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ORANT AND CO. PRINTURS, 72-78, TURMMILL STREET, H.C.

166397

vi Preface.

occupied the chair it has been the custom of the president to say a few words at the close of each volume of these transactions.

In this half-yearly gossip through the last three or four volumes I have dwelt ina special manner upon the literary fabric of the work, and upon my intentions and hopes for the future, because there has been a purpose that the

+ magazine should pursue in some respects a new career, and win fresh honours to add to its ancient crown. That purpose has now, perhaps, been sufficiently explained. The work has spoken for itself, and has been, I am grateful to know, handsomely acknowledged. It is not needful, therefore, that I should dwell further upon these general purposes and intentions’

While I am writing I am happy to learn that Mr. Justin McCarthy's “Dear Lady Disdain,” finished in the con- cluding pages of this volume, is meeting with a generous reception in its separate form as a three-volume novel. Some curious speculation has arisen among readers and correspondents touching the application of the title “A Dog and His Shadow” to Mr. Francillon’s new story. These chapters in the December number will enable the reader to perceive something of a transfiguration of old Asop’s fable in the story of Abel Herrick, though it would be dangerous to speculate upon how far the finish of the new fable will correspond with that of the old. Abel Herrick has this advantage over most heroes of romance, so far as his readers are concerned, that there is no safety in forecasting the final result of his career, and the conse- quence is a more than usual amount of curiosity as to the probable effect of circumstances and the development of character upon his ultimate fortune. “A Dog and His Shadow” will be concluded in June; but before its com- pletion, and previous to its appearance at the libraries in three volumes, my readers’ old favourite of last year, “Olympia,” will be issued in a popular form in one volume.

Prompted by strong motives, I have ventured to depart, in my programme for next year, from the arrangement

which has been announced for the publication of a

aca ” by Mr. Buchanan to run through sit

viii Preface.

a Snowball,” and had to print edition after edition to meet the demand. Profiting by the lesson, we began the cam- paign this year with an edition of “Streaked with Gold” much larger than the sum of all the editions of “Like a Snowball,” but it is already doubtful whether we shall not be called upon to reprint it while Christmas Day is yet afar off. I need hardly say that the authors of “Streaked with Gold,” as well as the writers of “Like a Snowball,” are constant contributors to the pages of the Gentleman's Magazine.

THE EDITOR.

x Contents.

Dear Lady Disdain— (continued) :— + Chap, XXXIV.—One taken—the Otherlet . 5 6s ” XXXV.—“ You are and do not know it” . . . » XXXVI—They Stand Confesed 9. . 1 «Content so Absolute” . . . ” “The Astrology of the Eyes” . » XXXIX.—Through the Golden Gate together. Dream Gatherer, The, By Epwazp Sevesn . . 0. Fire at Tranter Sweatley’s, The, A Wessex Ballad, By THomas Harpy . . . + . * . . . . . . Great People of Yorkshire, By Horace St. Joun =. . ‘Her Answer. ByEpwarp Seven 5 6 ee es Hertfordshire Valley, A. By “ Rep SPINNRR” . . . . . Tn the Peak Country. By“ReD SPINNER” =» ww we Mediseval Corporation and Companies of the City. By Joun ROLAND PHILLIPS . . . . . . . . Modern Judaism. Byan Excuse Jaw . . . 1. ‘Modern Tactical Organisation, By W. W. KNOLLYS, Major 93rd ‘Sutherland Highlanders. . . . . . . + . Modern Yarmouth. ByW.SENIOR . . se ewe Old China and Fayence. ByaCouecrok . . . - ee Out of the Chalk. By“RupSpinngx” . , 6. Peak of Terror, The. By H. ScuuTz Witson, of the Alpine Club ‘Pare Hyacinth’s Brethren. By Rocex Quippaw Philosophy of the Falk Laws, The. By Hexsext Turme - . Recollections of Writers known to an Old Couple when Young. By CHances and Many CowDEn CLARKE: — Part I. . . . . . . . . Pa 4 atest ds ee ie Weds ie ENS OR Cee i By S » WM. . . . . . . . . . v. . . . . . . . . + Rich Hospitals and Poor Homes. By W. Torrens McCuLtacn Torrens, M.P. . . . . . . . . . . Robert Buchanan's Poetry. By the Hon. Roven Noni . Signor Salvini's Hamlet, ByaPauistanCutic =. 6 1 ‘Sir Percival of Wales. A Chapter from an Old Romance of the Twelfth Century. By WaLtex Tornpury 5 wg

Contents,

Subjogators of an Imperial Race, The. “By RoceR Quinpam . . ‘Table Talk. By Syivanus Uxsan, Gentleman . 122, 250, 381, 509, 636 ‘Touch of » Vanished Hand and the Sound of a Voice that is Still, The.

ByD.CunistieMurray - . . + we + ee ‘Ultramontanism in Ireland. ByanIzise CaTHouic «4 +e Walton's River, By“ReDSPINNER” =, 1 eet

‘Walt Whitman, the Poet of Joy. ByARTHURCLIVE 9. «+ Way to Fairyland, The. By EDwaxp SrvesN . . 6 ee

Tallis the housekeeper, as she sat over her supper and her sewing in her own snug little corner of the old Manor House at Winbury. She was a stately personage of middle age and of an ancient school, drawing additional dignity from a high cap, then out of date, anda black silk gown. Everything about and around her was in keeping with her air of old-fashioned service—she sat in an uncompromisingly upright posture, as if arm-chairs were made, not for relaxation, but for the practice of self-denial : her figure was tall and lean, and her expression, as well as her features, sharp, formal, and severe, as if she had diligently cultivated a natural genius for unbending gravity. One would as soon look for a smile from her as from that bleak March evening. There was only one note of disorderly discord in the whole room—and that was Milly.

Tumbling about all over the floor, now under the table, now half between the bars of a chair old enough to have played with her great grandmother, now clattering with the fire-irons, now threatening to drag down the table-cloth and all arranged upon it with such pre- cision, was that sore trial to a lover of order. She was a very small girl indeed, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed after the ultra-English pattern, just old enough to find life and mischief different words for the same thing, and not a day older—next to a terrier puppy in being out of place wherever a Mrs. Tallis might happen to be.

Nor, while Mrs. Tallis expressed her opinions freely, was Milly silent : but she spoke as yet too much in her own and too little in her mother tongue to be readily understood by any but a mother’s ears. Nevertheless, Mrs. Tallis, that pattern of mature severity, seemed to understand it as if her own babyhood had been a thing of yesterday : she answered every capricious demand for this or that—so long as it was not for knives, beer, or lighted candles—as soon as it was made. She translated at once the particular look into her face that meant “spectacles ”—and, while keeping up every appearance of dignity, immediately obeyed. The knife might hurt Milly, but Milly could only hurt the spectacles.

No doubt if Mitly had not been more than a little spoiled she would have been in bed and asleep by this time, for the sun had shut his eyes long ago. And if she, with the magical instinct of her age, had not been able to translate the housekeeper’s querulous scoldings into a hidden meaning, she could not have enjoyed herself so thoroughly in the stiff old lady’s company. In short, these two unlikenesses were both thoroughly comfortable, each in her own way, though their comfort lay in mischief on one side and in blame on the other. It was as well they were, for the fire could not keep the

4 The Gentleman's Magazine. Carter hadn't been but five minutes gone—Oh, ma’am, there it goes

again \”

And sure enough the bell clanged for a third time, more loudly than before.

“Thieves or no thieves, I must go and investigate who's there,” said the housekeeper decisively. “Take Miss Milly while I go tothe front door.”

Susan picked up the unfortunate Milly, who, finding herself neglected in the confusion, set up an unseasonable wail Mrs. Tallis, for once paying no attention, pulled a shawl over her head and went along a passage into the dark, empty entrance hall, from which led a broad, uncarpeted flight of stone stairs. Having carefully put up the chain, she opened the front door about the space of an inch, and asked, boldly and sharply—

“Who's there?”

“Be this here place Winbury, miss?” answered a man’s gruft voice, in an accent that did not belong to Eastingtonshire and of a hoarseness known in every shire where spirits are sold.

“Of courte it’s Winbury. A gentlemanlike thing, indeed, to pull people's bells down to ask if this is Winbury.”

“Hold a bit, miss—don't smash my nose betwixt post and door. Where's the doctor?”

“ What doctor?”

“The medical practitioner, ma’am—the gentleman that tinkers up the flesh-pots, ma'am, like I do the tin-pots—where’s he?”

“There's no doctor.”

“Parson, then?”

“There's no parson.”

“Squire, then? Maybe he lives here?”

“There's no squire.”

“Who be there then, if there ben’t no doctor, nor no parson, nor no squire?”

“There's nobody—that’s all. If you want a medical man you must go on to Westcote.”

“Thankye, ma'am. And how far may that be?”

“Seven miles, if you go the short way.”

“Seven mile! Don’t nobody live at Winbury, ma'am? Can't I see the master—or the good lady, if there ben’t no squire?”

“There’s no lady.”

“Well, I am blessed then! Ben’t there nothing in Winbury, ma'am? Ben’t there never a blessed soul to keep a poor wench from dying like a dog in a ditch nearer then seven mile—the short way 2

6 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“It’s a uncommon cold night, ma’am,” said the tinker, encouraged by her sudden and rather impulsive thaw. “If we've got to wait for a cart, ma’am, I wouldn't mind setting down on a hall chair. The way I've puffed and blew on this here arrant of mercy, ma’am, has gone‘nigh to split my bellus. And running’s but dry work at best,” he added meditatively, as if enunciating a general proposition without

Bat the doctrine was thrown away upon unsympathetic ears.

“ You'll find the pump just round the comer,” said Mrs. Tallis, and slammed the door.

The tinker did not goto the pump. But neither did he move towards the Vane Arms. Ile waited on the doorstep, audibly stamping his feet and thrashing himself with his arms, to keep his blood going. After a long five minutes the door opened again to the limit of the chain.

“Are you still there?” asked Mrs. Tallis.

“Here I be, ma'am,” said the tinker sulkily. “ Here be this here species of a travelling tradesman, wet out and dry in.”

“Then as the constable has arrived, and as I am going to the lodge to wait for the conveyance, there’s no manner of occasion for you to hang about my door.”

“I know that, ma’am, without telling. That be what they call gratitude, that be—a chap gives you a chance of helping a fellow creature, and you send him to the pump to drink your health for it Blessed if I ever ask anybody to be charitable again. Never mind, ma’am. A man that’s said Amen as many times as I have gets to act up to it somehow. _ I'll look to my reward hereafter, and put up with a lift in the cart this go. I've left my workshop standing, ma'am, and being more trustful of human nature than you, ma’am, I didn’t think to put up the chain.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Tallis shortly, as she at last left the house, carrying a horn stable lantern to light her down the avenue. By its dim light she saw a shabby, slouching fellow in thread-bare clothes, who, counting by the fallacious arithmetic of years, was apparently in the noon-tide of his days, but whose shambling gait, stooping shoul- ders, and cheeks wherein many a tumbler had blossomed, displayed little of the vigour of noon. It is true that a certain amount of personal unattractiveness might be pardoned on a night when even a Good Templar’s nose must have looked swollea and blue. But, from many significant signs, the state of the tinker’s nose seemed due less to acute cold without than to chronic warmth within.

_ For his part he could not fail to be very differently impressed Dy the tall, ——‘Soure now wrapped in a long blue cloak, andthe

8 The Gentleman's Magastne.

to add to the dreariness of that unspeakably cold, dark, and dreary ride. Mrs. Tallis showed no sign of impatience but silence, though she must have found a new meaning in ‘the phrase “As cold as charity.” The tinker, however, became fidgety, and began to hum through his nose the tune of the Old Hundredth Psalm, beating time with his feet among the straw.

it could only have been Mra Tallis’s thick and close bonnet that ‘kept her from knowing what made the driver pull in the horse sud- denly. The tinker started up, held the lantern above his head, and looked forward.

“ Hold bard there!” he said. “Don't mun over my truck, what- ever you do, Here we are, ma'am,”

He shambled out. Mrs. Tallis took the lantern from him, and went straight to the roadside. Stooping down and adjusting her spectacles carefully, she saw a young girl lying under the hedge, just ‘as the tinker had said, dressed in a common print gown not over ‘new or over clean, and wearing a straw hat and thin shawl She could not have been more than twenty years old, and was a complete Stranger to Winbury. Indeed, she was obviously not a country girl at all, though to what class she belonged it was impossible to tell, except that she could not have been very high in the scale. Her features were good, but their expression was hard to read, and her eyes were closed, For the rest, she was lying as calm and quiet as if the driving wind were the warm air of a pleasant bed-chamber, and the hard wayside a bed of down. Mrs, Tallis touched her lightly— not even her heart stirred.

“ Quite cold,” said Mrs, Tallis after a pause. “ We're too late by a full hour—poor young thing! Lift her up into the cart—gently, mind. What are you standing like a wooden image for?” she said ‘to the carter with extra sharpness to make up for her lapse into pity. “Can't you move ?”

“Ican move, ma'am, But it aren't what I call straightforward to hear a dead woman squeal. I’d send for the constable, ma'am, if I was you—'twas all one as if that there wauled like a child.”

“What !" said the tinker. “Then I'm——" But, whatever he ‘was, he was not afraid of spirits; perhaps, like another philosopher, he had seen, and swallowed, too many to be afraid, and he did not hesitate to stoop over the girl.

Mrz Tallis alsa stooped down hurriedly and pulled aside whe

10 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“ Please, six,” stammered the mathematical genius, in an injured tone, “I aren't got to dodging, I aren't, sir. It’s in seven times I be —tI are.”

“ Begin again, then. Seven times one—yes,” reckoned the school- master to himself, as the sing-song drone began again, “Seven times one !—it’s the first step is hardest, I've read; but, if the world is ruled by numbers, as Pythagoras taught, the first step is one times one—the easiest step of all. Any way, well begun is half done; and nobody that I ever read about, in Plutarch, or the Lives of the Poets, or anywhere, has begun half so well as L At oneand-twenty to have mastered all human knowledge—to have all literature at my fingers’ ends—to be already a man of mark as far as Eastington, and maybe farther, for aught I know—and to be a poet besides, is to begin where others have left off I have only to put out my hand and lay hold of the prize. Only to escape from this wretched drudgery was wanting, and now, like a godsend, comes this eighty pounds a year—three times eight is twenty-four—two hundred and forty pounds in three short years. Why, in one year of freedom I shall have finished my Epic, my Wars of the Stars—

Far orbed Methratton, whom no weaker gaze ‘Than Seraphs’, eagle-cyed with love, hath seen : ‘Razael, the lord of Wisdom, darkly known— ‘The seven that sway the world, and they that rule ‘The four times seven mansions of the moon ”"—

“Ts twenty-eight, five times seven’s twenty-nine ”-

Down came the schoolmaster’s hand upon the ear of the unlucky urchin who had interrupted his reverie. “Do you think because I haven't stopped your blunders I haven’t heard them? Go down, and write out seven times on your slate two hundred and forty times—in three short years. It’s twelve o'clock—be off with you all.”

The church clock had not struck, but it was known to be slow, and the schoolmaster was even more eager to get rid of his scholars than they were to be rid of him. They caught up their caps in a moment and were off with a shout : he seized his pen, and jotted down on the fly-leaf of a primer the contribution to his epic wherewith the multiplication table had unconsciously inspired him. Then he dashed off about a dozen more lines of the same sort ; and the church clock struck one before he left the school-room and locked the door. ‘Then he took the path across the fields that leads to a door at which a tinker once stood some twenty years ago. And while he is on his way, with his f “nll earth, and his mind, blind to the sunshine

oe

12 The Gentleman's Magaztne,

unable to dispose of his undesirable acquisition. Accident, had conspired with nature to render Winbury a sort of outlaw,

Nevertheless here, as elsewhere, the world spun round, though ne giddily. Men and women were born, married, and died effecti though without the sanction of the Z¥mes’ supplement. Not the Zastington Mercury, the vicar’s dfe noir as the organ of count Whiggery, condescended to advertise in the list of births, “On a unknown, at a place unknown, a woman unknown, of a son,” that matter, notice was never sent ; and, if it had been, it could have been paid for. A shilling, found in the dead gitl’s pocket, absorbed in funeral expenses, Rarely does a flourish of announce the entrance of a Poet into the world ; but still more rarely has even a poet come down from the stars with less noise than he who, by a Sunday inspiration of the vicar, was christened. Abela being at any rate a son of Adam.

Ani inquest, at which Mrs. Tallis and the carter gave evidence, 54 sulted only in a verdict “in accordance with the facts,” as the phrase is, It was held at Westcote workhouse, and the woman was ‘buried in Westcote churchyard, No doubt, had Milly been her own child, the housekeeper would have sent the foundling to Westeote and have held, not unjustifiably, that her duty wasdone. The hearts of fathers and mothers seldom contain spare rooms, But Milly was only her brother's orphan, whom she had taken, as she had taken the foundling, straight from a mother’s death-bed ; and she, a childless widow, had felt the chambers of her heart open wide, at Milly's first touch, to all children for ever. It was hardly a year since Milly's mother had died in Eastington ; and she could not but picture to her- self the thought of Milly in Abel's roadside cradle. The apparent injustice of destiny struck her as keenly as it must all who have not learned to combine the broken letters that spell Providence into the whole word,

“No,” she said, sharply and crossly, when her friend Mr, Pottinger suggested the workhouse as Abel's natural home. “If I thought that was my obligation, 1 oughtn't to have preserved him, A union's worse than a prison is, and more shame,”

“Aye, for you or I, but they that comes of shame must be shamed, Third and fourth generations, the Bible gays*——

“The Bible don't tell us to shame them. And there's no shame when there's a wedding ring. Don't assert there wasn't one, for 1 saw it as sure as I'see you. “Twould be to contradict my own eye sight so let the child go to the union."

=

4 The Gentleman's Magazine.

romancera, who had no microscopes, studied kings and heroes. «' think it higher art to study ourselves. Human nature is ‘Bature, we say, and why trouble history or the great « ‘world for materials of study when the smallest hamlet contains tmagedies and comedies than we can read in a lifetime? theory |—human nature was written upon the brains of the |

growth of his own nature therefrom.

So it seemed to be decided by destiny that Abel - biography was to be written thus ;—He was born: he scared crows: he hoed turnips: he waited on horses: he married: he toiled in order to eat bacon, and wasted his toil on beer: he grew bent: theumatism, shook with ague, came upon the parish, and died. ‘Such was the whole of life as known to the Herricks of Winbury; and, if man was made to live, there was enough tragedy in ft to make farther search very needless indeed.

Abel began this hopeful carcer in the usual way. Mrs. Herrick, ‘though burdened with cight growing children of her own, did her duty by him according to her lights ; for the charing engagement, though it brought her more work than pay, was worth keeping, ‘Mrs, Tallis seemed ever bent upon proving that a kind-hearted skin-flint is not a contradiction in terms, She retained her interest in the child whom she had saved from death and Westeote, and, as he grew old enough to be mischievous without being quite old enough for a scare-crow, she allowed Mrs. Herrick to bring him up to the old Manor House on charing days, so that he and “Miss Milly” could be kept in sight by one pair of eyes at a time.

Why the old Manor House stood in need of such perpetual scrubbing and dusting was known to Mrs. Tallis alone. In former days it had belonged to an old Eastingtonshire family of the name of Vane, and one of the family had once lived there—a proof of striking eccentricity. For the Vanes had another place in another part of England; and no ordinary mortal who had as much asa castle ‘in Spain would have deliberately chosen to live at Winbury. ‘This one Vane of Winbury would have been called 4 humourist in the days of the Spectrfor when people were less of the same pattern than they are now; he would have been called crazy in our own. Living somewhere between the two eras people did not know what to call him. Either disappointed love, or misanthropy, or a passion for study, or

‘morbid shyness led him to bury himself with his books out of the

16 The Gentleman's Magazine,

attempt to make raw youth mimic the beauty of age. It was simply very ugly, very large, and belonged to the period of once upon a time. It had a moat without water, a garden without flowers, a stable without horses, and a park without deer. Within, it was convenient enough, but terribly depressing. Its square windows looked ove fat fields, its relics of useless furniture were carefully sewn up in ghostly white canvas, its floors and walls were bare. Not even a painted landscape was there to teach a native of Winbury what is weant by a river ora hill. A little natural dust would have been a relief but that was not allowed.

Uhxt, tor all its overpowering order and cleanliness, if was a splendid

place to play in. Nothing is without a purpose ; and hide and seek ‘was the purpose of the old Manor House at Winbury. Milly and Abel who were much of an age, were playmates on charing days, and did: their very best to give Mrs. Tallis’s duster some real wotk to do. ‘The good woman, being only too well pleased in het heart at tinding a new excuse for putting things to rights, gtumbleal xo much over her pleasure that Abel thought her an cates, Milly, however, was either bolder or sharper-eyed the are ahe wan scolded, the more she tried to deserve a scolding, and ackdom failed,

Que charing day, however, was destined to stand out from the gular round of playing, falling out, making up, mischief, scolding, awl alice af bread and gooseberry jam. Abel, now just beginning tw outyrow hin first corduroys—“ whistlers” they were called in Wily went with Mrs. Herrick as usual to the Manor House, amt telt that) Mrs. Tallis was more than commonly solemn and vita. Hor face was doubly hard, and there was extra sharpness in her tus oe ale began ==

+L wae on the very point of: coming to inquire if you were indis- gael, Mix, Herrick,”

Ma‘nine”

“Nuthing bat gross indisposition can pardon unpunctuality. (uavtin, can't you comprehend plain words? I declare the ignor- inieul the poeple about here I should never find customary if I Ayal te be ie eenturion,

Alia ‘Tallis was clearly put out less with Mrs. Herrick than with the seal at bare for Abel's foster-mother, a poor soul with a husband ‘gal oul! chuldten, who was never in bed after five in the morning gaye is Funsday, knew neither the word unpunctuality nor the thing.

18 The Gentleman's Magazine.

shillings and shillings for aught he knew. The finding of Milly was nothing to the immediate necessity of hiding the evidence of such a crime,

‘That was not easy, as he knew only too well. Not a nook of the old Manor House was safe for an instant from Mrs. Tallis’s hand and eye, and bits of broken china were not things to be swallowed even by one whose digestion had been trained upon Winbury cheese. If they could be thrown away out of doors the cunning of fear suggested that the peculiar pattern of the fragments would draw the attention ‘of the first passer-by and be brought up in witness against him. If he dropped them down the well, the bucket would be sure to draw them up again, If he put them in his pockets—but alas, his pockets were in one important respect like the pit of Hades.

