres no answer, hes sure to come. He looked at her carelessly, but it seemed to Rica that he wanted to see the effect of his words, and she tried so hard to keep an unmoved face that Mr. Burneston thoucrht she was vexed. b Dear me! he thought, as he went on to the library; I fancied we should be more cheerful with Raine here, but it seems I am mistaken. Rica looked quite disconcerted at the idea. Id better ask Doris why she dislikes him dear me, what strange creatures women are! and the soft-hearted squire sat down to fin- ish his newspaper with a disappointed face. Meantime Ralph had gone to his room, and had found Faith there. He sat down without speaking. Shes a nice young lady, is Miss Ma- sham, Maister Ralph. Shes a real lady. She looked at him keenly between her half-closed lids. Yes, old woman, but never mind ladies now. Is there a good dinner? I shall have to give Mrs. Hazelgrave a few les- sons in cooking if she sends up such a fricandeau as she did yesterday; it was so tough I could hardly set my teeth in it, and I actually could taste the onions. She really must be less coarse in her notions of flavoring. She wants to go to France for a few months. Ah, well, Ill tell her what you say, my dear. Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Booth- royd an Mr. Raines coming to-night? then niebbe well give you something else to think about besides cooking. Hes got an eye in his head, tho he is so crammed wi nossions. To-night is it? I did not know he was coming; I can amuse myself without him, you old goose. Faith looked mysterious. She went over to the drawers which she had been putting neat, but presently she closed them and turned round. Mebbe two is better than three, Mais- ter Ralph; an Master Raines ower mais- terful, yu kens. Ralph stared. I dont know what you mean, you dear old stupid, he said. You know I hate hints, Faith; but Gil- bert has too much sense to interfere with DORIS BARUGH. 35 me. I should like to see any one master me in my own house. He had been lighting a cigar while he spoke, and he seated himself with his back to the housekeeper, and began to smoke in silence. Faith stood gazino~ at first vacantly, unpleasant with her smile; then, as her yellow eyes rested on her darlings curly head, her straight lip softened, and her eyes grew dark and sweet. Hes nowt to fear, she said to herself. Miss Masham 11 not look twice at an awd stick like Mr. Raine wiv that bonny face beside her. Nae, nae, if my lad lies fair play its all reet; but its t missis Im freetend on. Shell do any mortal thing to spite Ralph and tak t lass frey him. She didnt guess I saw her at yon win- dow froonin as she looked at t two on em~ just as I was gladdenin my eyes by t sight o sicli a bonny pair; an then to call her away when t poor lass, mebbe, nivver had t chance afore o speakin to such a fine gentleman as my lad. Shes nut a match for t likes o him, is Miss Masham, but shell serve to pass time, an she shannot be taken frey him. She went out of the room with her usual catlike tread, her eyes and cheeks glow- ing with the new interest brought into her daily life. Faith Emmett had missed her vocation, she shQuld have been an ac- tress or a police agent, and not having legitimate scope for her talent for intrigue, she was always ready to snatch at and exaggerate every incident of domestic life which could be twisted out of a direct course. It is strange how sensitive such natures are to atmosphere. Doris had only been reawakened to a dread of Faiths mischief-making power by her childs appeal, but Faith knew intuitively that Doris disliked her, and she had de- cided that the young stepmother would hate Ralph long before his first return from school, and her constant depreciation and innuendoes had strengthened and kept alive the strong prejudice the lad had formed against his fathers wife ; but for this it is possible that the easy tempera- ment inherited from his father (and before lie went to France Ralphs chief charac- teristic was this easiness) would have soft- ened this dislike and left him open to her influence. Doriss jealous dislike to the lad had been fostered by Ralphs coldness, and the barrier it raised against all her attempts at cordiality. To Doris government was a necessity. Spite of her fathers strong will she had always had power to sway 36 DORIS BARUGH. him ; her husband yielded implicitly t6 her judgment; perhaps the secret of her child- ish disputes with George was that his will had been as strong as her own, and that he would only yield to a principle which he did not find in his sister. She was large- minded enough to tolerate his resistance, but although she never analyzed her dis- like to Ralph, she felt keenly the mortifi- cation inflicted by his resistance to her influence, for on this last visit he never lost an opportunity of contradicting her. Why on earth, he said to himself as he sat smoking a practice forbidden in any part of the house but the billiard-room, but connived at by the housekeeper why should Gilbert come just now? Hes well enough when theres no one else, but he has taken to lecturing lately. I expect Mrs. Burnestons had a hand in this; I owe her one, already, on another score. By Jove, shed better let me alone in fu- ture ! CHAPTER XLI. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. DORIS never showed to so much advan- tage as when she was receiving her guests. Her natural calm self-possession so helped the sweetness and grace which education had developed that at such times her man- ner was enchanting. She had long ago conquered her old enemy Mrs. Boothroyd, who was now her slave. Perfection in a woman, according to Mrs. Boothroyd, lay in the possession of some charming accom- plishments playing and singing, for in- stance, like Mrs. Burneston and also in the strict observance of all the duties in- culcated by society. During Doriss first visit to London, Mrs. Boothroyd had watched her behavior narrowly, and had been so satisfied by the result that on the return of the squire and his wife to York- shire she had received her young neighbor with much increased cordiality, and when little Phil was born her attentions had be- come devoted. She was a valuable friend to Doris, for being one of those women who announce opinion and insist on its adoption by oth- ers, utterly regardless whether offence is given or taken, Mrs. Boothroyd had far more influence in her part of the county than she really merited; so apt are people to be allowed the position they claim boldly for themselves. With all her as- sumption and hardness she had a love of the beautiful, and she had an affectionate nature; and after a while she craved for the love of this beautiful bit of porcelain, as she called Mrs. Burneston, and came often to see her. Perhaps if Doris had met her advances with any show of warmth there might have been an end of the friendship, but the complete absence of gush in the girls nature increased Mrs. Boothroyds attempts to overcome her coldness; and these seemed to Doris only a part of the almost universal homage that she had met with in her school life, and also since her marriage. She had grown to consider Mrs. Booth- royd a sort of motherly friend, to whom she could talk about little Phil and also household plans; and she was really glad to see her this evening. Ah, Mrs. Burneston Mr. Booth- royd puffed out his words as pompously as ever you look as blooming as a rose.~~ The good gentlemans similes were always of the simplest nature. Doris smiled. Am I blooming? she said. I fancy I am too colorless to de- serve the name. Yes, indeed, Melville, his wife had long withdrawn her prohibition against compliments paid to the mistress of Bur- neston, blooming is not refined enough for Mrs. Burneston. Blooming means a rosy color, a dairymaid beauty, a I beg your pardon, my dear, but youth and good health will sometimes give a high color, even to young ladies. You cant help it, you know, and what suits one doesnt suit another. Ricas rosy cheeks were deep red by this time. I suppose not. Ive always been rosy, she said with a sigh which set Gilbert Raine and Mr. Burneston off laughing. Just then they paired off to go to dinner. Doris forced a smile as she spoke to Ralph. I am very sorry, she said, that there is no one for you, but I did not know till too late that your cousin was coming to-day. Then she looked at Raine as he gave his arm to Rica. Ralph looked savage, but he managed nevertheless to get next Rica at dinner, and to keep her from talking much to Raine. Rica could not tell how it was. In the morning she had certainly thought Ralph flippant, but still very amusing; now he seemed to her pert and sarcastic. She wondered at Mr. Raines patience with him, for more than once Ralph spoke rudely to his cousin. However, she thought as she looked at Raines intellec- tual face, eager with interest, now as he combated an argument of Mr. Boothroyds, now as he uttered one of his dry, quaint DORIS BARUGH. sayings, I do not suppose he notices; he has no heart or much interest for anything but those horrible old blocks of stone. I believe he is half a stone himself. She turned her thoughts resolutely away from her unconscious vis-ti-vis, and began to talk to Ralph with more vivacity than she had shown since the beginning of dinner. At last these two laughed so heartily over one of Ricas stories that Mrs. Booth- royd turned round with a lofty rebuke on her face. Rica met the look, and although she braved it she felt very sick at heart, lest Doris should also disapprove. She had observed the coldness between her friend and Ralph, but her hopeful nature attached little importance to this. It will all come right in time, she thought, but for all that she wished to avoid any collision on the subject of Ralph. She loved Doris, and thought her almost per- fect, but she knew that if she found her friend hard on Ralph she should certainly take his part against his stepmother. She lowered her voice as she went on talk- ing. Raine was puzzled and vexed. He had not met Miss Masham for three years, and their intimacy had been ended abruptly by his sudden journey to Eton. In the inter- val Gilbert had learned that it was possible to think again about a woman, all the while despising himself for wasting his thoughts on such an unworthy object. When the squires letter of invitation reached him he had caught himself won- dering whether he should meet Rica at Burneston again, and when he found her sitting with Doris on his first arrival some- thing very like delight caine tohim,asen- sation of keener, warmer pleasure than any he had felt since his first romance ended. But Ricas manner wounded Mr. Raine. She seemed flurried and excited, vexed, he thought, to have her h~te-ci-/t~/e with Mrs. Burneston disturbed; and now, as he sat opposite her and caught glimpses of her bright face full of laughing enjoy- ment, he felt sure that he had been wrong, and that Miss Masham had no more heart or ballast than any ordinary woman. And yet as she rose from table and followed Mrs. Boothroyd from the room, his eyes instantly followed the young girl with admiration. She had none of the statuesque grace of Mrs. Burneston; her movements, and words too, were some- times abrupt; but there was a freshness and simplicity in Rica, an almost startling vivacity, that suited Raines taste better than the finish and repose of her friend. 37 She laughed saucily as she went out, and Raine followed the direction of her eyes to Ralph across the table. It seemed to him that these two young creatures ex- changed a look of mischievous intelli- gence. He frowned, not at them but at his own folly. I wonder, he thought, at what period of their lives men become safe impervious to womans will. I fancied it impossible I would ever risk being again deceived. That sudden summons to Eton came just in time, and yet if I had seen more of her then, I should no doubt have discovered imperfections. I should have found out her real self. This Rica Ma- sham I have been dreaming about, when I have thought of such folly at all a flush of annoyance rose on his cheek was a creature of my own making, quite unlike the true woman. Come, Ralph, he said, as the two squires drew close together and began to talk agricultural matters, shall we take a turn by the river? its long since you and I were together at Burneston. Ralph hesitated; he had been surprised and annoyed to hear of his cousins arrival; he thought he had been sent for to lecture him about Rose, spoiling my game, too, with Rica an old fossil ! Very well, but lets have a smoke after- wards, he said; but I mean to go to the drawing-room now that poor little girl will get bored to death with the dowa- gers. For the first time in his life Gilbert Raine felt very angry with Ralph. He had always felt it a kind of duty to take the lads part against his father, for he considered that even before his second marriage Philip Burneston had neglected his son, but this speech of Ralphs was so puppy-like that Gilbert felt as if he had suddenly awakened, and was taking a new reading of his ~roM~e~ Young coxcomb! he said to himself as he walked rather stiffly into the draw- ing-room and left Ralph to close the door, but perhaps I should say, deluded young fool! Very likely he thinks, poor boy, that Miss Masham really cares to talk to him. It seemed as if Ralph held this opinion, for he walked straight up to the bow-win- dow in which Rica was, and sat down be- side her. Gilbert fumed inwardly against Mrs. Boothroyd, who had stopped him as he came in. You care for art, I believe, Mr. Raine, and I want you so much to come over and 38 DORIS BARUGH. see us. I can offer you quite a treat in Mr. Boothroyds drawings; he copies things in pen and ink so beautifully you could not tell them from the originals things from the Penny Magazine, you know, and other prints. I dont care for copies of things, said Gilbert almost savagely, theres nothing original in it; it is a waste of time. Mrs. Boothroyd stared. Ah, but you never saw anything like Mr. Boothroyds drawings; he does them line for line. He gives up his winter evenings entirely to it, never has time to read a book, or hardly a newspaper; it is such important, all- absorbing work. Raine shrugged his shoulders. My dear madam, im sorry I cant agree with you; nothing, I think, can be so important in the way of personal pursuit as reading, and it is e~pecially necessary to us coun- try residents to all, in fact, who live in a small circle. He said this, much as if he had added, My dear madam, consider yourself. in the wrong. Mrs. Boothroyd smiled loftily, but Doris looked so interested that for the moment Raine forgot Ralph and Rica. That may be for some people Mrs. Boothroyd gave Gilbert a compassionate glance. But you see Mr. Boothroyds mind is so large and comprehensive, and then he has such a store of past reading to go on, that I dont think he requires to read as some do; he did it all as a boy; no fiction or poetry or rubbish of that kind, you know, but solid stuff Gibbons Decline and Fall, Alisons History of Europe, and as to Lardners Cyclop~dia those puce-colored calico books, you know I fancy he has them by heart. Mr. Boothroyd is very solid; no froth about him, I assure you. Ralph had been annoyed to find that instead of listening to him, Ricas ears had been strained to follow this conversation; and now, as Doris sat silent, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, Miss Masham broke in suddenly with glowing eyes and cheeks. My father says its all nonsense not to read novels, and a great mistake. He says people often get ideas and hints and thingsin good ones, I meannot in the way of lectures or advice, but uncon- sciously given. Oh, will it bore you if I explain myself? she looked implor. ingly at Mrs. Boothroyd, while Raine wondered whether she was acting or whether her freshness was real. He says people are so apt to go on wrapt up in themselves and their pursuits till they absorb their own sympathies, or rather neglect to cultivate their own powers of appreciation, and that often a character in a story will act like a fairy mirror, showing one the distortion one is aiming after, or else reminding one of the qualities one lacks by seeing those qualities in action oh, I am so sorry, Ive talked too much ! She flushed dee ply as Ralph laughed. You should have stopped me, she said to Doris. Mrs. Boothroyd smiled benignly. Peo- ples words carry them away, unless they think, she said; but I like to hear young peoples ideas; theyre fresh, at any rate, she said in a condoning voice. At which remark Doris stiffened her neck. Ricas words are worth listening to, she said, and Gilbert Raine smiled at her, and took the first opportunity he could find of snubbing Mrs. Boothroyd. Doris went to the piano and sancr but she was not in good voice ; there was something oppressive in Ralphs presence that told even on her singing. The two squires appeared, and her husband came up and spoke to her. Mr. Boothroyd be- gan to talk to Ralph, and, to the young mans extreme annoyance, carried him off to the other end of the room, to question him minutely upon French shooting and French farming. Ralph looked over his shoulder as he followed his tormentor, and he saw Raine take the seat he had left beside Rica. She looked up shyly as Gilbert placed himself beside her. I am ashamed of what I said just now, she said ; I did not mean to preach, but I am afraid it sounded like preaching. Of course it did, he said mischiev- ously, only you forgot to give out the text. Then seeing her disturbed face, Yes, yes, it was all right, he said abruptly; but I dont agree with you. I think a man who lives much to himself, or who at any rate moves round in a small circle, gets entirely deadened by self-com- placency; he is far too thick-skinned to believe that anything he meets with in a book, especially so trifling a book as a novel, can benefit him; if you were even to describe him to the life, as he appears to you, he would not recognize your por- trait. I dont agree with yOu, she said, her eyes growing dark with exciLement. Im sure youre wrong. People are not so hard-hearted as you think them. It will DORIS BARUGH. 39 sound rude, but I sometimes wonder whether it is yourself that you judge from, for I suppose one gets into the way of judging other people by ones self. Raine laughed. I hard-hearted! I am a perfect suck- ing dove. Indeed, Miss Masham, I thought you a better judge. I am so ten- der-hearted that I am constantly imposed on. What can make you think me hard- hearted? He laughed, but he looked uneasy and troubled. I dont know; you are cleverer than I am, Mr. Raine, and you ought to know better than I do what gives us our first impressions of people. But our first impressions are so often wrong. How about second thoughts being best? A great many of those musty old proverbs are wrong. I believe in first evervthings, said Rica decidedly. First impressions, first love, first first well, the first sight of any beautiful thing; all these are quite different from any that come after. There is no rapture in second impressions or feelings. Then she looked up alarmed again at her own impulsiveness, but Raines earnest listen. ing, his dark face full of eager interest, reassured her; he sighed, but he did not speak. It seemed strange to Rica that she liked to sit beside him in silence. First love, he said presently in a dreamy voice; ah, I dont know whether that is best. I sometimes think it is not. Well then, I do, said Rica; there can be nothing so delightful. A man who disbelieves in first love must be a thorough sceptic. Raine started, but he did not answer; looked sadly at Rica, and then his eyes wandered to the fireplace, where he knew Ralph was standing. There was such a scowl on the lads face that Raine looked surprised. He got up and went across to him. Shall I come to your room to-night for a smoke, old fellow, Gilbert said, or will you come to mine? Im going to bed, Ralph muttered sullenly; and if those cursed people dont take themselves off I shall go at once. CHAPTER XLIII. FRIENDSHIP NOT LOVE. YOUNG people and impatient people are apt to confound rapidity with certain suc- cess. In some of their moods of mind half an hours delay will suffice, such peo- ple think, to destroy the plans of a life; and so they force open the buds of promise and snatch at half-ripened fruit, meta- phorically as well as actually. Ralph had watched Ricas face till he could no longer endure what seemed to him her preference for Raine. Certainly she had listened to his own talk at dinner, but then she had laughed and bandied words with him chaffed as it would be called nowa- days but he had not succeeded in get- ting her to listen with the earnest, half- reverent look she fixed on Raine; nor had she, when talking to him, dropped her eye- lids in that lovely pensive fashion till the long dark lashes rested on the glowing cheek. He was very angry and scornful too. What could his old dried-up cousin find to say to a lively girl that did not bore her? He had watched Rica so eagerly, ready at the first sign of weariness to release her from Gilberts prosing, as in his present mood he called his cousins talk, and she had only looked more and more interested. He lay awake half the night, tossing and kicking about, and he wakened early next morning with that despondent view of all things with which we are apt to review matters in the grey dawn, and in which we sometimes per- suade ourselves that everything will go crooked. Ralph was much too disturbed to go to sleep again. He rose, and determined before the day was much older he would know the truth about Rica. If she prefers to me that crack- brained cousin of mine, a man who doesnt even know how to dress, I shall, of course, have nothing more to say to her. I was a fool to expect any discernment from a friend of Mrs. Burnestons confound her! But as the sun rose higher and poured into his room, and the fresh morning air cooled his hot head, he saw things differ- ently, especially before his looking-glass. Im not at all a bad-looking fellow he smiled and showed his white, even teeth and beside that brown, shriv- elled old Gilbert Im an Adonis. Hes got good eyes, and hes an inch or so tall- er than I am, but I fancy he has really no chance with a girl if I choose to go in for her. I know hes trying it on with little Rica. I never saw him look at a girl like that before. He stopped and mused, staring at his own handsome face meanwhile. What a fool I am! Why dont I 40 DORIS BARtYGH. leave them alone? What on earth do I want with her? What do I want to tie myself by the leg for? I like her better, perhaps yes, certainly better than any girl I ever saw. She amuses me awfully, and if Gilbert had kept away we should always have been excellent friends. Its a devil of a shame for him to cut in. But Im not going to see her snapped up under my eyes. By Jove, Ill just spoil his ma- weuvres and make sure of my little girl. He looked at his watch. Rica was not likely to appear for an hour, and Ralphs impatience grew as the minutes passed slowly away. He went down to the ter- race to wait for her, and little Phil spied him from the window. Ralphie, Ralphie! I want you. Phil wants you welly-welly much. Ralph waved his hand, and passed on whistling. Bother the brat! he said. Then as he turned at the end of the terrace he caught a glimpse of the sweet little wistful face gazing down at him. Hes not a bad little chap, though, he said. I won- der my precious stepmother produced anything so like a Burneston. I should have thought any child of hers must have been born red-haired and high-shouldered, like that terrible old Barugh. I suppose the fellow is not much older than my fa- ther, either. Confound Rica, why dont she come ? Coming down to the terrace from the flower-garden was Slater, the gardener. Aye, Maister Ralph, he smiled gen- ially at his young master, bud yu begins t day betahmes. Ah expecs its t French manners. Ah mahnds at yu war a rare yan at lossin t mornin when yu war a lahtle lad. Ralph had been staring up at Ricas window while Slater spoke. Look here, Slater, he said; give me the key of the conservatory; I want to get a few flowers. Slater screwed up his eyes, and put his head on one side. Flooers, Maister Ralph? Thers flooers an plenty i t hoose, an if theers mair needed ahll gi em. Nae need fer yu ta gan for em yersel. Yes, yes, I want some special ones, Ralph spoke emphatically; lets have the key. I know the door is locked; dont you trouble your head about it; Ill get my own flowers. Slater looked hard at him with one eye screwed up, but he did not attempt further remonstrance. Not one of the servants ever attempted to question Ralphs will; he had reigned absolutely among them ever since his babyhood. But still Slater prized his choice flowers. Yell mebbe nut be wantin monny on em, he said deprecatingly, as he handed him the key. All right. The gardener screwed up both his pale blue eyes as he stared after the young man, till they were almost hidden under his red eyebrows. XVoonkers! he said, thats t fost tahme at ivver Maister Ralph hes aksd mey fer flooers. I t neame uv Awd Soss, what can he be oop tiv noo? Theer mun be a lass if he wants flooers, an its nob- but a week sin Sukey Swaddles seyd at t yung squire waaz littin an lattin efter Rase Duncombe. Weel, mebbe he thinks van bird i t hand is ~voth twae i t bush: eh, eh, I kens hoo t wind sits, an hes rich, an this lass is as bonny as Rase is, an sheeas a laady. Ah dizzent lahke tu see t quality laendering aboot wiv sike as wursels. He made a sudden wry face, and put his hand over his mouth. Zookerins! Ah mun tak tent o what ah sehs. Ah forgits t squire an t missis. Nobbut theers nae sayin at t Barughs waaz sike as wursels; mebbe t farmer waaz, bud t missis mun ha been a born laady. He turned away, muttering to himself, A born laady. Just as he disappeared on his way to the fruit-garden, he mur- mured, Nobbut, sheeas ower fond o meddlin wiv t flooer-beds. Wes yalways at odds ower em. Ralph came back with some exquisite flowers, and sat down under the cedar-tree to arrange them; but it was a new experi- ment and he was not skilful, and as he changed the delicate blossoms impatiently from hand to hand the ground at his feet was soon strewn with bright geranium petals. Confound it! he said. A merry peal of laughter answered him. Those poor flowers are not used to be so roughly handled, said Rica mischiev- ously, as she picked up a lovely spray of begonia and gave it to him. Ralph bit his lips, and made one more effort to group his flowers effectively. There, I cant do it any better, he said; but its your fault, if you had not come and startled me it would have been first-rate; but you will have the flowers any way, if his tone grew graver you will make me happy by accepting them. DORIS BARUGH. 4t Rica took the flowers. Thank you so very much. I love flowers, and I hardly ever get rare ones. There is a special charm to me about wild flowers, and also about these sheltered ones which never breathe outside air there is just the dif- ference between these and ordinary gar- den flowers finds in people. Ralph felt inclined to gape; he wished Rica would not take such flights in her talk, and give him the trouble of thinking. Shes too pretty for it; pretty women shouldnt do it, he said, looking at her as she bent over the flowers. I hate to have to think while Im looking at a pretty girl ;he pulled his soft beard, and looked and smiled mischievously at Rica. I dont quite understand, he said aloud, more for the sake of making her raise her eyes, than because he cared to know what she meant. As he expected, she looked up, her great grey eyes luminous. Well, as a rule, unless we live quite in open country, we see far more ordinary garden flowers than either delicate wild~ flowers or greenhouse plants. I dont mean buttercups and daisies, and so on, though they are full of beauty. It is just the same with people; for one rare or re- fined and cultivated person, you see fifty who are educated, perhaps sensible and comfortable in their ideas; but oh, how alike, and how commonplace I people with whom you can talk by the hour just surface conversation, like a cat purr- ing if you are self-controlled. I put that in, because of dear me, I beg your pardon, I bore you, Im sure, she broke off abruptly and looked ashamed. You neednt mind me, Ralph was secretly getting impatient lest the prayer- bell should ring before he had spoken. I like to hear you talk, you know, you~ re so amusing. But I see what you mean, Mr. and Mrs. Boothroyd are purrers. Yes, I know they are a commonplace pair, according to your ideas; but then theyre rich and thought a good deal of, and a woman must be like other women; it dont do for her to be eccentric, you know. Oh, you would like us all one pattern, like a wall-paper, would you? I hardly see then what would become of likes and dislikes. I dont mean that at all, he said ab- ruptly; you are quite unlike any one I ever saw, and I like you better than any one. Her eyes opened widely, but her color did not deepen. Youre very kind; must I make you a curtsy? Then she said gravely, Thank you for your good opinion. I should think you often want a sister, dont you? My brothers say they dont know what they should do without a sister. Between his teeth Ralph cursed all sis- ters. No, he said impetuously, I dont want a sister,but I do want some one to care for me and think of me I want you, Rica. Dont you understand? Still she did not understand. She thought he was in some sudden trouble which he could not tell his father of, and a sympathy for his loneliness shone in her eyes as she looked in his face, flushed just now with unusual earnestness. I am listening, she said sweetly; what is your trouble? I should like to help you if I can. You can if you choose, he said. Say you like me as much as I like you, and it will be all I want. She raised her eyes to his in sudden doubt, and then she saw his meaning. While he spoke he had drawn nearer, bending almost over her. His ardent glance brought a burning flush to her face, and instinctively she drew away from him. He thought she was only shy. ~ I love you, dearest Rica, he said, and you love me too, dont you dont you? He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away and rose up from the bench beneath the cedar-tree. Oh, please dont, Mr. Burneston. I dont know what to say to you. But her shyness only spurred Ralphs eagerness. You are surprised; Ive been in a hurry, perhaps, he said; but you do see how much I care for youand Im sure you love me, Rica, though you dont know it, you dear girl. He certainly was not shy, he took her hand and held it while she stood confound- ed, wondering how she could make him leave her without being rude. I am very sorry, she began, you are quite mistaken, Mr. Burneston. But her fear of giving pain made her confused and deceived Ralph. No, oh no, he said fondly, I am not mistaken. I love you with all my heart and soul. He pressed her hand tightly, but Rica drew it suddenly away; his last words had brought back her courage. I am still very sorry. I like you very much as a friend; but that is all. I could never think of anything else. Every word made Ralph more deter. mined. 42 DORIS BARTJGH. Tell me, he said, have you ever been in love? No. Rica was carried away for a moment by his eager tone; then she flushed suddenly. And if I had, I scarcely think you ought to ask me. My love gives me the right; but he spoke less confidently. If love is new to you, you may love me without knowing it. Trust me, it will be all right. She did not turn away or look confused now, and Ralph felt deeply mortified. His assurance vexed Rica, and took away from her fear ofwounding him. It is better to be quite plain with you, she said. I think I am so much older than you that such a thought could not come to me; and listen, please for Ralph turned angrily away I think, too, that you mistake your own feelings. I had got to consider you as a new brother. A smothered oath burst from Ralph, and she drew back, fear and disgust show- ing plainly in her face. You had better say you cant bear the sight of me, and be honest at once. I suppose you think that I dont see through all these shams. Just take care of your- self, thats all. Just see that long-tongued cousin of mine doesnt lead you on as youve led me, and leave you in the lurch and it will serve you right youve used me shamefully! He went away at once, while Rica stood looking after him, all her senses dazed by his words. CHAPTER XLIV. THE RISING OF THE STORM. RALPH hurried away to the house in mad angerfor the anger of a vain man wounded in his supremest vanity is a sort of insanity he had resolved that Rica should care for him, and that she should confess him irresistible, and he had never doubted his power till he saw her listening to his cousin, and even then the notion that Gilbert could prove a successful rival had seemed too absurd. Instead of con- fessing love she had pitied him. His eyes blazed with angry light, his face was red with passion, and he carried his hands tightly clenched on each side of him as he met Faith Emmett at the foot of the great staircase. The sight of her boy always brought a rare sweetness to the housekeepers lips her eyes opened widely without any of the yellow light that sometimes flashed between their dark lashes; but at the sight of his troubled face Faiths smile van- ished, her forehead wrinkled, and her eyelids drooped. What ails ye, mah bairn? she said, and she laid her brown hand on his arm. He shook her off angrily. Confound you! dont stop me. Cant you see Im in a hurry? He pushed past her, and went on up the stairs and along the gallery. But Faith was not disturbed by his rudeness, she knew her power over him. She followed quickly, and when she too reached the gallery Whisht, whisht, mah lad, she said softly, yeve been crossed, an mebbe if ye comes along wiv me yell find t reason why. Come, mah honey, yell nut be going in to breakfast yonder; ye can have all ye wishes for in t housekeepers room. Ralph shook his head, but his manner was irresolute. I dont want breakfast. I want to be left quiet. Faith turned, looked at him resolutely over her shoulder, and said, Come, and he followed her down-stairs. The housekeepers breakfast was on the table untouched. She had been far too deeply interested in watching Ralphs interview with Rica, and then in trying to know the rights of her darlings d iscom- fiture, to think about eating, though she had a great liking for dainty dishes. Yeyll be quiet in here, honey. She opened the door of her den, saw Ralph fling himself into a huge armchair, and then bustled off to the still-room in search of some hot coffee and toast for her dar- ling. When she came back with a tray laden with a fragrant and appetizing breakfast she looked still graver, for Ralph, instead of having attacked, as she expected he would, the cold partridge on the table, sat scowling in the easy-chair, looki ng far more ready for a fray than a feast. Come and take some breakfast, honey, said Faith ; theres cream cakes and kidneys, and an omelette I made o pup- pose ye sud nivver fast on trouble, Mas- ter Ralph. Ralph looked round at the table, but he refused to be tempted. Give me a cup of coffee and a bit of bread, he said, and if youve got any- thing to tell me, for heavens sake tell it and have done with it, instead of winking and pursing up your lips and making an old fool of yourself. Faith winced, but she did not look angry She shook her head sorrowfully at Ralph. DORIS BARUGH. 43 Eh, eli, its been allays t same fra yur wall thinking and frowning, but at last a cradle uppards; you spiles all by wantin smile spread over his face it ower soon. How could ye think, honey, Do you know, Faith, you think youre to ask a lass her mind afore shed broke deuced clever, but youre an extremely fool- her fast? an mebbe if yed left her a week ish old woman? To begin with: such a or mair shed have smiled on ye. thing as an attachment between Miss Do mind your own business, Ralph Masham and that lout George Barugh is broke in furiously, stamping his foot. impossible; and next, how can Mrs. Bur- Say what you have to tell me and have neston know anything about me and done with it that is, he rose and moved Rica? towards the door, if you have anythin~ Eh, lad, if yed allays keep a smile on to tell. I dont want to be jawed as if 1 your bonny face like that, ye looks my am was six. bairn at seemed gone away, an Satans Faiths hands clasped themselves ti~ht- hoof at had just dinted yer forehead is ly together. She had that wonderful smoothed out o si~ht now. Eh, lad, she power of forbearance so often linked with xvent up to him and laid her hand plead- a strong, passionate nature. Ralph never ingly on his shoulder, Im not blamin guessed how deeply she felt his taunts. yu, honey. The soft tenderness that had Master Ralph, she began in a depre- made her eyes dark and liquid changed cating voice, manys t time Ive told ye into sudden hate. Its not yur fault if that Mrs. Burneston ud do you a bad yere changed, it~s she at has driven ye turn, an see, for all your scaum, shes fra yur am home into wicked ways, an done it now. noo that she sees a chance o your comm What has she done? Make haste. round she tries to step atween you an He stamped on the floor in his impa- ivvery pleasure yey fancy. tience. The last words renewed Ralphs anger. Sit ye doon an Ill tell ye. Nobbut His resentment against Doris had slum- you are ower good for t likes o a poor bered in the amusement afforded by his parsons lass. pursuit of Rica, but there came back sud- He frowned angrily. denly his meeting with his stepmother Youre talking nonsense, Faith, and outside the stone cottage, and also Roses you know it; if I want anything, it doesnt sudden removal from Burneston. matter whether its good enough for me, I Curse her! he said fiercely; yes, must have it; and I should have thought, youre right, Faith, there must be an end a slight flush spread over his face, that to this at once ;then as the thought you would prefer Miss Masham to Rose came, By Jove, she has set Rica against Duncombe. me. Rose ! Faith tossed her head, and Faith nodded her head eagerly. This the corners of her mouth went down into was just the mood she had been striving her chin; it cud nivver be seemly fer to evoke, and yet, knowing her boys con- you to speak with such as Rose, nobbut tradiction, she had begun to feel hopeless in the way of kindness. But, Master of success. Ralph, you sud look higher than Miss What did I say to ye; an did yey Masham; you may wed with a dukes mind, when yu an t lass were talking daughter fer t asking. beside t river? I was takin tent on ye, I shall wed, as you call it, whom I an sae was Mrs. Burneston. I saw miss please ; then he flushed angrily at the turn her head to t house, an I looks, an remembrance of Ricas refusal. But theer was t mistress a frownin an a never mind all this; what has Mrs Bur- beckonin, an I kenned at she was oop neston done? say it and do be quick. to keepin her fra you. When I knows a I sud ha thowt you might have thing, Master Ralph, I knows it, an I guessed; its clear as daylight mickle reads Mrs. Burneston like a book, for a t wad hae muckle, an muckle wad hae mair; scaum in her face; she hates you an she t mistress has getten mickle, but whats hates mey, an shell nivver rest till she that sae long as her fooalks is nut t same sees our backs turned on t Hall. as hersel. Hes not Miss Masham telled There was real passion in Faiths voice, ye that she visits at t Cairn, takes up wiv but there was not the fierce glance and such as t Barughs? Nae, nae) Master violent manner she often used to overawe Ralph, Mrs. Burnestons fain t wed her her inferiors. She looked calm and very friend wiv her brother, an shed do it pale, but her hand trembled as it rested twice as much noo just for to spite you~ on Ralphs arm. Ralph stood still; he leant against the He stood a moment musing. 44 DORIS ]3ARUGH. Look here, he said sternly; Ive by the farm and Rose Duncombes cottage, been wrong all this time. Ive never and, as has been said, the road through asserted myself, and she thinks she can the avenue curved round into the Steers- override me as she pleases. I have taken ley road above the church. As he passed her insolence too quietly; but well see the churchyard gate so many memories whos master here. My father he crowded over George that he gave his hesitated, a lingering touch of right feel- horse the whip, and galloped on till Bur- ing reminding him that he had a listener; neston was fairly left behind him. then the remembrance of Ricas refusal Mother says it hes been a grand thing came back with the new aspect of being for Doris to have married t squire, he caused by Doris, and he forgot all restraint, said sadly. but I cant see it. Shes not The low-born, presuming upstart! he taken happiness to t Hall, an she looks said; she to dare to judge and control worried an sore-hearted; except when I my conductshe! Does she think Im spoke of t little lad she scarce smiled. as great a fool as my father, I wonder? If Mebbe its true that happiness is not so Id been older when he was duped into unequal as fooalks says. Mother~s nivver that marriage, I should have been jiusti- tasted the sort o pleasures that Doris fled in shutting him up. He lost his lives among, but, for all that, mothers senses, and theyve never come back. younger and fresher in spirit than Dorisll By this time Faith had seen the danger ivver be now; it must be sad to hate, as I of going too far. . fear she hates Ralph Burneston, her own Whisht, whisht, you mustnt blame t husbands son, too. squire, dear, she spoke soothingly, hes He sighed at this. He had spoken posi- nowt to do with such ways. I heard him tively about Rose to Doris, but he felt that tell Mrs. Burneston at Miss Masham marriage was over for him, for it seemed were not for t likes o her brother as if his love for Rose had grown hope- George. less. He knew he could never love any Ralph stared in utter surprise. Till other girl, and, therefore, however despair- now he had looked on Faiths assertion ing her attachment might be to Ralph about George and Rica as a mere effort Burneston, he thought it must like his own of imagination. It was too daring for surely prove undying. But he was not Doris to dream of such a project. sighing now for himself or for Rose Dun- You heard ! how? combe; he was only thinking how com- I was in Master Phils room, and they pletely the practical experience offered by war speaking out. life contradicts the theories of youth and And you listened?~ he sneered, and hope. The squires love for Doris had Faith reddened. Well, of course, that seemed perfect, and although hers had not explains everything, and also explains equalled it, still George had hoped that what happened this morning. Well, Im her husbands great love would have suf- off. ficed for his sisters happiness, would, at He nodded and left the room, eager to least, have drawn her love forth in return. find Rica. Of course she cared nothing But she cannot truly love her hus- for George Barugh, but he was sure now band, he thought sadly; her own self that she had been prejudiced against him. an little Phil comes first, an t squire last If his stepmother were determined to of all. Twas plain to me whiles I talked marry Miss Masham to her brother to Mr. Burneston how he loves t lad; tho George, Doris, he thought, would stick at lie sees Ralphs heen to blame, yet he nothing. If Rica knew how Doris had longs to keep him at home; an how can upset his whole life he was quite sure she Doris set herself against him? I dont would not be guided by her. After all, like him, but then hes not t flesh and Ricas a lady, he said, and she must blood of one thats dear to me. Im very have some class prejudice; it is far more sorry for him. I thowt Doris d be so natural she should side with me than with large-minded, so different to most step- a farmers daughter. They must have fin- mothers. Im sadly feared tis her pride; ished breakfast by now. shed like t set him aside fer t sake o her own bairn. CHAPTER XLIV. His thoughts went on to Ralph and GEORGES QUEST. Rica, and he felt a tender pity lest the girl should fix her affections on suchachange WHEN George left his sister he rode able, unstable character as Ralph Burnes- away slowly up the avenue; he had no tons. heart to go through the village or to pass Shes worth better than he, nobbut she DORIS ]3ARUGH. may steady him an lead him up to higher things. Aye, there tis, I kenned Id stumble ont at last. There tis its at the root of Doris troubles. She tries t deal wi em herself. She dont cast em on Him that careth for her. Why, if she did shed rise up fresh and bright, instead of having her young face clouded and grave. So much thought and sympathy for others had put his own trial aside; but as he drew near to the parsonage at Steers- ley his trouble came back, and he felt heavy-hearted again. Well, he smiled, Im not practising my own doctrine; I munnot trust to my- self; I mun do what Mr. Hawnby says is best fer t poor lass. His mind turned slowly from one idea to another, and he had been so bent on finding Rose at Burneston, that at first he had scarcely entertained the squires idea that she would be found at Steerslev; but when he came in sight of the low grey house a sudden glow of hope warmed his heart. Something told him that Rose was near at hand. The parsonage stood some way hack from the road, screened very much from sight by clumps of Portugal laurel, the garden itself being divided from the high- way by a low wooden park paling, grey with the lovely opal tints of time, which had covered much of it with hoary lichen. Behind the house, far away, was the open country; to the right of the parsonage were tall trees, and from these caine the peaceful sound of rooks, as the huge black birds sailed solemnly forth from their nests to take their evening gossip overhead. The grey wooden palings were continued up each side of the grounds to the low stone wall which shut in the back yard and outluildings. George rode round to the back gate, and as he looked over the pal- ings through the alley of apple-trees, which bordered this side of the garden, he saw a sight which brought the blood to his cheeks and made his pulses quiver. Surely it was Rose who was pacing up and down this sequestered alley quite out of sight, as she thought, for only a tall man on horseback could have seen over the fence into the walk below. She was unconscious of his presence; she walked past him down the alley, her hands clasped together, and it seemed to George in his hurried glance at her, with a sad, stricken look on her face. He rode on fast, opened the gate for himself, and had put his horse under a shed, before the parsons lad, an old, de 45 crepit man with a hump on his back, found out there was some one in the yard. George nodded, and asked if the parson was at home. The old man shook his head. Nae, nae, mah lad, an hell nut coin yam mebbe till nio~ht. Theres a aw.d lass atween life an d~ath mebbe three miles aff, an yell not fine t parson leavin till his warks done ov her. Fooalks tell at shes been a witch, an t awd deevils feersome noo sheeas deem, she cries out on Awd Soss, an says hes waitin fer her soul. Poor old creature ! Then George hesitated. Ill go in an wait a while, he said, I want t speak wi t parson. Bill stared after him. Parson he sehd ah war nut tu let onny- body gan in, but yon lads sae maisterful. Weel, weel, ahv telled him nowt, an if t lass keeps wed oot o sight, mebbe hell nut get a sight o her. George went rapidly past the house, he scarcely felt his lameness now, the moor- land air had so invigorated him. He was anxious to escape the observation of Mr. Hawnbys housekeeper. Fortunately he met Rose at the near end of the apple- tree walk; his fear had been that she would escape at the first glimpse of him. She looked stupefied as she saw him coming towards her; then, as he held out his hand, she tried to turn away; but it was too late. George caught first one hand and then the other, and held her fast. Whisht, lass! He saw the bright color fly into her face, and he feared a sudden gust of passion. Nobbut yell stand still, Ill loose ye soon enough. Rose, honey, Ise so fain to see ye safe, at Is no mind to flout ye fer t fright ye gave me yon. Tell me, lass he loosed one hand; but, spite of her twitching fingers, he kept the other firmly grasped whats ye doin here? I dont know. She looked sullen, and there was such despair in her voice that his heart ached for her. I mean, how did you get here, lass? He spoke in a soothing voice as he gazed at the girl; her scared, wan look, the hope- less misery in her face, wrung his heart. He saw, as he took in every bit of her tired, drooping figure, that she wore the same gown she had worn that fatal day on the moor; it was soiled and draggled, and Georges heart was full of fear as he waited for her answer. Rose gave him a hasty look; then she turned her head away. 46 DORIS J3ARUGH. On my legs, foolish lad; how else dye think? She gave a short laugh. My poor lass, dye mean, he said tenderly, at you walked all the way from t Cairn to Steersley? There was the old scornful light in her eyes as she turned round and looked in his face. My mercy! youre not changed, lad; yere as fond as ivver ye was, nae doubt. I walked a t way from t Cairn; easy walking for such as me, she said bitterly. Then she saw tears in his loving brown eyes, and turned away. Ill not freeat ye, lass, he said. Im onny thankful to find you here safe, an in such good keeping. T parsons reeght good, Rose. Yes, hes very kind. She spoke carelessly and stopped for a while; then, finding George did not break the silence, she resumed her walk under the apple- trees. He paced silently beside her. Presently he saw first one tear and then another fall and leave its trace on the bosom of her travel-stained gown. She did not sob or sigh; the tears started to his own eyes. and he dared not speak; his love was too reverent in its nature to force itself on her sorrow. At last she spoke without look- ing at him. Yere a kind, good lad, an may ye nivver know t bitterness of such a lot as mine. D4e mind, lad, how ye read to me yance o t Slough o Despond an t pil- grims flounderin and strugglin i t mire an foul water, till they couldnt sae much as see t land on t other side? Well, lad, ah was gone further still; ah left strug- glin an flounderin. Ah was just sinking. She looked up sharply; the intense pity in his face irritated her, and roused the old defiant spirit. An why not, ahd like to know? No one wad be a bogle t warse if ah had sunk an gone out o mind forivver. Rose, Rose! whisht, honey! Ah tells ye ye munnut speak untruths; ye kens there was more than yan at wad ha gone sorro~vin fer yu their lives lono More than yan! Ah likes that, ah diz. She laughed harshly, and George winced. More than yan means two at t outside, an thats yersel an mebbe gran- mother. Yance ahd hey made a bigger hole i life when ali left it, but now she looked round wildly, then the sight of the house seemed to recall her straying wits. God help me! she said, ahve laughed at yu, George, fer yur sermons, but ahs learned to trust i God sin he helped me on t moor, an ah knaws hell have pity on such a wretched thing as a girl which loves a man wivout a heart in his body. She dried her eyes and kept walking on beside her companion, but George did not speak. His lips moved as he prayed fer- vently for help and guidance, both for him- self and for poor Rose, hut he could not find anything to say. He feared to com- fort her; if he tried it would most likely set her contradiction in a blaze; for he saw that she was in too overwrought a mood to endure any topic disconnected with her present trouble. He was con- scious of some change in Rose. Formerly he had thought that only his exceeding love for her made him sometimes distrust- ful of his power to convince her, but now there was a dignity in her despair of self that kept him hushed. He felt that the nature he thought he knew so thoroughly had secrets beyond his ken. All at once she began to speak again, in a quiet, calm voice, and looking straight before her, so as to avoid Georges eyes. Thank you, lad, for all your kindness. Ah knaws more then you thinks. You came here last night, an t rector was away, an t housekeeper d been told t haud her tongue, an so ye went on to t inn tired an worn out. If yed not started sae early t mornin fer Burneston yed hey kenned t truth; but yed flitted be time t rector got to t Black Eagle. But how came they not t say a word at t inn? They must know youre here. Rose shook her head. Not they. Ah was miles from Steersley when Mr. Hawn- by saw me fost. Ah cannot tell ye how ahd getten so far. Ah got lifts in carts; an~ yance a lady she mun be good, who- ever she be took me on a bit in her car- riage. It was night-time, an she was going post-haste to see a dyin daughter. Ah telled her ah would fain die, so as her daughter might live, life was nowt to me, ah said; and she cried, poor soul, an patted me on t shoulder, and sehd ah was to live for t sake o Him who died that ah might live not for mysel. Tis strange how t words spoken in darkness sank into mah heart. Ah could scarce make out her face in t glimmer, but ah knew it must be sweet; her words, had a teary sound, but they warmed me as a smile wad ha done. Ah, she war good. Mebbe if ahd not travelled along wiv her, ahd not have come away so quiet wiv t parson. Where did you meet him? He saw at once he had better have kept silence. The interruption to her flow of ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. 47 recollections jarred the nerves of the un- happy girl. She tossed her head and gave George a derisive smile. Just t same same as ivver poor doited lad! But as she found that he kept silence, the longing to tell her story to the end grew too strong to resist. She looked straight before her again and went on. T lady made me stay wiv her till t daylight came; but then ah would go. She urged me to go on wiv her to her jour. neys end, but no, that was not fer t likes ome; t was enough for me to see t fine ladys maid, as soon as t was light, toss her head at me. T lady said t next town was Steersley, so ah said ahd friends in a village near, an she was too kind t ask questions. Then t parson found me sit- ting under a hedge. Ah was faint an weary t lady gave me biscuits, but ahd no heart to eat an he bid me get up be- side him, an he took me to an awd lass in a cottage near an left me all day; an i t evenin, when ah lay sleepin on t bed, he came an fetched me here. Thank God! said George involun- tarily. Rose gave him a smile, hut it made her face look old and dreary; it was but the ghost of the saucy, happy smiles that used to be a part of her beauty. It faded into a look of deep sadness. Fare ye well, lad, she said gravely; go back to your am fooalks, an~ nivver trouble more about Rose Duncombe; shes not worthy for yu to think on. Ah diznt say, forget me. Ahd like to feel ah had yan true friend to count on; but ye mun change yur way o thinkin. Ye inun always mind ahs not t Rose at ye loved yance, but a misguided lass that hes cast herself away. Yur words hes come truer than ye thowt for; George, lad, ah hey ventured too near the flame, an my wings is singed forivver more her voice broke into a sob. She waved her hand quickly, and darted from him as suddenly as she had left him at the Cairn. With her went the weight which kept down his power of thinking, and a flood of questions rose to his lips which the very sight of her woeful face, and the hearing of her sad story, had for the time stifled. He looked wistfully up the apple walk, and then shook his head. Its mah am fault, ahm unready, he said, but tis impish to me, an its useless to repine against ones ownself for aught beside sin its no sin, Mr. Hawnby says, to be unready and awkward-like, so long as it dont come from being ower full o wersels, an only God knows, he said rev- erently, how truly ah was taken up lvi t poor lass. XVelI, it would be selfish to cross her will, an ahll not seek her for this time. Maybe hell order it different one day.? It was getting too late to return to the Cairn, and he so longed to see the rector that he resolved to sleep at the Steersley inn. As he led out his horse, Mr. Hawn- by came hurriedly out of the parsonage. He looked much pleased to see George. Im glad Ive met you, my lad. You will find a letter from me when you reach home, he said. I met Rose as she left you just now. Poor child, she is not fit to talk yet; you must leave her alone. She will not take comfort from you in her present state. What is to become of her, sir? Its past bearing The rector put his hand kindly on Georges shoulder. Come, come, this is not like you; I thought you would be quite cheered to find she was safe. Leave her alone with me. I am seeking a quiet home for her, for Mr. Burneston will of course agree with me that she cannot return to her grand- mother. When she is more like herself I will write and tell you, but depend upon it she is far better among strangers just now. Now I shall send you away, and you had better not try to see Rose again for some time to come. You are very good, sir, Ive no words to thank you, but George looked sadly downcast. Cheer up, my lad, the rector said. Time is a ~vonderful healer, and you are both very young, you know, so be hopeful. Now goodb ye. God bless you.~~ He squeezed the lads hand warmly. Poor lad, he said, as he watched him trot out of the yard. He will ~vin her yet, I hope; he deserves to, and shell come right in time. From The contemporary Review. ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANL~ IN ROOMS AND THE OPEN AIR. THE animal kingdom is, as we know, dependent on the vegetable kingdom, which must have existed on the earth be- fore men and animals could live upon it. We may therefore rightly call plants children of the earth. But in so doing we use the language of metaphor, as when we 48 ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. speak of mother earth. The earth does not directly bring forth either plants or animals. Every plant is the child of a mother plant, descends from one of its own kind like ourselves; but plants derive their nourishment directly from earth, air, and water, and, although generated by plants, are nourished directly by the inor- ganic breasts of nature, and imply no other organic life but their own. Had plants a voice, they would more correctly speak of mother earth than ourselves. Plants live directly on the lifeless prod- ucts of earth, and we live directly on the products of plants or on animals which live on them; our existence implies other organic life, and our nourishment is not derived so directly from the earth as that of plants. Since the vegetable world comes between us, we should rather call earth our grandmother than our mother. At all events it is an affectionate relation- ship. We have a natural feeling of close affin- ity with the vegetable world, which ex- presses itself not only in our love of foli- age and flowers, but in our fondness for metaphors derived from the vegetable world and its processes. If we were to reckon up how many metaphors in every- day life and in poetry are derived from the vegetable world, and how many from other spheres of nature, we should find a great excess of the former. Our material relations to plants are also very numerous. The question we are now concerned with is not what food or what medicinal remedies plants provide us with, but the value of plants and planta- tions in dwellings and in the open air in conducing to health or preventing disease. XVe have given the subject very little con- sideration until quite recently, just as we have thought very little of the way in which the pleasures of the table, fine raiment, comfortable dwellings, and many other~ things, conduce to our well-being. Meanwhile we have been guided by our instincts, which, like nature in general, have, on the whole, guided us rightly. Even now there is not much scientific knowledge on the subject; still there is a little, and something is gained when we begin seriously to reflect on anything, for knowledge is sure then to increase. All that man has ever aspired to and attained, has always existed much earlier in idea than in reality. Ideas are never fully real- ized, as we all know, and it is only very gradually that they are realized at all. It is generally asserted that vegetation purifies the air, and chiefly by three func tions: firstly, because plants absorb car- bonic acid; secondly, because under the influence of sunlight they exhale an equiv- alent in oxygen; and lastly, because they produce ozone. These facts I need not demonstrate, as they have been placed beyond doubt by vegetable phvsiologists, chemists, and meteorologists. My task is to show what the direct sanitary effect of these three functions is. I must at once state that none whatever can be proved to exist. And as this asser- tion will contradict the prepossessions of many readers, I feel bound to prove my proposition. As to carbonic acid, the first question is, what is the proper and normal propor- tion of this gas in the air, next how much more carbonic acid is contained in air which is notoriously bad, and, lastly, whether the air on a surface without veg- etation contains essentially more carbonic acid thanone having vegetation upon it. The amount of carbonic acid in the open air has been often determined, and is confined within very narrow limits. It may be said leaving severe storms or very thick fogs out of the question to vary between three and four parts in each ten thousand of the volume of the air. Experiments have also been made on the quantity of carbonic acid in apartments occupied by man, and it is generally taken as the criterion of the quality of the air, ventilation being regulated by it. In very bad air which is undoubtedly deleterious, it has been found to amount to from three to five per mille. One per mille marks the boundary line between good an dbad air in a room. We next inquire whether the atmos- phere over a vast tract of country desti- tute of vegetation contains more carbonic acid than one abounding in vegetation, whether in the former case the amount of carbonic acid approaches one per mille. In 1830, De Saussure began to make re- searches into the variations in the quan- tity of carbonic acid in Geneva, and they were continued about ten years later by Verver in Holland, and Boussingault in Paris; in more recent, and very recent times, a great number of experiments have been made on the subject by Roscoe in Manchester, Schufze at Rostock, and my- self and my pupils, particularly Dr. Wolff- hiigel, at Munich. The result is, in the main, that the variations very small from the first have been found to be still smaller as the methods of determin- ing carbonic acid have been perfected. Saussure, who worked by a method ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. 49 liable to give an excess, found from 37 to amount so as to be detected by our 6-2 parts in ten thousand. He considered methods. that there were also slight variations be- From this fact it may be logically con- tween summer and winter, day and night, cluded that if no increase in the carbonic town and country, land and sea, mountains acid in the air is observable, no diminu- and valleys, which might be ascribed to tion will be observable from vegetation. vegetation. Boussingault, however, found It is a universally recognized and incon- the carbonic acid in the air to be rather trovertible fact that the carbonic acid con- less, and the same on an average in Paris tamed in all the vegetable life on earth is and St Cloud; in Paris 4~I3 and at St. derived from the carbonic acid in the air, Cloud 414 in ten thousand, which sur- in water, and the soil. Many conclude, prised him the more as he had reck- therefore, that the air in a green wood oned that in Paris at least 2,944,000,000 must contain less carbonic acid than that litres of carbonic acid were exhaled by in a city or that of an extensive tract of men, animals, and fuel. waste land. But I can assure them that Roscoe made experiments on the air at the air in the Sahara, so called, of Munich, a station in the middle of Manchester, and formerly called the Dultplatz, contains no at two stations in the country. He was more carbonic acid than the neighboring originally of opinion that the vast manu- Eschen grounds. Of this I can give in- factures of Manchester, chiefly dependent contestible proof, an argument ad Izomi- on the consumption of coal, must produce nern. Dr. Zittel brought me several speci- a perceptible effect on the carbonic acid mens of air in hermetically sealed glass in the air; but he also discovered that the tubes, from his travels in the Libyan des- air in the space in front of Owens College ert, from sandy wastes, and from oases, contained no more than the air at the on which I could conveniently make ex- country stations. He~ also observed occa- periments at Munich. The amount of car- sional variations; but when the carbonic bonic acid does not differ in the least in the acid increased or diminished in the city, it air from the barren ~vaste and the green- was generally just the same in the coun- est oasis. The case is just the same with try. Roscoe found the greatest amount of the amount of oxygen in the air. It was carbonic acid in the air during one of the formerly thought, when imperfect methods thick fogs prevalent in England. were employed, that perceptible variations Schuize found the amount of carbonic could be proved. Thus, for example, the acid in the air at Rostock to be between outbreak of cholera in 1831 was attributed two and a half and four parts in ten thou- to a diminution of oxygen in the air, and sand. On an average it was somewhat here and there experiments were made higher when the wind blew off shore than which seemed to confirm the opinion. off the sea. The hypothesis did not seem improbable, In Munich, Wolffhiigel found the car- for it was concluded with certainty that in bonic acid to between three and four parts tropical swamps, which are the home of in ten thousand. Now and then, but very cholera, the oxygen in the air might have seldom, he observed variations, the maxi- been in course of time diminished by the mum being 6~9 parts in ten thousand in a vast masses of decaying matter. But since very thick fog, the minimum v~ parts in the method of gas analysis has been a heavy snow-storm, when the mercury arranged by Von Bunsen, the amount of was very low in the barometer. oxygen in the air on the summit of Mont It may be asked how the immense pro- Blanc has not been found to differ from duction of carbonic acid in cities like Paris that in a city or in the swamps of Bengal. or Manchester can thus vanish in the air. Neither is it greater in forest or sea air The answer is very simple: by rarefac- than in the air of the desert. tion in the currents of the atmosphere. This absence of demonstrable variation, We are apt not to take this factor into in spite of the production of oxygen by account, but think rather of the air as living plants and the absorption of it by stagnant. The average velocity of the the processes of combustion and decay, air with us is three metres per second, becomes intelligible when we consider first and even in apparently absolute calm it is the mobility, and then the mass of the air more than half a metre. If we therefore encompassing our earth. The weight of assume a column of air one hundred feet this mass is, as the barometer tells us, high and of average velocity, it may be equal to that of a layer of mercury which reckoned that the carbonic acid from all would cover the surface of the earth to the the lungs and chimneys of Paris or Man- depth of seven hundred and sixty milli- chester is not sufficient to increase its metres (more than three-quarters of a LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1044 50 ON TIlE hYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. metre). From the weight of this several billion kilos, some idea can be formed of the volume of the air, when we con- sider that air, even beneath a pressure of seven hundred and sixty millimetres of mercury is yet 10,395 times lighter than mercury. In masses like these, variations such as those we speak of go for nothing. The amount of carbonic acid and oxygen might perhaps be essentially changed in Paris or Manchester if all organic matter on and in the earth were burning at once. Even if it is granted, however, in face of these incontrovertible facts, that vege- tation exercises no perceptible influence upon the composition of the atmosphere in the open air, many persons will not be disposed to give up the idea that the air in rooms can be improved by plants, because, as is well known, every green leaf absorbs carbonic acid and gives out oxygen under the influence of li ht. This idea may seem the more justifiable, because, although the production of carbonic acid is not percep- tible in the greatest assemblages of human beings in the open air, it is always observed in confined spaces, although - the actual production is but small. In the air of a closed apartment, every person and every light burning makes a perceptible differ- ence in the increase of carbonic acid in the air. Must not, therefore, every plant n a pot, every spray, any plant with leaves, make a perceptible difference in a room? Every lover of flowers may be ~pardoned for wishing to see this question answered in the affirmative. Have not even medical men proposed to adorn schoolrooms with plants in pots instead of ~ventilating them better, in order that their leaves and stems might absorb carbonic acid from the mouths of the children, and give out oxygen in its stead? But hygiene cannot agree even to this. Hygiene is a science of economics, and every such sci- ence has to ask not only what exists and whether it exists, but how much there is and whether enough. The power of twenty pots of plants would not be nearly sufficient to neutralize the carbonic acid exhaled by a single child in a given time. If children were dependent on the oxygen given off by flowers, they would soon be suffocated. Itmust not be forgotten what a slow process the production of matter by plants is,matter which the animal organism absorbs and again decomposes in a very short time, whereby as much oxygen is used up as has been set tree in the production of it. It is for this reason that such great extents of vegetation are required for the sustenance of animals and man. The grass or hay consumed by a cow in a cowhouse grows upon a space of ground on which a thousand head of cattle could stand. How slow is the proc- ess of the growth of wheat before it can he eaten as bread, which a man will eat, digest, and decompose in twenty-four hours! The animal and human organism consumes and decomposes food as quickly as a stove burns the wood which took so many thousand times longer to grow in the forest. It would scarcely be intelligible if I were to calculate how much carbonic acid and oxygen a rose, a geranium, or a bignonia would absorb and give out in a room in a day, and to what extent the air might be changed by it, taking into account the inev- itable change of air always going on. I will dra~v attention to a concrete case which every one can understand. When the Royal Winter Garden in Mu- nich ~vas completed and in use, it occurred to me to make experiments on the effect of the whole garden on the air within it. There could not be a more favorable opportunity for experimenting on the air in a space full of vegetation. This green and blooming space was not exposed to the free currents of air which at once im- mensely rarefy all gaseous exhalations, but ~vas kept warm under a dome of glass, through which only the light of heaven penetrated. Although not hermetically sealed, the circulation of air in such a building, compared with that in the open air, is reduced over a hundred-thousand- fold. I asked permission to make experiments for several days at various hours of the day and night, which was readily granted. Now, what was the result? The propor- tion of carbonic acid in the air in the winter garden was almost as high as in the open air. This greatly surl)rised me, but I hoped at any rate to have one of my tra- ditional ideas confirmed: I hoped to find less carbonic acid in the day than in the night, supported by the fact that the green portions of plants under the influence of light decompose carbonic acid and develop oxygen. But even here I was disappoint- ed. I generally found carbonic acid in- creasing from morning till evening, and decreasing from night till morning. As this seemed really l)aradoxical, I doubled my tests and care, but the result remained the same. At that time I knew nothing of the large amount of carbonic acid of the air, in the soil, the air of the ground, or I should probably have been less surprise& One day it suddenly became clear to ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. 51 me why there was always more carbonic acid by day than by night. I had been thinking only of the turf, the shrubs, and trees which consume carbonic acid and produce oxygen, and not of the men and birds in the winter garden. One day, when there were considerably more men at work there than usual, the carbonic acid rose to the highest point, and sank again to the avera~ e during the night. The pro- duction of carbonic acid by the working and breathing human beings was so much greater than that consumed by the plants in the same time. The oxygen in the winter garden was rather higher than in the open air; there it was about twenty-one per cent., and in the winter garden twenty-two to twenty-three per cent. I did not make any experiments on ozone. for reasons which I will ~ by. bive by-and- The amount of carbonic acid in the air. in the winter garden cannot be reckoned as telling for or against the hygienic value of vegetation in an enclosed space. Let us inquire, then, into the value of the slibht increase of oxygen. There is a tvidespread opinion that the breathing of air rich in oxygen effects a more rapid transformation of matter, a more rapid combustion, as ~ve say, in the body. Even great inquirers and thinkers have considered that we only eat and imbibe nourishment to satiate the oxygen stream- ing through us, which would otherwise consume us. We know now well enough that the quantity of oxygen which we im- bibe does not depend on the quantity in the air we breathe, but far more on previ- ous changes in and the amount of transfor- mation of matter in the body, which are regulated by the requirements of breath- ing. The inhalation of oxygen is not a primary but a secondary thing. When we inhale air at every breath richer than usual inoxygen for example, when breathing highly compressed air, as divers do, or laborers on the pneumatic foundations of bridge piers the result is not a larger consumption of matter and an increased production of carbonic acid, but merely a decrease in the number of inhalations. If in air of ordinary density we make about sixteen respirations in a minute, in air of greatec density we should involuntafily make only twelve, ten, or eight, according to the density and our need of oxygen; all else remains the same. Lavoisier. and half a century later Reg- nault and Reiset, placed animals for twen- ty-four hours in air very rich in oxygen, but they did not consume more of it than in the ordinary air. An increase of oxy- gen in the air, therefore, or pure oxygen gas, only produces an effect in certain mor- bid conditions, in cases of difficulty of breathing, or where breathing has been for some time suspended, because an inspira- tion communicates more oxygen to the blood than breathing ordinary air. A healthy person can, however, without diffi- culty or injury, compensate for consider- able differences, and an increase or de- crease of one or two per cent. of oxygen does no harm, for under ordinary circum- stances we only inhale one-fourth of the oxygen in the air we breathe; we inhale it with twenty-one per cent., and exhale it with sixteen per cent. So far, therefore, as ~ve feel ill or well in a winter garden, it does not depend on the quantity of oxygen in the air, and there is no greater appreciable quantity of oxygen in a wood of thick foliage than in a desert or on the open sea. Let us, also, for a moment consider the ozone in the air, which may be looked upon as polarized or agitated oxygen. After its discovery, which has immortal- ized the name of Schdnbein, was made known, it was thought for a time that the key had been found for the appearance and disappearance of various diseases, in the quantity of ozone in the air. But one fact, which was observed from the first, shows that it cannot be so; for the pres- ence of ozone can never be detected in our dwellings, not even in the cleanest and best ventilated. Now, as it is a fact that we spend the greater part of our lives in our houses, and are better than if we lived in the open air, the hygienic value of ozone does not seem so very great. Added to this, the medical men of Kdni berg long had several ozone stations there, during which time various diseases caine and went, without, as appears from the reports of Dr. Schiefferdecker, ozoiie having the slightest connection with the appearance or disappearance of any of them. Dr. Wolffhiigel, assistant at the Hygi- enic Institute at Munich, has lately been occupied with the question of the sanitary value of ozone, but has arrived at only negative results. But in saying this I have no intention of denying that ozone is of great impor- tance in the atmosphere, for I am of opin- ion that it is. It is the constant purifier of the atmosphere from all organic matter, which passes into it and might accumulate. The air Would have been long ago filled 52 ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. with the vapors of decomposition if it were not for ozone, which oxidizes all that is oxidizable, if only time enough is allowed for it, and too much is not expected at once for, generally, the amount of ozone in the air is so small, that it is consumed in making its way into our houses, without disinfecting them, and we can no more dispense with the greatest cleanliness and best ventilation in our homes than we can essentially change the air in our rooms by means of plants in pots and foliage. Some of my readers will perhaps ask in some disappointment, in what, then, does the hygienic value of plants and planta- tions consist? Or do I mean to say that all the money spent by one and another on a parterre of flowers in his house or on a garden, or by a community for beautiful grounds, or by a State for the preservation of forests, with the idea of promoting health, is mere luxury, without any hy- gienic value? These questions alter our standpoint, and I believe I shall be able to show that even hygiene does recognize a sanitary value in plants and flowers, in the laying out of grounds and plantations, only it offers a different explanation from the ordinary one. I consider the impression which plants and plantations make upon our minds and senses to be of hy~ienic value; further, their influence on the conformation of the soil, with which health is in many respects connected; and, finally, their influence upon other qualities of the air than car- bonic acid, oxygen, and ozone: among these may be mentioned, in passing, shade in summer, and decrease of wind and dust. It is an old observation, needing no demonstration, that the cheerful and happy man lives not only an easier, but, on the average, a more healthy life than the de- pressed and morose man. Medical men, and especially mad doctors, could tell us much of the great value of a certain relative proportion of pleasurable and pain. ful impressions upon health, and how fre- quently some unfortunate position, an absence of pleasure~ or too much of pain- ful impression, are the causes of serious illness. Man always tries, and has an irresistible need, to balance painful sensa- tions by some kind of pleasure or other, so that often, in order to get himself into a tolerable frame of mind, or to deaden his feelings for a time, he will have re- course to wine, beer, or spirits, though he knows well enough that he will be worse afterwards than before. A certain amount of change and recreation is indispensable, and, failing others, we seek them by inju rious means. There are, doubtless, some unhappy and morbid natures who are ab ways discontented, to whom everything comes amiss, and whom it is impossible to help; but the majority of men are easily pleased, find pleasure in little things, though it is but a sorry life they lead. It is something the same with the pleasures of life as with the pleasures of the table we must relish our food if it is to do us good. What good will the most nourish- ing diet do me if it creates disgust? Pro- fessor C. Voit has clearly pointed out, in his experimental researches into diet, the great value of palatable food, as well as nourishment, and how indispensable a cer- tain variety in our meals is. We think we are only tickling the palate, and that it is nothing to the stomach and intestines whether food is agreeable to the palate or not, since they xvill digest it, if it is digesti- ble at all. But it is not so indifferent, after all; for the nerves of the tongue are con- nected with other nerves and with the nerve centres, so that the pleasures of the palate or some pleasure, at any rate, even if is only imagination, which can only oribinate in the central orban, the brain, often has an active effect on other organs. This is a matter of daily experience. If you put your finger down your throat, you produce retching; many people have only to think of anything disgusting to produce the effect of an emetic, just as the thought of something nice makes the mouth water just as much as tasting the most dainty morsel. Voit showed me one of his dogs with a fistula in the stomach. So long as this dog is not thinking of food, his stom- ach secretes no gastric juice, but no soon- er does he catch sight of a bit of meat, even at a distance, than the stomach pre- pares for digestion and secretes gastric juice in abundance. Without this secre- tion the assimilation of nourishment would be impossible. If therefore some provoc- atives induce and increase certain sensa- tions and useful processes, they are of essential value to health, and it is no bad economy to spend something on them. I consider flowers in a room, for all to whom they give pleasure, to be one of the enjoyments of life, like condiments in food. It is certainly one of the most harmless and refined. We cannot live on pleasure alone; but to those who have something to put up with in life, their beloved flow- ers perform good service. The same may be said of private gar. dens and public grounds, and of the artis- tic perfecting of them. The more taste- fully laid out, the better the effect. Though ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. 53 tastes differ, there is a general standard of taste which lasts for several generations, though it varies from time to time and is subject to fashion. As their object is to give pleasure, public grounds should ac- cord with the taste of the age, or aim at cultivating it. This is a justification for going to some expense for ~sthetic ends. The influence of vegetation on the soil is much more easy to determine than on the mind of man. Space fails me to go into all the aspects of this subject, and I will confine myself to some of the most obvious. The difference is most apparent on comparing the soil of a tract of land covered with wood with the soil outside, in other respects alike. The Bavarian Forest Department deserves great credit for having established meteorological sta- tions with special reference to forest cul- ture, under the superintendence of Profes- sor Ebermayer of Aschaffenburg. He has published his first years observations in a work on The Influence of Forests on the Air and Soil, and their Climatic and Hygienic Importance, * which may be recommended to every one who wishes to study the subject. Modern hygiene has observed that cer- tain variations in the moisture of the soil have a great influence on the origin and spread of certain epidemic diseases, as for instance cholera and typhoid fever that these diseases do not become epidemic when the moisture in the soil is not above or below a certain level, and has remained so for a time. These variations can be measured with greater accuracy by the ground-water of the soil than by the rain- fall, because in the latter case we have to determine how much water penetrates the ground, how much runs off the surface, and how much evaporates at once. The amount of moisture in the soil of a forest is subject to considerably less variation than that outside. Ebermayer has de- duced the following result from his meteoro- logical observations on forestry: If from the soil of an open space one hundred parts of water evaporate, then from the soil of a forest free from underwood thirty- eight parts would evaporate, and from a soil covered with underwood only fifteen parts would evaporate. This simple fact explains clearly why the cutting down of wood over tracts of country is always fol- lowed by the drying up of wells and springs. In lndia, the home of cholera, much importance has been attached in recent times to plantations as preventives of it. It has been always observed that the vil- lages in wooded districts suffer less than those in treeless plains. Many instances of this are given in the reports of Dr. Bryden, president of the statistical office in Calcutta, and Dr. Murray, inspector of hospitals. For instance, Bryden * com- pares the district of the Mahanadda, one of the northern tributaries of the Ganges, the almost treeless district of Rajpoor, with the forest district of Sainbalpoor. It is stated that in the villages in the l)lain of Rajpoor, sixty or seventy per cent. of the inhabitants are sometimes swept away by cholera in three or four days, while the wooded district of Sambalpoor is often free from it, or it is much less severe. The district commissioner who had to make a tour in the district on ac- count of the occurrence of cholera reports, among other things, as follows : The road to Sambalpoor runs for sixty or seventy miles through the forest, which round Petorah and Jenkfluss is very dense. Now, it is a remarkable fact, but it is a fact neverthe- less, that on this route, traversed daily by hun- dreds of travellers, vehicles, and baggage trains, the cholera rarely appears in this extent of sixty miles, and when it does appear it is in a mild form; but when we come to the road from Arang, westward to Chicholee Bungalow, which runs for about ninety miles through a barren, treeless plain, we find the cholera every year in its more severe form, the dead and dying lying by the wayside, and trains of vehicles half of whose conductors are dead. In the same report Dr. Bryden con- tinues : I will mention one other fact as a result of my observations, namely, that places sur- rounded by those vast and splendid groves which are occasionally seen, lying in low and probably marshy situations, surrounded by hills, and which, from the mass of decaying vegetation, are very subject to fever in Sep- tember, October, and November, are seldom visited by cholera, and if it occurs there are but few deaths, while places on high ground, or in what are called fine, airy situations, free from trees and without hills near, so that they are thoroughly ventilated, suffer very much from cholera. Murray gives a number of instances showing the influence of trees on the spread of cholera. One of these may find a place here : The fact is generally believed, and not long ago the medical officer of Jatisgar, in Central * Die physikalischen Wirknngen des Waldes auf Luft und Boden, und seine klimatologische und hy- Epidemic Cholera in the Bengal Presidency, i869, gienische Bedeutung. p. 225. 54 ON THE HYGIENIC VALUE OF PLANTS. India, offered a striking proof of it. During the widespread epidemic of cholera in Alla- habad, in 1859, those parts of the garrison whose barracks had the advantage of having trees near them enjoyed an indisputable ex- emption, and precisely in proportion to the thickness and nearness of the shelter. Thus the European Cavalry in the Wellington Bar- racks, which stand between four rows of mango- trees, but are yet to a certain extent open, suffered much less than the Fourth European Regiment whose quarters were on a hill ex- posed to the full force of the wind; while the Bengal Horse Artillery, who were in a thicket of mango-trees, had not a single case of sick- ness; and the exemption cannot be regarded as accidental, as the next year the compara- tive immunity was precisely the same.* We need not, however, go to India to observe similar instances of the influence of a certain degree of moisture in the soil favored by woods or other conditions; we can find them much nearer home. In the cholera epidemic of 1854, in Bavaria, it was generally observed that the places in the moors were spared, in spite of the otherwise bad condition of the inhabitants. The great plain of the Danube from Neu- burg to Ingolstadt was surrounded by places where it was epidemic, while in the plain itself there were but a few scattered cases. The same thing has been demon- strated by Reinhard, president of the Sax- on Medical College. Cholera has visited Saxony eight times since 1836, and every time it spared the northerly district be- tween. Pleisse and Spree, where ague is endemic. In the English Garden at Munich there are several buildings, not sparsely tenant- ted the Diana Baths, the Chinese Tower, with a tavern and outbuildings, the Gendarmerie Station, and the Klein- kessellohe. In the three outbreaks of cholera at Munich none of these places have been affected by it. This fact is the more surprising, as three of them com- prise. public taverns into which the dis- ease germs must have been occasionally introduced by the public; yet there was no epidemic in these houses, although it prevailed largely immediately beyond the English Garden and close to the Diana Baths in 1854 and 1873. It must have been accidental that no isolated cases occurred, as the inmates of the Chinese Tower, or the Kleinkessellohe, might have caught it in Munich as others did who came from a distance, but had there been single cases, probably no epidemic would have occurred in these houses. Even if these deductions must be ac- cepted with caution from an etiological point of view, still, on the whole, they indisputably tell in favor of trees and woods. Surface vegetation has also other ad- vantages, besides its use in regulating the moisture in the soil; it purifies it from the drainage of human habitations, where- by it is contaminated and impregnated. If this refuse matter remains in soil desti- tute of growing vegetation, further decom- position sets in, and other processes are induced, not always of a salubrious nature, but often deleterious, the products of which reach us by means of air or water, and may penetrate into our houses. But from this indisputable fact, false conclu- sions are sometimes drawn. Many people imagine that if a few old trees are left stand- ing in an open space their roots ~vill absorb all the impurities from the houses around, and render the refuse which accumulates beneath them innocuous. This idea is not only false in a sanitary point of view, but very injurious, as it prevents people from taking the measures which alone can keep the ground under our houses pure. We will now explain why the shade of gardens and woods is at certain seasons so beneficial. The human race during its pilgrimage on earth and wanderings over it has many difficult tasks to perform. One of the most difficult is involved in the necessity that all our internal organs, and the blood, whether at the equator or the north pole, should retain an equable tem- perature of 37.50 Centigrade (980 Fahr.). Deviations of but one degree are signs of serious illness. The blood of the negro and that of the Esquimaux is of the same temperature, while the one lives in a tem- perature of 400 above and the other 400 below zero (Centigrade). A difference of 8o~ has therefore to be equalized. Our organism, doubtless, possesses a special apparatus for the performance of this colossal task, self-acting sluices so t~ speak, by means of which more or less o.~ the heat generated in the body passes off: these consist mainly in the increase or diminution of the peripheric circulation, and the action of the pores of the skin. But we soon come to the end of our natural regulating apparatus, and have to resort to artificial means. Against cold we have excellent methods in clothing, dwellings, and fires; but at present our precautions against heat are very limited. This is doubtless the reason why higher civiliza * Report on the Treatment of Epidemic Cholera, tion has extended so much farther towards 869, p~ 4. the polar regions than towards the equa THE PRINCE CONSORT S SAVINGS. 55 tor. The Germanic races, particularly, inevitably degenerate after living for a few generations in the tropics, and must be continually renewed by immigration if they desire to retain supremacy, as is proved by the case of the English in In- dia. They will not be able to settle there and maintain the characteristics which have made them dominant, until means have been found of diminishing the heat of the body at pleasure, as we are able to maintain it in the north. At present our remedies against heat are baths, fans, and shade. We lose the heat of our bodies in three different ways by the medium in which we are, generally the air,and which can be warmed; by the evaporation of perspiration; and by radiation from bodies of a lower temperature, not taking into account a small portion of heat which goes off in mechanical labor. Under ordinary circumstances in temperate climates, we lose half the heat generated by radiation, one-fourth by evaporation, and one-fourth by the conducting medium in which we are. In proportion as any of these meth- ods is diminished, one or both the others must be increased. As long as possible, our organisms are so obliging as to open and close the sluices themselves without our cognizance, provided that our regulat- ing apimratus is in order, that we are not ill. It is only when our good servant the skin, under certain conditions, has come to an end of its powers, that we begin to feel that we must lend our aid. And thus we have found by experience that in hot weather shade helps the body to keep cool to the needful extent. The chief effect of shelter is to prevent the suns rays from striking us directly; but if this were all, it would be as cool in the height of summer indoors, or even under the leaden roofs of Venice which have driven many to frenzy and desperationas under the shade of a tree or in a wood. It also makes a great difference whether the suns rays fall on thick foliage or on a roof of slate or metal. A great deal of heat is neutralized by evaporation from the leaves; another portion by the decomposition of carbonic acid; just so much as is set free when ~ve burn the wood and other organic combinations into the composition 6f which it enters. The heat produced by burning wood in a stove is derived from the sun ; it is but the captured rays of the sun again set free by combustion. We learn from Ebermayer s work that the temperature of the trees in a forest and even in the tops of them, is always lower than the air in the forest. Besides this, shade in the open air always causes a certain draught which acts as a kind of fan. All must have noticed when walking in oppressive heat, when the air seems still as death, that a refresh- ing breeze arises as soon as a cloud casts a shade. The same thing may often be observed in summer in walking through a street with close rows of houses, when the air is still, and one side is sunny, the other in shade. On the sunny side there is not a breath of air, while on the other there may be a light breeze. This is easily ex- plained; so far as the shade extends the air is cooler than in the sun; layers of air of unequal warmth are of different gravity, and this difference of temperature is the cause of the motion in the air. The shade of a single tree, therefore, cools not only by intercepting the suns rays, but also by the effect of gentle fan- ning. The shelter of a thick wood, how- ever, is much more agreeable than that of a single tree. The air in a wood is cooler than that of an open space exposed to the sun. The air from outside is drawn into the wood, is cooled by it and cools us again. And it is not only the air that cools us, but the trees themselves. Obser- vation has shown that the trunks of trees in a wood breast high, even at the hottest time of day, are 50 Cent. cooler than the air. We therefore lose considerable heat by radiation to these cooler objects, and can cool ourselves more easily at a tem- perature of 25~ Cent. in a wood than at a much lower temperature in an open space. When the objects around us are as warm as ourselves we lose nothing by radiation; what is radiated from us is radiated back by them. This is why we are so uncom- fortable in heated and overcrowded rooms. It is generally set down to bad air, and this does certainly contribute to it, but it is chiefly the result of disturbed distribu- tion of heat, as has been plainly shown by experiments on the composition of such air, which makes many people feel ill. MAX VON PETTENKOFER. From The Spectator. THE PRINCE CONSORTS SAVINGS. THE court has thought it wise very justly thought it wise to take advantage of the publication of the third volume of the Life of the Prince Consort to deny S6 THE PRINCE CONSORT S SAVINGS. one of the commonest, most widely dif- expected from him. He was often blamed fused, and most generally believed of the because these purchases were not on a larger charges against his memory. It is, per- scale. The fault was not with him, but in the haps, the only one which has obtained very limited means at his disposal, and as to credence among the educated. They, these, his only regret was that they did not enable him to do for art and science all that however, as well as the masses, have been he would have wished. It was only by strict possessed by the notion that the prince, economy that the years current expenditure who was an admirable manager of affairs was made to square with the years income, he completely restored the finances of and the prince died, le ving absoluteZy no for- his sons property, the duchy of Cornwall tune; indeed, barely enough to meet his per- and who was personally not extrava- sonal liabilities. And yet even recently we gant, left behind him a large fortune, which were assured, upon the authority of an emi- was invested in land in South Kensington, nent statesman, who survived the prince many and was bequeathed at his death to the years, and who professed to speak from per- queen. His will, it was said, was proved sonal knowledge, that he left behind in one of instead of in the his investments no less a sum than 6oo,ooo! before the archbishop The statesman in question was not always ordinary probate office, in order to conceal exact in his statements, and he was never less the truth, and the money was silently exact, or more inexcusably so, than in this added by the queen to her already vast instance. But if a man whose position gave possessions. So inveterate was this story weight to his words could propagate so mere that, as Mr. Martin says, it imposed on a fable, it becomes necessary to give it, and statesmen of mark, and it exercised, not all stories of the same kind, an emphatic once, but repeatedly, a very decided politi- denial. cal effect. It was one cause, at all events, of the extraordinary fuss made about the dower to the Princess Louise, and has helped repeatedly to embitter speeches against grants demanded on behalf of the South Kensington Museum and the department of Science and Art. The court, it ~vas said, was always jobbing to bring up South Kensington rents. Mr. Martin declares, in the most explicit and definite way, that the story is an inven- tion from beginning to end, that the prince consort spent his whole income, and that he left absolutely no fortune whatever. Mr. Martins words, which are evidently intended to be unusually vehement, are as follows It may be convenient here once for all to dispose of, perhaps, the only calumny of the many to which the prince was subjected, which, so far as we are aware, keeps any hold upon the public mind, viz., that he had amassed large sums of money out of the income allowed him by the nation, part of which had been invested in the purchase of land at South Kensington, adjoining the property of the exhihition commissioners. The prince never l)tirchased any land at South Kensington, either for himself or his family. Connected as he was ~vith the acquisition of ground there for purely national purposes, the thought of acquirin~ property in the same locality for per- sonal purposes would never have entered his mind, or the mind, indeed, of any honorable man. But in truth, the prince never had the means to make purchases of this nature. His whole income was no more than sufficient to meet the salaries of his secretaries and other officials and servants, his public subscriptions, and such purchases of works of art as were It is impossible for language to be more explicit, and this slander will now, we pre- sume, disappear, like a thousand others. The odd thing about the original story of the savings is not that the public should have believed itfor the public will be- lieve anything, when the figures get beyond moo,ooobut that it should be consid- ered a slander, and a slander so serious that a most reluctant court should, years after the victims decease, feel it expedient to give it an explicit and as it were de- tailed denial. Why is it disgraceful to save ones cash? There always will be unkind stories circulating about the royal family. They seldom or never share in the popularity which the occupant of the throne, if only decently attentive to En- glish peculiarities of feeling, can always secure, and they are all slightly injured as well as protected by that kind of twilight in which, ever since the days of the regency, the British court has succeetled in enveloping its proceedings. Something must be said about the central subject for gossip, and as there is nothin.~ true to be said, the story which is most like ascer- tained truth is repeated in its place. The prince was known to be thrifty, and had stopped much foolish waste at Windsor arising from a ludicrous conflict of authori- ties, and consequently it was reported that he was making a gre at fortune. The queen has never asked her subjects for money and was known to be rich, and consequently she was declared to be most parsimonious and to be heaping up wealth so great that any application for dower or appanage for THE PRINCE CONSORT S SAVINGS. 57 her children was an injustice to the coun- try. The truth about the latter point was explained by Mr. Gladstone, who said that the queen, a widow and fond of retire- ment, had saved a fortune, which was not at all unusual in amount, and for which she had many uses; and the truth about the former point is, that it is poor scandal, origin ally begotten of the vexation felt by employ6s of the palace when the excessive and wanton waste which in one or two de- partments had existed in previous reigns was brought under regulation. It ~vill be found, in all human probability, when the queen~ s memoir is written by some suc- cessor to Mr. Martin, that she was exactly as liberal and as careful as most English ch~telaines, and that the popular belief to the contrary has arisen solely from her love for quietness, which has disinclined her to play hostess, and to the overcrowd- ing sometimes unavoidable at Balmoral and Osborne. So inveterate, however, is the determination that the queen shall not be faultless, that any story, however absurd, which can be explained on the theory of par- simony receives at once a certain credence. Two years ago, for example, half London society believed for some days that the empress of Austria, one of the very greatest ladies in Europe, and moreover, one of the most influential persons, had travelled to Windsor to see the queen, and had been suffered to depart without being offered lunch. The truth was that the empress was in a hurry, and although pressed to stay to a lunch already pre- pared, went away as she had arranged, but out of this simple incident grew rumor upon rumor. The case is the same, how- ever, in all capitals, and the slanders, though annoying, do not much matter; but itis odd that in this country they should so persistently take this particular direc- tion. Why should not the prince consort have saved his money, if he liked? No- body in this country, once out of church, thinks saving improper; everybody pro- fesses to despise extravagance, a ndnobody outside a limited circle of tradesmen ex- pects to get anything out of the court expenditure. Why, then, should not the prince have saved, and invested in South Kensington ground rents too, if he knew enough of business to do it? As a matter of fact, he never had the means. He can never have had 40,000 a year clear, and a prince in his l)osition, with a household of his own to pay, arts to encourage, and dependants to l)rotect, very soon finds that an income of that kind, large as it seems to the professional classes, requires to be husbanded with some care. It is not the kitchen which drains the pocket of an En- glish noble. Supposing the prince con- sort, however, to have had the means, wherein lay such an objection to his sav- ing them that the mere statement that he had saved became a slander and added grievously to his unpopularity? We are absolutely unable to find a reason, except a certain unreasonableness in the temper of the English people. They did not think his allowance enormous. They did not want him to keep up any state separate from that of the queen. They would have been savaue if he had spent money in any way which brought him popularity, or influence, or even social esteem. They wanted him to efface himself into the queens private secretary, which alone among the prince consorts of history he did, and then they scolded because they thought that in his seclusion he had saved a fortune. It was mere unreasoning preju- dice, fostered by annoyance at the very slight opening for comment which the prince gave anybody, and dislike of his imaginary tendencies in politics. We wonder whether the etiquette which at present almost forbids the court either to refute or to punish slander is, in the interests of the monarchy, a wise one. We suspect it is. The statesmen of the Continent do not think so, and are always most jealous to preserve the power of re- stricting personal comment, but as a mat- ter of fact, they usually fail, the most patent result of their efforts being to make the slanders much more bitter and unscru- pulous. Napoleon was libelled everywhere at a time ~vhen a libeller was liable to Cay- enne, and our own regent got nothing out of his prosecutions except a more accen- tuated hatred and contempt. The ex- traordinary sensitiveness of the German emperor, or it may be, of his ministers, does not shield him half so well as the quiescence of the queen, who in most cases of course never sees a libel, and it has not nearly the same effect of dignity. The right assumed by all royal personages on the Continent of refusing a challenge unless it comes from a royal l)rince, a right never surrendered for the Duke de Montpensiers opponent was of his own blood has never injured their reputation for courage, and a certain fortitude or in- difference under obloquy does not deteri- orate their character in the eyes of the multitude. It is very doubtful if Napo- leon II I.s character, properly so called, was injured in Belgium or Switzerland by the literature of libel on him which grew HELTOGOLAND up in those countries, and quite certain that all the random stories about the Prince of XVales never stopped during his illness the popular prayer for his recovery. We suspect, indeed, that slander on royal persons, so long as they do not make themselves politically offensive to their people, goes very little way. It is not really credited. The people are tickled by it, just as they are by any other romances about the great, but they do not, while perhaps repeating the ill-natured story, be- lieve it to be more than an expression of momentary dislike. If Marie Antoinette, who of all human beings was the one most foully libelled, had been on the pop- ular side, neither the malice of her ene- mies nor her own indiscretion would have diminished her popularity one tittle, while her one grand prosecution did her more harm than all the inventions of the libel- lers. Extreme cases might, no doubt, occur, but as a rule, slanderous stories against royal personages are best refuted after they are dead, and in books like Mr. Martins. Every Democrat in America used to read every day that General Grant was a drunkard, and a horse jockey, and a plunderer, and worse but the Democrat who would not dine with General Grant, or who judged him differently on account of all these stories, might be sought in vain. He read in them expressions of an opinion that the general should not be re- elected, and that was all. From Macmillans Magazine. HELIOGOLAND. THERE are few places in Europe where the traveller may feel so secure from the companionship of the ordinary British tourist as in Helio~oland. And yet it is a I3ritish possession, and has been one ever since 1814. Up to that date the steep rock in the North Sea, whose name is sometimes spent Helgoland, or H eilge- land, but which we call Heliogoland, had remained in uncoveted and undesired pos- session of the Danes. Early in the begin- ning of the present century, however, when strange acts of appropriation were com- mitted under the influence of panic, and justified by the rough-and-ready laws of self-defence, we seized upon this little group of islands lying in the German Ocean, right opposite the mouths of the great rivers Elbe and Weser. It consists of Heliogoland, Sandy Island, and several reefs and rocks, of which only two have been given the distinctive names of the Monk and the Steen. Heliogoland itself is barely a mile long, and its average breadth is only the third of a mile. Even these moderate dimensions are said to be subjected to a steady reduction by the encroachments of the sea. There is every reason to believe that the whole ~roup of islets, which bear distinct traces of change in their physical geography, once formed a single island large compared to the size of any of its existino- fra~ments. A bit of old Frisian doo~rerel describes vividly enough the impression of the trav- eller who first sees Heliogoland in its sum- mer dress Road es det Lunn, Grdn es de Kant, Witt es de Sunn; Deet es de woaper vant, Helligeland. Red is the land, Green is the grass, White is the sand; These are the colors of Heliogoland. And very bright and pretty these colors looked to our eyes, when we dropped the Sunbeams anchor in the harbor last August, after a swift and safe run across under sail from Margate in forty-eight hours. The ordinary route is by way of Flamburg, and from thence by steamers making an eight hours voyage three times a week. Only a couple of these hours, however, are spent at sea, the other five being occupied by a slow progress down the Elbe. Heliogoland is a favorite resort of Austrian and German families, who flock here during the summer months to enjoy the delicious sea-bathing, and the inexpensive, pleasant, rates fafoz out-of- door life. Indeed, the coup dczil which first pre- sented itself reminded me of nothing so much as one of the scenes from the opera of The Flyin~ Dutchman. There was the same bright sea, the dark cliffs, and the sandy shore. The same sort of long wooden pier straggled out into the blue water, and was crowded with groups of sturdy, fair, North Sea fishermen. They were idling about, too, in true theatrical fashion, dressed in loose trousers light- blue striped sailor shirts, and blue or red woollen caps. Nor did the women look less picturesque in their bright scarlet or yellow bordered petticoats, lioht over- dresses, and black or chintz sun-bonnets. Small as is the principal island, it yet boasts of two towns one on the high land, and one on the low land. There is as much as one hundred and seventy HELIOGOLAND. 