An inspiration! Since dust lay upon the top of the books in the lituary, it was clear that nobody ever looked behind them—there was que xanctuary in the house where something might be hidden and never be found, Pale with panic, he picked up the bits of crockery, crept hack on tip-to, shut the library door behind him, pulled out awe of the tallest folios, and pushed the murdered body—it was nothing eas, to him behind the row,

Alaving thus disposed of the corpus delicti, he breathed freely. But Jats atl acch had lost its savour, He could not push his conscience Awtuunt the foliog, He was angry with Milly. She had beaten him at Abe game, and had been the cause of his getting into mischief like a Wl About andl of getting out of it like a coward. No—let her wait wp bor viumney, or in her band-box, or wherever she was, till she Was (test, tat then let her come and look for him. To pass the time he authay opened the volune he had taken down and that still lay apse thy twee

Nay Abst stat Know how to read, In the early times of talk about the sv tawatitaatet Meng: altuad Winbury had received a passing tap tin hes tow vans “Phe vivat had been campeited by public opinion Laut hi, aniely agaist Nis wil, to estahtish a schoolmaster, Thy wily sanetntaty who appt m the Seid was a. broken-down lat taseat Hot Wvatyoty YAU supsad, in his own country, to leave gated hie MMMM Aino Ae fhe a stot chasm He—it is sawl taking a Quit than the vats ak, acted as if he were the Jatin yh Whe thy Premiyl awed BO AAD mever even As pontead Mauaytt We ts AMUN eaMpNEL AE Ass Ene quarter's salary ware aly FU Be DW Oak a Ae aoa hunselfl olking

ay We ahah aa hat aa Re atk ae as te darter the vicar’s weep Phe avi, am as Nee YER We to teach

20 The Gentleman's Magasine.

library. And now, you know, you had better put it back where you took it from.”

“ But what's *-

“Bless the boy,” she said, looking at the open book that he had lifted up for her to look at, “ why about Sin, to be sure. There— si, m, sin.”

“ But what comes after Sin, please?”

“What a young troublesome you are. Log, to be sure.”

* And after Log, please?”

“ M— and thar’s—dear me, I'm afraid my spectacles aren't whit they used to be—thar's a cross—and then Tan—Log—P—two strokes—a long number. ‘There—now you understand.”

“But why’s it wrote? What do it mean?”

“Mean? Why Sin’s wickedness: and Log’s wood: and Tan’sa colour in dogs.”

“And the cross? and the lines?”

“Oh, they're inserted to fill up, like fall stops. They always put those into books—for ornament, I suppose.”

“ But what's it all for?™

“Oh, because—because—it's a book, you see—people must pat something into books, or else there wouldn’t be any, and then there'd be no clever men.”

“And what's that? What's a clever man?”

“A clever man’s a wise man—a man that knows everything, and makes machines, and reads books, and—there, don’t trouble any more, It’s not possible you should understand.”

“Do you, m'm?”

“Bless the boy! As if I had the time to think about cleverness. With a house like this on my hands, I can't idle over reading.”

How do people get clever, m’m?”

“ Being born so, I suppose—and some of them go to college—and some of them by reading all the books in the world.”

All this was pregnant with matter for questioning : but Abel, with precocious aptitude for separating one grain of wheat from a bushel of chaff, only stared at the mysterious volume and said—

“ Then I'll read all the books in the world. I'll be a clever man.”

“Well—I don't mind your playing with them so long as you put them back again. It'll keep you quiet, and the books dusted—I've always been meaning to attend to them myself, only the furniture takes up all my time. And you'll want to be kept out of mischief now Milly” (this very sharply, as if to cut off the head of a sigh}— “mow Mill * ‘9 school.”

22 The Gentleman's Magazine.

sixpence a week by shouting at rooks and crows. He welcomed the safety of solitude, and sought no companionship when the rooks west, back t their nests and his day’s work was done.

In many an out-of-the-way village a solitary farmer's or shepherd's ad, if he has the commonest stuff in him, may, and does, learn to be wise, If there had been a hillock or a rivulet within sight of the top of ue church tower, if a single rose had shot up in the wasted garden of the Manor House, it would have served as a wholesome loop-hole for Mbvel ier xpirit to have spread tendrils out into the world. It winy Iwenaidl there were still the sky and the clouds: but these are wa thn firet steps of Jacob’s ladder. They mast be climbed by alow deytees, And then the skies of Winbury were apt, in their hile varying ahaclen of grey, to suggest a barren extension of space with nutling heyond it, while the clouds generally took the form of jaw, unlauken mints, that only brought nothingness a little nearer to Me weal,

41 wae ly way of an almost necessary compensation, or rather tabs abit, shut hin caged and companionless spirit had, in one fatal nednen, heen neized a sublime and irrevocable curiosity that wild not wuffer him to rest until he had searched out all the myste- Hew fey the threshold on which he felt himself standing. He was wlliwe the free run of the Manor House book-shelves because he waeit Iw livenee Ly indulging in the worst mischief of which a boy ean tee guilty that of never making a noise. Of course at first, when his delauch, carried on during every spare hour, was new, he fw ws trust tw blind chance fora guide. The very first book he Juygan and finished was the old mathematical treatise, of which the ayilety wid abbreviations had proved too much for Mrs. Tallis’s nyestacles, Of cours he might just as well have pored over 2 Chinese manuseript: but the combinations of letters and the strange figures he tound in it were, in wome inexplicable way, subtle stimu- Jante to his imagination, Anything, 0 long as it is incomprehensible, will verve ta fuwinute virgin brains: they read unintended human face», hull of character, in the meaningless zig-zags of a carpet pattern, vague ramances in the fireplace, and wonderful new landscapes in the cross-threads of a blank window blind,

And of puyuant food for such greed of the unknown the Manor House library, with ita couple of hundred volumes, furnished ample stare. ‘I'o judge from these fousila of his studies, the only Vane who ever lived at Winbury had measured the worth of human pursuits by their want of practical utility. After wading through his mathe-

sifice! “nel attacked—because it was the largest and

24 The Gentleman's Magazine,

Czar, but feel and think about him as if, instead of making history, he had been made by it. Of course Abel was aware of the difference, in theory, between fact and fiction, but in his heart Una and her lion were as real as he who invented them, and, by an inevitable process of confusion, their creator as unreal as they: and all was real and unreal at one and the same time. To live meant to make verses, and he made them: to make verses, he gathered, it was necessary to” love a woman—so he made a woman, and loved her in the grand style,

It may be that the verses he evolved with much labour were not quite as near Spenser’s or Milton’s as he believed. But, if not yet a poet, he had the spirit of one, cultivated not by nature, as the poetic spirit is supposed to be, but by years of close familiarity with heraldic nightmares and cabalistic chimeras, all painted in living colours upon Winbury for a background. If he was really to be a poet, for once a poet had not been born, but made.

But there comes a time when the most inveterate dreamer ceases to be content with worshipping the ideal princess of an enchanted castle in the air.

He was not discontented with his lot. He knew nothing of wealth and fame but as words he had read about—that is to say, as bubbles to be despised. Love and song, he had leamed, were the only things to be lived for, and he found nothing in his authors to suggest that these were inconsistent with the daily life of a thatcher arid hurdle-maker—for such his foster-father was, and such he himself was to be. Winbury, it was true, had few of the attributes of Arcadia, but that was doubtless owing to the unfortunate accident of its being unprovided with an available Phillis or Chloe. More than once he tried very hard to identify some Susan or Betty with a heroine of pastoral romance, but the attempt had always broken down, But this was not altogether a misfortune. It secured him in undis- turbed empire over his own dreamland, better than any possible reality. He wanted no sympathy. To others, he was a helping- hand to old Herrick the hurdle-maker, and not a very diligent or skilful hand: to himself, he was all that he had ever read of—a romance hero who led a life that was, in the spirit, actually fulfilled, and so beyond the power of any common-place ideas about getting on in the world to disturb, But his genius for dreaming made it only the more uncertain what was to be the end—whether Winbury was to become famous at last, like many another hole and corner, as the home of a great peasant poet, or whether all this promise was to prove a mere flash in the brain-pan, and to be smothered into.

26. The Gentleman's Magazine.

Tive asked of books—they cannot speak: Of brooks—they’re deaf and blind.

I've clambered every hillside up, I've roamed around the land:

‘No ocean hides thee in his cup, ‘No mountain in his hand,

Say, Echo, where may Cynthia be, And when will she appear?

“ Always, and everywhere,” saith she, But never Now, nor Here.

If Abel had ever seen the hillside or the ocean of which he wrote so familiarly the lines would doubtless have been better, if not newer fashioned. But he thought very well of them himself. Having dropped his poem, as he called it, through the slit in the window of the general shop, feeling as if all the world stood staring round to see him do it, his mind felt relieved of a weight, and he retuned to his thatching and hurdle-making for the benefit of his foster-family with as much content as a now professed poet could manage. He did not even work out any plan for watching the future numbers of the Mercury. The very poem seemed his own no more, now that it had passed from his hands into those of the carrier.

But he was not quite so devoted to the library as heretofore. For one thing, he knew the books by heart: and the more he tried to imitate them, the less they satisfied him, He thought, more and more, of the immortal Eve, and less and less of those who have tried to sing of her.

But one day—it was in the spring, when the swallows, the only travellers besides the bargees who ever visited Winbury, had arrived —Abel, after sunset, thought he would sup on Hippocrene instead of bread and cheese, and strolled up to the Manor House, now always opened to him, Habits and precedents easily grew up in Winbury. And, as he was crossing the piece of front garden where cabbages usurped the place of cabbage roses, an adventure befell him more extraordinary even than his opening that wonderful mathematical folio. He saw a woman’s gown that was not made of black silk.

‘That was marvel enough for one day, but it was nothing to what followed, Within the gown was a woman, who was not Mrs. Tallis the housekeeper.

He was seized with a shy fit, for the woman was young—as young as Susan, or Betty—but in most other respects startlingly different from any of the Winbury girls, To a lad who had wasted a great

28 The Gentleman's Magazine,

are—only a few yards taller. Don’t you remember Milly?” she asked, holding out her hand—not delicately white, but still the whitest Abel had ever seen.

He ventured to touch it with his fingers, as if afraid of soiling it. Surprise almost made him forget to be shy—almost that he had made up his mind to worship her.

“What—you’re Milly!” he exclaimed, colouring up—let us hope for his old intention of laying his broken tea-cup on her shoulders in case of need. “ Why, it’s impossible !”

“I suppose everybody had forgotten there’s such a being. haven't, though—this is me, and glad to be at home again. I've had quite enough of school—and aunt would never let me come home even for the holidays, she was so afraid of my not getting all the polish Miss Baxter could give me. She is the dearest old lady in the world —Aunt, I mean, not Miss Baxter. But I’m polished now for good I hope—if I'm not real mahogany they've done their best to make me look so. And what are you doing now you're a man? You've not been troubled with old Crook as I have with Miss Baxter, I suppose? You see I haven't forgotten anybody's names—not even Jowler’s at the Vane Arms—or Mr. Pottinger’s Pepper—how are they all? I am so glad to be home again !”

Milly did not speak volubly like a professed chatter-box, but only as if warm-hearted pleasure at meeting an old friend, obliged to show itself somehow, had set her tongue going.

But it was all a new strain to Abel, and he found himself seized by a dumb fiend. Milly naturally thought nothing of the embarrass- ment of a village lad before a stranger. and went back to himself —the topic upon which everybody can speak who can speak at all.

“You haven't told me what you've been doing?”

“12 Oh—t’ve been making—-hurdles.”

“You must show me how they're made.—Please don’t let me drive you away—I suppose we must all be well-behaved now, but if I'd only known you were coming I would have hid myself, just once more, like I used to. Won't you come in? We were just at tea— only I ran out to look round the old place before it got too dark to see. Come in.”

Abel went in—he was now almost too shy to follow, but he was quite too shy to refuse. Moreover, he was in the condition that is retrospectively called love at first sight when love follows it. Milly led him into the housekeeper’s snug little parlour—he would have followed her over the edge of a precipice.

“Good evening. Abel,” said his patroness. Unable to forget that

she he- she bridged over the natural distance between

3° The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘The young man stared, “How much a yard?” he asked face- tiously, “Never heard of the party. Give him my best respects when you see him, and say I’m pretty well, thank you. No—no more tea, thank you—unless Miss Barnes will leave out the sugar this time: it comes sweet enough from the pot when she holds the handle. I told all the fellows at the office I was going off with an heiress—and split me, if some of 'em didn’t believe it was true,”

“ Ah—many a true word is spoken in jest," said Mrs, Tallis oracu-

Right youare, ‘That's just what I mean to, one of these fine days. An heiress for my money—Self and Co, for an hciress’s money, I should say, I'm sorry you're not an heiress, Miss Barnes, or I'd get Your aunt to turn her back for just halfa minute, and then pop would go the question and we'd be off to Gretna Green."

“Thank you,” said Milly. “1 was never glad that I'm not an heiress till now. When I go to Gretna Green" —

*Gracious me, Milly,” said Mrs. Tallis, the young Indies at Miss Baxter's don't talk. about Gretna Green, I'm sure!

“Don't they, aunt! ‘That's nothing at all. You should only hear tus—when Miss Baxter's outofthe way. Why, they eall me the mouse, because 1 only talk eighteen to the dozen, and all the other girls talk nineteen.”

Humble as were these attempts at badinage, they were brilliant for Fastingtonshire : and, in any case, they belonged to a language of which the solitary student knew not the alphabet. All the talk he had ever heard was sadly serious, even when—or rather especially when—it related to nothing more important than a mug of beer. He did not wish to sit by as a conversational cypher in the presence of Milly and Mr. Adams, so he seized his opportunity, though a little tardily, and struck in—

“1 think marrying for money is detestable.”

Even such common-place as this was not to be looked for from a Winbury hurdiemaker. Mr. Adams winked, as if he had heard something very comical indeed, and meant to say, “Now you shall ‘see some good fun—I'm going to draw out this young man.”

“ Quite right, Mr. I didn’s quite catch the name?”

“Herrick, my name is,"

“ Quite right, Mr. Herrick. I quite agree with you. You don't ‘mean to say you found out all that for yourself? Why, the great What's-his-name himself couldn't have put it better, There's a deep eee oie log, time, and p'raps, as you

can explain. I'm an article to Mx, Smith, of know, the owner of this very house and !

ABOLT THE NORTH POLE. BY WaLTER THORKBURY.

‘N che laier par: of the itheenth century, when the great @ discowery made br Coinmbus had set all the maritime world of Europe on the jerment. John Cabot. a Venetian pilot, sent om a vorage cf exploration under the aaspices of Henry VIL, Bgbted upon Newioundland. and was, indeed. the first European who had landed on any part af che American continent. Cabot's son, Sebastian. eventus'y discovered Paraguay and the River Plate, and in the reign of Edward VL helped to stat an expedition to reach India and Cathay by war of the north and north<ast. The com- mander chosen was Sir Hugh Willoaghby. a handsome and brave officer, who was accompanied br Richard Chancelor, a sagacious man, and a friend of the ixther of Sir Philip Sidney. The vessels were soon separated by a storm in the northern seas, and Sir Hugh and his crew were froren to death somewhere off Lapland. Chan- celor. however. found his way into the White Sea. and. landing there his way by sledges to Moscow, he established the first trade between England and Russia.

Jn 1594 the Durch sent out a northern expedition of three small vessels and a yacht. under the guidance of Wiliam Barentz, a brave and experienced sailor, who determined to pass round to the north- ward of Nova Zembla The vast flocks of penguins and the great herds of wa'ruses astonished the ciscomfited vorager, whom the ice soon drove back. Another part of the expedition passed the Strait of Waygatz, and coasted part of Nova Zembla, believing they had found an easy passage to China, along the eastern shore of Asia. A second expedition discovered nothing. A third was entrusted to Barentz and John Comelius Rp. These more enterprising men discovered Spitzbergen. Attempting in vain to pass the north of Nova Zembla, Barentz was frozen in forthe winter. The vessel was wedged close till it was levered up upon the ice, and the crew built a hut on the shore, carrying on their work amid constant conflicts with the Polar bears. The three months’ night the Dutchmen passed amid ceaseless cold and hunger. The broken ice, at first only seventy-ive paces broad, in front of them gradually widened sn con paces, resembling the towers and steeples of a great Sty.

34 The Gentleman's Magazine.

fields receded, and the Zsadel/a passed the Alexander safely into a clear channel.

Soon after this, the gale continuing, the ice began to move faster, and a large field of ice bearing down on them, Ross and Pany resolved to saw out docks for refuge, but the ice proved too thick. for the nine-feet saws. This failure was their salvation, for the field to which they were moored began, as they left it, to drift rapidly om a reef of grounded icebergs, and presently it broke on the bergs, rising more than fifty feet up the side of the white cliffs and falling back with crashing ruins on the very spot where the docks would have been, That evening the vessels were made fast to the land ice, and sought refuge in a bay girt with icebergs, and over extra allowances of preserved meat and grog the tired sailors forgot for a time their troubles.

The next day some Esquimaux in dog sledges hailed them. ‘Twenty-eight natives and fifty dogs began clamouring together. The visitors bartered sea unicorns’ horns and sea horse teeth for knives, glasses, and beads, and taking the ship for a bird asked it if it came from the sun or the moon. The natives, though friendly and good- natured, proved great thieves, and tried to carry off nearly everything they saw, from an anvil to the topmast. Near Cape Dudley Digges the cliffs appeared covered with crimson snow, which has since been proved to be of vegetable growth. Captain Ross now passed the various sounds described by Baffin, and satisfied himself too readily that they were all impassable. Lancaster Sound alone he explored for thirty miles, and then trusting to an assistant surgeon, from the “crow’s-nest,” who pronounced the channel stopped by a line of land, turned homewards.

Parry on his return expressing a desire to explore Lancaster Sound was sent out with the Heda, of 375 tons, and the Griper gun brig, of 180 tons, with ample stores for two years. He set sail in 1819, and was soon immovably beset. On the second day, however, a heavy roll of the sea loosened the ice and drove it against the vessels with such violence that but for their strength they would have broken up. Once more free, they steered northward along the edge of the ice searching for open water. ‘They then made a desperate push to the westward between detached floes of ice, through lanes of open water, and sawing through one final barrier bore directly for Lancaster Sound, and reached longitude 83° 12’, fifteen miles from the mouth of the sound, which was about fifty miles broad, without difficulty. At a point where they believed they had passed the magnetic meridian the compass became useless and the fog

38 The Gentleman's Magazine. River either directly through the Frozen Strait or circuitoutly by River

one detachment going northward to the Fury or Hecla Strait, and a second westward to Point Turnagain. Stedges with fron runners and convertible into carriages were to be used. Above all every effort was to be made to retum to England the same autumn. The voyage began ominously, for near Davis's Strait they passed & berg not less than 3oo feet high, and near Resolution Island dense floes with high peaks jostled and clashed around them, But Frozen Strait gave one broken mountainous sea of ice, with ponderous masses of floes heaped up thirty feet high. On one decasion when moored to a dangerous and tottering iceberg, a heavy drifting floe struck the berg, part of which fell and all but destroyed the vessel. ‘The Fervor, however, behaved well, and near the Frozen

tothe nearest pool, like so many laughing school boys, and shouting at the fan when any luckless fellow broke in through the thin ice. Off Cape Comfort Back’s ship was suddenly nipped, the ice rising im pointed heaps twenty feet or more in height. The men despairing now of reaching Repulse Bay, Back resolved to cut a dock in the nearest floc, but singularly enough on the very next day the whole body of ice near them burst into pieces and rolled to the west, tossing the blocks in heaps and grinding some to powder. ‘The men soon grew gloomy, abandoned amusement, and became desponding. ‘The ‘vessel was pressed by the ice and daily threatened with instant destruction. It was sometimes lifted vertically and nearly covered with masses of disrupted ice nineteen or twenty feet high, shattered into mammoth mounds, peaks, stubborn walls, and ramparts. Some of the ship’s planks shone with the turpentine squeezed out of the wood, and the crushes of ice were attended by groaning and splitting sounds Joud as cannon, The vessel was heaved up by the vast force of the ice. One especial day a mass of ice thirty feet high came rearing towards her on a floe, and escape seemed hopeless. All this time the forepart of the vessel was buried as high as the flukes of the anchor in perpendicular walls of ice, After several weeks of labour ‘Back and his men sawed the tormented vessel out of her ice prison after she had been thrown on her beam ends by submerged ice that clung to her bottom, It was time to tum: the poor vessel stumbled and staggered homeward, reaching Lough Swilly in a state that would,

=

4o The Gentleman's Magazine,

upon the search) consisted of the Resolute and the Assistance and two powerful screw steamers, the Pivacer and the Jntrepid. Captains Austin, Ommanney, and Sherard Osborn were the leaders of the search. Sir John Ross undertook to bear round Wellington Channel, and to examine ali the headlands thence to Banks’ Land. The heroic Lady Franklin herself fitted out two vessels, and the Prine Albert, a schooner-rigged craft of ninety tons (Commander Forsyth), resolved to examine to the shores of Prince Regent's Inlet and the Gulf of Boothia. Melville Bay proved that year peculiarly impenetrable, and the largest vessels spent four weeks in effecting thirty miles northward. Blocked by icebergs which threatened to fall and crush the smaller ships or to close and grind them to pieces, the sailors stood ready with their bundles to leap on the ice and escape by sledge or on foot. The Prince Albert once or twice had to charge necks of ice, and on other occasions huge icy masses were burst asunder with blasting powder, the seamen with warps dragging away the huge disjointed blocks. The Prince Albert then examined the south shore of Lancaster Sound, and stood away down Prince Regent's Inlet, but found all passage beyond Fury Beach impassable. She visited Barrow’s Strait, and found Wellington Channel floored with solid ice. But on Cape Riley the sailors saw what repaid them for all the toil and danger. The Assistance and In:repid had been there before them, and had discovered traces of Franklin's tents: rope, canvas, bones, and three tombstones left“by the men of the Erebus and Terror during a prolonged visit in 1845 and 1846.

On the 12th of April, 1851, six sledging parties started from Griffith Island; three taking the north shore, three the south of Parry's Strait. Lieutenant M-Clintock’s party travelled 760 miles, dis- covered forty miles of coast, and was absent eighty days. Itachieved the farthest westing ever attained in the Polar seas, setting up marks, depositing provisions, and making observations. Sails and kites were used to drag the sledges, and the men toiled heartily and merrily at the drag-ropes. In the exploration of Wellington Channel Captain Penny discovered Victoria Channel, which he explored by boat for 300 miles. This the discoverer believed to be the great inner Polar basin.

‘The interesting discovery at Cape Riley lit up once more the old hope, and it was thought that Franklin had proceeded up Wellington Channel and enteied the sea discovered by Captain Penny ; and in 1852 Sir Edward Beecher started with five vessels—the Assisfance, the ‘Resolute, the North Star, and two steamers, the Pioneer and Intrepid —resolved to sail to Baffin’s Bay, and make Beachy Island his

I TG oionas Magasine,

‘While the vexation of this failure was still existing in Dr. Rac arrived from Repulse Bay with more news of Franklin. had been scen alive by Esquimaux in 1850, and the remains of band had been discovered in 1351, The sailors had been seen sealbunters near King William's Land in 1850, dragging a and sedges. The bodies of thiny of their party were found ‘same season, on an island a long day's journey north-west of Great Fish River, Some of the bodies were in tents, others under Boat. One body seemed that of a chief, as a telescope was strapped cover the shoulders and a double-barrelled gun lay near it From the mutilated state of the bodies i was supposed that cannibalism had | ‘been resorted to, ‘There was plenty of powder, and stores of shot and ball were found below high-water mark. Dr. Rae brought with him several spoons and forks, and one small silver plate, engraved with the words “John Franklin, K.C.B." Great disappointment was felt that in his zeal to explore Boothia Dr. Rac did not himself visit the spot where Franklin died, in search of fuller records of his fate.

‘Of the second Grinnell Expedition, commanded by the chivalrous Dr. Kane, who sacrificed his life in the service, I have no room to say much, In many points it was more daring and romantic than any other. Kane’s generous efforts to rescue his men when in great peril, his daring sledge journeys, will live for ever in Arctic records, Soul never triumphed more nobly over body than when Kane, swollen with scurvy, his foot frozen, and himself almost delirious, Jed on his party beyond the farthest limits of Grecnland, seeking the mysterious channels that open into the inner Polar Sea. On ‘one occasion he and his men lived eighty-four days in the open air, But for a few seals that they shot and ate raw the whole party must have perished.

In 1855 a small band of hardy fellows in a bark canoe furnished by the Hudson's Bay Company proceeded down the Great Fish River to its mouth, Franklin being supposed to have perished of starvation somewhere near Montreal Island, Here they found several relics of the Arabur and Zerrer, but no bodies and no paper.

And now we come to the final and more successful voyage—that of Captain M'Clintock in the ox in the years 1857--9. Itwas he who finally proved that Franklin had really discovered the North- ‘West Passage and died on the rth of June, 1847, while working ‘on foot across the ice near the mouth of the Great Fish River, “It seemed," as Mr, Ballantyne beautifully observes, “as if the Almighty remitted one mysterious whisper from the unseen,

that drove the Fix close to the rocks. In the Fax strove to win a way: the solid extended its barriers over Peel Strait, and drove: the

third party was to trace the shores of Prince of Wales Land, and, if possible, between Four River Point and Cape Bird. Two months” provisions were to be carried by each party.

Near the Magnetic Pole M‘Clintock met an Esquimaux with a naval button on his coat, which had been obtained from some white people who had been starved upon an island. From this man's ‘yillage they obtained many relics of poor Franklin and his men— spoons, forks, a medal, and portions of the wreck, According to them Franklin's vessel had been crashed by ice near King William's Tsland, and the crew had perished near Montreal Island, in the estuary of the Fish River. M‘Clintock rejoined the Fox after twenty-five days’ absence, during which he had travelled 420 miles and com- pleted the discovery of t20 geographical miles of the coast line of Continental America, The mean temperature was 30° below zero.

‘The brave leader then set out for another expedition to the east coast of King William's Land, passing on foot through a North-West Passage, and finding relics of Franklin on Montreal Island. At Point Ogle was found on the beach a skeleton lying upon its face, apparently an officer's servant, At Point Victory, on King William's ‘Land, was picked up a paper dated May, 1847, describing the men as all well, the wintering in Beachy Island, and the ascent of Wellington

the captain of the Erebus kad noted Yue

SIGNOR SALVINIS HAMLET. BY A PARISIAN CRITIC.

T was, doubtless, not without misgivings that even the most

ardent admirers of Signor Salvini’s histrionic accomplish-

ments went to witness his first performance in this country

of Hamlet—that testing part of a complete actor. His interpretation of Othello was in all respects a masterly achievement, at least for those who cared not to remember the canons set down by former exponents of the part, and who elected to follow their own idea of the manner in which it should be performed. But although it was hardly possible to doubt that Signor Salvini’s attempt would be marked by the points in which an artist so accomplished could not fail to create eflect, yet it did not follow that whereas he had rendered the passions incarnated in the Moor, he could succeed in depicting feelings absolutely different. In fact most competent critics were inclined to disbelieve in the Italian tragedian’s compe- tency, not to give an acceptable rendering of the supreme drama, but to endow it with the symmetrical beauty of the whole performance of Othello.

These fears were not wholly groundless. In the part of Hamlet it was enough to look at Signor Salvini to be aware that his appearance was against him, for in that extraordinary creation it is not enough to have the art: the artist must also have the physique of the character. The essence of the pleasure we find at the theatre is illusion, and if we have before us an actor whose looks are altogether remote from the sentiments he expresses the illusion, except at very rare moments, is all but destroyed. Nothing can be more uncongenial than an elderly lady who enacts a youthful character ; and in no play is the look of the part more necessary than in “Hamlet.” Salvini is tall, powerful, dignified ; the stamp of mature talent sits on every feature of his countenance ; he seems far beyond the hesitations and falterings of Hamlet : and as he has, like most Italian actors, an objection to the use, or rather abuse, of artificial means of changing his physiognomy, it appeared still more obvious that the nervous mask of the Prince of Denmark could scarcely sit at ease on his features. Not less specious seemed the allegation of incompatibility of temperament. While Othello is

particularly well adanted to a southern nature, Hamlet's acts appeat to

48 The Gentleman's Magazine,

other like the links of a chain, so that, however different from the genera! idea of a part, his rendering of it is in keeping with the view he has taken and possesses the harmonious proportions of a work of refined art.

‘These remarks are not uncalled for, because, in my opinion, Signor Salvini has approached the part of Hamlet more in the latter mood than with a desire to render it exactly and faith- fully as Shakespeare wrote it. Our tragedian has but an imperfect knowledge of English; and although reverence for genius has nothing to do with nationality, he cannot fairly be expected to show the superstitious respect for the exact text on the integrity of which every cultivated English spectator insists. He knows “Hamlet” only through a translation, than which none could be more recklessly and impertinently bad. Whether the shortcomings of this Italian version have had much to do with Salvini’s inter- pretation I do not know; but his conception of Hamlet’s indi- viduality appears to me in some essential points far from the creation of the poet. It may be that Salvini himself is aware of the fact, only that he thinks that, on the whole, “Hamlet” is written more for reading than for presentation on the stage, and that the tragedian should extract the dramatic essence of the creation, and with due respect leave aside that which can fitly be read in the closet, At any rate the Hamlet which he has given us is arranged and curtailed in a manner which leads to such an inference. It would cover space to point out all the excisions, changes, and substitution of certain sayings for weak equivalents that have been made in the Drury Lane version ; but the players’ scene, part of the churchyard scene, the conversation between Rosencrantz, Guilden- stern, and Hamlet which follows the comedy, and all the speeches, bits, and scraps of humour have disappeared. If Signor Salvini has acted on the theory just put forth, some of these excisions are not injudicious ; if he has not, then I can imagine no reason why he should have cut out pieces in which his consummate art could not but have served him to great advantage; and this is sufficient to indicate that, as a whole, his Hamlet cannot have the same perfection as his Othello. In local colour, in comprehension, in the slightest details, that last impersonation, to my mind at least, was complete. In the state in which “ Hamlet” is pre- sented at Drury Lane the same conviction cannot possibly be ex- pressed. But this I am ready to grant, that in his peculiar reading of the part he does some of the greatest things ever witnessed on

the stage, art “' ++ his impersonation, though far less complicated

50 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the profound grief which grows upon him more and more as be addresses the ghost and every fond recollection of his father returns to him one by one produces due effect on the house. It is then that the unlikelihood of Signor Salvini’s powerful appearance of manhood begins to fade away before the superiority of his acting. He follows the ghost, and when he reappears on another part of the platform it is facing the audience, so that not a movement of his features can escape scrutiny. It may be remembered that Mt. Irving, and most of those who recently preceded him in the assumption of the character in which the majority has found him so satisfactory, keep their backs partly turned towards the house, thus concealing their faces and losing an opportunity of impressive dumbshow. An artist must, it is true, be fully confident in his means to make the attempt, for ridicule would attach to failure. _ Signor Salvini’s acting at this juncture could, I imagine, hardly be surpassed. His despair at actually beholding his father, and yet being unable to rush forth and clasp him in his arms; the way in which he rubs his eyes and shows as eloquently as dumb expression can do his doubt whether he beholds a real vision, or whether he is not victim of some fantastic fancy of his mind ; his stifled sobs as the apparition relates its tale of murder; the mixture of desolation, rage, and compassion with which he utters the few words he has to say in this scene; all this, apart from the other points of the per- formance, is worth seeing to realise the climax of perfection a dramatic artist can attain.

Following his system of suppressing all inconsistencies with his idea of the part, he does not indulge in the assumed hysterical force with which he speaks to the ghost when he invites his com- panions never to reveal what they have seen. Although the Italian version of “ Hamlet” also does away with part of the dialogue with Polonius in the second act, still some points are retained to which the tragedian does more than full justice. His manner of con- temptuously turning the pages of his book between forefinger and thumb while, shaking his head, he answers—

Parole, poi parole, e poi parole, in reply to Polonius’s query, was so suggestive as to call forth one of those murmurs of approbation far more flattering to the pride of an artist than loud and boisterous plaudits; and the same murmur interrupted him in several parts of the famous soliloquy which precedes the scene with Ophelia, particularly when, after uttering for the first time the words—

Morir! . . . dormire! . .. .

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raving and yelling maniac which actors of inferior cast are 40 fond of in- troducing to us at this juncture, but keeps his violence within: in order not to leave the King under the impression that the coind: dence of a play that pictured his own crime was duc to another cauie than hazard ; and when, following a natural impulse of human naturs, the tragedian, instead of singing, laughing, and bandying words wif his friend, rushed into Horatio's arms, as if the truth was too heayy for one man to bear, the audience sanctioned this interpretation by loud and continued applause.

From this period, whatever hesitation the actor might yet have betrayed completely disappears. He knows what remains for him to do, and he sceks only an occasisn to do it. In his progress towards the tragical conclusion he is, perhaps, more at cast than in the first portion of the drama, and he gives us some pieces of acting which, differing as they do from each other, seem to indicate inexhaustible sources of versatility and power, ‘The last three points especially worthy of notice in the last acts are the closet scene, bis struggle with Laertes over Ophelia’s grave, and the final display with the foils, inwhich he does not depend on the accuracy of his simu- lated swordsmanship for the protound effect he succeeds in producing In the first of these manifestations his rendering is marked by the peculiarity which is also attached to the dialogue with Ophelia and the climax of the comedy trap. Hamlet's blood does rise at first; the miserable death of his father, the heartlessness of his mother, her indecent haste to marry her husband’s own brother—all these exasperating recollections crowd in his brain, and make him clutch and poise the sword with which he has just slain Polonius as if he ‘were going to commit a second murder. But the ghost appears, and the shriek and action of Signor Salvini as the apparition rises send a thrill of terror through the spectators, ‘The ghost's exhortation to spare his mother restores him to the mood of love for his parents which is the dominant feature of his performance. He begs, he entreats his mother to return to sentiments of penitence, takes her in his arms, almost caresses her. Again, in the churchyard he does not follow the common path traced by his predecessors, He says the words

‘Woul't weep ? woul't fight? woul't fast ? wou!'t tear thyself? &e.

with alternate outbursts of pathos and fierceness; but why the perfectly unjustifiable excision of part of this speech? There is no possible reason for its omission, for it in no wise contradicts the view which, a9 1 suppose, Signor Salyini has taken of the par. The

i el |

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writer, in the Saturdizy Review, under the heading of “ Follies of Criticism,” has been good enough to include me among those thought- less and hare-brained judges who deserve castigation for unrighteously castigating others. As, however, I understand that the rainm fre of the Saturday Review is to express in superfine language dis satisfaction at most men and things, I may take its abuse asa delicate compliment. But the Saturday reviewer takes me to task for what I precisely ought not to be blamed, and I will therefore endeavour to make a few professional suggestions that may be of future use to the author of this not very leamed nor very subte anicle. I say “not very learned” because the Saturday reviews commits a blunder which would enable any well read and cultivated Englishman to dilate on the follies of his own criticism; and I Fegret for him that the task of pointing it out should devolve on a foreigner. He writes, among other things: “ The attack of the * Quarterly, so savage and tartarly,’ was a terrible thing to Keats ; but Keats’s poetry will live in spite of it” Now, son déWeise to the writer who makes this statement, the attack of the Quarterly ‘was nothing of the kind to Keats, and it is surprising that the editor of a journal which plumes itself on literary infallibility should have overlooked an assertion the inaccuracy of which is now notorious. It is true that many who should have known better believed that Keats had been killed by the attack of the Quarterly, and Byron and Shelley among the number. But if there is one fact esta- blished by Lord Houghton in his biography of Keats, it is that the opinion reproduced by the Sa/urday Review was untrue, and that the poet was more indifferent to adverse criticism than most men would be. This has nothing to do with myself; but 1 am not sorry to remind a writer who professes not only to be a critic but to sit in judgment upon other critics, that he should at least have known such a fact as this. He says, quoting a phrase of mine to the effect that “‘it is sufficient to see the manner in which Salvini bears himself to know that you have before you an actor whom you have less the right to criticise than observe,” that “ this position will save a great deal of trouble, as possibly in future when one has seen the frame ofa picture it will be known that one has a right to look at it, but not to judge its merits.” He also finds fault with me for saying of Signor Salvini's Othello that “one cannot say too much of such a performance,” and styles what he calls my comparison between Mr. Irving and the Italian actor “absurd.” As a matter of fact, I never made any comparison between Mr. Irving and Salvini; and had the Saturday reviewer trusted for his statement on something more reliable than

APROPOS OF THE PARIS SALON. BY “ SPECTAVI.”

-NVESTING in pictures is a great lottery in France. The standard of taste is capricious, and there is no knowing what fancies those rich and uncultivated foreigners who come to Paris to see life and learn bon ton may take to pictures hardly

deserving the space they would occupy in a lumber room. Six years ago Fortuny was scarcely quoted in the returns of the fine art market, A month back the rubbish of his studio fetched almost £16,000 sterling at the auction mart. His sudden death gave his friends an opportunity to puff him beyond measure, and so the purveyors to Muscovite and Transatlantic galleries considered themselves safe in paying £300 sterling for a sketch which would fit into a lady's card case. A reduced copy of a Velasquez went at a higher figure. Those obscure shopkcepers of the Rue Saint-Martin who bought landscapes of Corot because he was a neighbour, and because he sold for what they offered him, unconsciously provided large fortunes for their children.

There is nothing like the run on the Royal Academy's Exhibition that there is on the Salon. Fashionable and unfashionable society congregate here, to satisfy the eye’s lust, to gossip, and to make speculative ventures. The big square room at the head of the stairs, and the double line of oblong chambers to right and left of .it, forming the first floor of the Champs Elysée side of the Exhibition building, having become insufficient for the pictures and the public, the western wing has been added. And still there are days when, to prevent accidents from overcrowding, it is found necessary to shut the doors of entrance early in the afternoon. At such times painters tell visitors that “le Salon est complet.” On Whit Monday 31,745 persons went through the turnstile of the Exhibition building. No register was kept of season-ticket holders, the number of whom may be set down at about 6,000. The total of the works of art entered in the catalogue amounts to 3,862, of which 2,827 are pictorial. Greece and Italy in their brightest periods of artistic efflorescence would have found it impossible to fill the 650 pages of the official catalogue.

In one notable feature the Parisian Salon resembles a modern church, On free and paying days bonnets immensely preponderate

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oak of the library and dining.room, She has the virtue to. that Book of Beauty prized by her Anglo-American sister, Cabinet paintings intended for the home market have te qualities which cleverness, spirit, anecdotic wit, a fine

the pretty and the picturesque, and technical skill can give. These are easily attained ina land where, if poetic and creative genius is varer than in Germany and the British islands, talent is scattered broadcast, Beauty, as they conceive it in Paris, does not incur the reproach of being silly and lackadaisical, It is a flower of the ine tellect, the perfection of all that Faust was able to command, But it wants the immortal spark of Divinity which the Marguerite and the Mignon of Ary Scheffer caught,

‘The course of a successful French artist of the present day is. seldom one of progress, particularly in the higher branches of his profession. Often healthy at the start, though scarcely ever pre- found, his style becomes attenuated as his prices rise. He studies little, and he works incessantly for a frivolous public which does not often know its own mind from one day to another and may at any moment desert him to run after @ fresh favourite, A few artists of humble origin who found greater enjoyment in saving money thas in making rapid fortunes have been exceptions. Courbet, Millet, Baudry, and Corot sought after the righteousness of the genuine artist's Heaven. In the end the things for which the less ideal- minded strove were added to them along with fame that is certain to endure,

Bonnat may be set down in this category who elect for truth. He is a naturalist, which is not to be confounded with a realist. ‘The realist is like the greyhound in the German story, that laughed ata slow hound for believing in a hare that neither of them could sce but which was lying concealed in a thicket hard by. Baudry had. the good fortune to be placed above temptation at the beginning of his career. He secured, in his engagement to paint the ceiling of the New Opera House saloon, a wide field for the exercise of his talents before he had an opportunity to work for the export trade. But for this task the great and merited success of “The ‘Pearl and the Wave” might have drawn him into the path followed by Cabanel and Lebfevre,

As & lounge there is no more charming place than the Salon in any city that I know. The approach whets the appetite for the pictorial banquet It is through a vast continuity of shade and garden which, in the month of May, are in the soft yreen robe of euly susamer, yet unsullied by coal smut or dust, In the pleasute-

a

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with battlepicces in the Versailles style and feeling were annually spread upon its walls. Pils and Yyoo illustrated for provincial town. halls and museums the military glories of the Empire, Red wat then the prevailing colour of the square room: the crimson tide of war, which the painters spared not—red pantaloons, red kept

the very outset. A soberly-coloured picture in this scarlet charivari looked pitch dark. Flandrin, in painting a fulllength portrait of the Emperor and another of Prince Napoleon, richly meriting the admiration of thoughtful connoisseurs, took into account the violent tone of the pictures he knew would surround them. He introduced ‘into the former the madder red pantaloons of a general of division's uniform, and into the other a crimson velvet faureuil,

Since the disasters of 1870 military paintings have diminished in ‘size, but multiplied in number. They have furthermore ceased to absorb much vermilion, Consequent upon the captivity of the regular army there are neither red kepis nor trousers in the engage- ments furnishing MM. Beaumetz, Berne-Bellecourt, Neuville, Decaen, Duvaux, Coutourier, Guignard, Jourdain, and Jacquet with their | subjects. Their heroes are mobiles, franc-tireurs, marines incorporated into the land forces, and Pontifical Zouaves, dressed in light grey, dark grey, sailor’s blue, and sky blue, with red sparingly used in the facings. The winter of the terrible year was long and hard. The sinister Aurora Borealis of October, visible in nearly every part of France, was followed by frost and snow, which only disappeared when the capitulation of Paris was signed. The whitened landscape and dark masses of troops are a picturesque novelty in battle picees, I hardly like applying the word novel to things harrowing to afecling mind, And, treated in a becoming spirit, inexpressibly sad are those little paintings. ‘That snow one might imagine to be the winding-sheet of France, and the raw but gallant irregulars chief mourners engaged in defending the dear remains from the rapacious double-headed Prussian eagle. ‘The advanced guard on the plateau d@Avron is poignant. The retreat of the Army of Paris from the Marne, in the blinding sleet, though treated with realistic accuracy, isalmost spectral, Antiquity has not left us any more appalling symbol ‘of Nemesis than is revealed in Guignard’s Uhlans flying from franc- treurs, The horses—of tough Brandenburg mettle—rush down hill, aroad overhung by a coppice, One of the Ublans holds the bridle ‘of his comrade—who has been shot and is falling from his saddle— mith one hand, and his own with the other, Fe ends forwaxt,

ll k |

~The rockets’ red trmm areca 3 ar” “ge Sim om The other big Eecke. 2 young mam, shy, nik,

wr depraiacion of Se gallows, he attaches a Scoxe cross mx] ther die. They wer: 3x for a uniformly tawny erates §=Rirpah, whose sackcloth bed Asitic rakpedt and a forced a shor sckck a yaitire. Her action is

ih bimseii in a pair of scales held in bis own bands and J=ies Lebfevre’s “Dream of Ossian”

belong to the advertising ‘Both mee: with the attention which they challenge. ~Ossian’s Dream “is a blonde nodity, dissolving with the mists of morning. She rises from the nenuphars of a calm lake, and half sits. half reciines on the cloudy emanation from the water. Her attitude is graceful. A lurking smile, and the pose of rose-tipped fingers on which a purely modelled cheek rests, betray the Sweet Dream's consciousness of the admiration she excites. Eerie folk alone are qualified to deal with the supematural, of which revelations are hardly ever vouchsafed to Frenchmen. Were the inventor of the fragrant floriline in need of a painter as well as a poet he could not do better than engage M. Jules Lebfevre. “ Ossian’s ‘flimsy’ Dream” is an example of what comes of working for the export trade. The pencil from which it sprung produced a nude figure in 1867 that would not have been out of place amid the splendid memorials of sixteenth century womanhood in the col- lection of the Pitti Palace.

Artemus Ward advised parents never to teach their children music unless they had a special call from the Lord. Painters should con- sult their call in choosing the branch they are to follow. They do best what they like best. Degoffes has a mania for bricd-brac. Madame Louise Darru, who sends in the peasant’s bouquet, loves

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somewhere in the forest of Compitgne. The rabbits have got up betimes, and are enjoying an early breakfast of wild thyme and the freshness of early morning. In their natural state the brute creation are only asked to pay the tax of death, When they are domesticated other imposts are exacted. Otho Thoren, of Vienna, in his “Séparation,” feelingly pleads for a cow which a peasant is cutting off from maternal intercourse with staggering Bob, her call In Dupont’s “Un Bout de Conduite” we have the disaster which befell a dancing bear and a party of strolling players on a day in January. Their license was not quite regular, and so a couple of mounted gendarmes obliged them to trudge in the snow to a prison three leagues off from the village where they were to sup and per- form their antics. Bruin is a member of the wretched troupe own- ing him, and, unhappily for him, one of the gendarmes, recognising this status, holds him jointly accountable for the flaw in the license.

Gamier’s “Execution” makes a pig the centre of a medizval solemnity. “In the middle ages,” says Lalanne, “ the tribunals pro- ceeded with rigour against those animals guilty of murder upon which they could lay their hands. They tried, condemned, and brought them to judgment absolutely as if they were human beings. ‘And thus they did unto a sow, accused and convicted of having eaten achild.” The porcine convict is at the foot of a gallows, with the hangman in scarlet dress. A priest is in attendance, not to shrive, but to exorcise. The clergy of the town and the members of the tribunal are accommodated with seats in front of the town hall. The Seigneur, his family and retainers, and the townspeople in fourteenth century dresses and holiday humour, have come to see the sow, who has clearly misgivings of what is going to happen, gibbetted. She belonged to the monks of St. Anthony, who exerted themselves to prove that she only committed justifable homicide. Doctors, judges, and the secular clergy were divided as to whether the plea should be admitted. But the burghers took the bereaved parents’ com- plaint breast high. Moral order was for the sow. Advanced opinions were against her. The triumph of the popular side appears in the very speaking faces of some groups in the foreground, joyous in the consciousness of victory and at the holiday. Archzological details are carefully attended to by M. Garnier, who is a pupil of Jeréme, but of the free humour and facile brush of Krause.

Didier’s long-horned oxen of the Campagna bring us to the landscape department. The Salon is strong in this branch of art. Dévé learned how to use his pencil in Flers’ studio and his eyes in the wooded hills and fair vales of fertile Normandy. He has often

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‘of mind, and ech Salon with a new success. People investin from vanity, fortunes in his landscapes would ‘n6t Eakik wef ‘their money's worth if he went into another groove. C J painters ure doubly tempted to become narrow specialists. work grows easier, production is more rapid, and their Brown, Jones, and Blodgett, from Manchester and New having no doubts as to the authenticity of the pictures offered | pay freely. Wyld finds it profitable never to stir from V¢ Guillemin will pass his life on the quays of Paris; Karl D

is condemned to be heavy-handed. Were he to cultivate a touch he might be taken for a Claimant, and be relegated t0| purgatory of poverty-stricken geniuses. Xavier de Cock is at home in the rich sylvan scenery of Belgium, where fine broad breast. Appian is well master of his hand " He betakes himself to the Mediterranean, and gives views coast taken from the sea. The Dutch and Belgians distance French in marine views and in people who make their living out af the ocean. Clays, Van Hier, and Cogen are first in this line. The shrimp-gatherers of the latter flying from a heavy sea, and the women and children of a fishing village watching on a sloppy wooden pier the day after a storm for their husbands* yawls in the offing, tell well their story. ‘Two Belgian painters, Weertz and Wauters, carry ‘off second-class medals Brabant from time immemorial has been the elysium of mad people. In 1482, when the painter Vander- goes retired to Rouge Cloitre, he went out of his mind. A leech recommended sweet music and amusing spectacles as 2 remedy. Wanters shows the first experiment a composition of great simplici He places Vandergoes sitting in an‘oak stall, a prey to insane frengy, a8 the central figure, Near him, on the left, choral children, directed by a monk and accompanied by lute-players, sing amelody. The prior, seated to the right on a three-legged wooden stool,,watches the face of the crazy painter to see how the cure works. In the background three lay brothers pray for the un- fortunate painter. Here all things are used gently. We find nothing forced or exaggerated. We are soothed in

this picture, ‘The tradition is that Vandergoes recovered in his monastic Gheel.