59 feet of difference between the two lands, and the visitor must climb two hundred and three steps, if he would reach the upper town from the seashore. On this Ober-land stands the Government House, the church, the batteries and their magazine, and, hi her than all, the splendid liThthouse, the lantern of which is two hun- dred and fifty-seven feet above the sea- level. 1his lighthouse not only serves as a warning from the rock on which it is built, but is of use to vessels entering the Elbe or the Weser, the Eyder or the Jade. There are about three hundred and fifty houses on this high ground, and eighty on the lower portion of the island, called the Unter land, holding between them a couple of thousand inhabitants. These dwellings are so neat and clean, that their wooden walls and red roofs help to produce an indescribably comic effect of the whole place having been just taken out of a box of childrens toys, and neatly arranged in squares and rows. I3ut the combination of English comfort with Dutch cleanliness and German pro- priety is very agreeable to the eye. The church is a curious building, and contains, suspended from the ceiling, sev- eral models of ships under full sail, pre- sented, er roto, from time to time. The women sit by themselves down-stairs, in pews marked with their family names; the men sit in a gallery up-stairs, round which has been painted, by no mean artist, a series of scenes from the Old and New Testaments. Some years ago the clergy- man wished to paint these pictures out, which would have been a great pity; for, although the mode of treating the subjects has not been perhaps strictly ecclesiastical, they deserve to be retained as relics of a past age. It is to be hoped that some loving hand may even yet be found to copy or photograph these quaint old de- signs, ere time or progress deals still more hardly with them. The font, too, is espec- ially curious. It is held up by figures so ancient that cog;zosce;iti declare they must be the remaining supports of some ancient altar to a heathen deity. When a christening takes place there is a pre- liminary cereniony of filling this font, and it is pretty to see fifty or a hundred chil- dren advancing up the aisle in a proces- siori, each bearing a little mug of water. The service is Lutheran. The clergyman reads from the communion-table, and above it is placed a little box from which he l)reaches. Besides this he possesses a pew of his own, exactly opposite that ap- propriated to the governors use, with the, communion-table between. Both these pews are precisely like opera-boxes, and have windows to open and shut. lt is not so long ago since prayers used to be offered up in this very church for wrecks ;. and it was an established custom, if the rumor of one arrived whilst service was being performed, for the clergyman to shut his book, seize the long hatchet-like pike placed in readiness for such an emer- gency, and lead his flock to their boats. But the mission was scarcely a Christian one, for no survivers were ever l)ermitted to return and tell the tale of what sort of welcome they had received on these inhos- pitable rocks. We must remember, however, in miti- gation of such hard and cruel facts, that from father to son for many and many a bygone generation the trade and profes- sion of each male inhabitant of Heliogo- land had been that of a wrecker, ~vith a very little exercise of the pilots or fish- erman s more gentle craft durin~ the brief summer months. Indeed it has taken the strong repressive measures insisted on and strictly carried out by the present governor, to at all subdue this inborn ten dency to act on the saying of what is one mans extremity being another mans opportunity. The great improvement in wrecking morals and manners which has been accomplished with so much difficulty is, however, but skin deep, and will even now collapse on the smallest chance of es- caping detection. Whilst the Sunbeam lay in one of the two good harbors of these islands, she was the object of much curiosity and interest. Amongst her nu- merous visitors were some of the coast- guard. They had been duly shown round the yacht, and during this process some ~vag inquired of the coxswain of their gig what he would like to take first if the ves- sel were sitting on the rocks. This is a euphemistic equivalent in Heliogoland for a vessel being cast away. A half- regretful gleam came into his bright blue eyes as the man answered wistfully, I hardly know, sir; but there is a good deal of copper about. As a matter of fact, we had already observed that the yen- tilators and bright brasswork of our little ship attracted special notice and many exl)ressions of half-envious admiration. But it is only fair to add that ~ve had other more peaceful and less professional visit- ors from among the islanders and the Bddegdste, and I often found beautiful bouquets of flowers and graceful messages of thanks awaiting me on board when we returned from a long day on shore. 6o HELIOGOLAND. The present governor of Heliogoland has indeed made enormous reforms in the system of legalized wreckage which he found in practice on the islands. He has established a volunteer corps of native coast-guards, superintended by eight picked coast-guardsmen from England. Wow, therefore, when a wreck takes place on the shore, the errand of those battling with the beating surf, the howling wind, and the blinding storms of sleet and snow, to where the poor ship lies stranded on the rocks, is one of succor and not of heartless villany. Formerly the very same men would have only hastened to the spot with their pikes and hatchets, to cut down the bulkheads, force open the hatches, take out the cargo, and breakup the ship as quickly as might be for the sake of appro- priating her timbers, copper, and ballast. As for the unhappy crew, their fate would probably be similar to that of some passen- gers by coach to Friscoin its earliest days, of whom Artemus Ward makes men- tion as being the objects of the drivers spe- cial attention. This worthy used to make his rounds, kingbolt in hand, as soon as possible after an accident, and proceed to act on his avowed principle that dead men dont sue; they aint on it. But in these more civilized days, if rescue has come too late, gentle hands have laid the unfortu- nate mariners to rest in this bleak spot, and, through the kindness of the governors wife, each grave in the pretty cemetery in Sandy Island, even though nameless, has been marked by a small black cross, bear- ing the name of the shipwrecked vessel and the date of its loss, whenever it was possible to ascertain them. The rocket apparatus has been used on many occa- sions, too, with the best results. In spite, however, of the utmost vigi- lance, it sometimes happens that the old trade is still plied, and the governor told me the following story himself He was one day lately caught in a thick fog when out in a boat shooting wild sea- birds, and whilst waiting for the mist to lift, he heard a sound of hammering in the direction of a distant reef. His practised ears soon told him what it meant, and in spite of the difficulties raised on the spot by the crew of his boat, and the earnest efforts they made to dissuade him, he per- sisted in steering towards where he knew the reef lay. Just before reaching it, the fog lifted slightly, disclosing to some sen- tinel wrecker the swiftly coming boat. In a moment the most absurd stampede took place. Out of the cabin and hold of the unfortunate ship the disturbed pillagers swarmed like bees, hoping to reach their own boats and escape unrecognized. So rapid ~vere their movements, that only two or three of the least agile were captured, but those who succeeded in getting away left behind them their large axes and other ship-breaking implements, on most of which their names had been branded, and which thus furnished the means by which the owners were captured and punished. Since this adventure the wreckers have had to acknowledge that, like Othello, their occupations gone, and they have taken every opportunity of enlisting them- selves on the side of law and order. There has been great difficulty too in inducing the natives to use the life-boats brought from England. On more than one occasion the coast-guard men have found the air-boxes broken and the linings cut by the natives, whilst they have themselves been absent on a life-saving expedition. But these obstacles lessen every day, under the firm yet kindly rule of the present gov- ernor, who takes the liveliest personal in- terest in every detail of his administration. The Waal Channel separates the Downs or Sandy Island from Heliogoland, and both islands are but thinly cdvered with soil, which is hardly anywhere more than foul- feet deep. Still there is pasture for cattle and sheep; and fair crops of barley and oats can be raised in summer. The principal revenue of the islands is derived from fish, which are sent to London vice Hamburg, and from a large oyster-bed. For the last fifty years it has also been the favorite summer bathing-place of Austrians and Germans, who come over in great numbers between June and September. The life led by these visitors is a very simple and informal one. Nobody seems to think it necessary to walk up and down at certain hours, or to do any particular thing at regular and stated periods. You may even if you like dig sand-holes with the children, whilst you listen to lovely music played twice a day by a band from Carlsbad. To enjoy Heliogoland you must be a good walker, for there are no horses on the island, and every place has to be vis- ited on foot. There is a nice breezy walk across the highest point of the island to the north end, where a curious rock stands boldly out, almost separate from the main- land. The cliffs are full of caves and grottoes, which are illuminated twice a year. A reckless expenditure of blue lights and rockets takes place on these occasions, producing, I am assured, a very enchanting and magical effect. We were HELIOGOLAND. so unfortunate in the weather during our these there are various ingenious little short stay, that one of these illuminations articles manufactured by the inhabitants which was impending, and formed the sta- during the long, cold, dark winter evenings. pie subject of conversation during many The Ober-land, or upper part of the weeks, had to he postponed over and over town, can boast of several good hotels and again, and we never beheld it. restaurants, and in summer some two or The system of bathing at Sandy Island three hundred guests sit down daily at is organized to perfection, and it was im- the principal fable dh~fe. For evening possible to help contrasting it with the sea- amusement, there is a bright, cheery little side manners of Ramsgate, where we had theatre, where a really good company plays last bathed. The B~de-gdsfe are taken nightly the most sparkling and pretty across to Sandy Island in private boats or pieces with a verve and finish which re- in omnibus boats, which run every five minds one of a French play-house. An minutes, from 6 A M. to 2 P.M. The bather occasional ball at Government House is a provides himself with a ticket before start- great treat, and warmly appreciated by the ing, and has no more trouble. Ladies and fortunate guests. gentlemen bathe on different sides of the There is a generally received fable to island, and in different places, according the effect that Heliogoland is overrun with to the wind and tide. We landed in our rabbits, which are rapidly and surely un- own boat, and I was much amused at the dermining the whole of Sandy Island, and respectful distance at which the old pilot, will eventually cause it to disappear be- who was carrying my bathing-gown, neath the sea. But, as a matter of fact, stopped. In his dread of approaching too there is not a single rabbit on the island, closely to the forbidden precincts, he made nor has there been one in the memory of the B& defrau walk at least a quarter of a the present generation. The wild-fowl mile to meet us. It certainly was a treat afford excellent sport. The guillemots to bathe in such pure and clear water be- breed in immense quantities among the neath so lovely and bright a sky. One picturesque rocks of the west coast, and feels like a different being afterwards. in the autumn large numbers of woodcock Part of the programme consists in taking land here on their way south in search of a Sonne-bad and basking in the balmy air summer climes. In the town itself two on the little sand-hills, sheltered by the large poles are erected at the corner of rocks from too much wind or sun. The every street, and between them a net is bather has no trouble or anxiety on his suspended, by means of which many birds mind about machines or towels. They are caught during their flight. Mr. Gatke, are all provided for him, and the price is the permanent secretary to the govern- included in his original ticket. After the ment, has a most interesting ornithologi- bath it is de rz~ueur to go and breakfast cal collection, consisting entirely of birds at the restaurant pavilion on the beach, that have been shot on the islands, but where you feel exactly as if you were sit- embracing specimens of numerous foreign ting on the glazed-in deck of a ship. The varieties. Many of those we saw must food is excellent, and Heliogoland lobsters have found their way hither from Africa, fresh out of the water are as different from the Himalayas, and even from Aus- from the familiar lobster smothered in tralia, besides a peculiar kind of gull salad and sauce, as caviare, newly taken (Rosss gull) from the arctic regions, of from the sturgeon and eaten on the banks which even the British Museum does not of the Volga, is from caviare eaten on the possess a specimen. Mr. Gatke talks of banks of the Thames out of a china jar. publishing a book on this collection of Then after this excellent breakfast, if the feathered wanderers whose flight has end- Bdde-gast is inclined for exercise, he may ed here. stroll about Very pleasantly to the point of During the winter the rocks swarm with the reef, where he will hardly be able to wild-fowl of all kinds swans, geese, and turn his head without seeing the ribs of ducks, but only two of the species breed some unfortunate vessel sticking up out there, the razor-hawk and the guillemot. of the sea-sand; or he may return to the in the spring, when the rocks are literally mainland and listen to the sweet music of covered with these birds, the effect must the Carlsbad band, and even do a little be inexpressibly droll, and the noise tre- mild shopping. The specialities of the mendous. island consist of hats, muffs, tippets, and Insignificant as the place seems to most many pretty things made from the plumage of us, Heliogoland has given a great deal of the grey gull and other wild sea-birds of trouble in her day. Barely ten years which nest among the rocks. Besides ago she was the bugbear of insurance 62 FORGETFULNESS. offices and shipowners, and a well-known refuo-e for masters desirous of getting rid of their vessels in a comfortable manner. No vessel once on the neiThborin~ reefs, or on the main island, was ever allowed to depart, while those wrecked in the Elbe or the neighboring rivers were simply plundered by the Heliogoland fishermen and pilots under the plea of salvage. The renumeration for discharging or pilfering a cargo used to be settled in full assembly of the Vorsteliersckaft, whose members, being principally pilot officers and wreck- ers themselves, were naturally interested in the amount of the reward received for salvage. No debts could be recovered in the island, no legal decrees enforced, and a creditor had to wait for the death of an obstinate debtor, on the chance of his property coming before the court. The credit of the island, until lately, was at a very low ebb indeed, and, in order to in- crease its funds, contracts for public gam- bling were entered into between the Vor- s/ekerscliaft and some German lessees, which had the desired effect for the moment. It is difficult to imagine that so small a place could, in the few years be- tween 1815 and i868, have involved itself in a public debt to the extent of 7,003?. At present, in spite of the abolition of the gaming-tables and a great outlay on public works, this sum has been reduced to some- where about 3,000?. To the wise and prudent administration of the present gov- ernor, this, as well as every other improve- ment, is due. Under his beneficent rule, Heliogoland has changed so much that the visitor of even fifteen years ago would not recognize, in the orderly, neat, thriv- ing little settlement, the ruinous, lawless, bankrupt island of those comparatively recent days. ANNIE BRASSEY. under adequate conditions every moclifi- cation the mind has passed through may be restored, and recognized as the repre- sentative in memory of what had once before been presented in direct experience. Sometimes people will tell you that in the process of losing consciousness by drown- ing, they have, in a moment or two, passed through, in vision, the whole of the expe- rience of their previous lives, including incidents which, so far as they knew, they had completely and absolutely forgotten. Now, of course, statements of this kind are necessarily very vague, and hardly capable of verification. Those who give such evidence, if cross-examined, ~vould not probably maintain that they really passed through in vision the long line of all the purely mechanical actions of their lives, all the times they had yawned, or coughed, or sneezed, or hummed a tune, every crossing of a / and dotting of an i in every line written by them from child- hood to the date of the drowning, that all the motes that they had once seen in a sunbeam had been seen again in the same order as before; they can hardly mean all this. What they do probably mean is simply that all the more stirring incidents of their life which had become deeply engraved on their memory before by their association with some grave ac- tion or strong passion, some deep emotion, or some serious pang of remorse, recur at such a time in due order. If they mean more than this, there is this gre at difficulty about the statement, that ~ve are all of us absolutely incompetent to say of the greater part of our least interesting experiences, whether they are faithfully represented in memory or not. Let any man walk down two or three yards of a busy street. Of course a vast number of impressions are made on his retina and on his ears; prob- ably a good many associated ideas pass rapidly through his mind; one or two odors will be perceived; he will feel the pavement with his feet and his stick in From The Spectator. two or three different places; and he will. FORGETFULNESS. have some sort of notion of the warmth or IN the October number of Mind, coldness of the air through which he which keeps up its high standard of schol- passes or, at least, of the changes of tem- arly thoroughness in all its papers, though perature. Now, within (say) three minutes, it might, we think, give at times rather let him repeat the very same walk, and more space than it does to subjects of take all the pains in the world to note the general interest, without sacrificing any- similarities and differences in what he thing in that direction, - there is a experiences. XVe are very certain that thoughtful paper on Forgetfulness, by even though the person in question were a Mr. Verdon, in which the writer argues Charles Dickens himself, he will simply with a good deal of force against the now not be able to assure himself whether or rather prevalent notion that there is no not he saw before many things that he such thing as total forgetfulness, that sees now, and heard before many things FORGETFULNESS. 63 thit he hears now. He ~vill not know whether or not he treads on precisely the same spots on the pavement as before, and places hia stick on the same; he will not know whether the currents of air meet him in precisely the same places; and he will not know whether or not the same asso- ciations pass through his mind in precisely the same order. Now, if this be so when a man repeats, as nearly as the changes of the external world admit, the same expe- riences within three minutes, for the very purpose of recognizing all that is recog- nizable, and discriminating what is differ- ent, it stands to reason that in a review of life, however vivid it may be, occurring many years after most of the events re- viewed, it would be simply impossible to, say whether all the images which pass in vision before you are or are not real me- morial pictures of your former experience. If your original perceptions are so vague, as in ninety-nine cases out of every hun- dred of half~attentive perception they are, that within the next five minutes you are unable to say whether they are repeat- ed accurat2ly or not, how is it conceivable that-under any spell whatever you can be quite sure that they have been repeated accurately at the interval of many years? We can only remember distinctly what we have vividly experienced. If the first ex- perience is blurred and faint, the best con- ceivable return of it to memory must be blurred and faint also; nor can we usual- ly, in the case of a blurred and faint first- hand experience, recall, even immediately, the de ree in which each part of the image was thus blurred and faint. We confess, therefore, that we agree with Mr. Verdon in entertaining the profoundest doubt of the truth of the now rather common assumption that memory may one day restore to our recognition eve~y experi- ence of our past life. Vie should say that a very lar~e part of life is consumed in experiences so little unique and so very like thousands of other experiences, that even if they did recur to our minds eye in precisely the same form as before, we should be unable to affirm with confidence that they were the same. If the twenty thousand dinners that a middle-aged man had eaten were all to be paraded with the most faithful accuracy before his imagina- tion, how is he, who probably hesitates in the witness-box whether or not the claim- ant before him be his own old friend oran impostor who closely resembles him, to swear to their identity? There are no doubt such things as infallible attestations of memory. If five minutes ago I were med itating a great crime or a great deed of any sort, I know that this was so, as ~veIl as I know where I am now. But as to ninety-nine hundredths of the minuti~ of human existence, memory, even when fresh, refuses to attest anything with abso- lute certainty. And it is at least exceed- ingly difficult, even if not quite impossible, to suppose that what memory could not attest at all when the event on which it was questioned was quite fresh, it could infallibly attest when that event was the vanishing point of a long past. We hold, then, with Mr. Verdon that there is no real ground for supposing that all past states of consciousness must be recoverable and identifiable by us as the veritable states through which we actually passed. As a beneral rule, it is only mo- ments of somewhat vividly concentrated life that we can positively attest in mem- ory at any great distance of time; while common and commonplace experiences can hardly be discriminated clearly from each other even at the shortest intervals. We believe that in every mans life there are not only many experiences which have not been distinct enough when they oc- curred to be clearly ahd faithfully remem- bered, but also many which are so often partially repeated without critical and mo- mentous differences, that even the most complete restoration of some of them in consciousness could not be identified indi- vidually, but only as types. But nothing that we have said must be interpreted as throwing any doubt on the well-established fact that what has once been thorouThly well known, though since apparently quite forgotten, in consequence of the displacing power of new associations and new habits, may be brought back into full recollection again by any circum- stances, such, for instance, as those of a fever, which in their turn obliterate the more immediate present, and set the mind working again in the old grooves. No- body can doubt the truth of some of the stories of people who in illness have re- peated sentences from a language quite unknown to them in their ordinary state, but which, as is subsequently ascertained, were impressed on their ear in childhood or youth, by hearing them constantly re- peated, till at last these sentences had be- come as familiar to them as the inarticu- late cries of London are to one who has long lived in the London streets, cries which, in like manner, disappear from the memory, so soon as the ear ceases to be familiar with them. And these stories certainly prove that anything which has 64 FORGETFULNESS. once been thoroughly familiar may be re- Aphasic patients can scold the servants vived again in the memory, by striking the an operation in which they are started, proper key-note in the music of old asso- as it were, by a habit, rather than by a set ciation, at least if it be struck at a time purpose when they cannot even get when the mind is shut out from the dis- nearer to the word moon than to call it turbing influence of immediate practical that public light, or to the word card interests, and temporarily imprisoned in than cigar. Carried back into an old the past. All this is in no way inconsist- groove of habit, they will run straight~ ent with what we have been maintaining, though if they were to pick their own way, namely, that it is impossible to distin- they would go blundering from side to guish clearly in memory what you have side. Thus the man who forgot his most never distinguished clearly even in direct intimate friends name, when he wanted to knowledge, that you cannot surely recog- introduce him, recovered it at once in the nize what you have never surely known, mere swing of the familiar imprecation You may certainly have the most vivid with which he said, Confound you, Rob- recognition of thiKgs very long indeed for- inson, what is your name? But the ease gotten, and as you would suppose, abso- of the process of recovering such a dropped lutely forgotten, supposing always that they stitch in the memory, if you can only go were once thoroughly familiar, as almost back a few stitches and come upon it with every one must have experienced at times the momentum of an old habit, is no argu- even in dreams. But then what is it that ment at all in favor of the proposition that has apparently obliterated these familiar complete forgetfulness is impossible. For things from memory? It is the claim on the truth is, that a very great proportion the attention of a long succession of other of our lives is made up, not of habitual duties and interests, and if these for a time actions which come quite pat, but of half- be excluded, even though only by the im- perceived, half-discriminated, half-grasped ages of a dream which diverts the mind circumstances, which we could not clearly into long-deserted tracks, there is no rea- recall the next instant, for the very excel- son at all why the old attitude of mind lent reason that they were not clearly pre- should not be resumed, and when resumed, sented to us when they were presented. should not appear as fresh and natural as Anything which the mind has once really ever. Moreover, nothing is more likely to made its own, it may recur to, even long be suddenly revived in ,this way than a after it had seemed to be obliterated; but long-disused mechanical habit, with some what has never been its own when it was old link in the chain of which the eye or first in contact with our thought, cannot ear suddenly finds itself again in contact. become so in memory. You may disinter All experience shows that as nothing is so a long-buried train of associations, as you easy as to forget mere words and names, may disinter an old Roman road long hid- even when the things they represent are den by the superincumbent dust of ages. quite clearly before the mind, so the only But then the train of associations must way to recollect them is not so much to have been there, and must have been dwell on them, as to get into some well- firmly welded together once, before it can worn groove of habit, by the help of which be possible to disinter it. Great portions you come upon them unawares, in the of our lives are unrememberable simply midst of equally familiar words. Thus it because they have never been vividly lived, has been noted that even people who suf- and indeed, in all the minuti~ of their fer from that very serious disease of the detail, hardly could have been vividly lived brain called aphasia, almost always swear at all. If you dont know what you see at correctly, indeed say anything correctly the time you see it, it is no great fault of which they are not trying to say, but which the memory if you cannot remember it just completes a chain of old associations. when you see it no longer. DETERMINATION or THE HEIGHTS or parallel to the suns rays: if we have a map of CLOUDS. Mr. Alexander Ringwood, of Ade- the country round the station, and mark on it laide, has sent home a short paper on this the spots where the suns rays strike through subject, which appears to have been privately clouds, or where the shadows of clouds fall, printed. He proposes to carry out the obser- the determination of the height of the cloud vations with a small simple altazimuth instru- stratum is effected by plane trigonometry, if tuent. The principle is intelligible enough. we observe the altitude of the precise points The suns altitude being known, and the edges in the cloud, of the projections of cloud shadows being

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The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1752 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 12, 1878 0136 1752
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LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ ol. CXXXVI. Volume XXI. No. 1752. January 12, 1878. From Beginning, CONTENTS. I. FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI, II. DORIS BARUGH. A Yorkshire Story. By Katharine S. Macquoid, author of Patty. Part XI. III. RUSSIAN AGGRESSiON, AS SPECIALLY AF- FECTING AUSTRIA-HUNGARY AND TURKEY. By Louis Kossuth IV. ERICA. Part VIII. Translated for THE LIVING AGE, from the German of V. WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. phant VI. RUGBY FOOTBALL,. By Mrs. Oh- Fortnightly Review, Good Words, Contemporary Review,. Frau von Ingersieben, Adzance Sheets, Tat/er,. A SUMMER EVENING, THE HONEST FARMER,. A MANS REGRET,. MISCELLANY, P 0 E T R F. 66 AT HER DOOR, 66 A MOMENT, 661 66 66 128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remztted directly to the Publishers, the LIvING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of~ostage. 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 money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, iS cents. 67 76 94 io8 xiS 127 66 A SUMMER EVENING, ETC. A SUMMER EVENING. I. THE summer sun is setting, The sky is red in the west, And over all hangs silence, And a feeling of peace and rest. The sultry day is over, The light begins to fade, The farmers weary horses Are standing in the shade. III. The golden light of sunset Shines on the corn-fields round, And the breeze, as it passes over, Makes a sweet, rippling sound. IV. The range of distant mountains Looks dark against the sky; And right across the river, A path of light doth lie. V. I gazed till my eyes were dazzled, At the slowly sinking sun, Till the stars peeped out above me, Telling the day was done. Spectator. ANON. THE HONEST FARMER. (TO AN OLD TUNE.) HAPPY I count the farmers life, Its various round of wholesome toil; An honest man with loving wife, And offspring native to the soil. Thrice happy, surely ! in his breast Plain wisdom and the trust in God; His path more straight from east to west Than politician ever trod. His gains no loss to other men; His stalwart blows inflict no wound; Not busy with his tongue or pen, He questions truthful sky and ground. Partner with seasons and the sun, Natures co-worker; all his skill Obedience, evn as waters run, Winds blow, herb, beast their laws fulfil. A vigorous youthhood, clean and bold; A manly manhood; cheerful age; His comely children proudly hold Their parentage best heritage. Unhealthy work, false mirth, chicane, Guilt, needless woe, and useless strife, o cities, vain, inane, insane I How happy is the farmers life I Frasers Magazine. A MANS REGRET. O MY child-love, my love of long ago, How great was life when you and I were young! The world was boundless for we did not know; And life a poem for we had not sung. Now is the world grown small, and we thereon Fill with wise toil and woe each flying day; Elves from the wood, dreams from my heart are gone, And heaven is bare, for God is far away. O my child-love, cannot you come again, And I look on you with grave innocent eyes? Your God has many angels; I would fain Woo for one hour one angel from the skies. O my child-love, come back, come back to me, And laughing lead me from the care and din; Lay on my heart those small hands tenderly And lovingly to let the whole world in. Blackwoods Magazine. AT HER DOOR. A FOOL for my doubting and dreaming And following up and down! Shall I fill my life with scheming For a touch of my ladys gown? Shall I plot from night to morning For the glance of a womans eye? And take the wage of scorning, And wear shames livery? O footman, 0 wonder of whiteness And diplomatic cockade, O footman of much politeness For my ladys ladys-maid, As you open the door of the carriage, Just tell her Ive gone away, But will come to dance at her marriage On somebodys happy day. Blackwoods Magazine. J. R. S. A MOMENT. WHEN the lightning flashes by night, The raindrops seem A million jewels of light In the moments gleam. And often in gathering fears, A moment of love To jewels will turn the tears That it cannot remove. Spectator. F. W. B. FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. From The Fortnightly Review. FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. Di Firenze in prima si divisono intra loin i nobili, dipoi i nobili e ii popolo, e in ultimo ii popolo e la plebe; e molte volte occorse che una di queste parti rimasa superiore, si divise in due. MACHIAVELLI. I. FLORENCE, like all Italian cities, owed her independence to the duel of the papacy and empire. The transference of the imperial authority beyond the Alps had enabled the burghs of Lombardy and Tus- cany to establish a form of self-govern- rnent. This government was based upon the old municipal organization of duum- virs and deceinvirs. It was, in fact, noth- ing more or less than a survival from the ancient Roman system. The proof of this ~vas, that while vindicating their rights as towns, the free cities never questioned the validity of the imperial title. Even after the peace of Constance in 1183, when Frederick Barbarossa acknowl- edged their autonomy, they received with- in their walls a supreme magistrate, with power of life and death and ultimate appeal in all decisive questions, whose title of g5otes/i indicated that he repre- sented the imperial power ~o/estas. It was not by the assertion of any right, so much as by the growth of custom, and by the weakness of the emperors, that in course of time each city became a sov- ereign state. The theoretical supremacy of the empire prevented any other author- ity from taking the first place in Italy. On the other hand, the practical inefficiency of the emperors to play their part encour- aged the establishment of numerous minor powers amenable to no controlling discipline. The free cities derived their strength from industry, and had nothing in com- mon with the nobles of the surrounding country. Broadly speaking, the popula- tion of the towns included what remained in Italy of the old Roman people. This Roman stock was nowhere stronger than in Florence and Venice Florence de- fended from barbarian incursions by her mountains and marshes, Venice by the isolation of her lagoons. The nobles, on the contrary, were mostly of foreign origin Germans, Franks, and Lombards who had established themselves as feudal lords in castles apart from the cities. The force which the burghs acquired as indus- trial communities was soon turned against these nobles. The larger cities, like Milan and Florence, began to make war upon the lords of castles, and to absorb into their own territory the small towns and villages around them. Thus in the social economy of the Italians there were two antagonistic elements, ready to range themselves beneath any banners that should give the form of legitimate war- fare to their mutual hostility. It was the policy of the Church in the twelfth century to support the cause of the cities, using I them as a weapon against the empire, and stimulating the growing ambition of the burghers. In this way Italy came to be divided into the two world-famous factions known as Guelf and Ghibelline. The struggle between Guelf and Ghibel- line was the struggle of the papacy for the depression of the empire, the struggle of the great burghs face to face with feu- dalism, the struggle of the old Italic stock enclosed in cities with the foreign nobles established in fortresses. When the Church had finally triumphed by the ex- tirpation of the house of Hohenstauffen, this conflict of Guelf and Ghibelline was really ended. Until the reign of Charles V. no emperor interfered to any purpose in Italian affairs. At the same time the ~popes ceased to wield a formidable power. Having won the battle by calling in the French, they suffered the consequences of this policy by losing their hold on Italy during the long period of their exile at Avignon. The Italians, left without either pope or emperor, were free to pursue their course of internal development, and to prosecute their quarrels among them- selves. But though the names of Guelf and Ghibelline lost their old significance after the year 1266 (the date of King Manfreds death), these two factions had so divided Italy that they continued to play a prominent part in her annals. Guelf still meant constitutional autonomy, meant the burgher as against the noble, meant industry as opposed to feudal lord- ship. Ghibelline meant the rule of the few over the many, meant tyranny, meant 68 FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. the interest of the noble as against the merchant and the citizen. These broad distinctions must be borne in mind, if we seek to understand how it was that a city like Florence continued to be governed by parties, the European force of which had passed away. Florence first rose into importance dur- ing the papacy of Innocent III. Up to this date she had been a town of second- rate distinction even in Tuscany. Pisa was more powerful by arms and commerce. Lucca was the old seat of the dukes and marquises of Tuscany. But between the years 1200 and 1250 Florence assumed the place she was to hold thenceforward, by heading the league of Tuscan cities formed to support the Guelf party against the Ghibellines. Formally adopting the Guelf cause, the Florentines made them- selves the champions of municipal liberty in central Italy; and while they declared war against the Ghibelline cities, they endeavored to stamp out the very name of noble in their state. It is not needful to describe the varying fortunes of the Guelfs and Ghibellines, the burghers and the nobles, during the thirteenth and the first half of the fourteenth centuries. Suf- fice it to say that through all the vicissi- tudes of that stormy period the name Guelf became more and more associated with republican freedom in Florence. At last, after the final triumph of that party in 1321, the Guelfs remained victors in the city. Associating the glory of their independence with Guelf principles, the citizens of Florence perpetuated within their State a faction that, in its turn, was destined to prove perilous to liberty. When it became clear that the republic was to rule itself henceforth untrammelled by imperial interference, the people divided themselves into six districts, and chose for each district two ancients, who admin- istered the government in concert with the potest~ and the captain of the people. The ancients were a relic of the old Roman municipal organization. The potest~i, who was invariably a noble foreigner selected by the people, represented the extinct im- perial right, and exercised the power of life and death within the city. The cap- tain of the people, who was also a for- eigner, headed the burghers in their mili- tary capacity, for at that period the troops were levied from the citizens themselves in twenty companies. The body of the citizens, or the topolo, were ultimately sovereigns in the State. Assembled under the banners of their several companies, they formed a par/amen/a for delegating their own power to each successive gov- ernment. Their representatives, again, arranged in two councils, called the Coun- cil of the People and the Council of the Commune, under the presidency of the captain of the people and the potest~i, rat- ified the measures which had previously been proposed and carried by the execu- tive authority or szgnoria. Under this simple State system the Florentines placed themselves at the head of the Tuscan League, fought the battles of the Church, asserted their sovereignty by issuing the golden form of the republic, and flourished until 1266. In that year an important change was effected in the constitution. The whole population of Florence consisted, on the one hand, of nobles or grandi, as they ~vere called in Tuscany, and on the other hand of working-people. The latter, di- vided into traders and handicraftsmen, were distributed in guilds called ar/i; and at that time there were seven greater and five lesser arti, the most influential of all being the guild of the wool-merchants. These guilds had their halls for meeting, their colleges of chief officers, their heads, called consoli or priors, and their flags. In 1266 it was decided that the adminis- tration of the commonwealth should be placed simply and wholly in the hands of the arti, and the priors of these industrial companies became the lords or Signory of Florence. No inhabitant of the city who had not enrolled himself as a craftsman in one of the guilds could exercise any func- tion of burghership. To be scio~era/o, or without industry, was to be without power, without rank or place of honor in the State. The revolution which placed the arts at the head of the republic had the practical effect of excluding the grandi altogether from the government. Violent efforts were made by these noble families, potent through their territorial possessions FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 69 and foreign connections, and trained from boyhood in the use of arms, to recover the place from which the new laws thrust them; but their menacing attitude, instead of intimidating the burghers, roused their anger and drove them to the passing of still more stringent laws. In 1293, after the Ghibellines had been defeated in the great battle of Campaldino, a series of severe enactments, called the Ordinances of Justice, were decreed against the unruly grandi. All civic rights were taken from them ; the severest penalties were attached to their slightest infringement of munici- pal law; their titles to land were limited the privilege of living within the city walls was allowed them only under galling re- strictions; and, last not least, a supreme magistrate, named the gonfalonier of jus- tice, was created for the special purpose of watching them and carrying out the penal code against them. Henceforward Florence was governed exclusively by merchants and artisans. The grandi has- tened to enrol themselves in the guilds, exchanging their former titles and digni- ties for the solid privilege of burghership. The exact parallel to this industrial consti- tution for a commonwealth, carrying on wars with emperors and princes, holding haughty captains in its pay, and dictating laws to subject cities, cannot, I think, be elsewhere found in history. It is as unique as the Florence of Dante and Giotto is unique. While the people was guarding itself thus stringently against the grandi, a separate body was created for the special purpose of extirpating the Ghibellines. A permanent committee of vigilance, called the college or the cap- tains of the Guelf party, was established. It was their function to administer the forfeited possessions of Ghibelline rebels, to hunt out suspected citizens, to prose- cute them for Ghibellinism, to judge them, and to punish them as traitors to the commonwealth. This body, like a little State within the State, proved for- midable to the republic itself through the unlimited and undefined sway it exercised over burghers whom it chose to tax with treason. In course of time it became the oligarchical element within the Florentine democracy, and threatened to change the free cons~titution of the city into a govern- ment conducted by a few powerful fami- lies. There is no need to dwell in detail on the internal difficulties of Florence during the first half of the fourteenth century. T~vo main circumstances, however, require to be briefly noticed. These are (i.) the contest of the Blacks and Whites, so famous through the part played in it by Dante; and (ii.) the tyranny of the Duke of Athens, Walter de Brienne. The feuds of the Blacks and Whites broke up the city into factions, and produced such anar- chy that at last it was found necessary to place the republic under the protection of foreign potentates. Charles of Valois was first chosen, and after him the Duke of Athens, who took up his residence in the city. Entrusted with dictatorial authority, he used his power to form a military des- potism. Though his reign of violence lasted rather less than a year, it bore important fruits; for the tyrant, seeking to support himself upon the favor of the common people, gave political power to the lesser arts at the expense of the greater, and confused the old State system by enlarging the democracy. The net result of these events for Florence was, first, that the city became habituated to rancorous party strife involving exiles and proscriptions ; and secondly, that it lost its primitive social hierarchy of classes. After the Guelfs had conquered the Ghibellines, and the people had absorbed the grandi in their guilds, the next chapter in the troubled history of Florence was the division of the poj5olo against itself. Civil strife now declared itself as a conflict between labor and capital. The members of the lesser arts, craftsmen who plied trades subordinate to those of the greater arts, rose up against their social and polit- ical superiors, demanding a larger share in the government, a more equal distribution of profits, higher wages, and privileges that should place them on an absolute equality with the wealthy merchants. It was in the year 1378 that the proletariate broke out into rebellion. Previous events had pre- pared the way for this revolt. First of all, the republic had been democratized through the, destruction of the grandi and 70 FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. through the popular policy pursued to gain his own ends by the Duke of Athens. Secondly, society had been shaken to its very foundation by the great plague of 1348. Both Boccaccio and Matteo Villani draw lively pictures of the relaxed morality and loss of order consequent upon this ter- rible disaster; nor had thirty years suf- ficed to restore their relative position to grades and ranks confounded by an over- whelming calamity. We may, therefore, reckon the great plague of 1348 among the causes which produced the anarchy of 1378. Rising in a mass to claim their privileges, the artisans ejected the Signory from the public palace, and for a while Florence was at the mercy of the mob. It is worthy of notice that the Medici, whose name is scarcely known before this epoch, now come for one moment to the front. Salvestro de Medici ~vas gonfalo- nier of justice at the time when the tumult first broke out. He followed the faction of the handicraftsmen, and became the hero of the day. I cannot discover that he did more than extend a sort of passive protection to their cause. Yet there is no doubt that the attachment of the working- classes to the house of Medici dates from this period. The rebellion of 1378 is known in Florentine history as the tumult of the ciom~i. The name ciornpi strictly means the wool-carders. One set of op- eratives in the city, and that the largest, gave its title to the whole body of the laborers. For some months these crafts- men governed the republic, appointing their own Signory and passing laws in their own interest; but, as is usual, the proletariate found itself incapable of sus- tained government. The ambition and discontent of the ciompi foamed them- selves away, and industrious working-men began to see that trade was languishing and credit on the wane. By their own act at last they restored the government to the priors of the greater arti. Still the movement had not been without grave consequences. It completed the levelling of classes, which had been steadily advanc- incr from the first in Florence. After the ciompi riot there was no longer not only any distinction between noble and burgher, but the distinction between greater and lesser guilds was practically swept away. The classes, parties, and degrees in the republic were so broken up, ground down, and mingled, that thenceforth the true source of power in the State was wealth combined with personal ability. In other words, the proper political milieu had been formed for unscrupulous adventurers. Florence had become a democracy with- out social organization, which might fall a prey to oligarchs or despots. What re- mained of deeply rooted feuds or factions animosities against the grandi, hatred for the Ghibellines, jealousy of labor and capital offered so many points of lever- age for stirring the passions of the people and for covering personal ambition with a cloak of public zeal. The time was come for the Albizzi to attempt an oligarchy, and for the Medici to begin the enslavement of the State. The constitution of Florence offered many points of weakness to the attacks of such intriguers. In the first place it was in its origin not a political but an indus- trial organization a simple group of guilds invested with the sovereign author- ity. Its two most powerful engines, the gonfalonier of justice and the Guelf Col- lege, had been formed, not with a view to the preservation of the government, but with the purpose of quelling the nobles and excluding a detested faction. It had no permanent head like the doge of Ven- ice, no fixed senate like the Venetian Grand Council; its chief magistrates, the Signory, were elected for short periods of two months, and their mode of election was open to the gravest criticism. Sup- posed to be chosen by lot, they were really selected from lists drawn up by the fac- tions in power from time to time. These factions contrived to exclude the names of all but their adherents from the bags, or borse, in which the burghers eligible for election had to be inscribed. Further- more, it was not possible for this shifting Signory to conduct affairs requiring sus- tained effort and secret deliberation; therefore recourse was being continually had to dictatorial commissions. The peo- ple, summoned in parliament upon the great square, were asked to confer pleni- potentiary authority upon a committee called ba/ia, who proceeded to do what they chose in the State, and who retained po~ver after the emergency for which they were created passed away. The same instability in the supreme magistracy led to the appointment of special commission- ers for war, and special councils, or pra- tic/ic, for the management of each.depart- ment. Such supplementary commissions not only proved the weakness of the cen- tral authority, but they were always liable to be made the instruments of party war- fare. The Guelf College was another and a different source of danger to the State. Not acting under the control of the Sig- nory, but using its own initiative, this FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 7 powerful body could proscribe and punish burghers on the mere suspicion of Ghibel- linism. Though the Ghibelline faction had become an empty name, the Guelf College excluded from the franchise all and every whom they chose on any pre- text to admonish. Under this mild phrase, to admonish, was concealed a cruel exer- cise of tyranny it meant to warn a man that he was suspected of treason, and that he had better relinquish the exercise of his burghership. By free use of this engine of admonition, the Guelf College rendered their enemies voiceless in the State, and were able to pack the Signory and the councils with their own creatures. Another important defect in the Floren- tine constitution was the method of impos- ing taxes. This was done by no regular system. The party in power made what estimate it chose of a mans capacity to bear taxation, and called upon him for extraordinary loans. In this way citizens were frequently driven into bankruptcy and exile; and since to be a debtor to the State deprived a burgher of his civic rights, severe taxation was one of the best ways of silencing and neutralizing a dis- sentient. I have enumerated these several causes of weakness in the Florentine State system, partly because they show how irregularly the constitution had been formed by the patching and extension of a simple industrial machine to suit the needs of a great commonwealth; partly because it was through these defects that the de- mocracy merged gradually into a despot- ism. The art of the Medici consisted in a scientific comprehension of these very imperfections, a methodic use of them for their own purposes, and a steady opposi- tion to any attempts made to substitute a stricter system. The Florentines had de- termined to be an industrial community, governing themselves on the co-operative principle, dividing profits, sharing losses, and exposing their magistrates to rigid scrutiny. All this in theory was excellent. Had they remained an unambitious and peaceful commonwealth, engaged in the wool and silk trade, it might have answered. Modern Europe might have admired the model of a truly communistic and commer- cial democracy. But when they engaged in aggressive wars, and sought to enslave sister cities like Pisa and Lucca, it was soon found that their simple trading con- stitution would not serve. They had to piece it out with subordinate machinery, cumbrous, difficult to manage, ill-adapted to the original structure. Each limb of this subordinate machinery, moreover, was atoint daA?5uifor insidious and self- seeking party leaders. Florence, in the middle of the four- teenth century, was a vast beehive of in- dustry. Distinctions of rank among burghers, qualified to vote and hold office, were theoretically unknown. Highly edu- cated men, of more than princely wealth, spent their time in shops and counting- houses, and trained their sons to follow trades. Military service at this period was abandoned by the citizens; they pre- ferred to pay mercenary troops for the conduct of their wars. Nor was there, as in Venice, any outlet for their energies upon the seas. Florence had no navy, no great port she only kept a small fleet for the protection of her commerce. Thus the vioor of the commonwealth was concentrat- edon itself; while the influence of the citi- zens, through their affiliated trading-houses, correspondents, and agents, extended like a network over Europe. In a community of this kind it was natural that wealth rank and titles being abs~ent should alone confer distinction. Accordingly we find that out of the very bosom of the people a new plutocratic aristocracy begins to rise. The grandi are no more; but certain families achieve distinction by their richest their numbers, their high spirit, and their ancient place of honor in the State. These nobles of the purse obtained the name of ~opolani nobili; and it was they who now began to play at high stakes for the supreme power. In all the subsequent vicissitudes of Florence, every change takes place by intrigue and by clever ma- nipulation of the political machine. Re- course is rarely had to violence of any kind, and the leaders of revolutions are men of the yard-measure, never of the sword. The despotism to which the repub- lic eventually succumbed was no less com- mercial than the democracy had been. Florence in the days of her slavery re- mained a ~opolo. The opening of the second half of the fourteenth century had been signalized by the feuds of two great houses, both risen from the people. These were the Albiz- zi and the Ricci. At this epoch there had been a formal closing of the lists of burgh- ers; henceforth no new families who might settle in the city could claim the franchise, vote in the assemblies, or hold magistracies. The Guelf College used their old engine of admonition to persecute novi homines, whom they dreaded as opponents. At the head of this formida- ble organization the Albizzi placed them- selves, and worked it with such skill that 72 FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. they succeeded in driving the Ricci out of all participation in the government. The tumult of the ciompi formed but an epi- sode in their career toward oligarch y;in- deed, that revolution only rendered the political material of the Florentine repub- lic more plastic in the hands of intriguers by removing the last vestiges of class dis- tinctions, and by confusing the old parties of the State. When the Florentines in 1387 eno~acted in their long duel with Gian Galeazzo Vis- conti, the difficulty of conducting this war without some permanent central authority still further confirmed the power of the rising oligarchs. The Albizzi became daily more autocratic, until in 1393 their chief, Maso degli Albizzi, a man of strong will and prudent policy, was chosen gonfa- lonier of justice. Assuming the swayof a dictator, he revised the list of burghers capable of holding office, struck out the private opponents of his house, and ex- cluded all names but those of powerful families who were. well affected towards an aristocratic government. The great house of the Alberti were exiled in a body, declared rebels, and deprived of their pos- sessions, for no reason except that they seemed dangerous to the Albizzi. It was in vain that the people murmured against these arbitrary acts. The new rulers were omnipotent in the Signory, which they packed with their own men, in the great guilds, and in the Guelf College. All the machinery invented by the industrial com- munity for its self-management and self- defence, was controlled and manipulated by a close body of aristocrats with the Albizzi at their head. It seemed as though Florence, without any visible alteration in her forms of government, was rapidly be- coming an oligarchy even less open than the Venetian republic. Meanwhile, the affairs of the State were most flourishing. The strong-handed masters of the city not only held the duke of Milan in check, and prevented him from turning Italy into a kingdom,they furthermore acquired the cities of Pisa, Livorno, Arezzo, Montepul- ciano, and Cortona, for Florence, making her the mistress of all Tuscany, with the exception of Siena, Lucca, and Volterra. Maso degli Albizzi ~vas the ruling spirit of ~,the commonwealth, spending the enormous sum of eleven million five hundred thou- sand golden florins on war, raising sump- tuous edifices, protecting the arts, and act- ing in general like a powerful and irre- sponsible prince. In spite of public prosperity, there were signs, however, that this rule of a few families could not last. Their govern- ment was only maintained by continual revision of the lists of burghers, by elim- ination of the disaffected, and by unre- mitting personal industry. They intro- duced no new machinery into the consti- tution, whereby the people might be deprived of its titular sovereignty, or their own dictatorship might be continued with a semblance of legality. Again, they neglected to win over the new nobles (nobi/ipo~obzni) in a body to their cause; and thus they were surrounded by rivals ready to spring upon them when a false step should be made. The Albizzi oli- garchy was a masterpiece of art, without any force to sustain it but the craft and energy of its constructors. It had not grown up like the Venetian oligarchy, by the gradual assimilation to itself of all the vigor in the State. It was bound, sooner or later, to yield to the renascent impulse of democracy inherent in Floren- tine institutions. Maso degli Albizzi died in 1417. He was succeeded in the goverment by his old friend, Niccolo da Uzzano, a man of great eloquence and wisdom, whose single word swayed the councils of the people as he listed. Together with him acted Masos son, Rinaldo, a youth of even more brilliant talents than his father, frank, noble, and high-spirited, but far less cau- tious. The oligarchy, which these two men undertook to manage, had accumu- lated against itself the discontent of over- taxed, disfranchised, jealous burghers. The times, too, were bad. Pursuing the policy of Maso, the Albizzi engaged the city in a tedious and unsuccessful war with Filippo Maria Visconti, which cost three hundred and fifty thousand golden forms, and brought no credit. In order to meet extraordinary expenses, they raised new. public loans, thereby depreciating the value of the old Florentine funds. What was worse, they imposed forced subsidies with grievous inequality upon the burghers, passing over their friends and adherents, and burdening their opponents with more than could be borne. This imprudent financial policy began the ruin of the Al- bizzi. It caused a clamor in the city for a new system of more just taxation, which was too powerful to be resisted. The voice of the people made itself loudly heard; and with the people on this occa- sion sided Giovanni de Medici. This was in 1427. It is here that the Medici appear upon that memorable scene, where in the future they are to play the first part. Giovanni FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 73 de Medici did not belong to the same branch of his family as the Salvestro who favored the people at the time of the ciompi tumult. But he adopted the same popular policy. To his sons, Cosimo and Lorenzo, he bequeathed on his death-bed the rule that they should invariably adhere to the cause of the multitude, found their influence on that, and avoid the arts of factious and ambitious leaders. In his own life he had pursued this course of conduct, acquiring a reputation for civic moderation and impartiality that en- deared him to the people, and stood his children in good stead. Early in his youth Giovanni found himself almost destitute by reason of the imposts charged upon him by the oligarchs. He possessed, however, the genius for money-making to a rare degree, and passed his manhood as a banker, amassing the largest fortune of any private citizen in Italy. In his old age he devoted himself to the organization of his colossal trading business, and ab- stained, as far as possible, from political intrigues. Men observed that they rarely met~ him in the public palace or on the great square. Cosimo de Medici was thirty years old when his father Giovanni died in 1429. During his youth he had devoted all his time and energy to business, mastering the complicated affairs of Giovannis bank- ing-house, and travelling far and wide through Europe to extend its connections. This education made him a consummate financier; and those who knew him best were convinced that his ambition was set on great things. However quietly he might begin, it was clear that he intended to match himself as a leader of the plebeians against the Albizzi. The founda- tions he prepared for future action were equally characteristic of the man, of Flor- ence, and of the age. Commandino~ the enormous capital of the Medicean bank, he contrived, at any sacrifice of temporary convenience, to lend money to the State for war expenses, engrossing in his own hands a large portion of the public debt of Florence. At the same time his agencies in various European capitals enabled him to keep his own wealth floating, far beyond the reach of foes within the city. A few years of this system ended in so complete a confusion between Cosimos trade and the finances of Florence, that the bank- ruptcy of the Medici, however caused, would have compromised the credit of the State and the fortunes of the fund- holders. Cosimo, in a word, made him- self necessary to Florence by the wise use of his riches. Furthermore, he kept his eye upon the list of burgh- ers, lending money to needy citizens, putting good things in the way of strug- gling traders, building up the fortunes of men who were disposed to favor his party in the State, ruining his opponents by the legitimate process of commercial competi- tion, and, when occasion offered, introduc- ing new voters into the Florentine council by paying off the debts of those who were disqualified by poverty from using the franchise. While his capital was continu- ally increasing he lived frugally, and em- ployed his wealth solely for the consolida- tion of his political influence. By these arts Cosimo became formidable to the oh- garchs and beloved by the people. His supporters were numerous, and held to- gether by the bonds of immediate neces- sity or personal cupidity. The plebeians and the merchants were all on his side. The grandi and the ammoniti, excluded from the State by the practices of the Albizzi, had more to hope from the Medi- cean party than from the few families who still contrived to hold the reins of govern- ment. It was clear that a conflict to the death must soon commence between the oligarchy and this new faction. At last in 1433 war was declared. The first blow was struck by Rinaldo deghi Albizzi, who put himself in the wrong by attacking a citizen indispensable to the people at large, and guilty of no uncon- stitutional act. On September 7th of that year, a year decisive for the future des- tinies of Florence, he summoned Cosimo to the public palace, which he had pre- viously occupied with troops at his com- mand. There he declared him a rebel to the State, and had him imprisoned in a little square room in the central tower. The tocsin was sounded; the people were assembled in parliament upon the piazza. The Albizzi held the main streets with armed men, and forced the Florentines to place plenipotentiary power for the admin- istration of the commonwealth at this crisis in the hands of a ba/ia, or com- mittee selected by themselves. It was always thus that acts of high tyranny were effected in Florence. A show of legality was secured by gaining the compulsory sanction of the people, driven by soldiery into the public square, and hastily ordered to recognize the authority of their op- pressors. The bill of indictment against the Medici accused them of sedition in the year 1378, that is in the year of the ciompi tumult, and of treasonable practice during 74 FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. the whole course of the Albizzi adminis- tration. It also strove to fix upon them the odium of the unsuccessful war against the town of Lucca. As soon as the Albizzi had unmasked their batteries, Lorenzo de Medici managed to escape from the city, and took with him his brother Cosimos children to Venice. Cosimo remained shut up within the little room called Bar- beria in Arnolfos tower. From that high eagles nest the sight can range Valdarno far and wide. Florence with her towers and domes lies below; and the blue peaks of Carrara close a prospect westward than which, with its villa-jewelled slopes and fertile gardens, there is nought more beautiful upon the face of earth. The prisoner can have paid but little heed to this fair landscape. He heard the fre- quent ringing of the great bell that called the Florentines to council, the tramp of armed men on the piazza, the coming and going of the burghers in the palace halls beneath. On all sides lurked anxiety and fear of death. Each mouthful he tasted might be poisoned. For many days he partook of only bread and water, till his gaoler restored his confidence by sharing all his meals. In this peril he abode twenty-four days. The Albizzi, in concert with the balia they had formed, were con- sulting what they might venture to do with him. Some voted for his execution. Others feared the popular favor, and thought that, if they killed Cosimo, this act would ruin their own power. The nobler natures among them determined to proceed by constitutional measures. At last, upon the z9th of ~eptember, it was settled that Cosimo should be exiled to Padua for ten years. The Medici were declared grandi, by way of excluding them from political rights. But their prop- erty remained untouched; and on the 3rd of October Cosimo was released. On the same day Cosimo took his depart- ure; His journey northward resembled a triumphant progress. He left Florence a simple burgher he entered Venice a pow- erful prince. Though the Albizzi seemed to have gained the day, they had really cut away the grQund beneath their feet. They committed the fatal mistake of doing both too much and too little too much because they declared war against an inno- cent man, and roused the sympathies of the whole people in his behalf; too little, because they had not the nerve to coni- plete their act by killing him outright and extirpating his party. Machiavelli, in one of his profoundest and most cynical cri- tiques, remarks that few men know how to be thoroughly bad with honor to them. selves. Their will is evil; but the grain of good in them some fear of public opinion, some repugnance to committing a signal crime paralyzes their arm at the moment when it ought to have been raised to strike. He instances Gian Paolo Baglionis omission to murder Julius II. when that pope placed himself within his clutches at Perugia. He might also have instanced Rinaldo degli Albizzis refusal to push things to extremities by murder- ing Cosimo. It was the combination of despotic violence in the exile of Cosimo with constitutional moderation in the pres- ervation of his life, that betrayed the weakness of the oligarchs, and restored confidence to the Medicean party. In the course of the year 1434 this party began to hold up its head. Powerful as the Albizzi were, they only retained the government by artifice; and now they had done a deed which put at nought their former arts and intrigues. A Signory favorable to the Medici came into office, and on the 26th of September, 1434, Ri- naldo in his turn was summoned to the palace and declared a rebel. He strove to raise the forces of his party, and entered the piazza at the head of eight hundred men. The menacing attitude of the people, however, made resistance per- ilous. Rinaldo disbanded his troops, and placed himself under the protection of Pope Eugenius IV., who was then resi- dent in Florence. This act ot submission proved that Rinaldo had not the courage or the cruelty to try the chance of civil war. Whatever his motives may have been, he lost his hold upon the State beyond recovery. On the, 29th of Sep- tember a new parliament was summoned; on the 2nd of October, Cosimo was re- called from exile and the Albizzi were banished. The intercession of the pope procured for them nothing but the liberty to leave Florence unmolested. Rinaldo turned his back upon the city he had gov- erned, never to set foot in it again. On the 6th of October, Cosimo, having passed through Padua, Ferrara, nnd Modena like a conqueror, re-entered the town amid the plaudits of the people, and took up his dwelling as an honored guest in the palace of the republic. The subsequent history of Florence is toe history of his family. In after years the Medici loved to remember this return of Cosimo. His triumphal reception was painted in fresco on the walls of their villa at Cajano under the transparent allegory of Cicero~ s en- trance into Rome. FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 75 By their brief exile the Medici had gained the credit of injured innocence, the fame of martyrdom in the popular cause. Their foes had struck the first blow, and in striking at them had seemed to aim against the liberties of the republic. The mere failure of their adversaries to hold the power they had acquired, handed over this power to the Medici; and the repri- sals which the Medici began to take had the show of justice, not of personal hatred, or of petty vengeance. Cosimo was a true Florentine. He disliked violence, because he knew that blood spilt cries for blood. His passions, too, were cool and temperate. No gust of anger, no intox- ication of success, destroyed his balance. His one object, the consolidation of power for his family on the basis of popular favor, was kept steadily in view; and he would do nothing that might compromise that end. Yet he was -neither generous nor merciful. We therefore find that from the first moment of his return to Florence he instituted a system of pitiless and un- forgiving persecution against his old opponents. The Albizzi were banished, root and branch, with all their followers, consigned to lonely and often to unwhole- some stations through the length and breadth of Italy. If they broke the bonds assigned them, they were forthwith de- clared traitors, and their property was confiscated. After a long series of years, by merely keeping in force the first sen- tence pronounced upon them, Cosimo had the cruel satisfaction of seeing the whole of that proud oligarchy die out by slow degrees in the insufferable tedium of soli- tude and exile. Even the high-souled Palla degli Strozzi, who had striven to remain neutral, and whose wealth and tal- ents were devoted to the revival of classi- cal studies, was proscribed because to Cosimo he seemed too powerful. Separated from his children, he died in banishment at Padua. In this way the return of the Medici involved the loss to Florence of some noble citizens, who might perchance have checked the Medicean tyranny if they had stayed to guide the State. The plebeians, raised to wealth and influence by Cosimo before his exile, now took the lead in the republic. He used these men as cats-paws, rarely putting himself for- ward or allowing his own name to appear, but pulling the wires of government in pri- vacy by means of intermediate agents. The Medicean party was called at first Puccini from a certain Puccio, whose name was better known in caucus or committee than that of his real master. To rulc through these creatures of his own making taxed all the ingenuity of Cosimo; but his pro- found and subtle intellect was suited to the task, and he found unlimited pleasure in the exercise of his consummate craft. We have already seen to what extent he used his riches for the acquisition of po- litical influence. Now that he had come to power, he continued the same method, packing the Signory and the councils with men whom he could hold by debt between his thumb and finger. His command of the public moneys enabled him to wink at peculation in State offices; it was part of his system to bind magistrates and secre- taries to his interest by their consciousness of guilt condoned but not forgotten. Not a few, moreover, owed their living to the appointments he procured for them. While he thus controlled the wheel-work of the commonwealth by means of organ- ized corruption, he borrowed the arts of his old enemies to oppress dissentient citizens. If a man took an independent line in voting, and refused allegiance to the Medicean party, he was marked out for persecution. No violence was used but he found himself hampered in his commerce money, plentiful for others, became scarce for him; his competitors in trade were subsidized to undersell him. And while the avenues of industry were closed, his fortune was taxed above its value, until he had to sell at a loss in order to discharge his public obligations. In the first twenty years of the Medicean rule, seventy families had to pay four million eight hundred and seventy-five thousand golden forms of extraordinary imposts, fixed by arbitrary assessment. The more patriotic members of his party looked with dread and loathing on this sys- tem of corruption and exclusion. To their remonstrances Cosifno replied in four memorable sayings: Better the State spoiled than the State not ours. Governments cannot be carried on with paternosters. An ell of scarlet makes a burgher. I aim at finite aims. These maxims represent the whole man, first, in his egotism, eager to gain Florence for his family, at any risk of her ruin; sec- ondly, in his cynical acceptance of base means to selfish ends; thirdly, in his bour- geois belief that money makes a man, and fine clothes suffice for a citizen; fourthly, in his worldly ambition bent on positive success. It was, in fact, his policy to reduce Florence to the condition of a rot- ten borough: nor did this policy fail. One notable sign of the influence he exercised was the change which now came over the 76 DORIS BARUGH. foreign relations of the republic. Up to the date of his dictatorship, Florence had uniformly fought the battle of freedom in Italy. It was the chief merit of the Albizzi oligarchy that they continued the traditions of the medileval State, and by their vigorous action checked the growth of the Visconti. Though they engrossed the government, they never forgot that they were first of all things Florentines, and only in the second place men who owed their power and influence to office. In a word, they acted like patriotic To- ries, like republican patricians. Therefore they would not ally themselves with ty- rants or countenance the enslavement of free cities by armed despots. Their subjugation of the Tuscan burghs to Florence was itself part of a grand republican policy. Cosimo changed all this. When the Visconti dynasty ended by the death of Filippo Maria in 1447, there was a chance of restoring the inde- pendence of Lombardy. Milan in effect declared herself a republic, and by the aid of Florence she might at this moment have maintained her liberty. Cosimo, however, entered into treaty with Fran- cesco Sforza, supplied hin{ with money, guaranteed him against Florentine inter- ference, and saw with satisfaction how he reduced the duchy to his military tyranny. The Medici were conscious that they, self- ishly, had most to gain by supporting despots who in time of need might help them to confirm their own authority. With the same end in view, when the legitimate line of the Bentivogli were extinguished, Cosimo hunted out a bastard pretender of that family, presented him to the chiefs of the Bentivogli faction, and had him placed upon the seat of his supposed ancestors at Bologna. This young man, a certain Santi da Cascese, presumed to be the son of Ercole de Bentivogli, was an artisan in a wool-factory when Cosimo set eyes upon him. At first Santi refused the dan- gerous honor of governing a proud repub- lic; but the intrigues of Cosimo prevailed, and the obscure craftsman ended his days a powerful prince. By the arts I have attempted to describe, Cosimo in the course of his long life ab- sorbed the forces of the republic into himself. While he shunned the external signs of despotic power, he made himself the master of the State. His complexion was of a pale olive; his stature short; ab- stemious and simple in his habits, affable in conversation, sparing of speech, he knew how to combine that burgher-like civility for which the Romans praised Au- gus tus, with the reality of a despotism all the more difficult to combat because it seemed nowhere and was everywhere. When he died at the age of seventy-five, in 1464, the people whom he had enslaved but whom he had neither injured nor insulted, honored him with the title of Paler Patrice. This was inscribed upon his tomb in S. Lorenzo. He left to pos- terity the fame of a great and generous patron, the infamy of a cynical, self-seek- ing, bourgeois tyrant. Such combinations of contradictory qualities were common enough at the time of the Renaissance. Did not Machiavelli spend his days in tavern-brawls and low amours, his nights among the mighty spirits of the dead, with whom, when he had changed his country suit of homespun for the habit of the court, he found himself an honored equal? J. A. SYMONDS. From Good Words. DORIS J3ARUGH. A YORKSHIRE STORY. BY THE AUTHOR OF ~ CHAPTER XLVI. HATE. DORIS had also seen the abrupt parting between Ralph and Rica, and she guessed they had quarrelled. Mr. Burneston frowned and grumbled at his sons absence from the breakfast table. Late rising is a very bad habit, he said to Rica; I hope, my dear, you dont indulge in it. I? oh no, Im always up early, she said abruptly; but indeed, Mr. Burnes- ton, your son is not late this morning, he was in in the garden before I came down. The squire had looked at her in his usual easy, careless fashion, but as she ~vent on speaking his gaze became earnest, for she grew crimson, hesitated, and ended by looking down into her plate, wishing she could get anywhere out of sight. Raine had been reading a letter, but the pause that followed made him conscious that something was happening. He looked up and saw the squires puzzled face, and Ricas guilty confusion. He had been very happy this morning, and his absorption had been caused by a resolve, spite of the letters, which urged his return home, to spend another week at Buraes DORIS BARUGH. 77 ton. He had heard Ralphs name, and some instinct told him that his cousin was being discussed, and now Ricas face showed him that her interest in the young fellow was much warmer than he had sup- posed. He felt all at once irritable and cynical. Wheres Ralph this morning? he said impatiently. He looked first at Mr. Burneston, then at Rica, and ended with Doris. He will be here directly, I dare say, Mrs. Burneston answered calmly. Then she looked on to Rica, Have you fin- ished, Rica? she said. I want to show you some songs that have come up from London; we can try them presently, if you like. Very well, Ill come now, and Rica rose to follow her friend. What would ladies do in the country, I wonder, without parcels from London? Raine said. They are about the only outside help you have in getting through the day. He looked directly at Rica. I dont think educated women need outside help of that sort, she said so seriously that Mr. Burneston looked astonished. It seems to me that women as a rule waste fewer minutes than men do; they have so many small duties to fill up little corners of life with. Or they think so, Raine said, so bit- terly that even the squire wondered at his tone. One thing is certain, they can always flirt in any corner of life, and then they can talk that is the inestimable ad- vantage they possess over the slower, dumber animals. They have nimbler and better-balanced tongues. Come, come, Gilbert, I thought love of dress and tidiness used to be the chief feminine defects in your catalogue; you are growing spiteful, ~old fellow. Ive no doubt, Rica said, that Mr. Raine would like our tongue tips to be burnt as they used to be by the Inquisi- tion. Doris laughed. He is incorrigible; Philip, you had better read him a lecture. She moved to the door. Come, Rica, are you ready? Mrs. Burneston had noticed Ricas con- fusion, and then Gilberts vexed manner; but she did not look at him as she rose to open the door, or she would have seen that he was frowning at her. Rica cannot care for that unfledged boy, he thought. I cant do her the injustice to think that she cares for him seriously but why does she flirt? Why need she notice him in the way she does? Shes but an ordinary woman, after all. How right Ive been all through these years; women cant be trusted. That girl only encourages Ralph because she sees he must be a rich man some day, and she is a poor clergymans daughter, so she keeps him in tow. I believe its half of it Mrs. Burnestons doing. She is charm- ing to look at and pleasant to talk to, and so on, but she is thoroughly worldly and scheming, the worst possible adviser such a girl as Rica Masham could have, and yet he closed the door on the two ladies I thought Mrs. Burneston dis- liked her stepson too much to wish to marry him to her friend. I cant make her out, shes a sphinx. They are all sphinxes. But what a fool I am to worry about it I Ill go back to Austins End. The sphinx leads the way to her sitting. room, but when they reached the book landing facing the Clytie, Rica stopped. Ill not come with you now, Doris; Ill come presently. Her friend turned round and gave her a long, searching glance, then she smiled. Shall I tell you what you mean, Rica? Then seeing a vexed look in her friends face, I know you want to avoid me just now; but dont be afraid, dear, Im not going to tease you, she said gravely; but I do earnestly wish to ask you a question at once.~~ Very well; Ill come now. I dont pledge myself to answer your question, you know, she said saucily. She said to herself as she followed Doris, I shall not tell her; she is not Ralphs own mother, and I dont think she judges him fairly. I should hate her if she had the stiff, polite manner with me she has with that boy. If I had not been a coward I might have told her how unkind she is, and so have helped the poor fellow. Like all impulsive people, Rica was full of quick contrition, and her anger at Ralphs vehemence to her had soon melted into self-condemnation. Her manner in ust have deceived him, and led him on, she thought, or he would not have spoken as he had done. She gave a little sigh. XVhy had it been natural to feel at her ease with Ralph almost a stranger and yet with Mr. Raine, whom she had met before at Burneston, she had each day, so it seemed to her, to begin the acquaintance afresh? Life was a great puzzle. I am not going to stay long with you this morning, she said to Doris. I have 78 DORIS BARUGI!. to write to my father and tell him when to expect me. Doris gave her one of the sweet rare smiles which little Phil had inherited. You may as well sit down and listen instead of standing, she said. And Rica, dear, you must not talk of going home, I want you so much. I cannot part with you yet. Is it your quarrel this morning that makes you talk of going away? I think you have quarrelled with Ralph, have you not? Doris! said Rica impetuously, I told you I should not answer questions; there are several reasons why I must go home. Doris fixed another of her long, searching glances on her friend; at first Rica stood it bravely, but at Doriss next question her cheeks burned and her hands grew cold all at once. Do you like Mr. Raine, Rica? Rica struggled angrily with her c onfu- sion. She forced a laugh, and looked up at her friend saucily. I really dont know. What does it matter? Why do you ask me? Perhaps I do a little. A good deal, I think. Come, Rica, am I your friend or am I not? Friends should have no secrets. I really do not know how to answer you. Sometimes I think I like him, and then, when we have parted quite good friends, he says, next time we meet, some- thing so very rude, ~o horribly unkind about women. Did you hear what he said just now? I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes, I was so angry. Doris smiled. You are too sensitive. He is only teasing you. However, dear, you have answered my question. You would not care for the opinion of a man you dislike it would not bring you to tears. She bent down and gave her friend a warm kiss. This was so unlike Doris that Rica felt puzzled. Very rosy she returned the kiss, but did not know what to say next. I mean this Doris saw the ques- tion in her eves I was beginning to be really afraid that you cared for Ralph, and this troubled me. Mr. Raine is so much better suited to you than that boy Rica colored violently, and rose up to go away. Oh, please dont! she said, I know I shall displease you some day, for all your love and goodness to me; but I cant talk this kind of talk only, yes stop an in- stant; there is something I will say out to you. Her eyes brightened with sudden energy, and she went hurriedly on. I know I ought to have said it sooner. Doris dear, why are you always so unkind to Ralph Burneston? More than once at Pelican House, Rica, in her abrupt, frank remonstrances, had taken her friends proud reserve by storm; but since Doriss marriage a barrier had come between these two which even Ricas playful fearlessness had shrunk from over- leaping. At this direct question Doris first flushed deeply; then, as the color fled away, leaving her paler than before it came, she looked coldly and proudly at her friend. In what way am I unkind? A gen- eral charge is vague, and means really nothing. Rica started; a cold chill fell on her glowing mood. She could not have be- lieved that Doris could have spoken to her so haughtily. For a moment she hesitated. It seemed to her that any further urging must certainly produce a quarrel, and she could not bear to quarrel with Doris. Against this hesitation her independent spirit rose. She had a right as Doriss chosen friend to tell her of her faults; she was quite willing to take advice about her own, and she resented the tone in which Doris had spoken; it stung her and set her temper on edge. It seems to me you never speak really kindly to him your manner is forced. You treat him like a stranger. Why,Iani much more intimate with him than you are. I could justify my coldness towards Ralph by telling you of his misconduct; but that would really be unkind. He is a very unsatisfactory person. Do not let us talk of him. She turned away deeply wounded; she was utterly disappointed in Rica. Ralph must have gained great influence to make the girl take his part against her own friend. Ah, but, Doris, look at me now, and dont be angry. She took both her friejids hands; but Mrs. Burneston did not smile. Years ago, when I was here, you always spoke of him in the same cold, severe way, as if he were a sort of criminal, when he was really only a boy; and hes only a boy still only a year older than our Egbert, and you cant think how indul- gent my father is to Egbert; he says it is the greatest mistake to be unloving to boys. DORIS BARUGH. Your father doubtless knows how to manage his own son, but you do not know how he would behave in my place, said Doris. She spoke very coldly, but so quietly that Rica had no idea of the storm she had raised. It had come to this, then, Doris thought. The hateful tie of caste obliterated all memories of past affection and of present kindness; for to her practical mind, with its ever-increasing worldly views, these visits to Burneston were for Rica steps in the social scale not to be attained by other means. Rica considered Ralph her equal, and had towards him a fellow-feeling, a sympathy, which could not exist between her and a farmers daughter. My own folly for taking her to the Cairn, and asking her to my wedding! She had said this to herself with whitening lips while she listened to Rica. Oh, Doris, you are angry still !the girl said eagerly, and its all my fault., Say you forgive me. Perhaps I should not interfere; indeed I do it in love, and of course I might have done it better; I am sure to blunder at things. If I could only be fath~ for five minutes! I believe I nean this; you, who are so clever and so perfect in your ways, can get so much power over people. Oh, Doris! remem- ber how you could make the girls love you, even without trying, at Pelican House; couldnt you, if you chose, still make this boy love you, and be guided by you worship you almost? Remember hes never had a mother to teach him since hes been any age. When I saw him on your wedding-day I thought, ah, how he will improve! for, indeed, it seemed to me you would be an angel in the house. Doriss lips relaxed their unpleasant ten- sion. Rica, you forget one thing, she said sadly. I never was what you fancied me; I am not an angel far from one. You are so very enthusiastic that you ex- aggerate both the bad and the good in me. If Ralph Burneston had been different to me I might have been different to him. Now it is too late. Oh, Doris! and he so loves your boy, and Phil dotes on his brother. A dark shadow, the darkest Rica had ever seen there, fell on the lovely face. I am yery sorry for it, for as he grows older I cannot possibly allow them to asso- ciate. Ralphs example would ruin his brother. Rica, once for all, you do not know this young fellow as I do. There was such intense bitterness in her tones that Rica recoiled. It seemed to her 79 that some other woman had usurped the lovely shape of her friend, Doris was so entirely transformed when she spoke of Ralph Burneston. Should she cease speaking, and pray all the more earnestly that Doriss heart might soften? and yet that longing to fin- ish our work which so often mars it made Ricas ton~ue restless. Only just this, she said pleadingly, and I will not return to the subject. You are such a loving, devoted mother, that I cant help thinking if you would fry and look on Ralph as really your own son, you would end by loving him; and I firmly believe in the power of love; it is a trans- forming power, it unlocks all hearts; only love must be shown by acts, not kept within us as a theory. And you have been trying to win Ralphs love. You foolish girl! you have been making your own misery. Doris gave way to her anger at last. Ralph is only amusing himself with you, he will not marry you; and if he did he could not make you happy; he is vicious and good- for-nothing, while Gilbert Raine is in every way a suitable match for you. Ricas face was as red as fire. It is you who exaggerate now, Doris. What have I done to gain Ralphs love? You misjudge me; and besides, I do not think it is nice to speak to me in that way of a man who seeks every opportunity to quarrel with me, as Mr. Raine does. Why should I look on men in the light of possi- ble husbands? The very idea is a re- straint, and besides it is quite uncalled for. She was so deeply mortified that the tears filled her eyes, and she turned to go away, and Doris did not try to prevent her. She was very much disappointed in Rica. It was arrogant beyond belief that a young girl living in such seclusiofl should presume to judge her, and above all should refuse to be guided by her. It shows Mrs. Burneston drew herself up proudly the extreme igno- rance and narrow-mindedness of these people who live out of the world; just like all religious people, she sneered, unless you agree with them you are wrong. She was very forlorn in that moment. Only yesterday her husband had shown her a letter from George announcing Roses safety; and while he urged that the news should for the present be kept from Ralph, he also said that it would be wise to keep the lad, if possible, for some months under home influence. 8o And Mr. Burneston had said to his wife, You will try and help me to make home as pleasant as we can for poor Ralph? Everybody on the side of Ralph, and now even Rica. Doris asked herself how she could get through these months with her present feel- ings towards Ralph. He is so deceitful, she said. If he were just to speak out his feelings for me, his father would never forgive him. I know he loathes and despises me. She sat down and began to think. Some. how her power seemed to have lost its firm foundations. Her husband was as fond of her as ever, but on the subject of Ralph she saw he doubted her judgment, and in the first year of their marriage he had relied on her implicitly. He has been more with Ralph since then, she said, and I know Philip thor. oughly; he is very good, I suppose better than any one else is, because he makes no profession of goodness; but he is weak, and those who see him daily gain a daily increasing influence. Who knows that Ralph will not gradually bring him to think less of me? It is not a question of whether I could bear it or not Doris looked strangely good and earnest, for she really thought she was right but it must be quite wrong to let any influence come between man and wife, and I know that Ralphs is a bad influence. And then came the thought of little Phil; it would be a cruel wrong to expose her dar- ling to his brothers teaching; and already the child was too fond of Ralph. And there is no weakness in Phil, baby as he is; it is easy to see that. He might, as he grows older, insist that Ralph should always stay here, and then what should I do? Such a writhe of uncontrollable hatred rose against the enforced calmness of these last minutes, that she clenched her hands in a physical effort against it. Then she stood still, holding her fore- head with both hands, in deep thought. Why do I struggle so? I have tried not to hate him, and I cant help it; I will hate him, he is bad and hateful; and he shall not live here to spoil all my life and to ruin my child. CHAPTER XLVII. AT LAST. DORIS BARUGH. the stone bridge on the right to the frail wooden bridge of planks leading from the foot of the village to the meadows across the water, and besides this a golden radi- ance painted the trunks and branches of the trees, and came through the leaves in chequered patterns on the yellow road that led from the Hall to the wooden bridge a radiance that was rather metallic than genial, for the nipping touch of autumn was in the air, so that it was but a worldly kind of sunshine, after all, dazzling to the eye, but bringing no heart-glow with it. Doris and Rica Masham were coming back from Mrs. Duncombes cottage. The girl had expressed a wish to visit some of the villagers. Mrs. Burneston had taken her up to the stone cottages, but as Mrs. Duncombe was fast asleep, and Joseph Sunley was rheumatic, cross, and averse to conversation, they were coming home at a brisk pace beside the river. The previous day had worn away slowly and uncomfortably as days do that hold in them the weight of a dispute and to- day, except to Mr. Burneston, had been full of uneasy constraint. Ralph had been dogged and sullen towards his stepmother and silent to Miss Masham, except that he had tried more than once to speak to her alone, and when he found she avoided this he had looked angry. Doris had been unusually silent and stately to all. While Gilbert Raine had been sometimes cyn- ical and bitter in speech, and then ashamed of his own harshness, as he remarked Ricas avoidance of his young cousin; and then again, as lie felt how stiff and cold her manner had become to himself, he lapsed into his old belief, and cursed the caprice of a woman. Rica was sure she ought to go home. She longed to get away from the unspoken strife which existed between Doris and her stepson. When she met her friend at luncheon, after their quarrel, she had felt shy, and Mrs. Burneston had at first been very silent; but in the long after- noons drive she had recovered herself, and joined in the talk between Rica and her husband. Miss Masham knew that it would be worse than useless to try for any decided spoken reconciliation with Doris, and besides, she felt that it would be difficult for her friend to excuse her own words about Gilbert Raine. The color came rushing to the girls face when she met Mr. Raine, it was so very hum. bling to think that Doris had really intended to make up a match in her friends pres THE afternoon sun was shining on the ence. river, a broad golden stretch spread from I To throw me in fact at the head of a DORIS BARUGH. 8r man who already has a low opinion of women; and I thought Doris so high- minded. Oh, how could she do it? She had been busy with these thoughts as she walked up through the village with her friend; and Doris too walked on silently. They had exchanged a few words with Mrs. Crewe standing at her gate, and now walking back to the Hall beside the sun-lit river, they were each again busy with their own thoughts. Rica was trying to say she must go home without offending Doris. Ralph had spoken to her again in so marked a man- ner, that she feared he meant to renew his proposal. She did not wish to betray him to Doris, and yet if she stayed on at Burneston it might be difficult to keep the matter from her. And in regard to her feelings towards Mr. Raine, Rka was puz- zled. She knew that, for a time at least, she should be glad to part from Doris till the memory of so many years of love had swept away the new and painful impression she had lately received. She was sure she should be very glad to get away from Ralphs admiration, and yet she was not glad to leave Burneston; the thought even of going was keenly painful. Her cheeks glowed as she walked beside her friend, and she hung her head a little. It began to dawn on her that after all she did care for this rude cynic, who lost no chance of mortifying her; last night she had learned that his silence wounded her more than his words did, and she had found herself at breakfast-time this morning longing for and yet shrinking from his coming. Andyet when, after luncheon, she had turned markedly away from Ralph, and had come up to Mr. Raine, who was exam- ining an old picture at the other end of the room, though for a moment he had smiled and seemed ready to speak, he suddenly turned his back upon her, and became ab- sorbed in studying the picture. Her color grew yet deeper as she thought of these things~ and there was anger mixed with it now against Gilbert Raine. All at once a bright idea came to release Rica from this humiliation, for it was ter- ribly humbling to find her thoughts en- grossed by a man who was not only rude and contradictory, but who actually avoided her as much as he could. I I do not care for him as a man, she smiled at her own fear, it is only his talk that interestsme it is so brilliant, so very different to any I have ever heard; there is nothing in it that sounds stereotyped or commonplace; yes, it is only his talk, and LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1046 I have the chance of hearing so little good talk except my fathers! Doris, she said abruptly, as they walked side by side, you wont be vexed~ with me, will you? but I must go home the day after to-morrow. Mrs. B urnestons delicate eyebrows rounded with surprise, but she looked very sad. So soon? I am sorry. She tried to speak very courteously. You have quickly tired of Burneston this time, Rica. No, indeed I have not; and I will come again if you will kindly give me a chance; but I believe for several rcasons that I ought to go home now. Doris did not answer; they had nearly reached the stone bridge, and there came bounding towards them Mr. Burnestons collie-dog. Next moment Ralph Burneston appeared advancing to meet them. I should like to know, dear, Doris spoke very quietly, whether this decision of yours has anything to do with Ralph; I dont think yott really care for him, but your manner towards him puzzles me. Does it? Well then, listen I shrink from him so much,that unless you wish me to stay with you now, I shall hurry on to the Hall alone directly he joins us. Doris gave her such a grateful glance that Rica felt puzzled too. .1 do not think he will walk with us, Mrs. Burneston said calmly; if you vere alone it might be different. But Ralph was hastening towards them;~ he was beside them in a moment, and he turned at once and walked by Rica, mak- ing some remark on the glow which the walk had given her. I must hurry on, she said to Doris, I want to ask Jane to do somethino~ for me before dinner. Ralph quickened his steps too, and walked on with her. Rica looked over her shoulder at Doris it seemed to her that Mrs. Burneston could so easily make an excuse for keeping her stepson beside her. But Doris never thought of seeking such an excuse; she rejoiced in this chance of showing Ralph that Miss Masham disliked his attentions. Ralph, you had better stay with me, she said; Rica does not want company. Ralph looked very angry. Will she always treat me like a boy?. he muttered. Then aloud he said, Miss Masham can speak for herself. Say I 82 DORIS I3ARUGH. may come with you, he whispered low to Rica. His manner showed the girl that her fear was well founded. No, indeed, she said kindly, I will go alone. I prefer it. Good-bye, she nodded, and went on hurriedly. But Ralph kept close beside her. At least, you will let me say three words? He was eager and determined, and Rica saw that she must speak out. No, indeed, Mr. Burneston, indeed I cannot; I will not listen to another word from you. She had stopped as she began to speak, and stood facing him. She wished Doris would come up and help her instead of standing a few yards off beside the col- lie-dog, like a picture framed in by the glowing sunshine. That is because you have beeh set against me, he said angrily, because I have been slandered. You have been lis- tening to Mrs. Burneston, you shall listen to me, and he snatched at Ricas wrist. She was not taken by surprise, and she twisted herself free in an instant, and went back to Mrs. Burneston only for an instant; before Ralph had recovered him- self the two ladies had come up with him, his stepmother looking very proud and pale. Rica kept her face turned away. You seem to forget yourself, sir, alto- gether, Doris said, and what is due to a lady and my visitor. She spoke with intense haughtiness; in her heart she triumphed that Ralph should have so far forgotten himself in her pres- ence. Her face grew very set and hard. Miss Masham is my friend and my visitor, and she shall not be annoyed. Annoyed!, he laughed scornfully. I like that! Pray, how do you know she is annoyed? I know rather more about women than you do, Mrs. Burneston, though you do know everything. Miss Masham listened to me fast enough till you tried to set her against me. It was bad enough before; but I said nothing then. This time I tell you plainly I wont have it. I am almost of age, and I wont be interfered with. Ill not be treated like a boy by you. Doris looked at him for a moment before she answered, You behave so like a man her lip quivered with scorn and you consider yourself a gentleman, both in conduct and manner! Her contempt stung him out of all reti- cence. Look here! he said fiercely. So far I have treated you much better than you could have expected; but dont try any of your airs on me they dont im- pose on me. I will not be interfered with by you. I am my own master, and if I choose to talk to Miss Masham, nothing you can tell her against me shall prevent it. Doris stood stupefied; the insult to her own pride effaced all thought of Rica, and her perfect blanched silence subdued Ralph spite of himself. You had better go on, he said more quietly, and over- take Miss Masham; tell her I was quite in earnest in my proposal yesterday morn- ing. She will listen to me all right; she was quite ready till you came between ~ Doris forced her white lips open; her surprise at this avowal roused her. Is it possible, she said coldly, that you do not see? She will not listen to you at all! She considers you only a boy. If she loves any one, it is Gilbert Raine. And this is your work, too. It may have been part of your breeding to go pry- ing and interfering into other peoples affairs, but I tell you, once for all, to leave me alone. Because my father was weak enough to take you out of your proper station, do you imagine for one moment he has made you his equal, or that you can have the slightest influence with me? I tell you again, Ill not submit to it. You have made mischief enough. Keep your proper place. I dont interfere with you. I believe, if you could, youd make my father disinherit me. You cant do that, try as you will; but I tell you what you can do, you may make things very un- pleasant for yourself in the future. He stopped from sheer want of breath, his face and voice alike full of passion. Doris could not have interrupted, even if she had tried; his very words had stunned her; they had struck at her like a shower of stones or a blinding storm of hail. Now that he paused, expecting a tor- rent of angry words, there was a dead silences The collie-dog had grown impatient, an4 came bounding back to see what was hap- pening, but the two figures stood motion- less on the yellow road. At last Doris forced herself to speak. You are a coward! That ~vas all she said, and she smiled; but Ralph felt as if some one had struck him on the face. Coward or not, he said fiercely, well see ~vhos master yet at Burneston. He hurried recklessly away, the dog bounding on in front, past the village, past the plank bridge; hurried on without tak DORIS BARUGH. 