Goupil's En 1795” wins the first medal. It is the falllength portrait of a lady dressed from head to foot in brown. She is young and pretty, with an amusingly old-fashioned expression of coun- Sep sls IT eee ee Pte In

Tea 4795" being designed 19 force attention, 1 am

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is, they have more character, and of a higher kind, than light-brained beauty, which is easily drawn and strongly tempted to run after what is ephemeral. You wish to know Henner’s Madame H—, and this wish grows stronger every time you see her. Dubufe’s strong. faced, brown-eyed Madame B——, who leans with her arms crossed and looks you full in the face, is an example of how the intellect and feelings can transform an originally ugly face. The portraits which command applause inculcate the moral that “Pretty is that pretty does,” if not at the start, in the long run.

Madame Pasca is queen, by right of self-culture, of the Salon. She is given full-length, in a white sweeping robe. A border of sable far the colour of her dark heavy braids of hair, which are coiled round her head, garnishes the corsage, crosses the breast, runs down the front of the skirt, and follows the edge of the ample skirt. The sleeve presented is long and wide, cut open from the shoulder, displaying a strong but finely-formed arm and hand. The left hand rests upon a slender gilded chair, half hidden by the lady. What is so remarkable in this portrait, apart from the modelling, is the im- pression it gives of energy held in reserve. Madame Pasca is not handsome, but she has the gift of fascination, and will improve with time. Critics object to the uncertainty in which we are left as to the tissue of her white dress. Is it cashmere, silk, satin, or velvet? Voltaire, a very superficial judge in matters of art, and whose eye was made to the charming Court realisms of Boucher and Watteau, broke out at Raphael because nobody could say in what sort of stuff he dressed his Madonnas. Raphael was one who never exactly saw how a woman he admired was dressed. He gave the impression she produced on Aim, and left the scanning of her clothes to her rivals. The princesses whom he did not care about he clad in unmistakable satin and velvet. Should Bonnat’s oversight lead to a reaction against pictorial millinery we shall have reason to congratulate him on not having noticed whether Madame Pasca wore a llama or a satin dress. Becoming garments are not to be despised ; but are they becoming when they reduce the wearer to the subordinate status of a lay figure? Claude's ladies on horseback, so flexile, so well poised and well proportioned—so straight about the waist, as old Mazy would say—are an example to civilised belles, and a convincing demonstration of the needlessness of over-dress.

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can be, waits eagerly for the morrow, and hies to the Wandle. Yes; there lie the trout with scarcely an altered position. The big fellow that you are prepared to bet is of two pounds weight still keeps the eddy which commands the finest position—for him—in the river, the position towards which the stream, without any interference or coaxing of his, will bring food, substantial and luxurious, into his mouth There, too, lie the smaller fish on the alert for whatever Providence will send them. Putting the joints of your rod together, you fear that the creel will scarcely hold the trout you are certain to slay: you affix your winch, and, while you pass the line through the rings, generously distribute your finest fish—a brace to this lady, two brace to that gentleman, and so on. As you unwind the cast from your hat and fasten it neatly to the line you have the flush of victory on your noble brow. And you deliver your first cast. Hem! But the link, of course, requires preliminary moistening, and the hand a little Practice, before it will fall with that delicacy and precision essential to successful fly-fishing. Therefore you try again; once more ; again; seven times, aye and seventy times seven; but the adult trout in the eddy winks at you, if that stately wave of the tail is the way in which fish wink, and never turns aside at the tempter. Do your best by all means, but you by-and-by begin to suspect that a smaller creel would have answered just as well, and that the lovely Mrs. R. and the hospitable Mr. K. will have no need to write and thank you for those delicious trout.

Ask any Wandle fisherman whether this is not a fair picture of his earlier experiences by that delightful Surrey stream. It, alas! too often by half tells the story of visits to other rivers; but it has a peculiar application to the Wandle, until you know the mental and moral character of its trout. Roughly speaking, the Wandle has its origin near Croydon. So much you may leam from any geography book that condescends to notice so juvenile a member of the world’s river family; perhaps the last paragraph, as a sort of afterthought, after the manner of severely abbreviated treatises, will let you into the secret that “this river was anciently called the Vandle” ; as I daresay it was. As to its precise origin, I should not like to be bound to place my foot upon the exact spot, not so much because a boot-full of water is a thing to be as a rule avoided, as because there are several springs which might claim the honour. From the heights from which an enemy might shell Croydon with terrible effect there issue many crystal springs, which forthwith, without shaking hands with each other, or in any way exchanging the time of day, proceed to hurry downwards until they approach a

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divine was so thorough an angler that when the Bishop of Duin = asked him wien one of his most important works would be ready for an expectant public, he replied, “My lord, I shall work steadily at it when the plyjisking season is ever.” Admiral Viscount Nesoa lived at Merton. and was a fiy-isher in the Wandle, even after be = was reduced to one hand. The great hero fished in more troubled waters sometimes than “the blue transparent Vandalis,” as Pope loftily puts it. And referring to the author of “ Salmonia,” it will to doubt be remembered that the four gentlemen who are made to interpret the author's ideas upon angling opened their discourse, or use the correct description “ Introductory Conversation—Sympo- siac,” with a tine-davoured Wamdle trout on the table around which they sat.

‘The Wandle country (valley we can scarcely term its course) is sur passingly charming. Beddington Park is open to the public with it Tare trees, fine church and churchyard, and the red brick building which, once famed 2s Beddington Hall, is now used as a Female Orphan Asylum. Queen Elizabeth was a visitor to the Carews at Beddington, where the first oranges ever grown in the county— the fruit having been brought hither by Sir Walter Raleigh—were to be seen. Poor Lady Raleigh in the later days of gloom and death wrote to Sir N. Throckmorton, asking that “the worthi boddi of my nobell hosbar Sur Walter Ralegh” might be buried in Beddington Church. The church, whose tower is seen peeping above the grand tree-tops, is a restored building, but some of the venerable trees around the churchyard must have weathered centuries of storm and sunshine. A large, perhaps the major, portion of the Wandle country is enclosed with park palings and high walls. It is a country that teems with villas and “desirable residences”; with highly cultivated grounds which an ordinary pedestrian would find it as difficult to enter as Parlia- ment (perhaps as things go he would find it much more difficult), while an angler would risk instantaneous cremation if he dared to look through the hedge. It is, of course, very natural that when a gentleman has spent money and time in beautifying his country resi- dence he should wish to keep it to himself; and equally natural that the owner of a well-stocked trout river should not insult his fish by allowing every pot-hunter to thin them out.

‘There is to my knowledge one bit of free water on the Wandle, and one only, namely, the ford at Hackbridge. The space at the angler’s disposal is not vast, and there are inconveniences natural to the position ; small boys claim a share in the fisherman’s privileges, and lessen his chances of sport by their clumsiness, and still oftener

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water flows from the chalk strata, and receives but little addition from immediate rainfalls ; but drains and gutters communicating with the roads cannot fail to bring down a certain amount of discolouring matter, and at times, soon after heavy showers, the water becomes foul. Bat near its sources to an extraordinary extent it speedily resumes its normal clearness. Mr, Alfred Smee, to whose efforts in fish culture I shall refer presently, in his delightful book entitled “My Garden” says: ‘‘ The Wandle taken as a whole is the perfection of a river ; its water is as bright as crystal, and is purity itself. It does not overflow with rain, nor is it deficient in dry weather, It does not freeze in winter, nor does it become very hot in summer. It has existed through all historic times ; and as long as the chalk retains its porosity and is protected by a bed of clay underneath and a bed of blue clay on that portion of its upper surface which is most depressed, and as long as rain falls upon the more elevated portion, so long will the water continue to ooze from the earth by day and by night, by summer and by winter, and to run its course as the River Wandle, and it may thus exclaim in the words of the poet :—

‘Men may come, and men may go, but I go on for ever.”*

The inherent clearness of the river is doubtless one reason why the Wandle trout have a reputation among anglers for most un- christianlike obstinacy and immoral shrewdness. Another cause is the exceeding smallness of the flies which haunt the river; after dark you may venture upon moths and hackles of fair dimensions, but so long as daylight glints on the stream, midge-sized flies, and those only, must be used. To imitate these tiny insects is not so difficult as to employ the artificial imitation with effect after the fly-maker has constructed a perfect specimen. There is, I believe, a special kind of fly manufactured for the Wandle, and a neater article could not be conceived. The most commonly used varieties are a red spinner, a quill gnat with red hackle, a governor, a coachman, and a blue floating fly which you may term either an upright or a dun; but whichever description is used it must be considerably smaller than a young housefly. Having induced your trout to rise at one of these specks, you are confronted with the problem how to land a lusty fellow of over a pound in weight with tackle thinner than single hair and a hook which under the most favour- able circumstances cannot be imbedded much more than the sixteenth of an inch in his mouth. The Wandle trout are fond of merrily leaping out of the water when they feel the barb, and if the first flight does not release them from their enemy they try a second and

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running heavy with trout down by the garden side, may see for hia self, it is full of fish, Each member is bound by certain rules, and it is enough to make a hapless outsider’s mouth water to read that all fish of eleven inches and under must be returned to the water; that no member must take more than #iree brace per day, and that the limit of fishing after dusk must not extend over one hour, “Three brace of fish between a pound and a quarter and two pounds should, ‘as the association very properly deems, satisfy any man blest with an ordinary appetite for sport. Walking over from the Bath and West of England Agricultural Show onan idle afternoon, I found one ofthe members—and a very accomplished fly-fisher he was—in despair be- cause he had caught his three brace in an hour and a half, and now sighed, like the ancient monarch, for more worlds to conquer.

‘The fish were rising " permiscuous.” It appeared as ifthey would have gulped a buttercup, or a fusee, or anything that came floating down the stream. And then, obeying some unseen law that always puzzles the angler, in a moment everything was quiet. ‘There was fot a tise to be seen, Who or what issued that sudden command “Stop rising”? By what unknown system of telegraphy could the trout in the mill sluice fity or a hundred yards off be bronght into the same frame of mind, on the instant, as these other trout close under the bridge? This is a phenomenon the troutfisher often | observes, but can never explain; nor can he explain why by-and-by, perhaps in an hour, perhaps in six, the fish in every part of the river simultaneously resume their rising, The Wandle association artificially breeds thousands of fish by which the water is constantly replenished. Having had the secretary's courteous permission to walk through the grounds in the company of the bailiff, I was recently much interested in inspecting the boxes in a byewater, where the young fry were dining heartily off liver boiled, hardened, and powdered fine upon a nutmeg grater. The keeper spoke of his trout in terms of almost paternal affection, and apparently longed to take each mite out of the shoal in order to pat its head-and otherwise bestow upon it proofs of his undying attach» ment, The Wandle generally owes a good deal to this association, which carefully breeds and guards the fish for the benefit of the entire river,

‘The most memorable treat I can remember in connection with the Wandle was a visit paid to Mr, Alfred Smee’s garden, “My Garden,” I presume, few who have read it will have forgotten, ‘Though ostensibly concerning a small plot of ground in the hamlet of Wallington, in the parish of Beddington, in the county of Surrey—

ae

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made a gallant attempt to introduce grayling, but the experament failed. At frst he raised young ones from ava, but to no purpose ‘Then he conveyed twenty brace of mature fish from the Derbyshire streams, and put them safe and sound into the water, It wars costly and difficult undertaking, but though many. of the fish lived: on for years, and made a show of spawning at the gravel beds no young fish were ever seen, and by this time not a grayling is by ang chanee observed. ‘The Wandle is too shallow and gentle probably for this interesting fish, and the success of the endeavour made to introduce grayling into the Clyde (which was referred to in one of the “ Waterside Sketches” of last year) may be attributed to the suitability of the Scotch river for that particular kind of fish. In like maaner Mr, Smee failed to breed the burbolt or ee! pout, and he reared ‘thousands of salmon trout and char in his fish house and turned them into the water, thus claiming the honour of placing the first salmon into any tributary of the Thames, After all the labour, thought, and outlay expended upon these difficult processes Mr. Smee finds that the trout and ecls—and Wandle cels are as deliciously flavoured a8 Wandle trout—remain in sole and undisputed possession, if we may ‘except, a8 unworthy of mention in the same breath, the pugnacious litle half armed stickleback which is found in great quantities in the river,

‘The Darent, or Darenth, as it is often written, though it rises in the same hilly formation, sees the light at some distance from the cradle of the Wandle, Its course, which is a trifle over fourteen miles in length, is north-east, through a broad vale smiling with rich pastures, and adorned by many a noble country seat, By Wandleside you are never wholly free from the associations of town ; the enclosed grounds give a suburban character to the surroundings, and indeed a drive through Clapham to Mitcham and Carshalton suggests that in process of time those genteel places will be part and parcel of the metropolis. The Darent on the other hand brings you into the pure ‘open country, and into the sunny districts where hops entwine and cherry-cheeked fruits ripen for distant markets, Spenser, who took more delight in the English rivers as a whole than any other poet except Drayton, says —

The still Darent, in whose waters clean ‘Ten thousand fishes play aad deck hi» pleasant stream,

‘Ten thousand might almost be taken in a more literal sense than ‘Spenser intended, for the Darent is nearly as good a trout stream as the Wandle. The fish are thought to be more numerous in the latter iver, but some critics pretend to have discovered a finer Kavour ates

— = 4

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the guardian of this show place for trout, and right faithfully did he insist upon obedience to the orders painted upon the notice-board. On the face of it this regulation seems absurd ; but trout are worth so much per pound, loafers are to be found even at peaceful Faring- ham, and it is sad to know that during the last two years the vile art of fish-stupefying by poisonous compounds has been growingly practised.

The May-fly does not visit the Darent any more than the Wandle, and the most successful anglers at Farningham use the Wandle flies, swearing especially by the Tom Thumb governor and quill gnat It is but reasonable to expect that the privilege to be obtained in the Lion water is not thrown away. On most days there are some rods at work early or late, and after the beginning of June, though June and July are probably the best months in the season, the most sensible expectations will be those which are restricted to a very modest limit. On those golden occasions which are so few and far between, and so impossible to foretell, three or four brace of fish may be taken, but the man who can bring away his one or two trout need not mourn over his ill-luck. There are several very remu- nerative “‘stickles” just below the antique brick bridge, but the angler, if he would do anything, must keep far out of sight and be as still as a mouse.

There are several gentlemen who have not failed to appear regularly at the Lion on the eve of many successive Good Fridays, and the veteran tragedian Mr. Phelps was one of these, recognised always as an eminent actor, but also as a masterly killer of trout. Last Good Friday fourteen fish were taken by one angler, almost before any other fishermen were stirring, though I myself was one of half a dozen who saw the sun rise on that bright holiday. ‘The others fared badly, but on the following Monday a London angler again killed seven brace of trout, as if there were some mutual arrangement among them as to the maximum number permitted to one rod in the space of one day. In the very early morning or late evening there is generally a heavy trout to be picked out im- mediately under the spreading chestnut tree, for the plump fish in the millstream, in spite of the keeper and the notice-board, drop down from under the bridge to feed on the shallows, and may be com- municated with if no person has passed along the brink before the fisherman's arrival. The first labourer crossing the bridge to his field-work will frighten all the fish, and before his heavy boots have ceased their ponderous thud you will have noticed the clear water

ploughed in four or five different places by prowling truant:

GREAT PEOPLE OF YORKSHIRE. BY HORACE ST. JOHN.

2. WING many acknowledgments, as pilgrim and gues,

to the triple shire, having been up and down, by

firesides and in churchyards, in old manses and among

sacred ruins, I have gathered the names and memories of the distinguished men and women born of this robust soil whose local has often been lost in their general reputation.

Some one has called Yorkshire the Normandy of England, and the expression, fit or not, is rarely forgotten when conversation takes a tan in which ancestral voices may join. This isa species of pride perfectly intelligible upon a higher principle than that which proclaims every separate constituency of the kingdom to be more intelligent and independent than all the rest, and in the case of the big county amply justified; as it was in June, 1682, when Dr. George Hickes— himself a Worthy—at the Yorkshire feast in Bow Church, London, said:—“ Our county, as the anxious observe, is the epitome of England; whatsoever is excellent in the whole land being found in proportion thereto.” Further :—“God hath been pleased to make it the birthplace and nursery of many great men.”

It is a little surprising at first to remember Aow many, and who they were. In the foreground stands a headless, but none the less con- ‘spicuous, group of patriots and traitors—not to confound the two :— Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, “who died the death of a noble” in 1572; Christopher and Thomas Norton, rebellious gentle- men, executed in 1570; Thomas Wentworth, first Earl of Strafford, impeached by Parliament and beheaded on Tower Hill in 1641— Strafford, of whom the only relics left at princely Harewood were, a hundred years ago, his initials cut on the altar-rails in the chapel; John Lord Lumley, indicted with Thomas Lord Darcy and others for high treason and sent to the scaffold in 1544; and poor Sir Henry Slingsby, created a baronet by Charles I., and author of “A Father's Best Legacy,” whom the Commonwealth called to the block in 1658, but whose name, unforgotten of Finsbury, united with that of Duncombe, is so prominent among the memorials of Knares- borough. Many another fame associated with the epoch of the

Revolution belongs to Yorkshire, and some to Leeds especially.

84 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“last of the Knighted Constables"; or Charles Lord © who is reputed, though erroneously, to have laid the first Bolton Abbey? ‘These Clitfords bore, in other days, a dark s notably "Black Clifford,” nicknamed “the Butcher of d though in contrast with his infamy is the tender tradition of “ty Shepherd Lord.” The banners of Yorkshire churches or pat morwary chapels, long disappeared, hung over the effigies —n

‘eyes; Sir Henry Montague, who witnessed the signature of VIII, to his will; Sir Charles Howard, Lord High Ad England, who claimed credit for defeating the Spanish though it has since been thought that Drake and Effi m something to do with it; Lord Scrope, already, in 1651, ain baron ‘of the name, who tilted at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth and was gaoler to the Queen of Scots at Bolton Castle; and Lord Baltimore, who obtained the original grant of Maryland. * ‘The Yorkshire divines, who Caleb Stkely thought, on ae count of their fit faces, could never have fagged at school, such a group as, perhaps, no other county in the United King: dom could produce. Their lives would fill one of Captain Marryat’s “quartos without margin,” and foremost stands John ‘Wycliffe, the Richmond Refurmer, whose monumental brass in Wycliffe Church has been, with many others, everlooked by Mr Bowell (Mr. Boutell, indced, only mentions those of Sir John deSt Quintin and his lady, at Harpham and at Bransberton); then Torestal, Bishop of Durham, twice deprived ; Tilson, the ejected of Elphin; Edward Hillingflect ; Richard Sterne, who read prayers — with Laud upon the scaffold ; Lawrence Sterne; Bowles, author of | the famous Catechism ; Burnet, the learned chaplain of William IfL; Tillotson, whose sermons are among the “Sacred Classics” 50 choieely edited by Dr. Stebbing ; Sanderson, the blind Algebraist; Dr. Radelifie, who erected his own monument in the great library at Oxford; Joseph Priestley, whose pen very nearly approached the ‘secret of perpetual motion; Dr. Paley, and Reginald Heber, It is interesting to observe this mighty kinsmanship of genius and erudi- tion in a single shire of England. We pass that reverend band, and enter the Yorkshire Walhalla of Arts and Letters. It is not very spacious, Here are John Gower, of the “ Contessio Amani” and Sir Thomas * the *Threnodia Carolina,’ conicomiiog,

36 The Gentleman's Magasine.

‘bred whereof he could not foresee he, the seventeenth of the line {all duly blazoned on the staircase wall), beqoeathed his house: estate to “twelve decayed gentlemen,” each to have £2 # separate room, and all, if in health, to dine together. moreover, Chief Justice Gascoigne, who committed the P Wales and refused to try, upon a charge of treason, Set bishop of York, who owed him his death in consequence, I have referred to sign-boards—great tests of influence. or

was the original of a character in “ The Yorkshire Tragedy,” will not do, in Yorkshire, to assign to any author but Shaki

‘and generously proud. The people point out where his b stood at Marton; his baptismal register in the church ; the gi his schoolmistress at “Canny Yatton," of his father, the day who learned to read at the age of seventy that he might spell out bit son’s adventures, and who died in ignorance of that son's death six weeks after it had taken place; and of his mother, at “ Yatton” also. [think. Scoresby, who took his ship so near the P

was “Yaoarkshire” too; and the Scoresby Arms, at Woxley, comfortable hostelry enough. Yet no sign in the shire approaches: that of “Tom Brown,” the hero of the basket-hilted yr the battle of Dettingen cut his way singlehanded through the enemy's lines to win back the standard of his troop. ‘There he stands, in his old uniform, brown and grizly, abave the mantelpiece, boldly coloured, upon a surface resembling vellum rather thas canvas, with the extraordinary legend beaeath— Momo guia pudetr ext. The Earls Fitzwilliam are similarly popularised, especially one who was dise missed from the Lord-Lieutenancy by King George ILI. for “proposing an offensive toast” at a public dinner, ‘Then you have, swinging im state, Henry Jenkins, of Fountaynes, who carried “a horse-load of arrows for Flodden Field," and who lived to “the amazing age” of 169. It is utterly useless to doubt it. His epitaph may be read at Ellerton-on-Swale, written by Dr. Thomas Chapman, Master of ‘Magdalen College, Oxford, and I should no more think of question: — ing the Doctor's authority than of hinting that all the bedsteads hung: with blue damask, which are shown by housekcepers who move and stoplikemechanisms—forhalf-a-crown—inancient Ye

were not once the sleeping-places of queens or kings ; that the mounds pointed ouria Wilstrop Wood are molchills, and not the graves ot

—_— <i a

Dear Lapy DISDAIN. BY JUSTIN MoCARTHY, AUTHOR OF “LINLEY ROCHFORD, “A FAIR SAXON,” “MY ENEMY’S DAUGHTER,” &e.

CHAPTER XIX.

“0, SAW YE NOT FAIR INEZ?”

SHE Saucy Lass bore Christmas Pembroke one evening of early summer to the Durewoods pier. He had not visited Durewocds since his first stay there, and he had often been smitten with a sense of ingratitude towards his friend Miss Lyle. There were reasons why for some time back he had rather shrunk from coming under her eyes, and having perhaps to answer the kindly peremptoriness of her questions. But she, he thought, knew nothing of his excuse for avoiding her, and he feared she must think him ungrateful. The fear was confirmed when on writing to ask her if he might pay her a visit, he received a reply, which he could not but regard as a little cold and curt for her, telling him that he would be welcome. He started for Durewoods next day.

‘The Challoners had left England. They were to reach New York before the heats of summer set in, and after spending a few days there and in Boston, to cross at once to San Francisco, where the months intolerable in the Atlantic States would be delightful ; and when autumn came they were to return to New York again, visiting many places on their way. Christmas had not seen Marie before her leaving London. Sir John had taken care to keep him engaged in expeditions hither and thither in the northern cities ; and Christmas knew it was for the best, although he chafed at it too. But he had made up his mind now that he would not see the Challoners any more. He would not see Aer married. He would return to Japan. It was especially to tell Miss Lyle of his deter- mination to leave England that he was now visiting Durewoods. “ Durewoods has been my Sedan,” he said to himself.

‘The heart of the poor youth swelled cruelly with emotion as he began to see the pier at Durewoods, and the cottages and the trees

oa the hill, amid which Marie's home was standing, Dutewoods

* 90 The Gentleman's Magazine.

there, and that he thought he could do better on his old ground in Japan. At last he got to the end of the story somehow.

“Is that all?” Miss Lyle asked.

That was all. Christmas thought it was a good deal.

“I didn't want to say anything until you had finished. Have you finished ?”

“Yes, Miss Lyle. That is all I wanted to say. As some of our ‘American friends would say, I’m through.”

“TI don’t understand slang,” said Miss Lyle—‘“even English slang. I am not fond of it”

There was a pause. Christmas wondered if she were going to say nothing more on the subject of his resolve, and if the matter were to drop there. For awhile she had seemed to be growing more friendly, but again there came a marked coldness in her manner. Christmas did not wonder at that. He felt with renewed pangs of conscience that he had been but an inattentive friend for some time, and must not expect instant pardon.

“Then you have made up your mind to renounce London and go back to Japan?” she said, at last, in a tone of some dissatisfaction.

“TI have,” Christmas answered, glad that she had said anything. “I am afraid you will think me a variable personage, Miss Lyle, without much of a mind to make up.”

“It ds strange,” she said, following up apparently some train of thought of her own. “ Your father was above all things a man of steady purpose. I begin to think you are not like him at all, Mr. Christmas, and that I have been rather mistaken in you.”

“Well, Miss Lyle, you will do me the justice to admit that I never claimed to be like my father, or fit to be compared with him.”

“Still,” she said, in an almost irritable way, “it és strange how the sons degenerate. I don’t understand it. Where did you learn these fickle ways, and that want of trust, which I can tell you I like still less ?”

Miss Lyle, as Marie Challoner had said long ago, was picturesque in everything she did. Few people look dignified when out of humour, but in the gesture with which she drew her white shawl round her shoulders, as if wrapping herself in a garment of offended pride, there was something effective and dramatic.

“Want of trust—in you, Miss Lyle?”

“In me, yes. Do I not deserve your confidence? Did I not offer myself to you from the beginning frankly as your friend, and how could you doubt that I was so? I tell you, Chris Pembroke, I should almost have loved a lap-dog called by your father's name,

92 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“I don’t know what to say,” he broke out at last. ‘“ We don't understand each other, Miss Lyle.”

“Come, I really begin to think you are more foolish than dis trustful, Christmas. I suppose boys are shy of talking of these things even toelderly women. But you could have found no trustier friend than me—nor one less likely to care for social prejudices and that kind of thing. I don't believe your father’s son could make a very bad choice. Well, I forgive you your secresy. And so you have fallen in love, my poor boy, and are going to be mairied? So soon?”

Christmas started with such evident and genuine surprise that Miss Lyle was startled in her turn.

“Is this not true?” she asked, sharply—“ are you not going to be married? Are we playing at cross purposes?”

“We are indeed,” said Christmas, with an aching heart. ‘There never was such playing at cross purposes! Who told you that story, Miss Lyle? Not Sir John Challoner, at all events.”

“ But is all that really not true? Have you not fallen in love ; and are you not going to be married?”

“A man less likely to be married, Miss Lyle, is not to be found anywhere between this and Japan.”

“Oh! Have you quarrelled ?”

“ Quarrelled with whom ?”

“With the young lady, of course. I suppose we needn't now make any mystery of her name—Miss Jansen.”

Christmas rose from his chair in amazement. In all his trouble of heart he was boyishly inclined to laugh.

“Is that the story, Miss Lyle—is that the mystery—the confi- dence?”

“But is it really not true? Is it all a mistake or a delusion? Are you more deceitful than I could have believed, or are people going out of their senses? Do let us come to some understand- ing.”

“ Miss Lyle, there isn’t one single particle of truth or meaning or anything else in that story. I know Miss Jansen; but I’ never felt anything for her but friendship—and there is even much about her that I don’t like; and I am not certain now whether she is not rather unfriendly to me than the contrary. As for any other idea, it never even occurred to me until this moment; and it would be ever 40 much less likely to occur to her. To begin with, she hates the whole race of men,”

“Yea; I don’t mind that,” Miss Lyle said, quielly. “They won

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if Miss Challoner or Miss Lyle had made a guess of any kind, Sir John might have allowed her to remain under a delusion rather than give any clue to the truth. But, as he understood Miss Lyle, there was something more than this.

“Did I understand you rightly, Miss Lyle? Did you say tht Sir John told this story—told it himself—to Miss Challoner?”

“Certainly, Chris ; he and she both spoke of it in that way. Sir John said, more than once, that he was to blame for having revealed to his daughter what you told him in confidence.”

Christmas leaned upon the balcony and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He was perfectly bewildered.

“ But there must be something in all this,” Dione said impatiently. “Tt can't be all Midsummer madness, You did, surely, tell John Challoner something in confidence ?”

“I did”

“And had it nothing to do with Miss Jansen?”

“Nothing.”

“Was it any sort of love-confession ?”

With eyes doggedly downcast Christmas answered, “It was.”

“And in heaven's name, Chris Pembroke, why did your father’s son select John Challoner of all men on earth as the confidant of his love story ?—Oh |”

The exclamation broke from Miss Lyle because of the sudden expression with which Christmas had looked up when she put her imperious question—an expression which was a revelation,

“You unhappy boy,” she said in a low tone and leaning towards him, “ was that it?”

“ That was it. Now you know all. Now you know why I told him, and why I didn’t tell you.”

“ Did you not know that she was engaged to young Vidal ?”

“Tdid. I guessed it.”

“Then what on earth was the good of your speaking to her father ? What did you hope to get by that ?”

“ Nothing.”

“You had better have told me a hundred times. You didn’t suppose that John Challoner was a person to be touched by your romantic attachment, and to say ‘Take her, my boy! Bless you, my children’ ?”

“Miss Lyle, I imagined nothing and hoped nothing. I couldn’t endure the place any longer. I tried hard, and I found that I couldn’t do it, and he had been so kind to me that I didn’t like to

seem ungrateful or changeable, and I couldn't invent\ies. 1 thought

96 The Gentleman's Magasine.

“Blame her! Her! For what?”

“ You don’t think she meant this—or trifled with you?”

“Oh, no, She is as true as light. She was my friend almyp; she isnow. It is no fault of hers, She never suspected.”

“Tam glad. I should have thought so, but I am glad to hear you

say so. One word more. You have not any lurking hope—sboot her ?”

“Oh no ; no hope.”

“You are right, Chris. I know Marie as well as any one ci, and I know that ull the world could not make her engage herself Mr. Vidal if she cared for anybody else. But I am glad you hare the courage to look that straight in the face. The only thing now is—what is to be done?”

“ My mind is clear,” said Christmas; “I'll leave England and go back to Japan.”

“ But why do that? why not stay firmly here and make an honow able career for yourself? A man has some other business in life than falling in love and brooding over it.”

“I have other business, and I mean to do it, Miss Lyle, and not

to brood. But if I remained in England I should be likely to brood on to the end of the chapter.”

“There are other women too, Chris.”

“There are no other women for me, Miss Lyle, and good advice is thrown away on me I am afraid. Sooner than stay here and see her—see her married, Miss Lyle, I would leap off the pier below and swim straight out to sea as far as ever I could go and sink quietly down when I could swim no farther. It wouldn’t be half'a bad thing to do—go down with the setting sun.”

“You won't do that, I know,” Miss Lyle said.“ You'll not do that cowardly thing, Chris. That might do for Natty Cramp, pethaps, or some egotistical fool of his kind ; not for you. But we'll say no more of this just now. It’s a surprise, and I must think it over. You used to like to smoke a cigar in the evenings?”

Christmas understood the very clear hint. She held out her hand to him, and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Heaven knows what boyish impulse made him kneel beside her chair and press her hand to his lips. Then she gently laid the hand upon his head. There passed through Dione’s mind at the time the sweet, strange, unspeakably tender saying of the Duchess of Orleans about Dunois—that he was a child stolen from her.

She was glad when Christmas left her, for there was something which puzzled her in all this, and which she had not spoken of muda

98 The Gentleman's Magazine.

CHAPTER XX. “PROFESSOR NATHANIEL P, CRAMP,”

‘Tue Genius of young Liberty had indeed not yet proved propitions to Natty Cramp. He landed at Hoboken, on the New Jersey shor of the North river at New York, one sunny and lovely morning, and he gazed across at the somewhat confused and unalluring river froat of the great city with the air of 2 conqueror. The fresh breath of freedom, he proudly said to himself, was already filling him with new manhood. But New York is in some ways a discouraging place to land at. There are no cabs ; and there are no street porters ; and to hire a “hack” carriage is expensive ; and to track out one’s way in the street cars and the stages is almost hopeless work for the new comer. Then the examination at the Custom-house was long and vexatious ; and yet, when Natty got through the Custom-house, he felt as if he were thrown adrift on the world without any one more to care about him. As Melisander in Thomson’s poem declares that, bad as were the wretches who deserted him, he never heard a sound more dismal than that of their parting oars, so, little as Nathaniel Cramp liked the brusque ways of the Custom-house officers, he felt a sort of regret when they had released him and his baggage, and he found himself absolutely turned loose upon the world and his own resources,

‘This small preliminary disappointment was otinous. Natty had come out with a little money and a great faith in himself and his destiny. He had the usual notion that New York and the United States in general are waiting eagerly to be instructed in anything by Europeans, and especially by Englishmen. Having failed utterly in London, he thought he must be qualified to succeed in New York. His idea was to give lectures and write books—poems especially. He soon found that every second person in America delivers lectures, and that every village has at least three poets—two women and one man, He had brought a few letters of introduction from some members of the Church of the Future in London to congenial spirits

in New York, and he made thereby the acquaintance of the editor of a Spiritualist journal, of a German confectioner and baker who had a small shop on Fourth Avenue (and Fourth Avenue is to Fifth Avenue as Knightsbridge is to Park Lane or Piccadilly), and of a lady who wore trousers and called herself the Rev. Theodosia Judd. The influence of these persons over New York, however, was limited, and although they endeavoured to get an audience for one of Natty’s Jectures at > were little hall in a cross street far wp town, the paslic

100 The Genti 4 certain limited number of “star”

them could not even be tempted out of their ordinary sp ‘such a sum as that; and some again were so heavily eng ‘vance that Acroceraunia would not haye a chance of on any terms for many seasons to come. In fact, Acre only engaged two genuine stars for her course, one to 0

to close it. There seemed a great deal too much local Singing Socicty in between, and therefore some pad

again should have a chance of testing his rhetorical skill;

sides twenty-five dollars, look you, are equivalent to five"pounds, would be a substantial gain to Nathaniel Cramp. It sojh

too, that Nathaniel suited the conditions of the Lyceum je Acroceraunia very well. That season, and indced for son eeeall Sect pec hed had some lecturer {rom London, Eng: land, in their course. But when Acroceraunia had secured, and ] with immense difficulty, its two American stars there,was not measly — enough of money still in prospect or wc "Theoe Naha

get one of the British luminaries as well. ‘Therefore Nathaniel

‘Cramp was positively a godsend. “The celebrated English erator,

Professor Nathaniel P. Cramp, from London, England," woukd look yery well on the placards and advertisements. ‘The people of Acroceraunia were in gencral a steady-going, home-keeping com munity. ‘They rose early, they worked hard, and when) the gentle men ofa family came home in the oe ee sleep on the lounge after supper, and were awakened! by, their

in time vo go to bed at a proper hour. ‘They never dreamed of

to Europe in the summer, and they did not take ]

journals, For half of them, then, the name of Naity Cramp would. do just as well as duit of any of the more distinguished I whe | fog the States that fall,

Io2 : The Gentleman's Magazine

turned into something which bore resemblance to a street, or at least was like a high-road with houses at each side. But Natty saw a little placard on a wall as they were tuning into this street or road which for the moment withdrew his attention from everything else, and made him blush and feel shy, proud, terrified, and delighted. For he could see on it the words “ Lyceum Lecture Course,” “ This Night,” and “ Professor Nathaniel P. Cramp, of London, England.” Natty positively drew himself into a corner of the omnibus as if every eye must have been looking out for him, or as if he were Lady Godiva riding through Coventry and had just been seized witha suspicion of the craft of Peeping Tom. But pride soon came to Natty’s rescue again, and he felt that at last he was coming to be somebody, that this was the beginning of fame, and that the world comes to him who waits. He delivered to himself in a proud under- tone the closing sentences of his lecture.

The omnibus stopped at last in front of a house of dark brick, with a sign swinging above, and after a good deal of clattering and stamping on the part of the horses, and cries of “Git up” on the part of the driver, it backed up to the porch and Professor Nathaniel P. Cramp got out. He made his way into the office of the hotel, a gaunt, bare room with a stove in the midst, a counter at one side, and a grave man behind the counter. When Nathaniel walked up to the counter the grave man turned round a huge ledger or register which lay before him, pushed it towards Nat, and handed him a pen without saying a word. Natty knew the ways of the New World well enough now to know what this meant. He inscribed himself in the book, Nathaniel Cramp, London, England. The grave man marked a number in the book opposite to Nat’s name, and handed a key with a corresponding number to an Irish porter who took Nat's portmanteau and preceded him upstairs. The porter opened the door of a small bare bedroom in a gusty corridor, and showed Natty in.

“Guess you'll want a fire built?” said the porter.

“T should like a fire,” Nat mildly answered.

The attendant put down the key of the room on the table, and Nat observed that the key was stuck or set in a large triangular piece of metal like the huge and ill-shaped hilt of a dagger.

“What do you have that thing on the keys for?” Nat asked.

“To keep the guests from putting ’em in their pockets—don’t ye see?”

“And what matter if they did put them in their pockets ?”

“Then they forget ‘em there, don’t you see? When a guest is in &

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“Yours is a very charming town, Mr. Fullager. It seems grow very fast.”

“Tt is quite a place, sir—quite a place.”

“What population, now, have you?” And the wily Nat crosa ‘one foot over the other knee, nursed the foot with his hand, put bis head sideways, and waited for an answer with the air of one who had studied populations a good deal.

“Well, sir,” Mr. Fullager said, after some grave deliberation, “we have forty-five hundred persons in this city.”

“Forty-seven hundred,” Mr. Plummer said.

“T guess not, sir—not quite so many.”

“Not if you take in the houses on the other side of Coload ‘Twentyman’s lot, Mr. Fullager?”

“Ah, well; yes—perhaps if you do that we should figure up to forty-seven hundred.”

“That is a remarkable population,” Mr. Cramp said, patronis- ingly, “for so young a town.” Nat hardly knew one population from another.

“We are only twenty years old, sir.”

“Twenty years only! Wonderful” Nat observed, with an air of dreamy enthusiasm,

Then there was another pause. The two visitors were perfectly composed. They gazed at the stove, and did not feel that they were called upon to say anything. They had come to pay their respects to the foreign lecturer as a matter of courtesy and polite ness, and when they considered that they had remained long enough they would rise and go away. There are plenty of talkative Ame- ricans no doubt, but the calm self-possession of silence is nowhere so manifest as among the men of some of the States.

But Nathaniel was much discomposed, and racked his brain for a topic.

“What kind of audiences do you have here, Mr. Fullager?” he asked, in another rush of inspiration.

“Well, sir (after some deliberation), I should say a remarkably intelligent audience. You would say so, Mr. Plummer?”

“ Decidedly so,” said Mr. Plummer, with a start, for he had been thinking of nothing in particular at the time. “ Decidedly so, Mr. Fullager, Several gentlemen have told me that our audience is far more intelligent than that of Pancorusky City.”

“Oh, yes. I should certainly have expected that,” said Nat, with the air of one who was rather surprised to hear the com-

parison made, and who would not on any terms have consented to

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nearly choked over his biscuit with blended nervousness and sf conceit.

Opposite to him at the same narrow table Nat saw a handsme man with soft blue eyes, a bald head, and a full fair beard and moustache, who was evidently regarding the distinguished lecturer with interest. When Nat looked towards him the blue-eyed mn said—

“I think, sir, I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Cramp?”

Nat started and awkwardly admitted the fact.

“T have heard you lecture already—in the Avenir Hall, isu’ it called? n London,”

“Oh, indeed,” Nat replicd, with an effort to be calm and dignified, which was combated by three emotions rushing upon him at once: a pang of home-sickness at the sound of the word “ London,” a dis tressing consciousness that the stranger must have heard him makea sad mess of it, anda sickening dread that the stranger must have also learned that he was once a hairdresser.

“Twas on a visit to Europe for some years,” the new acquaintance said, “and I spent a considerable time in London, and I went into- Avenir Hall one Sunday and heard you lecture.”

“J didn’t do very well that day,” said Nat.

“You were evidently not used to public speaking, and you were nervous, but I shouldn't think the worse of your chances for that. Ifa man has anything in him he is sure to he nervous.”

Nat was glad to hear that anyhow, although there was an easy patronising way about his friend which, as a distinguished lecturer, he hardly relished.

“You live here, I presume?” Nathaniel said, anxious to turn the conversation from his oratorical deficiencies.

“Tn Acroceraunia? No; I live farther westward,” and he men- tioned the name of a town which Nat had heard of, and where there was a large and well known State college; “I hope to have the pleasure of secing you there.” And presently the blue-eyed man, having finished his supper, rose from the table, bowed to Nat, and left the room.

If Nat had been a little less deeply engrossed in the thought of his lecture he might have been struck with the strange and picturesque sights which met his eyes as he proceeded with his friends Mr. Fullager and Mr. Plummer to the hall where he was to confront his audience. The earth was white all around with the crackling and glittering snow. The “red-litten windows” of the hall seemed to have an unearthly colour as they shone between the white of the

‘echo of his own words alarmed him, He lashed the wealn excesses of the effete aristocracies of Europe, and the calm) betrayed no fervour of Republican enthusiasm, He narrated he held to be a very good story, and on ne rit pas, as the reporters used to say sometimes when an orator’s joke failed to fire, He paused for a moment in one or two places for the e3 applause, but it did not come, and he had to hurry on again abashe ‘He became cowed and demoralised. He forgot his task, and h his face in his manuscript and read, conscious that he was reading & great deal too fast, and yet thirsting to get done with the now Jess effort, ‘The essay was awfully long. Several persons got up and glided out of the hall, the me fall of their indiarubber covered fect having in Nat's ears a spectral sound. ‘There was pretty girl with beaming eyes whom Nat had noticed as she leaped from a sleigh at the door when he was entering the hall before the | Dattle. He saw her too when he began his lecture, and the beaming eyes were tumed upon him, Alas! the beaming eyes were now covered with their heavy lids, and the pretty girl was asleep. Toadd to his confusion and distress, Nathaniel saw that his friend of the — supper was among the audience, and was broad awake,

At last the final word of the discourse was pronounced, and the released audience began to melt away as rapidly as possible. Nat sat upon the platform with downcast eyes, utterly miserable.

“Our audiences, sir,” Mr. Fullager explained with grave politeness, “are accustomed to lectures of about three-quarters of an hour in Jength, You have occupied an hour and a-balf, They are carly people here, and they make their arrangements accordingly. You will therefore not attribute the premature departure of some of our citizens to any want of respect for you. 1 have no doubt they all enjoyed the lecture very much.”

“Te was remarkably instructive,” said Mr, Plummer,

Instructive! Nat had intended it for a burst of brilliant and impassioned eloquence, blended with scathing sarcasm,

As they came out Nat heard « young lady say—

“Tr didn’t interest me at all; just not one bit.”

“English orators don't amount to anything, I guess," was another ‘commentary which Nat caught in passing, For kim the shy seemed

~ =

110 The Gentleman's Magazine.

scene described in the last chapter, and Nathaniel is settled in New Padua under the friendly protection of Professor Clinton.

New Padua is a university town. But Jet not any one be deceied by the name into fancying that New Padua is anything like Oxted, or Bonn, or even for that matter like Cambridge in Massachusets, where the University of Harvard is situated. New Padus is te seat of what people in England would call a great popular colle rather than a university ; a college founded by the State of which it is the educational centre, with special reference to the needs of the somewhat rough and vigorous Western youth who are likdy to pour in there. The city of New Padua belongs to a Suit which not very long ago used to be described as Westem, Dut which the rapid upspringing of communities lying far nema to the setting sun has converted into a middle State nov. ‘The town is very small and very quiet; remarkably intelligent and pleasant. The society, and indeed almost the population, is composed of the professors and officials of the college, with ther wives and daughters; the judges and magistrates; the railway authorities ; the Federal officials ; the students ; and the editors of the newspapers. It is a sort of professional population all throughout. ‘The professors of the university are mostly men of mark and high culture. One or two are Germans, one or two Italians; one French, Of the American professors, two at least bear names dis tinguished even in Europe, and one of these is our friend Mr Clinton, who is Professor of Astronomy and is in charge of the Observatory. Like almost all Americans, Professor Clinton is something of a politician, He contributes occasional articles to the North American Review, and writes not a little on European affairs in one of the New Padua journals.

It was this latter connection which enabled him to be of service to Nathaniel. When the young man had been a few days in his house, and he saw that there was really a certain amount of literary capacity about him with a great deal of energy, Clinton obtained for him an engagement on one of the New Padua papers, told the editor he would find a useful man in Nat provided he worked him hard enough to work all the nonsense out of him and get pretty q down to the good stuff at the bottom. ‘Thus Professor Clinton started Nathaniel fairly in a new career, liking the lad with a sort of good-humoured and balf-contemptuous feeling, and continuing always kind to him. Professor Clinton’s house was always open to Nat. Many a night when Clinton's wife and sister-in-law (he had no children) had gone to bed, he would start out with Nat for a long

112 ‘The Gentleman's Magazine.

one of pain. Ske was on the same American Continent with him: and he had not got over his insane passion for her one single bit. Was it possible that they might meet?—and if they did, would she speak to him as to an equal? He could feel, he could hear, a heavy, distinct throbbing in his head. He looked to the coming weeks now with heart-sickening longing and craven terror.

From that moment he studied the Californian papers with eager curiosity, and was rewarded now and then by a paragraph further reporting the doings of Sir John Challoner—and once by a linga thrilling line, of “personal” news which concisely set forth that “ Miss Challoner, the great English heiress, is said to be the most beautiful Englishwoman who has lately visited the West.” Nat seized the sub-editorial scissors, cut this paragraph out, and kept it for himself.