83 ing any heed where he was going till he ran right up against Gilbert Raine. Hulloa, my lad! do you want to send me spinning into the river? You should look ahead. Gilbert spoke irritably. He was stand- ing taking a sketch of the bridge and the tree-shaded river-bank, and the shock of Ralphs onset had almost upset him. Why do you stand in the way? Ralph spoke savagely. Im in a humor to quarrel with any one with you espec- ially! Ergo, you are in want of the doctor; you can have no possible reason to quar- rel with me you are simply bilious. Simply dont be a fool, Gilbert. But I recollect I do want to speak to you. Is it true or is it not true that Miss Masham cares for you? The dai-k, wrinkled face was bent down over his drawing. Who said this? He did not look up. Ralph was too full of passion to discrim- inate nicely, and, indeed, Raines manner might have deceived a cooler observer. He was so afraid of believing that he seemed to be concealing his real thoughts. Then its true oh, confound you all ! he said. I believe from first to last youre all against me. Gilbert Raine had recovered himself. Be quiet, my boy! he said. I have no right to think Miss Masham cares for me, but Ralph stopped him angrily. You are going to say you care for her for a girl half your age. I wonder youre not ashamed to think of her you, a wrinkled, middle-aged man, whove lived three parts of your life among musty old books! How dare you think of a bright, fresh young creature like Miss Masham, and what have you to offer her? he said contemptuously, for he saw a change in Raines face, and he resolved to make the most of his selfishness. Raines manner had changed; he was calm and cold as he answered. You dont know what you are talking about, you silly fellow! But Ill tell you one thing, my boy; I am sure that for five years at least you are not fit to be trusted with the happiness of any woman.~~ Ralph glared at him for an instant, mut- tered something, and then he turned sul- lenly back towards the Hall. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE STEPMOTHER. Is time something abstract, something that can be measured? There may be souls to whom hours and minutes, weeks and days, may seem equal in length; but there are, no doubt, happy mortals whose existence moves serenely and in measured paces along the level roads of common- place life. The roads turn sometimes to avoid a morass or a river, or even a hill that might expend breath in the climbing, though a boundless prospect is to be gazed on from its topmost height. Nothingthat should not come-there ever does come to alarm or even surprise the very ordinary and tranquil-pulsed wayfarers who journey along the level monotony. It was very hard on Doris that, being placed by destiny in a position guaranteed to be commonplace and uneventful by all the outward keys of such existences, life should have become for her as eventful as if she had lived on moderate means in a city, with a daily struggle to earn her daily bread there. And these excitements and heart-burnings, and now this tremendous uprising of her whole nature, had all one origin the presence, the existence even of Ralph Burneston. She had been alone, by the clock, about an hour; her feelings would have told her that half ~a day had passed since she reached her own room. She had gone home mechanically, and then, having put off her things, she went to her sitting- room. She had not rung for her maid; it seemed to her that the humbling she had received must be painted on her face; her mortification left no room for anger a dull ache was over heart and brain. Ralph had only said the truth. And now came another thought: when Phil knew the truth would not he judge her as Ralph did? He will never tell me so in words, the pale, proud lips quivered as this thought came, but he will grow to look on me as as she was walking up and down the little room, her gown gath- ered in one hand; as she turned she stopped with a scared face. She saw a form advancing towards her tall and broad, his red hair glowing as he reached the stream of light, so level now that it only lit the middle of the room. Her heart seemed to stand still, but in an in- stant the vision was gone the place where it had stood was empty. Doris shivered from head to foot. She felt herself suddenly brought to judgment. Phil might never look on her as she looked on her mother, that would be impossible, and for an instant her pride took comfort in this thought of her own superiority; 84. DORIS BARUGH. but her father no, Doris felt to the very bottom of her soul that her father was her superior. Spite of his broad speech, his rough, red hands, his homely, unpolished ways, he had one noble quality for which she honored him, honored him all the more that she felt inca~aableof attaining it, and that quality was self-respect. He was neither ashamed of himself nor of his be- longings. How well she remembered what had happened during her last visit to the Cairn! Walking one day with her father on the moor, a carriage had passed near them in the road below, in which she thought she had recognized. Mrs. Booth- rovd. Even now she shrank at the re- membrance of the shame that had seized on her at the dread of recognition; and although some weeks later she hadlearnecl her mistake, Mrs. Boothroyd being still in London, she had never forgotten her terror. But Doris knew that if her father had been well born, all these outward blem- ishes would not have troubled her. It was from his homely station, and, above all, his calling as a farmer that she shrank~ and although Phil would never shrink from her personally, yet he had just the same right to be ashamed of her origin. Ashamed of me! She stood like a statue. It seemed to her she could not live through such an agony as this. She tried to throw herself back a few years. When she left Pelican House she had come home, resolved to be true to herself, and she had been true till she married. How she had sunk since then! The thought of Ralph came back, and she rose from her despairing humiliation with desperate energy. I was raw and ignorant then, she said. After all, the world teaches us wisdom. Why should Phil ever know the truth, at least till he is old enough to be free from prejudice? When this precise period was to arrive Doris did not determine, but she believed firmly that if her boy could only be kept free from low, corrupting influences, espec- ially the influence of Ralph, he would grow to be a perfect man, godlike in his large and generous views of life. This was to be the outcome of his natural goodness, for Doris did not believe in the help af- forded by religious training against human infirmity. It is so all through life, she said bit- tei-ly. However false the insult or accu- sation, the insult remains; it can never be waghed out. Yes, the time had come for decided action. She resolved that she would not see Ralph Burneston again that as long as she was its mistress the Hall should be closed against him. But still she hesi- tated as to the means. She could only obtain his banishment by an appeal to his father, and she shrank from making this appeal. She did not shrink from the sight of her husbands sorrow; her hatred to Ralph blinded her to the right he had to his fathers love, a right, indeed, which, if remembered, would have sharpened her purpose; she only feared Mr. Burnes- tons weakness of will, for, after all, he might not have courage to carry out her wishes. -I have been a fool! There was a new expression in her eyes, a dire, venge- ful look that drove womanhood from the delicate face, leaving it a mask of sharply- cut features so pale that her long eyelashes looked intensely black as they touched the white cheeks. Why did I interfere when I saw he had begun again with Rose? If he had really disgraced himself Philip would then have banished him at once, and I should have been held blameless. Well, that is over. It was an opportunity given me, and I let it pass. I must trust now to my power over Philip. If that fails She stopped and put her hand to her forehead. Her head ached sorely, she felt bruised all over; but she had no feeling for her- self; her heart swelled almost to suffoca- tion, for she had not shed one tear since she and Ralph parted. She dared not give way for a moment, for she had only herself to depend on. Even Rica was ready to take Ralphs part against her! each time she had spoken of him to her husband, he had asked her to be less hard in her judgment. Doris hated strife, not because of its sin, but because her fastidi- ous nature shrank from its pettiness and discourtesy, and she knew that she must have angry words with her husband be- fore she should get him to see with her eyes. It used not to be so, she said. Once he thought my judgment perfect he never questioned my wishes and so he will again when he is separated from Ralph; his daily influence destroys mine. Yes, he was right when he said I should see who was master at Burneston. I must see Philip at once, for she hesi- tated I am not sure, but I must make sure. She rang the bell. Now that she had decided she was eager to act. She must give no chance to Ralph to get a hearing before she did. DORIS BARTJGH. Has Mr. Burneston come in? she ready to care for all that you love, Doris, said to Benjamin. you refuse to share my feelings in this Yes, maam7t masters in the study. way. He looked hard at her, for she was I must speak out, Philip. It may he strangely pale; there was a forced, un- hard for you to hear; but it is no questioa usual sound in her voice, of feeling now. Ralph has insulted me Tell him I wish to speak to him, either has spoken to me in a way which makes here or. in the study. it impossible for us to live together any longer. She paused. I have come tb CHAPTER XLIX. ask you to send him away from this DORIS SPEAKS. house. As she went on her courage came hack; MR. BURNESTON was very busy exam- it seemed to her that he could not refuse ining papers that had arrived from his her request. agent at Steersley during his absence. Mr. Burnestons face was full of pain. He had nearly finished his work, and this My dear, you take offence so easily, unusual summons disturbed him. just lil~e all women; you make so much Tell your mistress I am very busy, of words. He stopped in surprise and and say I should like her to come here if some alarm too, for Doris rose from her she is in a hurry, he said, or say I will chair and stood facing him like a Fate, be with her in about half an hour. her arms hanging stiffly beside her, her Doris thought this message a proof of face fixed, but with a dark storm in her her declining influence. She made no eyes. Mr. Burneston finished his sea- answer, but as soon as Benjamin had de- tence. I thought you so much grander parted she went down to the study. Her and nobler than any ordinary woman. I heart beat so violently as she reached the am afraid I have mistaken you. door that a tinge of color rose on her face. You can think so, of course; possibly How can I be so foolish? she said. you agree with your son, and consider What can I be afraid of? that no insolence can be too great towards Come in. But Mr. Burneston went a person who is not born a lady; it is for on writing, his back was to the door, so you to decide. Please let me tell all. he did not see her face. He has told me to-day that I am an up- If you really cannot spare me a few start; he has said well, she went on minutes I will go, she said in a hard, proudly, he has only said the truth about strained voice, but I have something to my origin and the folly of my marriage; say ~vhich requires your whole attention. and he has asserted that his power over Mr. Burneston frowned and bit his lips, you is greater than mine is. Stay, Philip, then he cleared off his annoyance and I have not done. You must act as you smiled as he turned round to his wife, choose; but if Ralph is to stay here I go Well, what is this wonderful some- away at once and I take Phil with me. thing that will not wait? What is it? He sliall not be ruined by his brothers You look quite ill! Sit down here, dar- teaching, nor shall he learn to despise his ling. But I would have come up if you mother by hearing her insulted. had only had a little patience. Her eyes flashed, for, once she let pas- Plainly he had not seen Ralph. Doris sion have its wsy; she looked a splendid felt relieved; he took her hand, and made picture of wrath as she stood quivering her sit beside him, before her astonished husband. Philip, I want to ask you first to listen You are mad, he said, and then he patiently and with all your attention, stopped; but Doris. did not speak. She You do not always taje my part now. stood waiting his decision. His fair, serene face grew troubled. Doris, he said, I do not for a mo- He guessed that the something related ment excuse Ralphs conduct, but I never either to Faith or Ralph. saw you like this before. You know I I think there is no need to have any cant bear exaggeration. Remember you question of the kind, he said sadly. It are speaking of only a boy. It is well, seems to me that a husband and wife it is not at all like you to speak in such a should take the same view of matters. manner.~~ I fear in this case it is quite impossi- It is singular how a crisis of feeling ble. He looked at her, and the set sti ness of her face annoyed him. ff- brings out the salient points of contrasted natures at their superlative degree. You pique yourself on your justice, I only say what I mean, she an- he said, and yet though I am always swered. 86 DORIS BARUGH. Mr. Burneston shook his head, and a fretful look passed over his face. If you would only use your own good sense, he said, you must see that what you propose would be, perhaps, the boys ruin. Consider the great advantage Ralph gains by staying here. I dont take his part for a moment. I am grieved and surprised that he should so far forget him- self and what is due to you, and to me also. I could not have believed it if any one else had told me. You are quite sure, my dear, you have made no mistake? He looked at her with a feeling of re- lief; this new hope, feeble as it was, was something to cling to. She moved her head disdainfully. If you had been present, even you would say I have been merciful. No, Philip, do not lessen my respect for you. For once assert your own authority, or I must do as I say, I must remove Phil from his brothers influence. Mr. Burneston shook his head. There was a painful flush on his forehead. If you would sit down and keep your- self quiet it would be so much better. I am going to find Ralph. I shall speak to him as severely as even you, there was a sorrowful emphasis on the words, can wish; and I am sure he will make you as humble an apology as you can desire. It may be, he said impressively, out of the longing of his heart, that you will both go on together better; after this there will be no concealed bitterness between you. There was a beseeching anxiety in his eyes as he looked at his wife; but Doris was not in a mood to bear this. She might have been quelled by a will stronger than her own. His weakness only in- creased her anger. There are some offences which can- not be pardoned, she said haughtily. Cannot you see that this breach is beyond healing? I cannot live with a per- son I hate, and Ralph has made me hate him. Some day, Philip, your eyes will be open to your own injustice. You know your sony s vices, and yet you expect me not only to tolerate his daily companion- ship, but to submit meekly to gross insult; and because I refuse, you are angry. Well, you must choose between him and me, and I expect he will offer you the same choice. His wifes rudeness wounded Mr. Bur- neston sorely. You are as self-willed as he is, Doris. Why, even your brother George, who has more cause of quarrel with Ralph than any of us have, says it will do wonders for the lad if we can only manage to keep him at home a year or so. If he goes away angry he will most likely go back to his old habits and companions, and be utterly ruined. Doris had stood thinking during these words. Do you mean to say that, let Ralph disgrace himself ever so much, you have no power to leave any of your land away from him? There was a keen eagerness in her voice and manner that jarred on her hus- band. Certainly not, unless he stopped abruptly. Unless he brings himself within the penalties of the law, you mean; and a man may be a most infamous scoundrel, and yet escape punishment. Ralph is a scoun- drel already, and he will have all, and Phil Her husbands eyes had opened in wide wonder. This was the first time she had really let him see the truth. Stop, Doris. He spoke very coldly. It seemed to her with disgust. Phil is as well provided for as he can be; and now do not let us recur to this subject. I will try to forget it, and you, my dear, must, for my sake, receive Ralphs apol- ogy. No, I really cannot hear any more. He retreated hastily, fearing another attack, while Doris sank exhausted on a chair, sight blurred and hearing deadened by the force she had been putting on her- self. Mr. Burneston too felt blinded. It seemed to him, as he crossed the hall on his way to Ralphs room, that he had got a shock. His whole nature had revolted against his wifes manner, and above all against her last words. She who had seemed incapable of the slightest mean- ness or calculation had she then cher- ished hatred against Ralph because he was the heir of Burneston? It was incred- ible, and spite of his grief the loyal gen- tleman strove against the thought as against a positive injury to Doris. He had found his way mechanically to Ralphs room, and to his surprise his sons voice said Come in when he knocked. Ralph sate moodily in a chair near one of the windows; his pipe lay beside him, but he had not been smoking. He nodded when his father came in, and pushed a chair towards him. But Mr. Burneston stood still, looking at his son with real sternness on his gentle face. DORIS BARUGH. I thought you were a gentleman, he said, and I find I am mistaken. You will come with me at once and apologize to Mrs. Burneston. I cant do that, father! I am sorry for you, but you must have known this sort of thing would happen some day. Why need you worry about it? Leave me to settle it with Mrs. Burneston. You seem to forget, sir, that you are talking of my wife! I insist on an apol- ogy. His fathers anger quieted Ralph. I can only say again Im very sorry for you. I cant be sorry Ive spoken out. If you knew how Ive been used, youd Hold your tongue, sir! said his father savagely. But you shall listen to me !the boy said desperately. Ive no quarrel with you, and never will have. You and I would have been fast friends if no mis- chief had been stirred up between us. There, Im not going to vex you any more! Remember lam your own son, and you owe me some love. His blue eyes looked so pleading that his father turned away. Id made up my mind, dull as this place is, to stay here with you a few months, but I see it cant be. If you like, Ill go away for a bit; its just as unpleasant for me as it is for any one. No! Mr. Burneston tried to speak. I do not wish to send you away. You have behaved very ill and for my sake as well as for your own you must apologize. If you consider the matter you will see there is no other way.~~ Ralph shook his head, and put his hands in his pockets. Cant do it! I wouldnt if I could. He muttered the last words. Mr. Burneston took no notice. He was worn and weary with all this strife. You are excited now, he said; you will come to your senses presently, and then, Ralph, I shall be grievously disap- pointed if you dont see things differently. You owe a full apology; you have in- sulted a lady, and that lady your fathers wife. You had better keep to your rooms till you are more reasonable; and under- stand distinctly, I forbid you to leave Bur- neston without my permission. Good- night! Faith will bring you all you Want. CHAPTER L. AT CROSS-PURPOSES. GILBERT RAINE tried to go on with his sketch; but it grew more and more difficult for him to draw, and he grew more and more impatient. He closed his sketch- book. Who on earth has been talking to Ralph about Miss Masham? If he had hazarded a guess he might have hit on the truth; but Mr. Raine s mind was apt to be hazy on matters of real life, and he disdained hasty conjectures. The longer he thought the more certain he felt that Miss Masham liked Ralph Bur- neston better than she liked him. I dont profess to understand women,~~ he said uneasily. I have not had much to do with them; but surely a girl would never snub and tease a man she cares for, and Rica has often snubbed me. He walked slowly towards the Hall, trying to recollect exactly what Ralph had said, and suddenly he got a clue to the young fellows meaning. He stopped short in his walk. He meant Mrs Burneston when he said that woman. She certainly is in Miss Mashams confidence; I might sound her. He put both hands in his pockets and went on again very slowly, his head bent forward. What has come to me? he said. More than fifteen years ago I swore I would never trust a woman again, and actually I am thinking of putting myself in the power of two of them for of course Mrs. Burneston will go straight to her friend and tell her every- thing. Yes,1 can fancy their jokes and laughter over the queer old bachelors love. The color rose brightly in his face. He tried to think of something else. But it was no use; in the midst of his calcula- tions of time and expense about some alterations at Austins End, Ricas bloom- ing face and merry laugh came unsum- moned. Nonsense! he said testily; its not true. I have not paid her marked atten- tion, nothing that any one could notice. I have really avoided her lately. What could have made that mad boy talk in such a way? This time he smiled; a little lingering hope helped to curve his lips. I am not kind to her; I have not treated her well all day, he said. Ill try another tack, and see if I can get her to smile at me as she smiles at Ralph at least, as she did smile at him; she was cross to him at luncheon. Ill ask her if they have quarrelled. Ricas favorite nook, when she was not with Doris, was in a low window of the library; but lately Raine had observed ~88 I~oRIs BARUGH. that she always got up and went out of the room when he entered it. The library was a large room, rarely oc- ~cupied except by Gilbert Raine and Miss Masham. It looked empty to-day as he came into it; but going along to its far- ther end he saw Rica, as he expected, curled up in a low chair, reading. She looked absorbed in her book, and Raine smiled. She is not taking anything very deeply to heart, he said cynically; I might have been sure of that. When a girl sho~vs her feelings so easily on the surface, there is little depth in them. The Persian carpet only covered the centre of the room, and his footsteps on the oak floor roused her. She uncurled herself and sat upright. Pray dont let me disturb you. He thought she looked vexed. You seem very much interested in that paper book. Is it a French novel? No; I never read French novels. She looked saucy and satirical. Raine bent down over the book. May I look? Alfieri, The Filippo. Well, yes, that is exciting rather beyond Al- liens usual mark, I think. Are you a great admirer of this poet? No; he is so cold-blooded, so very uninteresting, I think; but Gomez is a finely-drawn character. Ah! you like villains, do you? No, I dont, Rica felt that she was being teased, but I like decided charac- ters, really good people or really bad ones. She spoke with the irritation Raine seemed now always to create in her. Then you like very few people. Hardly any one is wholly good or wholly bad. How wilful you are! I did not say that. I like people who have good quali- ties, I mean qualities out of which good- ness may spring. I like people who are not cold and cynical. And yet you do not like my cousin, Ralph; he is not cold. Rica looked up startled. Raine had put more meaning into his words than he intended. XVhen did I say I disliked Mr. Ralph l3urneston? she said hastily. I do not dislike him. Raine stood looking at her with a very puzzled face, then he went on recklessly. I have offended you somehow or other, I am always offending you, and I really did not mean to vex you. Rica laughed, but she was vexed too. I am glad to hear it, she said gravely, and then she took up Iher book, as much as to say, Do not interrupt me any more, and she wished Mr. Raine would go away. I must really set myself right with you, Miss Masham. I will not keep you a minute. He was hurt, but he was de- termined there should be no more misun- derstanding between them. Perhaps I have no right to speak of it, but Ralph seemed to think I have had something to do with your your well, he certainly gave me the impression that you had quar- relled. And if we had, Rica grew crimson, what could you have to do with it? She looked so scornful that Raine hesi- tated. I beg your pardon, he , I believe it was somethino~ Mrs Burneston told him. He stopped; he had blundered on with- out considering that Ralphs words might sound to Rica as he wished them to sound for himself, and till he came to Doriss name she had listened, but this was too much. She could not realize his meaning. She felt dazed and foolish; a feeling that Doris had spoken openly about her to Mr. Raine, and that she must leave him at once, was all she could grasp. She got up hastily, but she could not raise her eyes; her face was scorched with shame and anger. You are entirely mistaken, she said. Mrs. Burneston would not discuss me with your cousin, and certainly not with such a stranger as you are to me. Raine was surprised at her haughtiness. She has been copying Mrs. Burnes- ton, he said, and then he put himself in Ricas way as she moved towards the door. What have I done now? he said earnestly. I have offended you again. I beg your pardon, do forgive me, and for heavens sake let me try and explain. I never was so far from wishing to vex you; perhaps I am incapable of pleasing you; wont you sit down again and let me try? he said imploringly. But Rica was so upset, so deeply morti- fied, that she read him all wrong. She only saw in this unusual wish to please her an assurance founded on the belief that she really cared for him. Her eyes smarted with unshed tears, and her heart ached painfully, it was so full of righteous wrath against Doris. She shook her head. There are things best l~ft unexplained, and this is one, she forced herself to smile, and then in her natural manner she said, Talking things over is often apt to show DORIS I3ARUGH. the worst side of them; let me pass, please. Without waiting she walked round him, and ~vas out of the room before her dis- turbed listener had collected his wits. Good heavens! he said, when at last he could grasp the subject again, I am an ass! I have made a precious fool of myself, too, just when there was something in her face; by Jove, Im an ass, a con- summate ass. He stood there overwhelmed with con- fusion. He was by far the cleverest person at Burneston Hall; he had read more and seen more than most men, and yet he felt so helpless, so thoroughly ignorant how to get out of this scrape in which he had plunged himself, that when the door opened and in came little Phil calling for Ralph, the tally keen-witted man felt as if even that babe were wiser than he was. The little fellow ran up to him, Wheres Ralphie? Ralphs not here, my dear, he said. Ralph never comes into the library, Phil. The child shook his head and looked up, his little face was very sad. Me cant find him, he said; mes been everywhere, in mammas room, and Faiths room, and in study, me cant find Ralph. There was a despairing sound in the sweet childish voice. Gilbert looked at him more attentively, and saw that Phil had been crying. Ralphs out, my boy, he said, sooth- ingly. Phil shook his head. No, no! Me saw him come in. Just then the door opened softly, and Phils nurse appeared ~vith a scared face. She looked much relieved to see her charge. I beg your pardon, sir, she curtsied to Raine, but I couldnt tell what had happened to Master Phil; hes wild to find Mr. Ralph, and just now he slipped away from me and I couldnt think what could have become of him. Do you know where Mr. Ralph is? I dont knoW, sir. There was a con- fused look in the womans eyes that puz- zled Raine. Come along, old fellow. He stooped down and lifted Phil on to his shoulder. Well see if we can find papa. Me doesnt want papa me wants Ralph. Not even the ride on a tall shoulder, usually one of the delights of his life, could 89 chase the sadness from the childs voice, and earnest dark eyes. Help me find Ralphie, l~e half sobbed. What is Ralph about? Gilbert said to himself, and then, with his usual direct- ness, he went straight to his cousins study. CHAPTER LI. 13 ITT ER N ES S. DIRECTLY his interview with Ralph was over, Mr. Burneston went to the house- keepers room. He said a few words to Faith, and bade her keep the matter entirely to herself. You can say Mr. Ralph is not well,, he said carelessly, and then he ~vent out and across the meadows beyond the river a sort of aimless wandering to get rid of the time, and to avoid the chance of another talk with his wife. He would have been wiser if he had sought out Rica or Raine, and asked them to bear him company. His thoughts went with him, and they would be listened to. He could not tell what had happened, or how it had been effected, but it seemed to him that all at once a gulf had come between him and Doris a space that could not be bridged over. He could not specify the feeling, but it seemed suddenly possible that he had only been married for the position he could give his wife and her children, and also and this was the thought he tried hardest to flee from that nature had triumphed at last, and that, spite of all her training and seeming refinement, Doris was different to himself, and looked on things in a lower and coarser way than he did. Well, and if she did? He had married her with his eyes open. He could not expect a miracle. But she has been a miracle, he paid earnestly. No other woman in such a position would have behaved so well. It is only this shock rousing me UT) rudely from my dream of perfection that has dis- gusted me. I must force myself to forget this afternoon. Easier to say than to do. He could not close his eyes and ears to the memory of his wifes flushed face and contemptuous looks, and her angry, defiant words. How harshly she spoke! She was like a creature transformed, he said sadly. Was this the true Doris forced out of all the artificial restraints of her education and her position a Doris likely to reap- pear whenever her will was set aside or her dislikes thwarted? He could not lay 90 DORIS BARUGH. this terrible doubt; and when he came down to dinner, so late that it had been announced before he reached the drawing- room, he found himself lookirfg at his wife with new eyes, wondering at her coldness and silence. No one remarked on Ralphs absence, and Doris imagined he had left the Hall. When dinner was over she went away to her room, leaving Rica to amuse her- self alone. Little Phil always came to help his mother dress for dinner, but to-day he had not come, and Doris, busy with her own thoughts, had not sent for him. She was very angry with her husband. It seemed to her that he had put her claims and Ralphs on the same level. Her whole beino~ dilated ~vith immeasura- ble haughtiness.b What had she ever done to Ralph that could be weighed against the coarseness of his insult to her? and yet his father thought Ralphs conduct such a trifle that he asked her to remember the lads age. If any one had so spoken to mother father would have horsewhipped him, she said bitterly. Her heart went out in a kind of longing anguish to the Cairn. If she could only have her fathers sympathy just now and could listen to his righteous indignation, she should be soothed. She never thought of asking his counsel. It would have seemed extraordinary to Doris to ask advice from any one; that would have been a tacit acknowledgment that she herself was wrong. Ralph even sees it as I do, she said bitterly. He sees that we cannot live in the same house. She rang her bell as soon as she reached her room. Tell nurse if Master Phil is not in bed to bring him here. Yes, ma~am.~~ The maid went, but the nurse did not bring little Phil. Doris waited, and then she went up to the night nursery. She longed to ease her troubled heart by the sight of her darling. The tiny bed was empty, and she went back to her own room; at the door she met the nurse. Where is Master Phil? he should be in bed, she said rebukingly, for it was long past the childs bedtime. Im very sorry, maam. The nurses confused, hurried manner frightened Doris. He he wont come away, maam. Come away from where. What do you mean, nurse? Hes there, maam, she jerked her head backwards, sitting outside Mr. Ralphs door, and he says he wont come away; nor he wont eat his bread-and-but- ter neither. Wont? nonsense I Light me along the gallery. The nurse hurried on her mistresss imperious manner alarmed her. CHAPTER LII. RALPHS VIGIL. THE storm that had swept over Doris, rending away all self-control and gentle- ness, was raging yet more fiercely in the bosom of the housekeeper. Mr. Burnestons announcement that Ralph would keep his room that evening had filled her with lofty contempt. Hes a poor creature, t squire is, she said; he cannot guide his own bairn athoot shutting h imup. But there was a certain solace in feeling that she should have her boy all to her- self; and when she carried up Ralphs dinner she was full of smiles. He took little notice of her, and. did not condescend in any way to satisfy her curiosity. Later, when she came again, she brought in little Phil, and then to her surprise Ralph turned on her in fierce anger. Take away that brat, he said; how dare you bring him into my room without leave? He and his cursed mother are the plagues of my life. Whisht, whisht! Faith frowned and shook her head. How can an innocent bairn like yon plague ye? See, he wants to kiss you, poor little lad. Where has you been? Me wants you, Ralphie. The child put his hand con- fidingly on his brothers knee, and looked up in his face. Ralph jumped up abruptly, and went away to the window, turning his back com- pletely on the room. The child did not cry, but looked frightened and appealingly at Faith. Her spirit rose against Ralphs harsh. ness. Poor wee bairn! she said. Mr. Ralph, youre not setting your brother much of an example as to manners. Take that child away, I tell you, and keep him out of my sight, he said angrily, as Phil tried once more to clasp his hand with his tiny fingers. He pushed him away, and the child burst out crying. The young fellows heart was really softening towards the child, and if he had been alone he would probably have sub- mitted to Phils coaxing ways, but the childs likeness to his mother had mad- dened him. Phil shrunk away and clung to Faiths apron. For shame of yourself! she said, as she raised the little fellow in her arms. I couldnt hey thowt yed be so cowardly. It was an unlucky word. It brought the memory of his discomfiture back keen- ly, and he turned round furiously on Faith. Take that child away, and dont show your face here again unless you can hold your tongue or, stay, you can bring me some brandy, and be quick, dye hear? His manner cowed Faith. There was a wild excitement in it that made her shrink from answering him. As she closed the door behind her she heard the key turn in the lock Phil struggled in her arms till she set him down, and then he began to cry. Ralphs angry with me, he sobbed, an me s not naughty. The nurse was waiting in the gallery, and she tried to quiet and lead the child away. But Phil would not be pacified. He left off sobbing, and seated himself on the mat outside his brothers door. Me stay here, he said decidedly. Ralph come out presently and say mes not naughty. Faith stood still. Ralphs words had stupefied her. This was Mrs. Burnes- tons doing then. No one would have guessed at the tempest that had risen in the tall, slender woman as she stood there rigid. nurse~ s voice entreating Phil to The come away irritated her. Youll disturb Mr. Ralph next, she said. Leave the child awhile, an hell tire of himself. Ill see he takes no harm. And the nurse had left him till she heard that her mistress had gone up-stairs. Meanwhile Faith stood so wrapt in her own anger that she would scarcely have noticed the childs departure if little Phil had followed his nurse. But there was no feebleness in her wrath through it she went on forecast- ing what the end of this struggle might be. It was, she saw plainly, a struggle for power between Mrs. Burneston and Ralph and herself, represented by the squire. In less than a year Ralph would be of age, and then he would have a home perhaps of his own, where she felt sure she could, if she chose, be mistress, but to wait for this would be yielding up a right. Both she 91 and Ralph had lived at the Hall much longer than Mrs. Burneston had, and if they left there would be no one to check her pride. The squire ud not dare say his soul was his own if he was left to that woman. Shes ruined my boy, body an soul, Faith said sternly. Shes driven him to drink an wicked ways, an shell do as she likes wi t squire, poor fond hoit. She looked down at the child; he was still sitting against the door, but his head had drooped on his cheek; he was asleep. God help ye, poor ill-starred bairn! She stooped and laid him down on the sheepskin rug. Sleep while ye may; wiv such a mother yeve a fitful life afore ~ She went off to do Ralphs bidding, leaving the sleeping child alone. She had not gone many minutes when Doris came along the gallery, and saw Phil lying like a faithful dog beside his brothers door. A spasm of pain twisted her face. She silenced the nurses exclamation by a hasty gesture, and then she stooped and tenderly raised the sleeping child. His weight was almost beyond her strength, but she never paused till she reached her bedroom, then she sat down, and still holding little Phil in her arms, she undressed him and laid him in her own bed. Then she walked into the outer room, and beckoned the nurse to follow her. How did this happen? Mrs. Burnes- ton said sternly. Im sure I dont know, maam; its really Mrs. Emmetts fault, not mine at all. Doriss eyes were full of anger, but she kept it out of her words. When I engaged you to take charge of Master Philip, I told you he was never to be left in Mrs. Emmetts care. Yes, niaam, there was a tearful sound as the nurse answered, but Master Phil has been fretting for his brother all the afternoon; and at last Mrs. Emmett comes suddenly into the gallery out of Mr. Ralphs room, and she takes Master Phil by the hand away from me and into the room and shuts the door. Well, what else? He didnt stay long with Mr. Ralph, but when he came out he wouldnt stir from the door. I asked him to come and help you dress, but nothing would move him. I stayed with him, maam, till I was tired out, and then Mrs. Emmett said shed stay while I fetched his supper from the nur~ DORIS BARUGH. 92 DORIS BARUGH. sery; but it wasnt a bit of good, maam, Do not come to my room. Phil is so I waited till I thought you had come up now asleep. from dinner, and thats just as it happened, And then she desired her maid to give ,, ma am. the note to Mr. Burneston when he came Doris stood still, trying to think it was indoors. very difficult to shape out any plan in the I shall not want you to-night, Burnell, wild anger that mastered her. Her hus- she said; I am anxious not to awaken band evidently refused to do what she the child. asked; Ralph was to stay at the Hall to A strange fascination drew her back to defy her and to rob her of her childs the window. She looked across at Ralphs love. . room; there were lights within, but the We will see who conquers, she said curtains were drawn, and the branches of contemptuously. Aloud she bade the the huge weeping beech, already men- nurse go away and send her maid to her. tioned, surrounded this end of the house, She sat down at her writing-table and and made it indistinct in the failing light. wrote these words to her husband A slight breeze was rising, moving the Phil is not well. I shall not leave him branches gently to and fro. this evening. Will you therefore sleep in Rica was still pacing up and down the terrace with Mr. Burneston; but while your dressing-room? I do not wish to Doris watched, Gilbert Raine came out of have any further discussion about your the house from the .~arden son. I hear he is still in the house. . - b entrance and Doais BURNESTON. joined them in their walk. Doris had not been thinking of them She went to the window and threw it while she looked, but now a new idea came open; she was almost stifled with the in- to her in connection with Rica. She tensity of pent-up feeling, thought she would go home with her for a She might conquer; her own heart told time till Ralph had left Burneston. her that she would conquer, bat at what a She is vexed with me, but that is sim- price l She could never forget that her ply her own folly and prejudice. If she husband had taken his sons part against had heard Ralph Burnestons words to- her, and that if he yielded it would be for day beside the river, she must have the sake of peace, not from conviction or changed her opinion of him. love of her. She thought Ricas vexation would I must always despise him. I must quickly yield to delight when she told her always feel Even to herself she her project of paying her a visit; her school- could not say it. A huge overleaping fellow owed her so very much, Doris ar- wave of pride stifled the thought, and tried gued, that she would surely be glad to to hide even from her remote conscious- discharge some part of the obligation. Just ness the thought that her husband did not now in the distorted state of her mind, she consider her his equal. Her sitting-room thought of this more than of the love that windows looked westward, and the sky was had been between them. full of yellow light this evening, though Doris had threatened her husband that under the trees it had grown dusk. It was if Ralph stayed at the Hall she would leave oppressively warm, and as Doris leaned it, but she cared far too much for the opin- out the evening air brought no refresh- ion of the world to do this in a way likely ment to her hot forehead. Presently, to compromise Mr. Burneston and herself. close beneath the window, came a murmur She would not go to the Cairn. Her of voices, and then she saw figures disap- father and George would ask questions, pear round the angle of the house. and her mother would fuss, and just now She went back into her bedroom, which she could not endure interference of any occupied the end of the opposite wing to sort. This quiet parsonage, where she Ralphs, and had windows on two sides. would be treated as an honored guest, was She looked out, watching the two ficrures the Yes; she was right; it was - retreat she longed for; and her visit Ricas white there would show her husband that she dress that she had seen. Her friend and was in earnest. her husband were walking slowly, side-by- Little tenderness mingled with the stern side, along the terrace. sadness with which she looked from the This was a relief; she had so feared Mr. window at her husband. At last the sound Burneston would come to seek her. of his laughter reached her, and she closed She opened her note again and added a the window and turned away. postscript, If she had staved a moment longer, she DORIS BARUGH. 93 would have seen Mr. Burneston come into the house in search of her. Rica was following him, but Gilbert Raine stopped her. Miss Masham, will you listen to me for a minute? he said. I often find fault with you, but have I ever accused you of being unjust? In the half-light Rica felt more at her ease with him; even if she did look foolish she knew he could not see it. I never said you did. There was more of her old brightness in the tone, and Gilbert took courage. Ah, but I thought you very unjust and not long ago, either. I suppose you want me to ask why, just to give you a chance of teasing. I am not in a teasing humor, and whether you ask or not I shall tell you; you refused to hear my excuse for having offended you. Now, this was more than unjust; it was ungenerousit was putting me in the wrong without appeal. Something a deep undertone in his voice quieted her pride. Her heart throbbed strangely, but not with the pain it had suffered in the library. What it was she did not know; but something made her half shrink from, and yet drew her on strongly, irresistibly, to trust in Gilbert Raine. She felt sure he would not misjudge her, and once more she spoke naturally. I am glad you allow me some gener- osity. She looked up smiling, but the tender, serious look that met hers quenched her sprightliness, and made her shy again. I want you to listen to me seriously. He began to walk faster, as if the move- ment helped him. 1 did not mean to speak so soon; I fear you are not pre- pared for what I want to tell you. I have no choice. Did I not hear you tell my cousin just now that you are going to leave us? Yes. Well, then, he went on hurriedly, I must tell you somethino before you go. I had meant you to find it out for yourself, but it cant be helped. Do you remember that talk on the staircase years ago? Her large round eyes opened widely. Yes, I remember about Clytie, and some other things; but why do you want to know? Ah he drew a long breath it is something to me that you do remember. Well, ever since that day I have been try- ing to forget that talk. There was a pause. Ricas heart was loosed of such a mighty restraint that her sauciness came back. You have been trying ever since? You have not tried very hard then. She laughed, and he laughed too hardly so naturally as Rica did, for his fear that she would not listen to what he wanted to say had made him strangely nervous. Yes; and besides that, I refused more than one invitation to Burneston lest I should meet you here. 1 thought you were like other women, and I did not want to be reminded of you. Are you angry at this confession? Why should I be angry ? and yet I am. Why do you speak always so scorn- fully of women? I will tell you some day; I am not sure enough yet. You are, I)erhaps, after all only an ordinary woman. I am qute sure I am a very ordinary woman. She laughed, but not easily; his manner puzzled her. But, Mr. Raine, tell me if I offend you so much as to make you avoid me, why do you tell me all this? He smiled, though he had grown very earnest. It seemed to him no girl who was merely trifling with him could be so frank. I want to know, he said hurriedly, whether I have done wisely in coming here after all. Tell me candidly whether I should not have spared myself a disap- pointment by staying away altogether? Rica was blushing deeply, but he could not see this in the dying light. I hardly know how to answer, she said at last. Shall I put a plainer question? When you go away from Burneston, will you for- get me, or will you feel as I do, that there must be no question of parting between us two? He waited impatiently. Are you, or are you not sorry to leave Burnes- ton? he said angrily, for he thought he was .again deceived. I am glad for most things, she said frankly; then all at once she understood the pain his silence expressed, but I am sorry for others. One question more have I anything to do with your sorrow? Well yes! He took her hand in his, and drew her under the cedar-tree. 1 am not used to young ladies, he said, and I am an awkward old bache- br; but I do love you as well as I can love. Rica, will you be my wife? Tell me at once. 94 RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. Rica shook her head. You are making a mistake, she said earnestly. If you knew more of me you would never ask me. You cant think how full of faults I am. And then I never can help teasing. I should offend you altogether perhaps. He drew her closer to him, and put his arm round her. My child, he said tenderly, you have made me very happy. It is I who ought to fear for my worthiness; but I will not be satisfied, old as I am, unless yon can give me your whole heart. Do you think you can do this, Rica? She hesitated. Yes, I think I can, she whispered, and in that moment father and mother and all the merry home party were completely forgotten; new and sud- den as it was, it seemed to Rica that she had never known what the word love meant before. Presently they came out from under the cedar-tree, and walked up and down, sometimes talking, but chiefly silent in that unspeakable newness of bliss which no words can renderthe glimpse of perfec- tion which is given us for a brief space on earth, for each seems to the other so perfect in those first unreal moments of union a bliss that does not stray an inch beyond the lover and his beloved, they are so wrapped in it they have no thought but for each othera bliss which is self- ish to all the world besides, and yet un- selfish to the being which shares it. Gilbert Raine could rouse himself from this first taste of happiness to feel the wind blowing keenly across the river, and to take Rica indoors lest it should chill her; but he never roused to remember how he had stood holding Ricas hands in his, and listening to her simple confes- sions beneath his young cousins window. Ever since his meeting with Rica in the library he had been so bent on winning her, that he had had no thought for aught else, and Ralphs absence during the even- ing had been altogether unheeded by him. And all this time, while these two hearts had been pouring joy into one anothers lives, Ralph had stood watching them, or rather divining their presence, betrayed even in the gloom by the white dress of Rica. Faith had returned to his room with the brandy. He asked her where his father was ; and she told him that the squire was walking up and down the terrace with Miss Masham. Ralph went to the window and saw Gil- bert join them. Then he watched his fathers departure, and all that followed. It was the bitter end of all. But for the hope of winning Rica, and thus triumph- ing over his stepmother, he would have defied his father, and left Burneston at once; as it had proved, he had only stayed to witness Gilberts triumph. He could not see Raine and Rica distinctly, but he felt sure enough from their movements that no ordinary talk was passing between these two. When they disappeared under the cedar- tree, he uttered a heartfelt curse. It is that womans doing all of it, he said. She could not marry her to her brother, so she puts Gilbert in his place. Ill not stay here like a caged bird, to see their love-making. No, my friends, when you come to look for me to-morrow, the cage will be empty. He drank off some brandy, and then he went again to the window. His cousin and Miss Masham stood beneath it, and even in the gloom he could see that Raine held the girls hands in his. The old fool ! he said furiously, but Ill spoil his game yet. He set the door open between his rooms, and kept walking up and down, stopping now and then to drink, and then resuming his walk, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. It seemed as if he could not stop for a moment. Twelve oclock struck by the clock over the stables, and still he walked quickly up and down. The wind had by this time become furi- ous, and the huge branches of the beech- tree rattled against one of his windows, but he seemed unconscious of time or sound he kept walking up and down. From The Contemporary Review. RUSSIAN AGGRESSION, AS SPECIALLY AFFECTING AUSTRIA-HUNGARY AND TURKEY. BY LOUIS KOSSUTH. IT will not be amiss to ventilate a little the Eastern question. Not as if I could say anything new, but because purified notions may consolidate instinctive aspira-~ tions into convictions, and longings into purposes. The Eastern question is a European question. There is no power in Europe RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 95 that would not feel that the phases of that question are connected more or less, medi- ately or immediately, with its own inter- ests. Whence comes the importance of this question? How and when did the Eastern question become a European question? By the increase of the Russian power and since the time when Russiaby the diminution of the Turkish empire, and the dismemberment of Poland increased to formidable proportions, and thus be- caine dangerous to the freedom of Europe. I feel thankfully indebted to the Porte. And I do not, like many people, consider gratitude to be a burden, but to be a dear obligation. I learned to esteem highly the noble qualities of the Turkish na- tional character. And I learned it the more from the admirable phenomenon, that this people of tenacious morals could not be corrupted in their rich social vir- tues even by the pestiferous air ~vhich has floated over them from Constantinople through a period of several centuries, dur- ing which this capital has been converted into a witch-kettle of European intrigues, fighting for the maintenance of the equi- librium. This corrupt influence has found among the higher circles around that ket- tle individuals accessible to bribery; but the country people remain attached to the moral feelings and to the holy relics of social virtues, in the same way as in Hun- gary the eternal holy flame of nationality has been kept burning around the hearths of our people, whilst it has I~een extin- guished in the palaces. It is true that the Turkish people remain still far behind in what we call civilization. This is not the fault of their susceptibilities, nor of their willingness. B~it it is quite certain that only national morality can supply a good soil for the roots of liberal institutions, and that they decay or become false with- out it. Quite as certain is it that the world would admiringly contemplate how easily the most liberal institutions would take root, how naturally they would be- come acclimatized among the Turkish people if Europe would but prevent the hereditary foe of the Turkish empire from interfering with the spread of en- deavors inspired by the warnings of time. But these are my personal views, my individual sympathies. Sympathies, how- ever, are no centre of attraction for the politics of the world; but self-interest is. And though for a long time the conserva- tion of the Turkish empire was a dogma of the politics of the European equilib rium, and is still so in foro conscientice, it does not follow that Europe is in love with the Turks, but only that it abhors the increase of Russian preponderance. And rightly so. The Eastern question is a question of Russian power. Hinc o;nneprincz7~ium, huc refer exituin. This is the summary of European interests, considered from the European point of view. Every policy is either a cheat or a fallacy which does not take this fact as a starting-point. The Eastern question is a question of Russian power. If this line be struck out, the Eastern question ceases, i~5so facto, to be a European question. It de- scends at once to the level of internal questions, whose changing phases may be followed sympathetically or antipa- thetically, according to the inspiration of political principles or instinctive feelings; but they will never disturb the sleep of any European power. The Turkish Porte may succeed (and I wish from my inner- most soul that she may succeed) in con- ciliating all her nationalities, of diverse races and creeds, either on the ground of equality of rights, surrounded by consti- tutional institutions, or by personal union, or on the ground of a strict federative sys- tem; or if she does not succeed, and on the ruins of her fallen power the nation- alities of her empire should rise to autono- my, asserting their national individuality, all this will not threaten the peace or the liberty of Europe all this will never be converted by anybody into a European question. On the contrary, the Eastern question lies in the actual situation. Every aggres- sion, either on the integrity of the Turkish empire or on her sovereignty, will al~vays threaten the peace of Europe, because every direct or indirect increase of Rus- sian preponderance in Europe will be a step to the fulfilment of that prophecy of Napoleon, that Europe will become Cos- sach. They speak of humanity. Good God! where is the Christian power in Europe that has not unscrupulously disowned hu- man feelings, not only when its own inter- ests were concerned, but very often from mere revenge? What bitter feelings and remembrances crowd into my brains with feverish heat when I think that I am a Hungarian! and how many other terrible examples could I quote, through the long line of historical atrocities, down to the insane brutality of the French Commune, and to the subsequent reprisals of loos- ened fury! And I ask, where and when 96 RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. has the trampling down of humanity, the traces of which are visible all over the world, been made a European question? But it is impossible not to feel indigna- tion in our human bosoms when we see that the very same power which rose by trampling down the freedom of its people, from the Vistula to the Behring Strait, from the Euxine to the glacial sea, covers its dangerous schemes with the veil of humanity, and increases continually the giant stature of its power by such system- atic consistency and pitiless cruelty as stand unequalled in history. There is no question of humanity here, but simply of the increase of Russian pre- ponderance. The one is only dust thrown into the eyes of mankind that they may not see the other. And they speak of freedom, of self-gov- ernment ! But the thing stands thus, that whilst Russian power presses upon the south-eastern part of Europe, the Chris- tian nationalities of the Turkish empire will never be reconciled to the suzerainty of the Porte, nor can they become free and independent. They can only be in- struments of Russian policy sometimes by force, sometimes willingly, but always serviceable instruments. Look at Servia. As far as the Porte is concerned Servia was a free country, quite as much so as. any other European nation, and she wanted nothing but the mere title to be entirely independent. She was more independent than Hungary is at present with respect to her political, finan- cial, and economical administration, in every point of view, even as regards the tribute payable to the Porte. But she was not free, she was not independent, with respect to Russia; she could not be so. Whoever has a protector, has a mas- ter too. Not that the Servians would not prefer to be free Servians, rather than vassals under Russian rule; but because they.are unable to resist Russian pressure. This is the fatal necessity of the situation. The dust of verbal assurances was thrown into the eyes of Europe from;St. Peters- burg. It was said that the czar kept back Prince Milan from waging war. But Rus- sian agents stirred up the fire of war; the easily inflammable passions of the Servian people were fanned by the prospect of securing Bosnia, and by the phantasma- goria of a great Servia. Russian money overflowed Servia, a Russian general was placed at the head of the Servian army; Russian officers, and even such as were in active military service, were sent ex- pressly on furlough; and thousands of Russian soldiers crowded to Servia. And thus under the Servian mask it was that Russia began war against the Turks, in order to get a pretext to continue the war unmasked. The Servians were intoxi- cated with the war-cry of Slavonian liberty (which liberty blooms of course in Russia very nicely!) without perceiving that they fought, bled, and died, not for freedom, but in the interests of Russian preponder- ance. And what has become of free Servia? There she hanbs on Russias l)leasure. She is at present a vassal of Russia. Russian military patrols keep the Servians in order at Belgrade. These are very edifying things, and very instructive too. Or, let us look at Roumania. I have here no room to draw up an epitome of history, but it would be very advisable if the diplomatists would do so and study it a little. They would learn therefrom ~vhat is meant when Russia guarantees self- governmental reforms by occupation of territory. I wish only to recall to mind, that since the time of the capitulation be- tween Mircea and the sultan Bajazet on the part of Wallachia, and between Bog.. dan II. and Selim I. on the part of Mol- davia, the Porte has always respected the liberty and self-government of Roumania. She has respected them in such an un- heard-of liberal way, that the mighty Porte, the sovereign power, conceded to her vas- sals the most unbounded religious liberty, excluding even from these vassal prov- inces her own creed, and did not grant to her own M~haminedan subjects even the right of possessing there any landed prop. erty. The Turks have never violated that treaty. Never! Roumania was free; she is indebted for all her troubles and misfortunes (and, alas, how much has she suffered!) to the meddling of Russia. And every Roumanian patriot feels that if Russian power surrounds Roumania this island in the midst of a Slavonian sea his fatherland will be broken to pieces by the folds of the boa-constrictor. Every Roumanian dog knows it! And it was Europe that guaranteed the freedom and neutrality of Roumania! And still Roumania is the high-road by which Russia marches to wage war against Turkey. Roumania is still the basis of the Russian war operations against the Porte, as it was in the year 1849 of those against the Hungarians. The Roumanian government prayed with clasped hands to the guaranteeing powers that they would protect her neutrality. But the Russians are very clever politicians; they chose the~~ RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 97, right moment in which to stir up anew the question. As long as Russia is conscious Eastern question. of her overwhelming power, and knows England is powerful. She can defend that she may press with all her might Constantinople and sweep the Russian upon the Turkish empire, nobody can flag from the seas. But she is not a Con- there become free or independent. They tinental power. She alone cannot send an may change masters, get a new patron, army of some hundred thousand men to but the new patrons vital power consists Roumania. in an autocracy in whose outspread arms France is still maimed; she begins to freedom dies, and only the weeds of the recover, but she suffers from her past Nihilismus pullulate secretly. Such a losses. If she were not maimed, Russia patron they may get, but nobody can would not dare what she dares now. become free under Russian protector- The German imperial government has ship. polite words for every one, but it is its And it is right that I should mention policy not to allow an alliance of any here what misconceptions there are as to European power with Turkey against the meaning of the tide of feelings and Russia, in order to localize the war. If apprehensions that shakes the nerves of this succeeds, it will be of the greatest the Hungarian nation. They say the service to Russia, as she will thus have an Hungarians are afraid of the freedom of opportunity of preparing for the occupa- their neighbors, the Slavonians. This is tion of additional territory by raising inter- not true. It is only intrigue that can say nal convulsions in the Turkish provinces. so, only blindness or silliness that can And she will do it at the given time as believe it. well in Hungary as in Austria. And what Hungary and the Hungarians love of is the key to this policy of Prince Bis- liberty are twins born the same day. marck? Nothing else but that he is 1hey have lived together a thousand years. afraid to offend Russia, as she might The Hungarians nowhere and never think of giving to France an aiding hand feared, and do not fear liberty. And they to procure revenge, were iiever exclusive in their love of lib- Lucky Italy, who deserves her luck for erty; they never accommodated even her constancy centuries ago, and who wins their privileges to certain races. And ~ve provinces by losing battles, is on the look- are the less afraid of the liberty of our out to see whether there is visible on the Eastern neighbors, since I feel thoroughly horizon a completing ray of light for the convinced that if these nations were to s/ella dZlalla. become free, really free, not Russian In the councils of Austria the traditional serfs, then Hun~ary (if she may still demon of rapine goes about, and where keep the mastership of her own destiny) he does not appear, the paralysis of irreso- would be quite ready to inaugurate with lution hums and l~aws from one day to them such defensive combinations as, the other. though in the interest of the European Hungary is a province, and not a State; equilibrium, would also uphold and secure she cannot follow an independent policy. their individual national independence. She has given up herself. She is treatied And I am convinced also that such a to death. combination, in which the Turkish nation They counted on all this at St. Peters- may very naturally join, is one of the chief burg, ere the pacific czar Alexander necessities of the logic of history. Only became such a resolute champion. in this order of ideas can be found secu- For Roumania the end will be that the rity for the independence of minor nations free Roumania whose neutrality has been against the pressure of the greater aggran- guaranteed by the powers will be held in dizing powers. dependence by Russia, as she has been We are not afraid of liberty, but of the so many times before. The Roumanian- increase of Russian power. That is what Russian alliance is an accomplished fact, we Hungarians are afraid of. We fear and by it Roumania has become the that if the Turkish empire should be dis- auxiliary of Russia. What could the Rou- membered, if its sovereignty should be manians have done? Could they, left alone undermined previous to the removal of to themselves, have resisted the Russian this danger, and if this dismemberment pressure? Could they, wolf-like, have and undermining should be provoked by shown their teeth to her whom the Euro- Russia, and turned to her profit, the re- pean powers regard with lamb-like pa- sult would not be that free nations would tience? The situation coerced them. rise out of the ruins of the Turkish em- This is the philosophy of the Eastern pire, but rather the result would be Rus- LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1047 98 sian occupation, or else (which is the same thing, though more dangerous) Russian servitude, accompanied, as a compensa- tion, by the grand idea of affinity of race as a honeyed cake; and the Slavo- nian nations would be fettered to the Rus- sian yoke. This would, in some inevitable way, have a tendency to enslave Hungary as well, and we should finally, after many and great struggles, be brought to perdi- tion, as Poland was a century ago. And I must observe that the danger that threatens us, threatens still more the Austrian empire. There is between us such a community of interests as gives the power to secure the removal of this danger; and the government can thus count on the whole nation, which would rise as if her millions were only one man, not merely in blind obedience, but with all the power which a nation can exert when it defends its existence, its yery life. This is the danger that shakes the heart- strings of the Hungarian nation. This makes it ready for every exertion, for every sacrifice, in order that the integrity of the Turkish empire and the sovereignty of the Porte may not become a prey to Russian tyranny and aggrandisement. Remove this danger, and we shall always approve the regenerational endeav- ors of the Turkish nationalities, and shall feel great pleasure if this regeneration succeed without destruction of races, lan- guage, or creed, the old internal hatreds being superseded by equal la~vs and equal freedom. XVe Hungarians shall thus ac- quire in the Turkish empire such friends as could not be found elsewhere on the surface of the whole earth. But if fate, whose skein is composed of the thread of the immutable past, should decide that all these endeavors shall be fruitless, owing to so many impediments being thrown in the way of their fulfilment by foreign intrigues, egotism, meddling, and passion, then we are very much afraid of the liberty of our neighbors. If the contrary happen, however, we will welcome them at the round table of free and independent na- tions; we will offer them our hands, and aid them so that their liberty and inde- pendence may be s2cured against every external ao~o~ression Far froi~i my fatherland I live in solitary seclusion, and shall die there. But if I am forced to forget much, there is some- thing I can never forget; it is that I know the Hungarian heart, on whose throbbing my hand has so often rested. I shall now state why I think that RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. Hungarian public opinion should occupy a determinate position on this Eastern que~tion. It was diplomatically acknowledged dur- ing the crisis of 1854, how dangerous Russian power had become to the liberty of, and it was then seen that the future could only be secured against the renewal of this question by that power being reduced to lesser proportions, such as would not endanger Europe. This was what England aimed at in the Crimean war of 1854. But her programme could not be carried out then in conse- quence of the attitude of Austria, as may be seen from some of the articles in the French Moniteur, containing those offi- cial revelations with which Napoleon III. tried to soothe English public opinion, the fluctuations of which I then strove to direct, and which strongly demanded the restoration of Poland. And the programme not being carried out is the reason why this question now shows itself in a still more dangerous form than it has ever done since that time. In a more dangerous form, I say, be- cause the Russian preponderance of power has assumed such a character as against the liberties of Europe generally, and against those of our country particularly, as shows her aim to be new territorial annexations. The emperor of Russia has written upon his banner The Slavonic Cause. This was the phrase used by him on the occasion of his warlike speech at Mos- cow. This phrase had hitherto been paraded only in the Slavonian dictionaries for private use; it had not before ap- peared in the plan of the confessed policy of the Russian government. It now ap- pears from beneath the ground, ~vhere it had before worked mole-like, rising, on the arms of the absolute autocrat of eighty- two millions of serfs, to the daylight as an active power. The czar now occupies the position of the declared champion of Pan- slavism. And what is this Panslavism? This is no merely national matter, no affair of national freedom. It absorbs the different Slavonic nations into one single race. It substitutes race for nationality; power of race for liberty. The signification of the Slavonic Cause as a Russian war-cry is this: that the cabinet of St. Petersburg seeks, wherever there are Slavonians, instru- ments wherewith to paralyze the policy of some other power, to cripple its force, and to find in the Panslavists wedges RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 99 With which it may split states asunder, if they stand in the wa~ of Russias ex- tension of power; and to create new combinations, either as her tools or her objects, for the sake of her aggrandize- ment. At present it is the Turkish empire that is the anvil upon which Russia strikes with her Panslavistic hammer. Her first object is the country ~vhich forms an angle betwixt the vital artery of our fatherland and Austria, the Danube, and her estu- ary on the coast of the Euxine. That after the Turks, we and Austria would next be struck upon, is quite clear. Not to see this, is blindness. To see and not to prevent it, is suicide. This is no mere question of sympathy or antipathy. It is a matter of vital im- portance for Hungary, that the integrity and sovereignty of the Turkish empire should be secured, and that Russia, who is the enemy of the liberties of Europe, should have her poison-fangs torn out, be- fore she can consolidate and increase her annexations for her own advantage. This is the philosophy of the situa- tion. It is a fact, that with respect to this dan- ger the workings of diplomatists afford to us Hungarians no comfort. They dissimu- late; they will not even show that they are aware of the real danger. The traditions of the past are very dis- quieting. It is an historical fact that there is not a single example of Austria having taken the part of Turkey against Russia. She has always been biassed in favor of Russia. She has always, indeed, declared openly for her. There have been cases when she acted as mediator, as at Nimie- row; and as soon as she heard of the cap- ture of Cracow by the Russians, and their invasion of the Crimea, she attacked with armed force the oppressed Turks. She made a treaty with the Russians for the dismemberment of Turkey. She had a share in the prey. She accepted the half of Moldavia(Bukovina) as a compensation for Poland, of which she got only a small part. So it was planned by Kaunitz and Gallitzin. These are the traditions of Viennese policy on the Eastern question. That a continuation of this traditionary policy would be dangerous in the hWhest degree, to our fatherland and to the mon- archv, is clear. To permit Russia to be- come either the direct lord or the dictator of the southern Slavonians, to be the steel hoop which compresses them, is equiva- lent to multiplying the splitting wedges. I cannot believe that these dangerous traditions can be continued within the cir- des of a constitutional government. But there are very influential circles, apart from constitutional bodies, that stick to this tra- ditional policy. They are fond of those siren songs, which are always heard when Austria has lost something, and whose burden is, Go for compensation to the East. These are very disquieting things. And it is a fact, that the Hungarian govern- ment has till now done little to soothe or appease the mind of the nation. Its reservedness has transgressed the farthest limits. Though reservedness may be safe in some cases, when it overreaches itself it is a fault, a blunder. Now, as the situation is full of danger, as diplomacy gives no comfort, as the tra- ditions of the past are disquieting, and as the government does nothing to appease the people, it is not only a natural conse- quence, but it is also a postulate of self- preservation, that the nation should now occupy such a position on the Eastern question as should make the whole world aware what is the political tendency most conformable or most contrary to our na- tional interests. The interruption of the manifestations of public opinion caused by the very sinister prorogation of the Hungarian Diet, was explained, if not as a change of mind, a~ least as a loss of interest, and gave rise to the apprehension that in the councils of the Viennese cabinet certain influences, whose existence is an open secret, might gain the preponnerance. This apprehension was very well found- ed. The taking up of a position pre- paratory to becoming a sharer in the booty was nearly accomplished when, fortu- nately, the Turkish victories stopped these dangerous preparations, and .Hungarian patriotism watchfully called out, Be on thy guard, Hungarian! who will keep watch for thee, if thou thyself doest it not for thy fatherland? And it spread all over the country, loudly proclaiming to friends and foes that the Hungarian nation wakefully watched. When I speak of the Hungarian nation, I do not mean the Magyar race, but every faithful son of the fatherland, without dis- tinction of race, tongue, or creed, who sticks patriotically to that type of govern- ment which has belonged to Hungary for a thousand years, and who wishes to see also Hungary remain as Hungary in the future, with her unity and indivisibility for~ ever secured. zoo RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. This it is that serves as a criterion of the public opinion of the Hungarian na- tion. This, and not an inflamed sentimen- tality, sympathetic or antipathetic, is the starting point of the conviction, that dikes should be raised against the Russian extension; for if we do it not we expose our fatherland and the monarchy, whose interests in this respect are identical, to the necessary consequence that the Rus- sian power, increased already by the dis- memberment of Poland to formidable proportions, would attack, after this new auo~mentation of force, the Austro-Hunga- nan monarchy as a boa-constrictor that compresses her giant folds around the body of her prey, or as a hundred-armed polypus that screws itself into the flesh. That this would be the unavoidable con- sequence of Russian extension cannot be doubted, considering the geographical position and ethnographical situation of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. Then it will no more be a question of the Hungarian race, reduced by the Russophiles only to four millions of inhab- itants; it will be a question whether Hun- gary shall remain Hungary. And now it is necessary to point out a dangerous network which already hangs around us. This network is knitted out of that erroneous conception that the power of Russia can only become dangerous to us by territorial occupation. They say, The czar has given his word that he will not occupy; and the czar is an honest man~ (Brutus is an honorable man); let him then manage (I very nearly wrote mismanage) in the East. The present vocation of the Austro-Hun- garian monarchy is to remain in readiness (and of course only in the south, where we can do mischief to the Turks, but in no imaginable case to the Russians), and only to step into action if the czar should break his word, and want to occupy whilst the peace negotiations last. Oh ! then we shall draw out the sword from the scab- bard, and then we shall do this and that. The nation should be on its guard against this network. It is a very danger- ous network. Firstly, I say, if the czar should come out victoriously from this war, then the Vienna cabinet will not draw the sword to impede the czar in his occupation, but only that it may participate in the booty. God save our poor country from this suicidal tingling of swords, where infamy would cover the suicide! But let us keep also in mind that God protects only those who defend themselves. Secondly, I say, even if the Viennese cabinet would impede at such a time the Russian occupation, it would not find a single ally to assist it to overthrow an accomplished fact, such as it could secure at present, if it ~vished it, for the far easier task of preventing Russian occupa- tion from becoming an accomplished fact. Prussia would not help herout of this diffi- culty with Russia; France would not help her; Italy would not help her. The Vienna cabinet would then have, not an ally more but a mighty ally less, one who under given circumstances would prove better than any other, andtkis is the Turk. We should lose him by yon network pol- icy; we should lose him without replacing him by any other. We should lose him, whether the czar occupied territory or not. ln the case of his raising army after army against the forsaken Turks and finally conquering them then, of course, a Turk- ish alliance would be out of the question. Or if the Turk, losing patience at the foul play of Europe, and above all of the Vien- na cabinet, should say, Well, if Europe, and especially the Vienna cabinet, does not care for me, I do not care for them either, and should sign a separate peace with Russia then the Vienna cabinet might stare at yon wooden idol, chiselled by its own political wisdom, and write pro- tocols, which ~vould be set aside by the worlds judge, History, as has always happened. Thus this policy of looking out for the keeping or not keeping of the czars word is either bad calculation or criminal calcu- lation; either crime or folly. Take your choice! But there is a still more decisive view for us. This is, that the menacing danger for the Austro-Hungarian empire would not be removed even if the czar kept his word and did not occupy; for even if he did not occupy, but terminated the war victoriously, the fact that he had con- quered would secure for him the power of leadership that dictatorial influence which is his designed aim, and is written on his banner as the Slavonic Cause. And for the Austro-Hunoarian monarchy the danger is not greater from the czar extending his power by occupation than it would be if he showed by victory that he can be a mighty stronghold of the Sla- vonic Cause, and thus extend his influ- ence over the eastern Slavonians and over those that are with them in the same camp, viz., our neighbors on the left hand RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. I0I as well as those on the right hand, and also in our own country. These he could dispose of as their leader, their lord, their protector. The Muscovite papers do not conceal that as the banner of the Sla- vonic Cause is unfurled, so after the Turkish Slavonic Cause, the Slavonic Cause of the Austro-Hungarian mon- archy will follow. And this is no idle boast; it is logic. This latter kind of Rus- sian extension is really more dangerous for us and for Austria than any occupation of territory, a mode of extension which does not win over, but alienates, those whose country is occupied. It is not a desirable fate to be a Russian subject, and an occupation is, at the worst, but a boa- constrictor, against which it is still possi- ble to struggle; but the other one is the polypus: if he pierces into our flesh, there is no possibility of extrication left for us. The danger which arises from the Ruse sian movement cannot be averted effectu- ally from the Austro-Hungarian empire by watching the czars promise; for in either case he will occupy a conspicuous place on the page of history as the victorious leader of Panslavism. The Slavonian aspirations towards a universal monarchy will gather around czarism; this will be the star that will lead the way, the Messiah to whose call they will listen, the idol they will adore, the lord who will command them, and whose obedient serfs they will be; and thus Panslavism will develop into Panslavo- Czarism. But if we send the czar who unfurled the Panslavonic banner back as a loser, then the wings of his Ghengis-Khanic flight will be clipped, the charm broken, and the Panslavic aspirations will lose their force. The Slavonians will perceive that it is not safe to carve for themselves an idol, in order to adore him as the god of liberty. The prop will be found broken, and the support will fall asunder like loos- ened sheaves. The different Slavonic nations will not seek salvation in the wor- shipping of the czarism that leads to Rus- sification, and therewith to the fetters of slavery, to drunken misery, and dreams of brutality; but, in the conservation of their individual nationality, in the elevation and maintenance of the vestal fire of their self- esteem, they will find the road that leads to freedom. And we Hungarians will wel- come them heartily on this road, accom- pany them with warm sympathy, as we accompanied them in past times, and as far as we are able aid every pulsation of the vital power of yon miraculous Slavonic living statue, whose national conscious- ness has never been broken, either by seduction or by the storm of long suffer- ings. Really, if there be any situation that is clear, the present one is. The Turk has understood the signs of the time. He gave a constitution to the communities of his empire, without dis- tinction of race, tongue, or creed, on the basis of equality before the law. His en- lightened statesmen provided that all the excrescences of exclusiveness which had been successively added to the morally pure civilization of Mohammedanism, should be buried in the grave of the past. The czar of all the Russias threw his army into the midst of this peaceable undertak- ing, to prevent the Turks from realizing this liberty. He was afraid that when even the half-moon should reflect the glare of the sun of liberty, this glare might pen- etrate into the darkness of his servile em- pire, as the beams of the Hungarian peas- ant emancipation had penetrated the night of Russian slavery. The Austro - Hungarian government must reckon with itself as to what can be claimed legally and fairly from the Turkish government in the interests of its Chris- tian subjects, without undermining thereby the existence of the Ottoman empire. Let them come to a mutual understanding with each other. It will not be so difficult, since the Porte has intelligence and good- will as well. They should conclude a treaty of alliance on the basis of this un- derstanding, for the repulse of the Rus- sian attack which threatens our fatherland and the Austrian monarchy very danger- ously. With this alliance consummated, let Austria-Hungary say to Russia, Well, the Turks have administered justice to their subjects, and thou wouldst still con- tinue the war. This can have no other meaning than that thou strivest to extend thy power. This we cannot permit in the interests of our monarchy, and we are firmly resolved not to allow it. Then let the bloodshed cease. And it would cease. The Russian would not expose himself to the chance, that whilst the Turkish lion stood in front of him, the Austro-Hungarian military force should take up a position behind his back and cut off his retreat. The father-. land and the monarchy would be saved without striking a single blow, or at a pro- portionately small sacrifice; which sacri- fice might be reduced to the concentration of a conspicuous army corps. This dem- onstration should of course be made on io~ RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. the Danube and in Transylvania, but not in Dalmatia, nor on the Croatian military frontier, which would be very ridiculous if it were not at the same time very sus- picious. And with the safetyof the father- land and of the monarchy the demands of humanity would be considered also, for it is indeed very shocking that there should be a war in the nineteenth century, which, in its horrors, exceeds the Mongol inva- sion in the thirteenth century. And the protection of the Eastern Christians would also be vouchsafed, without crippling the integrity and independence of the Turkish empire.or the dignity of the State. These i-esults, which can be attained thus, but only thus, would secure the weight, the authority, the splendor, and the fame of our monarchy in the highest degree. I have only tried to show the political bearings, not to lay down precise schemes of action. I feel convinced that the loom- ing danger can only be averted from our country and from the monarchy by a policy having the above-named tendency. And it is certain that, with such a ten-~ dency, the government could securely count on the self-sacrificing readiness of the entire Hungarian people without ex- ception of party. And why does not the government at- tempt it? Such a chance is very rare. Why not use it? These circumstances open up to Count Julius Andrassy the op- portunity of covering himself with great and lasting glory. He can become the savior of his fatherland, of the monarchy, of the reigning dynasty, if he will under- stand the work of the hour. He will be their gravedigger if he does not do it, or if he dares not do it. What hinders him from daring it? I hear Prussia mentioned. Yes, ten years ago the nation was frightened into the Delegations by the Russian hobgoblin, and now she is like to be driven into the arms of Russia by the terror of Prussia. I will not deny the Russian inclinations of the Berlincabinet. The personal lean- ings of the emperor William have a share in this, possessing undoubtedly great weight in the decision of the Berlin policy. And the false position of Germany has also a share therein, into which false posi- tion she has been thrown by the conquest of Alsace and Lorraine, which seems even to push into the background aconsidera- tion which should never be lost sight of by Germany, at present the first power of Europe. This consideration is that every increase of the Russian power must neces- sarily con~pr0mise the prirnatial. position of the German empire in Europe; and that in the last analysis against which per- sonal inclinations struggle in vain it may lead to a collision between the Ger- man and Slavonian races, the like of which has not yet been witnessed by the world. Rome and Carthage cannot exist side by side for long. But however strong the present inclina- tions of the Berlin cabinet may be, they cannot go so far as to compel Prussia to take Russia for her patron, and become the client of the latter. And, in the last resort, the German imperial policy has to reckon with the other German princes and with the German nation; and among the. former, as well as in the ranks of the lat- ter, there are those who recollect Russian patronage and the significance of client- ship for Germany under Russian rule. And those who recollect this would soon warn the Berlin cabinet that German blood belongs to Germany, and not to the Rus- sians. The knowledge of the logic of history, which I have acquired by long study and painstaking (and the cares that whitened my hair have their own tale to tell), and,. at last, experience, have taught me that the German emperor might give advice in, the shape of Russian inspirations, but that, whatever be the policy of the Vienna cabinet in the Eastern question, it is cer- tain, that, to favor Russia, the German empire will never declare war against the. Austro-Hungarian monarchy. I take all that they say about Prussian threats for mere claptrap, originating from yonder camarilla, that strives and alas! strives with great effect that the Vienna cabinet should do the same things in aid of the aggressive Russian policy a~ainst Turkey that it did against Poland, when Russia undertook to annihilate the inde- pendence of that unhappy country, andfor. the same end viz., that she should be- co;ne a sharer in the robbery, instead of allying herself with Turkey, as she ought to have done with the Poles, to frustrate the robbery. This is the danger which I see, like a death-prophecying bird, with outstretched wings, fluttering over my country; and my patriotism stimulates me to call to mind other things in connection with certain premonitory reflections on the rising mani- festations of public opinion. I repeat, that the important point .for the Hungarian nation. in this question is this: that by the ~var which rages in our neighborhood the vital interests of our RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 103 fatherland as well as those of Austria are jeopardized. I place weight on the fact that at pres- ent the vital interests of Austria are in harmony with our vital interests. My views on the subject of the connec- tion between Austria and Hungary are known. These interests are in such op- position with reference to the reciprocal State life and mutual State economy, that it is utterly impossible even to fancy any form of connection that would be satisfac- tory to both countries. It is for this that I remain in exile a living protest against this connection. I do not, therefore, consider it to be my duty to feel sad forebodings for the spe- cial interests of Austria when its danger does not at the same time threaten the interests of our fatherland. But when the danger of the one walks arm in. arm with that of the other, I put great weight there- upon, in order that Austria should feel the danger in unison with Hungary. We stand in the face of a war that threatens our country and Austria with mortal dangers if we do not aid the Turks in impeding the extension of Russian power. This war has found Austria in a State connection with Hungary. I do not think that Russia would listen to us if we should tell her she should delay the war till this connection be dissolved. She would surely not delay. Then things stand thus: that the same king of Hun- gary whom our nation asks to frustrate the Russian aggressive policy is also em- peror of Austria. This Austrian emperor stands very often in opposition to the king of Hungary. This time he is not so. And I think that the wishes of our nation can only gain in weight when she asks her sovereign to fulfil his duty as savior of the country, by acting as he ought to do as king of Hungary; also, in the mean time, pointing out that this is his interest as emperor of Austria as well. It is for this reason namely, that I like to ap- peal also to Austrian vital interests that I repeat emphatically that the vital inter- ests of Hungary and of Austria are iden- tical. This view is perfectly justified by the political significance and far-reaching im- portance of the Eastern question as it stands with reference to us. If the Turkish empire were to be under no pressure from the power that threatens the liberty of Europe, a colossus in- creased to formidable proportions by the dismemberment of Poland then the Eastern question would be nothing else than a home question between the Turks and the other peoples of different races in the Turkish empire. And if this question stood thus, neither the integrity nor the dismemberment of the Turkish empire, nor the reforms con- ceded or denied to the nations of that empire, would affect in the least, not the more distant countries of Europe, but not even us or Austria, who are her neighbors, except from a humanitarian, sympathetical, or antipathetical point of view. We have learned to appreciate justly the fundamental features of the Turkish character. We are aware, as I have said, that we possess in the Ottoman nation such reliable friends as we could not find anywhere else in the world, because our interests are so identical that there is not only no opposition, but not even a differ- ence between us. We recollect gratefully the generosity shown to us by the Turks in the days of our sorrow; and it is hon- orable on our part to remember this warm- ly just now in the days of their sorrow. And so it is certain that we Hungarians should follow all regenerational endeavors of the Turks with heartfelt sympathy and blessing. We should feel gratified if they succeeded in removing the obstacles in their way to liberty. On the other hand, if in consequence of Russian pressure the dismemberment of the Ottoman empire should be identical with the aggran dise-. ment of Russia, there would not be a sin- gle Hungarian who would not consider the territorial integrity of Turkey, and the upholding of its sovereignty, as a conditlo sine qud non of the maintenance of our own integrity and independence. No one would think of shedding his blood nor offering aid to the Turks if it were not for the threatening attitude of Russia; but for that we should not look with anxiety on the aspirations of the Slavonic nations. Though all the provinces of Turkey should gain such an autonomy (!) as that which is prepared for the Bulgarians by Prince Cherkaski after the Russian pattern and in the Russian language ,still the Eastern question would not be solved, but would then be revived in the face of Europe, and especially in that of Hungary. and Austria, in such tremendous propor- tions as it has not yet reached. Yes, because the Eastern question, I repeat again, is a question of Russian power; clearly, distinctly~ a question of Russian aggrandisement. And it will remain so until Europe, after a tardy repentance, shall at last determine the restoration of Poland, and thus avert 104 RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. the curse from herself which she has in- curred by the crime of that partition. Only by the restoration of Poland can Russia be pushed back upon her ancient boundaries, where she could in her still vast empire let her subjects become free men, and thus occupy a still glorious and prominent place at the round table of civ- ilized nations, but a place whence she could no more threaten us and Austria and Europe with her Panslavo-Czaristi- cal and universal-monarchical ambitions. Only when it shall be made sure on the banks of the Vistula that she can never more suffocate Turkey only then will the Eastern question step down to an inter- nal, and, if you like it, to a humanitarian level, and be solved in such a way as not to be dangerous to Europe. But so long as this does not happen, the Eastern question will always remain a Russian question of power. If the Turk- ish empire should be dismembered in con- sequence of Russian pressure, or even if it should be crippled, I repeat that every inch lost by the Turks would only increase Russian power. The diminution of Turk- ish sovereign independence would increase Russian influence, which would act as a dissolving poison on us and on Austria; and the unavoidable consequence would be that the nations which had been sev- ered from the Turkish rule would not be- come free, but Russian serfs forming the tail of that boa-constrictor which presses us elosely, the arms of that poly- pus which clings to our flesh. These are the considerations which in- duc& the Hungarians to adopt thc view that their very existence is endangered by the war in their neighborhood. And these considerations are so mo- mentous that, if we Hungarians should continue to look on in cowardly inactiv- ity at the dismemberment of the Turkish empire, or, which is identical, at the aggrandizement of Russian power, if we should look on in cowardly inactivity while the boa-constrictor gathers material to form a new tail from the southern Slavo- nians, while the polypus makes out of them new trunks, it would be such suicidal insanity that I cannot find a word to desig- nate it. We should be worse than the worms creeping upon the ground if we did not protect ourselves against it. These are sad times. After so much blood has been spilt that the nations might become independent, we are still in the position that the fancy and the will of two or three purple-clad mortals are decisive, and not the will of the people. But the Hungarian people will live they will not go so far in their resignation as to commit suicide for the sake of any mortal man whatever. We must raise a dike against the extension of Russian rower. And to do that, we must conserve and uphold the unity andthe independence of the Turkish empire; for at present that is the practi- cal way to construct a dike. This view is firmly upheld by the Hungarian nation, whatever form of expression they may use to state their will ; and in this respect all the Hungarians are of the same opinion without difference of party. They are of the same opinion, for they are convinced that this is a vital in- terest of our fatherland. And /ustly therefore Hungary feels indignation, and disavows the whole Hunrarian nation does it that immoral andim~olitic idea, that the A ustro-Hungarian ~nonarchy should beco;ne an acco;nj5lice in the occu- ration of any tart of Turkey for the sake of the enemy of our countrys vital interests. Governments should never be in oppo~ sition to the popular wishes when govern- ments wear the constitutional toga. It is the worse policy if they are. On the pres- ent occasion the wishes of the nation show themselves so unmistakably plain, that it would be a dangerously daring feat if the government should try to elude them by some parliamentary trick. It is a question of existence. The nation knows this Well. And ours is a loyal nation. Therefore, I say to those in authority, comply with her wishes. Dont force her to take in her own hands the insurance of her life. She will do it if she is forced to it, because she will not die. The Hun- garian nation will not be a worm to be trampled upon by the heel of the tram- plers. She will not suffer that the bowing diplomatists of czars and & esars should convert Hungary into a powder-barrel to be exploded by Russian intrigues with a Panslavonic match. They told thee, Hungary! Be recon- ciled with Austria that thou mayest be safe from the Russian. Thou hast been reconciled: let us see the conciliator, where is he? Almighty Father! if the Hungarians were but independent! De Profundis ad te, Doinine, clamavi. I know that what I have been saying is nothing new. But still I thought it right to speak my mind, as the prime min- ister of Hungary has made a very startling declaration. When it was resolved in a public meet- RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 105 ing of citizens that the integrity of the when the representatives of the country Turkish empire should be upheld even by are assembled again, that the nation, with- armed force, the prime minister of Hun- out difference of parties, expects that they gary gave the following answer: That it will rise above party spirit and secure the is not allowable to shed Hun g~arian blood fulfilment of the nations will. for the interests of any other power, and The most weighty declaration of the that the government will never give its Hungarian prime minister has been that in consent that the heroic sacr~ftce of the which (I quote it word by word) he assured Hungarian nation should be made for the House of Representatives that there is others. not a single person among the leaders who So the Hungarian prime minister still thinks it ought to be the aim ofourforezjgn considers the upholding of the Turkish poh~y that the power and soverez~gnty of empire against the Panslavonic standard- Turkey should be changed. bearer, the Russian czar, as being for the This declaration has been greatly ap- interests of others. plauded, because (as I know positively) on Every inhabitant of Hungary who wishes both sides of the House many persons the conservation of our country, and those, who were present, at the first hearing inter- also, who speculate on her overthrow, preted the speech, full of diplomatically know that our countrys existence is at clever phraseology, as assuring them that stake. The prime minister is, perhaps, the directors of the foreign policy of the the only man in Hungary who does not monarchy would hold it to be their task to see this. see that the power and sovereignty of Tur- But since the crippling of the integrity key should remain unchanged. of the Turkish empire is identical with the Alas ! the Hungarian prime minister did aggrandizement of Russian power, nobody not only not say this, not only did he not in the world has the right to say that Hun- want to say it, but, on the contrary, when garians are sacrificing Hungarian blood some days later two of the representatives for the sake of others when they offer to ascribed this sense to the declaration of shed it for the upholding of the integrity the prime minister, the latter contradicted of the Turkish empire. The prime minis- that explanation of his words. ter ought to know that this willingness is Qucesivi lucem, ingemuique reperta. a flower that has grown in the soil of self- The far-famed ministerial declaration preservation, and opened its cup under comes to nothing else but this: The the shinino~ of the purest patriotic sun- house of our neighbor is so situated with beams. reference to our house, that if his catches The Hungarian prime minister has fire ours will catch fire too. The house of spoken a startling word. If this is to be our neighbor has been attacked by robbers the standpoint of the government, I de- and incendiaries with torches. Our house- dare most emphatically that the interests hold takes fright for our dwelling, and of Hungary are in dangerous hands. the responsible watcher of the Hungarian Whoever, in this war, considers the household says, Dont be anxious; I give upholding of the Turkish empire to be a you the assurance that amongst us, your foreign cause, will not raise a dike to the watchmen, there is none who would hold extension of the Russian power: for he is that it is his task to burn down our neigh- not far from the thought of sharing with bors house! the Russians in the Turkish booty. The other declaration of the prime mm- But I should like to believe that this ister has been, that the government has most unlucky expression was only an un- not given to any one, in any sense what- considered pistol-shot, which went farther ever, a promise what it will do; nor have than it was intended. I do not say that they assumed any oblzgation, but they pos- the Hungarian government has deliber- sess their full freedom of self-decision. ately thrown itself into the arms of those From this declaration we learn two who are undoubtedly stirring dangerous things, but neither of them is comforting. questions in the regions of diplomatic cir- We learn that the government does not des. I can doubt, I can foresee, but I know yet what it will do. It has no fixed cannot assert, for I dont know it. But aim. Its policy has no certain tendency. alas! I know, that neither in the declara It sails about without a compass. It ex- tions of the Hungarian government, nor in pects good luck wherever the wind shall the actions of the leader of the foreign blow. If this be policy, it is a very im- policy, can a Hungarian patriot find corn- provident one. fort. The hour brings its own counsel It will not be amiss to call to mind now, (Kommt Zeit, komnmnt Rath). This is the xo6 RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. summary. Such determination according quoted declaration is this, that our govern. to the occasion may be a very good thing ment has no ally. I think that, under in itself, it is well to know how we shall such circumstances, there are two things reach the aim we have in view; but I dont which are the chief~duties of a government. think, in the present international imbroglio The one is that it shall see its way clearly of affairs, which endangers the vital inter- with reference to the tendency of its p01- ests of the country, that to relegate the icy, of this I have spoken already; the tendency of policy (not the how, but the other is that, in order to secure this policy, what!) to the chance of future decision, it should think of getting allies. It is a can be advisable or even permissible. bad case that the government has no allies. And I am very fearful that the prime I could even call this also neglect of duty, minister has told the truth. I see that because they could have had allies if they the minister of foreign affairs, by the con- had had a good policy. sent of the leaders of both parties, has con- But it is still worse that the untrarn- structed for himself a scheme wherein he melled attitude, of which the prime minis- can indeed place many things, but what ter has boasted, favors the Russians. are these things? This he leaves to the Since the beginning of the complications future. Kommt Zeit, kornrnt Rath. we have heard of nothing so emphatically The signification of the plan is the follow- as the confederacy of the three emperors, ing: Let the Russians do whatever they which was formally styled a friendly like. Our position towards them is a understandino~ One of those three con- friendly neutrality. Neutrality, and federates is the czar. My dear father- friendly: a steel hoop, made of wood! land! thou art indeed in great danger from Contradictio in adjecto. But, alas! still that i~ntrarn;nelled attitude which oper- true. Friendly towards Russia hostile ates in friendly relations with Russia. towards Turkey ; but no neutrality. When Hitherto it has acted in that way. I could a country is affected in her vital interests cite many testimonies; I will quote only by a war, as our country is now, neutrality a single one. is an absolute impossibility. Inaction is The government says it has no obliga- no neutrality. That this hitherto observed tions. What! Has it not entered into inaction has been of great service to the an engagement to let Roumania be occu- Russians is a fact crying to heaven and pied by Russia who unfurled the banners earth. But I will now continue th~ scheme. of the Slavonic Cause, and so to con- If the Turks shall be victorious, every- vert this province into a place for her inil- thing will remain as it has been; and we itary operations, notwithstanding that the shall mediate during the final negotiations, neutrality of that country has been guaran- in order that the Turk may not press too teed by the European powers, under whose hardly on the Russians, with whom we protectorate it has been placed? Yes, they shall keep on friendly terms. If, on the have engaged themselves, and by a formal contrary, the Russians advance victori- bargain, becausu they have expressly stip. ously, we shall take up a position in ulated, as a reward, that the czar shall not behalf of the conquered Turks; we shall force Servia into war. strive to moderate the Russian exactions This fatal obligation is the source of all at the final negotiations; but in any case, the evils which have happened hitherto if the Russians rob, we will rob too ~f and which will happen hereafter, and of Aossible down to Salonica / And then all the dangers that threaten our country. we will say to Hungary and to Austria, But the thing does not end here. The 1Vell, we have secured the interests of world is filled with anxiety lest even this the monarchy in the face of the Russian stipulation should be omitted, and lest the extension-policy. The Russians have an- Viennese cabinet should not try to prevent nexed, but we have annexed also; the the czar from taking Servia into action. equilibrium which was upset by robbery Lo! because the Turkish lion has struck has been restored by robbery.