‘Nat made “ copy,” however, and rather successful “copy,” of the distinguished visitors. He wrote a long account of Sir John Challoner; his wealth, his dignity, his splendid country seat at Durewoods (which Nat described very fully), his town house (which Nat had not seen), and his beautiful and brilliant daughter. Even Professor Clinton was taken in and assumed that Nat must have been among the in- timate friends of the Challoners in London. Another occurrence greatly raised Nathaniel’s credit as an authority on European affairs This was “The Cameron Affair,” which seemed to New Paduan eyes likely to embroil Europe. It was the case of the gallant Captain Cameron, who, having in some way fallen into dispute with his Carlist chiefs, had flung up his commission, and was returning home in disgust when he happened unluckily to fall into the hands of the other side, and was in a fair way to be shot as a spy. Would England claim him asa Civis Romanus? Would she look tamely, aye, basely, on and submit to the murder of her gallant though mistaken son? This was the question which Nathaniel put in tones of varying indignation day after day in the pages of the New Paduan journal. Natty wrote columns about Captain Cameron, and was rather sorry when the news came one day that the gallant Legitimist had been aliowed to return quietly home.

It was a great thing for Nat, however, and he made the very most of it, speaking, when the news of the captive's release came, as if it must have been the articles in the New Paduan journal which, flashed across the cable wires to Madrid, had effected the release of the hero.

“was glad to say a word for poor Cameron,” Nat would observe loftily to all listeners in tun. “He pressed me very hard to take

service with him under Don Carlos. He was kind enough to think.

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“T have news for you,” said Professor Clinton, his large blue eyes smiling benignly. “Your friends the Challoners are coming to New Padua.”

Had Professor Clinton announced to him that his crimes were dis- covered, and that the English detectives were in New Padua to arrest him, and had he committed any crimes to merit arrest, poot Nathaniel could not have looked more confused. He had now and then contemplated this as a possibility. New Padua lay not far out of the track of the great Western highway, and it was a place that strangers liked to visit. Nat had had secret visions at night of Marie Challoner coming to New Padua, and of his meeting her there—he no longer a London barber, no longer the mere son of Durewoods housekeeper, but the son of his own works, and a rising citizen of the rising university town—a man who might hold himself _ as good as the best. But when the event seemed close at hand his nerves were shaken. Would Sir John Challoner speak to him? Would he tell people who Nat was? Would Marie call him “Natty,” and bring him, coram publico, news of his mother and treat him as a kindly, proud English girl treats the son of her old servant? And the unfortunate lad felt, amid all these ignoble con- siderations, that he loved her more wildly than ever. The one manly, unegotistic, refined emotion of his whole nature was just his absurd passion for her.

He stammered out some awkward word or two expressive of delight.

“Yes, they are coming to stay for a few days with our president” (the president of the university), “and they arc going to see all our sights. Professor Benjamin is to tell Sir John Challoner all about the mining resources of our State, and show him everything. You didn’t know of this before ?”

“No,” said Nat, simply ; “how could I have known? I didn't see anything in the papers.”

“T thought they might have written to you, perhaps.”

“No, they haven't written—yet.”

“But they know you are here, I suppose?”

“Well ; I don't quite know,” Nat answered slowly. “You see I left England rather suddenly, and my people didn’t half like my coming out here. I was always a Republican. I resigned my rank in the Volunteers because I couldn’t bear arms in the service of a monarchy, you know,” the young Republican added proudly.

“But why shouldn’t you bear arms in the service of your own

Government and your own country ?”

18 The Gentleman's Magasine.

of snowy and glossy shirt front was unexceptionable. studs of pink coral had a sort of poetic or romantic aspect, ani flower in the buttonhole spoke of emotion, Natty felt alex used to feel when he was new to the uniform of the West Volunteers, and the parades in Hyde Park and on ‘mon, under the eyes of royalty.

It was a pity that he could not call a hansom cab, leap and rattle up to the hall of the reception. But there as som cabs in New Padua, nor as yet even street cars, and people: had not vehicles of their own went afoot into society. In wit they put on “rubbers,” but it was not winter as yet, and the was fing and the roads were dry. So Natty issued forth in ‘boots and with a heart quick beating. Would she know him; she recognise him; would she be friendly 2 beste him and let every one know of poor Nat’s humble beginnings?

‘The gravel of the walks within the university enclosure was echoing ‘everywhere to wheels and hoofs at ee ‘the grounds, The reception was to take place in the library, was blazing with lights: its windows were squares of flame the night. Many guests were going in, and the sounds from witha indicated a crowd already. All the graduates had had invitations, ‘and such of their female relatives as happened to be resident ia ‘New Padua, and so there was a goodly gathering. Nat had me mained purposely late, As he set his foot upon the steps of the outer door a terrible thought pierced him. Suppose he had come too Inte; and that she had already withdrawn? Or suppose she was ‘unwell of fatigued, and could not make her appearance xt alle

With a freshly perturbed heart he entered the library, groeted as he entered with a friendly shake of the hand by the president and his wife, both of whom shook hands as a matter of course with every ‘one, and neither of whom at the moment remembered who Nat was, ‘Nat was not sorry for that. He glided past into the crowd. He actually passed Sir John Challoner, passed him quite closely, brushed against him, and was not recognised or even seen. Sir Jobn was engaged in animated conversation with two or three pro- fessors and a judge, Nat breathed more freely.

Had he had time for such emotions he might have wondered at the transformed appearance of the library ; at the lights, the flowers, the green wreaths and festoons of leaves—above all, the company. Could these be the quiet and uspretentious dames and demoiselles of ‘New Padua, these ladies of the floating silks, the jewels, the bracelets,

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120 The Gentleman's Magazine.

nearer ; he is within the recess ; he is close to the table ; the Benjamins already see him, and smile on him, and interchange significant glances with each other. Nat’s forehead is hot, and his tongue is dry, and falters; but there is no escape now, and he desperately says “Miss Challoner!” and Lady Disdain looks up and tums the deep light of her eyes on him.

‘A moment of doubt and wonder, and then “ Natty !” comes from between the surprised and parted lips, and Dear Lady Disdain, all astonished but kindly, holds out her friendly hand to the palpi tating youth.

“You didn’t expect to see me here,” the tremulous, delighted Nathaniel said.

“No, we have been so long away from home, and your mother did not know when I saw her last. But I am glad to see you, Natty—Mr. Cramp, I mean.” Lady Disdain corrected herself with a gleam of brightness coming into her smile.

‘Then she bade Nat to tell her all about his adventures, and said her father would be glad to see him, and in a moment was con versing quietly with him like an old friend. But in the inter vening moment the Benjamins had seen enough. For nothing could be more clear to them than the fact that the first sight of Nat had filled Miss Challoner with emotion. Confused and pal- pitating as Nathaniel was, she was far more obviously and deeply moved. The colour rushed at first into her cheeks, and her voice failed her, and then her eyes drooped and her lips trembled, and Mrs. Benjamin declared afterwards that she saw the tears come into the dear young lady’s eyes, and that she thought she was then and there going to faint. Marie did not faint, however, but recovered her composure very soon. Yet was kindly Mrs. Benjamin not wholly mistaken. For the unexpected sight of poor Nat had been to Marie like the arising of a ghost from some far dim grave. It was not Nathaniel Cramp she saw, but the place, the past, the memories of which Nat's was a chance and incidental figure, yet charged with all the full force of irresistible association. She saw Durewoods and her home and her girlhood; she saw again her dreams and longings ; she saw youth and emotion and the hope of love, and Dione Lyle, and Dione Lyle's warnings, and the hollow in the woods—and Christmas Pembroke !—and at the same mo- ment there came on her drawn by an inseparable link of contrast the shadow of the life that was awaiting her in London, the marriage, with no love in it on her side, the barren ambition, the dull self-

TABLE TALK.

BY SYLVANUS URBAN, GENTLEMAN.

‘fux. “ Knight of Innishowen” is at issue with English usage o the pronunciation of “Monaco,” He complains that our who in large numbers visit the historic Genoese rock in the, ‘season, shorten the 2 and put the whole accent on the first so that the first two syllables are not distingyishable to the ear

Jewels ; and J am sorry I cannot find space for the whole of it, f do not propose to dispute the point with him that the fashionable usage is.without proper warrant, but in fairness to my and countrywomen who learned their geography in this island before they began to travel, I must remind him of the fact, which he dost not mention, that the English geographies and encyclopacdias agree in placing the accent on the first syllable, which, in accordance with the habit of English speech, settles the length of the second syilable. Insular authority, however, is of no account on this subject, and I -ean easily imagine that, as the “Knight” states, the Prince of Monaco and his accomplished secretary the Marchese di Prato, whor my correspondent remembers in brilliant Parisian society twenty years ago, would have been shocked at the British pronunciation of the name of the classic rock, which travellers then pronounced, Italian fashion, with @ “'Two well-known passages in Virgil and Lucan,” says my correspondent, “attest the fact that the second syllable was in their days the & diphthong, and in cach case it forms the penulti- mate syllable of hexameter verse. Anchises, pointing out to AEneas -and the Sybil in the Elysian Fields the shades of Cassar and Pompey congorting as agreeably as if the great civil war had not taken place between them, recalls to mind the son and fatherinlaw marching at the head of their respective armies to fight each other, the former from the cast, and the latter from the western heights that bounded his Province of Gall from Italy—

Agewribus racer Alpinis atque arce Mono

Deacendess— ‘Vine. AS, vi. 830,

‘From Alpine heights and from Moncechus Fane,

‘The father frst descends into the plain.

leas The Gentleman's Magazine.

gutel Frenea schciar and Sis most faithfal and long-suffering wie was removed wn Pure !a Chaise nearly seven hundred years after the burial of Heloise, who survived her husband more than twely years, What of the earth in which the monument stood ought have been carried fem Paraclet to Paris after seven hundred years? If M. le Duc has any feeling tw bestow on the memory of ‘Abelard and Heloise he may surely take his inspiration from the tokca which he may see in that beautifial cemetery of the sarviva, through more than seven centuries. of a national sentiment in co- nection with the memory of the tragic love of this hero and heroine. Ir matters little now whether the actual dust lies beneath. Withont entering into an inquiry which neither Hamlet's gravedigger nor the utmost effort of modern science could satisfy, the sentimental visitor to the tomb ef Abeiard and Heloise may moralise with the French poet Colardeau. who said. perhaps in mere echo of Pope's letter of Helvise—

—Is simirent trop. ils fureat malheureax ; Geémissons sur leur tombe et 'simons pas comme eux.

ToccHrvc upon the recent philological controversy between the Rev. W. W. Skeat and other students of the anatomy of language in Votes and Queries, on our noun suffix ster as an index of gender, a Dutch scholar asks attention to the fict that in Holland all names implying avocation or qualification and ending in ster are feminine, while those ending in er, with one seeming exception, are masculine. And this exception is a philological curiosity. It is the word dake, which in Dutch means a monthly nurse. Here is my correspondent’s anatomy of baker :—“The primary signification of the Anglo-Saxon word from which we get the English verb # bake, was the wider meaning of to heat and to warm, and this meaning still lurks behind the English verb in its reflective form é bask, which is intensified in the Dutch word bakeren, meaning to wrap up nice and warm. So we arrive at the low German baker, the monthly nurse, the word and its original meaning being in perfect keeping with the old Batavian notion of the science of health : that it consisted in keeping the patient warm. In strict- ness the nurse ought to have been called a bakerster, but the seeming contradiction of an apparently masculine and a feminine suffix coming together would not be acceptable to Dutch ears, and it was thus, no doubt, that the sfer fell out of use. If the change had been made by grammarians, and not by common usage, the word would no doubt have been dakster, the equivalent of the English proper name Baster, which in its origin belongs to this philological faxaily?”

126 The Gentleman's Magazine.

time to time, influenced, I think, more by the charm and allurements of the gems which are quoted than by the fact of the correspondence which the lines are quoted to prove. When lovers of literature draw round the table to talk and to quote fine bits from their favourite authors, but little excuse is needed for the repetition of sentences and stanzas which are music and something more to every one of the listeners ; and so I hardly care how small is the excuse for quoting these two exquisite scraps, the first from Keats's “ Ode to the Nightin gale,” and the second from Longfellow’s “ Flowers,” placed before me by Mr. Benjamin Corke, of Bristol, for the purpose of calling attention to the echo of the one in the other :— The voice I heard this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth when sick for home

She stood in tears amid the alien corn. . 8 © © 8 @

Everywhere about us are they glowing, ‘Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born:

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.

‘Thoughtful readers, seeing Keats and Longfellow thus brought side by side in singular similarity of mood, will probably be led to reflect rather upon the difference between the men, thus so distinctly demon- strated, than upon the technical coincidence of illustration ; and un- measured admirers of Keats, of whom I confess myself one, will dwell upon the exquisite music and the beautiful metaphysical sad- ness of the allusion to the ancient maiden in the “Ode;” while Long- fellow’s special champions will insist upon the perfection of the picture of Ruth as a dew-laden corn-flower in the harvest-field.

A Frencut scholar and critic who, like M. Taine, takes a pride in being as well acquainted with English as with French classics writes to me on the controversy which has for so many weeks been carried on in the columns of the Atheneum with respect to the publication of an English edition of the works of Rabelais. How shall I venture to say a word on this delicate subject to-day, even ina magazine which in its early youth was contemporaneous with Jonathan Swift ? I confess Iam always puzzled by the modern aspects of questions touching the coarse- ness to be found in the writings of the great masters of litcrature in past periods, and I sometimes think that we are just now in a transi- tion state about such matters. The current fecling with regard to pro- priety in literature is, I believe, very genuine. 1 do not join with those

128 The Gentleman's Magazine.

on the subject. I am, however, doing all the talking while my French

correspondent is waiting to speak ; and where the question relates a

Rabelais, a literary fellow-countryman of the great author whose

“Gargantua” and “ Pantagruel” are the progenitors of “ Gulliver

Travels” has a right to be heard. I will not, however, repeat my

friend’s indignant words with respect to Mr. Collette’s discovery that

Rabelais will conduce to the perdition of public morals and his

attempt to close before the giant French satirist of the sixteenth

century the gates of the English language, but will content myself with quoting him on the character and tendency of the great man’s works. “All except Mr. Collette,” he says, “know that Rabebis did not write for the sake of depravation, and that he coated his satire in a coarse and often repulsive garb because it could never have passed muster had he expressed it in plain and downright words. Rabelais’ sayings have become proverbial, and no_ serious critic ever thought of taking his reckless flow of words au serieux. If his works are to be burked in England by a society that seems to think it has right to interpose in questions far above its ken there is no reason why a third at least of your old English literature should not be burked in the same manner, and it is in the name of common sense that such attempts as that which has been ventilated in the Atheaum should be laughed away.”

Ose of my correspondents calls my attention to the fact that a writer in Blackwood’s Magazine, treating of the conduct of the South ‘Wales miners in fighting to the bitter end a losing battle on the ques- tion of wages, speaks of this line of action on the part of the men as a mistake so monstrous, and folly so egregious, that the mere state- ment of the story in categorical terms ought to be enough to bring conviction home to the minds of all workmen and to prevent for ever after the recurrence of such strife. My friend takes no side in the question at issue between workmen and masters : he is content to express his wonder that any writer should expect from working men a continence from strife for reasons which it is notorious do not deter other men, of whatever class or order, from challenging and accepting challenges and fighting losing battles to the bitter end. “Do not producers and merchants,” he asks, “strive and suffer in a similar fashion? Do not people go to law sometimes even when neither of the litigants can hope to make anything by the process ? Do not nations go to war, and expend vast treasures of wealth and blood, and end by leaving the matter where it was at first? It is, of course, a fair matter for speculation whether workmen would not be better off, even in the matter of wages, without strikes; but after all a workman is a human being, and is it not a little unreasonable to go on describing this feature of strikes as if it were a sort of diablerie inherent in workmen? To my mind the whole business is only another proof that the British workman is a man and a brother.” I rather like my friend’s genially philosophic view of the subject, and commend it to the consideration of the author of “ Thoughts about British Workmen, Past and Present.”

130 The Gentleman's Magazine.

strong arm, and his snub-face would smile no more. Milly wail hand the laurel wreath to the victor, and he would dash it baci her face. He dreamed and breathed impotent revenge ; he would ar given twenty years of his life for leave to slap the clerk’s smirk fut or pull his impertinent nose before all Eastingtonshire and Winbuy.

He was in this amiable mood when a more substantial shadow fell between the door of the shed where he was pretending to wath and the sun, who shone on regardless of even a poet's frown.

“Good morning, Abel,” said Milly, softly and cheerfully, for te shadow was hers.

“Good morning, Miss Barnes,” said Abel, crossly, and withat looking up. If she was to be Miss Barnes, let her be.

“ Aunt sent me to see if you had been taken ill, and if you wer better. No, she didn't—I came to see, without being told. Are you?”

“T'm quite well, thank you.”

“And that wasn't exactly it, either. I came to beg your pardon Mr. Adams behaved like what he is—a very foolish young man who thinks himself a very clever one—but I’m afraid you thought it was all our fault because we were civil to him, He came on busines: about the house, and aunt took the chance of getting me driven over. You oughtn’t to be so touchy, Abel. Why did you mm away because you were laughed at by a man like him? A rel man ought tu be able to hold his own.”

Milly, if not the phoenix that Abel had been going to paint her, had not only a sweet but an honest voice, and her blame felt as bracing as sunshine. Abel would have been more sullen than a bear had he been able to find a cross thought for her after her first word. He was touched by her frankness and brave outspokenness, as men mostly are by qualities they would like to be their own, especially if such qualities are not their own.

This, by the way, is not intended to explain why frankness and brave outspokenness are popular in fiction.

“I did not run away,” said the scholar-knight, thus put on his mettle. “["——he longed to torture himself by learning what had been said of the poem behind his back, and did not know how to fish for it. Of course the opinion of Mr. Adams, being a hostile and malicious critic, was nothing—that is to say, the favourite food of a selftorturer.

“It was very like a fight, though, all the same,” said Milly with a smile, in which it was impossible even for him to read the contempt he feared, “ But Mr. Adams is an aggravating young man, \ own, \o

134 The Gentleman's Magazine.

slightest question over head and ears in love with her—in itsela virtue of virtues to the now full-fledged young lady from Mis Baxter's, eager for all the experiences of young ladyhood and ready to welcome the first that came. Save that he was neither a peerdl the realm nor a captain of dragoons, Abel Herrick had all the personal qualities that go to make up a school-gitl’s hero,

It was now she who coloured, ever so little, when after these many days he came to her side as she sat at the window of the empy drawing-room in which he had once hunted for her and found him- self—the Abel Herrick that he had become through looking for achild in a tea-cup, But he was not thinking of these things: his rather heavy brow was far too gloomy to be thinking of anything bat the present, and that in no pleasant way.

“Milly,” he began without preface, “I have just been talking to your aunt. She has been advising me.”

“What about? Fancy aunt advising you ”

“She means it well, I suppose. But it can’t be done, all the same.”

“What is it? Do you want me to advise you too?”

“ Yes—that is—but I know what your advice will be. You know old Crook has drunk himself at last into Westcote Union? So what do you think your aunt proposes? that I should ask for the place— that I should be the schoolmaster.”

“That would be splendid! And of course asking would be having with you.”

“I don’t know about that, The people who put in old Crook are not very likely to know good from bad, I should say. And people don’t like to have their betters under them. But it doesn’t matter. I shan’t ask them,”

“What !—wouldn’t it be a great step for you?”

“That's just it, Milly. Heaven knows I want to climb high, and so I won't take a stepdown. I must be what 1 am. I am a scholar and a poet : I don’t want to be known as the village schoolmaster.”

Milly looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand, Abel. Your having to work with your hands doesn’t keep you from being what you are —why should having to work with your head? Being a school- master’s almost like being a clergyman: and anyhow people—I don’t mean me—would think more of you”——

“Not they. For a working man like me to be what I am shows genius—but the higher I go by paltry little steps the less I should be

thought of. Nobody thinks anything of a schoolmaster for being a scholar. I should sell my birthright of fame for twenty pounds a

136 The Gentleman's Magazine,

something tells me that it is more than a may-be—how else should I

be so different from all other men? Even when I was a child the other children treated me as if they were no companions for me. But what then? If I were a king’s son I should scom to wara crown not made with my own hands. But even as a peasant | scorn anything short of a crown. All or nothing—that is my motts, Milly! I will not cheat the world by wasting the time due tomy epic in teaching babies how to spell—for twenty pounds a year. I must become great—I have told you what has made me what I am —and then, I may tell you what has made me what I shail be.”

Milly did not even smile at this heroic tirade. Nor did she trace in his balanced sentences the effect of book-language assimilated by a long course of self-conscious soliloquies. To her, it was sponte neous eloquence worthy of the crack preacher of Eastington. And, since his whole heart was in his words, it was eloquence in a way. Abel had gone the right way to win a woman’s ear; he had blown his own trumpet with all the force of his lungs, and had given her to understand that he was blowing it for her.

What would her school-fellows have thought to hear her courted after this fashion! How they would have envied her—with what jealous gossip they would have flattered her—Mr. Adams himself would cease to hold the apple of discord. It was like a scene in a novel—but common-sense stepped in, and she sighed. She was her aunt's niece, after all; and something whispered in her ear that a man who scoms a bird in the hand generally wants a great deal of waiting for, however great his genius for catching birds in the bush may be.

Abel read her eyes in his own way ; and the dreamer felt more like a real man of flesh and blood than he had ever felt before. He was drawn towards her by the sigh that, meaning little, seemed for that very reason to signify a thousand things. He felt, truly and in his heart, that while he had become what he was for his own sake he must show the world what he had become for hers. If hope could only be changed into certainty, felt the dreamer after the ifloving manner of his kind, there was nothing he had not the strength todo. + It must be all or nothing—and it shall be all!” he thought to him- self ; and he said, as simply as if it were the natural and spontaneous expression of the thought—

“Will you be my wife, when I am a great man?”

How is it possible to contrast strongly enough what we do with what we think we do? Abel Herrick believed that he had laid one of the elect souls of the Universe before the feet of its Queen— while, in sober truth, a young man had made a young git her Gxt

138 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“Why should she know till I can claim you?”

“Because she must. I wouldn't do anything without her. Aud only to speak to her—it would be so easy, if you only were"—

‘ot a burdle-maker. I know.”

“You know what she thinks about such things "—

“Milly! You mean to say your promise depends on her, whe knows as much about love and ambition as—surely if we lre one another nothing ought to come between us two.”

“She has loved me ever since I was born, Abel, and I’ve lored her.”

“ And I've loved you ever since the world began. If she allow, then will you promise me?”

“Indeed you must ask her before you ask me.”

“ And that you say is not for a hurdle-maker to dare.”

‘They seemed stopped by a stiffer fence than Abel had ever made. Bat at last, said Milly, shyly—for how could she fancy herself cleverer than a man of genius ?—

“ Abel—perhaps she meant more than she said when she talked about your getting made schoolmaster.”

She blushed deeply. The woman was dcing what the man should have done—suggesting the means by which the difficulties of winning her might be overcome. :

But there was much in what she said. No doubt Mrs. Tallis ought to have seen, even with her dim spectacles, which way things were going. And, if so, what more natural sign of her approval could she give than doing her best to put her future nephew-in law in a position to ask for her niece without obliging her dignity to say No?

“Ab—the schoolmastership!—It goes against me—I despise making my place ask for you. But if that is the only way to gain your promise—I'll show you I think more of your love than you do of my fame”—

“ Abel !”

“And I shall be refused, you will see. Never mind—I will go to the vicar this very day. I will sacrifice everything for you.”