~~ the czar over the fingers, the great czar Such is the scheme of the policy of is in want of the perjury of little Servia, freedom of self-decision, of which the to whom Turkey the other day granted prime minister has been boasting. I shall forgiveness. Thus the untrammelled at- be very glad if the patriotism of the titude leans again towards Russia. national representatives should give such The representatives of Hungary will, a guarantee for the fulfilment of the peo- no doubt, without party difference, feel ples wishes as may refute my suspicion the danger that menaces them through I had nearly written my certainty. this new aggravation of circumstances. The second thing we learn from the I must now advert to a third govern~ RUSSIAN AGGRESSION. 10? mental declaration, and I find it very weighty. When an interpellation was directed to the government with reference to its pol- icy, instead of confessing its leanings, it avoided the question by declaring that the interests of the A ustro-Hungarian mon- archy have led and will lead their policy, and that the interests of the monarchy under every circumstance will be consid- ered. The government, in fact, always serves up the same dish, nobody knowing whether it is fish or flesh, not even the butler who serves it. This is the question, in what direction (not by what means but in what direction) the minister seeks his policy? and whether he seeks it in a direction con- formable to the interests of the monarchy?. If they should again serve a dish, which is neither fish nor flesh, in the House of Representatives, and if the House should be contented with this assurance (as we heard out of doors), that the gov- ernment heep before their eyes the wish of the nation that the interests of the inon- archy in opposition to the Russian poficy of extension should be secured, the ambiguity of the situation would not be at all changed, and the door would still be left open; so that if events took another turn, the water would be turned to grind the mill for those influences that wish to get a share, and our nations would some morning awake to find that, under the pretence of securing the inter- ests of the monarchy, things had hap- pened which the nation abhors as it does damnation. I do not speak so because I have fore- bodings; it is not my object to enter into questions of principles. I dont want to quote the sad pages of our own history, nor the examples of Polignac or Mac- Mahon, to show that it has always been so; and that there has never been any impiety without the reigning power invok- ing interests of State when committing it. But as we stand in view of the danger of Russian extension, I pray my countrymen to look for that page of history where they will see it written, how the Viennese cab- inet understands the securing of the inter- ests of the monarchy when face to face with Russian aggressive policy / This has such an actuality of interest that I nearly shudder when I think of it. Whoever looks at those pages must feel convinced that the Viennese cabinet never did understand the securing of the interests of the monarchy so that the Rus- sian extension should not be permitted; it but so understoodthem as that whenever the Russians commit robbery, A ustria must rob as well, that when Russia ex- tends herself Austria ought to do the same. So, I repeat for the third time, it under- stood them at the division of Poland, and so it has understood them ever since, without exception, when face to face with the Russian policy of extension. This is an awful remembrance. And this they call the policy of restor- ing the equilibrium! And what has history said of that awful policy? I do not speak even of morals, of honesty which is always the best policy in the end, though it was a long time ago struck out of the vocabulary of diplomacy. I point to facts. By this policy the Russian power has been swollen to giant-like proportions, which now menace the whole world. The consequence of this policy is the war of to- day, and Russia now smooths her way, through the Turkish Slavonic cause, to the Hungarian and Austrian Slavonic cause. On the other hand, this policy of shar- ing has not saved the Austrian dynasty from withering. Russia has grown up; Austria has dwindled. And what will be the result if the Vi- enna cabinet should again follow this dam- nable policy of expediency? In the past it has put a razor in the hand of Russia; now it would put this razor to the throat of Hungary, and also of Austria. Duo cum faciunt idem, non est idem. There can be no doubt that what the Russians would rob from the Turks, what their influence would win on both shores of the lower Danube and on the Balkan peninsula, would form a real increase of their power, an augmentation of their strength; and the influence thus acquired would act upon the Slavonians of the Aus-. trian empire, and upon those of the Hun- garian crown, like the loadstone on iron. Those Slavonians that would be caught by Russia, she would take with her. On the contrary, what the Viennese cabinet would pilfer, under the shadow of the Russian highwayman, from the Turk- ish empire, would only weaken us, and become eventually our death; because it would eternally multiply and put into fur- ther fermentation all the already ferment- ing and dissolving elements. The Slavo- nians who would be caught by the Viennese cabinet would take the latter with them. And what would be the infallible final xo8 ERICA. result? The punishment of tallo. If St. Petersburg and Vienna should divide the rags of the torn Turkish empire, twenty- five years would not elapse before the Russians, the Prussians, and the Italians would divide Austria and Hungary among themselves, perhaps leaving something of the booty to Wallachia, as the reward of subserviency to Russia. This is as true as that there is a God. Well, I feel no call to be anxious about the dismemberment of Austria, if free na- tions might step into her place; but I do feel it my duty to be anxious about a dis- solution by which Russian power and Rus- sian influence would be increased. I feel it so much my duty, that if our fatherland were connected with Austria only ly the ties of good-neighborly friendship, and if Austria were threatened by the Russians, I would most determinedly say to my countrymen, Defend thy Austrian neigh- bor to the last drop of thy blood against Russia, just as I say now, Defend thy Turkish neighbor to the last drop of thy blood against Russia. The reigning dynasty of Austria must reckon with the logic of history. A time may come it must come when her German provinces will go home. Well, well, I say: the royal throne of the palace at Buda is a very glorious seat. It will be good to think about how, after its thou- sand years history, it may not be men- aced by the Russian monster neither in the form of a boa-constrictor, nor in that of an hundred-armed polypus. The time is come to think of it, now that the Turk- ish lion is fighting his life or death strug- gle so gloriously. Let us not lose the opportunity. Sero inedicina ~aratur. Mene! Mene! Tekel! Upharsin! I do not say that the Hungarian gov- ernment has given itself up to the impul- ses of robbery, I say only, that this is not excluded from the scheme. This vam- pire sits on its bed, on its chest, on its arms. Shake off the vampire, I say. Free your arms, and step at the head of the nation. It is a glorious place. In such a great crisis it is a very small am- bition to aim, by the cleverly construed phrase of taking notice, at getting a vote of confidence from your party. You should act so that the confidence of the whole nation should surround you. You can do it. You should adopt the policy that has been pointed at by the whole nation. You should not contradict your- selves, for you said that your hands were free. To the representatives of the nation I would like to cry out from my remote sol- itary place, The fatherland is in danger, in such danger as it has never been in before, viewing the irrevocability of the consequences. Then let the fatherland not be made a party question among your- selves, my countrymen! Let the genius of reconciliation hover over you when you stand arm in arm around the altar of our fatherland. I do not ask you to upset the government, but I beg of you to place it in such a situation that its stability would be guaranteed by the fulfilment of the nations wishes. The action of Servia has su~piied you with an oPportunity which answers even dihm5iomatica/ consid- erations. Dont let this occasion escape you. The fulfilment of the nations will is the purest loyalty. I say soI, who never yield. It is true I do not like the Austrian eagle in our fatherland. But I wish not that this eagle should be consumed in flame by the Russian; and I shudder at the thought that Hungary may be the funeral stake. I am a very old man. I long ago over- stepped the line assigned by Scripture as the limit to human life. Who knows whether this be not my last word? May it not be the voice of one who cries in the desert! ERIcA.* THE ORE TRANSLATED FOR THE LIVING AGE FROM MAN OF FRAU VON INGER5LEBEN. XIII. FRAULEIN MOLLY. WHEN Erica returned, she found old Christine in the greatest excitement, and was received with a torrent of reproaches. In self-defence she related the rescue of the child, but the old servant was not in- clined to be softened. She, Christine, could not see why Fraulein Erica need run after the robber; there were certainly people enough in Waldbad to bring back stolen children. But when she discovered the Frauleins absence, she had instantly made up her mind that the latter would be senseless enough to run into the dark for- est, which, apart from all other dangers, was not at all proper for a young lady. Christel rarely used the title of Frau- lein, except when she was angry with * Copyright 5877, by Littell & Gay. ERICA. 109 her; it was a sort of declaration of war, and Erica saw, from the frequent repeti- tion of the word, how much she had an- gered the old servant. She was, however, so utterly exhausted in body and mind by her exertions and excitement, as for the moment to be unable to put Christel into a better humor. She could scarcely un- dress herself, and the old woman, who perceived this, helped her, and though muttering and grumbling, put her to bed as carefully as a child. The next morning every shade of anger had vanished from Christels brow. Erica, from her windows, even heard her giving an attentive neighbor a full account of her young mistresss heroic deed. There were many portions of the story which Erica could not remember, but Christel related them with most convincing positiveness, and the listener smiled with still greater amusement, when Christel wound up by repeatedly assuring the neighbor that there was not another person in all Waldbad, except our Erica, who under such cir- cumstances would have succeeded in bringing back the stolen child. The fol- lowing day the events of the night were the universal topic of conversation, both to the inhabitants of Waldbad and the summer visitors. The few persons who had gone to bed early the evening before, and there- fore not been excited themselves, learned with amazement and some little regret the minutest details of the story, perhaps with considerable amplification. Elmars deed, in the mouths of the young girls, became an act of heroism which surrounded his brow with a halo of glory, and made him an object of the most intense interest to all the fair sex in Wald- bad. Erica, on the other hand, of whose very existence most of the young men had hitherto been ignorant, occupied their thoughts with equal suddenness, and was declared a famous little girl, ~vorthy of the greatest attention. The giant Andreas, though he had also been very active in the liberation of the child, attracted little notice from society, and was forced to be satisfied with being the hero of all the woodcutters and fisher- men in the neighborhood. He, however, was perfectly contented with his modest share of fame, as well as the liberal gifts of tbe brother and sister, which enabled him to gratify all his moderate wishes, build a little house, and marry his Anne Marie. Frau von Hohenstiidt seemed so ill that the news of Ericas adventure was broken to her very cautiously, and even this slight outline of the events produced such an exhausting effect upon her as to make every one very anxious all day. Perhaps, however, this diversion of her thoughts to some other subject was fortunate for Erica, since it aided her to more rapidly regain the composure of mind which had been somewhat shaken by the events of the night. Late in the afternoon she saw from her window Valentin, the livened footman, ascending the hill that led to the house, heard him exchange a few words with Christine, and then noticed that he handed her a letter. She had just time to regain her composure, at least outwardly, when the old servant entered the room. The note was addressed to Enica, and when she unfolded the sheet her eyes rested for the first time on Elmars hand- writing. These lines must inform Fr~ulein Erica that both sister and brother are for the moment unable to express their thanks in person. Kathinka is not allowed to leave her bed to-day, and the doctor, on account of my slight wound, has ordered me to remain in my room for the present. Our preserver therefore must not be angry with us if we delay our visit and cannot tell her, until some future time, how deeply we are indebted to her. This was the whole of the letter, which aroused a feeling somewhat akin to disap- pointment. She scarcely knew herself what she had expected, but a slight shade of coldness seemed to pervade the lines. The danger incurred together during the previous night had made Elmar appear like an intimate acquaintance, nay, friend, and now she felt as if the letter had been writ- ten from the standpoint he had previously taken towards her. A shade of bitterness even mingled with her thoughts, when she said to herself that they would come to express their thanks, and in so doing think the affair settled and then trouble them- selves no more about her. Her eyes remained fixed mechanically upon the sheet of paper, and she gave her- self up to her thoughts so long that her invalid mother noticed it. Have you received any bad news, child, that you look at that letter so mourn- fully? she asked gently. Erica started, and handing the sheet to her mother, said somewhat evasively, I dont think the news so bad. The princess is of course a little exhausted by her agitation, and her brothers wound is said to be slight. The old lady read the note with some hO ERICA. difficulty. When she came to the signa- ture, her features expressed surprise, and she asked almost eagerly, Altenborn? Am I right, Altenborn? Yes, mamma, that is the name. And from what part of the country is this Baron von Altenborn? I dont know exactly. I heard that his estates were not far from the frontiers of France. The invalid again took the letter and read it attentively, then turned to her daughter. How does it happen that this young man calls you Fraulein Erica, how does he know your Christian name? Erica blushed crimson. I really dont know, mamma, she stammered in great embarrassment, he has always called me so. Always called you so? Then you have seen him often. You told me about the beautiful princess and her little son, but, so far as I am aware, never mentioned her brother. Erica was fortunately spared a reply, for the doctor entered the room to visit the invalid. This time he seemed less dis- posed to inquire after the health of his patient than to tell her his own experi- ences, and gave a most circumstantial report of the princesss condition, the bar- ons wound, and the undisturbed health enjoyed by little Carlos in spite of his alarm. He had probably already done this in twenty houses, and intended to carry his news to twenty more, for he had scarcely finished his story when he rose, recommended his patient to keep perfectly quiet, and hastily glided out of the room. The latter was only too well aware that medical aid, far from curing, could scarcely alleviate her disease, to feel offended by her physicians partial sympathy for the health of others. Besides the repose recommended was an imperious necessity, for the invalid, exhausted by reading the short letter, as well as by the doctors visit, leaned back on her couch, and re- mained motionless for nearly three hours. The next day brought the old lady some- whatbetter health, and Erica could leave her for a short time to take her usual ~valk. According to an old habit, she directed her steps towards the sea, and soon reached the shore, which at this time was deserted and lonely. Only two persons were strold- ing up and down, in ~vhom she soon rec- ognized Fraulein Molly and Herr von Wehlen. On making this discovery, Erica was strongly tempted to turn back, but she had already been seen, and besides, she surely had no cause to fear the mans glances of hate. But she did not encounter any. On the contrary, Wehlen spoke to her kindly, almost cordially, and paid her heroic cour- age the most extravagant compliments, while Molly stood beside him like a statue, with her eyes fixed upon the ground~ When he took leave of the ladies, she looked up, gazed stead1ily into his face, then nodded slightly, and said in a tone of mockery, The ladies wish you a great deal of pleasure on your lonely walk. Then, much td Ericas surprise, she passed her hand through her anti, and drew the aston- ished girl away, walking quickly forward until one of the undulations of the down concealed them from Wehlens eyes, when she paused, and covering her face with her hands, exclaimed in a trembling voice, It is true. Oh God, it is true Erica stood beside her in the greatest perplexity, and as she naturally imagined the remark referred to Wehlen and his supposed share in the robbery, answered quickly, So you are also convinced of it? I have not the slightest doubt. Molly removed her hands from her eyes and stared at the young girl. So this child already knows, she murmured, the sparrows have twittered it from the roofs, and I, I alone was blind and believed in love and faith. What are you talking about, Fraulein Molly? asked Erica timidly. What am I talking about, child? Of the old love that is ever new, of feigned love, of pshaw! cried the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, and tossing her head impatiently. Is it not the same deception that is practised upon wealthy heiresses whom men woo for their mil- lions, while they seem to adore their per- sons ? What do you think, Erica, should not I too be admired, idolized by all the world, if I possessed a million? Certainly, replied Erica frankly. Molly laughed a hard, dry laugh, which made Erica shrink. Well, you see, child, unfortunately I dont have these millions, and am therefore the insignificant, unno- ticed companion of the Princess Bagadoff. So insignificant that the haughty lady, I fear, only raised me to this enviable posi- tion in order to feel safe in her own house at least, and be able to close the Argus eyes with which she watches over her brothers heart. - ERICA. III Her brothers heart? The words had escaped Ericas lips before she real- ized what she was saying, but as they were now spoken she had the courage to add, What do you mean by that, Frau- lein Molly? It is very simple, said Molly, with her former strange laugh. The princess is jealous of this adored brothers love, and tries every means to guard his heart from cherishing an affection for any other wom- an. Perhaps this love is also a little tainted by the egotism common to all, who knows? She uttered the last words in a loud, scornful tone, which made them all the more incomprehensible to Erica, who looked into the speakers face with such an inquiring expression, that the latter continued, You dont understand me, child. Of course, how should you? Wait a few years and see. You are poor, like me, and have as small a share of beauty; it will not be long ere life enlightens you about all these things. You do not desire the explanation, as I see by those pouting lips. No one desires it, child, but fate does not inquire about our wishes. Come, sit here on the down, I will tell you my story. My parents were rich and aristocratic, and as the old muses say no one sung beside my cradle that I should ever be obliged to earn my bread. Our house was always thronged with visitors, and everybody flattered the charming little Molly. Perhaps the expensive mode of living might have encroached upon my parents property, which was still far- ther diminished by various misfortunes. Friends became fewer, flatterers to little Molly rarer, and when at last my father and mother both died within a very few days of each other, leaving scarcely enough to pay their debts, my relatives at my guardians earnest entreaty were obliged to take me into their house. The charming little Molly must have probably become a very unattractive greizt Molly, foi- I was neglected by every one, and always felt in other peoples way. My beautiful, or rather wealthy cousins so completely outshone me, that most of the visitors at the house were scarcely aware of my presence, and as the role of Cin- derella seemed exactly adapted to me in every particular, one could scarcely blame my aunt for allotting it to me. In this situation, it seemed like a de- liverance when, two years ago, the Prin- cess Bagadoff offered me the position~ of companion. At first I could scarcely un- derstand this great kindness, but soon perceived that my repulsive, rather than my attractive qualities, had recommended me to her. This lady is the very incarnation of selfishness, which in her has reached the height of developing into a certain degree of ingenuousness, and therefore never draws her into any contention with the outside world; but she understands only her own rights, not those of others, and so her acts in this respect are never vacillating, while her ordinary conduct, which is dependent solely on caprice, and regulated only by her own arbitrary will, seems doubly so. But it would be a great mistake to suppose that these whims can be controlled or guided by apparent sub- mission. She instinctively feels even the most covert assault upon her independent sovereignty, and defeats it with victorious swiftness and certainty. Her almost adoring love for her boy is only one of the forms into which this ego- tism has crystallized. She loves in him her expanded self, the continuation of her own existence, and moreover has the ad- vantage of convincing herself and others of her exemplary virtue, her wonderful maternal affection, and would think it per- fectly natural if she were called a pattern for all other women. Must not all who surround her be delighted with the labor this rare maternal love imposes upon them? Can her sweet boy be a burden to any one? Certainly not, and only she herself owing to her nervous sensibility sometimes feels this burden and gets rid of it as quickly as possible. If the baron is correct in his asser- tion, and the childs father is really the originator of the intended abduction, he has been skilful enough to hit upon the only spot where he could wound her. Poor little Carlos who is always used as a shield to cover his mothers wishes might perhaps have fared better, if he had really been removed to the barren steppes of Russia. The fathers hatred would perhaps have been more beneficial to him than the mothers love, which corrupts and poisons his mind, and will make him the most miserable, conteml)tible of egotists. I am not personally acquainted with the prince, but if, as they say, at the time of the divorce which occurred a few years ago the whole blame was thrown upon him, and the child given to the moth- er, while the father was denied any right to the possession of the boy, the judges acted like short-sighted men, who formed 112 ERICA. their opinions solely by appearances. The It was only by causing her to feel that I prince may be rough and inconsiderate, was indispensable, that I could, in some and have treated his wife accordingly, but degree, control her whims and compel her even the gentlest and most yielding man to treat me decently. would have been roused to fury by such a Poverty is seldom beneficial to the character, Erica. A poor woman lives on a war footing with society, which denies her the barest necessities; and war has stern laws, the morality of smiling peace would lead to utter destruction. The speaker paused and gazed thought- fully at the ground, then after a long si- lence continued: Let me finish my story. For two years I lived in this way, if not happily at least comfortably, and desired no change in my fate, because I was con- vinced that it must result to my disadvan- tage. Then we came here Again Molly paused and cast down her eyes, as she continued softly, in ~vo~ds that seemed to have very little connection with the last sentence. Wehlen was the only man who ever showed any attention to me. What marvel was it if he won my heart, if I dreamed of a happy future? The dream has vanished, leaving naught save the bitterness of the illusion. Do not shed tears for me, Erica! she continued, in a loud, passionate tone. I am only atoning for my sin. How could I forget that I was unlovely? how could I be such a fool as to suppose I had really won the heart of that man, who has travelled over all Europe, and seen the beauties of every country? I ought to have known that nothing but motives of interest could attract him to me, and the knowledge would have put me on the track. So perhaps the princess was right in the torrent of reproaches, though not the insults, with which she loaded me be- fore the whole company, and I forgive her. A parting from her, however, is no less unavoidable. For the sake of my own self-respect I cannot expose myself to an- other such scene, and, besides, the prin- cess will not conquer her distrust of me so the relation can no longer be maintained on either side. Does the princess know that Herr von Wehlen is the real robber? asked Erica in surprise. Oh, no! she would scarcely believe it, and it is better so, for she would allow impulse to urge her on to the wildest con- duct. There is no danger that the at- tempt will be repeated. The fairy castle is to be watched day and night by men in the princesss pay, and besides Herr von Wehlen just told me that he had received important letters which required his imme nature. The brother of this estimable sister, who since the divorce has enjoyed the happiness of sheltering her in his castle, has undoubtedly for this sole reason, cub tivated the calmness natural to him until it has become a fine art. I do not under- stand what induces him to show his sister so much consideration it certainly is not love but I know he does it, and most earnestly endeavors to avoid an open quarrel. How long he will succeed I can- not tell, I only know that, in spite of ev- erything he can do to prevent it, this breach will, must come. In spite of the princesss touching affection for little Carlos, notwith standing that she lives only for and in her. child, she squanders with lavish hands the large property which the prince was forced to settle on her and the boy. If the point in question is the gratifi- cation of any of her whims, she has no consideration and throws away sums en- tirely out of proportion, both to the object to be gained and her own means. If I am not greatly mistaken, little Carlos has already been robbed of a portion of his patrimony by his affectionate mother, and I am equally mistaken if the large pos- sessions of her brother are not destined to repair the breaches. This brothers marriage would there- fore be inopportune in every respect, and as he himself is narrow-minded enough not to perceive it, his careful sister is obliged to take the trouble of mounting guard over him. For this reason she de- sires at least to have repose when they are at Castle Altenborn, and therefore must employ a particularly unattractive com- panion. True, there are other ladies at the castle, Baron von Altenborns grand- mamma and her companion, but as the latter is sixty years old there is no danger of any assault upon the heart of the young master of the house. It was somewhat humiliating for me when I made this discovery; but I had been accustomed to so many mortifica- tions for years, that I soon became recon- ciled, and even tried to turn the circum- stance to my own advantage by making myself so extremely unattractive, that I believe I really became almost insupport- able to the good baron, but convinced the princess of the advantage of my presence. ERICA. diate departure. Mollys voice trembled as she uttered the last words, and it was possibly to conceal her emotion, that she continued with scornful bitterness, Herr von Wehlen intends to pay her Highness a farewell visit; the beautiful woman will take a gracious leave of him, and as he has too much tact to remind her of the existence of the companion who has now fallen into disgrace, and yet does not wish to be uncivil, he has just made his adieux to me on the beach. We, too, shall leave here very soon; the princess has become uneasy, and Molly Sassnitz will once more rove over the world, a leaf whirled about at the mercy of the wind. Whither it will take me I know not. She l)aused, and Erica did not interrupt the silence. She was reflecting upon what she had heard. The tale, however, was not so l)ainful and disappointing to her as it would have been a few days before. The halo which had surrounded the beau~ tiful, aristocratic lady had already received a crushing blow during the scene witnessed the night before. What had this woman, half insane with grief, in common with the tall, beautiful vision which had seemed to be supported so gracefully, and yet so firmly, by its own strength? Would, ought a really noble spirit to allow its self-control to be de- stroyed to such an extent, even by the greatest misfortune? Must not her cheeks forever burn with shame at the disgraceful recollection that she had charged the boys preserver, her own brother, with having stolen him? Erica had been put to flight by the humiliation the princess had brought upon herself by this unjust accusation. When Molly now rose, she also sprang up, and holding out her hand, said cordially, I thank you for your confidence, Fr~iu- lein Molly. I will not abuse it, nor shall ~~our story fail to bear fruit. It has shown me how many false appearances are pro- duced by ignorance and short-sightedness, and the lesson will not be lost. I will pray to God for your future happiness, and you must do so too, Frijulein Molly, then you will no longer feel like a leaf borne along at the mercy of the wind, you will know that the storm can play no tricks with you.~ Molly threw her arms around Ericas neck, and laid her head upon her shoulder. I am very miserable, Erica, she mur- mured, weeping. Pray for me. I should only utter the petition with my lips; my heart is cold and dead, even the thought of God cannot warm it. She raised her head, kissed Erica on LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1048 I 13 the forehead, and then walked quickly away without another word. Erica went slowly home, reflecting on what she had heard, and adding thread to thread to bridge over the many gaps in her knowledge. She also thought of her con- versation with Elmar, and his strange comparison, which she had imagined re- ferred to Wehlen. Now she thought she knew that he had alluded to his sister, but could have given no reason why the idea sent the blood to her cheeks, and crim- soned them with burning blushes. XIV. THE VISIT. JUST after Erica had left home to have her momentous conversation with Molly, Christine rushed into the invalids room in the greatest excitement. Her movements betrayed such unusual haste and agitation, that the sick lady started up in alarm, but before she could ask a question Christine exclaimed, Here is the servant who brought the letter yesterday. The princess wants to call on you, and is already coming up the hill with the little prince. An expression of by no means pleas- urable surprise flitted across the invalids features. I am very ill-prepared to re- ceive visitors, and Erica is not at home. Go and meet the lady and ask her to ex- cuse me, Christine. But you surely wont send the princess away? cried Christine in astonishment. In the agitation caused by the visit, the old servant seemed to have entirely for gotten her usual anxiety for the invalid. The princess will not be inclined to talk to a sick woman, so go, Christine. The old woman, shaking her h~ad, hur- ried down the steps of the veranda and advanced towards the princess. Katharina, accompanied by her son and his nurse, was already quite near, while the livened Valentin ~vaited close to the house, eying its dilapidated appearance with somewhat contemptuous glances. Christel, however, did not vouchsafe to give him her answer, but hurried towards the princess who was slowly ap. proaching, and explained in the most cir- cumstantial manner the combination of unlucky circumstances which would render it impossible to receive her visit. Kath- anna was evidently not inclined to let her plan be thwarted so easily, she turned towards the nurse who for the moment occupied Fraulein Mollys place and asked, 4 ERICA. Does the woman want to tell us that the daughter has gone out, and the mother is ill, or have I misunderstood her. Your Highness has understood cor- rectly, r~eplied the nurse, with a smile by no means flattering to Christine. Well, now we are here, we will see the sick lady a moment, that cannot possibly do her any harm. Go on, my good wom- an, and show us the way. Christine looked at the speaker in some little perplexity, and hesitated, but the princess, in spite of this reluctance, con- tinued her way so quietly, that the ladys firmness must have intimidated the old servant, for she now approached the ve- randa. The invalid was extremely surprised and very indignant, when Christine sud- denly threw open both folding-doors she knew what was proper, as she always assured all the neighbors and the prin- cess entered the room. She cast a reprov- ing look at the old servant, which seemed to crush her, but she hastily ~vhispered to her mistress that the lady insisted upon coming in, and then placed a chair for her. Frau von Hohenst~dt. quietly waited until her guest had approached near enough to hear her feeble voice, and then said politely, but in spite of the faint tone in which she was compelled to speak, very resolutely, As the Princess Bagadoff has not heeded my request that she would permit me to decline her visit, she must not be angry if I do not come forward to receive my guest. My weakness will not permit me to do so. How sorry I am to find you so ill, my dear Frau von Hohenst~idt, said Kath- anna with the most winning cordiality, as she seated herself. I really could not allow myself to be sent away, as I think you will soon feel, since we have so many things to discuss.~~ To discuss? asked the old lady in astonishment. And so this is the house, the room, in which our dear Enica has hitherto spent her life. How deeply all this moves me; how much value the simplest thing ac- quires when it belongs to those who are dear to us ! You are right in the broadest sense of the words, your Highness, we can love even inanimate objects, and thus ugly things may become dear. You have mountain-ash trees before the door, I see. What a beautiful red the berries turn, only unfortunately the color announces the approach of autumn. In Russia my cook made an excellent jelly of these berries, but I cant have it here, no German or French cook knows the receipt. You ought to send to Russia for. it, replied the invalid with a faint smile. I suppose the picture over your sofa is a portrait of dear Erica, when she was a child? No, it is my eldest daughter, who died when only eight years old. How very sad! Have you any other children? I had five, but God has left me only Erica. I was told that your maiden name was Kroneck, perhaps you are related to the Knonecks of Falkenhausen? They are my cousins, replied the in- valid with evident coldness, and then -added in the same tone, I must beg your Highness to drop this subject, it pains and agitates ~ Katharina looked at the speaker in aston- ishment. There are quarrels in every large family, she answered carelessly, one ought not to be disturbed by them. But to come to the object of my visit, I see I can for the present express my grat- itude for my little Carloss rescue only to Ericas mother. I must not accept your thanks, re- plied the invalid with a sad smile. It was very much against my will that Erica undertook the hazardous enterprise, and if I had known of it, I should certainly have forbidden her to do ~ The princesss cheek flushed crimson, and her restless eyes flashed angrily. You are jesting, madame. You cannot possibly mean to say that you would not have prevented a most shameful act of villany~ In so far as it was to be prevented by my daughters assistance, most assuredly I do. The fortunate result of her adven- ture is a great niercy, for which we ought to offer fervent thanks to God, but which we could not possibly expect. A woman who has lost everything except this one daughter, must possess more than human generosity to be willing to sacrifice her jewel, even for so great a prize. Katharina rose and went to the window. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the scene, and it was not until after a long pause that she turned back into the room, and again approached the invalid. Really, madame, she began, in a tone of almost mocking courtesy, you ar~ so extremely frank that I could not at first and words to answer. ERICA. I 15 I am surprised, your Highness, re- plied the invalid quietly. A lady whose maternal love is so greatly lauded, ought to think my statement so natural that any assurance to the contrary would appear like hypocrisy. We who belong to the fashionable world are so accustomed to the constant hypocrisy of politeness, that any different treatment must always seem somewhat singular. I thank you for the information, prin- cess. You teach me the peculiar advan- tages of my secluded life. Katharina, who had not resumed her seat, but remained standing before her compan- ion, once more went to the window to look at the view, and then paced up and down the room again, while the invalid, whose nerves could endure neither noise nor restlessness, leaned back in her chair, and by the involuntary expressions of pain tf~at flitted over her face betrayed the torture this constant bustle inflicted. The rustling sound made by Katharinas long silk dress, as it swept over the floor, at last became so unendurable that she touched the bell standing beside her, to summon the servant. The princess, startled by the u.nexpected sound, paused in the cen- tre of the room, while Christine opened the door and rushed up to her mistress. I am ill, whispered the latter faintly; take me to my room. The princess will excuse me. Katharina must have had very quick ears, for she had caught the murmured words, and hastily approaching the sick woman, said quickly, I deeply regret this indisposition, but nevertheless must insist upon having a moments audience. The servant can stay in the next room and come in presently. But Christine did not allow herself to be intimidated by the authoritative man- ner. Her mistresss pale face destroyed all her reverence for the aristocratic lady, and she paid no attention to her com- mands, but looked inquiringly at the invalid. Go, Christine, murmured the latter, the princess, in consideration of my health, will doubtless make her communi- cation in as few words as possible. This, however, did not seem to be the case, for Christine had aWeady obeyed the command and left the room, and yet Kath- anna did not utter a syllable, but on the contrary seemed inclined to continue her promenade. At last she controlled her restlessness, stood close beside the invalid, and began with almost incoherent haste, As you will not accept my thanks, I wont trouble you with them; but you must at least permit me to do all that lies in my power for our guardian angel, Erica. Fraulein von Sassnitz, my companion, is about to leave my house for various rea- sons. I therefore offer the position to Erica, and hope her mother will make no objection. Erica will thus have an oppor- tunity to enter society, and in a position which will procure for her all the advan- tages she unfortunately lacks at home. True, I am aware that she now possesses neither the accomplishments nor the familiarity with the forms of society which I can and must expect from my compan- ion, but she is a dear and, I think, bright child, and therefore will soon acquire what she lacks. I myself will do all in my power to train her, and when in a few years I bring her back, you will be as- tonished to see into what a beautiful flower the little heather blossom has bloomed. Katharina paused and gazed eagerly at the invalid, who was leaning back in her chair perfectly motienless, and apparently unsympathizing. A pause ensued, which the princess, in her impatience, soon inter- rupted, for she continued, Well, you do not reply. I think my proposal was at least worth an answer. I suppose it will be hard for you to part with your only child, but true maternal love thinks only of the childs happiness, and is ready to make every sacrifice. Certainly, your Highness, replied the invalid in a faint voice, making an effort to sit upright in her chair. But do you think it can be for Ericas happiness to leave her mother in a condition in which every hour, every moment, death stands beside her couch, and threatens to deal the final blow? He menaces those in health also, Frau von Hohenstadt, it is the universal lot of men. And even granting that you are nearer your end than we, ought you not therefore to think solely of providing for your daughters future, ought you An almost imperious gesture from the invalid suddenly silenced Katharina, who noticed the change in her companion with a vague sense of fear. The latter now sat erect in her chair, and her voice sounded full and clear as she replied. My life here has been devoted solely to the one purpose of securing Ericas future, and I can say without boasting, that I have done everything in my power. But to send my daughter, the only treasure fate has left me, away from my death-bed, is ERICA. I beyond my strength, beyond the strength of any human being, and therefore God will not demand the sacrifice. I place my childs future in his hand, and rely on him alone, for I have learned the perish- ableness of all earthly things, and that mortals, even the richest and most power- ful, can never offer any security for the future. In that case, madame, I can do no more, replied Katharina coldly. You rudely reject every attempt to show my gratitude, and if I were as selfish as the majority of people unfortunately are, I should rejoice that in this way every sacri- fice was spared me. But on the contrary I am grieved to be unable to do anythin~ for Erica, and, to justify myself to her, shall be compelled to tell her that her mother alone prevents any tangible expres- sion of my gratitude. She was silent, and looked at the invalid as if awaiting a reply. But the latter lay in her chair with closed eyes, so rigid and motionless, that Katharina suddenly trem- bled at the thought that she might be dead. Seizing the bell on the table, she rang it so violently that Christine rushed into the room in great alarm. Look to your mistress, my good wom- an, cried Katharina anxiously; see if she is dead, or only fainting. Merciful God! what has happened? shrieked Christine, rushing up to the in- valids chair. Bending over her, she lis- tened to her faint almost inaudible breath- ing, and the almost equally imperceptible beating of her heart. When convinced that only a fainting fit, not death had attacked her mistress, she again stood erect, and without the slightest vesti geof respect in her manner, said in a loud, stern voice, The princess can now see for herself how much mischief she has done by her visit. My mistress ordered me to send you away; but how is a poor servant to prevent any whim a great lady takes into her head? If any intruder comes to the well, I can scold and drive him away, but I cant possibly get rid of a princess who farces herself into the house. if this is the way aristocratic people express their thanks for having their little princes saved from robbers, our Erica had better not tire herself out the next time, but leave it to others. Katharina was at first fairly petrified by the unexpected assault, but afterwards seemed amused by the comicality of Chris- tines wrath. At last she laughed aJoud, and would perhaps have wholly forgotten the fainting woman, had not Christine, spite of her torrent of words, hastily ap- plied all the remedies at hand. She un- tied her cap-ribbons, opened her dress, sprinkled water in her face and rubbed her temples with some restorative. Kath- anna s laugh irritated her beyond endur- ance, and she burst forth again, I see nothing ridiculous here. Per- haps great ladies have other ideas of amusement, we poor people dont laugh when we see a fainting woman, but rush forward to help, especially when it is our own fault. Enough, my good woman ! said Katharina, not without dignity. Your conduct is well suited to excite my mirth, since it. is beneath my anger. Here is a gold piece for you, it shall make amends. I am sincerely sorry for your mistress ill- ness, but my visit cannot possibly have had the slightest connection with it. I will send my servant to help you carry the sick lady to her bed. Ill take the gold piece, for it will en- able me to get my poor mistress many a comfort without her suspecting it. But as for the help of yonder livened gentleman, who is standing outside turning up his nose at our house, I thank you kindly, but I can do without it. As you choose, my good woman. But as you intend to make such good use of the money, I will empty my purse in your hand. Your mistress seems too ill to trouble herself about the source of your expenditures, or perhaps even notice them. So get whatever she needs, and if you want more, come to me. I thank you, Frau Princess. Ill spend it to the very best of my ability, said the old woman, deeply moved, as Katharina poured a shower of gold into her apron. This seemed to restore peace between the contending parties, and Chris- tine even accompanied the princess to the door of the adjoining room, where little Carlos and his nurse were waiting, but hastily returned to her mistress, took the lifeless figure inher arms as if she had been a child, and carried her to bed. Meantime Katharina descended the steps of the veranda, thinking to herself. Like master, like man, is an old prov- erb, and I cant wonder at the comical rudeness of the maid, but on the contrary easily understand why poor little Erica possesses so few attractions. Carlos, however, does not notice such things yet, and loves her in spite of her defects, and I will therefore do everythng in my power to have her with me. If the mother does ERICA. soon, which is to be expected, I can gain my point without any difficulty, and thus put the girl under oblicrations to me for life. b When Erica returned home, Christel gave her a full account of the visit that had just been received. The princesss gold piece had greatly softened the old woman, and she therefore allowed Erica to suppose that her mothers prolonged fainting fit had been caused by an unfor- tunate accident, rather than actual want of consideration on the part of the lady. The invalid had now regained her con- sciousness, but Erica dared not go into her room, as she required the most per- fect rest and quiet. The next morning Frau von Hohen- st~dt felt well enough to see her daughter. She called Erica to her bedside, feebly motioned to her to sit down beside her couch, and then began in a low tone, Princess Bagadoff was here yesterday, Erica. From gratitude for the service rendered to her boy, she has offered you the position of companion, which is made vacant by Fraulein Sassnitz departure. I, however, declined it in your name, for good heavens, what is the matter, Eri~ca? exclaimed the invalid in alarm, you are as pale as death. Ericas change of color was indeed so remarkable, her agitation so unmistakable, that she could not conceal it. She stam- mered a somewhat incoherent explanation, but her mother scarcely heeded her words. She gazed lovingly into her daughters face, and said gently, How can you sup~ pose, child, that I ~vould let you leave me, you who are the sole joy of my life? Erica fell on her knees beside her moth- ers bed, and throwing her arms around her, whispered with suppressed sobs, My dear, dear mother, my home is with you. The invalid smiled mournfully, and gen- tly stroked her daughters silken hair. Calm yourself, Erica, you shall not leave your home yet. At the same time, I will frankly tell you that I do not like your princess. Apart from all other considera- tions, I would not consent to have you dependent upon this woman. Promise me, Erica, never to become Princess Baga- doffs companion. The young girl gazed into her mothers face with an expression of mingled aston- ishment and inquiry, but when she per- ceived that the invalids eyes rested upon her in anxious suspense, answered gently, I promise, mamma. Thank you, my dear child. We will discuss this subject more fully in a few 7 days; I am not strono more b cnough to do so is there to say, mamma? asked Erica, again surprised. Many things, my daughter, replied the invalid, in a low, sad tone. Then she again passed her hand lovingly over the hair of her unsuspecting child, and said wearily, Leave me now, Erica. Perhaps God will send me the sleep I have not had all night. When Erica entered the sitting-room, she went to the window and gazed steadily out of doors. It was the same one through which Katharinas glances had roved over the landscape the day before. The young girls large, dreamy eyes, which rested mechanically on the various objects with. out, formed a striking contrast to the flick- ering light of the elder womans restless looks. Erica stood motionless, absorbed in her own thoughts, but the changing expression of her features revealed that her reverie was a sad one. Now and then a sigh escaped her lips, and at last tears sprang to her eyes, which, as they rolled slowly down her cheeks, roused the dream- er to a sense of her situation. She hastily wiped them away with her handkerchief, and tried to remove the treacherous traces, then raised her head with an air of mingled grief and defiance, saying aloud, I will never allow myself to be forced into a state of war. She started at her own words, moved away from the window, went to the mirror, and gazed in to it long and earnestly. She was so absorbed in watching her own image in the glass, that she did not notice Christine, who paused on the threshold in astonishment. The old servants excla- mation recalled her wandering thoughts. She nodded gaily to her, and then stepping directly in front of the amazed Christine, said almost solemnly, Am I very ugly, Christine? Good gracious, Erica, what nonsense! I see I am very ugly, ChristeL laughed Erica. But, she added gravely, do you think that people are loved only for their beauty? If that were so, Erica, our good pastor would not be loved. It would hardly be possible to see an uglier man, and yet everybody knows he is an angel in human form. Yes, that is true, said Erica, in the same grave tone. I too will try to be an angel. in human form, help, counsel and save like my noble teacher, then people will love me and forget my ugly face. xiS WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. BY MRS. OLIPHANT. CHAPTER I. ST. MICHAELS. THE Abbey Church of St. Michaels stands on a low hill in a flat and fertile country. The holy places which are sacred to the great archangel seem to settle naturally upon a mount; and this, one of the noblest structures consecrated under his name, had all the effect of a very high elevation so wide-spreading was the landscape round, so vast the sweep of plain, fields, and woods, great parks and commons, and gleaming white villages like ships at sea, which could be seen from its walls and terraces. Though the settle- ment was ecclesiastical, the place had been walled and defensible in the days when danger threatened wealth whatever form it assumed. Danger, however, had long been far from the thoughts of the digni- fied corporation which held its reverend court upon the hill. The Abbey was as splendid as any cathedral, and possessed a dean and chapter, though no bishop. It was of late Gothic, perpendicular and mag- nificent; and the walls and towers which still surrounded it, and even the old houses within the precincts, were older still than the Abbey, and could have fur- nished many bits to make the heart of a medi~val architect glad. The very turf which filed the quadrangle and clothed the slope of the Deans Walk was a produc- tion of centuries; the chapter-house was full of historical documents, and the library of rare books; and there were antiquariah fanatics who protested that the wealthy living belonging to the Abbey, and its old endowments, were the least of its riches. Nor was this establishment on the hill confined to ecclesiastical interests only. The beautiful church was the chapel of an order of knighthood, an d opposite to it forming an integral part of the pile of building was a line of small ancient houses, forming a kind of screen and inner wall of defence to the sacred citadel, which were the lodges of a supplementary order of pensionerschevaliers of St. Michael which at the time of the foundation had given such a balance as the Middle Ages loved, of Christian charity and help, to the splendor and braggadocio of the more glorious knights. Thus the little commu- nity which inhabited this noble old pile of buildings was varied and composite. The highest official in ,it was the costly and aristocratic dean, the lowest the lay clerks, who were housed humbly in the shadow of the church in a little cloister of their own, and who daily filled the Abbey with the noblest music. The Deanery was at the east end of the abbey, and included the great tower which showed for miles round, with its lighted windows, rising up into the night. The canons houses, if not equally fine, were still great old houses standing on the edge of the hill, their walls rising straight from the green slopes dotted with trees, round the foot of which a little red- roofed town had gathered; and the Abbey itself stood between those stately habita- tions and the humbler lodgers of the chev- aliers, which shut off the lower level of sloping bank on the other side. The dean himself was of a great family, and be- longed not only to the nobility, but higher still, to the most select circles of fashion, and had a noble wife and such a position in society as many a bishop envied; and among his canons were men, not only of family, but possessed of some mild links of cohnection with the worlds of learning and scholarship, even it was said that one had writ a book in days when books were not so common. The minor canons were of humbler degree ; they were the links between gods and men, so to speak, between the Olympus of the chapter and the common secular sphere below. We will not deceive the reader nor buoy him up with hopes that this history concerns the lofty fortunes of the members of that sacred and superior class. To no such distinction can these humble pages aspire; our office is of a lowlier kind. On Olym. pus the doings are all splendid, if not, as old chroniclers tell, much wiser than be- neath amid the humbler haunts of men. All that we can do is to tell how these higher circles looked, to eyes gazing keenly upon them from the mullioned win- dows which gave a subdued light to the little rooms of the chevaliers lodges on the southern side of St. Michaels Hill. These lodges were two stories in height, with very small rooms and very solid ma- sonry, little gardens in front of them, and a tower at each end. Many creeping plants clung about the old walls, and especially there were clouds of Virginia creeper, ~vhich made them glorious in autumn. It was, however, on a summer afternoon, at the time this history begins, that Lottie Despard the only daughter of Captain Despard, a chevalier not very long appointed to that office sat with her head out through the open window, framed between the mullions, watching the broad slope of the Deans Walk which lay WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. I 19 between her and the church, and led to the Deanery and the heights beyond. The Deanery was at this moment the most important place in the world, not only to Lottie, but to many other spectators who thronged the slope beneath her window. For this day a great event had happened in St. Michaels. The deans only daughter, Augusta Huntington, had been married that morning with all the pomp imagina- ble. It had been like a royal wedding, sumptuous in ritual, in music, and fine company; and now after taking a little repose during the time which the wed- ding-party spent at breakfast, the Abbey precincts were beginning to fill again with little groups, and all the people within to come to their windows, to see the bride and bridegroom go away. Lottie Despard was beyond all compari- son the prettiest, and she was also the youngest, of all the ladies in the lodges. She was of Irish descent, and she had the whiteness of skin, the blackness of abun- dant hair, the deep blue eyes that so often go with Milesian blood. Such eyelashes had never been seen at St. Michaels; indeed, they had never been seen any- where out of Mrs. Jarleys ~vaxworks! some ill-natured critics said. Sometimes, when Lottie was specially pale or weary, they seemed to overshadow her face; but she was neither weary nor pale at this particular moment. She was in great ex- citement on the contrary, and flushed with expectation. Though she was only the daughter of a poor chevalier, Lottie had ad- vantages which separated her from the rest of that little company. Her father was of good family, a point on which she insisted strenuously; and she herself was the pos- sessor of a beautiful voice. The former particular would not have been of much ad- vantage to her, for what was the Despards old and faded quality to the great people at St. Michaels? But a voice is a differ- ent matter; and there had arisen between Miss Huntington and the chevaliers daughter a kind of intimacy very flattering (the neighbors thought) to Lottie. They had sung together so much and seen so much of each other, that the lodges ex- pected nothing less than that Lottie would have been asked to the wedding or even greater honor still ! to be a bridesmaid; and Lottie herself had been wounded and disappointed beyond measure when she found herself left entirely out. But there was still the possibility that the bride might show she had not forgotten her humble friend altogether; and it was for this that Lottie was waiting so anxiously as the time of departure approached. A word, a sign, a wave of the hand surely would be vouchsafed to her as the car- riage passed. Her heart was beating loudly as she bent out of the window, a pretty sight to see from without, for the window was framed in luxuriant wreaths of green, with trailing tendrils of the young delicate leaves which in autumn flamed like scarlet flowers against the wall. The people who were gathering on the road below gave many a look at her. And, though the young ladies from the shop, who had got half-an-hours leave to see how their handiwork looked in the brides travelling-dress, were deeply sensi- ble of the fact that a poor chevaliers daughter was no better than themselves, yet they could not help looking and envy- ing Lottie, if only for the. window at which she could sit in comfort and see every- thing that went on, instead of standing in the sun as they had to do. They forgot her, however, and everything else as the carriage drove up to the Deanery to take the bridal pair away. The deans daugh- ter was so much the princess of the com- munity that a compromise had been made between popularity and decorum; and it was in a carriage partially open, that an admiring people might behold her as she passed, that she was to drive away. There was the usual long waiting at the door while the farewells were made, during which time the outside world looked on respectfully; and then, with a crowd of Good-byes thrown after her, and a few but only a very few, for the Deanery was nothing if not decorous white satin slippers, and a prance and dash of the impatient horses, and a flourish of the coachmans whip, and a parting gleam of the wedding favor on his breast, the bridal pair rolled rapidly past, and all was over. How quickly they went, everybody said, and how well she looked; and how well that brown dress looked, though it had been thought rather dowdy for such an occasion; and the feather in the hat, how well it matched, about which there had been so much trouble! Some who had the time paused to see the wedding-guests disperse, and catch other beatific glimpses of fine bonnets and gay dresses; but most of the spectators, after this last and crown- ing point of the performance, streamed down the slope and out at the great gate. way, and were seen no more. Lottie drew in her head from the win- dow the moment the carriage passed. She grew red when other people grew pale, being pale by nature; and her face was 120 WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. crimson as she withdrew it from the open- ing, and came in again to the little room in which most of her life was spent. Her lips were closed very tight, her soft fore- head contracted, her blue eyes, gleaming with anger and disappointment, were (most unwillingly) quenched in tears. She clasped her hands together with a vehe- ment clasp. It would have cost so little to give a look! she cried; then bit her lips and clenched her hands and stamped her foot upon the floor, in a forlorn but vigorous effort to restrain her tears. What does it matter to you? said a tall young fellow, sufficiently like Lottie to prove himself her brother, who had looked out lazily over her head while the carriage was passing. He had his hands in his pockets and a slouching gait gen- erally, and looked too bib for the little room. She had almost pushed against him in her rapid movements, for his move- ments were never rapid, and he had not had time to take one hand out of his pocket before she flashed round upon him with two red spots on her cheeks and fury in her heart. XVhat does it matter? Oh, nothing! nothing! cried Lottie. Why should anything matter? It only shows me a lit- tle more, a very little more, how cold the world is, and that nobody has a heart! Few peol)le have very much, I sup- pose, said the young man; at least, so the governor says; and sometimes its hard lines, or so I hear. But what good or harm could it do you to have a parting sign from her ? I knew she would never give it you. I knew she would be think- ing of nobody but herself What did you know about it? cried the girl. You were never a friend of hers! you were never begged and prayed to go and sing at the Deanery! she never came down the Abbey Hill to look for you! But me she has done all that for; and when I thought just for once she would let everybody see that Lottie Des- pard was a friend 0 Law, for the love of heaven, go and work at something, and dont stand there staring at me! What am I to work at? said the young man with a yawn. Its past work- ing hours; besides, in summer how can any one work? I cant make head nor tail of that Euclid when the sun is shin- ing. But when the sun is not shining, Law? Oh! then, said the youth, with a ~bright Irish smile breaking over his some- what cloudy face, I can make out the head, but not the tail, and the sting is in the tail, you know! Good-bye, Lottie, and never mind any mothers daughter of them. They cannot make us anything but what we are, whatever they may do. And what are we? said Lottie to herself, as her brother strolled lazily out. There was more air to breathe when he was gone, which was something. She sat down upon the little old faded sofa, and shed a few more bitter tears of disap- pointment and mortification. We all like to think well of ourselves when that is possible; to think well of our belongings,. our people, our position in the world all that makes up that external idea of us which we make acquaintance with often years before we know our own real being. No one can tell what the atmosphere of well-being, of external credit, and public esteem is to a child; and this Lottie had never known. They had been poor, but poverty is no hindrance to that feeling of harmony with the world around which is the higher soul of respectability. But there had not been much about the Des- pards to respect. The father had been a good officer in his day, and if he had not been without money and interest, and everything that could help him on, might have been distinguished in his profession. But those were the days of purchase, and Captain Despard had remained Captain Despard, and had bitterly resented this fact. His wife, too, though she was Lot- ties mother and sacred on that account, had not been of a kind to reclaim for her husband the failing credit of his life. They had lived, as most poor officers on half pay with pretensions to gentility and hankerings after pleasure, do live. They were in debt all round, as need n9t be said; and Mrs. Despards life would have been rendered miserable by it if she had not escaped from the contemplation by means of every cheap merry-making or possible extravagance she could attain to. All had been huggermugger in Lotties early life; a life not destitute of amuse- ments, indeed, but full of bitterness, small mortifications, snubs, and the cold shoulder of social contempt. Lottie her- self had heard in childish quarrels, through the frank recriminations of her childish companions, the frankest statements of what other people thought of her parents; and this had opened her baby eyes pre- maturely to the facts of the case. It must be supposed that there was some respectable grandpapa, some precise and orderly aunt in the Despard kindred, who had given to Lottie a nature so different WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. 12r from that of her immediate progenitors. As she grew older everything about her had looked to Lottie as the fairy splendor looked in the eyes of the disenchanted human spectator. Her mothers gay dresses, which she once thought so pretty, came to look like the miserable finery they were; her mothers gaiety had be- come noise and excitement. Her fathers grand air grew the poorest false preten- sion; for must he not know, Lottie thought, how everybody spoke of him, how little any one thought of his assump- tion? And the house was miserable, dirty, disorderly, mean and gaudy, full of riot and waste and want and poverty one day a feast, another nothing. Even care- less Law the big boy who was too much at home, who was scarcely ever at school, and who often had no clothes to go out in even Law saw how wretched it was at home, though he was hopeless as well as careless, and asked his sister what was the good of minding, what could they do? But Lottie was not of the kind which can let ill alone, or well either, for that matter. She did mind; and as she grew older, every week, every day added to the flame of impatience in her. Just, however, when that was coming beyond the possibility of further repression, Mrs. Despard fell ill and died, and Lottie at sixteen was left alone, miserable, ~vith remorseful thoughts of havihg recently blamed the mother who was now out of reach, and to whom she could never make amends for those inju- rious secret fault-findings; and full of anxieties unspeakable forlorn wonder- ings what she ~vas to do, and eagerness to do something. Her grief was lightened by the feeling that now she had everything in her hands and could make a change, even when it was made more heavy by the thought that she had found fault in her heart with the mother who was dead. It seemed to the girl that she must be able, by dint of devoting herself to it, to change everything, to keep the house in order if she did it with her own hands, to pay the bills wherever the money came from. She was overflowing with life and energy and activity, and disapproved of all the ways of the past. She was like a new king coming to the throne, a ne~v ministry of idealists bent upon undoing all their predecessors had done and doing every- thing as it ought to be done. Alas, poor Lottie! the young king with all the stiff precedents of a hundred years against him, the young ministry confronted by a thou- sand problems, and finding their ideal pronounced impracticable on every side, were nothing to the heavepborn reformer of the household with a pleasure-loving, iml)ecunious father to whom debt was sec- ond nature, and who always had preferred fun to respectability. And she dashed at her reforms too boldly, as was natural to her age, insisting upon brushings and sweep- ings till Betty threw up her situation, and asking for money till her father swore at her. It is to pay the bills, papa! I want to pay the bills 1 shc had said, re- duced to plead for that which she thought she had a right to demand. D the bills! was all Captain Despard replied. And even Law, when Lottie tried to order him off to school, was unmanageable. He was no reformer like his sister, but on the whole preferred going just when it suited him and lounging at home between. To be sure home was less amusing now that poor mammy, as they called her, was gone. Her laughter and her complaints, and her odd visitors, and all her slipshod ways, had kept noise and movement, if nothing more, about the house. The tawdry women and the shabby men who had been her friends were all afraid of the dulness which naturally follows a death in the family. Some of these women, indeed, had come to Lottie all tears and kisses, offering to stay with her, and asking what they could do; but their sympathy did not comfort the girl, who even in her deepest grief was all tingling with plans and de- hires to be doing, and an eager activity and impatience to make the changes she wished. But they fluttered away every one when the first excitement was over, and the dulness that is inevitable fell upon the house. To do them justice, there was not one among them who would not have come daily to sit with Lottie, to com- fort her with all the news that was going, and tell her that she must not mope. But Lottie wanted none of their consolations, and did not miss her mothers friends when they abandoned her. She did not miss them, but Law did. Yet he would not go to school; he sat and made faces at her when she ordered and scolded him. If I didnt do what she told me, do you think I will do what you tell me? said Law; and then Lottie wept and prayed. What will become of you, Law? what will you everbe good for? Papa has no money to leave us, and you will not be able to do anything! Who said I wanted to do anything? said Law flippantly; and then, Who said I should not be able to do anything? he added with offence. I can pick it up whenever I like. But Lottie, preternat 122 WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. urally, awfully wise, feeling the burden of the world upon her shoulders, knew that he could not pick it up when he pleased. She knew that education had to be ac- quired painfully, not sipped a little mouthful at a time. She had never had any edu- cation herself, but yet she knew this, as she knew so many things, by instinct, by con- stant critical observation of the habits which she disapproved. There are few more vigorously successful ways of finding out what is right than by living among people whom we feel indignantly to be wrong. You may think what you like, she said, Law but I know that you cannot learn anything in that way. Three days at home and one at school I I wonder they let you go at all. I wonder they dont turn you out. I wonder they did not turn you out long ago! And that is just what they are always threatening to do, said Law, laughing, but they have not the heart of a mouse, the fellows at the grammar school. And theyll never do it, though I shouldnt mind. I should be free then, and never have to trouble my head about anything at all. Youll have to trouble your head when you have to work and dont know how, said Lottie. Oh~ if I was aboy! Its no use wishing, I am only a girl, and you are a great lump, neither one nor the other; but if I were only a boy, and could get something to do and a little money to pay these bills _____ Oh, dash the bills, as papa says. He dont say dash, said Law, with provok- ingcalm; but then I shouldnt swear. Oh, Law, I should like to beat you! said Lottie, clenching her little fists in im- potent anger, and setting her teeth. But Law only laughed the more. You had better not, he said, when he had got over his laugh, for I am a deal stronger than you.~~ And so he was, and so were they all, much stronger than poor Lottie; even Betty, who would not scrub, but who was too well used to all the ways of the family and aware of all their troubles to be sent away. She fought for a time hard and bit- terly, striving with all her might to clean, and to dust, and to keep things straight, to the infinite discontent of everybody concerned. But yet perhaps the girls struggles were not utterly without use; for when the next astonishing change came into their lives, and their little income was suddenly increased by half, and a removal made necessary, Captain Despard, of his own accord, turned Lotties despair in a moment into hope and joy. He said, Now, Lottie, you shall have things your own way. Now you shall see what you can do. This is a new start for us all. If you can keep us respectable, by Jove, you shall, and nobody shall stop you. A man ought to be respectable when hes made a chevalier of St. Michael. Lotties heart leaped up, up from where it lay fathoms deep in unutterable depression and dis- couragement. Oh, papa, papa, do you mean it? Will you keep your word? she cried, happy yet dubious; and how he kept it, but with a difference, and how they set out upon this new chapter in their career, shall be told before we come back again to Lottie in her proper person, in the little drawing-room in the chevaliers quarters within the Abbey precincts, on Miss Huntingtons wedding-day. CHAPTER IL THE cHEVALIERS LODGES. THE name of a chevalier of St. Michael sounds very splendid to innocent and un- instructed ears. It is a title which stands alone in England at least. Poor knights have been heard of both in flesh and blood and in confectionery, in other places; but the title chevalier is preserved in St. Michaels and there alone. Lottie thought it very imposing, and her heart leaped, partly with a sense of her own injustice all her life to her father, of whose merits, in youthful irreverence, she had hitherto thought but little. He must be, she thought involuntarily, a great deal braver, better, and altogether of more importance than she had supposed, when his qualities could win him such a distinction from his country; for that it was a distinction ac- corded by the country Lottie had no man- ner of doubt in those days. She was overawed and overjoyed: first of all on account of the people in Fairford, where they had hitherto lived, and who had shown but little respect for the family; but much more on her own account. She felt reconciled to herself, to her kind, to all her circumstances, when she reflected that she was the daughter of a chevalier of St. Michael,and that Betty would never leave Fairford, and that Captain Despard had expressed himself in favor of respect- ability as a thing to be cultivated. Life suddenly took a new aspect to her. She thought they would be able to shake off every incumbrance when they went away. Her father would henceforward live a stately and dignified life as became his position. He would not haunt the places WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. 123 where billiards were played, and wear a number of shabby coats, each worse than the other, but every one with a flower in it. The flower, which most people would have thought a softening clause, was intol- erable to Lottie; it looked like a piece of braggadocio, a wilful defiance of public opinion or declaration of independence. But henceforward, if he must wear a flow- er, it must be at least in a tolerable coat; henceforward he would be trim and smooth, and come in at a respectable hour; hence- forward there should be no bills except weekly ones, and Law should go to school nay, Law was too old for school now but at least he would read with a tutor, and grow into a creature of whom his sis- ter might be proud. Perhaps this was but another way of expressing the domestic tyranny of which Lotties will was full. She was so anxious to be able to be proud of her father and brother; was not that another way of saying that she wanted to get them up, or down, to her feminine standard, and control and bind and keep them at her apron-string? So, perhaps, a cynic might have said. But Lottie was unconscious of any such intention. She was eager to have something which she had not, the opposite of what she had and thus, too, it may be said, she fell into a commonplace. But when the family got to St. Michaels, Lotties hopes came to a melancholy conclusion. Not only did Captain Des- pard remain very much the same which was a thing that most people anticipated and Law decline the tutor upon whom Lottie had set her heart: but St. Micha- els itself and the chevaliership turned out something very different from the girls exalted expectations. She found that this office was not looked upon on the spot as a reward of distinguished merit bestowed by the country, but only as a sort of pension for a number of shabby old soldiers whose friends had scraped to- gether interest enough to have them thus poorly provided for. She found a hie- rarchy of a totally different kind consti- tuted and reigning in which these poor chevaliers had no place. And she found herself she whose chief inspiration was this proud and eager desire to be some- body in a place where she could never be other than nobody, and where no no- bler self-denial on the part of her father, no virtue in Law, could call forth the ac- clamation of the world. In Fairford there were people as poor as themselves whom all the world thought well of, and of whom Lottie was envious; but here she was one of a class who were not thought very well of, and whom nobody esteemed; while at the same time close before her eyes, daily visible, appeared the class to which in im- agination and by right of nature Lottie felt herself to belong, the real upper class; refined people with libraries and quan- tities of books; ladies who had all man- ner of accomplishments, who could play, and who could draw, and speak foreign languages. But they took no notice of Lottie, nor for that matter of anybody be- longing to the chevaliers; the very trades- people in the town looked coldly at her, she thought, when she gave orders for her small purchases to be sent to the lodges, and the only people who came to see her were the other chevaliers wives and daugh- ters, whom Lottie, moved by the popular sentiment, even when she fought most bit- terly against it, felt herself disposed to despise. It is not pleasant to find that only your own class take any notice of you. If a bakers wife were to be visited by none but bakers wives she would not like it, though perhaps her most intimate friends would naturally be in the trade; and Lottie did not like it. She had ex- pected something so different. Society, she thought, and a brighter world were going to open upon her; and lo! nothing at all opened upon her except the new lit- tle community of shabby old soldiers with their wives, disposed to be fine, as her mothers friends had been, and able to carry out their inclinations, oh, so poorly! poor shabby ladies with their reminis- cences of gay garrisons or gossiping In- dian stations. Some of them had seen a great deal of life, and might have fur- nished much amusement to an observant young woman. But Lottie was sore, and disappointed, and humbled in her own conceit. And there was another way in which the word of promise was kept to her ear, with far other meaning than she had hoped. Captain Despard had a very serious inter- view with his daughter when they arrived in their little house. He called her out of the little box which was her drawing-room to the other little box where he had estab- lished himself, and deigned to enter upon the question of income. Now, Lottie, he said, you have chosen to bother me lately about money, and expressed views which I could not sanction about weekly bills. Only to save you trouble, papa, said Lottie; if we do it every week, we may 124 WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. hope to keep within our income; but how just go and dine elsewhere. And there can you ever do that when you leave butch- was no Betty to make herself dh agreeable, ers and bakers for a year? but only a young girl, whom Lottie, heaven Mv child, said Captain Despard, with save her! meant to train. Once a week his grand air, circumstances have ena- or so Law and she could very well do bled me to yield to your wishes. I dont without a dinner. They were both still say if its a system I approve or dont ap- great on bread and butter, and capable, prove. I say to myself, Lottie is my only not knowing anything about digestion, of girl, and she is like her dear mother; she swallowing innumerable cups of tea. Her shall have her way. From this day, my fond hopes of furniture and picking up dear, the new income which I receive from thingsto make the little old house pretty, my country will go straight into your must be relinquished, it was true; but hands. It is but a pittance. A poor sol- still at nineteen one can I)ut up with a dier stands a poor chance in these times, great deal in the present. There is always hut such as it is, my love, it shows your the future, so much of the future, like the fathers trust in you. Take it, Lottie, and sky and the plain from St. Michacls hill, pay your bills according to your pleasure. spreading above, below, everywhere ~vith- I will ask no questions; weekly, monthly, out limit or bound, save in the eyes which or once a quarter, as long as I have a bit can only reach a certain distance. So of dinner and a cup of coffee when I want Lottie comforted herself for just now, it. Your fathers confidence in you is and marched on into her life, colors flying perfect, Lottie, and I leave it all to you. and drums beating, taking as little heed as Papa! said the girl, trembling, half she could of those stragglers who would delighted, half frightened, half taken in by always fall out of the ranks her father that grand air. But he would hear no always shuffling off to some new haunt or more. He kissed her forehead with the other, the places which such men find out favorite action of the j5?re noble, and hur- by instinct in the least-knov~n locality, and ned away. No thanks, my child; no large, loose-limbed Law, whose vague ca thanks, he said. reer was always dubious, and who could It was a pittance. Lottie stood when not keep step. Never mind! Lottie her- he left her gazing after him, her veins self set out, brave, head erect, eyes straight, tingling with mingled disappointment and all her faculties in fullest attention to the pleasure. To the inexperienced it seems roll of her own cheerful drum. always possible to do a great deal with a The earliest part of her career here, little, and the power of paying bills at all however, was brightened yet disturbed by seemed a heavenly power. But Captain a discovery which considerably confused Despard chuckled to himself as he went her mind in her outset, and seemed to away. He had purchased by that fine ad- open better prospects before her. Lottie dress the right to be disagreeable ever found out that she had a voice. She had after, to wave his hand loftily, and to known that she could sing long before, decline all knowledge of details. Keep and had performed many a time in the to your bargain, my dear, and Ill keep to little parlor at Fairford to the admiration mine, he had the right to say; and where- of all hearers, singing every new comic as some of his former income always had song that burst upon the little provincial to be wasted upon the household, let him world from the music-halls in London, and make what resistance he would, at least knowing no better, so lono as s that would be the case no longer. Thus child. There was no in he was a harm the songs Lottie had her way, but in such a changed she sang, nothing. but absolute silliness form that it no longer seemed her way. and flippancy such as is natural to that With the addition of the St. Michaels kind of production; but as Lottie grew allowance she had hoped that there would into womanhood, and began by instinct to be plenty for all needs; but what was she know better, she gave them up, and know- to do with the St. Michaels allowance and ing no others except some ancient senti- no more? Nevertheless, Lottie plucked mental ditties of her mothers, gave up up a heart. To feel that she had some- singng, so far as a musical creature can thing was always exhilarating, and i nex- gve up what is another kind of breathing perience has wild hopes which knowledge to her. But when she heard the choir in does not venture to share. Her little room the Abbey Church, Lottie woke up, with was full, for a week after, of little bits of such a delightful discovery of what music paper scribbled over with calculations. ~vas, and such an ecstatic finding out of She was determined to do it. If the din- her own powers, as words cannot express. ner was not good enough for papa, he must She had an old, jingling, worn-out piano, WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. 125 and had learned to play from her moth- er, who knew nothing about it, except as much as could be taught to a schoolgirl twenty years before; but this meagre in- struction, and the bad instrument, and the half-dozen pieces which were all Mrs. Despards musical library, had not at- tracted the pupil, and it was not till she heard the organ pealing through St. Mi- chaels, and the choristers singing like angels though they were not like angels out of doors that Lottie a~voke to a real consciousness of her own gift. She had never had any education herself. Though she was so anxious for school for Law, it had not occurred to her that she wanted any schooling. Lottie was narrowrminded and practical. She did not understand self-culture. S~e wanted Law to learn, because without education he could not do anything worth thinking of, could not earn any money, could not get on in the world. Perhaps it is, true that women have a nat-. ural inclination to calculate in this way. She did not care a straw for the cultiva- tion of Law as Law, but that he should be good for something, get a good situation, have some hopes of comfort and prosper- ity. For herself, what did it matter? She never could know enough to teach, and Captain Despard would not let his daughter teach; besides, she had plenty to do at home, and could not be spared. She could read and write, and do her ac- counts, the latter very well indeed; and she had learned to play from her moth- er, and she could sew, rather badly at first, rather well now by dint of practice. What did a girl want more? But Lottie discov- ered now that a girl might want more. Is there any place where they will teach you to sing without money? she said one day to old Mrs. OShaughnessy, her next-door neighbor, the old lady of all her neighbors whom Lottie liked best. Me jewel ! cried the old lady; and is it without a charge youre meaning? They send an account if you do but look at them here, me dear. All of them? said Lottie; for I can sing, and I should like to learn to sing; but, you know, I cant pay much I know; nothing at all, if youre like us, me honey. But maybe youre better off. OShaughnessy, we dont make a secret of it, rose from the ranks, and weve never had a penny I dont care who knows it barring our pay. We are not like that, said Lottie, drawing herself up. Papa was always a gentleman ( Then I dont give much for such gentlemen, murmured the other chevaliers lady under her breath), and we have a little. That is I mean he has a little papa has a little, the girl said, on the edge of a confidence; and then stopped suddenly short. It dont do much for the children, Ill go bail, said the old lady. Thats the worst of fine gentlemen, me dear. OShaughnessy he asks me for a shillin when lie wants it, bless him and thats the only way when theres so little. Sing- ing, is it? If youre always to make such a stand on being a lady, me friend Lottie, I dont see how I can help you; but if you will come in free and comfortable, and take a dish of tay when Rowleys there oh, to be sure, puff! my ladys off but theres no harm in it; and hell make you die with laughin at him, him and his airs - and they tell me he has the best voice and the best method of any of the lay clerks. A singing man! Well, and that was what ye wanted! said the old woman. You know as well as me, Miss Lottie, theres no singin woman here. Lottie protested that she could not con- sent to appear in such company that papa would not allow it that it was im- possible. But she ended by promising to run in before old Major OShaugh- nessy began his rubber, and see this sing- ing man. And the result was that, half out of friendship for his Irish hosts who did not pretend to be above him, and half out of pride to be interrogated so gra- ciously about his invalid daughter by a young lady who gave herself such airs, Rowley, the first tenor, agreed for so low a rate as had never been heard of before to train Miss Despards beautiful voice. If the young lady had been a little boy, and if the signor could but ha gotten hold on it! Rowley said, in enthusiasm. It was the voice, which is impersonal, of which he spoke, and the signor was the organist. But good fortune had not as yet thrown him in Lotties way. Soon, however, Rowley began to whisper it about that he had got a pupil who was quite good enough for Exeter Hall, if not for the Italian Opera, and the whOle com- munity was interested. Lottie herself, and her pretty looks, had not attracted any notice but a voice was a very different matter. And then it was that steps were taken to make, for Lottie only, a prac- ticable gap in the hedge of prickles which surrounded the cloisters and kept intruders out. Miss Despard was invited 126 cautiously to join the St. Michaels Choral Society, in which the divinities on the hill did not disdain to mingle their voices even with the lower-born outside the Abbey walls. And when it became known what a voice Lotties was, the most remarkable thing happened that had oc- curred for at least a hundred years. The dean called! It was not Lady Caroline, but the dean; and a gentlemans visit, as is well known, is not the same thing as a ladys. But Lottie, who knew nothing of the laws~ of society, was flattered and happy, and saw a hundred lovely visions unfolding before her when the dean in- vited her to go to a private practice which was then going on in the Deanery draw- ing-room. My daughter bade me fetch you, Miss Despard,if you would be good enough to come, he said gravely; but waited very impatiently till she was ready, in great terror lest the father should make his appearance, and his visit be con- strued into a call upon Captain Despard. Lottie put on her hat with her heart leap- ing and bounding. At last she had done it! At last paradise was opening before the peril At last the wrongs of fate were to be set right, and herself conveyed back into her natural sphere. She went by the deans side demurely, with downcast eyes, across the slope to the Deanery garden. The very stones felt elastic under her feet, there was a ringing of excitement and delight in the air and in her ears. She arrived breathless at the door, though they had not walked fast. So absorbed was she by all that was about to happen that Lottie never thought of the sensation there ran through the Abbey when the dean was seen walking to his own dignified door in company with Captain Despards daughter. That Miss Despard? Lottie? The chevaliers, and their wives and daughters, could not believe their eyes. Lottie held her head as high as usual when she came back. It no longer drooped with diffidence and delight. Once more she had come down with a jar into the realms of reality from those of hope. She was not received with open arms in that higher celestial world. Miss Augusta Huntington said, How do you do, Miss Despard? very sweetly, but Lady Caro- line only bowed with her eyelids, a new mode of salutation which Lottie did not understand, and kept aloof and no one else said anything to Lottie, except about the music. They gave her a cup of tea when all was over, but Lottie had to drink it in silence, while the others laughed and WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. chatted. She was not of them, though they had brought her among them for the sake of her voice. Are you going, Miss Despard? said the deans daughter, put- ting on the same sweet smile. We are so much obliged to you for coming the next practice is next Tuesday. Will you come as early as possible, please? It was on Lotties lips to say no to tell them that she was a lady too, a better gentlewoman than they were, since she would not have treated any stranger so. But she was fortunately too shy to say anything, and made her exist hastily, and not so gracefully as the others who were at home. But she would not allow, even to herself, that she had come down again in that painful tussle with reality, which is so much different from dreams. She kept very quiet and said nothing, which seemed the wisest way. And as she walked home with a much more stately gravity than was her wont a state put on to console herself for humiliation and dis- appointment and to vindicate, so to speak, her own dignity to herself, but which the lookers-on gave a very different interpre- tation of Mrs. OShaughnessy, nodding and smiling, and in a state of great excite- ment, threw up the window and called to her as she was going past. Come up, come up, and tell me all about it, the old lady said, so audibly that some of the ladies and gentlemen who had been in the Deanery turned round to look, and smiled at each other, making Lottie furious. As she could not stand there and explain be- fore all the world, Lottie obeyed the call, and rushing up-stairs to the kind old Irishwomans little bit of a drawing-room, appeared crimson with shame and wrath at the door. How could you call out so loud and make them laugh? she said, with a strong inclination to burst into hot tears. Laugh, was it? and sure Im ready to laugh too. To see you and his reverence the dean, Miss Lottie no less would serve you I arm in arm like a pair of young We were not arm in arm, said Lottie, stamping her foot. Then she had the sense to perceive that the wicked old Irish- woman would but laugh the more at her petulance. She put her music on the table with a recovery of her dignified man- ners, and sat down. What did he say to ye? and what did me Lady Caroline say to ye? and were they all wild over yer beautiful voice, me honey? said the old lady. Come, take RUGBY FOOTBALL. 127 off your hat, me pet, and ye shall have the best cup o tea in the Abbey. And tell me all about it, she said. I have had a cup of tea, thank you, said Lottie. Oh, yes, they are all well enough. Nobody talked to me but then, I didnt expect them to talk to me. They wanted me to singand I sangand that was all. And what more would you have, me jewel ? said Mrs. OShaughnessy. Now, you take my advice, Lottie. Im old, and I know the world. Take what you can get, me dear, and wait till your time comes. Dont go and take offence and throw up the cards, and lose all youve got for a tantrum. Tantrums pass off, but life goes on. If they dont speak to you, its their loss, for you have a clever little tongue o your own. And youll not be long there till they find out that. Dont say a word, me honey. Ill not bother you; but never take offence with the gentry The gentry! cried the girl, furious, starting to her feet. I am as much a lady as any of them and more, for I would not be such I would not be un- kind ____ Well well well! There, I have put my foot in it! said the old lady. I was thinking of meself, me dear, as if ye were a girl of me own. But you are a lady, honey; one has but to look at you, said the astute old ~voman; and just you wait a bit, and all will come as it oughtsure, I know it will. Lottie did not much trust the assurance, but she took the advice, feeling a quick admonition within herself as to the absurd- ity of her complaint, and the horrible pos- sibility of anybody supposing that she felt herself not to be of the gentry, as good as any deans daughter. So she went to the next practice, taking no notice of any want of courtesy, and the result was that there arose a kind of intimacy, as has been indi- cated, between Miss Huntington at the Deanery and the daughter of the poor chevalier an intimacy, indeed, of a pe- culiar kind, in which all that was given came from the side of the poorer and insig- nificant, and the great young lady was con- tent with taking all that poor Lottie was so willing to give. She sang the solos in their private little concerts, and though her science was less perfect than her voice, her ear was so good that Lottie was able to be a great deal of use. They sent for her when they had parties, when there was any one who wanted entertaining, and put Lottie to the only unnecessary personal expense she had ever gone into a white muslin frock to make her presentable among that fine company. And thus she had gone and come, and had been called upon on all occasions, but without making any nearer advance than at first. Lady Caro- line still made her a little inclination of her eyelids, though now and then she went so far as to say, How do you do, Miss Despard? All of this, however, Lottie would have pardoned, if the bride, when she went away, had but at last remem- bered her, and made her some little sign of farewell. From The Tatler. RUGBY FOOTBALL. FOOTBALL is undoubtedly in itself a fine and vigorous sport. It should call forth the qualities of skill, pluck, and en- durance. But what sane, unbiassed person can say that the game, as it is now played in almost every town throughout the king- dom, possesses one single attribute en- titling it to popularity? What can hon- estly be said of a sport in which mere brute force bears the palm from pluck and skill? It is a common boast of those to whose perverted genius the revival of Rugby football is due that they rescued it from extinction, by convertino~ it from a rough-and-tumble scramble into a science. Truly, a science they have made it, but it is one of maiming and manslaughter. It is no longer demanded that the ball shall be skilfully manipulated past all opposition, or guided to a spot where overwhelming concentration will carry the day. These splendid innovators have given a death-blow to the tactical skill of the game, which was its chief beauty. The Rugby football-player ~ar excellence of to-day is a man who is prepared to go upon the field with his life in his hand; and the pet of the team is he who can inflict most injuries and incite the greatest terror by his ferocity. The football arena is no longer a space for good-natured, if arduous, contention for supremacy; that has been supplanted (improved upon, they would have us believe) by a fierce hand-to- hand struggle of weaponle ss savages. The forward players, with the ball in their midst, engage in a m~l& of which promiscuous kicking not infrequently forms an important part, and which bears a close resemblance to the contention of a box of infuriated spiders over a solitary fly. But it is on a back player getting the ball, and attempting to run with it, that the 128 RUGBY FOOTBALL. course brutality of the game fully man- ifests itself. From the moment of picking the ball from the ground the player who holds it becomes a being for whom the delicate attentions customarily paid by red Indians to one of their number who is running the gauntlet would be con- sidered too humane and considerate. He is beset in every possible way, fair or foul. He will not relinquish his hold, but strug- gles for freedom; he is subjected to semi- strangulation. But he is still unconquered, and, by dint of leaving a moiety of his shirt in the hands of the enemy, he once more breaks away. The foe is upon him again, however, and just as he nears the goal line, and success seems certain, he is seized suddenly by the legs and dashed to earth with a violence that deprives him for some minutes of his senses. On rising it is more than likely that his collar-bone is broken or his knee-cup smashed, in which case he will be a cripple for the remainder of his days. Or, if he escape permanent injury, it does not by any means follow that the player by whom he was tackled will be so fortunate. Every time a player resorts to the expedient of collarino~ low, which means dashing blindly at the legs of a man running at full speed, he runs a frightful risk of injury. Not one, two, or three, but hundreds of instances occur during every season, with unfailing cer- tainty, in which players are borne from the field with broken ribs, legs, or arms. The thing has become so conmon that the fact of being a crack player at Rugby foot- ball is synonymous with the possession of a frame that has experienced every con- ceivable description of fracture. Ask a dozen old players why they discontinued l)laying. It is notorious that many city firms and companies decline to retain the services of a football-player, so much loss have they sustained by the absence of their clerks on account of serious injuries. Let those who doubt inquire of the accident insurance companies how much is paid every year for football accidents. One of the largest has paid more for football than for gun and fire casualties l)ut together. Why should young men be thus permit- ted to risk life and limb with impunity? Let a couple of boxers, to whom hard knocks are but as pats from a cats paw, engage in a bloodless combat, and every- body will fly out against the magistracy for non-interference. When a female acrobat, who knows perfectly well what she is about, and whose life is far too valuable to be heedlessly risked, adds a few feet to a sensation dive, the outcry is yet greater. Yet football, with its absolute certainty of permanent bodily injury to many, and inevitable proportion of fatal disaster, is not only permitted to flourish, but is actually applauded as a beneficial institution. We distinctly say that a so- called game, the prominent feature of which is coarse brutality, and which fos- ters an utter disregard or human life and limb, can only have a tendency towards moral degradation; and we warn parents to consider well before committing their sons to the tender mercies of Rugby foot- ball. PROF. ASAPH HALL has succeeded in ob- taining a number of observations of a bright spot which he had noticed on the night of December 7th, 1876, on the ball of Saturn, and thereby~deducing a value of the period of the planets rotation, which is probably more accurate than any previous determination. The spot in question was two or three seconds in diameter, round and well defined, and of a brilliant white color. Besides Washington, it was, at Prof. Halls request, observed at sev- eral other American observatories, and the time of rotation concluded (assuming the spot to have no proper motion on the surface of the planet) is ioh. i~m. 23~8s. mean time. Sir William Herschels determination (given in the Philosophical Transactions for 1794) was ioh. i6m. O~45., and was derived from the different appearances of a quintuple belt in the winter of 17934. Prof. Hall points out a curious mistake, which had been copied into nearly all books on astronomy, assigning ioh. 29m. i6~8s. as Herschels value of Saturns rotation this being in fact the time of rota- tion of Saturns ring, not that of the planet it- self.

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The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1753 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 19, 1878 0136 1753
The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1753 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1758. Ifl 1070 C From B Volume XXI. January .LcJ~ .1.1)10. Vol. egmuing, CXXXVI, CONTENTS. I. THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. By Prof. Goldwin Smith Contemporary Review, 131 II. ERICA. Part IX. Translated for THE LIvING AGE, from the German of Frau von Ingersieben, . III, THE CELT OF WALES AND THE CELT OF IRELAND Cornhiil Magazine, 151 IV. MACLEOD OF DARE. By William Black, Advance Sheets 163 V. THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN AT MIRAMAR AND AT QUERETARO. Translated and abridged for THE LIVING AGE, from ad- vance sheets of A Travers LAutriche, 171 VI. MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY,h- ).l~. -#-c--)~Macmillans Magazine, 178 VII. SMITHS POOR KIN, Spec/a/or, . . i86 VIII. IRRIGATION IN INDIA, Examiner, . . 189 IX. PEPPERINESS, Spectator, . . 19i P 0 E T R Y. THE NORTHERN LIGHTS; a Norse VALENTINES DAY, 1873; an Unpub Superstition, . . . . 130 lished Poem, by Charles Kings. LET BYGONES BE BYGONES,. . . 1301 ley 130 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, reins/ted directly to ike Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for ~ year,free of ~toztage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, oi by 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 paysbie to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE Lsvssm AGE, s8 cents. ~3O T~E NORTHERN LIGHTS, ETC. THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. Let bygones be bygones, and good be ex- tracted From ill over which it is folly to fret; The wisest of mortals have foolishly acted The kindest are those who forgive and for. get. Let bygones be bygones; oh, cherish no longer The thought that the sun of affection has set; Eclipsed for a moment, its rays will be stronger, If you, like a Christian, forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones; your heart will be lighter, When kindness of yours with reception has met; The flame of your love will be purer and brighter If, Godlike, you strive to forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones; oh, purge out the leaven Of malice, and try an example to set To ~otbers, whb, craving the mercy of heaven, Are sadly too slow to-forgive and forget. A NORSE SUPERSTITION. NAY, mother, nay; the pictured coal is glow- ing, Dully and redly on the hearthstone there; Von was no flame of careless idlers throwing, Nor rocket flashing through the startled air; Twas but the gleaming of the Northern Lights Ah, there again, they reddened Huntcliff heights. So, let me raise you softly on the pillow, See, how the crimson lustre flares and dies, Turniiig to red the long heave of the billow, And the great arch of all the starless skies; The fishers say such beauty bodes them sorrow, - Telling of storm, and wind to blow to-mor- row. No, child, the busy wife may bait her lines, And net and gear lie ready for the morning, No pr~sage in that wavering glory shines, No doom in the rich hues the clouds adorning; They do but saythe lingering hours are past, - The gates, the golden gates, unclose at last. Won, the long hill so steep and drear to climb, Done, the long task so bitter hard in learning; The tears are shed, and garnered up by time, The heart beats, freed from all its lonely yeartiing ; - - The bar swings back, and, flooding seas and skies, Burst out the deathless lights of Paradise. See, see, by the great valves of pearl they stand, Friends, children, husband; see glad hands outreaching! For me, for me, the undiscovered land, Its promise in that roseate signal teaching; Ay, kiss me, child, the lips will soon be dumb, That yet in earthly words can say, I come.~~, Again the banner of the Northern Lights Waved broad and bright across the face of heaven; And in the cottage on the rugged heights, The passing radiance, by their glory given, Showed a pale orphan weeping by the bed, And the calm smiling of the happy dead. All The Year Round. LET BYGONES BE BYGONES. LET bygones be bygones; if bygones were clouded By aught that occasioned a pang of regret, Oh, let them in darkest oblivion be shrouded; - Tis wise and tis kind to forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones; remember how deeply To heavens forbearance we all are in debt; They TalueGOds infinite goodness too cheaply Who heed not the precept, Forgive and forget. Chambers Journal. VALENTINES DAY, 1873. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. On! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twitter- ing by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream. I would sing about the blossoms, and the sun. shine and the sky. And the tiny wife I meant to have in such a cosynest; - - And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tinylife and tiny song just ended at their best. CHARLES KINGSLET. Macmillans Magazine. THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. 3 From The Contemporary Review. THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. FOR ninety years, since the time when Calonne called together his Assembly of Notables, and when the voice of the Revo- lution was first heard announcing a reign of hope, love, freedom, and universal peace, for ninety years has France struggled to attain a settled form of con- stitutional government; and apparently she is farther from it now than she was in 1787, apparently, but not, we will hope, in reality. In this last crisis the mass of her people have exhibited not only a steadiness of purpose for which we were little prepared, but a self-control which is full of the highest promise. In spite of everything that the conspirators who had seized the government could do to pro- voke the nation to violence which might have afforded a pretext for using the pub- lic force against the public liberties, the nation has conquered by calmness. Con- spiracy and illegality have passed from the side of the people to that of the reaction- ary government. This shows that consid- erable way has been made since the days of the Faubourg St. Antoine. Real progress is to be measured, not by change of institutions, but by change of character. The Revolution made a vast change in French institutions: it could not change French character, which remained as servile under the despotism of Robes- pierre as it had been under that of Louis XIV. Character seems now, after ninety years of desperate effort and terrible expe- rience, to be coming up to the levei of institutions. Perhaps France has reason to be grateful to De Broglie and his mar- shal for giving her assurance of that fact, though their names will be infamous for- ever. The reasons of the political failure of 1789 are manifest enough; we need not seek them in any mysterious incapacity of the Celtic race in general or of the French branch of it in particular for constitutional government. These mysterious capabili- ties and incapabilities of races in truth are questionable things, and generally tend, upon closer inspection, to resolve them- selves into the influence of circumstance perpetuated and accumulated through many generations. England, guarded by the sea, has had comparatively little need of standing armies, and she has thus escaped military despotism, since fleets cannot interfere with politics; yet even she might have fallen under a military despot- ism, and foreign critics might now be moralizing on the inherent incapacity of her people for any government but that of force, if when the army of James II. was encamped on Hounslow Heath there had not been a William of Orange to come over to our rescue. France has had frontiers; therefore she has had standing armies, and her rulers have been masters of legions. She was exposed to foreign invasion for a whole century, from the time of Edward III. to that of Henry VI.; and again, at the crisis of her destiny in 1791, she was assailed by the arms of the coalesced powers of reaction. On each occasion her people, to secure national independence, were compelled to renounce liberty, and the government was inevitably invested with a military dictatorship of defence, which, once acquired, was per- petuated in political despotism. It would be difficult to prove that, under more auspicious circumstances, the States-Gen- eral, which at one period in the fourteenth century entered on a course of reform as bold and comprehensive as anything done by the framers of the Great Charter or the Parliaments of Henry III., might not have developed into a British House of Com- mons. The political crisis of 1789 was in itself one of the most tremendous kind; it was nothing less than the collapse, amidst bankruptcy and general ruin, of the hered- tary principle of government, the only principle which France or the greater part of Europe up to that time had known. But it was desperately complicated by its connection with a social and a religious crisis equally tremendous. It came upon a people totally untrained to political ac- tion, without political instruction, without a political press, without even the common information which a newspaper gives about passing events; without the means of judiciously choosing its political lead- ers, or even political leaders among whom 132 THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. a judicious choice could be made; with- out any good political writers, except Montesquieu, whose authority, as we shall presently see, was practically misleading. At the same time this people had, in com- mon with all intellectual Europe, been excited by visions of boundless and uni- versal happiness, of new heavens and a new earth, to be attained by a change of the social system and of the form of gov- ernment. Amidst such disadvantages, and in face of a reaction at once political, social, and religious, the desperate reac- tion of privilege, both social and ecclesi- astical, fighting for its existence a scrupling, in its transports of rage and terror at the appearance of liberty and equality, to combine with Robespierre in order to defeat Lafayette, success would have been almost a miracle. But then, to extinguish the last hope, came a coalition of the kings, hounded on by the too elo- quent ravings of Burke, whose total fail- ure to understand the difficulties under which the French reformers labored was discreditable to him as a political phi- losopher, while his frantic invocations of war, and, in his own hideous phrase, of a long war, were disgraceful to him not only as a political philosopher but as a man. The republican constitution formed after the overthrow of the Terrorists was not a good one. The institution of two chambers was a mistake, arising from an illusion of which we shall presently have to speak; a sufficient control over the executive directory was not secured to the representatives of the nation; the judiciary was not placed on a proper foot- ing. Still it is probable that the consti- stution would in time have worked and given to France law and order under a republic, had it been administered by tolerably honest hands, and had it not been exposed to military violence. But a revolution, especially an abortive revo- lution, leaves behind it a fearful legacy not only of disappointment, lassitude, mis- trust among the people, but of depravity among the chiefs. It gives birth to a race of intriguers, utterly selfish, utterly unprincipled, trained to political infidelity in the school of fortunate apostasy, steeped in perfidy by the violation of unnumbered oaths, and at the same time familiar with the revolutionary use of violence. Such was the offspring of the revolutionary periods of ancient history both in Greece and Rome. Thucydides saw and painted them; they impressed their character on Roman politics after the civil wars of Marius and Sylla. Such again was the offspring of the English Revolution; the Lauderdales and Shaftesburys, the scoun- drels who formed the governments and led the factions of the Restoration, who carried on religious persecutions while themselves were infidels, shut up the ex- chequer, made the Treaty of Dover, got up the Popish Plot, seized the municipal charters, judicially murdered Russell and Sidney. But never was there such a generation of these men as that which emerged from the wreck of the dreams of Rousseau and from the deadly struggle of factions which ended with the fall of Robespierre Tallien, Fr~ron, Bar& e, Barras, Rewbell, Talleyrand, Merlin, Fouch~, and their crew. Political corrup- tion was aggravated by the corruption of morals, caused by the outburst of sensu- alism which naturally ensued after the dreadful repression and the savage Spar- tanism of the Terror. To this general depravity was added the volcanic fury, still unabated, of party passions raging in the breasts of factions which but yester- day had been alternately revelling in the blood of each other. It was by military violence, however, that the constitution was at last overthrown, and its fall ~vas the beginning of that supremacy of the army which unhappily has been from that hour, and still is, the fundamental fact of French politics. The hand which, at the bidding of traitors in the Directory, dealt the first blow, was that of Augereau, but the hand which planned it and dealt the final blow was that of Bonaparte. In esti- mating the result of the first experiment in republican government, this must always be borne in mind. The appearance of Bonaparte upon the scene with his character and his abilities may be truly called the most calamitous accident in history. An accident it was, for Bonaparte was not a Frenchman; he THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. 33 was made a French soldier by the chance said to have betrayed him, unless he had which had annexed his country to France, a right to reckon upon finding no winter without which he would have been a Cor- in Russia. Before he led his army to sican brigand, instead of being the scourge destruction he had destroyed its enthusi- of the world. Little did Choiseul think astic spirit by a process visible enough to that the rapacity which added to France common eyes, though invisible to his. Corsica, would be the cause a century Nor was he more successful as a founder afterwards of her losing Alsace-Lorraine. of political institutions. He, in fact, As to the greatness of the calamity, few founded nothing but a government of the doubt it except the train of mercenary sword, which lasted just so long as he was adventurers whose existence in France, as victorious and present. The instability of a standing and most dangerous conspiracy his political structure was shown in a lurid against her liberties, is itself the fatal light by the conspiracy of Malet. Of its proof of the fact which they would deny. effect on political character it is needless What may have been the extent of Napo- to speak; a baser brood of sycophants was leons genius, political or military, is a never gathered round any Eastern throne. question still under debate, and one of a At the touch of military disaster the first kind which it is difficult to settle, because empire, like the second, sank down in igno- to take the measure of a force, whether minious ruin, leaving behind it not a single mechanical or intellectual, we must know great public man, nothing above the level the strength of the resistance overcome, of Talleyrand. The code survived; but The Revolution had swept the ground the code was the work of the jurists of the clear for his ambition, and had left him in Revolution. With no great leading princi. his career of aggrandisement almost as pie was Bonaparte personally identified, free from the usual obstacles without as except the truly Corsican principle of con- he was from any restraints of conscience fiscation, to which he always clung. The or humanity within, Death removed the genius of the moral reformer is to be only three men who were likely to make a measured by the moral effect which he stand, Hoche, Marceau, and Kleber, from produces, though his own end may be the his path. He disposed absolutely of an cup of hemlock. The genius of the adven- army full of burning enthusiasm, and turer must be measured by his success; which, before he took the command, and his success is questionable when his though t had recently met with some re- career, however meteoric, ends in total verses, had already hurled back the hosts disaster. This is not the less manifest to of the coalition. In Europe, when he reflecting minds because the pernicious set out on his career, there was nothing brightness of the meteor still dazzles and to oppose him but governments estranged misleads the crowd. But the greater from their nations, and armies without Napoleons genius was, the worse was it national spirit, mere military machines, for France and for mankind. All his pow- rusty for the most part, and commanded ers were employed in the service of the by privileged Incompetence. England was most utterly selfish and evil ambition that the only exception, and by England he was ever dwelt in human breast. It has been always beaten. The national resistance justly remarked that his freedom from which his tyranny ultimately provoked, every sort of moral restraint and compunc- and by which, when he had provoked it, tion lent a unity to his aims and actions he was everywhere defeated, in Russia, which gave him a great advantage over in Germany, even in decrepit Spain, was less perfectly wicked men. As to religion, called into existence by his own folly. He he was atheist enough to use it without ended, not like Louis XIV., merely in re- scruple as a political engine, and to regret verses and humiliations, but in utter and that the time was past when he might, like redoubled ruin, which he and his country Alexander, have given himself out as the owed to his want of good sense and of son of a god. His selfishness is to be self-control, and to this alone, for he was measured not merely by the unparalleled blindly served, and fortune can never be sacrifices of human blood and suffering THE NINETY YEARS~ AGONY OF FRANCE. 34 which he offered to it; not merely by the unutterable scenes of horror which he wit- nessed without emotion, and repeated without a pang; but by the strength of the appeal which was made to his better na- ture, had he possessed one, and the splen- dor of the reward which was held out to him, if he would have kept his allegiance to the interests of his country and of humanity. What happiness and what glory would have been his if, after Ma- rengo, he had given the world a lasting peace, and with it the fulfilment, so far as fulfilmer~it was possible, of the social and political aspirations for which such im- mense and heroic efforts, such vast sacri- fices, had been made! Never, in all his- tory, has such a part been offered to man. Instead of accepting this part, Napoleon gave the reins to an ambition most vulgar as well as most noxious in its objects, and to the savage lust of ~var, which seems after all to have been the predominating element in this Corsicans character, and which gleamed in his evil eye when the chord was touched by those who visited him at Elba. The results were the dev- astation of Europe, the portentous devel- opment of the military system under which the world now groans, the proportionate depression of industry and of all pacific interests, the resurrection in a worse form of the despotisms around which the na- tions were fain to rally for protection against a foreign oppressor, and the new era of convulsions and revolutions which the resurrection of the despotisms inevita- bly entailed. Of all the effects of Napoleons career, the worst perhaps wa~ the revelation of the weakness and meanness of human na- ture. What hope is there for a race which will grovel at the feet of sheer wickedness because the crime is on an enormous scale, and the criminal is the scourge, not only of one nation but of his kind? Next in the order of evil were the ascendency given to the military spirit and the exam- ple of military usurpation. The military spirit it was that, excited by the flagitious writings of Thiers, and weakly flattered by the house of Orleans, overturned consti- tutional government in 1832. The exam- ple of military usurpation was followed by Napoleons reputed nephew, who in his turn was driven by the discontent of the army, combined with the influence of his priest-ridden wife, into the war which over- threw his empire, at the same time bring- ing the invader for the third time into Paris. The blow which military passion and the spirit of aggrandizement received in that defeat was to France a blessing in disguise. To it she owes the recovery, however precarious, of free institutions, of which there would otherwise scarcely have been a hope. But even now, France, after all her efforts and revolutions, is to a fear- ful extent at the mercy of a stupid and self-willed soldier, a third-rate master even of his own trade, totally devoid of political knowledge and of sympathy with political aspirations, but at the head of the army, and, as his language to the soldiery on the eve of the elections proved, suffi- ciently wanting in the true sense of honor to admit into his mind the thought of using the public force ~vith which he is entrusted for the overthrow of public lib- erty. No institutions, however sound and stable in themselves, can afford to a na- tion security for legal order while there is a constant danger of military usurpa- tion. Nor is it easy to see how the dan- ger can be removed, so long as an army strong enough to overpower all national resistance, and blindly obedient to com- mand, is at the disposal of the executive for the time being. Two years hence, if not before, there will be another crisis ; and it is idle to conceal the unhappy and ignominious fact, that the decision will rest ultimately with the army and with those whom the army obeys. Whether, under the new system of uni- versal military service, with such influences as that of the Erckmann-Chatrian novels, the soldier has become more of a citizen and the army less of a knife ready, in any hand by which it may for the moment be grasped, to cut the throat of public liberty, the event will show. The French peasant, if left to himself, is not fond of war; he hates the conscription, and has done so from the time of Qesar; the fatal ascen- dency of the military spirit is due, not to him, but to a series of ambitious rulers. This is true, but it does not save France from being, as a matter of fact, to a lamentable extent a stratocracy. How the army can be placed in safe hands is a problem of which it is almost impossible to suggest a complete and permanent solu- tion. The reduction of its numbers by the definite adoption of a pacific policy is the only real security for the continuance of political liberty. In France the peril is greatest and its manifestations have been most calamitous, but it extends more or less to all the European nations. Every- where in Europe public liberty and human progress are to a fearful extent at the mercy of the vast standing armies which THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. 35 are maintained by the mutual jealousies of house of peers. This also has been ~ nations, assiduously stimulated by courts hostile and disturbing force, against which and aristocracies in the interest of moral the republic, founded on equality, has and political reaction. He who said that always had and still has to contend. The science could not be better employed than set of upstarts whom Bonaparte bedizened in devising means of destroying pr~to- with tinsel dukedoms of course gave them~ rians, gave utterance, in a cynical form, selves greater airs than the old nobility of to a melancholy truth. It would be a hap- France. Such a fellow as Cambac~res pier way of escape from the danger if sol- was very particular about being called diers could possibly be made to under- Monseigneur; but a certain union of inter- stand their real duty to their country. est, if not a social union, has by this time By the restoration of the Stuarts, and been brought about between old privilege the temporary recovery of its ascendency and new; and the attack on the republic by a defeated and vindictive party, En- under De Broglie has been at least as gland was thrown back into political dis- much an aristocratic conspiracy as any- cord, violence, and intermittent civil war thing else. So manifest is this as to found for three quarters of a century. The same a hope that the army, which is tolerably calamity befell France, though in her case loyal to equality, if not to liberty, might the restoration was the work of foreign recoil from supporting what it must see to hands; and the same or even greater be an aristocratic reaction. An aristocracy, allowance for the disturbing influence must while it exists, will never cease to intrigue be made. As no institutions can be proof against institutions based upon equality; against military treason, so none can be and the total prohibition of hereditary proof against passions which go beyond titles was justly felt by the framers of the political antagonism, beyond even the American Constitution to be essential to utmost violence of party, and are, in fact, the security of their republic. the passions of civil war. The factions Another adverse force, against which which encountered each other in the legis- free institutions have to contend in France, lative assemblies of the restoration were too often noted to need more than recog- the same which not long before had en- nition in its place, is the tendency, derived countered each other on the battle-fields from the old rigime, but handed on in an of La Vend~e. Their hostility, scarcely intensified form by the Bonapartes, to diminished since they met in arms, was administrative centralization, which, not- incompatible with that common allegiance withstanding the improvement of local in- to the constitution and its objects, in spite stitutions, still decidedly preponderates of divergences on special questions, which over local self-government. The influence is the first condition of constitutional gov- exercised by De Broglie and his accom- eminent. Both extremes in the Assem- plices over the elections, through prefects blies of Louis XVIII. and Charles X. of their appointment, is a fatal proof of were striving, not to give effect to their the fact. From the same inveterate spirit respective policies by constitutional means, of encroachment on one side, and sub- but to overthrow the constitution itself, mission on the other, arises the want of one extreme in the interest of absolutism, independence in the judiciary which has the other in that of democracy. It was been so disgracefully displayed in the late then as it is now, when the monarchical political trials. The resistance made by and aristocratic party is manifestly using the constituencies to the prefects shows the marshalate and Senate, not to modify that improvement is going on; butacen- legislation in a conservative sense, but to tury of effort is not too much to throw off overthrow the republic, as, if it had been maladies so deeply seated as these. successful in controlling the elections, it The special influence, however, to would unquestionably have done. In such which we wish here to point as having a case institutions can do no more than interfered with the success of elective prolong for themselves a precarious exist- government, and as still impcrilling its cx- ence by being so ordered as to prevent istence in European countries generally, rather than facilitate a pitched battle be- but notably in France, is the ignorant and twee ~i parties which, when it once occurs, fallacious imitation of the British Consti- causes an outbreak of violence, and leads tution. We wish we could hope that the back to civil war. few words we have here to say on ths Napoleon, besides restoring superstition point would meet the eye of any French for his political ends, restored aristocracy, statesman, and direct his attention to the though the fear of limiting his despotism subject. made him dislike creating an hereditary Burke denounced the poJitical architects 136 THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. of 1789 for constructing their edifice ac- cording to theoretic principles instead of building it on old foundations, and he con- trasted their folly with the wisdom of the old Whigs. Considering that the old Whigs were aristocrats who had inherited the territorial plunder of the courtiers of Henry VIII., and who desired to preserve that inheritance, and, with it, the power of an aristocracy, their economy in innova- tion was as natural as it was wise. But it would have tasked the sagacity of Burke to discover what old foundations for con- stitutional government there were in the France of 1789. France had then been, for at least a century and a half, a despot- ism with a strictly centralized administra- tion. The semblance of provincial gov- ernment survived; but it masked without really tempering the action of the satraps of the monarchy; and feudalism, crushed since Richelieu, had left behind no genu- ine remnant of local liberty, but only the antiquated machinery of social oppression, which Richelieu had done almost nothing to reform. Yet the political architects of 1789 did build on old foundations, the only old foundations which anywhere presented themselves the foundations of the En- glish Constitution. And it may confidently be said that, compared with that renowned, time-honored, and much-lauded model, the newest creation of the brain of Siey~s would have been a safe and practical guide. The clockwork constitutions of Siey~s displayed a fatal ignorance of the real forces; but at all events they involved no incurable self-contradiction. It was not absolutely impossible to make them work. But it was absolutely impossible, and had been actually proved to be so by English experience, to make the British Constitution work, as the British Constitu- tion was understood by Frenchmen and by Englishmen themselves. The received version of the British Con- stitution was that given by Montesquieu, in perfect accordance with the forms of British constitutional law. Montesquieu, a great genius in his day, while he ex- plained the forms with philosophic elo- quence, failed to pierce through them to the real political forces. In this respect he is like De Tocqueville, whose work, admirable in many respects, is still an ac- count of the forms, not of the real forces, and consequently is of little value as a practical guide to American politics, and is seldom quoted by American politicians. The legislative power is the sovereign power. But Montesquieu believed that the sovereign power, in the ca.~e of the British Constitution, was really divided among king, Lords, and Commons. He also believed that the legislative, execu- tive, and judiciary powers were not only distinct, but independent of each other, and that the mutual independence of those powers was the palladium of constitutional government. The British Constitution is a single elective assembly, in which the whole of the legislative, and therefore the whole of the sovereign power is really vested. This assembly virtually appoints the members of the executive, who are the leaders of its majority, and through the executive the ministers of justice. Round it still cling, as it were, the wrecks of an old feudal monarchy and of an old feudal House of Peers, but from both of them the power has long passed away, to centre in the Commons, though, strange to say, not only foreign observers, but English statesmen, long remained unconscious of the fact. Whether the sovereign power, which could not be divided, should be vested in the crown or in the representatives of the people, was the question which, after vain attempts to settle it by debate, was fought out with arms between the Parliament and the Stuarts. It was decided, after a cen- tury of conflict and several vicissitudes of fortune, in favor of the representatives of the people, who finally triumphed in i688. From that time the monarchy has been faindant, interfering with the government only by means of back-stairs influence, or by forming for itself, underhand, a party in the House of Commons, as it did dur- ing part of the reign of George III. Wil- liam III., being the head and the general of a European coalition, kept for his life the Foreign Office and the War Office in his own hands; but after a slight resist- ance, ending with his attempt to veto the Triennial Act, he was obliged to relinquish every other kind of power; and, in the reign of his successor, the transfer of the sovereignty to Parliament was complete. As to the House of Lords, it has no power left in itself but that of obstruction on minor questions; on great questions it merely registers the vote of the majority of the House of Commons. This was settled in 1832, in the case of the Reform Bill, and again in 1846, in the case of the Corn Laws. On both those occasions the measures would notoriously have been rejected by an overwhelming majority had the House of Lords been an independent assembly. The result showed that it was nothing of the kind. King, Lords, and Commons work together harmoniously in THE NINETY YEARS~ AGONY OF FRANCE. 37 England, not because each of them exer- the fresh impulse given to the revolution- cises its share of the sovereign power tern- ary movement in Europe by the strug- perately, and with due respect for the gles of oppressed nationalities caused an rights of the others, which is the common insurrection in France against the surviv- and the orthodox belief, but because two ing forms of monarchy and the influences of them are politically non-existent. Re- by which they were upheld. Chauvinism store real sovereignty to the crown, and and the fear of anarchy together gave you will have the Stuarts and the Long birth to the second empire, under which Parliament over again, the sovereign power reverted from the Following, however, as they thought the representatives of the nation to the mon- successful example of England, the fram- arch, who was in all but form a despot, as ers of the French Constitution of 1789 before the legislature had been, in all but attempted to divide the sovereign power, form and saving illicit influence, the king. leaving a portion of it in the king, and The second empire went to the grave of vesting the remainder in the representa- the first by the same road, the military tives of the people. The result, the in- aggressiveness which was the condition of evitable result, was collision, and soon a its existence leading it on at last to ruin- conflict which, though neither party knew ous defeat. Now again comes a nominal it, was essentially internecine. The weaker, republic; but, unfortunately, there is still that is to say, the monarchy, fell; but in a king, and the hopeless problem of carry- the desperate efforts necessary to get rid ing on government with a divided sover- of the opposing force and to vindicate the eignty presents itself afresh. The mar- sovereignty to itself, foreign intervention shal, having the command of the army, adding to the fury of the conflict and to and being supported by those who desire the general difficulties of the crisis, the a return to monarchy, struggles for the nation fell into convulsions, into a reign of sovereign power; and the question at the violence, into the Terror, and after the late election was whether that power should Terror into military dictatorship and des- belong to him and the ministers of his potism. The same fatal situation was personal choice, or to the nation. From reproduced under the restored monarchy; 1789 onwards, there has been a chronic again an attempt was made to divide the though intermittent struggle for the sover- sovereign power between the king and the eign power several times; that power has assembly which represented the nation. been transferred and retransferred; there In which of the two that power should have been periods in which it was doubt- rest, was the issue once more really de- ful where it resided; but it has never bated through all those fierce sessions of been divided, nor is a division possible in the Restoration legislature, while the the nature of things. The attempt can ground heaved with conspiracy, and ever only lead to a conflict which will proba- and anon the mutterings of civil war were bly end, as it did in England, in civil heard in the streets. At last Charles X. war. made a desperate effort to cut the knot Those who found an elective govern- and render himself sovereign; by his fail- ment must not fancy that they can at ure and fall the question of sovereignty the same time preserve monarchy. They was decided for the time in favor of the must be logical, because they will find representatives of the people. What pow- that in this case not to be logical is to er Louis Philippe retained, was retained plunge into practical confusion. They not of right (for he subscribed to the doc- must vest the sovereignty absolutely and trine that he was to be guided by consti- beyond question in the nation. Their tutional advisers assigned him by the first care must be to establish on an im- majority in the Chambers), but by personal movable foundation the principles, that influence and corruption. It was in cor- the nation alone makes and alone can alter ruption, in fact, that monarchical power the constitution; that to the nation alone made clandestinely its last stand. Louis all allegiance is due, and against it alone Phillippes fall, as we have already said, can treason be committed; that all other was due not so much to political causes, authority, how ever high, is merely deriva- in the proper sense of the term, as to tive, responsible, and bounded by the writ- Chauvinism conspiring against a bourgeois ten law; that the sovereignty of the nation king whose policy was peace, though he is exercised through its representatives yielded too much to the fancied necessity duly elected; and that to these represen- of sacrificing, by military display and men- tatives the obedience of all executive ace, to the idol of war. At the same time officers must be paid. This done, they 138 THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. may afford to make any conservative regulations with regard to the election of the national assembly and the mode of its proceeding that they please; and where freedom is young, they will find careful regulations of this kind needful. It is the game of the Bonapartists, first to assert the sovereignty of the nation, and then to make the nation permanently divest itself of its sovereignty by a pldbisci/e in favor of the Bonaparte family and the brood of adventurers whose instruments the Bona- partes are. Of course, no legislation can prevent a national suicide ; but clear declarations of principle are not barren because they are not endowed with force to defend themselves against treachery or violence: and it would be important to declare that the national sovereignty is inherent as well as entire, and that no single generation can by its act divest future generations of their right. So long as there is a single head to the State there will always be some dan- ger of a revival of monarchical preten- sions, and of a dispute as to the seat of the sovereign power, at least in any coun- try where monarchy has long existed and monarchical ideas have taken root. Amer- ica is republican soil, on which hardly any but democratic ideas can grow; the sovereignty of the nation is firmly estab- lished not only in documents, but in the minds of the people; the president is elected for a short term, his powers are clearly bounded by the written law, he has hardly any military force at his com- mand; yet Jackson showed a tendency to encroachment, and the jobbers who plun- dered the community under Grant be- trayed their desire not only of increasing, but of perpetuating his power. A single head of the State is a fancied necessity; the Swiss constitution, which, instead of a single man, has a council with a president whose function is only to preside, presents great advantages in this respect, and is the safest model for adoption. It more- over gets rid of that which is the scourge even of America, but far more of any country where the questions that divide parties are so fundamental and party hos- tility is so deadly as in France a presi- dential election, which periodically stirs up from their depths all the most violent pas- sions, excites the most turbulent ambitions, and brings all questions to a dangerous head. The framers of the American Con- stitution were in some degree misled, like the framers of the French Constitution, by their British model which they reproduced in a republican form; they imagined that it was necessary to have something in place of the king, and the elective presi- dency with all its evils is the result. Another signal and calamitous instance of mistaken imitation of the British Consti- tution is the power of dissolution, which the other day, in the hands of a disloyal president and Senate, was so nearly the means of overturning the republic. In the days in which the power of legislation, with the other attributes of sovereignty, resided in the crown, and Parliaments were merely consultative, or at most instruments for supplying by the grant of subsidies the occasional necessities of the crown, it was a matter of course that they should be summoned only when the crown needed their presence, and dismissed as soon as their advice had been given and they had voted their supplies. Our modern power of dissolution is a survival of this original state of things. But with us it is no longer practically in the hands of the king, or of any authority outside Parliament; it has passed, with the other attributes of the sovereign power, to the Parliament itself. It is exercised by a Parliamentary minister, by whose advice the crown is bound on this as on all other questions to be guided, for the purpose of testing the relative position of parties in the country; and its exercise is limited to that object by restrictions which, though tacit and to be found in no book on constitutional law, are perfectly understood and observed by both parties as the rules of the game. It is in fact the mode by which the House of Commons adjusts itself to the public opin- ion which is the basis of its power. This has not been seen by those who, thinking to reproduce the British Constitution, have vested in an authority really external to the Parliament, such as the French mar- shalate, a power of dissolution, which is in fact a power of extinguishing for the time, and may in disloyal hands be used as a power of extino~uishing forever, the organ of the nationai sovereignty, and the na- tional sovereignty itself. We know well that in the case of France the fault does not lie with the friends of the republic; but it is not in France alone that the error respecting the power of dissolution has prevailed. Dissolutions and general elections are alike obsolete bequests of old feudal poli- ties; and though by the practical temper- ament and the political experience of the English they have been tacitly accommo- dated, like other parts of the historic sys THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. 139 tern, to the requirements of the present day, they are alike in themselves evil as well as obsolete. The existence of the assembly which is the organ of the national sovereignty, and without which the nation is practically powerless, ought never to be suspended for an hour; from its suspen- sion in any country in which elective insti- tutions have still a disputed title, and are threatened by hostile machinations, the most serious dangers may arise. General elections are evil, because they bring on those violent conflicts of opinion, and pitched battles between parties, which when the differences of sentiment are so extreme as they are between the Ultra. montanists and the Liberals, the Legiti- mists and the Radicals in France, are in the highest degree perilous, and, as the recent crisis has plainly indicated, might, in a very inflamed state of feeling, lead at once to an outbreak of violence and civil war. To avert such conflicts, to avoid pitched battles of opinion, to make the stream of political progress glide within its banks, and with as few cataracts as possi- ble, ought to be the aim of all framers of elective constitutions. An elective assem- bly renewed, not all at once, but by instal- ments, and at regular periods fixed by law, independent of the will of any functionary, will fulfil the condition of uninterrupted life, without which usurping governments, like that of De Broglie, may always be tempted to suspend its existence or get rid of it altogether; and it will conform steadily, yet promptly enough, to the changes of public opinion, without those violent revolutions which general elec- tions are apt to produce, and without giv- ing the excessive predominance which they are apt to give to the question or the cry of the day. The necessity under which party leaders find themselves of providing a question and a cry for a general election has had a bad effect even on English leg- islation. Another illusion which has led to strange consequences in France, and in all other countries where the building of constitutions has been going on, including the British colonies, is the notion that the House of Lords is a senate moderating by its mature wisdom the action of the more popular house. As we have had occasion to say elsewhere, the House of Lords is not a senate; it is an old feudal estate of the realm; its action has been, not that of ripe wisdom moderating popu- lar impulse, but simply that of privilege combating, so far as it dared, all change, in the interest of the privileged order. Whether its influence is really conserva- tive may be doubted; in the first place, because its resistance to change, being unreasoning and anti-national, is very apt, as the history of the first Reform Bill shows, to provoke the revolutionary spirit rather than to allay it; and in the second place, because it operates as a practical ostracism of the great landowners, who, under the circumstances of English so- ciety, would otherwise certainly find seats in the House of Commons. The real stronghold of English conservatism is the preponderance of the aristocratic, or rather plutocratic element in the House of Com- mons. But at all events the House of Lords furnishes no model to any country which has not an hereditary and territorial aristocracy, or a pri~ileged order of some kind, having its base, and presenting a ful- crum of resistance, outside the body of the nation. If both assemblies emanate from the nation, whatever diversities there may be in the mode of their election, and even if the senate be not directly elected, but nominated by a government itself the offspring of election, the attempt to make the national sovereignty check and restrain itself by acting through two organs instead of one, and confronting its own impulses with its own cooler wisdom, must ulti- mately fail. So long as the same party has a majority in both assemblies, the double machinery will ~vork smoothly, but at the same time it will be ineffective. But when the party which is in a majority in the popular assembly is in a minority in the senate, as soon as an important ques- tion arises there will be a collision between the two houses, and the result will be a dead-lock, which will last till the nation compels one of the two assemblies to give way, declaring thereby in effect that the national sovereignty is delegated to the other. Nor is there any real advantage in the delay which the dead-lock causes, sufficient to compensate for the violence of the struggle, and the dangerous excita- tion of turbulent and revolutionary pas- sions. Such is the experience of the Brit- ish colonies in Australia, while in Canada the senate is a cipher, and its debates are not even reported. In Italy the same party was at first in the majority in both chambers; but the other day a change took place in the popular chamber, and at once there were symptoms of collision. In France, the Senate at each great crisis of the constitution has proved impotent or useless, as the historian of parliamentary 140 THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. government in France admits; but it is now showing a tendency, as might have been expected, to become the citadel of a party, or rather a group of parties, bent on overturning the republic in the interest of some form of government more favor- able to aristocracy; and in this way it threatens to prove not a nullity, but a dan- ger of the first magnitude, and an instru- ment of attempts, such as the attempts of De Broglie, which may plunge the coun- try again into civil war. If the example of the American Senate is cited in favor of a second chamber, it must be remembered that the American Senate represents the federal principle as opposed to the prin- ciple of population, and that its authority and usefulness, whatever they may be, thus depend on its connection with a fed- eration. Besides, of what special elements do you wish your senate to consist? What is to be the special character of its mem- bers compared with those who sit in the lower house? Till this is distinctly set- tled, all devices for particular modes of election or appointment are devices with- out ~n object; they are machines for pro- ducing something which itself is not de- termined. Do you wish your senate to consist of old men, in accordance with the literal meaning of the name, and with the habit of primitive nations? It will repre- sent the infirmities of old age. Do you wish it to consist of the rich? It will be the organ of a class interest, odious and the object of suspicion to all the rest of the nation. Or do you wish it to consist of the best and most trustworthy of your public men? If you succeed in putting these men into the senate, you will deprive the popular chamber of its guides and of those most able to control its impulses and passions, and in a manner ostracize your legislative wisdom. Something like this happened to Cromwell when he thought to temper the fractiousness of the House of Commons by restoring the Upper House: to supply materials for his Upper House he had to take his best men from the Lower; the lead in the Coin- mons was broken up; the two houses fell foul of each other; and the Parlia- ment was dissolved in a storm. Instead of attempting to divide the sov- ereignty, which is really indivisible, and to make the nation perform the chimerical operation of producing by election a check upon itself, attention should, we venture to think, be directed, more carefully and systematically than it has ever yet been, to the constitution of the representative assembly, to the mode and rate of its re- newal, to the securities for its deliberate action and for the exclusion from it of mere passion and impulse, to such ques- tions as that between direct election and election through local councils or other intermediate bodies, to the qualifications for the franchise in the way of property, age, education, or performance of national duties. It is singular, for instance, that amidst all the discussions about vetoes, absolute or suspensive, to be reposed in kings or presidents, no one has thought of requiring an absolute majority of the whole house for the passage of an opposed measure, or of giving to a minority, if it amounts to a certain proportion of the house, a limited power of delay. But of all the things borrowed by France and other nations from the British Consti- tution the most palpably absurd and calam- itous, in its general application, is the sys- tem of party, which sets up the great offices of state as the prizes of a perpetual conflict between two organized parties, and relies upon the perpetual existence of these two parties and the ceaseless con- tinuance of their conflict as the only avail- able means of carrying on constitutional government. It is strange that any one should have fallen into such a trap who had studied the Parliamentary history of England. In this country there have throughout been two Parliamentary par- ties, and two only; while the objects sought by both have been so definite and of such importance as at once to ensure cohesion, and to justify, in some degree at least, allegiance to the party standard. The conflict of parties has, in fact, been the means of carrying on and regulating a series of organic changes and reforms in a democratic, or at least in a popular, direction. The adherents of each party have been able to say, with truth, that they were contendingfor the ascendency of certain definite principles in govern- ment and legislation. At the same time there have been certain principles common to both parties, which, with the remarkable aptitude of the nation, and the retention of the leadership on both sides by a section of the aristocracy, have always, in modern times, kept the contest within bounds. Even so, party has often shown that it is but a fine name for faction; and in the pauses of progress, when there was no great question before the country, the generous emulation of party leaders has sunk into a personal struggle for place THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. 4 with all its rancor and all its meanness. Such, however, as it is, the ground for the existence of the party system is peculiar to England, and has its explanation in her political history: the attempt to reproduce the system in other countries, without the ground for its existence, will be not only senseless, but noxious in the highest de- gree. To divide a nation forever into two factions, and to set these factions to wage a perpetual war, such a war as that of factious always is, and with the usual weapons of intrigue, mutual calumny, and corruption, is surely the strangest plan ever deliberately adopted by a political archi- tect; and if we could be convinced that this was the only possible mode of carrying on constitutional government, we should regard the case of constitutional govern- ment as hopeless. How can our political salvation be found in a system of which it is the inherent tendency, one might almost say the avowed object, to stir up discord, to excite unpatriotic passions, to stimu- late selfish ambitions, to deprave political character, to destroy that reasonable loy- ally to the national government on which the very existence of a free community depends? If the absurdity of such a the- ory is not manifest enough in itself, let inquiry be made into the working of the system of party in the British colonies, where it has been retained for the per- sonal benefit of groups of politicians, when, all organic questions having been settled, the public grounds for such com- binations and for allegiance to party have ceased to exist; it will soon become mani- fest what are its effects upon the efficiency, purity, and stability of government, on the morality of public life, on the political character of the people. In the United States there was ground enough, and more than enough, for the existence of party while the nation was divided on the ques- tion of slavery; and it is not surprising the party spirit should have prevailed over allegiance to the nation, or that there should have been a party conflict of the utmost bitterness, which, being brought to a head by an election to the presidency, ended in a civil war. But the old materi- als for party having been thus exhausted, and new materials not presenting them- selves, the combinations are breaking up, the lines are becoming confused, and the present government, in undertaking the work of administrative reform, hardly relies more on the support of its own party, the regular managers of which are all against it, than on that of the best sec tion of the other party, and less on either than on that of the nation at large. The historian of parliamentary govern- ment in France, M. Duvergier de Hau- ranne, who tacitly assumes throughout his work the necessity of the party system, states its theory thus: In free countries, where liberty is not of yesterday, there always exist, in the bosom of society, two principal tendencies, one towards liberty, the other towards authority, which mani- fest themselves in all legal ways, above all in the way of elections, and which usu- ally produce two parties, having each its principles, its opinions, its flag. Of these parties one has the majority, and governs, not directly but indirectly, by the influ- ence which it exercises, the choices which it indicates, the measures which it defends or combats. The other be- comes the opposition, and watches the government, controls it, keeps it up to the mark, till such time as faults or a move- ment of public opinion change the relative position of the parties, and give it in its turn the right and the power of governing. Two tendencies, according to this eminent writer, there must always be in the nation, one towards authority, the other towards liberty; and these tendencies are the foun- dations of the two parties, by the perpetual conflict of which government is to be car- ried on. But suppose a man to have an equal and well-balanced regard, both for authority and for liberty, to which party is he to belong? Or is he to remain in a state of suspension, and to be eliminated from politics, because he thinks rightly and is free from undue bias? Suppose the nation itself to have arrived at a rea- sonable frame of mind, to be practically convinced that, while the preservation of ordered liberty is the object for which authority exists, rational allegiance to authority was essential to the preservation of liberty what then? Because the na- tion was all of one opinion, and that opin- ion evidently the right one, would the possibility of good government be at an end? Then,again, do not those who hold the view of M. Duvergier de Hauranne perceive that, while it is essential to their theory that there should be only two par- ties, that of authority and that of liberty, that of the government and that of the opposition, the fact is that in France there are a dozen, that the same is the case in other countries, and that even in England, though the Conservative party, which is a party of interest, retains its unity, the Liberal party, which is a party 142 THE NINETY YEARS AGONY OF FRANCE. of opinion, is splitting into sections, which the hereditary principle, and adopted the are becoming every day less amenable to elective principle in its stead. No consti- party discipline, and therefore weaker as tution can protect itself against the exter- a whole? It is evident that, as intellectual nal violence of a great army if the army is activity and independence of mind in- willing, at the bidding of a military usurp- crease, sectional differences of opinion will er, to cut the throat of public liberty. multiply, and party organization will be- No constitution can change the political come more impracticable every day. character of a nation, or cure, as by magic, Nothing will be left us but hollow, treach- the weakness and servility contracted by erous, and ephemeral combinations of centuries of submission to a centralized cliques which have no real principle of and arbitrary administration. No consti- union, and which will be torn asunder again tution can neutralize the bad effects by mutual jealousies almost as soon as produced on public spirit and on mutual they are combined. Intrigue and cabal confidence by the decay of religious be- will continually gain force; the hope of a lief in the minds of a great part of the stable government will grow more faint; nation, and the absence or imperfect until at last the people, in sheer weariness development of any new faith. No con- and despair, will fling themselves at the stitution can eliminate the general vices feet of any one who promises to give them of human nature, or the special vices of stability and security with the strong hand. the particular nation. But such a consti- An executive council, regularly elected tution as we have indicated would at least by the legislature, in which the supreme not contain in itself the certain seeds of power resides, and renewed by a proper its own destruction; it would not be liable rotation and at proper intervals, so as to to lecral dissolution by any external pow- preserve the harmony between the legis- er; ~ would continue to exist, to do its lature and the executive, without a minis- work better or worse, to renew itself by terial crisis or a vote of censure, is the an operation as regular as the seasons, and natural and obvious crown of an elective which there could never be a special temp- policy; and to something of this sort, we tation to interrupt; without inducing tor- venture to think, all free communities will por, it would avoid anything like a violent be ultimately compelled to have recourse, crisis, such as is brought on by a general by the manifest failure of the party sys- election, especially after a penal dissolu- tem. If further security for the responsi- tion; it would keep the way always open bility of the executive to the legislative, to the reform of what is bad, by means of and for the maintenance of harmony be- improved elections and without a revolu- tween the two, were deemed needful, it tion; it would give full play to any increase might be provided that, besides the limita- of virtue and intelligence which there tion of office to a certain term, each mem- might be among the people; its course her of the council should be liable to would no doubt be at first somewhat halt- removal at any time for special cause, by ing and unsatisfactory among a people the vote of a certain proportion of the whose training has been so unfortunate, assembly. Such a provision would have but it could hardly fall to the ground, or enabled the French legislature to get rid fail to answer in a tolerable way the ordi- of Barras and his two accomplices in the nary ends of government. Executive Directory as soon as it became Of the present constitution, unfortunate- manifest that they were conspiring against ly, the contrary is true. It does contain in the constitution. itself the almost certain seeds of its own A national assembly, elected under such destruction. The quasi-monarchical pow- conditions as may appear to be most fa- er, presidency, marshalate, or whatever it vorable to the ascendency of intelligence is to be called, and the Senate, which is and public spirit, representing the undivid- sure to have an aristocratic character, will ed sovereignty of the nation, always in probably remain, as they are now, the existence, renewed by such instalments as double basis of a perpetual reaction in may preserve its popular character with- favor of the hereditary principle, to which out rendering it the sport of temporary privilege, with good reason, clings; and passion, legislating under rules the best recent experience renders it highly prob- that can be devised for securing deliber- able that the t~vo, if firmly united, would ate action, and in its turn electing the be able by successive dissolutions, coin- members of a responsible executive bined with the exercise of government suqh, once more, seems the natural organ- influence in the elections, to place in the ization of a community which, in the utmost peril, and practically to annihilate, course of human progress, has discarded the organ of the national sovereignty and ERICA. the national sovereignty itself. The con- stitution of three powers is a constitu- tion of civil war. In discussing constitutions, however, and the revision of constitutions, we are haunted by the unwelcome apprehension that something of a sterner kind may yet be in store for France. We do not great- ly fear that a soldier, whose name is asso- ciated with nothing extraordinary or great except defeat, will conceive the design of founding a military empire in his own in- terest. We do not greatly fear the cler- icals, since the catastrophe of Eug6nie and her priests, and when Ultramonta- nism, in spite of its recent spasm of aggres- sive energy, is manifestly losing ground throughout educated Europe. We do not even greatly fear Bonapartism in itself, simply as a movement in favor of the res- toration of a military despotism for the benefit of a discredited dynasty. What we fear is the implacable hostility of aristocracy to a republic based upon equality. In France the three aristocra- cies, Legitimist, Orleanist, and Bona- partist, are now collectively strong; their wealth has greatly increased; they begin to feel a common interest, social and polit- ical, though they are at present ranged under the banners of different pretenders, and have hitherto, by their disunion, saved the republic. One and all they instinctively hate equality, and those hate it most bitter- ly whose nobility is of yesterday. You may demonstrate as clearly as you please that aristocracy has had its hour, that human- ity is passing into another phase, that the best and most glorious part which a man who inherits the influence of aristocracy can play is to smooth the transition into a new era: some of the finer minds, and of those who can hope to maintain ther posi- tion by their own character and intellect, will perhaps listen to you; the mass will obey the bias of class, cling to privilege, and constantly conspire against equality and any institutions by which equality is upheld. Their feelings towards the dem- ocratic masses are not those of mere political difference, but of hatred more bitter than that which is felt by a foreign enemy, and aggravated by contempt. The aristocratic conspiracy, for such at bot- tom it was, of De Brogue and Fourtou has for the moment failed; but the at- tempt will be perpetually renewed; and it will be fortunate indeed if the question between the republic and the aristocracy is finally decided without adding another ~convulsion to the ninety years agony of France. GOLDWIN SMITH. 43 ERICA. TRANSLATED FOR THE LIVING AGE FROM THE GEE MAN OF FRAU VON INGERSLEBEN. xv. THE DEPARTURE. FRAULEIN MOLLY had already said that the princess felt uncomfortable in Waldbad and would therefore soon leave it, and in fact ever since the time of Car- loss abduction, Katharinas mind had been fixed upon going away from the village. Although every precaution was taken to render any repetition of the attempt im- possible, the princess lived in continual fear of losing her boy. Moreover, the universal excitement the event had created made the position of affairs in Waldbad less agreeable to Kath- anna. To be sure, the sympathy of all classes was exhibited in a manner which she had never before been able to obtain, either by her rank, her lavish expenditure, or even her personal attractions. But the mode in which this sympathy was shown annoyed and oppressed, instead of pleasing her, for the hours of unutterable grief which these people had shared with her placed them on a more familiar foot- ing in her society. They had seen the woman, around whom circumstances had hitherto diffused a certain halo, overpowered by grief, help- less, and feeble. In spite of all external differences, anguish had crushed its vic- tim as completely as it would have van- quished any other mortal, and therefore the greater part of the bulwark of distinc- tion had fallen. But at the same time they thought that this glimpse of the beautiful womans heart had revealed warm, deep feelings, and they therefore gave her a double share of love in return for their deficiencies in outward deference. People in general have a strong resem- blance to children, only unfortunately this similarity shows itself more in the imma- turity than in the instinctive purity and truth of childhood. Bright, strongly- marked colors dazzle and allure young eyes, which are not yet able to perceive more delicate shades, and thus a picture whose subject stands forth boldly from the canvas will naturally win more applause from the multitude than the masterpiece of art in which the outward form is merely the husk of the soul within. Even the most uneducated eye will discover the * Copyright 1877, by Littell & Gay. 44 ERICA. meaning of the first picture, and thus he only too soon, and sinks her children in~o filled with a certain sense of gratification their former egotism. at its own correct perception, while few The woman, hitherto a total stranger to persons can rise to the height of the real the princess, on whose shoulder she had work of art, and there are always few unconsciously leaned her head, who had spirits that can soar from earthly to heav- supported her io her arms, and whispered enly things. consoling words in her ear, felt bound to Thus Katharinas loud grief and total her forever. The sailors who had been loss of composure seemed to the multi- summoned to search for the lost boy, and tude a proof of her deep feelings, her ar- to whom the mother had expressed her dent maternal love. But for her sobs and thanks with tears and sobs, had been de- shrieks her anguish would not have been voted to her in body and soul from that discovered or believed; but these outward moment, but asked in return a constant tokens victoriously conquered the doubts remembrance. The throng who had sym- of even the most incredulous. The few pathizingly surrounded her when, over- who, possessing greater delicacy, were whelmed with anguish, she struggled on wounded and repelled by this want of self- the verge of madness, pursued her with control, disappeared in the throng of pan- familiar tokens of love, and expected a egyrists, because they were silent, while response. the others loudly announced their opin- Katharina was too ~vise not to perceive ions. that the uncomfortable warmth of this In this way a circle of eager and cordial universal sympathy must not be too quick- sympathizers, who advanced far beyond ly cooled by her own conduct, unless she the limits of their former acquaintance- wished to expose herself to the harshest ship, had gathered around Katharina. condemnation. The thermometer of feel. The partition which external circumstances ing must move gradually up and down, had formed between them was broken, and for its sudden bounds reveal correspond- the chasm of higher social position bridged ing throbs in human hearts, which are over by the warm interchange of feeling difficult to heal, and even when cured which united the multitude to the princess, show their deep wounds forever by the Unfortunately this sympathy soon died broad scars that remain. out of Katharinas heart, and the eager but But what Katharinas reason clearly somewhat too obtrusive and informal man- perceived, her disposition the sole ruler ner in which it was displayed by others to which she bowed was unable to exe- grew very burdensome. cute. She could not endure the constraint, We ought not to judge the princess too for she had never learned to control her severely, for experience teaches that the feelings, and thus a hasty departure was close connection with our fellow mortals the only solution of the difficulty. With into which necessity and misfortune bring almost frantic haste she ordered prepara- us, is so beneficial that it almost paralyzes tions to be made for this departure, prep- our grief, but nevertheless and we can arations which, in consequence of the all test it as soon as the necessity disap- magnificent style of housekeeping, unne- pears, the anxiety is removed. This same cessary, and almost absurd for the short close connection may easily become an time of her stay, were somewhat extensive. oppressive chain. While formerly sus- Unfortunately her brothers wound, tamed by the consciousness that we were which, in consequence of his neglect, had not alone, but among sympathizing friends, become somewhat serious, was a disacrree~ we are now oppressed by the expectation able obstacle to this speedy departure. that we must continue to feel with equal Katharina would not go without him, and, keenness an emotion which borrowed its impatiently awaited his convalesence. intensity from the exigency of the mo- She began to hate the doctor, who repeat- ment. ed his prohibition every morning, fancied Relations which have been produced by he was acting in Elmars interest, and told unusual circumstances must be broken, if the latter that his reluctance to travel was life is to flow on in its accustomed chan- an unmanly yielding to a little pain. Elmar nel. We, therefore, often falsely com- knew his sister too well to be angry with plain of ingratitude, when it is only our own her for this reproach, neither did it wound short-sightedness which prevents us from him that she had not uttered a word of recognizing the laws of nature. Grief is gratitude for the rescue of the boy was simply a messenger from heaven, it makes he not Carloss uncle, and therefore mere- us better and purer, enlarges our powers of ly doing his duty when he saved his little loving, but mother earth asserts her rights nephew? ERICA. 45 If you will give me any sensible rea- son for the necessity of our immediate departure, Kathi nka, he answered quietly, in reply to her persistent entreaties, I am ready to risk my health. This excuse about your health is ridic- ulous, my dear Elmar, replied his sister angrily. You are quite well enough to travel, and the plain truth of the matter is that you are determined to stay here. If that were my intention, I should need no pretext. Probably you are not aware that the Sternaus received a tele- gram this morning, which ~vi 11 compel them to leave Waidhad this afternoon. The consul is dangerously ill, and has sent for his family. You seem to be on very confidential terms with these people, and Katharinas flushed cheeks, as well as the irritated tone in ~vhich she spoke, plainly showed her agitation. These ~eo~le are kind enough to send every day to inquire about my health, and their servant told the news this mornin~ This information produced the effect intended, for Katharina, without any far- ther consideration for her brother, deter- mined to leave Waldhad the next day. The following morning, 1~owever, the physician declared the latters wound so much healed that he might travel without fear of a relapse, and Elmar therefore. said he would accompany her. Katharina shrugged her shoulders, and regretted that she had allowed herself to be deceived several days by this farce. Elmar laughed, but made no reply, for he knew that no assurances from him would soothe his sisters suspicions. Erica had never called upon the prin- cess of her own free will, but Katharina had sent for her several times and over- whelmed her with tokens of her love and gratitude. Erica, whose feelings towards her had sustained such a complete transformation, had been still farther prejudiced by her mothers unfavorable opinion, but she could not hell) being a little won over by the ladys extravagant expressions of es- teem and friendship, and thereby was ren- dered so irresolute that her usually frank manner became constrained, and she was thus robbed of her greatest charm. Towards Katharina she was really some- what awkward and unamiable, merely be- cause she reflected before she spoke, instead of yielding entirely to impulse. Too little versed in social forms to be able to maintain the proper medium between a suitable degree of politeness and due re LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1050 serve, the princesss unfavorable opinion was only too well justified. She felt this herself, and the knowledge increased her uncomfortable constraint, till she was un- able to appear as usuil towards any one except little Carlos, whose affection for her daily increased. In spite of this state of affairs, the prin- cess remained true to her resolution to obtain Erica for her companion, and even condescended to ask Fraulein Molly to remain in her house for a fime, until both parties had made satisfactory arrange- ments. Molly, however, coldly declined, and Katharina offended by this recep- tion of her advances angrily desired the separation to take place at once, but Elmar opposed this plan with so much decision, that Katharina consented not to dismiss her companion until she reached Castle Altenborn. On this occasion she informed her brother that she intended to take Erica in Fraulein Mollys place, and said that she could not show her gratitude better than by training the unattractive young girl. while at the same time her boys affections would have a new object, and relieve her a little of the burden that rested on herself. Elmar smiled somewhat scornfully at his sisters eager explanation, and thereby irritated her into giving still more ample details of her admirable intentions towards the young girl, from which she would not be deterred, either by her consciousness of the great labor, or the knowledge of the jeers that would be lavished upon her good-nature. In reply to her brothers, question about the mothers reception of her proposal, she was at last obliged, in spite of skilful evasions, to acknowledge that it had been declined, and confess that only the invalids approaching death. afforded her a prospect of gaining her end. Really, Katharina! said Elmar very gravely, ~only your simplicity rendered it possible to propose such a plan under such circumstances. We will suppose that you were really urged on by feelings of gratitude to the young girl, or one could not help shuddering at the abyss of heartlessness you have disclosed. You are a fool, Elmar! replied Katharina in a gay, bright tone. I think the burden I am ready to impose upon myself is a sufficient proof of my gratitude. But you men are all egotists, and do not comprehend a woman s capacity for self- sacrifice. On the day of 4eparture only cheer- 146 ERICA. ful faces were to be seen in the little fairy castle. The princess was delighted to leave a place which had become uncom- fortable to her, Fraulein Molly was equally rejoiced to see the end of a companion- ship which was daily growing more unen- durable, and even Elmar was glad to turn his hack upon a house that was very dull for him. The servants seemed equally well satisfied ; they had fallen into the natural error of expecting to find amuse- ment for themselves in a trip to a water- ing-place, and this expectation had not only remained unfulfilled, but they had actually had far less pleasure than at Castle Altenborn. The princess sent for Erica again that morning to take leave of her. She em- braced and kissed her, and as a souvenir put around her neck a gold chain, from which hung a locket set with diamonds, containing her own miniature. The young girl, who had never before possessed any article of jewelry, blushed with pleasure, and thanked the princess cordially with deep emotion. Katharina kissed her again, and then left her alone with her happi- ness. Erica approached the window to look at the picture more closely. It was exqui- sitely painted, and a speaking likeness, but the face seemed more youthful and there was a certain happy repose upon the features which contrasted very favorably with the constant restlessness of the origi- nal. Fraulein Molly, who chanced to en- ter the room, had scarcely glanced at the magnificently framed picture, when she started back exclaiming, What? Did the princess give you this portrait? Yes, replied Erica in surprise ; is there anything remarkable about the pic- ture? It was her bridal gift to the prince. He wore it around his neck for years, until his love grew cold and he threw the con- cealed jewel aside like a cast-off garment, and finally sent it back to his divorced wife. Erica involuntarily seized the chain and hastily snatched it from her neck. Are you superstitious, Erica? asked Molly. On the seashore, and among the fish- ermen it is easy to become so. Hitherto, however, I have always kept the conscious- ness of my superstition to myself, though I have been unable to conquer it. Then my incautious remark caused you pain, I wish I had not made it. Never mind, Fraulein Molly, I shall probably never meet the princess again, so her gifts will bring me no misfortune. Certainly, Erica, neither the picture nor thc chain can injure you, but I doubt whether you have seen the original for the last time, or I am entirely mistaken in my knowledge of human nature. Erica looked inquiringly into her com- panions face, but before the latter could explain herself more clearly, Elmar opened the door. Erica had not seen him since the eventful evening of the robbery, and therefore involuntarily advanced a few paces towards him. Elmar also hastily approached, and holding out his hand, said cordially, Welcome, companion of my suffer- inos! I was just going to your house, for I could not possibly leave this place without seeing you. How have you borne the excitement and exertions of that night? Better than you seem to have done, Baron von Altenborn, replied Erica somewhat formally. You look pale. Do I really ? laughed Elmar. It is a pity that I cant turn this interesting pallor to more account, but unfortunately Fraulein Caroline went away yesterday. Dont be uncivil, baron, said Molly, while Erica gazed silently out of the win- dow. Ah! you punish me with the baron! You know the sensation aroused by the title is about as agreeable as the scratch- ing of a knife on a china plate. Then you must have been very well pleased with me during the short time of our intercourse, replied Molly with a mischievous curtsy. Erica understood neither the unusual, and, as it seemed to her, causeless gaiety of Fraulein Molly, nor did Elmar s man- ner meet with a response. She felt sad and out of humor, and wished to go away. Just as she raised the chain, which was lying on the window-sill, to put it in her pocket, Elmars eyes rested upon it, and his bright face suddenly clouded as he asked hastily, Did Kathinka give you that chain, Erica? Madame la ~rincesse is always the same, he continued with cutting con- tempt, turning to Molly. Grant me one request, Fraulein Molly, he instantly added in his former jesting tone, though it is tolerably uncivil. Leave me alone a moment with my young friend. I have some things to say to her which even your discreet ear must not hear. My curiosity is not excited, replied Molly slowly, or rather I anticipated your ERICA. 47 wish, and was just going away. But let me first tell you that Aladaine la~rincesse is not always the same, but knows how to gain her own will under all circumstances, so your words will be vain. Will against will, Fraulein Molly, well try. I-las my tone wounded the little sen- sitive plant? asked Elmar, when Molly had left the room. She made no reply, but the shadow that rested on her face clearly revealed her feelings. Her compressed lips quivered with mingled grief and indignation, the lids drooped heavily over her eyes, and the clear brow was furrowed with deep lines of thought. Elmar gazed at her a moment, and then said with a faint sigh, Unfortunately, I have no time to call back the sunlight to those features. Kath- anna may come in at any moment, so I must take advantac~e of these few sec- onds to entreat you, Erica, to answer my sisters proposal to take you as companion in Fniiulein Mollys place with a decided refusal. The words certainly seemed by no means adapted to restore Ericas cheer- fulness, indeed the shadow on her face deepened, and she answered gravely, My mother has already declined the offer, I have no voice in the matter. Elmar looked out of the window with- out making any reply, he seemed embar- rassed by the mode in which she had worded her answer. Certainly, he said at last, your mother now has the sole right to decide, but you will grow older, become more independent, Enica, and then you will have full freedom. I will never leave my mother of my own free will, cried Erica passionately. Elmar again glanced through the pane. Was it possible that the daughter had no suspicion of her mothers condition? And if so, would it not be almost a sin to destroy this innocent confidence in the future? I expected no different course, he said after a still longer pause, but I must have some positive security. Give me your hand, and promise solemnly that, under no circumstances, will you accept a situation with the princess. I promise, replied Erica softly, plac- ing her hand in Elmars. Her indigna- tion had vanished, but her grief had grown still deeper, and she could scarcely re- strain her tears. Dont bang your head so, little heath- er blossom, said Elmar in a very differ- ent tone, there are plenty of real troubles in life, and we must therefore be econom- ical with our grief. What, tears! I really believe, little fairy, you are trying to unman me. The jesting tone was not calculated to restrain Ericas tears. She pressed both hands over her eyes to restrain and con- ceal the increasing flood. Elmar threw his arm around her and drew her towards him. Dont cry, Erica, he whispered softly, we are only parting for a short time. I will certainly come back again next year, and, he added in a fonder tone, if you ever need a friend, call upon me. I will obey the summons wherever I may be. He touched her brow with his lips, and vanished before Erica fully compre- hended what had happened. She too now left the room and walked slowly towards home. The promise of another meeting, the certainty of his sym- pathy, were inexpressibly consoling to her, and it did not occur to her for some time that Elmar had shown a great deal of presumption in attributing: her tears to his departure. True, she could not give any very clear account of their cause, even to herself, but of course it was probably her regret at parting from a family she had learned to love. She blushed with shame at the thought that her conduct had authorized the young mans boldness, nay, even given cause for the belief that her tears flowed especially for Elmars departure. At each examina- tion, she found her behavior more and more improper and incomprehensible, and yet she could feel no lasting anger either with herself or the young baron, while the low whisper in which he had promised to return still rang in her ears. She went home as if in a dream, and her mother was obliged to remind her that she had intended to carry the princess a bouquet of flowers from the pastors garden. That afternoon a crowd of people thronged around the fairy castle, to watch the princesss departure. At last she appeared at the door in travelling cos- tume, nodded kindly to the bystanders, expressed her thanks for the flowers with which her carriage was so richly adorned, and uttered a few words of regret that she was compelled to leave Waldbad. Little Carlos seemed to feel this sorrow less, for he eagerly watched the carriage that was to take him away, and could hardly be in- duced to notice the farewell greetings and join his mother in nodding and kissing his hand. Elmar also seemed pleasantly excited, although he bowed in every direc- tion, while Fraulein Molly sat beside the princess like a statue, and took no part iii the bustle. 148 ERICA. Erica, holding her huge bouquet, stood Mamma! was the only word Erica concealed amid the crowd, unable to sum- could utter. Her large eyes gazed, as if mon up courage to come forward. Her paralyzed with terror, into her mothers heart had again grown so heavy that she face, and her whole form trembled. The feared her farewell might betray her grief veil which had hitherto concealed the sick too plainly, and she would probably have womans condition from her eyes was torn carried her bouquet home again, if little away, and the impending loss of the dear- Carlos had not seen her and attracted his est treasure she possessed on earth sud mothers attention. denly stood before her like a threatening Now she was obliged to come forward, spectre. and, handing the flowers into the carriage, Frau von Hohenst~dt again passed her stammer an incoherent farewell. Katha- hand lovingly over her daughters soft hair, rina bent towards her to receive the bou- but did not speak. Large tears now quet, and whispered as Elmar had done welled into Ericas stony eyes, and letting that morning We shall not be separated her head fall into her mothers lap, she long, we shall soon meet again, Erica. murmured sobbing, The horses started, and the carriage Mamma, you were almost always as soon disappeared from the eyes of the sick as you are now; you wont leave me, throng. T he princesss whisper, however, God will not tear you from me. did not afford the young girl the same con- Be calm, my child, whispered the solation that her brothers had done, and invalid, do not make this terrible hour she felt sadder than she would have be- too hard for me. Let us unite in gratitude lieved it possible to do a few hours be- to God who has granted me so long a fore. respite, and use the short interval of time THE XVI. that remains to talk of your future. can have no future without you, cONVERSATION. mamma! I will die with you. WHEN Erica awoke the next morning, If you really love your mother, Erica, the prevailing emotion in her heart was compose yourself. I cannot endure the that of boundless desolation. The day sight of your grief, and it will render it stretched before her in such immeasurable impossit)le for me to say what I ought length that she scarcely knew how to fill must tell you. the hours which usually vanished only too Erica raised her head, and forcing back rapidly. She felt disinclined to work or her tears, replied with quivering lips, I study, and a walk in the open air seemed will weep no more, mamma, I am perfectly to be the only thing that had not lost all calm. charm for her, for she determined to take My own dear child, whispered the one immediately after breakfast. Just as mother, bending forward to press her lips she was in the act of leaving the house, upon the daugr~ters brow. You have Christine summoned her to her mothers witnessed my long hours of suffering, bedside. The message surprised and Erica, she added in a somewhat louder alarmed her, as the invalid of late had tone, you know that life had no joy for always spent the mornin~ alone, and she me except your presence. hastily obeyed the call. I know it, mamma, murmured Erica. Erica found her mother already dressed She had again bowed her head on her and sitting in her chair. She greeted the mothers lap, and closed her eyes, while young girl lovingly, and pointed to a seat, large tears ran slowly down her cheeks. but either because she wished to escape Then you will not wish to disturb by observation, or in accordance with old your grief the rest for which I long. You custom, Erica took the little stool and will be sustained by the thought that your placed it at the invalids feet. The latter mother has at last found peace, entered made no objection, and as usual laid her the kingdom where there is no sorrow or hand affectionately on her daughters weeping. head; but as she still kept silence, Erica Yes, mamma, replied Erica, in an at last ventured to ask timidly, almost inaudible tone. You wanted to speak to me, mamma. Your future, my dear child, was the But perhaps you feel too weak? only thing that made it hard for me to The invalid sighed and answered slowly, leave this world; which, in spite of my Yes, Erica, I feel very weak; but never- grief and sufferings, still induced me to theless I must speak to you before it is implore God to spare me to you. Your too late, before these lips are forever whole education was designed to steel your silent. body and mind, in order to enable you to ERICA. 