“If you only knew how I want you to be everything you can wish for! I do want you to get the schoolmastership—and if it’s beneath you, you'll soon be above it, never fear.”

“Mind, Milly—you know why I am going to ask—that it’s for you”——

“I shall remember,” she said. And so—hardly knowing how— Abel and Milly, without any needless formal promise, found them- selves engaged.

144 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“ Now look here. seriously, Tom—I don't mind your chafing ma in fan—but that stale sneering really does hurt me. You know I think of work and self-culture. I can't be Senior Wrangler, bt tt thing is to work just as if 1 could be. If I could be, I should waste a single hour: and so I oughtn’t to waste one now.”

“I'm very sorry if I vexed you, Bee—I know what a clererad hard-working girl you are—and I wasn’t chaffing or sneering, on ay honour. But it's ridiculous, your slaving without why or wherelor, as you do. You've got all your life before you—till you're mantel —and you grind harder than any honour man would in his lst year.”

“That's it, Tom. Men work for the reward, and so they do jut what they’re obliged to, and no more. Women work for work's stkt, and so they do all they can.”

“That's all humbug, Bee. I’m going to be a reading man, though I don't expect any reward—I only want to do us all credit, and please the governor, and all that; but still I mean to do my best, and the way to do one’s best isn't to slave. I’ve got legs and arms—and # have you, if it's proper to say so to a young woman—and theyre meant to be used, and I mean to use ‘em. I've done a good day's grind, and now”

“ You mean you've been smoking a cigar over your books for just one hour : for I happen to know when you finished breakfast, and the cigar is not to be denied. One hour out of twenty-four—and you going in for an examination to-morrow !”

“The day after tomorrow, Bee. And it is a good day’s work, too. I own to the cigar, and you don't know how it helpsa man. I read as hard as ever L could, and shut off the steam”—

“The smoke, you mean?”

“The steam, the moment I felt my head wouldn't take in any more. If I'd read twenty hours it would have come to the same thing—only I should have been fagged instead of fresh for the next day. What do you say to that, Miss Beatrice Deane?”

“And I,” she said proudly, “have been at work, except just at breakfast—earlier and shorter than yours, Tom—ever since seven, without stopping till now. I shall go on till lunch, and then Signor Fasolla comes: that’s only play. ‘Ihen Herr Von Brillen comes for my German lesson, and then I shall finish up my morning’s work, if there's any over, or amuse myself with Italian till the dressing bell rings. And then, when we go up to bed, \ always read mye to

sleep. That's what I call a day's work—and if it wasn’t that Unde George wants me in the drawing-room of an evening” ——

ak

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Bee. I'll examine him critically,” said Tom, who naturally prejudiced against a young man whom he had never seen and had been mentioned respectfully by a girl. “And who was atten to you?”

“ Oh—everybody, of course, Bee beats me in flirtation, a | way.”

“ Everybody's nobody. I say, Annie—Bee will never get beyeal flirtation if she goes on in this way.”

“She says she doesn’t want to.”

“ And you believe her, of course?”

“Of course I believe her. Why should she want to? Do yw think a girl wants to be married as soon as she’s born? That's wht men think I suppose : they're all so worth marrying—in their om opinions.”

“Annie, Annie! You've learned that parrot-speech from Bee. I see her hand in that as sure as I see yours on the bridle. I can tel you that men know more about girls than girls know about them- selves,” said the man of the world.

“They needn’t know much about gitls, to know more about them than girls do,” said Annie laughing. “ Come—I'm getting hungry— let’s have a good quick canter home.

CHAPTER VI.

Clear the course! Ring the bell! Look, they start from the stand In a line like the edge of the foam on the sand:

On they race, on they rush, till the thin line has grown

Like the offing—the Favourite’s in front and alone !

Hurrah for the winner! hurrah for the black ‘Who besrs not a boy, but men’s gold, on his back ; But, though twenty lengths foremost, yet hold him not in— He may yet have to race neck and neck ere he win.

THERE was no mystery about the Deane family. Everything that can be said of them is straightforward and above-board. They had not so much as the little finger joint of a skeleton in any of their well-stocked cupboards. Mr. Deane, Annie’s and Beatrice's Uncle George, was a middle-aged country gentleman, of commercial ex- traction, who could afford to live up to ample means, and had married for love into one of the oldest families in the north of England. He had not gained a sixpence by his lovematch, and could afford the luxury. He was known as an idle, but yet a busy man—a great and active patron of all advanced social movements, ©

150 The Gentleman's Magazine.

season affair—a sort of pour prendre congé—for the Deanes did oa intend to visit London that spring.

“ Good-bye, Tom,” said his mother, a mild little woman who have been a beauty in her day. ‘I shall send for you the very fnt ‘moment we can.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” said Beatrice. “They don’t let people sme over examination papers, I've heard. If they did, you'd be firs, Iu sure.”

“Good-bye, Bee. Ten to one in white gloves—no, in ble stockings—I win a donkey-race. Done.”

Tom was just saying “Shoreditch!” in his manliest tone to the cabman, when he felt himself struck on the shoulder by an oi slipper.

“ Good-bye, Tom—good luck to"you !” said Annie, from the hall door. He shook his fist at her, lighted a cigar, and was gone.

On the platform he met a Horchester man bound on the same errand—no other than that Hammond whom he had casually mer tioned to Beatrice as the type of a hard student. Now Hammond, unlike Tom, was a poor and anxious man ; success on this occasion meant everything to him ; and yet the coming examination was not once mentioned by either, apparently not thought of, during the journey. Horchester prided itself upon serene indifference to all things outside the playing-field. ‘The journey “up,” as Cambridge men, in defiance of Bradshaw, choose to style the journey down, was uneventful ; for adventures are to the adventurous, as Sidonia has it, and these young men of the time were far too cool-handed and cool- headed to be classed among those whom adventures befall.

Everybody, at first or second-hand, knows Cambridge as it is for a sunny week or two in the month of May. And, as it is for that week, so it is supposed to be, in spirit, for the other fifty-one. It is, then, a University of Unreason; the only oasis in all our toiling England where, save her sister Oxford, life is a constant holiday, the “land in which it seemeth always afternoon.” What is the picture commonly conjured up by term-time? A holiday multiplied by a holiday—the world’s pantomime. The experienced writers who have painted the social aspects of their Alma Mater have made college life a fearful and wonderful mixture of a vast practical joke and a colossal wine party: the inexperienced as a blending of earthly paradise with Pandemonium. Alas for romance—ne woo would describe college life as it is must write with a dry pen. No- body would read his small-beer chronicles, and so they Wil temas

oe The Gentleman's Magazine,

acquaintances, ignoring all outsiders : the half-castes drew togeha by a law of elective affinity: the pariahs ate and drank in soltay and distrustful silence : the no-castes alone defied etiquette, wereim pervious to stares and short answers, and though inclined to tml ‘Doasting on the subject of their own experiences, would have mit feeding time an amusing halfhour, instead of a gloomy neces, had they not been held at bay. It may be assumed that each, it dependently of his caste, had a character of his own, but dina time is short, and the characters of very young Englishmen are loog in opening and shy of display. Tom was not particularly fond o Hammond, but these were the only Horchester men who had come up, and so dined /#e-d-téte in the midst of the profane herd. When dinner was over—some minutes after the Dean had left the high table, for the guests had not yet learned the art of bolting their food in a short twenty minutes—Tom and Hammond, by way of change, adjourned from one another's society to the society of one another, and went to Tom's rooms for a cigar.

Tom, though distant to strangers when distance was required by the traditions of his order, was far from being so by nature, and to all who had no pretensions to social equality with him he was the essence of geniality. He had made friends with the Gyp in no time, had learned from him all about everybody and everything in ten minutes, and obtained—the Gyp knew how—the means of spending a comfortable evening.

“I hope you'll be one of us, sit,” said the Gyp, politely but patronisingly, as became one of the oldest members of the college and one who had looked after the Dean himself when both were young. “You're the best gentleman of the lot, as I can see. There's a very odd one has got the rooms above you, sir—the oddest gentle- man I ever see.”

“Oh, you're safe to have me—I’m going to be a St. Kit’s man any way. And who's the odd man upstairs?”

“T don't know his name, sir—he seems a lonesome sort of a gen- tleman—he hasn’t even a pockmanteau to keep him company. I fancy he’s made a bit of a mistake in coming to this college—St. Anthony’s is more his style. You should see his boots, sir! He wouldn't go into hall, and what do you think he did?”

“What? Ate his boots?”

“Ha, ha, ha! You're a pleasant sort of gentleman, sir, you are. You'll get on capital in St. Christopher's. He offered me sixpence to get him some bread and cheese and to give him the change. I don’t expect lie’s got too many sixpences, 1 don't—hell never do for

1% sir, ae

154 The Gentleman's Magazine,

“Do you mind introducing yourself? The Gyp didn't know yor name.”

“Tam Abel Herrick,” said the visitor, ina hard, rather provindd, but singularly clear and precise tone.

“Sit down, Mr. Herrick, and help yourself. Do you smoke? 1 think you'll find the cigars in that case pretty fair. What doyw think of St. Kit’s? Things look jolly enougn, so far?”

“Where do you come up from?” asked Hammond, with double politeness, as a preface to getting a rise out of him. “We are from Horchester.”

“Tam from near Eastington,” said Abel, feeling that the tom sounded morc imposing than the village.

“I suppose that’s within a walk?” said Hammond, looking Abel's boots, which were muddy as well as thick-soled.

“Yes,” said Abel. “It’s not more than two days’ journey.”

Tom rather liked his guest’s quiet manner, combined as it was with a full chest and broad shoulders. A peasant is never vulga, and there is a verse, once known to schoolboys, about the influence of study upon natural hardness and ferocity. But Abel was not thinking of the question: he was mentally taking the measure of the first two of his competitors that he had yet seen. He could not dare to own even to himself how completely at sea he was, now that he had walked from Winbury into the world. He had never been out of sight of Winbury church, and now he found himself thrown at once into a vision of a city of palaces—for such Cambridge was to him. But he had come to conquer, and these

were two of the youthful giants of learning whom he was to over- throw.

“The examination is to-morrow,” he said, sipping his wine—the first he had ever tasted, but doing as he saw the others do.

“Hang the exam,” said Hammond. “Sufficient unto the day— don’t let’s think of to-morrow till to-morrow comes.”

Abel stared.

“By all means hang the exam,” said Tom, “I’ve half a mind to cut the whole thing and go somewhere. What do you say, Hammond?”

“I'm afraid I must go in—worse luck. Or there’s nothing would give me greater pleasure than to let Mr. Herrick walk over, I assure you. Iwonder what he'd buy us out for? Which is your line— classics or mathematics ?”

“Both,” said Abel. Everything.”

“The deuce it is!” said Hammond, too much interested in the

«ne Uentleman's Magazine.

you in the female line. I should have said your name wa Deane.”

“ By Jove! How do you know that?” asked Tom. “Yair right, though—my mother was a Miss Eliot—of Northumberland, s you say—awfully great people. When my grandfather died he dat like his branch to die out, so he left me all he had on condition Td take the name and arms. So that's my name in full—Thomas Geoge Markham Deane-Eliot: three Christian names and two sumame— rather too much for on

“ Lucky fellow!” said Hammond. -“ Then you're independent d your father?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, to write myself Eliot is more honow than tin, But the mater liked it, and so did the governor, for hes proud old boy, and the Deanes of Longworth are nobodies to what the Eliots of Foxmoor used to be, once upona time. The Deane used only to buy and sell cattle, but the Eliots used to steal ‘em But how do you know about me?”

“T was only looking at your tobacco-box,” said Abel.

Hammond examined the case. “ You must have good eyes, Mt. Herrick. I don’t see it there.”

“ What ?” asked Tom, ‘Can you tell all that from a crest?”

They did not even know heraldry, then. The question was beginning to be, What did they know? With Hammond, What did this fellow not know? It was not likely that he had come to Cam bridge to try for an exhibition on the strength of heraldry ; and if he knew out-of-the-way things he might be presumed to be strong in common things.

“Are you a good hand at verses ?” asked Hammond, carelessly,

“I don't like to boast,” said the poet. “I hope I am not a bad one. But—if you will allow me, Mr. Eliot—I will go to my own room.”

‘As there was plainly no fun to be got out of a man who was neither a wit himself nor the cause of wit in others, the young men did not press him to stay.

“Look out, old fellow,” said Tom to Hammond when he had gone. “That's a rum ’un to look at, but I expect you'll find him a good ’un to go.”

“Let him go,” said Hammond, with carelessness less well assumed than before. “I dare say he wants to win more than I. If 1 come in a bad third, it’s the most I look for. Good night, Eliot.”

““What—are you off too?”

“ Yes—I want to write a letter.”

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having given notice to the boys not to attend school today, ail waited till I could write to you for certain, because you do not litete be troubled with business or personal interviews. I trust you vil find no difficulty in obtaining a successor. I heard of my schoar ship through the Cambridge intelligence of the Eastington Meraay; so I should think if you advertised the vacancy there it might atime notice in the same way. Ido not think there is anybody in Wir bury who is qualified to succeed me. “ T have the honour to be, “Reverend sir, “Yours with respect, “ ABEL HERRICK, late Schoolmaste”

Having finished his correspondence he went to bed. Buthis om thoughts, fed for the first time with wine, and held from turning into dreams by the never-ending chimes, kept him broad awake until the sun rose upon the eventful day.

(To be continued.)

The Gentleman's Magazine,

The sergeant snatched his musket up ‘And threw it to “ Present”;

‘The bandsman drew his bayonet out With little good intent.

Butt-end, all ready for the blow, ‘The third man’s firelock swung ;

The fifer would have drawn his sword, But to the sheath it clung.

‘The Highlandman laughed loud and long, ‘Then kicked the benches over, Danced three steps of a Highland reel, And cried, “I’m Rob the Rover !” The brawny sergeant flung at him ‘A stool that cleared the table ; It hit the bandsman on the shins— And then began the Babel.

But suddenly the Highlander, With a smile frank and jolly,

Cried out, “Good folks, one moment, please, T've lost my favourite collie.

One whistle ere the fun begins, And then we'll to it hearty ;

I would not for a thousand crowns Break up a pleasant party.”

“Ugh ! shmite de fool !” the sergeant cried ; The others, with more pity,

Said, “Let the clod bring in his hoond— We'll sell it in next city.”

‘As Rob he whistled shrill and clear, Loud laughed the sneering bandsman ;

Till through the shattered door there rushed At least two dozen clansmen.

When Rob, with white rose in his hat, Cried out, “God save King Charles !”

‘You should have seen the sour grimace Distort those coward carles.

“God save the Stuarts and the right, And down with the Pretender,

And that’s your little German laird, Frofn Scotland God defend her ‘”

contrasted strongly with a pair of small dark eyes, worn poring over Greek and black-letter characters ; Se advanced age there was a sweet look of Kindliness, sleapte serenity, and almost childlike guilelessness that charac’ marked his face at all periods of his life.

Before leaving Enfield I used often to walk up to town father's house of an afternoon in good time to go to and walk back after the play was over, in order to. be res morning duties when [ had become usher in the school. Dark solitary enough were the “Green Lanes," as they were called, Y between Holloway and Enficld—through picturesque Hornsey, mital Wood Green, and hedge-rowed Winchmore Hill—when traversed im the small hours past midnight. Yet I knew every foot of the way, and generally pursued that track as the nearest for the pedestrian: I seldom met a soul ; but once a fellow who had been lying under a hedge by the way-side started up and began following me more nearly than I cared to have him, so L put on my cricketing speed and ran forward with a swiftness that few at that time could oat strip, and which soon left my would-be comnightranger far behind. Well worth the fatigue of a twelve-mile walk there and another back was tome then the glorious delight of secing Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth or Queen Constance (though at a period when she had Jost her pristine shapeliness of person, for she had become so bulky a8 to need assistance to rise from the ground in the scene where she throws herself there as her throne, bidding “ kings come bow to it"); of secing Miss O'Neil as Juliet, Belyidere, Monimia, and such tender heroines, which she played and looked ee Kemble as Coriolanus or Brutus, which he impersonated with trie stateliness and dignity both of perton and manner.

ia

tion into the working of all the Irish schools

and at an early period arrived at two conclusions:

them, acting on their then rules, could “provide

‘education as should be cordially adopted and gene

the other, that no system “ could obtain a general and c

in Ireland which should not, in addition to

of a literary character, afford the opportunity of religious

to persons of all persuasions.” A. circumstance

the Commissioners in the course of their inspection, <a (carried on as objects of private speculation) in which the

for the instruction they received, and in which there ap perfect harmony among children of all persuasions.”

they “found the same master teaching the Church of Catechism t one child, the Roman Catholic to another, at Presbyterian to # third.” Although they did not “approve ¢ same master teaching different and conflicting religious d still, they observe, “the state of these schools led us tothe

that it was at least possible that both religious and general instn might be communicated in establishments in which children | persuasions should be taught together,

harmoniously adopted.

Desirous of authoritatively ascertaining how far Roman C: principles would admit of acquiescence in their views, the Co sioners thought it right to have a conference with the four bishops of that Church, Dr. Murray, Dr, Curtis, Dr. Kelly, and Laffan, the minutes of which are fully set forth in the report, ‘The Ce missioners expressed their desire for a system that “would children of all religious denominations in the same schools,” when it became necessary “to separate them for the purposes religious instruction," intimating that only thus they “could establish among them those reciprocal charities upon which the peace and harmony of society must depend.” ‘The Commissioners then inquired “whether there would be any objection to common literary instruction being reccived by Ronin Catholics as well from. a Protestant as from a Roman Catholic master, and whether religious — instruction could be given to Roman Catholics by a Roman Catholic } layman approved of by the proper Roman Catholic pastor" Dr Murray (the interview being in the first instance with him alone) ex pressed his concurrence in these suggestions for uniting Protestant: and Roman Catholic children in literary and separating them © for religious instruction, and stated that there could be mo ‘objection to the course proposed by the Commissioners,

‘S

year. Tn the very year of their opening Dr, Murray eta iy sil feoneuloe De ea eee

The mode of Cardinal Cullen's appointment b the cause of that section of the Church had aspired to unite the ideas of Roman C

muted to the archbishop and bishops of the province, there was some very special ground for not doing x0,

were then forwarded to Rome, and the Pope chose

the bishopric ; it being here also understood that ‘clecagtisteen aprebertersy t= A=, e appointed by his holiness, That this usage was co

right may be learned from an answer Lieto

An the rescript of 1847 the Irish bi all the existing Catholic Colleges more chairs, “ particularly in the

the “purpurei panni” of the Irish Episcopate are suggestion, on whatever individual he may indicate as

his nominees is, 1 believe, undeniable. Bat an hierarchy like that which the last generation knew will: bea thing wholly of the past. For “men of the:

aand that the true cause of the comparative paucity: been the want of demand among Roman Catho)

education as they supply, ut the cost at which it

academic Nor is the fact that they are “at people's own ieee acer el ac

190 The Gentleman's Magazine.

or cardinals, of bishops or of priests: nay, the failings or crines a princes or of statesmen must be hidden, provided their policy ba' been connected with the promotion of Catholic interests.

The system might answer its purpose in an age when bag, ignorance might be secured through life to the faithfully brought son of the Church. In this day no knowledge, whether of goola evil, can be shut out from the mind of one who moves throw society, any more than the sunlight can be shut from his eyes. Te suppressio veri will be found out assuredly, and will suggest to many that those resorting to it might not have stopped short at mere ca cealment of historic facts. The doubt is probably the first step int scepticism the final issue of which no one could determine, bet which would never have been entered on if it were only boreia mind that the surest way to preserve the truth is to disclose it freely.

As an Irish Catholic I do not shrink from the expression of my deep conviction that to Ultramontanise Ireland would be to deprin her of her last chance of social or political regeneration.

ean tat ie caer kespes that clear and subile intellect by means of poetic grandeur to his greatest parts. degree this rare and distinctive gift,

eye, living before you, a Shakespearian hero moving — his ideal human life, How wonderful the variety of the change of passion which can be conceived and cx great actor! ‘The player's creative power of expressing a noble of realising an heroic man, is perhaps hi: y It isa rare gift which enables an artist to embody, and oe

nature. In connection specially with Macready’s acting 1 points which are illustrations of the gifts "

player to render the higher parts of Shakespeare. power of expressing the attitude of such a character as

‘been able to represent a wholly “amazed, b “Gn the sublime of preoccupation,” as he indicate: moment of mecting the weird sisters the awful

voice had opened the chambers of the human heart, trumpet had awakened the sleeping and the dead. To ‘Mrs. Siddons was an event in every one’s life.”

speaks of the name of Siddons as “a name that even & in me something of a reverential feeling.” He saya: “

198 The Gentleman's Magazine,

thrill and swell of soul of a great actor, in a great part, on a ges] night. The house, full of living humanity, swayed and stirred byte magic of the artist's power, melts with the pathos, or rises with the heroic inspiration of the part. Scene follows scene ; passion tia upon passion ; inspiration glows with the heat of living ecstasy, as te actor, forgetting himself in his art, becomes sublimed to the lofty ide. The mass of humanity which surrounds him supplies present gry and after fame. The sympathetic communication between acer and audience becomes electrical. The reverberation of

thunders is a divine intoxication ; the pressure of full-hearted sileam is a dim, delicious echo of his inner feeling of mastery and of mage, His emotion vibrates upon theirs. The enthusiasm which respondsso subtly, so intuitively, to the actor’s efforts, is a leaping flame running swiftly through, and vividly lighting up, the hearts and minds of thousands of subjugated and excited spectators. Life knows no joy that can surpass the glory of those brief exalted hours. The ead arrives ; the part is played ; the piece concludes ; and then comes the full draught of the sense of great victory, as the actor, then outside his personation, and resolved into his individuality, receives the full acclaim of applause which expresses the admiration, the gratitude of ‘masses of men thrilling with a consentience of deeply-moved emotion. For the time the actor has been lifted above himself, has lived and breathed in an ideal world, has animated with action the poet's creation. He has been ina state of feeling upraised to the glow and glory of poetry ; the realism of his art has been but the footstool for noblest imaginings. ‘Truly there are shortcomings in the stability of the actor’s fame in years to come ; but the great justice of art awards a magnificent compensation in the triumph of such an hour.

to find groups of natives looking over the ‘below, looking at nothing particular, but hugely less by the occupation,

notice of the frequent visitor,

able to a Christian land and a

‘Dangees are sottishly ignorant, and treat their women! were savages, Being continually on the water, and the move, in our midst but ever passing, on shore and.

have no responsibilities ; neither docs any teacher responsibility towards them, True it is that there are the rule ; some of the barges are well-regulated cottages, aft cabin is clean, painted with some idea of artistic ad the abode of a family literally born and bred within recesses. But these are rare exceptions indeed. To inn there is a lower region where the barge men and b call for refreshments when passing through the lock hard | who would prefer not to see the face of womankind every kind of bruise or to hear horrible blasphemies. ro woman's tongue had better give that lower region a very. Ask the landlord of the inn how many drunken p rescued from a watery grave close to his stable coroner what a tale of dead is yielded every

And if you would lear further of the morality, and habits of the barge people start straightway to the

waters, for the luvers of an innocent amusement.” ‘The record of the actual sport obtained by this q

tantalising to readers in 1875. Coming upon the fish

formken cad and minnow for the dainty drake or

minnow fisher; but the glory of the Colne as a trou

since departed.