49 withstand the storms of life. Your devel- become obstinacy and narrow-mindedness, opment, although in accordance with my whose sting is turned against ourselves. hopes and wishes, was slow, and at seven- Although your education entitles you teen you are still almost a child. to enter the circle where you have been I am a child no longer, mamma! This destined to gain your daily bread, our hour makes me cross the gulf and renders secluded, lonely life has made it impossi- me ten years older. ble for you to acquire the social forms on Grief matures the mind more rapidly which its members place a great, perhaps than joy; so I will not despair because undue, value. you are now in the midst of the battle of Under whatever name you may wish life. God in his great mercy has taken to enter a family, whether governess or the bitterest sting from my dying hour; I companion, a certain familiarity with the need not leave you perfectly helpless. rules of etiquette is always required, and You are surprised, my Erica, and will be this familiarity cannot be obtained in soli- still more so when I tell you that probably tude, but only by intercourse with society. the rash deed you performed that night is You are to have an opportunity to learn the sole cause of this relief. I cannot these forms in the house of one of your explain the matter in any other way. When relatives. This is a request we can make I have told you all you can judge for your- Without infringing on our self-respect, and self. whose fulfilment we are entitled to expect The invalid made a pause, but Erica did from those so nearly allied to us. God not interrupt it, and after a long silence gave me no sister, to whom I should nat- she continued: You know, my child, al- urally have turned in such a case, and so though I have never spoken to you about I hesitated whether to apply to my cousin the matter, that our former easy circum- who inherited my parents estates as the stances were greatly changed by unforeseen next male heir, or to my cousin Vally, who misfQrtunes. Ill and feeble as I was, I was educated with me. could not think of supporting myself, and I decided in favor of the latter, be- in order to live and provide for your edu- cause I know very little of my cousin cation was forced to convert the small, Kroneck, while Vally and I maintained for very small, amount of property that re- years a constant correspondence, which I mained into an annuity, which ceases at gradually dropped. Vally, with her punc- my death. This income, even in the eco- tilious observance of the rules of etiquette, nomical way in which we lived, was barely and practical common sense, seemed to sufficient to defray our expenses, and ne- me the best person to add the finishing cessity compelled me to sell our last piece touches to my childs education. The of property . this little house which I thought of her apparently cold, nay, chill- had hoped to keep for you. The sum it ing manner, did not deter me; on the would bring was small, it is true, but the contrary, I hope it will give a beneficial cottage is dilapidated and of little value, counterpoise to a training bestowed by a though land in Waldbad is much higher mother who is only too weak in heart and than formerly. mind. I therefore wrote to Vally a few It thus became impossible to secure weeks ago, and received a cordial, nay, for your future independence, and I should her cold manner, extremely affectionate, perhaps have felt this inability still more reply, in which she warmly accedes to my bitterly, if my own life had not too clearly request. shown me the perishableness of all earthly I was grateful to her with all my heart, riches. When this su~nmer I perceived especially as she has four daughters, and the speedy approach of death, and was I hope this large family circle will afford forced to realize that I had but a short my Erica an opportunity to acquire that time to remain with you, my dear child, ease in her intercourse with others, in I thought it my duty to use in your which she is now so greatly deficient. behalf the fewworldly advantages I still Besides, I wished, before my death, to retain, sell this house in order to pay every little You know, Erica, that we have many debt and place the small sum remaining wealthy relatives, but you also know I in your guardians hands. The pastor have never claimed their assistance, but that true friend whom God has given me on the contrary, in consequence of my in my misfortunes for a support and con- misfortunes, remained aloof from them. solation will of course be this guardian, I think I was right, but even a good prin- and with his assistance I have already ciple may be carried too far. Praise- been trying for a long time to dispose of worthy consistency in this case can easily our little property as advantageously as ERICA. ISO possible. Hitherto, however, the offers were so small that we could not accept them, though we were forced to acknowl- edge that in the dilapidated condition of the house no large sum could be expected. Such was the state of affairs, when a few days ago a price was suddenly offered which not only far exceeded our expecta- tions, but also the real value of the estate. Although a lawyer from the city managed the affair, and solemnly assured us that the Princess Bagadoff was not the purchaser, neither the pastor nor myself doubted it for an instant, and both instantly agreed to accept the offer. You had done the lady a service which placed her under obligations for life, and there was a deli- cacy in the manner of discharging this debt of gratitude, which, to tell the truth, I had not expected from the princess, and which on every account I should have considered it wrong to decline. Her agent wished to make me believe that his principal, delighted with the situ- tion of Waldbad and the location of our house, which is certainly the most beauti- ful spot in the village, wished to secure the property at any cost, in order to erect a handsome villa. The dilapidated condi- tion of the cottage ~vas therefore a matter of no consequence, since the walls would sooner or later be torn down, and the pur- chaser set a higher value upon the quantity of land that belonged to the estate, as he intended to have it laid out in pleasure- grounds. To induce me to gratify her wish as if I should object to disposing of my little property at so great an advantage the purchaser would willingly defer the execution of her plans a few years, as she was about to set off on a long journey. I might therefore remain in undisturbed possession of the house, if I would permit certain necessary repairs to be made. The good princess had even provided for my old Christel, by appointing her to take charge of the house. If I had not already been determined to accept so much delicate kindness with heartfelt gratitude, this last proof of it would certainly have induced me to do so. The thought of my faithful old Christel, who had devoted her life to my service, was one of the bit- terest drops in my cup of sorrow. Unable to provide for her future, I was forced to leave her to the sympathy of strangers, since I was compelled to positively reject our noble friends offer to receive her in his house. Now her future is secure; she will remain in a familiar spot, can procure greater comforts than before, and also make herself useful according to her strength. She will keep the old house and some day the new one in order, and its owner will doubtless be satisfied with her choice. If this sale had been made a few weeks earlier, I probably should not have written my letter to Vally. You can now pay a sufl{cient sum to enter a family as an independent member, and will therefore not be exposed to the necessity, always bitter to a woman, of gaining your own bread. You can thus use your strength for your own culture as well as the advan- tage of your companions, and it will be your own fault if you feel yourself a use- less member of the great human family. I should now prefer to let you become a part of the pastors household, but I do not wish to sunder the bond that has just been reunited, for I believe it is the will of God. The circle you are about to enter is a cultivated and truly Christian one. Vallys education and character afford me ample security for that fact, so I can feel at ease in regard to your lot in this respect. The only change I have made is that you will not go to your cousins house until early next spring. You can more quickly overcome your grief for my loss among friends and amid your old familiar sur- roundings, and moreover will not enter a strangers family during the time of deep mourning. I, however, shall be spared the pain of leaving this house, which has become inexpressibly endeared to me by the sorrow I have endured within its walls. I shall not keep the new owner out of her property for years or even months, but I thank her none the less warmly for grant. ing me a quiet death in the dear old rooms. Erica, who had hitherto sat almost mo- tionless, absorbed in an agony of grief, now clasped her mother in a passionate embrace, exclaiming through her sobs, Dont talk so, you are breaking my heart, mamma! Do not grudge me my repose, my child, whispered the mother, your inno- cent heart has but a faint idea of the suf- ferings God has imposed upon me. And now let us end this conversation, Erica, my strength is beginning to fail. The low, tremulous tone in which the invalid spoke, only too plainly proved the truth of her words. Anxiety for her mother crowded every other thought out of Ericas mind, and she started up to help her to her chamber and perform all the little services she required. Every idea, every feeling was now fixed upon one THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. Is object; beside the life of her dear mother, everything seemed a matter of indiffer- ence, there was nothing in the past or future that could arouse her interest. The grief caused by the farewell she had taken yesterday seemed like a dream, and Elmars last words appeared prophetic. When during the day her mother grew somewhat stronger, Erica, at her request, was obliged to go into the open air, andas a walk now possessed no charms for her, she seated herself on the down to enjoy the fresh sea-breeze. She had not been there long when she saw the pastors wife ap- proaching her. I knew I should find you here, Erica, she said gravely; come with me to your mother. Something in her voice and face made the young girls heart shrink. Her eyes rested on the speaker with a fixed stare, as she shrieked despairingly, My mother is dying! Come, Erica, said her companion ten- derly, taking her by the hand and drawino her towards the house. The young girl walked beside her in silence, only her loud breathing betrayed the agitation of her soul. They soon reached the cottage, and Erica started when she saw the windows behind which her mother was lying in the agonies of death. Before they went up the steps of the veranda, the pastors wife whispered, amid suppressed sobs, You will be strong, Erica; you will not make your dear moth- ers death harder by your wild grief. Erica could not answer; the emotion she was struggling so violently to repress made it impossible. But the pastors wife must have trusted her without any assur- ances, for she gently pressed the hand that rested in hers, and hastily ascended the steps with her companion. Ericas first glance at the invalid as she entered the room told her that she was ap- proaching a, death-bed. The features had already assumed the pinched appearance, the terrible livid hue, which is the cer- tain sign of the departure of life. The glazing eyes of the dying woman expressed deep contentment when she perceived her daughter, and a faint smile played around her pallid lips. Erica sank on her knees beside the bed, and burying her face in the pillows strove to stifle her agonized sobs. Her mother laid her hand upon the young girls head in benediction, for she was no longer able to speak, and when Erica raised her head and fixed her tearful gaze upon the dying woman, a glance of inexpressibly loving farewell beamed from the dim eyes. rt was the last sign of life, for the pupils re- mained fixed, the heart stood still, the spirit had departed. For a moment Erica was fairly stupefied by the blow that had fallen upon her, then her agony, so long repressed, found vent in loud lamentations. Sobbing passionately, she threw herself upon the beloved corpse and covered the rigid face with her tears. The pastor, who with the doctor and the faithful old Christel stood beside the death-bed, let this wild anguish take its course without interrupting it, or striving to lessen it by any consolation, and only when the exhausted girl leaned her head upon the pillow, did he approach and whisper loving, soothing words in her ear. At last he took her in his arms, and with a little gentle force removed her from the room, then allowed her once more to give way to her grief, and afterwards, ex- erting the same gentle violence, led her away to his own house. When Erica crossed the threshold of her home, she knew that henceforth it would be hers no longer, that she had lost the place where she had felt safe from all the storms of life, and now the battles of this life would begin. She almost broke down as the full weight of this consciousness burst upon her, and only the pastors supporting arms saved her from falling, and rendered it possible for her stumbling feet to reach the abode that was to be her present asylum. From The corohill Magazine. THE CELT OF WALES AND THE CELT OF IRELAND. ON Christmas night last, the present writer witnessed a little spectacle which, trifling in itself, seems, for reasons to be presently stated, not unworthy of descrip- tion and consideration. The scene was at night in a huge barn outside a village in a certain lonely moun- tain district in the heart of Wales. Not a fashionable, tourist-haunted village, the reader is requested to bear in mind, but a scattering of some twenty cottages of the solid, almost Cyclopaan, Welsh stone- masonry, of which (with the exception of the parsonage) the most imposing edifices are the post-office, the smithy, and the turnpike gate-house. No public or drink-shop of any sort exists in Llan, but, en revanche, besides the church are, two large Dissenting chapels, belonging of 152 THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND course to the small farmers whose hold- ings are dotted over the surrounding hills. The assembly, though modestly announced on the tickets of admission (price 6d.) as only a Gyfarfod Lienyddol (Social Meet- ing), was in truth a miniature Eisteddfod, or competition for prizes, by poets, essay- ists, singers, and irn~rovisa/ori. Of course on reading this, the English reader at once beholds with his minds eye the energetic parson of the parish originating the whole scheme, working it up diligently to the honor of Christmas, laying the squire under contribution for prize-money, and employing all the young ladies in the neighborhood in decorating the hall with texts in Gothic characters as ~indeciphera- ble as Chinese to the parishioners. Nothing could possibly be further from the Eisteddfod of LIan, which was devised, paid for, and performed exclu- sively by and for the villagers themselves, the carpenter, the blacksmith, and a score of farmers. Naturally every arrangement was of the simplest kind, The rough- hewn stone walls of the barn, with the rock on which they stand projecting here and there through the floor, were only re- lieved by two inscriptions A Merry Xmas, and Gymru ldn gwladygdn, Fair Wales the Land of Song em- blazoned with holly leaves and berries, on white calico, and illuminated by three rather smoky lamps pendent from the beams above. Of what degree of luxury the stall seats may have boasted I can- not tell, the well-packed crowd thoroughly occupying every inch of sitting and stand- ing room. At the upper end, near a table, sat the young, pleasant-looking chairman, with a white rosette on his breast, togeth- er with the principal candidates for the prizes; and the competition went on with great verve and rapidity for about a cou- ple of hours. I was unfortunately absent when the penillion was sung a peculiar Welsh form of improvisation in dialogue, wherein both performers choose some theme, and respond to one another in im- promptu song to a certain familiar tune. This was said to have been done (as is often the case) with cleverness and humor, little incidents of the hour and friendly personalities being introduced into the rhymes. After the ~eniZlion came a really charming glee, sung with feeling and deli- cacy, and rather erring on the side of be- ing too piano and subdued, than of any- thing approaching the music-hall style of exhibition. This was listened to by the audience with breathless attention and en- cored enthusiastically, and after it followed an original poem of some twenty stanzas on the Robin, repeated in a sort of recita- tive by the author, an intellectual-looking man, a small shopkeeper in a neighbor- ing village. Each verse of this poem ap- parently contained some playful fancy, or as an Elizabethan writer would have said a conceit, which was thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed by the audience, aiM secured a prize for the composer. Next came a short essay on the Duties of Mothers to their Children, by the wife of the carpenter of the villaoe whose h us- band and daughters took the chief parts in a really excellent song which, with the distribution of the prizes, concluded the amusements of the evening. As I walked home in the moonlight, with the snow-capped mountains and si- lent brown woods around my path, the reflection struck me very forcibly that the people who could originate and enjoy such a refined entertainment as I had witnessed must differ in many essential particulars from the peasants of most other countries with whom I had acquaintance. I thought of how the English agriculturalist, when left to choose his own diversion, invents such sports as tumbling in sacks, grinning through a horse-collar, and climbing a greasy pole for a leg of mutton; how his ideal of heaven has been confessed to be a public with a fiddle going; and finally how ~vhen the parson and the squire un- dertake to afford him entertainment apart from the supreme attractions of victuals and drink, it is considered indispensable to choose for the penny reading or~ the musical performance, literature and melo- dies indefinitely less refined than those which the spontaneous good taste of these Welsh men and women had led them to prefer. In France again, I thought how the young men and women would have in- sisted on a dance possibly the cancan instead of such an anodyn style of amusement, as they would have deemed our Cyfarfod. When the idea presented itself of the inhabitants of an Irish village of no greater pretension than Llan, un- assisted by squire or clergyman, getting up on their own account such an Eisteddfod, the incongruity of the notion was so start- ling that it brought vividly to a focus the impressions I had been receiving, through a residence of many years in the two countries, of the vast and not easily ex- plicable difference which exists between the Celtic populations of Wales and Ire- land. Perhaps in these days, when a very influential school of thinkers seem pre- pared to resolve every human characteristic THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. 53 moral, intellectual, religious, and ~sthetic into a matter of hereditary transmis- sion, it may not be uninteresting or use- less to spend a little study on a problem touching so nearly the assumed law of such transmission. Here are two branches of the same great Celtic family, distantly allied as philologists affirm, consider- ably more distantly than the Irish from the Highland Scotch, for example but still of the same blood, members of that same earliest swarm which left the old Aryan home for the West before history began. They have dwelt for several thousand years side by side as next neighbors, in countries under the same latitude and with a similarly pluviose climate, and propin- quity to the melancholy ocean. For several centuries they have both been under the rule of the same conquerors. Intercourse between them at a very early period was so close that several saints and heretics,* legends and musical airs, are to this day attributed to Wales by Welsh, and to Ireland by Irish arch~ologists. Yet instead of exhibiting such obvious and striking resemblances as might have been anticipated, under circumstances so simi- lar, and instead of progressing together step by step in prosperity, the differences, or rather contrasts, in the characteristics and fortunes of the two people are so much more salient than their likenesses, that nine Englishmen out of ten forget that they are anywise akin, and no statesman dreams that because one act of Parliament is fitted for Ireland, it is likely to be needed in Wales. Without pretending to offer novel obser- vations on themes so familiar as the charac- teristics of the two countries, I think that an attempt to lay them side by side in par- allelism may not be without a certain inter- est, and possibly not without use. Either the laws of heredity are not exactly what we have of late been led to suppose, or the causes which have interfered with their action on so large a scale and in so decided a manner deserve to be carefully investi- gated. Could Ireland be rendered pros- perous, contented, and loyal as Wales, could the Irish be clothed, and educated, and inspired with the same hopeful indus- try as the Welsh, no greater boon could befall the empire. And, it may be added, could tbe Welsh by made to observe cer- tain laws of moral conduct as sacredly as do the poor peasantry of Ireland, it would likewise be a gain to the virtue of the * Pelagius = Morgan (Sea-born) being oAe of the niost eminent. world. Whether we are to look for the cause of the difference in the wrongs and miseries of past ages or in the existing economical, political, or religious condi- tions of the two countries, is therefore a problem fairly claiming the attention of every thoughtful Englishman. The chief present differences between Wales and Ireland (which ought to be borne in mind, but on which we shall not further touch in this paper) are as follows Ireland is ultra-Catholic, Wales ultra~Prot- estant. Wales has an Established Church which is not the church of the masses. The Church of Ireland has been disestab- lished. The land of Ireland is chiefly held by men of Saxon race. The landowners of Wales are still very generally Welsh- men by blood and sentiment. Wales pos- sesses innumerable mines and quarries all over the country, holding out bribes to speculation and keeping the wages of labor exceedingly high. Ireland, being almost exclusively an agricultural country with little industry except the linen trade, there exist few opportunities of fortune- making, and the wages of labor are propor- tionately small. Finally, while Ireland has gone in a vicious circle, her wrongs and sufferings creating a class of agitators, and agitation preventing the development of the resources of the conntry, Wales has had few wrongs and no agitators; jealousy has been out of question between the small and poor and the great and rich country; and patriotism has assumed the harmless form of enthusiasm for the na- tional language, music, and monuments. Instead of a Home Rule meeting, there is an Eisteddfod. Preliminary to any parallel between the Welsh and Irish nations, it is to be marked en ~assant that, while both have well- marked characteristics, the smaller and geographically less isolated country is more distinctly individualized and keeps closer to its traditions than the large island. If, for example, we take lan- guage as a test of sustained nationality, we find the old Cymraig to this day both the spoken and written langua~e of the whole principality; scarcely a Welsh- man, save afew of the upper classes, being ignorant of it, and about half the nation, it is supposed for no statistics exist un- derstanding no other tongue. Books in considerable numbers are yearly printed in Welsh, and a great many very l)opular and fairly edited newspapers. Nor do the zealous Cambrians forsake their beloved langua,~ e even when they cross the Atlan- tic; no less than fourteen journals, we are 54 THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. told, are published in Welsh in the United States and Canada. Pretty nearly the converse of all this holds good respecting Ireland. I have been favored by the registrar-general of Ireland, Mr. Burke, with calculations founded on the admirable returns prepared under his direction and that of his prede- cessor Mr. Donnelly, from whence the fol- lowing facts come to light In the year i86i, 191 per cent. of the population of Ireland spoke Irish, namely 1,105,336 persons. In the year 1871 this proportion had sunk to I5~I of the popula- tion, namely, to 817,875 persons. Thus it appears that the use of the Irish language is dying out at the rate of more than two hundred thousand persons in ten years; a fact made still more obvious by another table, showing that during the ten years in question the proportioR of ages had changed still more markedly than the num- bers of speakers. The younger.gener- ation are all learning English, and only the parents retain the use of their native tongue. How many persons can read and write in Irish as well as speak it, I do not know; but the number must be very small, as is certainly also that of the pub- lications of any kind in the Irish lano~ issuing from the press of recent ~uage years. an Irish newspaper I have never heard. Next to language perhaps we may place music as a feature of distinctive nation- ality; and here again the Welsh hold their own most tenaciously. The exqui- site old Irish airs, wild and melancholy with the sadness wherewith nature sweeps the organ of the autumn woods and wintry waves, or simply joyous like the song of the thrush, this rich treasure of melody where is it now to be found save bound up with Moores tinsel verses in the vol- umes printed fifty years ago in London? There may be districts in Ireland where the peasants still sing their own music, but it has never happened to the present writer to hear them; whereas every man, woman, and child in Wales seems to know and to be able to sing remarkably well a whole repertory of the fine old martial national airs. Nothing is more common in passing a mountain cottage than to hear the March of the Men of Harlech or A r-kyd-y-Nos in the voice of the young farmer or his wife at their work, or of a group of the lovely Welsh children play- ing round the door. In dress again the Welsh have kept longer to their national costume than the Irish. The red cloak has utterly disap peared from the grey Trish landscape which it once brighteied; and even before the cloak, the red petticoat vanished; that once famous red petticoat which formed the theme of one of the oldest and quaint- est of the national ditties grotesque enough and yet pathetic too. But even yet about one Welshwoman in fifty (bless her!) wears the dear old high-crowned broad-brimmed beaver hat, the tidy white cap, the cotton bed-gown, and the short stout linsey petticoat, leav- ing free the agile foot and ankle cased in strong shoes and home-made worsted stockings. To see one of these women at seventy and even eighty years of age, car- rying a bundle of sticks or half a sack of potatoes or any such unconsidered trifle, on her back, or walking straight up a mountain like the side of a house, knitting all the way and never pausing to take breath; or else digging away in her garden, and wheeling about huge loads of soil or gravel, is to behold a spectacle of vigor and cheerfulness for which it will take a world of reading, writing and arith- metic to compensate when the stuffy school and the love of vulgar finery learnt there shall have made it altogether a thing of the past. Other particulars might be added, but those of language music, and dress I think suffice to prove that Welsh nation- ality is better preserved and more pro- nounced at the present day than the nationality of Ireland. We may now pro- ceed to draw our intended parallel be- tween the recognized characteristics of the two nations, noticing the broad feat- ures of family likeness where they come into view, and the less accountable un- likeness which seems to prevail in nine points out of ten. Of course such a sketch might be made much more com- plete and instructive by includino the other great branches of the Celtic tree in our purview, Gaelic, Breton, and Cornish. For such a task, however, a volume would be needed, not an article. Physically, it seems impossible to trace the cousinship between Welsh and Irish. Nothing in the form of head, countenance, or complexion betrays the fact. There are, of course, tall and short men in both countries, but no districts in Wales are inhabited by such dwarfs as people Con- nemara, or such Anakim as may be found in Tipperary. In both countries the women have special claims to beauty, but Irish loveliness is always a little in the free. and unconfined genre of Nora Creina, while a Maid of Merioneth THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. 55 belongs to the well-braced, sure-footed, self-reliant type which might claim the eulogium of King Lemuel: She girdeth her loins with strength, she s trengtheneth her arms. Unhappily, this grand figure, resembling the Trastevarina in Rome, is becoming daily more rare. As to particular features, the beautiful Irish eye grey, with long dark lashes, and with the lids deep set and well chiselled an eye speaking mingled innocence, mirth, and tenderness quite unmatched by any human orb this loveliest eye has no analogue in the Welsh feature. On the other hand, the Irishmans frightful prognathous jaw, as seen in Munster and Connemara, is unknown in Wales; as is also the coarse lip which, in a lesser like- wise distinctive of the Milesian race. The question is surely curious. What has caused this difference in the phy- sique of the two nations? Both have lived for ages on the same simple fare of oatmeal, milk, and potatoes (to which the Welsh now add endless tea-drinkings), under equally rainy skies. Yet while the Welshman is said to display the very same form of skull and delicacy of the muscular attachments which distinguished his progenitors who dwelt in the Den- bighshire caves in the stone age, in the society of the Bos longifrons and the wolf, his Irish cousin has managed to introduce (or preserve?) in the human countenance a mouth scarcely improved since the much remoter date when we were apes; and to forestall eyes which might beam beneath our brows when we become angels. Pass we now upward to mental charac- teristics. Here there is certainly some family likeness. There is a nimbleness about the wits of a Celt which gives him an advantage over a Saxon such as that possessed by a man with a stiletto over one with an unwieldly Excalibur that is to say, a Celt of Wales or Ireland, for the Scotchman is as much slower than the Englishman, as the Welshman and Irish- man are more rapid. The whole mental machinery of the Welsh and Irish seems better oiled than that of the Saxon. They catch an idea as a good player catches a shuttlecock; and the speaker is never called upon, in the ineffably tire- some way so common in England, to repeat his remark that his auditor may be enabled to swallow and digest it before he reply. The retort comes sharp and quick as the snap of a revolver. Anger, pleasure, tears, and laughter follow the hash which gives occasion to them, and do not go on rumbling in English fashion three minutes afterwards. The Celt may deserve sometimes to be called indis- creet, wrong-headed, and scatter-brained; but no one would ever dream of applying to him the epithets of dullard, B~otian, clodpole, numskull, or dunderhead. He may be silly, but is never beef-witted. As a consequence of this rapid con- sumption of ideas, Welshmen in particular are ready to be excited about everything, and (as always happens far away from the great centres of public interest) more es- pecially in local gossip. Their lively wits seem actually to famish for such pabulum. To hear the clatter of tongues when Welshman encounters XVelshman on the road, or the still more animated buzz as of a whole swarm of bees, at a little railway station where a dozen passengers await the train, is to be reminded rather of the streets of Marseilles than of any English place of meeting, where a nod and a good morning are the utmost efforts of good fellowship. All this refers pre-eminently to Wales. In Ireland the energy for chatter is obvi- ously less vehement, and the equally quick wits are content with reasonable intervals of silence. But the differentpzce of Celtic minds may there be no less traced by a comparison of the really delightful intelli- gence of a school of Irish children with the heaviness and slowness of a similar and much better fed and clothed class, in any part of England, even in the great towns. I have often tested the ability of young Irish boys and girls, either to un- derstand a piece of humor or to appreciate an act of heroism, or, generally, to take in any idea quite new to them; and never yet failed of success. But the very same joke, or story, or new idea, presented to very sharp English town boys has been utterly misunderstood. IMAGINATION is a faculty which I sup- pose will on all hands be conceded pre- eminently to the Celtic race, and yet per- haps it would be more proper to credit it with the poetical temperament than with the actual power of imagination in its higher walks. The phrases, the ideas, the music, a thousand sweet wild-flower-like ~vays of both Welsh and Irish, show that temperament, and distinguish it from the dull commonplace of the vulgar Saxon, very much as the names of the two conical mountains over the Bay of Dublin pertain to the Irish, who called them the Gilded Spurs, and to the English, who named them the Sugarloaves. But when it comes to the creation of great poems. the THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. Celt is certainly open to the sneering question whereby illogical persons have supposed that the claims of women to political rights might be dismissed Where is your Iliad, your Macbeth, Your soul-wrought victories? The kind heavens will preserve me, I trust, from the audacity of attempting to form an estimate of the rank justly belong- ing to Celtic poetry compared to the mas- terpiecesof Greece, India, Italy, Germany, and England, but I have never heard the most enthusiastic Welshman claim for Dafydd ap Gwyllim himself a place much above Chaucer and one point at all events is patent, that the merit of Erse and Cymric poetry is not of that solid kind which can bear translation, but depends in principal measure on the apt fulfilment of a number of arbitrary and intricate rules of rhythm and rhyme, whose shackles the higher class of poetic genius would hardly condescend to endure. In later centuries some millions of Irishmen and thousands of Welsh have spoken English. How does it chance, if either race have great poetic gifts, that we have no Welsh-En- glish poetry at all, and in Ireland only a few spirited Fenian ballads, beside older poems which can scarcely be called na- tional, since Goldsmith and Moore might as well have been cockneys? Why is there no Irish, or XVelsh, Walter Scott, or Robert Burns? Gibson made in marble the only Welsh poems I have ever seen which could con- vey the sense of beauty to the Saxon, and they were inspired very evidently by a muse whose birthplace was much nearer to Parnassus than to the bardic seat of genius Cader Idris. Again, it would be hard to define in what way ~sthetic taste has been displayed (except in music) by either Celtic nation for acres back, since the days of the beau- tiful antique Irish jewellery. Certainly it is not exhibited in architecture. No ugli- er towns or houses than Irish ones exist in Europe; and when the most has been made of the Rock of Cashel, and a very few other early ruins, and of the four or five fine classic buildings of the last cen- tury in Dublin, there is scarcely a relief from architectural hideousness from Cape Clear to the Causeway, unless in the mod- ern mansions of the Anglo-Irish gentry undistinguisliable from those of England. Such a thing of beauty as a genuine old English cottage brick, stone, or wooden, thatched and rose-grown, such as may be seen by scores in Warwickshire, or Kent, or the New Forest never yet came from Celtic hands. An Irish peasant or farmer, if he be left to himself, without interfer- ence from his landlord, builds his house (even if he be well able to afford a good one) in the least pretty spot in his holding, and in a manner to render his materials, whether stone and slate, or mud and thatch, as little sightly as it is possible to be. As to the regular typical mud cabin, there is something about it absolutely so/- fish. Nor is the complacent squalor of the place ever relieved by a well-kept bit of flower-garden, or a few creepers over the walls, unless beneath the tyrannical rule of the neighboring squire. Indoors, the furniture is simply the cheapest and commonest which can be made to s& ve the necessary use of bed, cupboard, chairs, and tables; and the works of art are con- fined to colored prints, which may possi- bly fulfil some religious purpose, but assuredly do not meet any ~sthetic want of human nature. Not even in dress do the Irish peasantry display any taste. A farmer going to market at Mullingar in his long, ill-made coat, whose tails, if the day be rainy, he is compelled to tuck under his arms on either side to prevent them from dabbling his legs, is a spectacle of clumsiness at which it is scarcely possible to refrain from laughing, and even the ~charming beauty of Irish girls of all class- es fails often to obtain its due meed of admiration for want of better taste in its adornment. Poverty, of course, explains much; but the poverty of an Italian con- fadina, or the wife of a Fellah Arab, is quite as great as that of most Irishwomen, and their dress renders even personal ugli- ness picturesque and graceful. The case against Welsh taste is not so strong. If the Cymry do not create beauty, they do not mar the beauty which nature spreads so richly around them. Their houses (of massive stone, in most parts of the country), with dormer windows break- ing the outline and latticed panes, have an aspect of durability, and even of dignity, which accords well with the landscape; and almost invariably they are placed in good positions, backed by the heather- crowned hills, and with brooks babbling by the moss-grown walls of the little old orchard of plum and apple trees. Honey. suckles, wild roses, fox,~,loves, ferns, and ivy hang from every bush or nestle undis- turbed beneath every wall and a painter could scarcely choose a lovelier scene than some of these mountain homesteads for a background, and in front of them a group of the beautiful, refined-looking THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. 57 Welsh children, playing with the puppy or paiddling i the burn. Within the cottage will be found two or three ances- tral pieces of fine old oak furniture, dresser and coffer, and perchance a chair or bed- stead, which, with the huge wide fireplace entirely relieves the poverty of the place from any aspect of sordidness. The dress of the inmates, too, though far gone of late from the original admirable old costume, is never ragged, and is indeed in general only too soz~n6 and expensive for the fortunes of the wearers, whose pride causes them to spend much more on their clothes than on their food. This matter of the commissariat is not to be altogether passed over in discussing the taste of the Welsh and Irish, who equally regard it with ill omened indiffer- ence. The stimulus to the industry of man and the housewifeliness of woman which a taste for good and varied food affords elsewhere, is absolutely wanting in Ireland and Wales; and in the latter country even well-to-do farmers live on a misCrable diet of everlasting tea and ex- ceedingly bad bread. Indifferent butter, abominably ill-cured bacon, and herrings salted always a day too late and never eaten fresh at all, seem to afford their only and rarely admitted luxuries. Nor can those whose business it is to cater for English travellers in Wales be by any means induced to pay proper attention to securing vegetables and fruits, and better meat than the wretchedly ill-fed mutton, which enjoys an altogether fictitious repu- tation, on the strength of the very differ- ent Welsh mutton fattened for the table of private gentlemen or for the London market. Till Welsh innkeepers and lodging-house keepers mend their ways in this respect, they must be contented to limit their customers, to persons who are willing to practise a good deal of mortifi- cation of the flesh during their scenery- hunting, and to pay for it too as if they were dwelling among the flesh-pots of Clifton, Burnemouth, or Brighton. In many l)retentious Welsh hotels it is usual to behold four or five dishes set out for luncheon on an imposing long table, every one of them consisting of the last remains of a joint of cold mutton in a state which would scarcely be presented in an English servants hall. Of other food of any kind no/i c ?. Surely it is idle to go on talking of the peculiar ~sthetic capacities of two nations who have never possessed any national art except music, and whose houses, dress, tables, and gardens display less taste and care even than those of the con- fessedly poorly-endowed Saxon. So far as imagination creates supersti- tious fears and fancies, both Welsh and lrish notoriously exhibit it freely, but the guess may be hazarded that the prevailing Calvinism of the principality has given it the graver complexion which it therein seems to wear. Ghosts still appear con- stantly all over Wales, and (according to a bygone fashion, of which they ought to be ashamed) always leave behind them an odor of brimstone after their apparitions; while birds of evil omen (kittiwakes and curlews especially) screaming at nioht round a house are regarded with unaffect- ed dread and abhorrence. Irish imagination, though it has called up the banshee and an abundance of hereditary curses, revels chiefly in more riante dreams the Leprachaun and Phuca (Puck); the beautiful invisible Is- land of St. Brandan in the far Atlantic; the towers of the submerged city beneath Lough Neagh; and the endless droll legends of the giant Fin McCoul. As regards HUMOR, it would appear that both Welsh and Irish Celts (notably not Scotch ones) have vastly quicker and keener sense of wit and fun than any class of Saxons, short of the most intellectual and cultivated of all. But, though the Welsh peasant knows a joke the moment he sees it (which is much more than can be said of his English brothers), and is a merry fellow in his own way, it is very rare indeed to hear from him any such bons mots as may be freely gathered from an Irishmans discourse. To bambooz!e a Manchester tourist by selling him a hawk as a Welsh parrot; and in a court of jus- tice to turn the tables on an overbearing cross-examining barrister, who was sneer- ing at the witness for carrying turf in a sack, by the rejoinder that it was always carried so formerly at T.,the parvenu barristers native place the Nazareth of the principality, from whence no good thing can come, these are jests in the true Welsh spirit. It will be seen at a glance how widely they differ from the pure fun of Hibernia: such jokes, for ex- ample, as that of the car-driver whom the prim and elderly English governess en- gaged for an hour, and who replied to the obnoxious stipulation, Ah, thin, maam, and wont ye take me for life? Or the priest who, when consulted by a parochial sceptic about the nature of mir- acles, gave the man a kick, and asked him, Did he feel it? In coorse I did, responded the injured inquirer. Well x~8 THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. then, remember this! It would have been a miracle i/you did uot. Passing to the AFFECTIONS, it will be admitted by every one that the maternal sentiment abounds in both the nations of whom we write. Happy is the child who has an Irish nurse or a Welsh mother! The hideous stories of cruelties to infants which every now and then come to light in English cities are unheard of among Celtic populations, and the passionate affec- tion they commonly show for their beau- tiful little children, or even for their fos- ter children, is delightful to witness. No danger in boarding out pauper orphans in either country! In the matter of conju- gal and fraternal attachments also there seems to be a shade more warmth of feel- ing; or perhaps it would be more fit to say that the poor in Ireland and Wales mani- fest an amount of sentiment for which only the well-to-do find either leisure or power of expression in England. The general standard of courtesy among acquaintances and towards strangers is also unquestionably higher both in XVales and Ireland (wherever tourist-dealing has not spoiled it) than in any part of the north of England, perhaps even than in the more genial south and west. There is an inborn politeness in the Celt, a talent for saying graceful things, which the Sax- on only attains at the culmination of cul- ture and refinement. There seems to be, however, some difference between the two Celtic races wherewith we are concerning ourselves, as regards the converse of po- liteness, when it breaks down under press- ure. There is a capacity for the very vulgarest insolence in an irate Irishman of the lower class, quite unparalleled elsewhere, and it is often painfully instruc- tive to observe how rapidly the tone of obsequiousness is exchanged for this foul- mouthed insolence when the hope of gain- ing anything by adulation is disappointed. A tribe of creatures so debased in this way as the beggars of Killarney and Wick- low disgrace no other country. Welsh- men are proverbial for a hasty temper, but they never seem to forget themselves in their anger as do the Irish. On the con- trary, they exercise a surprising degree of self-control when offended, and exhibit caution and reticence which, taken with subsequent evidences of enduring vindic- tiveness, border on hypocrisy. As a rule, they seek balm for their wounded feelings so continually in the law courts that they probably deserve their reputation of the most litigious people in Europe. Mendicity in Wales is only practised by tramps, gipsies, and tinkers. Thus char- ity, in the almsgiving sense, ha sno place among Welsh virtues, but the people are abundantly kind and helpful to one anoth- er in illness or distress. In Ireland, as everybody knows, the poorest cabin will offer such entertainment as it possesses to every wayfarer who asks for shelter or food. In scores of cases I have known poor widows on the verge of starvation give freely their bit of bread to the first bowzy~ beggar ~vho thinks fit to stop at their door. Of course, Roman Catholic ethics have much to do with this national habit, and also with the selection of the profession of mendicancy by those highly devout persons who form (or did form a few years ago when I visited the spot) the staple of the band of pilgrims at St. Patricks Purgatory in Lough I)erg. Both Welsh and Irish are, I think, more kind to animals generally than the Eng- lish peasantry. Irishmen treat their horses, cattle, and pigs in a very friendly way, and a celebrated physiologist, resi- dent in Dublin, informed me that public opinion in Ireland would never permit of vivisection demonstrations a dictum which it is satisfactory to see verified by the recent Parliamentary return, showing that not a single license for the practice has been taken out under the new act for any laboratory or school in Ireland. The same holds good of Wales, where the af- fection of the people for their intelligent sheep-dogs would naturally make the no- tion of scientific torture detestable. The position of a dog in a Welsh farmhouse is indeed to the last degree pleasant and in- dependent. He lives at large, pursues his vocation of driving the sheep with pro- fessional zeal, carries on untrammelled his feuds, friendships, and flirtations with all the other sheep-dogs. in the neighborhood, is valued by his master, caressed by the children, and known by name and reputa- tion to everybody within a dozen miles of his abode. We now come to a matter of supreme importance in the character and lives of both Welsh and Irish their peculiarly fervent sense of RELIGION. Ireland was a holy isle even in pagan times; an isle of Christian saints while yet half Europe worshipped Odin; and to this day she is a land of faith in a sense which could not justly be applied to England, much less to France or Germany. In Wales again, the seed of fervid pietism scattered broadcast a hundred years ago by Wesley and Whitefield, found its most con~,enial soil, and the nation continues yet in a THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. 159 state of revivalism, from which an En- glish town invariably falls away a month after the departure of its Moodys and Sankeys. The chapel-building and chap- el-going, the Bible-reading and hymn- singing, the Sabbatarianism, the perusal of religious biographies and scriptural commentaries, all carried on by the hard- working peasantry and artisans, surpass anything we ever witness in England. In all this the zeal of the Welsh Dissenter is quite on a par with that of the Irish Cath- olic, and occupies in the same way the foreground of life. How singular is the reflection that creeds so far apart as Ro- manism and Calvinism should command similar enthusiasm in races so nearly akin; and how our shallow theories about the Celt needing a symbolical cultus, or priestly direction, stand rebuked by such indisputable facts! The Irishman finds in Romanism, the Welshman in Cal- vinism, the scaffolding whereon each builds his own inner temple, the pegs whereto he can hang his genuine religious emotions and be equally content. The influence of all this fervent religion in actual life is, alas! far from being as satisfactory as it ought to he in either country. With so noble a force at dis- posal, all the hesetting sins of the two countries should be swept away; hut Fa- ther Mathew himself failed to place a permanent check on Irish drunkenness; and the zealous Welsh ministers either do not or cannot shame their flocks, with all their prayer-meetings and Bible-readings, into anything like the strict chastity of the poor Irish peasantry. It is greatly to be desired that some of the opprobrium attached by Welsh opinion to the malum pro/zibilum of breaking the fourth coin- mandment could be extended to the ma- lum in se of disregarding the seventh. A very important and collateral influence of the intense Puritanism of Wales, is the absence of all such public amusements as races or gambling, and the universal cul- ture of a good deal of what must be termed intellectual pursuits. Wherever Bible-read- ing prevails as it does in Wales, there, even in a purely secular sense, there must be a high standard of education. The Bible of course affords, by itself alone, a splendid education, such as the peasantry of no Catholic country in the world en- joys; and the Welshman, throu~h his strictly-kept Sundays, and the rong winter eveniP~s in his mountain cottaxe studies not only the Bible, but commentaries and books bearing upon it, till he possesses a store of ideas richer and better worth than is acquired in many a lycle in France or Italy. The Church of England in Wales labors hard and honestly, but under the grievous disadvantage of being the Church almost exclusively of the rich and their immediate dependants, including not a few doubtful characters extruded from the membership of the chapels. Much vitality cannot be looked for in a congregation of fifteen or twenty persons in an ancient edi- fice built to contain six or eight hundred, while all the other inhabitants of the dis- tricts crowd the roads on the way to their own self-supported little Bethels. A fatal mistake seems to be made also by those clergymen and land-owners who endeavor to brincr back the masses to church by something approaching to ritualism. A few fervid Evangelical preachers might yet fill the churches of Wales, but if the numerous Holy Cross brethren holding Welsh livings, and other Ritualists, have their way, disestablishment cannot long be delayed. As regards MORALITY as distinct from religion, the same bioad characteristics notoriously prevail among the Celts of Wales and Ireland. The theological vir- tues, as the schoolmen call them, charity, faith, piety, and patience, are prominent the moral virtues of justice, truth, tem- perance, and prudence in the shade. Thus w~ see the superstructure reaching some- times to a saintly elevation, but the solid foundation which ought to support it is wanting. The love of justice and of truth, which forms the very backbone of every worthy Englishmans nature, is replaced in the Irishman and Welshman by the very imperfect substitute of personal loy- alty or general kindliness. To an Anglo-Saxon living in a Celtic country it always appears that there is an unaccountable lack among his neighbors of the spirit so familiar to him at home, which cannot rest till }ustice be done till a crime be detected or encroachment re- sisted, or any act of oppression e4osed and stopped. On the contrary, of such abstract sentiments as these he perceives no trace; but every personal consideration of kinship, friendship, common sectarian- ism, or politics, are freely and even un- blushingly cited as motives for neglecting or overriding justice. In Ireland of course it has been always notorious that wherever agrarian crime was in question (and often where the crime was not agrarian), the prisoners chances of escape depended less on the evidence which could be produced against him than on the personnel of his jury, i6o THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. among whom there might always be ex- pected a few boot-eaters, i e., men who have sworn that they would rather starve (or eat their boots) than agree to a verdict of Guilty. It is less known how much of the same sort of favor prevails over justice in Wales. A man who is tried there by a jury of his neighbors has always a splendid chance of escape; but if some of them happen to be also his fellow chapel-goers of the same denomination, his acquittal may, it is feared, be predicted with approximate certainty. Not long ago a case of sheep-stealing occurred in the principality, the evidence against the accused man appearing quite overwhelm- ing. The jury nevertheless brought in a verdict of Not guilty, and one of them subsequently remarked to the prosecutor: We were obliged to acquit So-and so, you know; but all the blotting paper in the kingdom would not ~vipe the stain from his character! The opinion of a late eminent Welsh judge of the judicial fairness of his countrymen was amusingly revealed by his exclamation, when his hounds had just overtaken a hare: By a Cardiganshire jury cant save her now! In lesser matters the same fatal prece- dency of favor over justice may be noted, both in Ireland and Wales, by every one who looks out for it. In the latter coun- try an additional motive against just severity appears to be the very lively fear of giving offence to one another which troubles Welshmen. Whether it be that the chapels exert some occult authority, or that social ostracism is specially to be dreaded in Wales, or that the men though physically brave are morally cowardly, I cannot say; but certain it is that the development of wholesome heat against injustice is very much checked; and while Welshmen are commonly said to be peppery and hot-headed, they may be frequently seen to bear with self-re- straint annoyances from their equals which would draw from an Englishman at the least some very strong language, and from an Irishman an immediate recourse to fisticuffs. There is, indeed, a most striking differ- ence in this respect between the tempera- ments of the two Celtic nations. To Irishmen a secret is a sore burden. Even the proverbial peasant cunnino~ trace- able all the world over, is with them child- ishly transparent. In the upper class, no less than in the lower, the tendency to talk about their own affairs, their likings and dislikings, projects and disappoint- ments, is almost irresistible; insomuch that it becomes quite a marked character- istic of any Irishman or Irishwoman when he or she attains the average of English reticence. The consequences, it is need- less to say, of this excessive candor are often extremely inconvenient; but it must be owned, that though not a very dignified it is a very lovable characteristic, and one which harmonizes well with a very healthy and innocent for inMrieur. The Welsh- man s temper is precisely the reverse. He is so cautious and secretive that he rarely ever risks himself to praise or condemn anybody. He cherishes hisgru dges (and they are, it is to be feared, numerous enough) in such privacy that it is hard to discover them; he keeps his own counsel, and of course has his reward. There is a tension in the whole moral atmosphere of Wales in consequence of this intense secretiveness and caution which, as it be- comes more and more sensible to the Saxon sojourner, is as stifling as when the air is overcharged with electricity without breaking in wholesome thunder and rain. With respect to the great and most im- portant virtue to which the name of mo- rality is often given ~ar iminence, the contrast, as every one knows, between Wales and Ireland is most complete. The peasantry of Ireland are at the very sum- mit of the scale of the whole world. Of those of Wales the best that can be said is, that errors which are too common and far too lightly judged, are usually followed by marriage, and that there is but little venal vice. On this subject it would not be fitting here to say more; but of course there is no department of social life in either country which is not more or less affected beneficially by the national virtue or injuriously by the vice. As to sobriety M. R6nan observes, in his essay Sur la Po6sie de Za Race Gel- tique, that so strong in the Irish Cdt is the longing after the infinite that when he has no other method of gratifying it he seeks the infinite by drinking une liqueur forte qul sa~j5elZe le wishy. In less poetic races the taste for liquors qui sap~ellent leau de vie, le Schiedam, le Kirsch, raki, or rum is not supposed to be derived from so lofty a source; but whatever be the origin ofthe sentiment, the Celt is neither, I fancy, very much before or behind his neighbors in liking what he euphuistically styles a drop. The simple truth seems to be that when- ever people have nothing particularly interesting or stimulating in their daily lives, and especially when they are sub- ject to the influences of a damp and vari- able climate, the propensity to give a fillip to nature in the cheap and easy way furnished by alcohol, will always pre- vail; and the differences observable will be more in the way in which they get drunk than in the fact that they drink to excess. The Celt seldom boozes; he may be a drunkard, but he is. very rarely a sot. A great difference, of course, is made by the fact that the Irishman pos sesses his own cheap and excellent whisky, under whose too inspiring influence he naturally quickly becomes roaring drunk and generally violently pugnacious. The Welshman has only his comparatively mild and proportionately expensive cwrw, sold in most parts of Wales at twice the price of English ale; and when he is fain to tipple too much, the results are more sornniferous and less alarming. An ex- traordinary proportion of Welshmen are now teetotallers, and those who continue to drink do not dream of taking any stim- ulant with their daily meals, but only imbibe their ale on market-days, when they go to the public-house and make a bout of itperhaps half-a-dozen times a year. The chief difference between En- gland and Wales as regards drinking seems to be that a rather hioher class of persons drink to excess in Wales than are often known to do so in this genera- tion in England. The characteristics of nations always come out prominently in the matter of VERACITY. The French me;isonge (qual- ified often by highly moral writers as sublime) differs essentially from the Italian bugia, which merely betrays that the bugiardo is naturally superior to the pitiful consideration of such trifles, light as air, as niere spoken words. Again, the genuine Anglo-Saxon lie is recognizable at a glance, by its clumsiness, its want of ease, grace, and precision; and, generally, by a slightly perceptible hesitation indicative of the fact that its author is ashamed of it or at least ex- pects to be expected to be ashamed of it, if exposed a state of disquietude en- tirely foreign to the sentiments of the Frenchman or Italian. Quite distinct from any of these is the Celtic lie, which is always fluent, ingen- ious, and also ingenuous; wholly free from that mauvaise konte which mars the English falsehood. But here also the dif- ferent genius of the severed branches of the Celtic family may be clearly traced. The Welshman does not lie like the Irishman, nor either of them like the LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1051 i6r Scotchrnan, whose lee (when Calvin- ism permits) is a very bad fib indeed, being told with a perfectly lucid sense of the disgrace properly appertaining there- to. The typical Hibernian falsehood ap- pears to the dull Saxon intellect chiefly in the shape of a rhodomontade or gasconade, a big, boastful lie, such as the frog who tried to swell himself out like the ox might be supposed to have uttered, had he had an opportunity of addressing the spectators of his experiment. As this kind of lie naturally offends the amour ~roj5re of the persons to whom it is ad- dressed (unless the speaker be clever enough to enlist it on his side by making them feel proud of the honor of the society of the descendant of so noble a race, the rightful o~vner of so splendid an estate), it is common for the indignant British lis~ tener to speak of it with deep disgust and severity. Probably nothing in the world has tended so much to depreciate the Irish (also with slight variation the Amer- ican) character in English estimation, as the efforts both nations make to impress on their hearers the notion of their own and their countrys claims to unbounded admiration. The Welshman never gives in to this kind of thing at all. He is ex- ceedingly proud, but not at all boastful or vulgarly fond of talking of great people. While Irish provincial papers still write of local magnates much in the tone they did when Goldsmith satirized their descrip- tion of the august party who accom- panied Mrs. Keogh, Welsh journa!s trouble themselves very little about any- body, save always Sir Watkin Wynn, whose progresses are much more inter- esting to Welshmen than those of Queen Victoria. A very striking characteristic which seems to pervade the whole Celtic race in all its branches is the total absence of that love of finished work indeed gen- erally of any kind of order in work which is so deeply rooted in the Saxon temperament. There are not many En- glishmen who can contentedly quit a task with a small portion of it incomplete, and who would not cheerfully bestow a few extra strokes of scythe or spade to finish it. So far from experiencing any such uneasiness, Welshmen and Irishmen usu- ally leave, as it would seem actually on pur- pose, a corner of their fields unploughed, and a single haycock or half a ridge of potatoes unsaved. Of the general untidi- ness of Welsh and Irish farms the gates off their hinges, the brooks which are THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND. i6z THE CELT OF WALES AND IRELAND allowed to overflow the roads the shal- low streams which are forded daily by scores of persons for want of a few step- ping-stones of all this kind of thing it is needless to speak, seeing that the com- plaints concerning it are reiterated in every book treating of either country. Order may be Heavens first law, but it is not even the second or the twentieth law of \Vales or Ireland. No Welsh or Irish servant (the former even less than the lat- ter) can be induced, by entreaties or objur- gations, to lay a table or arrange a room for two consecutive days in the same way, or to place the articles in their charge in daily use in the same receptacle. The sort of orderly mechanism of an English household is absolutely impossible with Welsh or Irish servants, who are extremely clever, honest, obligino, everything else that can be desired, but who will merely be driven to rebellion by the effort to make them, in the English sense, orderly. The fact seems to be that a rule, even if he have had a voice in making it,is to the Celt,per sea hateful thing to be broken at once. So far from being law-abid- ing like the Saxon, the Celt cannot abide a law. The fact that he did a thing yes- terday (which affords to Englishmen and to all domestic animals a certain reason for doing it to-day) is to the Celt, on the contrary, a cogent reason for neglecting to do it, or doing the contrary. His free- dom will never slowly broaden down from precedent to precedent, but must be wholly unprecedented to give him the least satisfaction. We come, finally, to the consideration of a point of character wherein, instead of resembling each other, the Irish and the Welsh Celt are at opposite poles their difference in regard to it constituting, I conceive, one of the principal reasons for the adversity of the one race and the pros- perity of the other, viz., PRUDENCE and FRUGALITY. Fio~n an diz uisge ama- rack (Wine to-day, water to-morrow) is an ancient proverb which seems to have come out of the very heart of Ireland. There is no genuine Irishman, or even Anglo-Irishman, however his conscience, will, or ambition may have caused him practically to put away the temptation, who does not at bottom long to act on that principle. His genial (and, let us add, his ger ero us and religious temperament) are all in avor of taking the goods the gods pro eide him, enjoying the present sunny hour, taking no thought for the morrow, and trusting to luck or Piovi- dence, or the kindness of neighbors (such as he would himself readily show), to help him out of the ditch if he happen to fall into it. Of course we all know what is the result when this kind of thing is carried on more or less by several millions of peo- ple namely, the precise converse of that constant accession of wealth and influence which belongs to the eminently prudent race of Caledonia, a country which may be stern, but is anything but wild, as regards affairs connected, however remotely, with ~ s. d. To the individual it may sometimes be questioned, whether a prudent temperament secures so much of happiness, taking all the years of life together, as a careless and impulsive one. Of all dreary disillusions, the dreariest must be that of the rich old man, who has denied himself every pleasure while he had senses and emotions to taste it, and sits down to partake at the eleventh hour of the feast of life, when appetite is dead and love has fled, and disease lays its grip on him, and reminds him that it is time to go to that bed which all his balance at the bankers can unfortunately make neither more warm or more soft. But however it may be for the man himself, there can, I suppose, be no doubt that the fewer pru- dent and frugal persons there are in any country, so much the less prosperous that country will be; and thus it comes to pass that the land where the principle of Wine to-day, water to-morrow has too many adherents, is (other potent causes aiding to the result) in the condition of Ireland for centuries hack. The Welshman, on the other hand, though he objects to order as much as the Irishman, has no recklessness about him; on the contrary, his distinguishing charac- teristic is prudence. He takes a great deal of thought for the morrow denies himself almost necessary food, learns En- glish and everything else which he thinks can help his advancement, speculates cau- tiously in mines and quarries with his little savings, and travels about the world to see where he can best find an opening, or else pushes himself at home into some profession considerably higher than his antecedents would seem to warrant. In no part of the British Isles can there be found, I imagine, so many men who began life as the sons of small farmers or trades- men of the humblest class, and who now occupy the position of clergymen, doctors, solicitors, and even barristers in their native country, while their nearest rela- tions remain in the class of peasants. And the Weishman takes a polish remark- ably well, sinks his provincialism, and does MACLEOD OF DARE. 163 no discredit to any position to which he may attain. While an Irishman, if he be vulgar, remains a vulgar Irishman to the end of the chapter, and never loses his brogue or his boastfulness, a Welshman, with finer tact, acquires to a great extent the voice and manners of those with whom he associates. Thus it comes to pass that, while the great natural gifts of an Irishman are con- stantly wasted, and lead to nothing save the passing enjoyment of the hour for himself and friends, it rarely happens that a Welshman possesses ability without turning it to practical account, and mount- ing several steps in the social ladder before he dies. A country abounding in the means of education and in openings for profitable industry, wherein this climbing process is carried on by all the most ener- getic spirits in every town and parish, is tolerably sure to be loyal and contented. We need perhaps scarcely look any fur- ther for explanation of the present peace and prosperity of Wales. F. P. C. [Published by arrangement milk HARPER & BROTHERS.I MACLEOD OF DARE. BY WILLIAM BLACK. CHAPTER I. THE SIX BOYS OF DARE. THE sun had sunk behind the lonely western seas; Ulva and Lunga and the Dutchmans Cap had grown dark on the darkening waters; and the smooth Atlantic swell was booming along the sombre caves; but up here in Castle Dare, on the high and rocky coast of Mull, the great hall was lit with such a blaze of candles as Castle Dare had but rarely seen. And yet there didnot seem to be any grand festivities going forward; for there were only three people seated at one end of the long and narrow table; and the banquet that the faithful Hamish had provided for them was of the most frugal kind. At the head of the table sat an old lady with silvery- white hair and proud and fine features. It would have been a keen and haughty face but for the unutterable sadness of the eyes blue-gray eyes under black eyelashes that must have been beautiful enough in her youth, but were now dimmed and worn, as if the weight of the worlds sorrow had been too much for the proud, high spirit. On the right of Lady Mac- leod sat the last of her six sons, Keith by name, a tall, sparely-built, sinewy young fellow, with a sun.tanned cheek and crisp and curling hair, and with a happy and careless look in his clear eyes and about his mouth that rather blinded one to the firm lines of his face. Glad youth shone there, and the health begotten of hard exposure to wind and weather. What was life to him but a laugh, so Ion gas there was a prow to cleave the plunging seas, and a glass to pick out the branch- ing antlers far away amid the mists of the corrie? To please his mother, on this the last night of his being at home, he wore the kilts; and he had hung his broad blue bonnet, with its sprig of Juni- perthe badge of the clan on the top of one of the many pikes and halberds that stood by the great fireplace. Oppo- site him, on the old ladys left hand, sat his cousin, or rather half-cousin, the plain- featured but large-hearted Janet, ~vhoin the poor people about that neighborhood regarded as being something more than any mere mortal woman. If there had been any young artist among that Celtic peasantry fired by religious enthusiasm to paint the face of a Madonna, it would have been the plain features of Janet Macleod he would have dreamed about and striven to transfer to his canvas. Her eyes were fine, it is true: they were honest and tender; they were not unlike the eyes of the grand old lady who sat at the head of the table; but, unlike hers, they were not weighted with the sorrow of years. It is a dark hour you have chosen to go away from your home, said the mother; and the lean hand, resting on the table before her, trembled somewhat. Why, mother, the young man said lightly, you know I am to have Captain s cabin as far as Greenock; and there will be plenty of time for me to put the kilts away before I am seen by the people. Oh, Keith, his cousin cried, for she was trying to be very cheerful, too, do you say that you are ashamed of the tar- tan ? Ashamed of the tartan! he said, with a laugh. Is there any one who has been brought up at Dare who is likely to be ashamed of the tartan? When I ani ashamed of the tartan I will put a pigeons feather in my cap, as the new suaicheanfizs of this branch of Clan Leoid. But then, my good Janet, I would as soon think of taking my rifle and the dogs through the streets of London as of wearino the kilts in the south. 164 MACLEOD OF DARE. The old lady paid no heed. Her hands England is the poorest country in the were now clasped before her. There was world. There was a talk some two or sad thinking in her eyes. three years ago of putting up a monument You are the last of my six boys, said on Cathcart Hill to the Englishmen who she, and you are going away from me died in the Crimea; and that at least too. would have been some token of remem~ Now, now, mother, said he, you brance, even if ~ve could not collect the must not make so much of a holiday, scattered remains of our slain sons, as the You would not have me always at Dare? French have done. But then that monu- You know that no good comes of a stay- ment would have cost ./Jsooo. How could at-home. England afford Sooo? When a big She knew the proverb. Her other sons American city takes fire, or when a dis- had not been stay-at-homes. What had trict in France is inundated, she can put come to them? her hand into her pocket deeply enough; Of Sholto, the eldest, the traveller, the but how can we expect so proud a mother dare-devil, the grave is unknown; but the to think twice about her children who per- story of how he met his death, in far ished in fighting for her? Happily the Arizona, came years after to En_land and dea-~ are independent of forgetfulness. to Castle Dare. He sold his life dearly, Duncan the Fair-haired Donacha Ban, as became one of his race and name. they called him, far and wide among the When his cowardly attendants found a hills lies buried in a jungle on the Afri- band of twenty Apaches riding down on can coast. He was only twenty-three them, they unhitched the mules and gal- when he was killed ; but he knew he had loped off, leaving him to confront the say- got the Victoria Cross. As he lay dying, ages by himself. One of these, more he asked whether the people in England courageous than his fellows, advanced and would send it to his mother, showing drew his arrow to the barb; the next sec- that his last fancies were still about Castle ond he uttered a yell, and rolled from his Dare. saddle to the ground, shot through the And Hector? As you cross the river heart. Macleod seized this instant, when at Sadowa, and pass through a bit of for- the savages were terror-stricken by the est, some corn-fields begin to appear, and precision of the white mans weapons, to these stretch away up to the heights of retreat a few yards and get behind a mes- Chlum. Along the ridge there, by the quit-tree. Here he was pretty well shel- side of the wood, are many mounds of tered from the arrows that they sent in earth. Over the grave of Hector Macleod clouds about him, while he succeeded in is no proud and pathetic inscription such killing other two of his enemies who had as marks the last resting-place of a young ventured to approach. At last they rode lieutenant who perished at Gravelotte off; and it seemed as though he would be Er ru/it sanft iii wiederkdrnffer Dezt/sc4- permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades. en Erde but the young Highland offi- But the Indians had only gone to wind- cer was well beloved by his comrades, ward to set the tall grass on fire; and and ~vhen the dead were being pitched into presently he had to scramble, burned and the great holes dug for them, and when blinded, up the tree, where he was an rude hands were preparing the simple easy mark for their arrows. Fortunately, record, painted on a wooden cross - when he fell he was dead. This was the Hier Ziegeit fapfere Krieger a sep- story told by some friendly Indians to a arate memento was placed over the grave party of white men, and subsequently of Under-Lieutenant Hector Macleod of brought home to Castle Dare. the th Imperial and Royal Cavalry The next four of the sons of Dare were Regiment. He was one of the two sons soldiers, as most of the Macleods of that who had not inherited the title. Was it family had been. And if you ask about not a proud boast for this white-haired the graves of Roderick and Ronald, what lady in Mull that she had been the mother is one to say? They are known, and yet of four baronets? What other mother in unknown. The two lads were in one of all the land could say as much? And yet the Highland regiments that served in the it was that that had dimmed and saddened Crimea. They both lie buried on the the beautiful eyes. bleak plains outside Sevastopol. And if And now her youngest her Benjamin, the memorial stones put up to them and her best-beloved he was going away their brother officers are falling into ruin from her too. It was not enough that the and decay if the very graves have been big deer-forest, the last of the possessions rifled how is Enghind to help that? of the Macleods of Dare, had been kept MACLEOD OF DARE. x6~ intact for him, when the letting of it to a And I think I would be better than a rich Englishman would greatly have collie, muttered the lad to himself, as he helped the failing fortunes of the family; moved off in a proud and hurt way toward it was not enough that the poor people the door, his cap still in his hand. about, knowing Lady Macleods wishes, And now a great silence fell over these had no thought of keeping a salmon-spear three; and Janet Macleod looked anxious- hidden in the thatch of their cottages. ly toward the old lady, who sat unmoved Salmon and stag could no longer bind him in the face of the ordeal through which to the place. The young blood stirred. she knew she must pass. It was an old And when he asked her what good thing custom that each night a pibroch should came of being a stay-at-home, what could be played in Castle Dare in remembrance she say? of her five slain sons; and yet on this one Suddenly old Hamish threw wide the night her niece would fain have seen that oaken doors at the end of the hall, and custom abandoned. For was not the there was a low roar like the roaring of pibroch the famous and pathetic Cull:- lions. And then a young lad, with the liadA na Gloinne,the Lament for the pipes proudly perched on his shoulder, Children, that Patrick Mbr, one of the marched in with a stately step, and joyous pipers of Macleod of Skye, had composed and shrill arose the salute. Three times to the memory of his seven sons, who had he marched round the long and narrow all died within one year? And now the hall, finishing behind Keith Macleods doors were opened, and the piper boy chair. The young man turned to him. once more entered. The wild, sad wail It was well played, Donald, said he, arose; and slow and solemn was the step in the Gaelic; and I will tell you that with which he walked up the hall. Lady the Skye College in the old times never Macleod sat calm and erect, her lips proud turned out a better pupil. And will you and firm, but her lean hands were work- take a glass of whiskey now, or a glass of ing nervously together; and at last, when claret? And it is a great pity your hair is the doors were closed on the slow and red, or they would call you Donull Dubh, stately and mournful Lament for the and people would say you were the born Children, she bent down the silvery successor of the last of the MacCruim- head on those wrinkled hands and wept ins. aloud. Patrick M6rs seven brave sons At this praise imagine telling a piper could have been no more to him than her lad that he was a fit successor of the Mac- six tall lads had been to her; and now the Cruimins, the hereditary pipers of the last of them was going away from her. Macleods the young stripling blushed Do you know, said Janet quickly, to hot; but he did not forget his professional her cousin across the table, that it is dignity for all that. And he was so proud said no piper in the west Highlands can of his good English that he replied in that play Lord Lovats Lament like our tongue. Donald? I will take a glass of the claret wine, Oh yes, he plays it very well; and he Sir Keith, said he. has got a good step, Macleod said. But Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, you will tell him to play no more laments rimmed with silver, and having the triple- to-night. Let him take to strathspeys if towered castle of the Macleods engraved any of the lads come up after bringing on it, and filled it with wine. He handed back the boat. It will be time enough for it to the lad. him to make a lament for me when I am I drink your health, Lady Macleod, dead. Come, mother, have you no mes- said he, when he had removed his cap; sage for Norman Ogilvie? and I drink your health, Miss Macleod; The old lady had nerved herself again, and I drink your health, Sir Keith; and though her hands were still trembling. I would have a lighter heart this night if I I hope he will come back with you, was going with you away to England. Keith, she said. It was a bold demand. For the shooting? No, no, mother. I cannot take you with me, Donald; He was not fit for the shooting about the Macleods have got out of the way of here: I have seen that long ago. Do you taking their piper with them now. You think he Could lie for an hour in a wet must stay and look after the dogs. bog? It was up at Fort William I saw But you are taking Oscar with you, him last year, and I said to him, Do you Sir Keith. wear gloves at Aldershot? His hands Yes, I am. I must make sure of were as white as the hands of a woman. having one friend with me in the south. It is no womans hand you have, x66 MACLEOD OF DARE. Keith, his cousin said; it is a soldiers hand. Yes, said he, with his face flushing, and if I had had Norman Ogilvies chance But he paused. Could he reproach this old dame, on the very night of his depart- ure, with having disappointed all those dreams of military service and glory that are almost the natural inheritance of a Macleod of the western Highlands? If he was a stay-at-home, at least his hands were not white. And yet, when young Ogilvie and he studied under the same tutor the poor man had to travel eighteen miles between the two houses, and many a time in hard weather all the talk and aspira- tions of the boys were about a soldiers life; and Macleod could show his friend the various trophies and curiosities sent home by his elder brothers from all parts of the world. And now the lily-fingered and gentle-natured Ogilvie was at Alder- shot; while he what else was he than a mere deer-stalker and salmon-killer? Ogilvie has been very kind to me, mother, he said, laughing. He has sent me a list of places in London where I am to get my clothes and hoots and a hat; and by the time I have done that, he will be up from Aldershot, and will lead me about with a string round my neck, I suppose, lest I should bite somebody. You could not go better to London than in your own tartan, said the proud mother; and it is not for an Ogilvie to say how a Macleod shall be dressed. But it is no matter. One after the other has gone; the house is left empty at last. And they all went away like you, with a laugh on their face. It was but a trip, a holiday, they said: they would soon be back to Dare. And where are they this night? Old Hamish came in. It will be time for the boat now, Sir Keith, and the men are down at the shore. He rose the handsome young fellow and took his broad blue bonnet with the badge of juniper. Good-bye, Cousin Janet, said he, lightly. Good-bye, mother. You are not going to send me away in this sad fashion? XVhat am I to bring you back a satin gown from Paris? or a young bride to cheer up the old house? She took no heed of the passing jest. He kissed her, and bade her good-bye once more. The clear stars were shining over Castle Dare, and over the black shadows of the mountains, and the smoothly swell- ing waters of the Atlantic. There was a dull booming of the waves along the rocks. He had thrown his plaid around him, and he was wondering to himself as he descended the steep path to the shore. He could not believe that the two women were really saddened by his going to the south for a while; he was not given to forebodings. And he had nearly reached the shore, when he was overtaken by some one running with a light step behind him. He turned quickly, and found his cousin before him, a shawl thrown round her head and shoulders. Oh, Keith, said she, in a bright and matter-of-fact way, I have a message for you from myself and I did not want aunt to hear, for she is very proud, you know, and I hope you wont be. You know we are all very poor, Keith; and yet you must not want money in London, if only for the sake of the family; and you know I have a little, Keith, and I want you to take it. You wont mind my being frank with you. I have written a letter. She had the envelope in her hand. And if I would take money from any one, it would be from you, Cousin Janet; but I am not so selfish as that. What would all the poor people do if I were to take your money to London and spend it? I have kept a little, said she, and it is not much that is needed. It is ~2OOO I would like you to take from me, Keith. I have written a letter. Why, bless me, Janet, that is nearly all the money youve got! I know it. Well, I may not be able to earn any money for myself, but at least I would not think of squandering your little fortune. No, no; but I thank you all the same, Janet; and I know that it is with a free heart that you offer it. But this is a favor, Keith, said she. I do not ask you to spend the money. But you might be in trouble; and you would be too proud to ask any one per- haps you would not even ask me; and here is a letter that you can keep till then, and if you should want the money, you can open the letter and it will tell you how to get it. And it is a poor forecast you are making, Cousin Janet, said he cheerfully. I am to play the prodigal son, then But I will take the letter. And good-bye again, Janet; and God bless you, for you are a kindhearted woman.~~ She went swiftly up to Castle Dare again, and he walked on toward the MACLEOD OF DARE. shore. By-and-by he reached a small stone pier that ran out among some rocks, and by the side of it lay a small sailing launch, with four men in her, and Donald the piper boy perched up at the bow. There was a lamp swinging at her mast, but she had no sail up, for there was scarcely any wind. Is it time to go out no~v? said Mac- leod to Hamish, who stood waiting on the pier, having carried down his masters portmanteau. Ay, it will be time now, even if you will wait a little, said Hamish. And then the old man added, It is a dark night, Sir Keith, for your going away from Cas- tle Dare. And it will be the brighter morning when I come back, answered the young man, for he could not mistake the inten- tion of the words. Yes, indeed, Sir Keith; and now you will go into the boat, and you will take care of your footing, for the night is dark, and the rocks they are always slippery whatever. But Keith Macleods foot was as famil- iar with the soft seaweed of the rocks as it was with the hard heather of the hills, and he found no difficulty in getting into the broad-beamed boat. The men put out their oars and pushed her off. And now, in the dark night, the skirl of the pipes arose again; and it was no stately and mounful lament that young Donald played up there at the bow as the four oars struck the sea and sent a flash of white fire down into the deeps. Donald, Hamish had said to him on the shore, when you are going out to the steamer, it is the Seventy-ninths Fare- well to Chubralter, that you will play, and you will play no other thing than that. And surely the Seventy-ninth were not sorry to leave Gibraltar when their piper composed for them so glad a farewell. At the high windows of Castle Dare the mother stood, and her niece, and as they watched the yellow lamp move slowly out from the black shore, they heard this proud and joyous march that Donald was playing to herald the approach of his mas- ter. They listened to it as it grew fainter and fainter, and as the small yellow star trembling over the dark waters became more and more remote. And then this other sound this blowing of a steam- whistle far away in the darkness? He will be in good time, aunt; she is a long way off yet, said Janet Macleod. But the mother did not speak. Out there on the dark and moving wa ters the great steamer was slowly drawing near the open boat; and as she came up, the vast hull of her, seen against the star- lit sky, seemed a mountain. Now, Donald, Macleod called out, you will take the dog here is the string; and you will see he does not spring into the water. Yes, I will take the dog, muttered the boy, half to himself. Oh yes, I will take the dog; but it was better if I was going with you, Sir Keith, than any dog. A rope was thrown out, the boat dragged up to the side of the steamer, the small gangway let down, and presently Macleod was on the deck of the large vessel. Then Oscar was hauled up too, and the rope flung loose, and the boat drifted away into the darkness. But the last good-bye had not been said, for over the black waters came the sound of the pipes once more, the melancholy xvail of Mackintoshs Lament. Confound that obstinate brat! Mac- leod said to himself. Now he will go back to Castle Dare and make the women miserable. The captain is below at his supper, Sir Keith, said the mate. Will you go down to him? Yes, I will go down to him, said he; and he made his way along the deck of the steamer. He was arrested by the sound of some one crying, and he looked down, and found a woman crouched under the bulwarks, with two small children asleep on her knee. My good woman, what is the matter with you? said he. The night is cold,~~ she said, in the Gaelic, and my children are cold; and it is a long way that we are going. He answered her in her own tongue. You will be warmer if you go below; but here is a plaid for you, anyway; and with that he took the plaid from round his shoulders and flung it across the children, and passed on. That was the way of the Macleods of Dare. They had a royal manner with them. Perhaps that was the reason that their revenues were now far from royal. And meanwhile the red light sill burned in the high windows of Castle Dare, and two women were there looking out on the pale stars and the dark sea beneath. They waited until they heard the plashing of oars in the small bay below, and the message was brought them that Sir Keith had got safely on board the great steamer. Then they turned away from the silent and x68 MACLEOD OF DARE. empty night, and one of them was weep- ing bitterly. It is the last of my six sons that has gone from me, she said, coming back to the old refrain, and refusing to be com- forted. And I have lost my brother, said Janet Macleod, in her simple way. But he will come back to us, auntie; and then we shall have great doings at Castle Dare. CHAPTER II. MENTOR. IT was with a wholly indescribable sur- prise and delight that Macleod came upon the life and stir and gayety of London in the sweet June time, when the parks and gar- dens and squares would of themselves have been a sufficient wonder to him. The change from the sombre shores of lochs Na Keal and Iua and Scridain to this world of sun-lit foliage the golden yellow of the laburnum, the cream-white of the chestnut, the rose-pink of the red hawthorn, and everywhere the keen trans- lucent green of the young lime-trees was enough to fill the heart with joy and gladness, though he had been no diligent student of landscape and color. The few days he had to spend by himself while getting properly dressed to satisfy the demands of his friend passed quickly enough. He was not at all ashamed of his country-made clothes as he watched the whirl of carriages in Piccadilly, or lounged under the elms of Hyde Park, with his beautiful sliver-white and lemon- colored collie attracting the admiration of every passer-by. Nor had he waited for the permission of Lieutenant Ogilvie to make his entrance into at least one little corner of society. He was recognized in St. Jamess Street one morning by a noble lady whom he had met once or twice at Inverness; and she, having stopped her carriage, was pleased to ask him to lunch with herself and her husband next day. To the great grief of Oscar, who had to be shut up by himself, Macleod went up next day to Brook Street, and there met several people whose names he knew as representatives of old Highland families, but who were very English, as it seemed to him, in their speech and ways. He was rather petted, for he was a handsome lad, and he had high spirits and a proud air. And his hostess was so kind as to mention that the Caledonian Ball was coming off on the 25th, and of course he must come, in the Highland costume; and as she was one of the patronesses, should she give him a voucher? Macleod answered, laugh ingly, that he would be glad to have it, though he did not know what it was; whereupon she was pleased to say that no wonder he laughed at the notion of a voucher being wanted for any Macleod of Dare. One morning a good-looking and slim young man knocked at the door of a small house in Bury Street, St. Jamess, and asked if Sir Keith Macleod was at home. The man said he was, and the young gentlemen entered. He was a most correctly-dressed person. His hat and gloves and cane and long-tailed frock- coat were all beautifu.i; but it was perhaps the tightness of his nether garments, or perhaps the tightness of his brilliantly pol- ished boots (which were partially covered by white gaiters), that made him go up the narrow little stairs with some precision of caution. The door was opened and he was announced. My dear old boy, said he, how do you do? and Macleod gave him a grip of the hand that nearly burst one of his gloves. But at this moment an awful accident occurred. From behind the door of the adjacent bedroom, Oscar, the collie, sprang forward with an angry growl; then he seemed to recognize the situation of affairs when he saw his master holding the strangers hand; then he began to wag his tail; then he jumped up with his forepaws to give a kindly welcome. Hang it all, Macleod! young Ogilvie cried, with all the starch gone out of his manner, your dogs all wet! Whats the use of keeping a brute like that about the place ? Alas I the beautiful, brilliant boots were all besmeared, and the white gaiters too, and the horsey-looking nether garments. Moreover, the Highland savage, so far from betraying compunction, burst into a roar of laughter. My dear fellow, he cried, I put him in my bedroom to dry. I couldnt do more, could I? He has just been in the Serpentine. I wish he was there now with a stone and a string round his neck, observed Lieutenant Ogilvie, looking at his boots; but he repented him of this rash saying, for within a week he had offered Macleod 20 for the dog. He might have offered twenty dozen of 20, and thrown his pol- ished boots and his gaiters too into the bargain, and he would have had the same answer. MACLEOD OF DARE. 769 Oscar was once more banished into the bedroom; and Mr. Ogilvie sat down, pre- tending to take no more notice of his boots. Macleod put some sherry on the table, and a handful of cigars; his friend asked whether he could not have a glass of seltzer-water and a cigarette. And how do you like the rooms I got for you? There is not much fresh air about them, nor in this narrow street, Macleod said frankly; but that is no matter, for I have been out all day all over Lon- don. I thought the price was as high as you would care to go, Ogilvie said; but I forgot you had come fresh up, with your pockets full of money. If you would like something a trifle more princely, Ill put you up to it. And where have I got the money? There are no gold mines in the west of Mull. It is you who are Fortunatus. By Jove, if you knew how hard a fel- low is run at Aldershot, Mr. Ogilvie re- marked confidentially, you would scarcely believe it. Every new batch of fellows who come in have to be dined all round; and the mess bills are simply awful. Its getting worse and worse; and then these big drinks put one off ones work so. You are studying hard, I suppose, Macleod said, quite gravely. Pretty well, said he, stretching out his legs, and petting his pretty moustache with his beautiful white hand. Then he added, suddenly, surveying the brown- faced and stalwart young fellow before him, By Jove, Macleod, Im glad to see you in London. Its like a breath of moun- tain air. Dont I remember the awful mornings weve had togetherthe rain and the mist and the creeping through the bogs? I believe you did your best to kill me. If I hadnt had the constitution of a horse, I should have been killed. I should say your big drinks at Alder- shot were more likely to kill you than going after the deer, said Macleod. And will you come up with me this autumn, Ogil- vie? The mother will be glad to see you, and Janet too; though we havent got any fine young ladies for you to make love to, unless you go up to Fort William, or Fort George, or Inverness. And I was all over the moors before I came away; and if there is anything like good weather, we shall have plenty of birds this year, for I never saw before such a big average of eggs in the nests. I wonder you dont let part of that shooting, said young Ogilvie, who knew well of the straitened circumstances of the Macleods of Dare. The mother wont have it done, said Macleod, quite simply, for she thinks it keeps me at home. But a young man cannot always stay at home. It is very good for you, Ogilvie, that you have broth- ers. Yes, if I had been the eldest of them, said Mr. Ogilvie. It is a capital thing to have younger brothers; it isnt half so pleasant when you are the younger brother. And will you come up, then, and b yourself alive at Dare? - ury It is awfully good of you to ask me, Macleod; and if I can manage it, I ~ill; but I am afraid there isnt much chance this year. In the mean time, let me give you a hint. In London we talk of going down to the Highlands. Oh, do you? I did not think you were so stupid, Macleod remarked. Why, of course we do. You speak of going up to the tapital of a country, and of going down to the provinces.~~ Perhaps you are right no doubt you are right; but it sounds stupid, the uncon- vinced Highlander observed again. It sounds stupid to say going upto the south, and going down to the north. And how can you go down to the Highlands ?you might go down to the Lowlands. But no doubt you are right; and I will be more particular. And will you have another cigarette? and then we will go out for a walk, and Oscar will get drier in the street than in-doors. Dont imagine I am going out to have that dog plunging about among my feet, said Ogilvie. But I have something else for you to do. You know Colonel Ross of Duntorme. I have heard of him. His wife is an awfully nice woman, and would like to meet you. I fancy they think of buying some property I am not sure it isnt an island in your part- of the country; and she has never been to the Highlands at all. I was to take you down with me to lunch with her at two, if you care to go. There is her card. Macleod looked at the card. How far is Princes Gate from here? he asked. A mile and a half, I should say. And it is now twenty minutes to two, said he, rising. It will be a nice smart walk. Thank you, said Mr. Ogilvie; if it is all the same to you, we will perform the journey in a hansom. I am not in training 170 MACLEOD OF DARE. just at present for your tramps to Ben-an- Sloich. Ah! your boots are rather tight, said Macleod, with grave sympathy. They got into a hansom, and went spin- ning along through the crowd of carriages on this brilliant morning. The busy streets, the handsome women, the fine buildings, the bright and beautiful foliage of the parks all these were a perpetual wonder and delight to the new-coiner, who was as eager in the enjoyment of this gay world of pleasure and activity as any girl come up for her first season. Perhaps this notion occurred to the astute and ex- perienced Lieutenant Ogilvie, who consid- ered it his duty to warn his youthful and ingenuous friend. Mrs. Ross is a very handsome woman, he remarked. Indeed. And uncommonly fascinating too, when she likes. Really. You had better look out if she tries to fascinate you. She is a married woman, said Mac- leod. They are always the worst, said this wise person; for they are jealous of the younger women.~~ Oh, that is all nonsense, said Mac- leod bluntly. I am not such a green- horn. I have read all that kind of talk in books and magazines: it is ridiculous. Do you think I will believe that married women have so little self-respect as to make themselves the laucthino~.stock of men? b b My dear fellow, they have cart-loads of self-respect. What I mean is that Mrs. Ross is a bit of a lion-hunter, and she may take a fancy to make a lion of you That is better than to make an ass of me, as you suggested. And naturally she will try to attach you to her set. I dont think you are quite eu/rd enough for her; perhaps I made a mistake in putting you into decent clothes. You wouldnt have time to get into your kilts now? But you must be prepared to meet all sorts of queer folks at her house, especially if you stay on a bit and have some tea mysterious poets that nobody ever heard of, and artists who wont ex- hibit, and awful swells from the German universities, and I dont know what besides everybody who isnt the least like any- body else. And what is your claim, then, to go there? Macleod asked. Oh, said the young lieutenant, laugh- ing at the home-thrust, I am only admitted on sufferance, as a friend of Colo- nel Ross. She never asked me to put my name in her autograph-book. But I have done a bit of the jackal for her once or twice, when I happened to be on leave; and she has sent me with people to her box at Covent Garden when she couldnt go~~herself. And how am I to propitiate her? What am Ito do? She will soon let you know how you strike her. Either she will pet you, or she will snuff you out like winking. I dont know a woman who has a blanker stare, when she likes. This idle conversation was suddenly in- terrupted. At the same moment both young men experienced a sinking sensa- tion, as if the earth had been cut away from beneath their feet; then there was a crash, and they were violently thrown against each other; then they vaguely knew that the cab, heeling over, was being jolted along the street by a runaway horse. Fortunately the horse could not run very fast, for the axle-tree, deprived of its wheel, was tearing at the road; but, all the same, the occupants of the cab thought they might as well get out, and so they tried to force open the two small panels of the door in front of them. But the con- cussion had so jammed these together that, shove at them as they might, they would not yield. At this juncture, Mac- leod, who was not accustomed to hansom cabs, and did not at all like this first expe- rience of them, determined to get out somehow; and so he raised himself a bit, so as to get his back firm against the back of the vehicle; he pulled up his leg until his knee almost touched his mouth; he got the heel of his boot firmly fixed on the top edge of the door; and then with one forward drive he tore the panel right away from its hinges. The other was of course flung open at once. Then he grasped the brass rail outside, steadied himself for a moment, and jumped clear from the cab, alight- ing on the pavement. Strange to say, Ogilvie did not follow, though Macleod, as he rushed along to try to get hold of the horse, momentarily expected to see him jump out. His anxiety was of short duration. The axle-tree caught on the curb; there was a sudden lurch; and then, with a crash of glass, the cab went right over, throwing down the horse, and pitching the driver into the street. It was all the work of a few sec- onds ; and another second seemed to suffice to collect a crowd, even in this quiet part THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN. 7 of Kensington Gore. But, after all, very little damage was done, except to the horse, which had cut one of its hocks. When young Mr. Ogilvie scrambled otjt and got on to the pavement, instead of beinb grateful that his life had been spared, he was in a towering passion with whom or what he knew not. Why didnt you jump out? said Mac- leod to him, after seeing that the cabman was all right. Ogilvie did not answer; he was look- ing at his besmeared hands and dishevelled clothes. Confound it ! said he; whats to be done now? The house is just round the corner. Let us go in, and they will lend you a clothes-brush. As if I had been fighting a bargee? No, thank you. I will go along till I find some tavern, and get myself put to rights. And this he did gloomily, Macleod ac- companying him. It was about a quarter of an hour before he had completed his toilet; and then they set out to walk back to Princes Gate. Mr. Ogilvie was in a better humor. What a fellow you are to jump, Mac- leod! said he. If you had cannoned against that policeman, you would have killed him. And you never paid the cab- man for destroying the lid of the door; you prized the thing clean off its hinges. You must have the strength of a giant. But where the people came from it was that surprised me, said Macleod, who seemed to have rather enjoyed the adven- ture. It was like one of our sea-lochs in the Highlands you look all round and cannot find any gull anywhere; but throw a biscuit into the water, and you will find them appearing from all quarters at once. As for the door, I forgot that; but I gave the. man half a sovereign to console him for his shaking. Was not that enough? We shall be frightfully late for lunch- eon, said Mr. Ogilvie, with some concern. THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN AT MIRAMAR AND AT QUERETARO. FROM ADVANCE SHEETS OF A WORE, A TRAVERS LAUTRIcHE, Translated and abridged by F. W. Latimer for THE LIVING AGE. MIRAMAR is situated about three miles from Trieste. The drive to it is charming. The traveller follows the line of the coast, crimped into smiling bays and beaches, edged with a lace-work of beautiful white foam. The color of the ocean is bright blue on a clear day, the sea air full of in- vigoration, the murmur of the breaking surf as gentle as a sigh. Flocks of white gulls sweep under the blue sky, and over the blue water; great ships come and go far away on the horizon; while in-shore, here and there, some coasting vessel, wing and wing, with its red sails, touches the landscape with a bit of vivid color. On a picturesque promontory, at the termination of the road, stands Miramar; now almost like a place of pilgrimage, once poor Maximilians and poor Carlottas happy home. The story of this castle has never yet been told in print, and as I had it from the lips of a near and dear personal friend of Maximilian, I trust the reader will find it acceptable even at second hand. In 1856 the young archduke Maximilian was commander-in-chief of the navy of Austria, which achieved all its importance under his command. At that time he had no interest in Miramar. His ambition was to be made viceroy of Lombardy at some future day. He had been round the world in his frigate the Novara; he had travelled into Greece and Asia Minor; he had visited Spain, Portugal, and Sicily; he had been in Egypt and the Holy Land. He loved the ocean like a true sailor, and had taken up his residence at Trieste to be near its shores. He was often known to go out alone in a light boat in rough weather, the dash of danger in the expedition adding pleasure to the excite- ment of a battle with the winds and waves. One day, in a great storm, his light boat was blown like a feather round Cape Gignano. In a moment it lay still under the lee of the land. Maximilian landed, and found the spot so charming, and the sea-view so superb, that he resolved to build a little villa there for fishing. He bought the land at once, and began by set- ting out exotics, persuaded that the soil of such a spot would be favorable to tropical vegetation. A year later he married the daughter of the king of the Belgians (named Charlotte, after his first wife Charlotte of England), and the golden wand of this fair bride transformed his bachelors fishing-hut into the palace of an emperor. At this period of his life Maximilian (both an author and a poet) was greatly interested in architecture. He drew the plan of that exquisite memorial church 172 THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN which is one of the chief beauties of Vien- na; and he draughted, with his own hand, the plan of the grounds and castle of Mira- mar. The work was pushed on rapidly, yet in 1858, when Austria was forced to give up Lombardy, nothing at Miramar was complete but a faney farmhouse on one of the heights of the property. Max- imilian, however, came hither with his wife, and found it so delightful that when at length the castle was ready for occupa- tion, they lingered in the farmhouse which they loved as their first home. It was a large Swiss chalet, covered over with wild vines and honeysuckle; surrounded by groves of camellias, and pyrus japonica. How delicious life must have been to the husband and wife in this solitude, fragrant with flowers, vocal with the songs of sing- ing birds, a glory of greenness round the house, the blue sky overhead, the smiling ocean at their feet, and holy love and loving kindness everywhere about them! In this spot, as it seemed, they realized the modern dream of love and riches in a cottage. Maximilians natural generosity ren- dered wealth indispensable to his complete happiness; for he loved to surround him- self by artists, learned men, and men of letters. He paid them every kind of at- tention in his power, and did not omit those little gifts which are the beads on memorys rosary. Ah, if those walls could speak, if those trees could repeat what they have heard, we might see into the clear depths of a generous heart, and perceive how every project that he ever formed in life was worthy of his pure and noble soul! XVhen one wanders through these peace- ful shades, when one lingers by these gorgeous beds of flowers, one feels how happy life must have been in this new Paradise. And when one thinks that he is dead, and she is worse than dead, one is moved to pain and pity by the very beau- ties of the scene. One cannot wander through these gardens without dreams of their past happiness, and in the dim walks, where the sunlight flickers through green leaves, one seems to see the shad owy forms of a loving husband afid wife fading away into the dimness of the gloam- ing. It is Paradise lost and alas! in this, as in that other Paradise, the Eve the sweet young wife was tempted by ambition. She took the apple, ate, and gave it to her husband. On the tenth of April, 1864, the Mexican deputies, commissioned to offer Maximil ian the imperial crown, arrived at Mira mar. We come, said Don Gutierrez de Estrada, to beseech you to ascend thc throne of Mexico, to which you have been called by the voice of a people weary of anarchy and civil war. We are assured you have the secret of conquering the breasts of all men, and excel in the rare knowledge of the art of government. Maximilian replied that he was ready to accept the honor offered him by the Mexi- can people; that his government would be both liberal and constitutional. I shall prove, I trust, he said, that lib- erty may be made compatible with law. I shall respect your liberties, and uphold order at the same time. Don Gutierrez thanked the archduke in the name of the Mexican nation; and then the new emperor swore upon the Gospels to labor for the happiness and prosperity of his people, and to protect their indepen- dent nationality. After this Don Gutierrez took the oath of allegiance to the emperor in the name of the city of Mexico. Maximilian then em- braced him, and hung around his neck the cross of the new Order of Guadeloupe, of which he was the first member. Three days after this the imperial pair quitted the soil of Austria. Early in the morning the port of Trieste and the road to Miramar were astir. Friends from all parts of the Austrian empire were has- tening to bid farewell to the archduke whom they loved. The Novara, and the French frigate Themis, were lying in the stream ready to start, and near them, riding at anchor, were six steamships belonging to the Aus- trian Lloyds, full of spectators. At about one oclock i~. M. the emperor, with his wife leaning on his arm, entered the town hall, where about twenty deputa- tions were assembled to offer him farewell addresses. Maximilian was much moved, and when the burgomaster of Trieste spoke of the grief that all the people of that city would feel at his departure, he burst into tears. He embraced the burgo- master, shook hands with those around him, and whispered, as if to himself, Something tells me I shall never see this dear country again ! His chivalric and poetic nature was very susceptible to sad presentiments. His book of travels is full of them. After leave-taking, their majesties en- tered the magnificent barge prepared for their use by the city of Trieste ; a salute of one hundred guns reverberated from the AT MIRAMAR AND AT QUERETARO. 73 sides of the mountain; while thirty thou- sand hats and handkerchiefs waved a sad farewell. Maximilian and Carlotta embarked on board the Novaro, which carried the Mexican flag. By four oclock both ves- sels were hull down in the offing, and not till then did the crowd separate. Those with telescopes had seen, up to the last moment, a figure standing on the poop, with its face turned towards Miramar, and knew it for the form of Maximilian. The Novara touched at Jamaica. On the 28th of May it came in sight of the shores of Mexico, and cast anchor in the harbor of Vera Cruz. The emperor and empress had expected a public reception. There was nothing of the kind. No welcome awaited them, not even an official one. This was the more extraordinary because the The- mis had been sent forward to announce the approach of the imperial party. Their. disappointment at this want of enthusiasm was great. The French vice-admiral did his best to repair the unfortunate omis- sions. He gave orders for a show of fes- tivity; but it was plain to see from the indifference of the people in the streets that they had no part or lot in the demon- stration. Were these the Mexicans whom they had been assured were wild with ardor to receive them ? who had been by all accounts as eager to implore Maximiliam and Carlotta to reign over them as the frogs in the fable had been to obtain their kino? After leaving Loma Alta Maximilian proceeded towards his capital in a shabby English barouche; his journey seeming rather like the expedition of an adven- turer, than the progress of an emperor. Passing through Orizaba and Puebla, the emperor and empress entered Mexico on the twelfth of June. There a theatrical kind of reception was prepared, which was not agreeable to either of them. In the evening, when there was a public perform- ance in the theatre in honor of the new sovereigns (who were present), not half the boxes were filled. The Halls of the Montezumas the Palace of Chapultepec, which had been assigned them as their residence, was destitute of comforts of every kind, and was much more like a second-class hotel than a habitation fit for princes. The emperor was advised to make an immediate journey through his new dominions in order to judge for himself of their popular aspirations, and resources but what did he find? A country broken down by war; without roads, without schools, without agriculture. The only thing in this country, sire, that is well organized, said a Mexican whom he was questioning about the state of affairs, is robbery. There was thieving every- where. The emperors palace, and even his private apartments, were not spared. After a reception of officers high in mil- itary command, his revolver, inlaid with gold and ivory, which was lying on a table by his side, had disappeared; and the empress missed two watches which had gone astray under the dexterous fingering of her maids of honor. Lopez, who was then commandant of the palace, wishing to give the emperor ~t proof of the accom- plishments of his subjects in matters of this kind, offered to steal off of his writ- ing-table, within two hours, and without being seen, any object agreed upon. He even said he believed he could carry off the writing-table itself, a joke at which Maximilian laughed heartily. XVhen he returned to his capital, after a journey of great peril, the emperor ordered the construction . of several highroads, granted lands and privileges to two or three railroad companies, founded a good many schools, and set on foot a Mexican Academy of Arts and Sciences. His own taste for natural history was so great that he gave some foundation for the charge made against him that he would frequently shut himself up in his own work-room to stuff birds. He devoted great attention to improvements in agriculture, and planned a manufacturing city and sea- port on the gulf, which he intended to call Miramar. His wife was an indefatigable help- meet. She worked with him, and worked for him. She wrote all his European. correspondence, and could be curt and energetic when occasion called for self-as- sertion. When Marshal Bazaine interfered, on the part of the French government, to prevent the medal of Maximilians Order of Merit being hung on a red rib- bon, because that was the color appropri- ated to the Legion of Honor, she answered the marshals letter by gumming a small wild poppy on her paper, and writing beneath it, in the name of her husband, A ribbon of this shade has been adopt- ed for my order. This flower was cre- ated previous to the institution of the order of the Legion of Honor. But whilst emperor and empress were laboring for the improvement of their realm: the luarists increased in strength, 174 THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN and the banditti carried on their profes- to believe in Maximilians death. He sion with impunity, up to the very gates will come back! We know he will come of the capital. Day after day they robbed back !is the cry of the Dalmatians and the stage between Mexico and Jalapa. Istrians ~vho cherish his memory. The Marquis de Radepont, a quiet travel- Meantime matters in Mexico grew worse ler, saved himself by killing half-a-dozen every day. Bazaine and his forces had highwaymen with his revolver; but the Del- abandoned the cause of Maximilian. gian ambassador, on his way to announce Sooner than leave him the artillery and to their Imperial Majesties the accession ammunition they could not transport, they of Leopold II., brother of Carlotta, was threw it all into the River Sequia and Lake robbed of all his money and his jewelry. Texcoco. It was whispered that Bazaine In consequence of these disorders, Ba- privately negotiated with the follo~vers of zaine induced the emperor to sign an Juarez to give the emperor up to them for order to all the civil and military authori- fifty thousand dollars. The consummation ties, to treat all armed guerillabands as of this treachery was, however, reserved brigands, and apply to them the utmost for Lopez (a connection of Bazaines, rigor of the law. He did not foresee that through his wife, a lady of Mexico), a man he was signing his own death-warrant, who had been admitted into his familiar when he put his hand to this act of just intimacy by Maximilian. Prior to the severity, withdrawal of the French troops the ThCFrench occupation of Mexico was French government made several efforts drawing to a close. Napoleon III. was to induce Maximilian to abdicate. I only waiting an occasion to withdraw his know all the difficulties before me, he stake, and the United States soon fur- replied, but I shall not give up my post. nished him the opportunity. Maximilian, A son of the house of Hapsburg never who fully understood by this time the true retreats in the face of danger. condition of Mexico, and foresaw all the Nevertheless, Maximilian, after he had dangers of his position when the French received the news of his wifes insanity, troops should be withdrawn, sent the em- made up his mind not to remain long in press at this crisis to Europe, to represent Mexico. He hoped at least to save his the condition of things to the French em- dignity, to return to Europe as an em- peror, and to remind him of his promises. peror, and not a fugitive, and lay aside his Her cold reception at the Tuileries is now crown of his own accord. With this in a matter of history. Her prayers and en- view he set out for Orizaba, where the treaties were of no avail. From Paris she Dandolo corvette was waiting to re- went to Rome, where the first symptoms ceive his orders. But his generals gath- of her mental malady declared themselves. ered round him, and persuaded him to The unhappy princess was haunted by remain, promising him the support of men the idea that her enemies wanted to poison and money. Maximilian, on the strength her. She refused to eat or drink, and of these assurances, returned to Mexico, would take nothing but fruit. Her first protesting that he remained only for the visit to the pope was made while he was good of his people, and was influenced breakfasting, when she snatched his cup neither by personal considerations, nor po- of chocolate from his hand and swallowed litical interests of his own. it eagerly, exclaiming, I am sure that no The departure of the French troops left one can have wished to poison you I the way clear for the party of Juarez. It rap- She insisted on dining with the pope, idly gained strength, and prepared to be- and on passing the night at the Vatican. seige the emperor in his capital. I cannot She was pacified at last by being put, with bear to expose the city to danger, said the lady in attendance on her, into the ad- Maximilian, who, in spite of being con- joining chamber to that of his Holiness; tinually harassed and cruelly deceived day and the door of communication was care- after day, never failed in consideration for fully locked, lest she should attempt dur- those about him. He retired to Queretaro, ing the night to disturb the venerable man. where Generals Miramon, Mendez, Cas- The next morning measures were taken to tillo, Mejia, Avellano, and Prince Salm- forward her to Miramar. On reaching Salm, had gathered together a little army that beloved place she grew more calm. of about eight thousand men. She recovered for a time her interest in Maximilian at Queretaro showed all his music, painting, and literature. The Sclavic nobleness of spirit, kindliness of heart, peasants round her considered her a saint, and simplicity of life during the siege, When she passed they used to kneel down which lasted over two months. He shared on the highway. To this day many refuse the fatigues and privations of his common AT MIRAMAR AND AT QUERETARO. 75 soldiers, and lived, as they did, on the flesh of mules, whilst the officers tables were more than sufficiently supplied. He exposed his person upon all occasions; taking daily walks upon the bastions as tranquilly as he might have done in the green alleys of his distant home. One day his eyes fell upon six dead bodies dangling from the branches of six trees. He turned away in terrible emotion. They were the bodies of six of his own couriers, who had fallen into the hands of the enemy. He might easily have cut his way out at the head of his cavalry, but he hesitated to abandon his foot soldiers. Nor would he capitulate. I will die sword in hand, were now his daily words. Every day his men brought in pris- oners. Even when these prisoners were suspected of being spies he would not order their execution. No no, he said, if things go well there is no harm done, if ill, I shall not have their blood upon my soul. When the siege had lasted seventy days, provisions grew so scarce that there ~vas no alternative but a sortie or surrender. The sortie was decided on. On the night of May 14, i866, the seven thousand men still remaining in Queretaro were to break through the lines of the enemy, and en- deavor to make their way to Vera Cruz. Singularly enough the Juarist general Es- cobedo had fixed on the 15th of May for his final assault. Neither sortie nor assault took place. The treason of Lopez hindered the one and rendered the other unnecessary. Lopez, whom Maximilian had loaded with all sorts of kindness Lopez, who called himself the most devoted friend of the emperor Lopez had sold his friends and benefactors life for two thousand ounces of gold! One year before, when Lopez had been at Puebla in attendance on the empress, he had sent for his wife, who, having made a hurried journey, was prematurely delivered of a son. I can- not allow your son, wrote Maximilian, to come into the world in another mans house. I send you the enclosed sum; purchase the house in which your son was born. Having kept up constant intelligence with the camp of the besiegers, Lopez, on the coming of May 13, sent a note to Es- cobedo offering to deliver over to him the Convent of La Cruz, which was the em- perors headquarters. Escobedo accepted his proposals. About midnight Lopez and his troops went over to the enemy. The soldiers of Juarez quietly marched in and surrounded the convent, where the emperor and his staff were sleeping. At dawn of day Maximil- ian dressed himself, woke up Prince SaIm- Salm, and they ~vent out together, with no arms but their swords. As they reached the gates the emperor perceived the ene- mvs soldiers on guard, and turning towards his companion cried, We are betrayed. Here is the enemy! At this moment Lopez, who had seen them come into the courtyard, pointed out the em- peror to Colonel Rincon Gallardo, who was in command of. the detachment of J uarists. Rincon was an honorable soldier, and a kind-hearted man. He said, loud enough to be heard by his own men and Maximil- ian, Nothingbut citizens! Let them pass, they are not soldiers ! The emperor and Prince Salm-Salm then walked through the con vent gates, and made their way in haste to the opposite quarter of the city. The streets were silent and deserted. Suddenly a sharp fire of musketry was heard in a neighbor- ing street, mingled with Juarist and Im- perial war-cries. Miramon with his troops was holding one of the widest streets of Q ueretaro, when a ball hit him in the face. He fell, half blinded, and was taken pris- oner. The emperor, with Generals Mejia, Castillo, Avellano, and Prince SaIm-SaIm, retired to a little hill which commanded the city. They had no artillery, no means of defending their position. They stood on the bare rocks where they had taken refuge, like shipwrecked sailors waiting for the fatal rising of the water. General Escobedo, a coarse, brutal man, formerly a muleteer, prepared to charge up the hill, with four battalions of infantry, and a strong party of cavalry. Do not fire: you will shed blood to no purpose, said the emperor to the little band of true-hearted followers who sur- rounded him. Then in a low, sad voice he ordered one of his aides-de-camp to fasten a white handkerchief to the end of a bayonet. The Juarists, who were ascending the hill, came to a halt. There was profound silence for a moment. Then a man dressed in the uniform of a Mexican gen- eral, with black pantaloons tucked into his riding-boots, and gold epaulettes upon a black frock coat, came forward. He paused a moment as he stepped out of the little group, and looked around him. Then 176 THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN he descended the hill with a firm step, fol- lowed by several other generals. The Juarists saluted him by their party cry, Viva la fiber/ad! They recognized the emperor. Maximilian marched straight up to General Corona, who was in com- mand of a body of United States volun- teers called the Legion of Honor. It was composed of about fifty men, each with the rank of officer. General, he said, both man and for- tune have betrayed me. There are wid- ows and orphans enough already in the world. Here is my sword. Sire, replied Corona, forgetting he was emperor no longer, sire, keep your s~vord. He then proposed to Maximilian to get on horseback, and escorted him with the other prisoners to the Convent of Santa Teresita. There the emperor and his generals were shut up in the cellars of the building, and not only had to sleep on the bare ground, but were left to suffer from cold and hunger. In a few days, however, Princess Saim-SaIm brought them some relief. They were then transferred to the Convent of La Capuchina, and their friends obtained permission to send them wine, clothes, and provisions. The conduct of Princess.Salm-Salm in the last act of this tragedy was that of a heroine. She crossed the enemys line in order to get out of the city of Mexico, and was twice near being shot by the soldiers of Diaz. She was accused of supplying money to the Aus- trian soldiers confined at Chapultepec, and was imprisoned at Gaudeloupe. At last she got leave to quit Mexico for Eu- rope, but managed to join her husband at Queretaro. Thence, hiding by day and travelling by night, she made her way to San Luis de Potosi where Juarez was liv- ing. When Maximilian heard of this brave enterprise on his behalf, he could not re- frain. from tears. The prisoners were three weeks at La Capuchina, in complete uncertainty as to what would become of them. Indeed, the J uarists seemed much embarrassed by their prize. On the tenth of June they were informed that Juarez had sent an order to have them tried before a court-martial which would be held on the twelfth of June. Where are you going to take me? asked Maximilian, on that day, of the offi- cer who came to escort him. To the court-martial. Where is it held? In the theatre. Then I shall not accompany you. I will not be made a public spectacle in a theatre. You may go alone. The officer went away, seeing that noth- ing but force would change his resolution. Generals Miramon and Mejia were dragged upon the stage where the court- martial was sitting. The play-house was crowded with spectators. It was a tragedy with nothing to pay. The deliberations lasted three days. The emperor was accused of usurpation, with instigating and exciting civil war, and of causing the deaths of forty thousand patriots hanged and shot in consequence of his order of Oct. 3, 1865,an order issued, as we know, at the express instance of Bazaine. On the morning of June 15, i866, Gen- eral Escobedo presented himself in the prison, holding the sentence of the court in his hand. Maximilian who could guess his fate, said gently, Read it, general. I am ready to hear you.~~ Maximilian, Miramon, and Mejia were condemned to be shot. I understand you, said the emperor, with perfect calmness. The law of Oct. 3, i86~ was made to put down robbers, this sentence is the work of murderers. Escobedo laid his hand on his revolver with a sudden exclamation at these words. Then recovering himself he replied, I presume a criminal must be allowed the right to curse his judges. Maximilian turned his back on hiiTh and Escobedo left the prison. The execution had been ordered for the next morning, but it was put off till the ~9th, by order of Juarez. Meantime the English and Prussian ambassadors hastened to Juarez, hoping to obtain his mercy for the late emperor. But Juarez was inflexible, and declared the execution was necessary for the safety of the republic. During the night before his death Max- imilian asked his jailors for a pair of scis- sors. He was refused. Then he implored one of them to cut off a lock of his hair. When that was done he wrote the follow- ing pathetic letter to Carlotta. M~ BELOVED CARLOTTA, If God should permit you some of these days to get well enough to read these lines, you will know how sad has been my fate ever since your departure. You took with you my happiness, my very life, and my good fortune. Why did I not take your advice? So many sad things AT MIRAMAR AND AT QUERETARO. 77 have taken place, so many unexpected catastrophes and undeserved misfortunes have fallen on me, that I have now lost heart and hope, and look upon death as my good angel. My death will be sharp and sudden, without pain. I shall fall gloriously like a soldier like a con- quered sovereign. . . . If you cannot, dearest, bear up under your load of sor- row, if God in his mercy soon reunites us by your death, I will bless his fatherly hand, which now seems very heavy upon me. Adieu! Adieu! Your poor MAX. He kissed this letter, folded into it the light, silky lock of his own hair, and placed it with other letters he had written to his mother, the archduchess Sophia, and other friends. I have seen several of these letters. They were all in French, and written in a clear, firm, regular hand. His noble nature gleams through every line. One understands the irresistible personal sympathy he inspired in all who knew him. His enemies were aware of this, and no judge or general sat on his couvt-martial who had ever known him. As six oclock was striking the door of his prison was unbarred. I am ready, said Maximilian, coming forward to meet the officer. As he stepped forth from the door of the convent he exclaimed, What a lovely morning! I have al~vays fancied I should like to die in sun- shine on a summer day. He got into the carriage in waiting. Miramon and Mejia followed him, with the priest who attended them in their last mo- ments. They were escorted by a body of four thousand men, and were driven to the same rocky height on which they had surrendered, the Cerro della Campana. They sat upright in the carriage during the drive, with a proud smile on their faces. They were carefully dressed, as if for an occasion of festivity. The popula- tion of the place was all abroad to see them pass, and looked at them with silent pity and admiration. The calmness and self-possession of the emperor about to die touched the heart of the most indiffer- ent spectators. The women turned aside to hide their tears. Maximilian was a remarkably handsome man, his beautiful light hair was parted by a straight line to the nape of his neck from his forehead his blue eyes were clear and soft, with a beseeching look in them; his hands were beautifully white, his fingers elegant and taper. LIVING AGE. ~QL. XXI. 1052 At the last town in their road General Mejia suddenly changed color, and fell back in his place in the carriage. He had caught sight of his wife pale and dishev- elled, with her little baby in her arms, and all the appearance of a mad woman. He drew back behind his comrades, and cov- ered his face, with a sob. The party arrived at the foot of the lit- tle hill. The emperor sprang out, brushed off some dust which had settled on his clothes, and going up to the shooting party, gave each man an ounce of gold. Take good aim, my friends, said he. Do not, if possible, hit me in the face, but shoot right at my heart. One of the soldiers wept. Maximilian went up to him, and putting his cigar-case of silver filigree into his hand said, Keep that, my friend, in remembrance of me I It was given me by a prince more fortunate than I am now. The non-commissioned officer in com-- mand of the party then came up, and hoped he would forgive him. My good fellow, said Maximilian. cheerfully, a soldi~r must always obey- orders. His duty is to do his duty. Then turning to Miramon and Mejia,, he said, Let me, true friends, embrace you for the last time! He did so, and then add-. ed, In a few minutes we shall be to- gether in a better world. -.~ Turning to Miramon, he said, General,. the bravest man should have the place ofl honor. Take mine 1 Mejia, being very much cast down by the sad spectacle presented by his poor distracted wife, Maximilian again pressed: his hands, saying, God will not abandon our suffering: survivors. For those who die unjustly things are set right in another world. The drums began to beat. The end. was near. Maximilian stepped forward, mounted on a stone, and addressed the spectators. Mexicans! Men of my rank and of my race who feel as I feel, must either be the benefactors of the people over whom they reign, or martyrs. It was no rash ambition of my own which called me hither, you yourselves invited me to ac- cept your throne. Before dying let me tell you that with all the powers I possess I sought your good. Mexicans! may my blood be the last blood that you shed; may Mexico, the unhappy country of uw adoption, be happy when I am g6ne I 178 MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. As soon as he had resumed his place, a tree, with a rope, around your neck, tied a sergeant came up to order Miramon and to one of its branches! Mejia to turn round. As traitors they Maximilian will live in history as a were to be shot in the back. good man, and a martyred sovereign. To Farewell, dear friends, said Maximil- this day the Indians of Queretaro will not ian, and, crossing his arms, he stood firm put up an adobe hut without inserting in as a statue. it a pebble from the place of his execu When the command was given, Shoul- tion. On the very day he perished, an der arms! a murmur of protestation, order signed by him was received in Eu- accompanied by threats, rose among part rope, not for rifled cannon, not for needle- of the crowd composed of Indians. Their guns, to secure him on his throne, but national superstitions and traditions had for two thousand nightingales, which he attached these simple people to the em- desired to have purchased in the Tyrol, l)erOr. They had a prophecy among them to add to the attractions of his empire. that one day a white man would come VICTOR TISSOT. over the seas andset them free. And many of them looked for this saviour in Maximilian. The officers in command turned to- wards the cro*d, shaking their swords. From Macmillans Magazine. Then came the words, Take aim! MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. Fire ! THE relation between modern civilized Long live Mexico! cried Miramon. life and insanity cannot be regarded as Carlotta! Poor Carlotta l exclaimed finally determined while a marked differ- Maximilian. ence of opinion exists in regard to it among When the smoke of the volley cleared those who have studied the subject; nor away three corpses lay upon the earth. can this difference be wondered at by any That of the emperor had received five one who has examined the data upon balls. They were put into the coffins which a conclusion must be formed, and which lay ready near the place of exe- has found how difficult it is to decide in cution, and, escorted as they had been which direction some of the evidence before, they were carried back to the points. Statistics alone may prove utterly Convent of the Capuchins. fallacious. Mere speculation, on the other The emperor being dead, we will do hand, is useless, and indeed is only mis- all honor to the corpse of an archduke of leading. It is a matter on which it is Austria, said Colonel Miguel Palacio s, to tempting to write dogmatically, but where whom this care was given, the honest inquirer is quickly pulled up by He was embalmed, and the coffin placed the hard facts that force themselves on in a vault, his attention. Nothing easier than to in- The Russian ambassador, Baron Mag- dulge in unqualified denunciations of mod- nus, in vain solicited the body of the em society; nothing more difficult than a ~late emperor. The Austrian vice-admiral, cautious attempt to connect the social evils Tegetthof had to come and personally de- of the present day with the statistics of mand it in November 1867. The admi- lunacy. Nothing easier than to make ral at the same time obtained the release sweeping statements without proof, noth- of the Austrian soldiers still retained as ing more difficult than to apportion the prisoners, and Prince Salm-Salm, lying mental injury respectively caused by oppo- under sentence of death since the execu- site modes of life; totally diverse social tion of his master. states of a nation often leading to the As for the traitor Lopez, instead of the same termination insanity. These are two thousand ounces he expected, he only closely bound together in the complex got seven thousand piastres ($7000). I-Us condition of modern civilized society. No wife refused to live with him after his doubt if we care for truth, and avoid rash treachery to Maximilian, and once when he assertions, we do it at the expense of a went to see General Rincon Gallardo, to certain loss of force and incisiveness. request his influence in getting reinstated Dogmatic statements usually produce more in his rank in the Mexican army, which effect than carefully balanced and strictly he had forfeited by his connection with logical positions. Honesty, however, corn- the imperial government, the answer he pels us to speak cautiously, and to confess received was, the difficulties to which we have referred. Colonel Lopez, if I ever recommend We shall not enter at length into the you for any place, that place will be under question which is at once raised by an MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. inquiry into the relation between modern life and insanitywhether lunacy is on the increase in England. Twenty years ago there was one lunatic or idiot officially reported to 577 of the population; the latest returns place it as high as one in 370. Were we to go further back, the contraat would be far greater. That the increase of known cases of insanity has been very great, no one, therefore, dis- putes. Further, that the attention paid to the disease; the provision made for the insane; the prolongation of their lives in asylums, and the consequent accumulation of cases, and other circumstances into which our limits forbid us to enter, ac- count for the greater part of this alarming apparent increase, is certain. Whether, however, there is not also an actual in- crease, unaccounted for by population, or by accumulation, remains an open ques- tion, which statistics do not absolutely determine. At the same time we think that it is quite probable that there has been some real increase. To what social class do the great mass of our lunatics belong, and to what grade of society does the striking apparent in- crease of the insane point? The large majority of lunatics under legal restraint undoubtedly belong to the pauper popula- tion. On the 1st of January, 1877, of the total number of patients in asylums and elsewhere (in round numbers sixty-six thou- sand six hundred), about fifty-nine thousand were pauper., and only seventy-six hun- dred private patients. These figures, how- ever, fail to convey a correct statement of the relative amount of insanity existing among the class of the oriainally poor and uneducated masses and the class above them, because in a considerable number of instances members of the middle and still higher classes have become paupers. Again, the wealthy insane remain very frequently at home, and do not appear in the official returns. We believe this class to be very large. Probably we get a glimpse of. it from the census of 1871, which con- tained sixty-nine thousand lunatics, idiots, and imbeciles (and we have good reasc~ns for knowing that this return was very far short of the. truth), yet it exceeded the number given by the lunacy commission- ers in the same year by twelve thousand! A large number no doubt lived with their families because these could well afford to keep them at home. None would be in receipt of relief, or they would have ap- peared in the commissioners report. An- other most important qualifying considera- tion remains the relative numbers of/he 79 classes of society from which the ~5oor and the well-to-do lunatics are derived. Several years ago the Scotch commissioners esti- mated the classes from which private pa- tients are derived at only about an eighth of the entire population of Scotland; a proportion which would make them at least as relatively numerous as the pauper lunatics. No doubt in England the corre- sponding class of society is a larger one; but whatever it may be,* a calculation based upon the relative proportion of different social strata in this country would vastly reduce the apparent enormously different liability to insanity among the well-to-do and the poorer sections of the community, although, with this correction, the pauper lunatics would still be relatively in the majority. The disparity between the absolute num- ber of pauper and private patients has greatly increased in recent years. In other words, tle apparent increase of insanity is mainly marked among those who become pauper patients. This is cer- tainly in great measure accounted for by the disproportionate accumulation of cases in pauper asylums, for reasons into which it i5 not now needful to enter. It assuredly does not prove that there has been any- thing like a corresponding growth of insan- ity among the poor as compared with the rich. In any case, however, the illiterate pop- ulation does yield a very serious amount of insanity, and the fact is so patent that it shows beyond a doubt that ignorance is no proof against the inroads of the disease. The absence of ratic~al employment of the mental powers may lead to debasing habits and to the indulgence in vices especially favorable to insanity, less likely to attract a mind occupied with literary and scientific pursuits. No doubt mental stagnation is in itself bad, but the insanity arising out of it is more frequently an indi- rect than a direct result. If a Wiltshire laborer is more liable to insanity than other people, it may be not merely because his mind is in an uncultivated condition, but rather because his habits,t indirectly * We are informed by Dr. Farr that the proportion between the upper and middle classes on the one hand, and the lower classes on the other, ia aa s~ to 135. Calculated on thia basia, the proportion of private and pauper lunatics to their reapective populations would be s in 484 for the former, and ~in 353 for the latter a very different result from that obtained by the usual method of calculating the ratio of private and pauper lunatics to the whole population, viz., s in 3~23m, and in 415. Dr. Thurnam, the late superintendent of the Wilts County Asylum, found that the proportion of cases caused by drink in thia county was very high in one year (1872) amounting to 34 per cent. iSo MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. favored by his ignorance, and the brain he inherited from parents indulging in like habits, tend to cause mental derangement. It is conceivable that be might have had no more mental cultivation, and yet have been so circumstanced that therd would have been very little liability to the dis- ease. This distinction is extremely im- portant if we are tracing causes, however true it would remain that ignorance is a great evil. A South Sea islander might be much more ignorant than the Wiltshire laborer, and yet not be so circumstanced that he would be likely to transgress the laws of mental health. The ignorance of an African tribe and that of a village in Wilts may be associated, the one with very little, the other with very much luna- cy. Mr. Brights residuum of a civil- ized people, and a tribe of North American Indians are alike uneducated, but, notwith- standing, l)resent totally different condi- tions of life. We have no doubt that in a civilized community there will always be found by far the larger number of insane persons. There are three grand reasons for this. First, because those who do become insane or are idiotic among sav- ages, go to the wall as a general rule the other reasons are to be discovered in the mixed character and influence of Euro- pean civilization; its action on the one hand in evolving forms of mental life of requisite delicacy and sensibility, easily injured or altogether crushed by the rough blasts from which they cannot escape in life; and on the other hand in producing a state confounded, as we have said, with sav- agery, but which differs widely from it, and is, simply in relation to mental disorders, actually worse. Recklessness, drunken- ness, poverty, misery, characterize the class; and no wonder that from such a source spring the hopelessly incurable lunatics who crowd our pauper asylums, to the horror of ratepayers, and the sur- prise of those who cannot understand why the natives of Madagascar,though num- bering about five million, do not require a single lunatic asylum. We may add that they do not destroy the few insane and idiots ~vhich they have. It is constantly forgotten that while there is nothing better than true civiliza- tion, there is something worse than the con- dition of certain savages, and that almost anything is better than that stratum of civ- ilized society which is squalid, and drunk- en, and sensual; curscd with whatever of evil the ingenuity of civilized man has invented, but not blessed with the coun- teracting advantages of civilization. The conclusion, so far from damping the efforts of progress and modern developments of science, should stimulate us to improve the moral and physical condition of this class, and so lessen the dangers to mental disorder among them. The belief that sav- ages are free from some of the insanity- producing causes prevalent in modern civ- ilized England is quite consistent with the position taken in this article that educa- tion, ample mental occupation, knowledge, and the regularly trained exercise of the faculties exert a highly beneficial influence upon the mind, and thus fortify it against the action of some of the causes of insan- ity. The relative liability of manufacturing and agricultural districts to mental disease has excited much discussion. This has partly arisen from the assumption that the latter may be taken as the representatives of savages. As we have shown this to be false, the comparison between these two districts does not, from this point of view, possess any value. On other grounds, however, it would be very interesting to determine whether urban or rural lunacy is most rife. Here, however, the worth- lessness of mere statistics is singularly evidenced, and the diI~iculty of accurately balancing the weight of various qualifying circumstances becomes more and more apparent. An agricultural county may be found here and there with less lunacy than a manufacturing county, but if a group of counties be taken in which the manufac- turing element is greatly beyond the aver- age, and another group in which the agri- cultural element greatly preponderates, we find one lunatic to four hundred and sixty- three of the county population in tl~e former, and one to three hundred and eighty-eight in the latter, showing an accu- mulation of more insane paupers in the agricultural districts. But it is very pos- sible that if we knew how many leco;ne insane, the result would be very different indeed. This, in fact, has been found to be the case in Scotland, where the lunacy commissioners have taken great pains to arrive at the real truth. In a recent re- port it is shown that while three Highland counties have, in proportion to the popula- tion, a decidedly heavier persistent burden of pauper lunacy than two manufacturing counties which are chosen for comparison, the number of lunatics receiving relief that is, actually coming under treatment is proportionally larger in the latter than in the former. In other words, the pro- portion of fresh cases of pauper lunacy appearing on the poor-roll is higher in MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. i8i urban than rural districts. The commis- sioners refer this result partly to the greater prevalence of the active and tran- sitory forms of mental disorder cases which before long are discharged and partly to the greater facility of obtaining accommodation in an asylum free of charge in a city, from its bein~ at hand; and the greater wealth of the urban districts offering no obstacle to admission. They attribute the above-mentioned persistent rural lunacy chiefly to the constant migra- tion of the strong from the rural to the urban districts; the necessary exodus of the physically and mentally healthy leav- ing behind an altogether disproportionate number of congenital idiots, imbeciles, and chronic insane in the agricultural counties. Hence, returning to England, it is quite clear that the mere ratio of accumulated pauper lunacy to the county population, which is constantly relied upon, proves little or nothing as to the relative liability to insanity of the agricultural and rnanu- facturing districts. One conclusion only can be safely drawn from such figures, until minute investigations have been made into the circumstances attending rural and urban lunacy in England as has been done in Scotland namely, that .while theory is apt to say that a country life, passed, as it seems to be supposed, in pastoral simplicity, will not admit of the entrance of madne~s into the happy valley, fact says that whatever may be the ultimate verdict as to the relative proportion of urban and rural lunacy, a large amount of insanity and idiocy does exist in the coun- try districts, and that the dull swain, with clouted shoon, but too frequently finds his way into the asylum. A glance at the annual reports of our Lunatic asylums reveals the main occupa- tions of the inmates and the apparent causes of their attacks. In a countrvasv- lum like Wilts the great majority of pa- tients are farm laborers, ~vith their wives and daughters; and next in order, domestic servants and weavers. The number of farm- ers, or members of their families, is small. The character of the occupations in the population of an asylum like that for the borough of Birmingham of course differs. Here we find mechanics and artisans head- ing the list, with their wives. Those en- gaged in domestic occupation form a large number. Shopekeepers and clerks come next in order. In both asylums are to be found a few governesses and teachers. inn-keepers, themselves the cause of so much insane misery in others, figure spar- ingly in these tables. Among the causes, intemperance un- mistakably takes the lead. This is one of those facts which, amid much that is open to difference of opinion, would seem to admit of no reasonable doubt. Sec- ondly follows domestic trouble, and thirdly poverty. At the Birmingham Asylum, out of four hundred and seventy admissions in three years, eleven cases were attrib- uted to over application~ a proportion much lower than that observed in private asylums. Recently, Mr. Whitcombe, assistant medical officer at the Birmingham Borough Asylum, has done service by publishing the fact that, during the last twenty-five years, out of three thousand eight hun- dred pauper patients admitted into that asylum, five hundred and twenty-four, or fourteen per cent., had their malady in- duced by drink, and that the total expen- diture thus caused by intemperance amounted, in maintenance and cost of building, etc., to no less than 50,3731. dur- ing that period. Some years ago we calculated the per- centage of cases caused by intemperance in the asylums of England, and found it to be about twelve. This proportion would be immensely increased were we to add those in which domestic misery and I)ecuniary losses owed their origin to this vice. Although ratepayers grumble about the building of large lunatic asylums, it is amazing how meekly they bear with the great cause of their burden, and how sin- cidally they resent any atteml)t made to reduce by legislation the area of this wide- spread and costly mischief. It is worthy of note that drink l~roduces much less insanity in Watwickshire out- side Birmingham than in Birmingham it- self. In connection with this aspect of the question, an interesting fact, recorded by Dr. Yellowlees, when superintendent of the Glamorgan County Asylum, may be mentioned: that during a strike of nine months, the male admissions fell to half their former number, the female ad- missions being almost unaffected. The - decrease is doubtless mainly due to the fact that there is no money to spend in drink and debauchery. High wages, however, would be infinitely better than strikes, if the money were spent in good food, house- rent, and clothing. The diet of the children of factory oper- atives in Lancashire points to one source of mental degeneration among that class. Dr. Ferguss~on, of Bolton, gave important evidence not long ago which indicated the 182 MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. main cause of their debility and stunted times from birth at other times their development, whether or not they are mental development being arrested by worse now than they were. He does not their wretched bringing ul). From the re- consider that factory labor in itself oper- ports of the English convict prisons gen- ates prejudicially, and reports the mills to erally, it appears that one in every twenty- be more healthy to xvork in now than they five of the males is of weak mind, insane, were in years past. The prime cause pro- or epileptic, without including those sufli- ducing the bad l)hysical condition of the ciently insane to be removed to an asylum. factory population is, in his opinion, the The resident surgeon to the general prison intemperate habits of the factory workers. of Scotland at Perth (Mr. Thompson) By free indulgence in stimulants and in gives a proportion of twelve per cent.; smoking, the parents debilitate their own founded upon a prison population of six constitutions, and transmit feeble ones to thousand prisoners. their children. Instead of rearing them Having referred to the bearing of the on milk after they are weaned, they give habits of one large portion of the popula- them tea or coffee in a morning, and in tion upon the manufacture of insanity, we too many instances they feed them upon pass on to the consideration of the relation tea three times a day. In short, they get between higher grades of modern society very little milk. and mental disorder. It has been observed Mr. Redgrave, the senior inspector of in institutions into which private and pau- factories, does not consider that this mis- per patients are admitted, that the moral erable state of things has increased we or psychical causes of lunacy are more hope not but he admits that more wom- frequently the occasion of the attack with en are employed in the mills than formerly, the former than the latter class. This is and that this is most disastrous to the not always accounted for as might have training of children. Some curious fig- been expected by there having been less ures have been published, showing the drink-produced insanity among the well-to- weight of children at various years of age do patients; for in the Royal Edinburgh in the factory and agricultural districts, the Asylum, where this disparity strongly comparison being greatly in favor of the comes out, there is even a higher percent. latter. age of insa~iity from this cause among the Another cause of deterioration men- private than the pauper lunatics. The his- tioned is that at least one half of the boys tory of the daily mode of life of many mem- in the mills from twelve to twenty years bers of the Stock Exchange would reveal, of age either smoke or chew tobacco, or in the matter of diet, an amount of alcoholic do both; a habit most prejudicial to the imbibition in the form of morning nips, healthy development of the nervous sys- wine at luncheon, and at dinner, difficult tem. It was recently observed by Mr. to realize by many of less porous consti- Mundella that the lad who beoan at eight tutions, and easily explainin~ the disastrous years of age in a mine without education, results which in many instances follow, and who was associated with men whose sooner or later, as respects disturbances of whole ambition was a gallon of beer and the nervous system, in one form or other. a bull-dog, was not likely to grow up to be In fact, by the time dinner is due, the a Christian and a gentleman. We may stomach is in despair, and its owner finds it add he would be very likely to end his necessary to goad a lost appetite by strong days either in a prison or in a pauper pickles and spirits, ending with black coffee asylum. It is observed in a recent report and some liqueur. When either dyspep- of the Royal Edinburgh Asylum that such sia or over business work is set down as coal and iron mining counties as Durham the cause of the insanity of such individ- and Glamorgan produce, in twice the pro- uals, it should be considered what infiu- portion we do, the most marked and fatal of ence the amount of alcohol imbibed has all the brain diseases caused by excesses. exerted upon the final catastrophe as well It may be stated that the relation between as the assigned cause. But whatever may crime and insanity, especially weak-mind- be the relative amount of insanity produced edness, is tine of the most intimate char- among the affluent and the poor, of this ~mcter, both in regard to the people who there can be no doubt, that certain men- commit criminal acts and their descend- tal causes of lunacy, as over study and ants. Our examination of the mental business worry, produce more insanity condition of convicts, and of their phys- among the upper than the lower classes. iognomy and cerebral development, has We have examined the statistics of six long convinced us that a large number of asylums in England for private patients this class are mentally deficient; some- only, and have found this to be the case. MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. 133 At one such institution, Ticehurst, Sussex, we find, from statistics kindly furnished us by Dr. Newington, that out of two hundred and sixty-six admissions, twenty-nine were referred to over study, and eighteen to over business work. Only twenty-eight were referred to intemperance. Allowing a liberal margin for the tendency of friends to refer the disease to the former rather than the latter class, the figures remain striking, as pointing to the influence of so- called over-work. ~Ve say so-called because there is an apparent and fictitious as well as a real over-work. Both, how- ever, may terminate in nervous disorder. Over-work is often confounded with the opposite condition want of occupation. Civilization and mental strain are regarded by many as identical, and in consequence much confusion is caused in the discussion of the present question. It is forgotten that an idle life, leading to hysteria and to actual insanity, is much more likely tobe the product of civilization than of savagery or barbarism. This is quite consistent with the other truth, that without civiliza- tion we do not see evolved a certain high pressure, also injurious to mental health. A London physician, Dr. Wilks, when speaking of a common class of cases, young women without either useful occu- pation or amusements, in whom the moral nature becomes perverted, in addition to the derangement of the bodily health, ob- serves that the mothers sympathies too often only foster her daughters morbid proclivities, by insisting on her delicacy and the necessi4y of various artificial methods for her restoration. It is obvious that such a case as this is the very child of a highly organized society, that is, of a high state of civilization, and yet that such a young lady is not the victim of high pres- sure or mental strain in her own person, although it is certainly possible that she may inherit a susceptible brain from an over-worked parent. However, the remedy is work, not rest; occupation, not idleness. We certainly do not want to make her more refined or artificial, but more natural, and to occupy herself with some really useful work. A luxurious idle life is her curse. That insanity itself, as well as mere hysteria, is developed by such a mode of existence, we fully believe. The mind, although not un educated, deteriorates for want of either healthy intellectual excite. ment, the occupation of business, or the necessary duties of a family. Life must have an aim, although to achieve it there ought not to be prolonged worry. In the same way there is the lady in- stanced ~vho eats no breakfast, takes a glass of sherry at eleven oclock, and drinks tea all the afternoon, and who, when night arrives, has been ready to engage in any performance to which she may have been invited. Clearly she is the product of a highly artificial mode of life, found in the midst of modern civiliz~ tion. She is certainly not suffering from mental strain; at the same time she is the outcome of the progress from barbarism and the hardy forms of early national life to our present complex social condition. We have particularly inquired into cases coming under our own observation in re- gard to the alleged influence of over-work, and have found it a most difficult thing td distinguish between it and other maleficent agents which, on close observation, were often found to be associated with it. We do not now refer to the circumstances which almost always attach themselves to mental fatigue, as sleeplessness, but to those which have no necessary relation to them, as vice. Here we have felt bound to attribute the attack to both causes, cer- tainly as much to the latter as the former. In some cases, on the other hand, we could not doubt that long-continued severe men- tal labor was the efficient cause of derange- ment. In a large proportion of other cases we satisfied ourselves that over-work meant not only mental strain, but the anxiety and harass which arose out of the work in which a student or literary man was en- gaged. The over-work connected with business, also largely associated with anx- iety, proved a very tangible factor of insanity. Indeed it is always sure to be a more tangible factor of mental disease than over-work from study, because of the much greater liability to its invasion during the business period of brain life, than the study period. At Bethlem Hospital, Dr. Savage finds that there are many cases in which over-work causes a break-down, es- pecially if associated with worry and money troubles. Among the women, the cases are few in number. In one, where there was probably hereditary tendency, an ex- amination, followed in two days by an attack of insanity, may be regarded as the exciting cause. Monotonous work long continued would seem to exert an unfavor- able influence on the mind. Letter-sort- ing, short- hand writing, and continuous railway travelling are instanced. If diver- sified, hard work is much less likely to prove injurious. During a year and a half twenty men and eight women were admit- ted whose attacks were attributed to over- work. The employments of architect, 184 MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. surveyor, accountant, schoolmaster, police- man, and bootmaker were here represented. Seven were clerks, two of whom were law- writers; two were students, one being an Oxford man who had exhausted himself in getting a double first, and the other a medical student preparing for his second college. Of the women, five were teach- ers, one a schoolgirl, and two dressmak- ers. Three of the teachers were in elementary schools, one a governess, and the other a teacher of music and lan- guages. If over-work alone did not, strictly speaking, cause the mental break- down, still the concomitants must be blamed for these melancholy results. A late medical officer to Rugby School (Dr. Farquharson,) in defending that insti- tution from a charge of injury in the direc- tion of which we now speak, considers that instances of mental strain are more com- mon at the universities, for not only are the young men at a more sensitive .period of life, but they naturally feel that to many of them this is the great opportunity the great crisis of their existence and that their success or failure will now effectually make or mar their career. Here the ele- ment of anxiety comes into play, sleep is disturbed, exercise neglected, digestion suffers, and the inevitable result follows of total collapse, from which recovery is slow and perhaps never complete. (Lancet, Jan. I, 1876.) He thinks he has seen an increase of headaches and nervous com- plaints among poor children since com- pulsory attendance at Board Schools was adopted, and records a warning against too suddenly forcing the minds of wretch- edly feeble, ill-fed and ill-housed children, and against attempts to make bricks too rapidly out of the straw which is placed in our hands. The psychological mischief done by ex- cessive crammino- both in some schools and at home is sufficiently serious to show that the reckless course pursued in many instances ought to be loudly ptotested ao-ainst As we write, four cases come to our knowledge of girls seriously injured by this folly and unintentional wickedness. In one, the brain is utterly unable to bear the burden put upon it, and the pupil is removed from school in a highly excitable state; in another, epileptic fits have fol- lowed the host of subjects pressed upon the scholar; in the third, the symptoms Qf brain fog have become so obvious that the amount of schooling has been greatly reduced; and in a fourth, fits have been induced and complete prostration of brain has followed. These cases are merely illustrations of a class, coming to hand in one day, familiar to most physi- cians. The enormous number of subjects which are forced into the curriculum of some schools and are required by some pro- fessional examinations, confuse and dis- tract the mind, and by lowering its healthy tone often unfit it for the world. While insanity may not directly result from this stuffing, and very likely will not, exciting causes of mental disorder occurring in later life may upset a brain which, had it been subjected to more moderate pressure, would have escaped unscathed. Training in its highest sense is for,~otten in the mul- tiplicity of subjects, originality is stunted and individual thirst of knowledo-e over- laid by a crowd of novel theories based upon yet unproved statements. Mr. Brudenell Carter, in his Influence of Edu- cation and Training in Preventino- Dis- eases of the Nervous System, speaks of a large public school in London from which boys of ten to twelve years of age carry home tasks which would occupy them till near midnight, and of which the rules and laws of study are so arranged as to pre- clude the possibility of sufficient recrea- tion. The teacher in a high school says that the host of subjects on which parents insist instruction being given to their chil- dren is simply preposterous, and disas- trous alike to health and to real steady progress in necessary branches of knowl- edge. The other day we met an examiner in the street with a roll of papers consist- ing of answers to questions. He deplored the fashion of the day; the number of sub- jects crammed within a few years of grow- ing life; the character of the questions which were frequently asked; and the requiring a student to master, at the peril of being rejected, scientific theories, and crude speculations, which they would have to unlearn in a year or two. He sincerely pitied the unfortunate students. During the last year or two the public have been startled by the suicides which have occurred on the part of young men prepar- ing for examination at the University of London; and the press has spoken out strongly on the subject. Notwfthst~nd- ing this the authorities appear to be dis- posed to increase instead of diminish the stringency of some of the examinations. The Lancet has recently protested against this course in re~ ard to the l)reliminary scientific M. B. of the London University, and points out that the average of candi- dates who fail at this examination is already about forty per cent., and that these include many of the best students. MODERN LIFE AND INSANITY. This further raising of the standard will, it is maintained, make a serious addition to the labors of the industrious student who desires the M.D. degree. Whether this particular instance is or is not a fair example, we must say, judging from oth- ers, that it seems to be thought that the cubic capacity of the British skull. under- goes an extraordinary increase every few years, and that therefore for our young students more subjects must be added to fill up the additional space. The master of a private school informs us that he has proof of the ill effects of overwork in the fact of boys being with- drawn from the keen competition of a public school career, which was proving injurious to their health, and sent to him, that they might in the less ambitious atmos- phere of a private school pick up health and strength again. He refers to in- stances of boys who had been crammed and much pressed in order that they might. enter a certain form or gain a desired exhibition, having reached the goal suc- cessfully and then stagnated. He says that the too extensive curriculum now de- manded ends in the impossibility of doing the work thoroughly and well. You must either force unduly or not advance as you would wish to do; the former does injury, and the latter causes dissatisfaction. Of mental stagnation among the poor we have already spoken; an analogous condition among the well-to-do classes, not to be confounded with that of the young lady already described as seen in the Lon- don physicians consulting-room, deserves a passing observation. Excessive activity and excessive dulness may lead to the same dire result. Hence both conditions must be recognized as factors in the cau- sation of mental disease. We have said that the indirect action of the latter is more po~verful than its direct action, but there are no doubt cases of insanity which arise from the directly injurious influence of intellectual inactivity. The inteilicrence is inert; the range of ideas extremely lim- ited; the mind broods upon some trivial circumstance until it becomes exagger- ated into a delusion; the mind feeds upon itself, and is. hyper-sensitive and suspi- cious, or it may become absorbed in some morbid religious notions which at last ex- ert.a paramount influence and induce reli- gious depression or exaltation. From the immediate surroundinbs of the individual, whether in connection with parental train- ing or from ecclesiastical or theological influences, or perhaps a solitary condition of life, there may be a dangerously re stricted area of psychical activity. Preju- dices of various kinds hamper the free play of thought ; the buoyancy of the mans nature is destroyed; its elasticity broken; its strength weal ; and it is in fine reduced to a state in which it is a prey to almost any assertion however mon- strous, if placed before it with the solemn sanctions which from education, habit, or predilection it is accustomed to reverence. Fantastic scruples and religious delusions frequently spring up in this soil. Such persons have been saved from the evils of drunkenness and vice; they have also been sheltered from ~vorry and excitement, yet, to the astonishment of many, they be- come the inmates of a lunatic asylum. They have in truth escaped the Scylla of dissipation or drink, only to be ship- wrecked on the Charybdis of a dreary monotony of existence. On this barren rock not a very few doubtless perish, and if parents they transmit to a posterity deserv- ing our sincerest pity, mediocre brains or irritably susceptible and unstable nerve tissue. On the dangers arising from waves of religious excitement, it would be easy to dilate, but we shall content ourselves with remarking that if they have been exagger- ated by some, they have been improperly ignored or denied by others. They are real; and frightful is the responsibility of those who, by excited utterances and hid- eous caricatures of religion, upset the men- tal equilibrium of their auditors, whether men, women, or children. One remarkable feature of modern life Spiritualism has been said to produce an alarming amount of insanity, especially in America. It has been recently stated by an English writer that nearly ten thou- sand persons have gone insane on the subject, and are confined in asylums in the United States ; but careful inquiry, made in consequence, has happily dis- proved the statement, and we learn that the amount of insanity produced from this cause is almost insignificant much less than that caused by religious excitement. Looking broadly at the facts which force themselves upon our attention, we may say that a study of the relation between modern life and insanity shows that it is of a many-sided and complex character; that the rich and the poor from different causes, though certainly in one respect the same cause, labor under a large amount of preven/ible lunacy; that beer and gin, mal-nutrition, a dreary monotony of toil, muscular exhaustion, domestic distress, misery, and anxiety, account largely, not i86 SMITHS POOR KIN. only for the number of the poor who become insane in adult life, but who from heredi- tary l)redisposition, are born weak-minded or actually idiotie; that among the middle classes, stress of business, excessive com- petition, failures, and, also in many cases, reckless and intemperate living, occasion the attack; while in the upper classes in-~ temperance still works woe and under this head must be comprised lady and gen- tlemen dipsomaniacs, who are not confined in asylums; that while multiplicity of sub- jects of study in youth and excessive brain-work in after life exert a certain amount of injurious influence, under-work, luxurious habits, undisciplined wills, des- ultory life, produce a crop of nervous dis- orders, terminating not unfrequently in insanity. In a state of civilization like ours, it must also happen that many chil- dren of extremely feeble mental as well as bodily constitutions will be reared who otherwise would have died. These either prove to be imbeciles, or they grow up only to fall a prey ~o the upsetting influ- ence of the cares and anxieties of the world. A considerable number of insane persons have never been really whole- minded people; there has, it will be found on careful inquiry, been always something a little peculiar about them, and when their past life is interpreted by the attack which has rendered restraint necessary, it is seen that there had been a smouldering fire in the constitution~for a lifetime, though now, for the first time, bursting forth into actual conflagration. Lastly, modern society comprises a nu- merous class of persons, well-meaning, excitable, and morbidly sensitive. Some of these are always on the border-land be- tween sanity and insanity, and their friends are sometimes tempted to wish that they would actually cross the line, and save them from constant harass. When they do, it is easier to make allowance for them and their vagaries. Whatever uncertainty there may attach to some aspects of this inquiry, unques- tionable conclusions have been drawn and if these only accord with results ar- rived at from other considerations, they are valuable as confirming them. Had there appeared to be among the poor and ignorant a striking immunity from attacks of insanity, a strong argument would have been afforded, and would probably have been employed, against the extension of education at the present day to the work- ing classes. Nothing, however, in our facts or figures supports such an anti-pro- gressive view; and if the educated classes did not sin against their mental health in so many ways, they would doubtless com- pare more favorably than they do, in fact as well as in mere figures, with the unedu- cated poor. So again with regard to in- temperance and all that it involves, in spite of the difficulty of discriminating be- tween the many factors which often go to make up the sum total of causes of an attack, we have no doubt of the large in- fluence for mental evil exerted by drink always admitting that where the constitu- tion has no latent tendency to insanity, you may do almost what you like with it, in this or any other way, without causing this particular disease. A man ~vill break down at his weak point, be it what it may. Again, the lessons are taught of the importance, not of mere education, Out a real training of the feelings; the evil of mental stagnation, not simply ~er se, but from the train of sensual degradation in one direction, and of gloomy fanaticism in the other, engendered, and the danger of dwelling too long and intently on agitating religious questions, especially when pre- sented in narrow and exclusive forms which drive people either to despair or to a peril- ous exaltation of the feelings. To true religious reformers, the physician best ac- quainted with the causation of mental dis- ease will award his heartiest approval. Only as the high claims of duty, demanded from man by considerations of the de- pendence of his work in the world upon mental health, of what he owes to his fel- low-men, and of what he owes to God, are fulfilled as well as acknowledged, will civ- ilized man benefit by his civilization, as regards the prevention of insanity. Un- preventible lunacy will still exist, but a great saving will be effected for British ratepayers when that which is preventible shall have been reduced to a minimum by the widest extension of a thorough, but not oppressive and too early commenced education, by the practical application of the ascertained truths of physiological and medical science, and by the influence of a Christianity, deep in proportion to its breadth, which shall really lay hold of life and conduct, and mould them in accord- ance with itself. D. HACK TUKE. From The Spectator. SMITHS POOR KIN. THE case of Smiths Poor Kin seems to us the redz~ctio ad absurdurn of the En- glish method of dealing with the authority SMITH S POOR KIN. 187 of the dead hand, as Lord Lyttelton used to call it, that is, the right of a tes- tator to bind Parliament and the courts in perpetuity. Two hundred and fifty years ago an Alderman Smith left a small sum of money, the interest of which was to go forever towards the redemption of Chris- tians captured by the Turks, and the pro- tection of his poorest descendants, the sick, aged, and impotent, from the worst evils of poverty. It was not to make them better off, but to save them from actual want. The trustees bought land in Kensington, covering the modern Hans Place and Cadogan Place, which has in- creased in value with the growth of Lon- don until it now yields Ii,ooo a year, and will byand-by yield much more. Al- gerine piracy ceased long ago, the Turks are pirates only by land, and the whole income was therefore made available in 1772, by act of Parliament, for the alder- man s kin, of whom there are now four hun- dred and twelve. The scheme, however, worked very badly. The heirs, in hopes of some advantage under the will, have kept their pedigrees in memory; they consider the property to be, in certain events, of right theirs, and some of them, it can scarcely be doubted, wilfully produce those events. They are to be helped if they are poor, and consequently they either keep poor by abstaining from work, or they pretend to be poor when they are not, according to the founders idea of poverty. The latter course of conduct is indefensible, but the former is no suffi- cient legal reason for refusing them their money. There is no moral wrong in pov- erty, indeed many people of the highest character for piety and judgment hold, as a council of perfection, that it would be better to keep poor, and no Church goes the length of saying that in the earning of wealth there is moral gain. There is consequently no moral reason whatever why, if the dead hand is to be implic- itly obeyed, Alderman Smiths poor kin should not have the income of his estate. It has increased, but so has the income of Guys Hospital or the Duke of Northum- berlands property, but nobody for that rea- son claims any right to take either away; and if a Radical argues that unearned in- crement belongs to the State, he is set down as a Red Republican. To say that a sick Smith ought not to have 500 a year for life is, in a country of inequalities, no argument, and the whole income, on the principles upheld by Lord Salisbury and most Tories, should be distributed among the poorest section of the alder- mans descendants. They are not to have it all, nevertheless. The legislature being, as usual in En- gland, a good deal wiser than the individ. uals who compose it, has invested the Rolls Court with power, on the demand of the charity commissioners, to make in such cases arrangements for the general good of the community, and such arrange- ments are as final as if they had been made by legislative act. The court is in- formed that the money is in part wasted in gifts to the undeserving, every Smith being, of course, poor in his own eyes, and in part so applied as to encourage pauperism, and finding these allegations justified by the evidence, immediately pro- ceeds to override the provisions of the will as interpreted by the act of 1772. Invent- ing, in the public interest, a theory that Alderman Smith intended to secure some end not secured in his will, the master of the rolls decrees that half the property is enough for Smiths poor kin, and that the other half shaJl be expended on ob- jects presumably excellent, but not in the least specially beneficial to the aldermans relatives. In other words, the will, the operation of which is pronounced injuri- ou; is half set aside and half re-sanc- tioned, the thumb and index finger of the dead hand being, as it were, amputat- ed, while the mutilated stump is suffered to remain. The right to mm,ooo a year is pronounced injurious to distressed Smiths of the aldermans clan, and in the public interest 5,500 a year is confis- cated; but at the same tii~e,in order that the injurious process may not wholly stop, 5,500 a year is devoted to it. Sir George J essel, in fact, decrees in one and the same breath that le ~ ac~ies in perpetuity, to be distributed to people because they are poor, offer premiums on pauperism, and ought to end; and that they are not inju- rious, and ought, therefore, to continue. That this is good law we do not dispute, but that it is also a wise compromise we cannot admit for one moment. Either Alderman Smiths descendants are entitled to all the money, the relief of Turkish cap- tives being impossible, or they are en- titled to none of it, or they are entitled only to the income he intended them to have, and with no one of these supposi- sitions does the decision agree. If the first is correct, Sir George Jessel should either have granted the money in annui- ties, without reference to consequences, or if he thought himself bound to act as guardian, should have founded a splendid high school, with free admissions or even free bursaries, for the Smith clan; if the second is correct, he should have taken iSS SMITH S POOR KIN. the whole sum for purposes of public util- come worse than ever. In the next gen- ity; and if the third, he should have taken eration the moiety of the aldermans fund the ~vhole, minus the income the alderman assigned to his poor kin will probably intended to go to his descendants. In re- have doubled for London is still low- jecting all these courses, he accepted a rented, compared with other capitals compromise which can be defended only while the poor kin themselves will be a on the grounds that it is legal, and that it regiment, perhaps fifteen hundred strong. does not grievously affront public opin- The money will then he absolutely wasted ion. in minute doles, which will have no re~ult Nevertheless; the settlement is ap- beyond keeping up a false idea that all the proved, and it is easy to see why. The members of the family are protected in English peoplecannot make up its mind the last resort from poverty. Is it not what it wishes to do or thinks it right almost time that the country should come to do about the dead hand. It is not to some decision upon this subject in its willing, on the one hand, to leave the tes- own mind, and give intending testators tator alone, and act upon his will to all fair warning how far it will and will not future time. No State, to begin with, can carry out their testamentary injunctions? allow a power of indefinite accumulation If there is, as nobody doubts, a point of for centuries, which might vest all property time at which the dead hand should in one mans hand, or make a man so rich cease to be powerful, why should not that that if he were capricious or viewy, the point be fixed? And if there is, and no- ordinary business of the country could body doubts there is, a degree of incre- not go on. We could not, for example, ment in l)roperty which may make a endure Mr. Parnell with power to produce bequest either injurious or ridiculous, why a Black Friday, or shut up the Bank of should not that degree be legislatively England whenever lie considered the declared? Suppose, for example, that chancellor of the exchequer not quite suf- Parliament passed an act allowing the ficiently civil. So indefinite accumulation charity commissioners to deal freely with is prevented by law. Then many bequests any bequests for charitable objects more are considered ridiculous, or useless, or than a hundred years old, would that immoral in their effects, so power to regu- arrangement in any serious de~ree inter- late them is handed over to the courts or fere with the stream of charity? That it to State commissions, or in certain cases would be much more honest than the pres- to the trustees, subject to official sanction. ent system is clear, but would it produce The dead hand is, in fact, in certain any practical ill-effect? Our own belief is cases paralyzed. On the other hand, that men rarely or never look more than a there is the oreatest dislike to amputate it, century ahead, and that certainty for a by declaringbthat in future Parliament will century would encourage the charitable to regulate all continuative or perpetual be- make bequests as much as certainty for- quests. It is felt, and felt justly, that such ever. Or suppose that in the same act a rule would act in discouragement of ac- any increment on charitable incomes be- cumulation, and interfere very greatly yoncl threefold the amount obtainable at with liberty of bequest. It might dry up the testators decease were also carried off a resource by which the nation has very to the general fund of charity, would that largely benefited, and would undoubtedly disturb testators? XVe venture to doubt diminish greatly the volume of the stream it greatly. Not one man in five hundred of charity. And it would, above all, limit who makes a charitable will expects any that individualism, that tendency tooddity increment of the kind, or would be willing, and to quaintness for which Englishmen, if he did, to leave it all at the disposal of Philistines as they are, have still a kindly the charity. The majority, we imagine, corner in their hearts, and which they would be much more willing that the Par- would be exceedingly loth finally to crush lianient of the day should decide where out. Under the operation of the two their surplus charity should go, and feelingsthe impulse to prevent waste, ~vould plead only that wherever it went and the impulse to leave the testator their names should be recorded and their alone we have the present system, in memory kept alive, a stipulation ~vith which some abuses, like the distribution which, in almost all cases, it would not be of St. Katherines fund, are tolerated for difficult to comply. At present we rob years, and others, which happen to come the testators legatees for the benefit of into court, like this Smith trust, are half the public, and do not secure to the public cured, and half so treated that they are the benefit for which the individual is pretty certain as the years flow on to be- robbed. IRRIGATION IN INDIA. 189 From The Examiner. IRRIGATION IN INDIA. FAMINE is at least as great a danger to our Indian empire as the czar of Russia, and precautions against its recurrence are no less necessary than precautions against interference with our road to the East. But precautions for the one purpose as much as for the other ought to be xvell cQnsidered and worthy of a community which may still claim to be partially ra- tional and practical. We may be firmly convinced of the necessity of protecting our road to India, and of the necessity of preventing the recurrence of famine, but that is no reason why we should rush into rash undertakings without counting the cost or estimating the probable result. For the last year and more a few rowdy jour- nalists, Jews, and stockbrokers, have been trying to persuade us that our road to India would be jeopardized, and our power and prestige as a nation irretrievably ruined, if we did not expend incalculable blood and treasure for the support of a decaying dynasty at Constantinople. They have not condescended to argument, but they have shown vast powers of declama- tion and abuse; the country has heard them, and has not been persuaded. All Englishmen who have not lost their senses have settled down into the conviction that for the security of our road to India a firm holdof Egypt is a sufficient and infinitely less costly precaution. For this they are l)repared to contend with all their resources and all their fighting power, and they are too confident in their strength to be turned aside from their purpose by any amount of i(Tnorant or interested literary fury. The prevention of famine in India has received comparatively little attention amidst the noise raised over the other great question, but Mr. Brights speech at Manchester has done something to get a hearing for it. Mr. Bright has taken up Sir Arthur Cottons panacea for the pre- vention of famine irrigation. Only irri- gate, and you will save the people, and protect the empire from a crushing load of debt. Now, before accepting irrigation as the one thing needful, however much we may admit its importance, the subject should be thoroughly discussed. The his- tory-of what has been done in one of the pxovinces of our Indian empire, Bengal, may be accepted as a contribution to the discussion. Bengal is the wealthiest, largest, most populous, and best-known of the provinces in British India. There are now irrigation works in this province in - South Behar, in Midnapore, and in Orissa, and it may be stated without exaggeration that Sir Arthur Cotton is their originator and author. The earliest and most im- portant of these works is what is known as the Orissa project It is not correct to assert, as is done by Colonel Chesney, in the Fortnz ~/ztly Review, quoted with ap- proval by Mr. Bright, in his speech, that the Qrissa works are the outcome of the great famine of i866. So long ago as 1858, Sir Arthur Cotton was deputed by government to report on the advisability of irrigation in Orissa. He reported that it would be necessary to carry out a sys- tem of works that would completely regu- late the waters of the province, similar to those in the Godavery and Kistna deltas, and urged that government should at once take the project in hand as being eminently practicable and advantageous. He also suggested, if government was unwilling to -execute these ~vorks itself, that an English company should be permitted to carry them out. In accordance with this suggestion the East India Irrigation and Canal Com- pany was formed in i86o. The arrange- ments made between government and the company were that government was to give all land free of charge; that the com- pany was to construct the works, and, when these were ready for irrigation, to distribute the water; whilst government was to collect the water-rates, and, after deducting the cost of collection, to pay the remainder over to the company. The works were commenced in November, I863, and by the end of 1865 water first became available from the companys works for the irrigation of land. But the people refused to take water, and. the works proved a failure. At the end of October, 1867, the company was prepared to supply water to 153,000 acres, whereas the area actually under irrigation amounted to only 9,836 acres. The whole gross reve- nue from the commencement to October, 1867, only amounted to 4,339?. The re- turns thus not coming in, the shares of the company fell in the market, and bank- ruptcy stared the shareholders in the face. About the same time, the same company had under consideration the irrigation of a part of South Behar adjoining the Sope River, and their project here also was ac- cepted by government on the understand- ing that the agreement must end if the company did not make satisfactory prog- ress with their works. But, from want of funds, the company were never even able to commence work on the Sone project. Irrigation in Bengal was in a state of col 190 IRRIGATiON IN INDIA. lapse. At this epoch, however, govern- ment intervened, as much, there is reason to believe, in the interest of the share- holders as of irrigation; and after some- what lengthy negotiations, the Orissa and Sone projects became the property of government on January i, 1869, Ofl pay- ment of the sum of 1,040,050/. In other words, government bought at par value, at the price of more than a million sterling, shares which at their market value were worthless. Since this time the works. of the Orissa project (including Midnapore) and of the Sone project have steadily progressed to completion. The outlay has been prodi- gious, and the loss on them enormous. The total capital outlay on irrigation works in Lower Bengal up to March 31, 1876, was 4,072,742/., and not less than 1,494,000/. will be required to complete the works that are in progress; the gross income from these w.orks in 187576 was 23,043/., and the working expenses were 52,949/.; there was a dead loss on the years operations, independently of inter- est on borrowed capital, of 29,906/.; the net loss in interest and working expenses during the year was 203,700/., and the total accumulated loss up to March 3!, 1876, was 878,100/. With one trifling ex- ception, there has always hitherto been an annual loss on the working of the canals. The only canal in Bengal that has ever paid its working expenses for the year is the Hidgelee tidal canal, in Midnapore, which was constructed in the first instance for irrigation purposes, but, as the water was found to be salt, it has been exclu- sively used for navigation. The extraordi- nary traffic of 1874, in order to meet the famine demand in the upper parts of Ben- gal, so raised the navigation tolls of that year that they gave a profit over working expenses of about 50/. The Orissa and Midnapore canals had cost, up to March 31, 1876, 2,482,039/., and are so far completed that water for irrigation on a large scale has been ob- tainable for several years past; in 187576 these canals yielded an income of 17,953/. while the working expenses were 41,406/.; including interest, the net loss on these canals was 122,567/., and the total loss up to March 31, 1876, was 666,131/. The fur- ther works which it is proposed to under- take in Orissa will cost about 368,000/. more. There does not, however, appear to be the smallest chance of an adequate return from this great expenditure. The Sone canals had cost, up to the end of 187576, 1,521,366/., and more than i,i8~,ooo/. will he required to complete them. The income in 187576 was 5,090/., and the working expenses were 11,543/. In this case also there is no probability that they will, for many years to come, pay the interest on the capital outlay. Such is the history and present condi- tion of the. irrigation works in Bengal. The bare statement of the above facts, derived from official sources, which have been published, is more eloquent than any commentary on them could be. Practi- cally the works are, and always have been, at a dead-lock. The Irrigation Depart- ment is over-officered, and, the difficulty is not to find men for the work, but work for the men. Large sums of money have been literally squandered in order to find useless employment for engineer officers who would otherwise have been sitting at the Presidency. On the other hand, the people do not care for the canals; they grudge the land, and view the construction of the distributary channels as a grievance. Irrigation is not popular, and has failed to produce the wonderful results anticipated from it. The reason of this failure is not far to seek. The canals are unnecessary, for they have been laid down in a country where there is already an adequate suppl~r of rain water. The circumstances of Orissa are unlike those of the Indus basin, or of the upper Ganges basin, or of the lower peninsula of India. There aredry zones that may fairly be said to stand in absolute need of irrigation. B utinOrissa, and indeed all over Bengal proper, irriga- tion is a mere expensive luxury, occa- sionally useful, sometimes injurious, and never absolutely necessary excel)t in ex- traordinary years. In Bengal and Orissa, the rainfall is not only sufficient in quantity, but it is, broadly speaking, regular in its incidence. It is not, of course, the case that the rains are always so regular as to yield a first-rate harvest; but it is a very rare occurrence when they fall so irregu- larly as to yield a crop insufficient for the support of the people. During the pres- ent century there has been only one fain- ne in Orissa, that of i866, and only one year, 1874, when there was any real ap- proach to famine over Bengal generally. Behar, the large territory that lies to the north-west of the territories under the lie~utenant-governo rship of Bengal, is some- what dfferently situated, but even there drought and famine are of very rare occurrence. If there is to be irrigation in Bengal, it should be in parts of Behar only. But it remains to be seen whether PEPPERINESS. 9 the Sone irrigation works, established in English taste is of the same kind. When Behar, have not been constructed on a people hear of a very peppery speech, scale which will render them a ruinous in- unless it be directed against themselves, surance against the occurrence of a possi- they laugh, and rather chef-ish a tender ble but fortunately improbable famine. ness for the man who gave vent to it. It The inutilityof irrigation in Bengal, and may be said, perhaps, that in the case ot the enormous use less expenditure that has Mr. Freemans recent rebuff to Mr. Armi- been incurred by the State on the con- tage, the pepperiness of that rebuff has struction of irrigation works in that prov- been rather sharply criticised. But we ince, has recently been the subject of active suspect this is for quite a different reason. discussion in India. The expenditure was Mr. Armitage, a Royal Academician, had incurred by the imperial government, and applied to Mr. Freeman whom he did that government has renounced its liability not know for advice as to a question of for the payment of current expenses and costume in the Norman period, whether of the current interest due on the capital or not a serf ought to wear a collar such as expended. Those charges are henceforth Scott represents Gurth as ~vearing in to be borne by the provincial government Ivanhoe. He got at first a somewhat of the lieutenant-governor of Bengal. snappy and not quite intelligible reply for But that government does not possess the his pains; and next, when he pressed for funds wherewith to meet so large an annual further information, relying on the advice outlay, and it has been found necessary to of Tom Taylor and other literary friends, impose what is known as a compulsory who had counselled him to consult Mr. water-rate on the people. In other words, Freeman, he received a severe snub, for all persons whose lands fall within the them as well as for himself, in the shape area irrigable by canal distributaries will of an assurance that the historians time now be compelled to pay a water-rate for was too well occupied to answer queries their land every year, whether they want put to him on the advice of people of whom the water or not, and whether they take it he knew nothing; though if Mr. Armitage or not. The injustice of this imposition is haEl come recommended by Mr. Glad- not among the least of the evils that have stone or Professor Stubbs, it might have attended the introduction of irrigation in been more to the purpose. And this snap- India into a province where it was not pish reply of Mr. Freemans has been the wanted, subject of a good deal of comment in the press, and on the whole, rather unfavor- _____________ able comment. But it is pretty clear that, except perhaps in the case of those whom the snub directly affected, the motive of From The Spectator, the unfavorable comment is not in an y PEPPERINESS. f considerable degree the pepperiness of the reply itself, but rather a political motive, WE wonder what is the source of the the wish, on the one hand, to diminish mixture of sympathy, not to say approba- the estimation in which the judgment of tion, with which pepperiness, as distin- an historian of repute, who is now so guished from bad temper, is generally famous for his pro-Slavonic sympathies, is treated by the world, especially by the liter- held by the public, or the wish, on the ary world? Miss Bront~ teaches all her other hand, of those who agree with Mr. readers almost to fall in love with a peppery Freeman to exonerate themselves from little professor mainly because he is pep- any imputation of sympathy with his pery. Sir Walter Scott hardly ever draws brusquerie. We very much doubt if any a peppery person whom he does not evi- one on either side not directly affected by dently heartily like at bottom,even the remark has criticised it from any other Hector MacTurk, in St. Ronans Well, than this semi-political motive. People though an idle, loafing soldier, who spends probably know that Mr. Freeman has been his time in fomenting quarrels and pro- overloading himself with gratuitous and moting duels, is obviously a favorite, whom very responsible work for the oppressed he intends the reader to like, and whom S~avs, and they know that such work, the reader accordingly does like; while when combined with the heavy work of an the attractiveness of many characters of a historian of very laborious and minute ac- far better class, the Antiquary himself, curacy, is e*ceedingly likely to generate a for example, is made to centre in their good deal of highly compressed impatience pepperiness. And no doubt the general in the character of a man whose feelings 192 PEPPERINESS. are so ardent as Mr. Freemans. And so thinking, they naturally do not take very much more account of this fiery snub to Mr. Armitage and his friends, quite un- deserved though it was, than they would of a squib going off when it gets a sharp blow. Indeed, editors print every day much less excusable outbursts of pepperi- ness than this, on questions purely literary, and evidently are rather amused by them than offended. It is evident, that Lucy Snow, in Villette, took a good deal of pains to provoke peppery little outbreaks from M. Paul Emanuel. Who does not enjoy the scene in the picture-gallery when she will look at the not very respectable picture of a fleshy Cleopatra, and ask him questions about his opinion of it, after he had so very peremptorily led her away from the picture and told her not to set eyes on it again? The pepperiness of the man has a charm for her in itself, though not perhaps as much as the peremptori- ness. She likes his imperiousness best, but she likes his outbreaks of fiery temper too. And that, we suppose, is the feeling generally with us English. We dislike bad temper, but admiringly encourage a fiery temper,if it be only a fiery temper, and unless it explodes at our own ex- pense we rather like the man who owns it the better. The choleric character in comedy is always a favorite, and we should like very much to know why. No doubt part of the reason is that peo- ple always feel kindly to a character which, in very marked and conspicuous aspects at least, is within their power, and like a musical instrument, will give out certain tones under their manipulation. It does not increase the respect for a man, but it does the feeling of fellowship with him, that he is sure to respond in a give nway to a given stimulus, and that you possess the means of applying th~ft stimulus at will. Such a man is liked partly as a nat- ural phenomenon, on the display of which, under given circumstances, you can always rely. Just as men like to show off a fine echo in a particular spot, and will elicit it day after day, to the admiration of their different guests, so they like to show off the flashes of temper with which a friend answers the application of the well-known irritants. The pleasure in it is almost like the professional pleasure with which a medical practitioner sees the blister rise where he has applied the plaster, or the chemist, when he has predicteti the liqu[ dation of a gas, displays the result of the pressure he has applied. In short, these irascible tempers verify their friends pre- dictions, and also illustrate their power of playing upon character. But probably another and more worthy reason for the tolerance, and something more than tolerance, with which peppery teml)ers are regarded, is that it is sulaposed that at least there must be something in these fiery people childlike and devoid of guile, since they have learned so little of policy as to respond without fail to any external stimulus. Men who control their temper so as to keep it more or less in harmony with their ruling purpose, may be and often are very superior to the aver- age man, and sometimes, again, are morally, at least very inferior to him; but in either case they are more or less beyond his fathoming, and though they may use him he can never hope to use them. Now, as simplicity of character is always more popular than depth of charac- ter, any trait which, like superficial irasci- bility, has its explanation on the very surface, carries with it a certain j5ri;n4 fade promise of straightforwardness and naturalness which are in themselves at- tractive. And again, a peppery temper has so much of the disturbing effects of pepper itself on the mucous membrane of those who come into close contact with it, and is apt to produce such sudden and altogether unexpected convulsions, to pre- sent such absurd contrasts between the heat of the feeling roused and the minute- ness of the cause which has excited that feeling, that the humor of the situation alone has a certain amount of fascination for those who do not suffer from the iras- cibility roused. In short, pepperiness is grotesque, both in its origin and its results, and whatever is grotesque has has in it an attractiveness for the En- glish people. When Meg Dods flour- ishes her broom, and Captain Hector MacTurk wards it off with his soldierly cane, all the spectators are delighted; and the same amusement which results in literature from the imaginary collisions of irritable tempers, results also in life from their real collisions. But all our reasons come to this in the end, that pepperi- ness is intrinsically superficial, childish, and irrational, and that, man being what he is, the contemplation of what is super- ficial, childish, and irrational in other men has a charm of its own.

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The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1754 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 26, 1878 0136 1754
The Living age ... / Volume 136, Issue 1754 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1754. January 26, 1878. ~Prom Begiiming, CONTENTS. I. ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS, H. MACLEOD OF DARE. By William Black. Part II. III. HYDROPHOBIA AND RABIES IV. WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. By Mrs Oh- phant. Part II. V. CHARLES DICKENSS VERSE VI. DORIS BARUGH. A Yorkshire Story By Katharine S. Macquoid, author of Patty. Conclusion VII. CHARLES DICKENSS MANUSCRIPTS, VIII. FETICHISM IN ANIMALS IX. RUHMKORFF HOLY COMMUNION, SLEEP, Edinburgh Review, Advance Sheets, Nineteenth Century, Advance Sheets, Spectator, Good Words, Chambers 7ournal Nature, Nature, P 0 E T R Y. . . . 194j THE BEGUILING OF MERLIN, . . . 94 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EsmiT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tke Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free oJ~osttage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should he made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can he procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. 195 . 213 220 . 231 . 237 . 241 . 252 . 254 256 94 94 HOLY COMMUNION, ETC. HOLY COMMUNION. ~ As the living Father hath sent me, and I live by the Father; so he that eateth me, even he shall live by me. ST. JOHN vi. 57. Amen, Allelujab! WE sing the everlasting truth Of words that Jesus said: There is a holy human life Upon the earth we tread. It was poured out our faith to win, It has prevailed against our sin, It brings eternal glory in, Een here among the dead. 0 Lord of all the angel host And of the church above, We know thee in the midst of us By thy descending dove. We in our prison stained and dim, With cherubim and seraphim, Lift up to thee the heaven-born hymn Of joy, and praise, and love. Hail, bread of God that men may take ! His spirit teaches how. The dying soul that eateth thee Shall even live as thou. Come, eat, the faithful witness saith To sinners breathing mortal breath, And live forever after death; Yea, live forever now. This being, with its ransomed powers, Oh let thy body feed, And make the very life it lives An endless life indeed. With faith in thy anointing shod, It chooses paths which thou hast trod, And offers to the living God Its whole immortal need. Soldiers and servants by thy grace, But helpless children first, We gather round our Fathers board In hunger and iii thirst. Bold through the love which thou hast shown, Rich without substance of our own, We give thee, not our best alone, But all our least and worst. The treasure worthless in our hands Transformed in thine we see. Thou takest from us what we are, How spoiled soeer it be. In thy participating name, We pour out sorrows, tremblings, shame, The empty hope, the failing aim; And then we feast on thee. It is for service that we live, Destroyer of our sin. It is to keep the childrens place, With all its discipline. But sweet be our communion song, The whole contented way along. God gave us thee, and we are strong For life to triumph in. Sunday Magazine. A. L. WARING. SLEEP. O GENTLE sleep! the gracious gift and blest, Of Gods own sending; O sacred sleep! dear foretaste of that rest Which knows no ending; Sweet promise of that far-off Paradise Of calm release, Where weary ones may lean on Jesus breast, And close their eyes, And be at peace. Earth presses down; the hearts that would ascend Droop, faint and weary; So distant seems the lifelong journeys end, The way so dreary; Each days fierce struggle tires us out, as though We could no more, Then comes thine handmaid, Sleep, our griefs to tend, With balm for woe, And strength in store. We lay us down in peace, thy touch divine Our eyelids closing; Darkness, thy secret place, becomes the shrine Of our reposing; Gently we breathe our souls into thy care, So glad to be One day niore rtear to that home-rest of thine, Which we may share With saints and thee. So night by night we linger at thy feet, Until the morning; Glimpses of heaven, bright visions pure and sweet, Our dreams adorning; And if thy voice, kind Lord, we seem to hear, That word most blest For willing souls, with sympathy replete, Falls on our ear, Sleep, take your rest! GENEVIEVE M. I. IRONs. Sunday Magazine. THE BEGUILING OF MERLIN. GLAMOR of bud, and blossom, and sweet May, Glamor of life, and of loves burgeoning, When through gray mists of eld a second spring Glances a moment, flying ah, welaway, Needed there other witcheries, 0 fay, Of olden runes low crooning, and the swing And rhythm of lissom limbs in mystic ring, To charm the sage into thy thrall and prey? But, ah, the horror of those eyes athirst For draughts of fuller life, that drink for these Thy souls sly poison to the subtler lees, Knowing it poison seeing the past accurst, To-day a lie, hope like a bubble burst, And worse than death creep on by slow de. grees! Examiner. FRANK T. MARzIALs, From The Edinburgh Review. ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS.* IN the dying days of the old Roman empire of the West, when men with strange barbarian names were sitting on the curule chairs of consuls and riding at the head of legions; when nothing but the imperial purple was withheld from the Germanic soldier of fortune, and hardly anything but that faded garment was left for the descendants of /Eneas to aspire to, in those days of startling ethnologic upheaval, some poet, unknown to fame, sat wearily through a long and noisy ban- quet, at which the loudest of the talking and the deepest of the drinking were done by the unwelcome strangers; and return- ing home tired of the clamor, and exceed- ingly filled with the scorning of the alien, poured forth his indignation in the follow- ing epigram Inter HAILS Goticum SKAPJAM jam MATJA ja DRIGGKAM Non audet quisquam dignos educere versus: Calliope madido trepidat se jungere Baccho, Ne pedibus non stet ebria musa suis.t We read this curious effusicin with a min- gled feeling of shame and pleasure, in the thought that these masterful conquerors, whose rough speech jarred so harshly on the delicate Italian ear, were, if not pre- cisely ancestors of ours, at least kinsmen of our ancestors; that their words are our words; that we may perhaps lay claim to a little of their strength, while their beset- ting sin is still our national vice and bane drunkenness. HAILS Goticum we know well enough in hail and wassail: SKAPJAN is the German sckq/fen, our own * s. Ue~8er dos Leben and die Lekre des U~fila. Von GEORG WAlTZ. Ilannover: 5840. 2. Ueber dos Leben des U~ftla und die Bekebrung der Go/lien, Von Dr. W. BESSELL. Gtittingen: i866. 3. Go/kic and A nglo-Saxon Gostels. By Rev. JOSEPH BOSWORTH. London: s56~. 4. Minso-Gothic Glossary. By Rev. W. W. SKEAT. London: s568. ~. U/fibs. Die Heiligen Sckrj/?en in Go/kiscker Sfracke. Von H. F. MASSMANN. Stuttgart: 5857. t Round me the hails of the Goths their skap- jam and matjam and drinkam Harshly resound; in such din who could fit verses indite? Calliop~, sweet muse, from the wine-wet embraces of l3acchus Shrinks, lest her wavering feet bear her no longer aright. 95 shale. MATJAN connects itself with the English meal, and DRIGGKAN (pro- nounced drinkan) is but too obviously our ancestral drink. These four Gothic words onthe surface of a Latin epigram, like boulder-stones on a glacier, might very easily have been all that history could trace of the language spoken by the Germanic nations at the time of their de- scent upon the Roman empire. It is to Uifilas, the Gothic translator of the Bible, a name dear to philologists, but scarcely yet familiar enough to the major- ity even of educated Englishmen, that we owe nearly all other knowledge than this epigram afforded of the earliest forms of Teutonic speech. And our acquaintance with Ulfilas himself, and our motive for the study of his writings, have been won- derfully augmented since the beginning of this century. One paragraph in Gibbons thirty-seventh chapter expressed, with his usual accuracy and force, nearly all that was then known concerning him. It com- mences thus Ulphilas, the bishop and apostle of the Goths, acquired their love and reverence by his blameless life and indefatigable zeal; and they received, with implicit confidence, the doctrines of truth and virtue which he preached and practised. He executed the arduous task of translating the Scriptures into their native tongue a dialect of the German, or Teutonic language; but he prudently suppressed the four Books of the Kings, as they might tend to irritate the fierce and sanguinary spirit of the barbarians. Already also a century before Gibbon1 Francis Junius (whose name was Latinized from the French Du Jou) had published Ulfilass translation of the Gospels, and had acquired in the process a certain num- ber of Gothic derivations for English words, of which Dr. Johnson freely availed himself in his dictionary while quizzing Juniuss wild notions of etymology in his preface. But the great philological move- ment at the beginning of this century, of which Jacob Grimm may be taken as the type, was the first cause of a true appre- ciation and scientific study of the work of Ulfilas. Scholars had found out what in- calculable assistance was rendered by the study of Sanskrit towards the affiliation ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 196 TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. and comparison of the various languages of the Indo-European stock. Grimm and his fellow-workers perceiv~d that Gothic offered a promise of similar assist- ance to him who would study the history of the languages of the Teutonic family. Nor has this promise been belied. The Bible of Ulfilas has illustrated our kindred languages, as might have been expected from this venerable monument of Teuton- ism, which is seven centuries older than the Scandinavian Edda, live centuries older than the High German Niebelun- gen Lied, three centuries older even than the Paraphrase of the Northumbrian Caedmon. While the work of Ulfilas has thus re- ceived an unexpected increase of value from the services rendered by it to one of the youngest of modern sciences, philol- ogy, light equally unexpected and not less valuable has been thrown upon his life and opinions by the discovery at Paris of his biography, written by Auxentius. To this biographer we o~ve almost all that is vivid and personal in our present knowl- edge of a character which was dim and almost mythical in the days of Gibbon. The Auxentius to whom we are thus in- debted was not either of the two bishops of Milan with whom we are brought in contact in reading the life of Ambrose. His see was Dorostorus in Mcesia, a place familiar to our generation by its modern name of Silistria. He tells us himself that he was a pupil and friend of Ulfilas, and we may conjecturally assign to him a date between A.D. 330 and 390. The story of the decipherment of his MS. at Paris, in the year 1840, by a German student, has a little of the romance of bibliography about it, and shall be told at the conclusion of this paper. Lastly, Where did Ulfilas work? For that also is a point which modern very modernhistory happens to illustrate. The province of Mcesia, which was the scene of the labors of this earliest of Teu- tonic authors, and from which the some- what unfortunate name of Mceso-Gothic has been applied to his language, was pretty nearly conterminous with Servia and that Bulgaria of which we have heard so much. And his birthplace was in Dacia, that province which Trajan con. quered with so much toil, and which Aure- han, one hundred and seventy years after Trajan, with such true statesmanship abandoned to the Goths. But those one hundred and seventy years of Roman oc- cupation of Hungary, Transylvania, Mol- davia, and Wallachia produced among other results these two. First, Ulfilas must have imbibed in his childhood some knowledge of the Latin tongue, as still spoken by the subject provincials in Dacia; and hence, probably, the fact that his translation shows traces of the influence of the old Latin version (the Itala) as well as of the Greek original. Secondly, at the present hour, the interposition of some millions of men in Roumania and Transyl. vania, speaking the Daco-Romansch lan- guage, and thrust like a wedge between the two great masses of the Slavonian race, decidedly affects, and in some degree may facilitate the solution of the Eastern question. Marcus Ulpius Trajanus still moulds the east of Europe. The scenes in which the life of the Gothic apostle was passed almost necessi- tated so much of reference to contempo- rary politics; but we shall not transgress in the same manner again. Henceforth we concern ourselves with no events that have happened within the last fourteen hundred years. Our proto-Teutonic au- thor was not of pure Teuton origin. His ancestors were Cappadocians, carried away captive by the Goths, about the mid- dle of the third century, from the village of Sadagolthina, near the city of Parnas- sus. This place was in the very centre of Asia Minor, near the large inland sea of Tatta. But in the two generations which passed away between that enforced migra- tion and the birth of Ulfilas, there was plenty of time for the Cappadocian cap- tives, while still perhaps retaining their ancestral Christianity, to become Goths in language and thought, a change which seems to be attested by the very name which the parents of Ulfilas bestowed upon their offspring. As for that name of his, it is written in various ways, in consequence, no doubt, of the barbarous northern W with which it commenced. Wulfila, Vulfila, Hulfila, Gulphilas, Oi2~ia~, are the different forms under which it appears. The first is probably the correct one, though the Grecized 07- fl/as has now so thoroughly established itself that it is not worth while to attempt its eradication. It is conjectured that its meaning may have been wolf-cub, a name which would have been most appro- priate had the boy turned out a Visigothic freebooter, while it is paraddxically inap- propriate for him who was to be the shepherd and bishop of so many of his fellow-countrymen, and the first to write down for them the words, I/i im Izairdeis gods ( I am the good shepherd ), Asneis gasaiwith WULF gimandan ( The hire- ling seeth the wolf coming ), 7ah sa WULFS frawliwith tho Ia/i distal4/itlz tho lamba ( And the wolf teareth them and scattereth the sheep ). The birth of Ulfilas occurred at a criti- cal time in the history of Christianity and the empire. In that year (311) the em- peror Galerius died, and the persecution of the Christians ceased. Next year Con- stantine adopted the labarum upon his standards, and in hoc szgno defeated his Roman rival, Maxentius. In 323, when Ulfilas was twelve years old, Constantine overcame Licinius, and the Christian, or rather Christianizing, emperor became sov- ereign of the whole Roman world. When the future bishop of the Goths was four- teen years old, the great council of Nicxa was assembled, and five years later the new capital was dedicated, which bore the name of the city of Constantine. More relevant, perhaps, to our present purpose, than these dates, would be the history of the wars which, during this time, were fitfully commenced and abandoned, between the Romans and the Goths; but our information as to these is fragmentary and the dates are not well ascertained. It seems pretty clear, ho~vever, that a war of this kind was waged in the year 332; and when we hear that it terminated unsuc- cessfully for the Goths, and that their king, Araric, sent hostages, of wh om his own son was one, to Constantinople, we may perhaps, without making too large an assumption, couple this fact with the state- ment of a biographer friendly to Ulfilas,* * Phulostorgius, ii. 97 that he, during the reign of Constantine was sent with others by the ruler of his nation on an embassy to Constantinople, for the barbarians of his country were sub- ject to the emperor. The difference be- tween a hostage and the envoy of a subject people is not so great as to put the two narratives very far asunder; and the age of Ulfilas, twenty-one, (supposing we have got the year rightly fixed) would fit the former character better than the latter. At any rate it seems probable that much of his time between 331 and 341 was passed at the great metropolis of the East- ern Empire, that he then obtained that thorough knowledge of the Greek lan- guage which he certainly possessed, and that to this time must be assigned his con- version to the Christian faith, unless, as we have before suggested, Christianity, of some sort or other, ~vas the religion in which he was born and educated. But, even so, the Christian Goths in Dacia, during the years of his childhood and youth, are probably well described by Auxentius, as living an indifferent life, in hunger and poverty of the preached word in fame et ~enuria ~redicationis incizife- renter agentes; and the residence at Con- stantinople may well have been the turning-point in his life, the influence which changed languid acquiesence into mission- ary earnestness on behalf of his ancestral faith. The young Gothic stranger who, whether hostage or envoy, seems to have taken up his residence for a time at Constantinople, was, before long, ordained lector. This was a subordinate office, the lowest but one in the whole ecclesiastical hierarchy, but it is a significant fact that the cere- mony of ordination was performed by handing to the new reader a copy of the Scriptures, and that the duties upbn which he then entered consisted not only in reading to the congregation the lessons taken from the Gospels and from St. Pauls Epistles, but also in exercising a librarian~ s office, and taking charge of the sacred codices when they were not being used in divine service~ We may, therefore, with much proba- bility conjecture, though we cannot prove, that it was di~riug these years between ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 198 ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. twenty and thirty, while he was officiating at Constantinople as lector, perhaps at times making missionary journeys to his kinsmen in Dacia, that the great thought occurred to his mind, Why not put down the Gothic speech of my/ childhood in written words, and translate into them the Greek codices which I am daily hand- ling? Surely we are not wrong in call- ing it a great thought. The missionary of to-day, with the experience of many gener- ations of predecessors to guide him, does not find it an over-easy task to fix the gutterals, the breathings, the aspirates of a barbarous tribe in characters in- vented for the use of a nation speaking a very different kind of language; and even wh~n this is done, the labor of translat- ing the Scriptures into the newly-written speech is often lifelong. But this man, with no guides or precursors on his diffi- cult path, conceived in his own brain the idea of both tasks, and accomplished both. He comes before us as a Cadmus-Wick- life, bringing as gifts to his nation the first Teutonic alphabet and the first Teu- tonic Bible. Translations of the Bible into various Syrian and Egyptian dialects had been made before the time of Ulfilas, but these were already literary languages. We may safely assert that his version was the first that had been made of either the Jewish or the Christian Scriptures into a language that was then accounted barbar- ous. On such an important subject as the invention of the Gothic alphabet and the translation of the Scriptures, it will be well to quote, even at the risk of a little repetition, the z[j5sissima verbci of our au- thorities. Unfortunately Auxentius is too deeply engaged in doctrinal discussions to give us any information as to his masters greatest claim to the gratitude of posterity. We have, therefore, to take our details from three ecclesiastical historians who flourished half a century or more after the deathof Ulfilas, but who, though differing as to many other circumstances of his life, speak with remarkable unanimity as to this. Plidostorgius, the Arian historian of the Church, who lived from about 358 to 427, says (ii. 5): Ulfilas carefully watched over his people in many other ways, but, especially, he invented for them letters of their own, and having done so, translated into their speech all the Scrip- tures except the Books of Kings, which contain the history of wars: whereas this nation is already very fond of war, and needs the bit rather than the spur, so far as fighting is concerned. Socrates (about 380450) writes (iv. 35): Then also Ulfilas, the bishop of the Goths, invented the Gothic letters, and by his translation of the Divine Scriptures into the language of the Goths, enabled the barbarians to learn the oracles of God. Sozo~nen (also about 380450) says: Ulfilas was the first inventor of letters for them (the Goths), and he translated the holy books into their own speech (vi. 37). 7ornandes, or Jordanes, the historian of the Goths, speaks of their primate Vulfila, who is said to have instructed them in letters ( De Rebus Geticis, li.). But he should, perhaps, hardly be considered an independent authority, as he flourished about the middle of the sixth century, and evidently builds, as much as pos- sible, on the foundations laid for him by the ecclesiastical historians, Socrates and Sozomen. if this great literary labor was begun at Constantinople, and in the third decade of the life of Ulfilas, we may, nevertheless, safely conjecture that it was not ended then. Many years were doubtless spent upon the task; yet his friend Auxentius tells us also that he left behind him many tracts and many expositions, written in the three languages Greek, Latin, and Gothic, useful and edifying for those who heard them, and for himself an eternal memorial and reward. As the middle and later years of his life were passed amid much stress of persecution, exile, contro- versy, and that which must have come upon him daily, the care of all the church- es, we have proof of considerable literary activity on the part of this first of Teutonic authors. Of this life of intellectual toil we yet re- tain some of the most precious fruits. Deservedly the most famous representa- tion of them is the code~r Argenteus, a manuscript of the four Gospels. The actual writing of this codex cannot be re- ferred to an earlier period than the close of the fifth century, fully one hundred years after the death of Ulfilas, but there is no reason to doubt that the text is sub- stantially his. The history of this single MS., adequately told, would require an article to itself. Written originally in Italy, probably at Ravenna, carried thence either by the fortunes of ~var, or by some matrimonial alliance of royalty, or (as some German philologists unkindly suggest) by a dishonest English student in the Middle Ages, who fell ill and died on his home- ward journey, it appears next and that ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 199 is all that can be said with certainty at a Westphalian monastery, in the early years of the sixteenth century. Trans- ported thence to Prague, in the Thirty Years War, it becomes the prize of a Swedish general, who sends it as one of his most cherished trophies to Stockholm. Christina, daughter of Gustavus Adolphus, careless in this, as in so many other things, of her countrymens desires, allows her secretary, Isaac Vossius, to carry it away with him when he leaves her court and returns to his native Netherlands. From him, however, it was repurchased in 1662 by the Swedish chancellor, Gabriel de la Gardie, for the moderate sum of six hundred reich-thalers (about 311.), and thus, after a few years exile, it returned to Scandinavia, the traditional home of the Gothic race. There, in the library of the University of Upsal, it still remains, probably the most precious literary treas- ure which Sweden possesses. Outside, it still bears the solid silver binding in which Count de la Gardie in- vested it; within, its noble Gothic charac- ters, illuminated in silver upon a purple ground, explain the real reason of the name Ar~enteus. A few words at the beginning of each section are blazoned in gold instead of silver. At the bottom of each page, a sort of gallery of four arches, resting on Corinthian columns, suggests the influence of the architecture of Raven- na on the mind of the amanuensis, and serves the useful purpose of enclosing the numbers which, under the well-known name of the Eusebian canons, en- abled the student, before the introduction of chapters and verses, readily to compare the text of one Gospel with the parallel passages in the other three. The Coder Asgenteus once consist- ed of three hundred and thirty pages, of which unfortunately only one hundred and eighty-seven now remain. Thus, nearly one-half has perished. A few of the blanks left in the four Gospels are supplied from another source, to which we are also indebted for the fragments, not inconsiderable, though far less than we could desire, of the Epistles of St. Paul. The other Epistles and the Acts of the Apostles are entirely lost. This other source to which we have referred, and which supplies us with an amount of Gothic text equal to about three-fourths of the Codex Argenteus, is the Ambrosian Library at Milan. In this great library, so rich in palimpsests, are three MSS., one of which, to a superficial observer, seemed to contain only a Latin copy of the Gospels; another, Pope Greg- ory the Greats Homilies on Ezekiel; and a third, St. Jeromes Commentaries on Isaiah. But, under these Latin treat- ises, the patient labor of Count Castiglione, prompted by the celebrated Cardinal Mai, discovered, about the year 1820, those fragments of the Gothic version of St. Matthews Gospel and St. Pauls Epistles, which, as we have said, fairly supply the deficiencies of the Codex Argenteus, and enable us to read a considerable part of the New Testament in the same form in which Ulfilas circulated it among his brethren in Dacia. Some minute frag- ments of Genesis, of Ezra, and of Nehe- miah have been similarly preserved; but, practically, the Old Testament of the Goths is lost. To the same source, the palimpsests of the Ambrosian Library, we are indebted for several pages of a commentary on the Gospel of John, which modern scholars have agreed to call by the Gothic term, skeireins, an elucidation; and a very interesting fragment of an ecclesiastical calendar, from the 23rd October to the 30th November. Both these documents, thus recently fished up from the sea of darkness and oblivion, are found to throw valuable light on the life and teach- ing of Ulfilas. The personal and religious interests, however, of these remains, great as they are, will doubtless always be subordinate to that philological interest of which we have already spoken. Here we have the actual language spoken by Alaric and his long-haired Goths, when they stood under the walls of Rome; the language of The- odoric the Ostrogoth; probably also of Genseric the Vandal, and Alboin the Lom- bard. And this language, when we have made acquaintance with a few of its unfa- miliar particles (jak = and, fabai = if, unte= for, and the like), and when we have learned to recognize the stately and beautiful grammatical forms which it con- tains,* but which we have lost, is seen to be in very truth and essence the same language as our own, to explain our dia- lectical peculiarities, and sometimes even to ennoble that which we call slang by its illustrious kinship. Take, in illustration of the first point, the complaint of the Jews, in John vi. 6o: Hardie ist thata waurd: whas ;nag this kausjan ~l It only needs, as to the last * Such as theinamma = German deinem English thine; and habaida, habaides, habaida; habaidedum, kabaidedulk, kabaidedun; all represented by our sig- nificant word had. 200 TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. word, that we should be reminded of the interchangeableness of s and r, and that we should further compare the German hdren (to hear), and the sentence will at once read off into English: Hard is that word; what (man) may hear this? Again, when we find in the fifteenth chap- ter of John, that frz/an to love and thatiusfrzionds meinal sz~uth = you are my friends (that is, they who love me); and when we further find thatfjan = to hate, and the participle fiands = one who hates an enemy; we then at once per- ceive how it has come to pass that friend and ftend, so like in form, have such dif- ferent meanings; though it is true that the difficulty still remains to understand how our Teutonic ancestors could allow that one little letter r to bridge over the vast gulf between loving and hating. From fend to ogre, however, is an easier transition; and when we find in Luke i. 30, as part of the angelic salutation, Ni ogs thus Mariam, Fear not thou, Mary, we at once understand that an ogre was originally anything that causes fear. With this word f/an for a clue, we can now thread our way through a longer verse, the twenty-sixth of the fourteenth chapter of Luke. 7abai whas gaggith (pronounce the double g as ng) die inislak nif/aith attan seinana jah aiththein,jah quen,~ah barna,Iah brothruns, jah svistruns, nan/i- u/h-than seina si/bins saivala, ni mag tneins sz/oneis visan. If who ( any one) gangs to me and hates not his father and mother (in the Gothic equivalents of these words we have an extraordinary deviation from a very wide-spread type), and his ~vife (the Gothic for woman has risen into queen by a converse proc- ess to that by which the Italian donna has descended into woman), and his bairns and his brothers and his sisters, and still then (nauk = German noch) his selfs soul (compare the Scotch sawi and the German Seeie), he may not be my disciple. We spoke of the study of our own dia- lects as being illustrated by the labors of Ulfilas. In the northern, and, we believe, in some of the eastern counties of En- gland, the word to wilt is used of the decay of fruit (as, These pears have wilted); and this dialectical word, like so many others, is retained in the Ameri- can vocabulary, though in a rather differ- ent sense. Thus, in describing an action in the American Civil War, a journalist wrote, Our troops wilted (ran away). This word is accounted for by the Gothic ga-swiltan, to die. Again, the Yorkshire mickle and the Scotch meikie correspond to mikils, the regular Gothic equivalent of great. The Scotch sib (of kin to) is rep- resented by the Gothic sib/a (relationship). When a north-countryman says, Im ganging to my bairns, he speaks, as the texts above quoted show us, almost pure Gothic. We may have been sometimes puzzled to know why Londoners now talk of sho~-lzfting, and why the Scotch bor- derers used to talk of cattle~/fling. But when we read the beautiful Gothic transla- tion of the tenth chapter of John, we see at once that to liftin the sense of to rob is a rightful Teutonic word. Saci inn ni atgaggith thairh daur in gardan lambe ak stezgith a/jathro ( He that goes not in through the door into the yard of the lambs, but mounts another way,) salz h/~ftus ist lak vaidedla ( he is a thief and an evildoer ). Then, as for words which cannot aspire to a place in a dictionary of dialects: few words in the whole range of slang could seem less dignified than spry; yet this, too, can claim a legitimate descent from the Gothic s~rauto, quickly. In John xi. 29, we are told that Mary, when she heard of the Saviours approach, urrais s~rauto jak iddja die imma, arose quickly and went to him. And in this connection, though not as illustrating the history of slang, we may notice that the Gothic word for immediately~~ is suns. Thus, Matthew viii. ~: 7ah suns hrain warth thata thrutsftul is, and immedi- ately cleansed was his leprosy. The invet- erate habit of promising an earlier fulfil- ment of our intentions than we can hope to perform that habit which so often makes our five minutes equivalent to thirty has, in recent times, since the date of the Authorized Version, broken down the meanings of both by-and-by and pres- ently, rendering them quite inadequate representations of the Greek ~ to which, in our translators day, they were equivalent. It is interesting, and some- what reassuring, to see that the very same tendency was at work in the very dawn of our history, turning the energetic suns of the soldiers of Alaric into the languid soon of our English forefathers. We have already hinted at the value of the study of Gothic, as illustrating the relationship of the various Teutonic lan- guages to one another, and their affiliation to the great Aryan parent stock. As San- crit is not itself the Aryan, so neither is Gothic the Teutonic ur-sprache, the orig- inal speech from which the others have sprung; but each is so many steps nearer TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 201 to the ur-sprache, that by mounting up I to it we gain a wider and clearer horizon, and can discern the common origin of streams of language which otherwise might have seemed to us hopelessly disparted. For instance, who, judging from the existing forms of Teutonic speech, would have supposed that we ever had the dual in our grammar? And yet, when we turn to the Gode.r Argenteus, we find dual forms marked out with great clearness and accuracy. For instance, in Mark xi. 2, where Christ sends two of his disciples to bring the ass upon which he is to make his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, he says to them, Gaggats in izairn (ho withra-wairthon iggquis. Go ye two into the village which is over against you two. Had he been addressing more than two persons, the proper forms would have been gaggith and izwis. Again, the universal termination of the neuter plural of substantives and adjec- tives in Gothic is a. Thus the goda waurda of our kinsmen show a relation- ship to the bona verba of the Roman and the c~yaG& f~~iara of the Greek, which no termination in our own good words reminds i~s of. One more illustration may be permitted, though it is, by this time one of the commonplaces of comparative etymology. Who, judging from the mere aspect of the words, would suspect a kinship between the tear of English speech and its French equivalent? But Ulfilas furnishes us a.t once with the missing link. We rise from the English tear to the Gothic tagr; thence by an easy transition, we pass to the Greek dakul; thence to the Latin lacrurna; from which we descend again into the plain of modern languages, and recognize in French the clipped and ab- breviated form, larme. As we have said, these illustrations now take their place among the very rudiments of philological science. Still, they retain a great interest, especially for the student who is willing to rediscover them for him- self, by a patient study of the Gothic tongue. To read a list of Gothic words in a dictionary or a comparative grammar is like viewing a h or/us siccus, valuable, it may be, and scientifically useful, but some- what uninteresting. To read Ulfilas in his own tongue, and find, here a trace of the old long-extinct speech, which ~vas once common to all the Indo-European nations, there a word, or a vowel in a word, which recalls some peculiarity in the dialect of Yorkshire or of Dorsetshire, is like wan- * Generally known aa the Synod of the Dedica- tion, the alleged oblect of the meeting being the dedi- dering through the forest at spring-time, cation of the great church of Antioch. and gathering its ferns and flowers for our- selves. We return to the life and times of the great translator. In the year 337, when Ulfilas was twenty-six, the emperor Con- stantine died, and was succeeded in the eastern part of the empire by his son Con- stantius. And then was commenced one of the most peculiar reigns of which his- tory has preserved a record; the reign of a man deeply dyed in the blood of relatives and friends, who used the obsequious ser- vice of eunuchs instead of entrusting the affairs of the State to honest and capable ministers, whose feeble haughtiness and cowardly ambition bear no trace of the influence of Christianity upon his life, but who, nevertheless, plunged into theological discussions with an eagerness, and contin- ued in the same with a patient endurance, such as we should scarcely find nowadays in a salaried professor of divinity. Now, under the fostering care of this imperial theologian, were produced those wonderful eighteen creeds, the offspring of nearly as many toiling councils; now, to quote a well-known passage from Ammianus, the very posts of the empire were dis- organized by the troops of bishops gallop- ing backwards and forwards at the public expense, to attend what they call syn- ods, convened by the emperors order, in the hope of bringing every man round to his opinion. One such synod was held at Antioch in 341, * in order to depose Athanasius, and to expunge the word Izomoilsion from the creed. The president was Eusebius, long known as bishop of Nicomedia, well described as court chaplain of Constantine and Constantius, and now, just at the close of his life, metropolitan of Constantinople. It was at this synod of Antioch, according to the conjecture of Dr. Bessell, that Ulfi- las was ordained bishop. We may perhaps doubt whether the words, he was elected by Eusebius and the bishops who were with him, are quite sufficient to bear the weight of this conclusion. Is it not more probable that some one of his biographers would have mentioned at least the name of Antioch, had that been the l)lace of his ordination? But at any rate the date, and the name of the consecrating bishop, may now be considered as fixed. It was in the thirtieth year of his age, AD. 341, that Ulfilas was raised from the humble post of lector, and, by Eusebius and the bishops of his party, was elected first bishop of 202 ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. those who were embracing Christianity in the Gothic country. The name of Eusebius of Nicomedia, as the patron and friend of Ulfilas, brings us at once to the question, Which side did the Gothic bishop himself take in the long theological duel of the fourth cen- tury? To this question but one answer can, with any regard to historical fairness, be returned. Ulfilas was an Arian; and, if the apparently unimpeachable evidence of Auxentius be accepted, he was, or be- lieved himself to have been, an Arian all his life. It would have been indeed sur- prising had he not been on that side. All his religious training appears to have been received in that great city, the centre of ecclesiastical and intellectual activity for the Danubian countries, which his admir- ing disciple calls Constantinoj5olim immo vero Chris/ianoj5olim. And Constanti- nople, when he entered it, was feeling the reflux of the tide which, in 325, had borne her and her emperor up to the Nicene high-water mark. Nor would it be too much to say that, from the accession of Constantius in 337, to that of Theodosius in 379 except for a parenthesis of three years under Julian and Jovian Arianism, in one form or other, was the dominant creed, the State religion of the East, and that the Athanasians were considered by the majority, at least of the ecclesiastics, to whom Constantinople was the metrop- olis, as not less of heretics than Sabellius himself.* Now, these forty-two years, from 337 to 379, fill up all the best of the life of Ulfilas, from his twenty-sixth to his sixty-eighth year. From a purely secular point of view, and looking only to the dis- astrous consequences of the Arianism of the Teutonic invaders of the Roman em- pire, we may well regret that this should have been the form under which the Gothic apostle received and propagated the Christian faith; but to blame him for his religious position would be, in fact, tantamount to blaming him for having been born in the early part of the fourth cen- tury, rather than fifty years earlier or fifty years later. As for Arianism itself, we must say a few words, in order to prevent the life- work of Ulfilas from being misjudged. We are in danger of forming a wrong esti- mate of that system of doctrine, if we class it with certain modern forms of religious thought, which are popularly supposed to * And in this connection we ought not to forget that Marcellus of Ancyra, whom the Church now regards as a Sabellian heretic, was till 347 fighting aide by side with Athanasius against the Arians. be its representatives. In point of fact, we probably should not err in asserting that Arianism is as dead as the worship of Jupiter Olympius, and that there is noth- ing which corresponds to it, or represents it, in any of the schools of belief or dis- belief at the present day. Yet, the maxim De mortuis nil nisi bonurn does not apply to creeds and philosophies, and we wish to speak the truth concerning Arian- ism, whether it be for good or whether it be for evil. In the first place, we greatly mistake when we suppose that the Arians repre- sented the reaction against dogma.~ They hungered and thirsted for dogma; they could not endure to confess ignorance or to acknowledge inexplicable mysteries. Matthew Arnolds criticism upon certain orthodox writers, that they seem to know as much about God as about the man in the next street, exactly expresses the mental attitude of the Arians. The veil which reverence and love had permitted in primitive times to rest upon the relation of Christ to him whom he spoke of as his Father, must now be torn down, and a clear, exact account of the whole matter, such as would commend itself to tbe under- standing of every man, such as would stand the test of a vigorous dialectical de- bate in the agora of any Hellenic city, must be given to the whole world. Look- ing at the entire course of the controversy, we may fairly say that but for the Arian question we should never have had the Athanasian reply, and that the O1ioiacov of Nic~ea is really the offspring, though the hostile offspring, of the E~ oi~ic dvrwv eytVCTO of Alexandria. And hence it was, that during the half-century of Arian as- cendency the party could never continue in the same stay. Creed gave birth to creed, and sect split off from sect with a rapidity which would be amusing if we could forget the subject-matter of the con- troversy; and the efforts of Arian and semi-Arian to frame a religious platform upon which a sufficient majority of bish- ops could stand to make their views pass for catholic verity, and to ensure that everything above or below their exact mark on the theological thermometer should be condemned as heresy, remind one more of a presidential campaign in America, than of the earnest discussions on high themes of single-minded seekers after truth. But, secondly, we shall much mistake the feelings and the tendencies of an Arian of the fourth century, if, judging him by his supposed representatives in the nine- teenth, we imagine that he wished to elim TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 203 mate the supernatural from Christianity, or consciously took up a position of antag- onism to the authority of Scripture. It would be dangerous to venture on a sweep- ing assertion as to the conduct of any party through the whole of that vast and stormy controversy; but we think it will be admitted that the doctrines of the in- carnation, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus Christ were firmly held by a large majority of the Arians, and that the sacri- ficial import of his death was at least not zealously controverted. In their argu- ments with opponents, they do not appear to wish to evade the appeal to Scripture, or to be satisfied to say, True, the Bible says so and so, but we teach differently; nor do they seem to have been charged, as Marcion was, with mutilating any of the sacred books, or manipulating texts to suit the purposes of controversy. In short, the aim of the Arian creed-makers was to devise a scheme whereby the pas- sages in the New Testament which speak of Christs subordination to his Father, might be reconciled with those other pas- sages which speak of him as God, and as one with the Father. And this scheme was to be one which could commend itself by dialectics alone to the mere understand- ing of the natural man. One may think such an attempt unwise or irreverent; one may lament the time wasted over word-mechanisms as complicated and as unreal as the epicycles of the Ptolemaic astronomy; but one may yet allow that their authors did not consciously distort or falsify the texts which they were laboring to bring into harmony with each other. Nor is it historically correct to ascribe to men who appear to have accepted the Cli ristian revelation as unquestionably true, the doubts or the denials of the mod- ern rationalist. Ulfilas himself, in the fragments of his translation which have been preserved, reproduces the passages which assert the deity of Chrjst without any trace of falter- ing or equivocation. One exception, per- haps, should be made. In the celebrated text, Philippians ii. 6, he writes, sczei in Gutha-skaunein visands, ni vulva rak- nida visa;z s/k galeiko Gutha ( who, being in God-form, reckoned it not rapine to be himself like to God ). Here, stirely, some Arian feeling must have caused the pen of the translator to swerve from its usual fidelity; at least, no Gothic scholar seems to doubt that ibna (even or equal) rather than galeiko would have been the true rendering of the Greek text. In the biography of which we have spoken, Auxentius describes at great length the theological position of his mas- ter. He seems to have belonged to what we may call the left centre of the Arian party, the partisans of Acacius and the favorers of the homoeon, who, while re- jecting the words essence and sub- stance, confined themselves to the asser- tion that the Son was like unto ~he Father, in such manner as the Holy Scriptures assert. We must admit that he shared fully in the religious intolerance of his age; and it is important to notice this point, because a historian of later date (Theodoret, iv. 37), in describing the alleged conversion of Ulfilas to Arianism in his old age, says that Bishop Eudoxius got him over to his own side by representing that the whole matter was only a strife about words, and that there was no real difference of doc- trine between the two parties. Not so says Auxentius In his preaching and expounding he was wont to assert that all heretics were not Chris- tians, but Antichrists; not pious men, but impious; not religious, but irreligious; not reverent, but foolhardy (non thuoratos sed ternerarios); not in the hope, but without hope; not worshippers of God, but without God; not teachers, but seducers; not preachers, bait prevaricators and this whether they were Manicheans or Marcionists; whether Monta- nists, or Paulinians, or Psabellians (sic), or Antropians (Psilanthropists), or Patripassians, or Fotinians (sic), or Novatians, or Donatians, or Homousians, or Homoeusians, or Mace- donians. But as a true emulator of the apostles, and imitator of the martyrs, having made himself the enemy of the heretics, he repelled their evil doctrine and built up the people of God, while he put to flight the grievous wolves and dogs, and through the grace of Christ kept his flock as a good shepherd, with all prudence and diligence. We will now leave for the present the region of polemical theology, and hear Auxentius tell the story of the forty years episcopate of his master: Thus preaching and giving thanks to God the Father, through Christ, he flourished glo- riously for forty years in his bishopric, and with apostolic grace he preached the Greek and Latin and Gothic languages without in- termission in the one only Church of Christ: for one is the Church of the living God, the pillar and ground of the truth; and he used to assert and contend that one is the flock of Christ, our Lord and God, one cultivation and one building, one virgin and one spouse, one vineyard, one house, one temple, one the con- yen/us of Christians, while all other conven 204 ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. ticubz are not churches of God, but synagogues of Satan. To praise him as he deserves I am not able, and altogether to be silent about him I do not dare; since to him above all others I am debtor, for he labored more abundantly in me, having in my tender youth taken me from my parents to be his disciple, and taught me sacred letters, and made manifest to me the truth; and by the mercy of God he educated me both carnally and spiritually, as his own son in the faith. He, by the providence of God and the mercy of Christ, for the salvation of many souls in the nation of the Goths, was from a reader promoted at the age of thirty to the office of bishop, that he might be not only an heir of God and co-heir of Christ, but in this matter also an imitator of Christ and his saints. The examples of David, Joseph, and our Lord himself, all of whom were, at the same age of thirty, especially mani- fested as rulers or deliverers, are then adduced and illustrated copiously: So it was, when he was thirty years old ac- cording to the flesh, that Ulfilas took in hand the aforesaid nation of the Goths, then living indifferently in spiritual poverty and hunger of preaching, that he reformed them according to the evangelical and apostolical and prophet- ical rule, and taught them to live unto God, and manifested that they were Christians Christians indeedand multiplied their num- bers. And when, through the envy and mighty working of the enemy, there was kindled a persecution of the Christians by an irreligious and sacrilegious judge of the Goths, who spread tyrannous aifright through the Varba- nan (sic) land, it came to pass that Satan, who desired to do evil, unwillingly did good that those whom he desired to make prevaricators and deserters, by the aid and companionship of Christ became martyrs and confessors, that the persecutor was confounded and his victims crowned, that he who tried to conquer had to blush as a conquered one, and they who were tempted rejoiced as conquerors. Then, after the glorious martyrdom of many servants and handmaidens of Christ, as this persecution was still raging vehemently, after only seven years of his episcopate were ex- pired (i.e, A.D. 348), the aforesaid most holy and blessed Ulfila, with a great multitude of confessors, being driven from Varbaricum, was honorably received on the soil of Ro- mania by the then emperor Constantius of blessed memory; so that, as God by the hand of Moses delivered his people from the vio- lence of Faraoh and the Egyptians, and made them pass through the Red Sea, and appointed that they should serve him, even so, by means of the often-mentioned Ulfila, did God set free the confessors of his holy and only-be. gotten Son from the Varbaric land, and caused them to cross over the Danube and serve him upon the mountains (of the Balkan) like his saints of old. Thus did he settle with his people on the soil of Romania, where, omitting those seven years previously named, during thirty and three years he preached the truthin this also an imitator of those holy men, for (how often the space of forty years is men- tioned in the Old Testament in connOction - with judgeships and kingships, we know very well).* This comparison of Ulfilas to Moses, naturally suggested by his bringing the Goths across the Danube to a place of safety, seems to have been a favorite theme with his followers. Philostorgiiis tells us that tbe emperor himself ap- parently Constantius held Ulfilas in high honor, so that he would often speak of him as the Moses of his day. It seems probable, then, that these two men, Constantius and Ulfilas, met in personal conference, it may have been more than once or twice. A strange contrast must have been presented by the earnest, ener- getic Teuton, weather-beaten by the storms of Mount H~emus, his brow furrowed by the braintoil of his great translation, and the dainty theologizing emperor, waited upon by a herd of sleek eunuchs, who was never seen to wipe his nose in public, nor to spit, nor to turn his face from one side to the other, and who never tasted an apple in all ilis life. j As the emperor was born AD. 3 i6, he was five years younger than the bishop. Ulfilas and his Christian refugees, dis- tributed through M~sia according to the decrees of Constantius, received the name of the Lesser Goths. We have a slight notice of them in Jornandes, the native historian of the race, who wrote about two centuries after the time of which we are now speaking. No one who has been accustomed to consult this historian will place much reliance on his accuracy; still we have often to be thankful to him for details which no one else will give us: There were also certain other Goths who are called minores, an immense people, with their bishop and primate Vulfila, who is said, moreover, to have taught them letters; and they are at this day dwelling in Mcesia, in the district called Encopolitana.~ They abode at the foot of the mountains, a numerous race, but poor and unwarlike, abounding only in cattle of divers kinds, and rich in pastures and * The text of this paragraph is in a ye at~te~mmianus Marcellinus, - ry fragmentary xxi. s6. ~ Possibly intended for Nicopolitana. ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 205 forest timber, having little wheat though the earth is fertile in producing other crops. They do not appear t~ have ~any vineyards; those who want wine buy it of their neighbors; but most of them drink only milk.* As to the history of the Goths in Dacia during the nine years that we suppose to have been occupied by Ulfilas residence in Constantinople, and the first twenty- two years of his episcopate that is to say, from AD. 332 to 363 we have scarcely any authentic information, and are therefore unable to fill in any details into the meagre sketch given us by Aux- enti us. Only, during this period, we hear of the vast extension of the half-mythical empire of Hermanric, a stern old warrior, who eventually died of rage, at the mature age of one hundred and ten. If we may be- lieve the Gothic historian, his kingdom extended over the whole of what is now called Lithuania and southern Russia, and touched both the Black Sea and the Baltic. His especial subjects were the Ostrogoths, who had in former times been the eastern, but were now the northern half of the great Gothic nation, and he bore the title of king. The Visigoths, in their Dacian settlement, seem to have occupied the position of subject-allies towards their northern brethren. And for this reason, probably, it was that their rulers bore the title not of king, but of judge. But, to understand what manner of judges they were, we must let our minds dwell rather on the wild forms of Ehud and Jephthah, and other warrior-judges of Israel, than on the ermined sages of Westminster Hall. It will be observed, therefore, that it is in strict accordance with the political con- dition of the Visigoths of that day that Auxentius speaks of the persecution which led to the exile of Ulfilas, as kindled by an irreligious and sacrilegious judea- of the Goths, who tyrannized over the bar- barian land. But who this judex was, or what were the names of any of his mar- tyrs, authentic history entirely fails to inform us. We get another glimpse of the Gothic bishop in his theological relations in the year 360.t A synod of Arian prelates was then assembled at Constantinople. They drew up a creed nearly the same with that which had been so dexterously used at Rimini, recognizing the likeness of the Son to the Father, in such a man- De Rebus Geticis, cap. SI. j Some make the date 559. ner as the Holy Scriptures declare and teach, but forbidding the use of the terms essence and substance ~ as unscriptural and liable to be misunder- stood by the common people. This creed, we are expressly told,t was subscribed by Ulfilas. In the year following, 361, the man of many synods, Constantius, died, and Ju- han, the would-be restorer of the classic mythology, was sole Augustus. We have no information as to any influence which this change may have exerted on the for- tunes of Ulfilas and his Gothi minores. The former had now reached the fiftieth year of his life, and the half-way point of his forty years episcopate. Though we have heard so much of him as an Arian controversialist, it is reasonable to suppose that the strife with heathenism and with the easily besetting sins of his barbarian converts occupied a far larger share of his energies. Acacius against Athanasius, the Homoeon against the Homousion, might be his watchwords when he was face to face with his brother bishops in council beside the Bosporus; but doubt- less, when he returned to Mcesia, his chief toil, next to the life-work of his Biblical translation, would be to guard his people against relapsing into the drunken orgies and the wild fevers of gambling which Tacitus notes as characteristic of all the Germanic nations. Often he may have ventured though this is mere conjecture across the Danube by one of Trajans bridges, into his own ancestral Dacia; and, if so, we may be sure that Sabellius and Photinus, Marcellus and Macedonius, were for the time ~vell-nigh forgotten, as he strove to eradicate from the Gothic heart the worship of Odin, the father of slaughter, the god that carrieth desolation and fire; as he contrasted Asa-Thors defeat by Hela with Christs eternal tri- umph over death; and as he sought to dim the glories of Valhalla by depicting St. Johns vision of the holy city, the New Jerusalem, descending from God out of heaven. The conjecture that the Gothic apostle had thus been working among his fellow- countrymen is strengthened by the great progress which we find Christianity to have made among them, when, in AD. 367, the curtain again rises, which for thirty years has hid their nation from our sight. It may be remarked, in passing, that it never again completely falls, since ~ve * data and ~5ir6araa& ~. f Socrates, ii. 4S. 206 ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. have a fairly detailed continuous history of the Visigoths from this date down to the overthrow of their monarchy in Spain by the Moors, A.D. 711. In the year 363, the imperial line of Constantine came to an end by the death of Julian, on the plains of Mesopotamia. After the short and unimportant reign of Jovian, the two brothers, Valentinian and Valens, were raised respectively to the western and eastern thrones. But for the first two years of their reign there either smouldered or else burst into actual flame the rebellion of Procopius, an imperial notary, who, as a relative of Julians on the maternal side, made some faint show of an hereditary claim to the succession. The Goths sent him some unimportant succor, professing, and perhaps believing, themselves to be bound to afford him this assistance by loyalty to the house of Con- stantine. After the death of Procopius, Valens, refusing to admit the validity of this plea, called the barbarians sternly to account, and, in three campaigns (367 to 369) by the lower Danube, appears to have ob- tained some material successes. Twice he crossed the river on a bridge of boats; but one year (368) operations were almost suspended by the swollen state of the stream. In the last year, according to a strange story told by Zosimus, the empe- ror, finding the regular operations of war too tedious, and the encampments of the barbarians among the swamps of the Dobrudscha often hard to storm, told the sutlers and camp-followers that he would pay a certain sum for each head of a barba- rian that was brought into his camp. The new auxiliaries thus brought into the field swarmed at~ night into the forests and marshes, and soon brought an immense number of heads to the emperor, so that the remaining barbarians sued for peace. We have heard of something like this method of making ~var in the same prov- ince of Bulgaria in our own day. Peace, then, was concluded in the year 369; and though the Romans seem, upon the whole, to have had the advantage in the field, the basis of the treaty was the status quo ante bellum, with perhaps this difference, that the loyalty formerly pledged to the house of Constantine was now transferred to that of Valentinian. In the conclusion of this treaty, we come for the first time upon the name of A/han- aric, a very powerful judge of the Goths at that time. He had apparently in the last year of the war succeeded to supreme power among the Visigoths, reserving per- haps some sort of semi-feudal allegiance to the great Hermanric.* Athanaric, who seems to have been the very type and stronghold of Visigothic conservatism, ab- horring all new-fangled Roman ways, whether in religion or in politics, had sworn a dreadful oath, sub tirnenda ex- secratione, that he would never tread on Roman soil. It would have been beneath the dignity of the Augustus to transfer his purple buskins to the now barbarian ground of Dacia; but the difficulty was adjusted by a master stroke of etiquette worthy of the congress of Westphalia. The ships of emperor and of judge were rowed from the opposite shores of the Danube into full mid-stream, and there the two potentates, each accompanied by a suitable number of guards, met and dis- cussed the conditions of the treaty, and the number and quality of the hostages. This peace between Romania and Varbaricumlasted, as we shall see, for eight years from 369 to 377that is, from the fifty-eighth to the sixty-sixth year of the life of Ulfilas. At this point of the history, or perhaps a little earlier, we cut across a portion of the internal history of the Visigoths. It is narrated to us by two ecclesiastical historians, Socrates and Soz omen, who wrote two generations after the event, who were probably ignorant of the language of the people, and whose stories are inconsistent with one another and with the known facts of history. Without wasting time in the vain labor of trying to reconcile their discordance, we will only note that, contemporary with Athanaric, and rivalling and sharing his power, was another chief, Fritz~ern. Less intensely attached to the customs of his forefathers than Athanaric, he probably leaned from the first to the Roman alli- ance, and the Christian religion. Civil ~var broke out between the two chiefs. Fritigern asked the help of Rome, which is said to have been conceded to him on condition of his adopting the faith of Christ, as professed by the Arian empe- ror, Valens. It is said that the Roman troops then crossed the Danube and gained for Fritigern a complete victory over his enemy. But, as the laborious and accurate historian, Ammianus Mar- cellinus, gives us no hint of any such * Clinton, on the authority of Isidore of Seville, assigns the year 369 for the accession of Athanaric. (Fasti Romani, ii. 167.) Nor do the words of Ammia. Marcellinus (xxvii. s) really conflict with this date. Some of the writers on the suh~ect who refer the earlier persecutions of the Gothic Christians and the expulsion of Ulfilas (348) to the command of Athanaric appear tQ have missed thispoint. TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 207 engagement between the years 369 and 377, this is probably only another version of the three years campaign (366 to 369) already described. At the period, then, whatever it be, at which we have now arrived, the Visigothic nation was divided into two parts one Christian, under Fritigern; the other still heathen, under Athanaric. But in the latter portion also, Bishop Ulfilas, who was evidently now extending his labors beyond his own Ga/hi minores in Mcesia, wrought much and made many converts. This excited the rage of the stern judex, Athanaric, who treated the innovators with great severity, so that eventually many of the Arian Goths of that period, says the orthodox Socrates, became mar- tyrs for the faith of Christ. This perse- cution must have raged at some period in the eight years of peace (369 to 377) already mentioned, and the existence of it must be taken as a proof that neither Valens nor Fritigern had emerged from the previous struggle decidedly superior to Athanaric. Of the histories of these Gothic mar- tyrs we have some, though slight, traces outside of the two Church historians whom we have already quoted. If one visits a library which contains that vast quarry of Catholic biography, the Bolland- ist Ac/a Sanc/orurn, in fifty-three folio volumes, and if from the eight volumes dedicated to the month of September one selects that which includes the lives of the saints whose festivals are celebrated on the fifteenth day of that month, one will find a heading, DeS. Nice/a, Go/ho Mar- lyre. The story of the life of Nice/as is told both in Greek and Latin, and, some- what condensed, here it is : By the side of the famous Danube dwelt the Goths, who had migrated from their father- land and come as settlers to that region. The young Nicetas, sprung from a Gothic stock, had, on account of his noble birth, his shapely body, and his generous soul, obtained one of the foremost places in the nation. Yet he was not a Goth in life, in manners, or in faith; for conviction conquered race, the love-charm of Christ conjured away the vainglory of the barbarian, and the pursuit of virtue weaned him from the Gothic roughness and intem- perance. Evidently it is no Teutonic hand which is tracing for us this picture: He went with Theophilus, bishop of the Goths, to the Council of Nic~a, and signed the Confession of Faith there drawn up. Not long after * [really after an interval of forty- four years, 325 to 369] dissensions arose be- tween Fritigern and the every-way terrible Athanaric. The latter conquered; Fritigern fled, and implored the aid of the Roman em- peror, who was at that time the Christ-hater, Valens.t He sent some of his troops, then quartered in Thrace, to the help of Fritigern, who, guarded by them and by the remnant of his own army, recrossed the Ister. Bearing the holy cross of Christ before them, they easily overcame the whilom victor, and Athan- aric himself was fain to betake himself to shameful flight, the greater part of his army being either slain or taken prisoners. This was the cause why the Gothic nation em- braced Christianity. Then follows a passage concerning Ulfilas, which shall be translated literally, because much stress has been laid upon it by the assertors of the orthodoxy of that prelate, though it is generally now admit- ted that as a piece of evidence it is of little value, and that his alleged presence at the Council of Nic~a is in the highest degree improbable : But Urphilas now possessed the archiepis- copal dignity as successor of Theophilus, with which prelate he had been formerly present at Nicea, agreeing in his views. He afterwards took part when the second holy and ecumen- ical council was collected at Constantinople. This man, who was both learned and intelli- gent, invented shapes of letters and corre- sponding sounds suitable for the Gothic tongue, and having by means of these translated our sacred and divinely inspired Scriptures into that language, he exerted himself with all his might to induce his fellow-countrymen to learn them. Hence piety took root among the bar- barians, and increased from day to day. The narrative then goes on to tell how Athanaric soon returned, having recov- ered from his losses, and raged more vehemently than ever against his enemies, but especially against Nicetas, whose nobility of character and lineage marked him out for vengeance : Thus, when the pious and gentle Gratian [nephew of Valens] was exercising hereditary rule over Rome,t the bloodthirsty Athanaric broke out into cruel persecution of the Chris- tians, and urged those who were about him to do the same. These enemies of God threat- ened Nicetas with fell wrath; but he heeded them not, and went on preaching the true re- ligion. At length, breaking forth into open violence, they attacked him while he was in * Ewe~ 6~ os~ irotiit tv ~sia~ 6t43~ zpov6~x t Oi~2~rv~t 6e T~7VtICavTa r~i ~uao~piar~ i-c~ ~5w~sa. ~ici~ deeiirero aIo~prrpa. 1 Gratian was declared Augustus in 369, came into full possession of power on the death of his father (valentinian I.) in 375, sod was assassinated in 383. 208 ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. the act of preaching, dragged him away by force, and ordered him to abjure his faith. He neither by word nor deed desisted from making open confession of Christ and honor- ing him as God, but mocked and scorned at all their onslaughts; so when they had cut his body into pieces ab, what madness they then also flung him into the flre.* But the saint, through all these sufferings, ceased not to sing hymns in praise of God, and to believe in him with all his heart. Thus witnessing a good confession to the very end, he, with many of his countrymen, received a crown of martyrdom, and gave up his spirit into the hands of God. The rest of the Ac/a, describing how, after a long time, the relics of the saint were transported to Mopsuestia in Cilicia, and what miracles were wrought by them, need not be told here4 More pathetic in their simplicity, and certainly far more trustworthy than this declamatory narrative, are the few follow- ing lines in their own tongue, which are found in a still extant fragment of an old Gothic calendar : [October] 23rd [Remembrance of] the many martyrs among the Gothic people, and of Frederic. 29th. Remembrance of the martyrs who remained with Priest Vereka and Batvin, being [members] of a full church [or of the Catholic church], and being burnt among the Gothic people.$ The construction of the last sentence is difficult; but there can be little doubt that it relates to the same event which is mentioned by Sozomen (vi. 37), who says that Athanaric sent round a graven image, standing on one of the great Gothic wag- ons, to the tents of all who were suspected of having embraced Christianity, and burnt whole families of the recusants in their homes ; and not only so, but that when men, women, and children (in some cases moth- ers with their nurslings at their breasts), * Toil awitcz~o~ (YvvTpil/JavTe~ vips~, ~beil r~ isa- via~, eu-a icat ~rVpt f5ilrToVatv. t The date of this document is doubtful. Apparently the Bollandist compilers of the A c/a Sanctorum took it from a Byzantine hagiologist of the tenth century named Metaohrastes. From what source he took it, we know not; hut, as a mere conjecture, and looking to the blurred outlines of the picture on the one hand, and to the amount of fresh, truthful coloring in it on the otlser, we may presume that the story was reduced to writing towards the end of the fifth century a gen- eration later than the times of Socrates and Sozonsen. It will be ohserved that the fact of the Arianism of IJlfilas and his converts has either faded out of remem- brance or else been purposely suppressed in this narra- tive. ~ In the original, k.g. (gaminthi) thize ana Gut- thiudal managaize martyre ish Frithareikeis, gaminthi martyre thize hi Verekan papan jab Batvin bilsif. - - - aikklesjons fullaizos ma Gut- thiudai gabrannidaL had taken refuge in a certain church rather than obey his idolatrous edicts, the cruel soldiers of Athanaric burnt the church and all whom it contained. But the great cataclysm was at hand which was to sweep all the Goths Pagan and Christian, persecutor and vic- tim, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman and every freeman, into one common abyss of mis- ery, from which before many years were accomplished, they were again to emerge world-conquerors. It was last year (1876) exactly a millen- nium and a half since the Huns of Asia crossed the shallows of the Sea of Azof and suddenly appeared before the Gothic inhabitants of the south of Russia. Small, flat-headed men, with smooth faces, high cheek-bones, coal-black orbs turning sul- lenly in the little holes which served them for eyes, * they swarmed in upon the settlements of the stately, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, long-bearded Goth, who shrank from their touch as pollution, and flattered himself with the hope of an easy victory over a troop of such misbegotten knaves. Unfortunately, victory sat upon the other standards. The Huns were all born horse- men. Their steeds were, it is true, more like ponies than chargers; but they were wiry, strong, and swift. An absolute sym- pathy existed between the rider and his beast, recalling the fables of the ancient centaurs; and they practised in perfection the tactics of sudden attack, feigned retreat, a deadly discharge of arrows, and a rapid return upon their disordered foes, tactics which in the hands of the Parthians, had so often proved fatal to the heavy legionaries of Rome. The. Goths found themselves constantly overmatched. A panic fear seized them: they said that the Huns had an unfair advantage in their own abominable ugliness they were not men at all, they were descendants of an unholy intercourse between Gothic witches and evil spirits. But, however they might strive to ac- count for their defeats, the facts remained, and soon the whole Ostrogothi c kingdom in Lithuania and the Ukraine crumbled to pieces before these Tartar hordes. Her- manric himself, who was now in the one hundred and tenth year of his age, lived to hear of the approach of the terrible invad- ers, but not to see the ruin wrought by them. Not long before, he had caused a Russian princess to be torn in pieces by * Jornandes. TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. wild horses. Her brothers, watching an opportunity of revenge, had wounded him in the side with a spear. The wound was not immediately fatal, but it, and dis. tress for the Hunnish victories and the one hundred and ten years of life together, brought Herman nc to the grave. The Ostrogothic kingdom was swallowed up in the great Serbonian bog of the, ravage empire it cannot be called of the Huns; and the uncouth horde rolled onward to the settlements of the Visigoths, to try conclusions with them the uncles of the Turk with the ancestors of the Spaniard; a battle of Lepanto by land, and twelve centuries too soon. Athanaric proceeded, in a slow and stately way, to prepare for a pitched battle by the banks of the Dniester. He sent forward scouts to watch the movements of the in- vaders. The latter, when night fell, appeared to compose themselves to slum- ber; but in reality they silently filed forth out of their camp, crossed~ the river in a shallow part by the light of the moon, and, mounted on their little ponies, dashed right into the camp and up to the very tent of Athanaric, who only just saved himself by a headlong flight. This kind of engage- ment, as Zosimus remarks (iv. 20), was the only one whicW the Huns understood; for how could they take part in a pitched battle who could not even plant their feet firmly on the ground, but lived, and ate, and even slept on horseback? Despoiled of all his treasures, and stripped of his kingly magnificence, Athan- aric sought a refuge in the Carpathian fast- nesses, whither the Huns, intent on the plunder of the plains, cared not to pursue him. Few of his subjects followed the stern old ludex thither; the main body of them, after long deliberation, decided to seek for shelter in the Roman territory. The fertile plains of Bulgaria attracted them; the knowledge that Ulfilas and his Christian colony, the Go/ki minores, were happily settled there, was doubtless an argument with many; but all historians agree that the chief inducement was the thought that the broad Danube would then roll between themselves and the loathed, dreaded, hated Huns. So now the late lords of Dacia, aban- doning their lands to the enemy, flocked down to the XVallachian shore of the Dan- ube, and, greatly agitated, stretched forth their hands to their old enemies, the Ro- mans, bewailing with loud and lamentable declamation the calamity which had be. fallen them, urging their request that the passage across the river might be conced LIVING AGE. VOL. XXI. 1054 209 ed to them, and promising to be henceforth the faithful allies of the empire. * Friti. gem was one of the chiefs of this migra- tion; and it is probable, though only Sozomen mentions it, that Ulfilas acted as interpreter and mediator between his coun- trymen and Valens. The latter, a weak and vain man, was flattered by the prof- fered allegiance of so many well-formed warriors estimated at little short of two hundred thousand men in the flower of their military age and after some delib- eration with his ministers, he agreed to receive them within the limits of his em- pire, to give them homesteads in the province of Mcesia, and to supply them at once with daily rations. The chief conditions for this generous concession were ist, that they should surrender their arms to officers appointed for the purpose ; 2nd, that the full-grown males should, when called upon, take the oath of military alle6iance and serve as auxiliaries in the army; and, 3rd, that all the new settlers should embrace Chris- tianity. This latter condition, as Chris- tianity meant the Arian form of it, to which Valens was zealously attached, is much spoken of and often lamented by the ecclesiastical historians, who sometimes write as if all the Arianism of all the bar- barian races were due to this one compact with Valens. It is probable that they have greatly overrated its effect, that most of the fubitives, being adherents of Fritigern and admirers of Ulfilas, were already Christians of the only kind that they had ever heard of, and that the number of those who on this occasion finally renounced the worship of Odin was comparatively trifling. We have described at some length this reception of the Visigoths within the limits of the Roman empire, because Ulfilas, at this time sixty-five years old, was probably one of the chief negotiators of the treaty; we can only sketch in mere outline the well-known and miserable results of the migration. The ships of the Romans were employed for days in transporting the Gothic nation across the Danube. The numbers of this living tide of men recalled to the mind of a Roman contemporary (Ammianus) all that Herodotus had told of the myriads of the Persian hosts who invaded Greece. The orders of Valens to strip the new- comers of their arms were scandalously disregarded by the imperial officers, who, intent on helping themselves to their gold, let the steel pass unnoticed. Then came * Eunapius, Excerpt C. 210 TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. the question of rations. In promising to feed, even for a short time, so vast a tribe of men very likely a million in number Valens had probably undertaken more than the political economy of that day could have accomplished, even in the most zealous and most honest hands. But Lu- picinus and Maximus, the prefects of M~sia, ~vere neither zealous nor honest. Greedy and short-sighted as two Turkish pashas, they enhanced the scarcity by forestallino~ and regrating, and at length they offered the Goths, who as a pastoral people knew what good meat was, such carrion as dogs would scarcely have fed upon. For some time this was borne in silence. The Goths saw their last treas- ures melt away. They sold their child,en into slavery; they were on the point of selling themselves, but murmurs of dis- content began to rise, and Lupicinus heard them. He made a treacherous attempt to seize Fritigern and the other Gothic chiefs, at a banquet near Marcianople, to which he had invited them. The courage and ready wit of Fritigern saved him; but the abortive attempt, like Charles the Firsts meditated arrest of the five members, kin- dled the latent heat into a flame, and set two hundred thousand Gothic swords in motion against Rome. The emperor Valens was recalled from Antioch to pros- ecute the war, which lasted through the greater part of the years 377 and 378. There is no need here to recount its vary- ing fortunes; we hasten on to its terrible and memorable end. On the 9th of Au- gust, 378, near the city of Adrianople, the Romans received a crushing defeat. Va- lens in vain attempted to fly from the field of battle. Wounded by an arrow shot at a venture, he sought refuge in a little hut which was burnt by the Goths, and per- ished miserably in the flames. It is a favorite remark with the orthodox histori- ans, that the last Arian emperor thus en- dured in this life some faint foretaste of the torments to which the Goths were doomed in the next for having, at the in- vitation of this very emperor, embraced the Arian heresy. The loss to the Ro- mans on this fatal day was tremendous: iwo-thirds of their army lay dead on the field; and the historian Ammianus does not hesitate to rank the defeat of Adrian- ople side by side with the catastrophe of Cann~. To Ulfilas, now verging towards the end of his seventh decade, the events of these memorable years have brought only sorrow. The monarchy of his old alle- giance beyond the Danube shattered by a despised foe; the Romans and the Goths, whom he had sought to unite in bonds of friendship, severed by bitter memories of mutual ~vrong; many, probably, of his own civilized and Christianized Gothi mi- fbi-es carried away on that torrent of ava- rice and revenge which was sweeping their countrymen through all the valleys of Bul- garia and every mountain-pass of the Bal- ~an and, bitterest thought of all, his own lifelong work of the conversion of the Goths misrepresented and distorted as a mere intrigue between heretics and idola- tersan unholy compact between Arians and barbarians. All this must have been hard to see and to hear, and may well have caused the good old bishop to feel that his life had been wasted. But of this we have no hint in the scanty words of his biogra- phers. The emperor Theodosius, who was called to the eastern throne on the death of Valens, seems to have pursued a wise policy towards the barbarian intruders into his empire, using sufficient force to make them feel that they could not be tolerated as masters there, yet avoiding cruelty, and not attempting the hopeless task of push- ing back that whole warlike nation across the Danube. He took many of their ablest and bravest men into his own ser- vice, and generally succeeded, during his lifetime, in keeping them in that position of fwderati (subject-allies), which they themselves had sued for in the hour of their extremity. But his fame as a religious legislator even surpasses that which he acquired as a warrior. Every one knows that it was to him that the Athanasian party owed its final victory, together with the legal right to assume to itself alone the appellation of Catholic, and to brand all its foes with the stigma of heresy. The great council, held at Constantinople in the year 38t, which has been accepted by after-ages as the second general council, closed the long Arian controversy, at least as far as the empire was concerned, by an emphatic reaffiimation of the creed of Nic~a, and a condemnation of Macedonius, who de~ nied the personality of the Holy Spirit. Was Ulfilas present at this council or not? In order to explain our qualified answer to this question, we will transcribe some sentences near the end of the biog- raphy written by Auxentius. The text is difficult and fragmentary, and we can only offer a very free translation of a highly conjectural emendation.* * Dr. Bessell, who has taken extraordinary pains to ULFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. 21Z Having completed forty years of his epis- rival, Marinus, the Thracian, said yes, and copate, he went, by the command of the was abetted in his teaching by Theoctis- emperor, to the city of Constantinople, to tus, a Syrian. As the latter was a seller a disputation against the Fsatlzyropolis& e. of baked pottery (~beOvpo~r6ai~), it was easy Thither he ~vent, in the name of the Lord God, in order to prevent that sect from teaching for his opponents, with that happy dis- and subduing the churches committed to him regard of the social status of the first by Christ, and also for their own sakes, when teachers of Christianity which controver- he had reflected on the disposition of the sialists have so often displayed, to taunt council, in order that this sect might not be the new sect with being themselves base proved to be heretics, and thereby set down pottery- sellers mere Psathyropolist~. as men more miserable than the miserable, Selenas, who was a bishop of the Goths contlemned out of their own mouths, and (perhaps a coadjutor of Ulfilas), and, like worthy to be smitten with perpetual punish- him, of Phrygian descent, had adopted ment. Now, as soon as he had entered the Psathyropolistic views. Probably the dis- aforesaid city, his health began to fail, and by cussion ~vas becoming a dangerously this sickness he was taken away from us, like heated one among the yellow-haired con- Elisha the prophet. Assuredly it is right to reflect on the merits verts to Christianity, and Theodosius, of this man, who was thus led by the Lord to who showed throughout his reign a states- die at Constantinople (may we not rather say manlike prudence in dealing with the Christianople ?), in order that the holy and Goths, and a desire to use and regulate, spotless priest of Christ might receive burial not to destroy them, sent probably for at the bands of holy men, his fellow-priests, him ~vho bore the most honored name in that before such a multitude of Christians, the all their tribes the Nestor of the nation, worthy man, by worthy men, should be worthily Ulfilas to come to Constantinople, and and gloriously honored according to his merits, there settle their differences by his own This certainly looks as if Ulfilas, whose personal mediation. character evidently commanded the rev- This may have occupied the early part erence even of those who differed from of 381; but before May in that year, when his views, was buried by the fathers of the great ecumenical council was assem- the second general council at Constanti- blino- the old nople, in the beo- of the year 38[, fail mans health had begun to sinning him (slatim ca/i1 infirmari), and he having been carried off by sickness, in died. One of the first acts of the collect- the seventieth year of his age, before he ed prelates most likely was, to follow the had been able to share in its deliberations. body of the worn-out Gothic evangelist to And such we believe to have been the the grave. Arians and Athanasians, Homo- case; but there is some difficulty about usians and Homoeusians, Acacians, and this disputation with the Psathyropolist~, Anom~ans, probably all shared the pious to which he was summoned by the impe- labor. His Arianism would be at least rial command. The sect known by this partially atoned for in the eyes of the cumbrous title split off from the main orthodox by the constancy with which he body of the Arians on a childish and friv- had fought against the ancestral heathen- olous controversy concerning the name ism of his people. Then too, the august of the Eternal.* As one of the watch- council had not yet been held, had not yet ~vords of the Arian party was, There thundered forth its anathema against those was a time when the Son was not, 1 a who should dissent from its authoritative discussion arose, whether, in that far-off exposition of the faith, and if the Arians recess of past eternity, before the Son claimed the venerable dead as their own, was, or any creature existed, it could be the Athanasians might still believe that, rioht to speak of God the Father. A cer- after a few months of discussion, he would tam Dorotheus, of Antioch, said no. His finally have cast in his lot with the Cath- olic Church; and, above all things, The- make sense of this passage (without, however, a per- odosius himself, the pivot around which sonal examination-of the MS.), restores the text thus Qui, cum pr~cepto imperiali, comp1e~is quadraginta the whole council revolved, ~vas anxious annis, ad Constantinopolitanam urhem ad disputatio- to flatter in every possible way the pride oem . . . Contra P (sat)hy(ropo)iistas perrexit et eundo of the Gothic nation to make their he- in dfii di ii (Domini Dei nostri) nomine ne xpi (Christi) ecclesias sihi a xpo (Christo) deditas docerent et con- roes his warriors, to admit their saints testarentur, intrahat, et ingressus in supradictam civi- into his pantheon, to bind together, by tatem, recogitato ei im . . . de statu concilo, ne ar- bonds, Romania and Var- guerentur miseris miserahitiores propriojudicio damnati peaceful et perpetno supplicioplectendi, statim co-pit infirmari, baricum into one state, of which he etc. * So at least Socrates tells us (v. 23), hut it is difiS might be the head. cult to believe ilsat his account is entirely accurate. A striking example of this Gothicizing t ~p ~rore 6re oiis ~jv 6 vZo~. policy of Theodosius the best, appar 212 TJLFILAS, THE APOSTLE OF THE GOTHS. ently, which was then possible for Rome was afforded in the very same year by his treatment of Athanaric, the grey old Gothic wolf, the unrelenting foe of Christianity and of Rome. Driven by men of other Germanic tribes (who were, according to one account, commanded by his old ene- my, Fritigern) from his Transylvanian stronghold, Athanaric was forced to break his filial promise, to cross the Danube, and to seek the aid of the Augustus of Constantinople. Theodosius rode forth some distance from the capital to meet his guest, who was struck with admiration by the high walls, the blue waters of the Bos- porus blackened with ships, the teeming multitudes of many languages and many costumes in the streets of the city, and said, Truly, a god upon earth is this em- peror, and he who sets himself in opposi- tion to him is guilty of his own blood. He, too, like Ulfilas, fell sick soon after his entry into Constantinople; the climate, the diet, the myriad new impressions on the brain, being all, doubtless, injurious to the health of a simply-living Goth; and after a few months he died. The magnifi- cence of the funeral which Theodosius prepared for his guest, and his condescen- sion in riding before the bier in all his imperial splendor, were long and gratefully remembered by the barbarians. One last quotation from the bishop of Silistria ~vill close our account of the life of Ulfilas Ulfilas, in the very article of death, left to the people intrusted to his care a written ex- position of his faith, included in his will, to this effect : I, Ulfila, bishop and confessor, have ever thus believed, and in this alone true faith make my testament to my Lord. I be- lieve that there is one God the Father, alone unbegotten and invisible; and I believe in his only-begotten Son, our Lord and our God, Artificer and Maker of the whole creation, having none like himself. Therefore, there is one God of. all [the Father], who is also God of our God [the Son]. And I believe in one Holy Spirit, an enlightening and sanctify- ing power, even as Christ said to his Apostles, Behold I send the promise of my Father in you; but tarry ye at Jerusa- lem till ye shall be endued with power from on high; and again, Ye shall receive power when the Holy Spirit is come upon you; and this Holy Spirit is neither God nor Lord, but the servant of Christ, subject and obedient in all things to the Son, even as the Son is subject and obedient in all things to the Father [The conclusion of the sentence is want- ing]. This fragment of a fragment is the last writing that we have from the hand of our first Germanic author. It only re- mains to say something concerning the literary history of the document which contains it: the invaluable contemporary sketch by the pupil Auxentius of the life and teaching of his master. In the I3iblioth~que Royale at Paris is a large quarto manuscript, known in the catalogue as Supplernentu;n La/mum, No. 594, and consisting of 331 pages. The body of the MS. contains some treatises of St. Hilary and St. Ambrose, and the acts of the Council of Aquileia, AD. 381. The parchment is white and fine, the treatises, all on the orthodox side of the Arian controversy, are beautifully written in an uncial hand of very early date; but their contents seem all to have been anticipated in previous publications, and, so far, the MS., though interesting to the bibliographer, has nothing in it of special value even for the ecclesiastical historian. But round the top and bottom and outer margin of twenty-six folios of the codex, some heretic has scrawled, in a cursive hand, his passionate replies, objurgations, counter-statements, by way of comment on the uncial orthodox text. It is in these Randlemerkungen, as the German com- mentators call them, that all the historical value of the volume consists. In the year I84o, Dr. Waitz, one of the band of scholars engaged in editing the Monumenta Germanice His/orica, was informed by a friend, who had been exam- ining the volume from a theolo6ical point of view, that these marginal annotations contained the word Go/hi, and he at once bestowed several weeks on the patient de- cipherment of such part of them as might be found in any way to illustrate the early history of the greatest Teutonic conquer- ors of Rome. The task was not an easy one. The thin cursive writing was, of course, somewhat harder to decipher than the bold square uncial character would have been. The bookbinder has in most places pared off a line at the top, a line at the bottom, and several letters from the side; but, worse than this, some orthodox possessor of the MS. in days gone by, indignant at the Arian heresies which en- girdled the cherished words of Ambrose and Hilary, has gone over many passages with some sharp instrument, erasing as much of the text as he could without ab- solutely destroying the parchment. Faint traces of words and letters remained after the zealot had done his worst, and these MACLEOD OF DARE. 213 some inquiring student, probably in recent centuries, has sought to revive with gallic acid. He failed, apparently, to obtain any satisfactory result; but he has made the work harder for those that came after him. Ho~vever, over all these difficulties the grand German patience prevailed, and Dr. Waitz was able to evoke out of the faded and half-erased characters a spirit which could bring before us the very form and fashion of our too-long-forgotten kinsman of the fourth century. A complete publication of the life and remains of Ulfilas is still one of the unpaid debts of English scholarship. In the early days of Ulfilan literature, England was honorably represented. The first re- print of the Codex Argenteus was made about i68o, by Francis Junius, who was, as we have said, a naturalized Encrlishman with the assistance of Thomas Marshall, a native of this country. In the middle of last century, a very respectable edition issued from the Clarendon press, under the auspices of another Englishman, Ed- ward Lye. But in this century, Germany, Scandinavia, and even Italy, have done more for the study of Mceso-Gothic than our own country, though it is admitted that it lies on our side, rather than on the High- German or the Scandinavian side, of the water shed of Teutonic speech. Stirred by the impulse given by Grimms Deutsche Grammatik, Loebe, Casti- glion e, Uppstrdm, Stamm, Bernhardt, and, above all, Massmann, have poured a stream of light upon the works of Ulfilas and the history of the Gothic tongue. Unfortunately, not one of their books is even translated into English. It had to be left to a German professor at Oxford to write, in his lectures on the science of language, the best account in the English language of the life and labors of the Gothic apostle, and, so to speak, to re-in- troduce him to the British nation. Since then, Mr. Bosworth has given us the Gothic gospels side by side with the An- glo-Saxon, Wickliffes, and Tyndales ver- sions, an excellent idea, and well realized. We can heartily recommend both this book and Mr. Skeats handy little volume, The Mceso-Gotbic Glossary, to those who wish to study the language of Alaric for themselves. But the authors of these works did not profess or desire to cover the whole ground of Gothic philology; and we doubt not that the survivor of them would, with ourselves, gladly hail the issue, from the Clarendon or the Cambridge University press, of a complete and com- prehensive Ulfilas, worthy to take rank as the primal document of that great En. glish literature, of which he may be con- sidered the real though unconscious founder. [Publls& d t~y ar7angemenf ~itk HARPER & BROTHEnS.I MACLEOD OF DARE. BY WILLIAM BLAcK. CHAPTER III. FIONAGH AL. AND indeed when they entered the house the balconies and windows were a blaze of flowers all shining in the sun they found that their host and hostess had already come down stairs, and were seated at table with their small party of guests. This circumstance did not lessen Sir Keith Macleods trepidation; for there is no de- nying the fact that the young man would rather have faced an angry bull on a High- land road than this party of people in the hushed and semi-darkened and flower- scented room. It seemed to him that his appearance was the signal for a confusion that was equivalent to an earthquake. Two or three servants all more solemn than any clergyman began to make new arrangements; a tall lady, benign of as- pect, rose and most graciously received him; a tall gentleman, with a gray mus- tache, shook hands with him; and then, as he vaguely heard young Ogilvie, at the other end of the room, relate the incident of the upsetting of the cab, he found him- self seated next to this benign lady, and apparently in a bewildering paradise of beautiful lights, and colors and delicious odors. Asparagus soup? Yes, he would take that; but for a second or two this spacious and darkened room, with its stained glass and its sombre walls, and the table before him, with its masses of roses and lilies-of-the-valley, its silver, its crys- tal, its nectarines, and cherries, and pine- apples, seemed some kind of enchanted place. And then the people talked in a low and hushed fashion, and the servants moved silently and mysteriously, and the air was languid with the scents of fruits and flowers. They gave him some wine in a tall green glass that had transparent lizards crawling up its stem; he had never drank out of a thing like that before. It was very kind of Mr. Ogilvie to get you to come; he is a very good boy; he 214 forgets nothino~ said Mrs. Ross to him; and as he became aware that she was a pleasant-looking lady of middle age, who regarded him with very friendly and truth- ful eyes, he vowed to himself that he would bring Mr. Ogilvie to task for reore- senting this decent and respectable woman as a graceless and dangerous coquette. No doubt she was the mother of children. At her time of life she was better em- ployed in the nursery or in the kitchen than in flirting with young men; and could be doubt that she was a good house- :~istress when he saw with his own eyes how spick and span everything was, and how accurately everything ~vas served? Even if his cousin Janet lived in the south, with all these fine flowers and hot-house fruits to serve her purpose, she could not have done better. He began to like this pleasant-eyed womar~, though she seemed delicate, and a trifle languid, and in conse- quence he sometimes could not quite make out what she said. But then he noticed that the other people talked in this limp fashion too: there was no precision about their words; frequently they seemed to leave you to guess the end of their sen- tences. As for the young lady next him, was she not very delicate also? He had never seen such hands so small and fine and white. And although she talked only to her neighbor on the other side of her, he could hear that her voice, low and mu- sical as it was, was only a murmur~ Miss White and I, said Mrs. Ross to him and at this moment the young lady turned to them were talking before you came in of the beautiful country you must know so well, and of its romantic stories and associations with Prince Char- lie. Gertrude, let me introduce Sir Keith Macleod to you. I told Miss White you mio~ht come to us to-day; and she was say- ing what a pity it was that Flora Macdon- ald was not a Macleod. That was very kind, said he frankly, turning to this tall, pale girl, with the rip- pling hair of golden brown and the heavy- lidded and downcast eyes. And then he laughed. We would not like to steal the honor from a woman, even though she was a Macdonald, and you know the Macdon- aIds and the Macleods were not very friendly in the old time. But we can claim something too about the escape of Prince Charlie, Mrs. Ross. After Flora Macdonald had got him safe from Harris to Skye, she handed him over to the sons of Macleod of Raasay, and it was owing to them that he got to the mainland. You will find many people, up there to this day who believe that if Macleod had gone out in 45, Prince Charlie would never have had to flee at all. But I think the Mac- leods had done enough for the Stuarts; and it was but little thanks they ever got in return, so far as I could ever hear. Do you know, Mrs. Ross, my mother wears mourning every 3d of September, and will eat nothing from morning till night. It is the anniversary of the battle of Worces- ter; and then the Macleods were so smashed up that for a long time the other clans relieved them from military service. You are not much of a Jacobite, Sir Keith, said Mrs. Ross, smiling. I Only when I hear a Jacobite song sung, said he. Then who can fail to be a Jacobite? He had become quite friendly with this amiable lady. If he had been afraid that his voice, in these delicate southern ears, must sound like the first guttural drone of Donalds pipes at Castle Dare, he had speedily lost that fear. The manly, sun- browned face and clear-glancing eyes were full of animation; he was oppressed no longer by the solemnity of the servants; so long as he talked to her he was quite confident; he had made friends with this friendly woman. But he had not as yet dared to address the l)ale girl who sat on his right, and who seemed so fragile and beautiful and distant in manner. After all, said he to Mrs. Ross, there were no more Highlanders killed in the cause of the Stuarts than used to be killed every year or two merely out of the quarrels of the clans among themselves. All about where I live there is scarcely a rock, or a loch, or an island, that has not its story. And I think, added he, with a becoming modesty, that the Macleods were by far the mos