‘Not so many years ago the Rickmansworth fishery Dest in the country. It was carefully preserved by a gentlemen, who paid a high price for the sport,

—

number of printing presses were at work, Here

@ smooth stream along a shoot, ran over several refining ag it travelled, until it spread out and impalpable sheet over a tightly strained wire bed.

it becomes, and at the last weir the sheet goes bet rollers of felt, to all intents finished paper, though ‘cylinders remain for drying and we

‘The paper mill trout, it was evident even to % kept ‘Te was but a short

sold for £280, and is now worth £500. A the South Keasingtoa Museum gave £450 the Préaax

212 The Gentleman's Magazine.

mannfactured, which belonged to the late Mrs. Martineau, realised at Christie's £294. This is the chef @ewcre of a potter of whoa Mr. Gladstone said at Burslem in October, 1863 : “ If the day sll ever come when England shall be as eminent in taste as she is now in economy of production. my belief is that the result will probably be due to no other single man in so great a degree as to Wolg wood.”

Turning to porcelain or china, at the outset two interesting que tions present themselves—viz. when did the Chinese discover the art? and when was it introduced into Europe? Little was knom about the former until M. Stanislas Jullien published his “ Histoirede la Porcelaine Chinoise” in 1856. In that volume he dates the fabric- tion of porcelain there to B.c. 185, or under the Han dynasty. The great manufactory of King-te-chin was established in the sixth centur, and early in the eleventh was distinguished by Imperial patronage. Unfortunately during the recent rebellion the works were destroyed. ‘A considerable part of the porcelain made at King-te-chin and other large manufactories was sent to Canton and Nankin to be decorated. From a very early period fine examples of porcelain have ben much prized by the Chinese themselves, and the high prices of European sales have been exceeded in China by enthusiastic collecting mandarins, Good crackle pieces are much valued. The marks producing that variety are not really cracked in any glaze, but are painted on the paste and then glazed over.

Pieces of porcelain found their way to Europe as early as the four teenth century. Mr. Chaffers quotes the following from the inventory of effects of the Queen of Charles le Bel (d. 1370):—“ Item, un pot eau de pierre de porcdaine.” In 1518 the Portuguese settled at Macao, and from that date notices of china in old inventories and in literature are not unfrequent. Among the presents to Queen Elizabeth in 1587 was “one cup of ‘grene parsselyne, the foote, shanke, and cover silver gilte, chased like droppes.” In the time of Charles I. the East India ships brought a good deal of it to England.*

It was natural that Europeans should be inquisitive respecting the composition of the beautiful specimens of porcelain they admired, but the Chinese refused to gratify their curiosity. I

* In the reign of the previous monarch the first ship after the incorporation of the East India Company was launched in the presence of the King, and all the tables at the banquet were covered with ‘‘china ware.” (Macgregor's “Com- mercial Statistics,” iv., 304). Among the effects of Charles I, were many “Portingall cuppes,” so called from those who imported them from the East.

THE TOUCH OF A _ VANISHED HAND AND THE SOUND OF A VOICE THAT IS STILL. BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.

OW are mine eyes entangled deep in thine, KS — I swoon far down their subtly-threaded maze : How much more potent than strong wine thy gu, And how much sweeter thy faint sighs than wine. Love! I am thine in truth as thou art mine ; And it were sweet, ah, more than mortal sweet ‘To lie and die, here, at thy worshipped feet, in by some godlike anguish fiery-fine! * ‘Sweet is it now to fade and faint and yearn, ‘eet is it now to yield up soul and will, Beneath the touch of thy soft hands that thrill, Reneath the thrill of thy soft lips that burn ; And sweeter still were death, if death might rise ‘To dwell in that fir heaven within thy heavenly eyes! . .

If this were all,—-that eves and lips and hands Should thus so dearly, bountifully meet, ‘Though thou wert sweeter than aught known of sweet T would arise, and break Love's tawdry bands ! But Lam as a wayfarer, who stands c. which he knows esoe'er he goes,

‘To hear some

Shall navel

a whoso hears and grief and tears.

Sierra Nevada, in California, She had watcher steeped in its sun-streaked mist as it heaved

sandhills of San Francisco, and from the b where the visitors crowd to watch the

When her journey turned back eastwards again, she se parting from some dear familiar scene of Sir John Challoner could not understand th manner. She was alternately Jistless and seemed as if nothing could interest her, She their “ palace-car," and for hours together Again she would sometimes suddenly engage |

party. His consideration in New Padua b ‘His natural hesitancy and alarm when he h loners were coming there were now misinterpreted in

‘out the very heart of the British aristocracy. — his daughter Lady Challoner or Lady Marie C

‘would prove to be an old and intimate friend of his | To do Sir John Challoner justice, he had a kind of idea that serve Nat in New Padus, where he assumed that the lad

‘been on terms of friendship with great British financiers. probably help Nat, and it could not, Sir John thought, | any way.

Maric, on the other hand, was moved solely by si and good fecling towards the young man who used t humble playfellow of hers when she was a little girl, structed as to differences of rank and social aa

One day when the stay of the Challoners was neat there was an excursion to some mineral treasure or giving evidence of its existence near New P ‘Professor Benjamin was particularly proud.

Jealous « “T should not have thought that, are anxious to get all manner of help _ “Ina manner, certainly, ‘But there o

Rate ees ha ene aia At was say. Now my way is clear,” the

tually accepting the post of United States Minister James.

His confident manner quite imposed upon imposed upon himself, and she felt a throb of gener:

“Tam delighted to hear of all this" she said; “1, mother, Natty, and I can see her joy already, She anything so good. I suppose you did not like to tell h a eto ‘became quite certain, lest there might be any ment

“You have divined my motive, Mits Challoner,” emi. “One must not announce a victory won f12"

“Still, Natty, I think T would have told her something of news. 1 would have prepared her a little ; it would 7 up. She suffered a great deal, 1 know.”

“Men must work, and women must weep,"said Nat, wil

“Bat she is not young, and suppose anything had | ‘she had died not knowing of your success. Could forgiven yourself 2”.

‘Nat modestly confessed that he could not, but was only very lately that his prospects had begun a roseate glow.

a)

a man may make his way to ar ‘Here, Miss Challoner, I may dare to. arm '——

Marie quickly withdrew her arm.

here—unider this bright heaven,” Nat you—ob, Miss Challoner, yes—that I love you!™

could not have expected this, or believed it of yo friendly with you. Is this my return?”

of his early days, and he became conscious of the and it added new agony to his sufferings) ; ‘I lo ‘a boy’ ‘Why will you speak in so foolish a way,” she ‘and so prevent me from ever being friendly Your mother was a dear old friend of mine, and I am —for her sake." “Ah, but there it is," he broke out, wildly ; er h

“A man ought to be a man anywhere, and not a dain said, likely to lose her temper now. ¢ “Isa man a fool because be loves a woman

‘more, Nat, and | ‘Don't tell any one," he

head’ an if he would. shut out the xense of li his humiliation. She glanced at him and then al thelr friends might soon be expected to appear.

promise to do my best to forget it, if you will.”

‘Dear Lady Disdain was growing so impatient and prospect of their friends coming up that she felt ini her grovelling admirer with & thrust of her parasol.

Nat got slowly up, looking wild, haggard, and scared.

“What am I to do?" he stammered.

“Here,” and a flash of inspiration enlightened her, “ little tuft of—mallow is it?—no matter what it is, down at the water's edge—no, no, not that way—dowa the | beneath us, Climb down could do it myself” she added, with an emotion of it

and branches to cling to. Dial Matie’a: peant gate a were now found puffing and excited there would be

“Thank Heaven!” Lady Disdain nelly ‘thought came into her mind that that was the:

—

price ldap

“She never said that!” Cink esd eet “She never knew of it, She never would have | two or three cold words, She would have said: friendly, or she would have written a few lines o she would! Unless he told her what I, like a iS ae thes hy sia ae e

parting word, whee ein Saran

ede Lrcevriait 4 u tt ‘Christmas sat himself? reoitly down to thik thi it were some baffling problem. “There is decs somehow,” he sare “and it must be found out,” Jumped out of his chair.

“Til not go!” he exclaimed. ‘I'l nor stir from E have seen her and spoken to her, ‘There's some at work in all this. Why did he tell hera lie? Why: her I was leaving England? Why does he want to the way before she cores back?”

‘Then there came a depressing reaction, and he what was the excuse for the wild sort of hope that wo ing within bim—the hope that Sir Jobn C rr |

islgbe Si Jobe Gkae: aw “playsng ol Wipe of treachery.

—_ =

inp srppoesife mgood natch, dor hoe acter eS plenty of money, and the young fellow has family a1 ‘that. But I don't know ; I shouldn't like it if I think. Should you?”

“1 don't know much about Aim.”

‘all that sort of thing? Leta man be in business—if he ‘it; allright. Bat if you are a gentleman, continue to | It's all right, however, T dare say. They know |

“ Good-looking !—yes, like a fiddler or a dat —a sort of cross between a stockbroker’s clerk an painter, And that's the son of an carl, the scion:

Der Lady Disdain. 243

sowadays! And that’s to be my dear little Lady Disdain’s { Well, it's no affair of mine. I say, Pembroke, why the didn't you make Jove to her yourself? You're a deuced deal like a gentleman and an carl's son than he is. Tell you what, might have hada chance. ‘Think of Jock o’ Hazeldcan.” Pembroke made no answer to this suggestion, and Captain Came- took bis leave after a while, promising to look in again very and talk with his young friend on the possibility of there being goed opening in Japan for the brains and sword of the experienced |Seidier of a lost cause. “Everything fails us in life,” Pembeoke thought, “but self- [ comceitt If all else fails with me, 2 shall try to persuade myself H that the world was unable to appreciate me. I believe a man is | capable of dying consoled alone in a garret if he bas selfconceit to comfort bim. That is really humanity's last friend !" | But Pembroke was now far from being all unhappy, even though the thought that Sir John Challoner had been treacherous was Bitter, and seemed to shake the realities of things. A new hope ) was exciting his brain and Gling his heart. ‘There was something yet to be done before he wholly succumbed and disappeared. If Sir | Jobo Challoner had been treacherous to him, he was released from fll fealty. His heart echoed again and again the words of Captain Cameron, and he did vot believe that Ronald Vidal was worthy of Maric, or that she could have loved him. A thousand little memories crowded back upon him, conspicuous among them the memory of her pale, weary expression when he saw her last, that day in Mrs. Seagraves’ house, and of the touch of her hand when she said “ Good-bye!" “She doesn’t care for him,” he said aloud in his excitement. “I am not an idiot—any more. She does not care for him; I know ‘that much at least!” He felt a strange lightness all through him; the exalted sensation ‘of 4 man who finds that there is one last chance, yet one blow to be, firuck, one decision to be given; and that, let it fall out as it will, all the old chapters of life are closed for him, Let it end this way, Jet it cnd thas, a new life begins, If only the time would queckly over! It is the interval that is hard to bear. | (Christmas went down to the City treading upon

formal leave of his business connection with the house of Challon,

pe The Gentleman's Magazine.

project like that may work well. I may be able to give yume information, or put you in the way of doing something” (Hew! really quite concerned about the small means which their frank &' closures showed them to have. He considered himself poor, bt ke was a young Croesus compared with Sybil Jansen). “I shlle a good deal in that line when I go back to Japan.”

“ But are you going back really?” Mrs. Jansen asked.

“Uh, yes; I intend to go back very soon.”

“You are tired of us already ?”

“No, indeed ; but I don’t seem to find my right place here; sal I feel somehow as if I were driven back. It’s just that, Mrs, Jansen T cant stay.”

The little servant came in at that moment and bronght som message to Mrs. Jansen, who thereupon excused herself, said she would return immediately, and left the room.

Sybil had risen, and was standing near the hearth. Chrismas was seated at the table, with the papers which he had been looking through lying before him. He rose and went towards the hearth also, where the fire was burning brightly, and Sybil was busying, or seeming to busy, herself in preparing tea. His heart was touched with regret for the kind and simple friends whom he was so soon to lose for ever; the modest and quiet little household of mother and daughter, who were so poor, so good, so friendly to him, and whom he was not to see any more.

“Yes, Iam sorry to leave England,” he said.

“Why should you be sorry?” Sybil asked, without looking up. “T wish I were a man and could leave England.”

“Where do you wish to go?”

“ Anywhere. I don’t care—anywhere out of this—away, far away.”

“Well, I suppose we are restless beings, most of us. But I feel sorry, too,”

“T don't see what you have to be sorry for. You lose nothing.”

“T lose some very dear friends,” the young man said, softly.

“Qh, friends are nothing. You will soon forget your friends.”

“1 shall not forget you”

Sybil’s cheek glowed and her hand trembled.

“Nor your mother.”

Sybil shrugged her shoulders.

“You will not think much about us. It is not we, Mr. Pem- vroke. who are driving you out of England.”

“No, indeed! Who ever thought of such a thing? Why should mu drive me out of England?”

256 The Gentleman's Magazine,

in”; but he is sanguine of the future, and thinks that “ signs are nt

wanting of a tendency to a renaissance of poetical acting.” In ts respect he does not despair of Miss Ellen Terry, but he does ut

insist that youthful genius should begin by kneeling at the oi

shrines. “Young actors and actresses,” he says, “ must work bad wards in order to regain the grander and larger olden style” ‘hs Clara Douglas, Miss Helen Faucit,” says Mr. Wilson, “was mi stronger than Miss Ellen Terry, but not more delicate in her pe sentation of the character ; she played Clara with a deeper emoi and a higher ideal standpoint, and presented a woman of lofie temperament and nature, but she did not realise a more gentle and loving tenderness.” Here let me give a short quotation bodily fron Mr. Wilson's letter :

‘Miss Terry can trust to her own impulse; she can abandon herself to the fl force of feminine feeling, and can yet be sure that she cannot violate tht temperance which gives smoothness to the strongest expression of the deepat passion, In her acting: eyes, voice, features, form, gestures, all work togebt harmoniously to a totality of expression; and this singular gift is a note of be true-born actress. Sometimes, like a song-bird in the strength of its ecstiq, she seems to quiver tremulously in the force of feeling; and she can wholly lie herself in the passion or the position of the moment,

‘Then my correspondent proceeds to point out that “ Money” is not quite the play now that it was when it was first produced in 1840. ‘There is a slight tinge of time on its rhetoric and its sentiment. When it was first acted, it was played earnestly, in the true tone of comedy, but the change which has since the come over things theatrical leads our present companies to a highly charged farcical presentation of the piece.” I confess 1 cannot go full lengths with Mr. Wilson in regretting this change, since it indicates a perception in the public mind of that tendency to artificiality in rhetoric and sentiment which is, I think, a blot upon the otherwise fine quality of Lord Lytton’s plays. But I agree with my friend that Miss Ellen Terry has achieved a distinct triumph as Clara Douglas, and am sorry that the length of this note prevents me from quoting his criticism at greater length.

floor.” “It was easy enough fora vil “T only did thre n have a walk over, Herrick!" “1 expect I stall)” said Abel.

‘He was on his way to his friend's rooms: Christopher's, and was passing between the: Des cps res eck y 8 er Bs

seo sn AC ReaD is my right ; 1 have worked read, ‘The loss of it leaves me a shows me that not merit but favour r every one which hath shall be given, and even that he hath shall be taken away. A down at the tyranny of an examiner !—it Pid iat thewting rubbish! “Who ever

ey You have, of Somes,

thing"——

“You are rich, and I am poor.”

“And it's just-the poor men thatwin. (Wi father ‘was a scomimnon working carpenter,

then there ‘been—what I have done "——

“Tam as strong as a horse, I assure you!” said Beatrice, And then it ix my right to be whatever xn make

Your right? My dear, it is only sham people talk of ther and never get them; real people don’t talk of their duties, ay them. Ifyou think of your duties you'll get your rights fst and if that's never you won't care. There—I’m dressed only hope you're half as ready for dinner as Tam. Come ig!”

“Oh Bee! Oh Mrs, Burnett!” exclaimed Annie, almost} into the room, “Tom's come back—the dog-cart is coming sp’ avenue, I wonder if he’s brought anybody with him?”

“Bring? Who should he bring?” asked Beatrice. “Some or longstop, I suppose. I don’t think weneed be very much ist in wondering who is to be the next specimen of Horchester: been sadly put out by finding Mrs, Bumett’s views of life so lind accord with her own, and disappointed in not finding sympathy: Brey pet belief of hers had been wounded by that curious smile that seemed to point the kindest words with an unintentional sting. And then-¥ ithad not been Mrs. Burnett—it sounded like the theory of the enemy to suggest that a woman’s delicate brain is as dependent for its vigoer upon animal health as a man’s, Men have brain with muscle, women brain without musclo—therefore women are free from the impedi- ments that hinder men, ‘That was how she argued ; and Mes, Barnett herself was a living proof of the soundness of her logic, however much she might clevate her digestion at the expense of her brain.

“For we, read 1," said the old lady. “I still like boys, in spite of my own, Is Dick in the drawing-toom yet, Annie? Bat I nest not ask—the wonderful talent the lad has for being last is real bom genius. He was the last born, and the last left me," she said, with just the whisper of a tear in her voice, “the last in his class, the last to see a joke, the last "——

‘The last, I think we heard, to leave a certain unpronouncesble station," said Annie, “when the Sepoys had to be held off for a minute more. Isn't it true?”

“Thank you, my dear, I'm not saying the lad’s not brave, for he’s a Stewart on my side = but I never could quite believe the story of his being first in the charge afterwards all the same. Ah, Annie if the longstop comes, let down poor Dick easily.”

Annie looked slyly at Beatrice: but that young lady's mind was soaring above stich sublunary concerns, “And after all—if she is right—I, too, don't know what indigestion means !” she was thinking

proudly. The two girls followed Mrs, Burnett into te drawingeconn, were

& ___——!/)

274 The Gentleman's Magasine,

“Yon've been to see Uncle Markham!” said Annie, “No— you've been—it's something about an F and a C?”

“Wrong for you! Go on—I'll say who's right when you're dl done.”

“A bit of news, ch?” said his father, “Let me see—you've ut —you've not given up smoking, I suppose? That would be to sensible to be true.”

“George!” said Mrs. Deane, “as if he'd tell it in that my" ‘A sudden surrender of the pipe only suggested one idea to her, ad it was uncomfortably connected with the visitor, who, just because he did not look like one of Tom’s friends, might turn out tobe Tom’s future brother-in-law. Her boy had been quite long enough away for mischief, and there was no knowing into what hands be might have fallen. “You've lost all your luggage again !”

“You've made five thousand off your leg-bail, or whatever yoo call it,” said Beatrice with affected disdain. “Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

“ Wrong—every one of you. I’ve not been to see Uncle Markham. T’'ve not lost my luggage. I've not made five thousand off whaterer I call it. The governor's nearest, for I have given up smoking ever since I left the train; but as I shall most likely take to it again before bed-time, I can’t own I’ve lost, even to him. I ama minor scholar elect of St. Kit's—what do you say to that, Bee? Wasn't there some bet of blue stockings? I'll let you off for a pair of slippers, if you know how to make them.”

“Then let me be the second to congratulate you,” said Mrs. Burnett from the fireplace. Tom bowed, not to her reputation, of which he knew nothing, but to her snow-white hair, and was not afraid of her smile.

“Who would have thought it!” said Mr. Deane, proudly. “If it had been Bee, now !—Mrs. Burnett, Dr. Archer, let me present to you my son Tom. Ah, Mrs. Burnett ! this sort of thing makes us fathers and mothers feel like an old hen whose ducklings are taking to the water.”

“Oh, Tom * whispered Beatrice, whose ill-temper had cleared off ina moment. “If I wasn't so glad, I should envy you! But it's as good as being examined myself, and coming out before the first ; if cleverness has won, what would not work have done !”

“‘No—cleverness didn’t win; nor work either,” said Tom. “They're both standing in the doorway. It was just old Horchester pulled me through, and nothing more. I wasa bad third as it was,

and ought to have becn a fourth, if all had their due?”

278 The Gentleman's Magazine.

yours—he was a gentleman. There’s no harm, as he’s a strange all of us, if I say I'm not in love with Tom's friend.”

“ Why?” asked Beatrice. “Should you not have said—if Id said so"——

“It was prejudice? And so it is prejudice, my dear. Perape he will be my Dr. Fell. But mark my words: that man is a dreamer —and he'll: just be stepping out of his dream. And when tha happens, my dears, I would as soon meet a mad Malay.”

“ Mrs. Burnett! What can you mean?”

“A man—or a woman, Bee—that dreams all his life through from end to end isno better and no worse than one that's broad awake: be lives in another world and dies there. But just think what happens when he finds all the false lies he’s lived in dead set against what's trie: or any way against what's thought to be truc. He'll keepa private conscience of his own, in which all that’s wrong for others may be right for him. Ye may be sure he’s been master over his own castles in the air, and won’t come down to hard earth without wanting to be master there as well. Just as he’s followed his fancies he'll now follow his desires, and think it’s all one.”

“What a terrible picture you draw of Tom’s friend! Annie is looking quite frightened. But has not every great and good man that ever lived been a dreamer? Has not every poet”——

“ Aye, my dear: and died in the dream—except the poets, who have been mostly pretty wide awake, I believe. But you see, when aman wakes from a beautiful dream, as it’s sure to be, he can’t help hating truth and daylight, and all the ways of them. If he dreams of goodness, he thinks it a lie, because it was a dream—and 60 it is, fur the goodness that’s but dreamed of is not goodness at all. Of course Tom’s friend is just nothing to me, but I wish for the lad’s own sake he admired Corbacchione”

“ Why—what has that to do with it? I’m glad for his sake he hasn't, for he would have sadly wasted his admiration.”

“Because, if he’d admired Corbacchione, he would have shown that he’s content with very little, and have proved, just to demonstra- tion, that he’s not likely to quarrel with the world about anything. But ah, lasses, if I’m not in love with Tom’s friend, I'm over head and ears with Tom! What—not one of ye with the shadow of a rose? For shame! You ought to be as jealous—but hush! Here they come.”

282 The Gentlman's Magazine,

‘Detween her words, between her ideas, or between her ideas and be: words, keener insight will know how to account for them in the ca! ofa girl who, as Mrs. Burnett had said, was the victim of sucha formidable conjunction of nineteens. She sought for self-knowlsig: according to the number of her centuries, and failed according to the number of her years.

She took her books, then, and plodded over them conscientiously in spite of the manifold temptations to let her thoughts wander over ‘Mrs. Burnett's unwelcome theories till her thoughts began to wanda of their own accord. She went to bed at last. But she wokes usual with the sun, for she had lost the art of sleeping soundy even on a sharp winter’s morning, threw a dressing-gown over he shoulders, and set herself to improve the first hours of the day by picking up a few early worms of learning. But even so, she was dressed long before the late and irregular breakfast hour at Long- worth, and tried to make up for want of sleep by a turn or two in the frosty air. ‘What nonsense to think I'm not as strong 3 ‘Mrs. Burnett !” she thought, in the strength of her energy. “I'l show her that I can eat breakfast as well as she.”

Meanwhile, if she had slept but little, Abel had not been able to close his

Had Milly's lover been introduced to the scene of an imaginary combat d ewfrance wherein he, a knight of one of his romances, had licen set to do battle against overwhelming odds in point of numbers, strength, and completeness of armour : had the lady of his heart been there to see: if despite her influence and his own courage, he had seen himself go down before tougher lances and heavier horsemen: it he had then been asked by the showman of the magic mirror what he should do, he would have answered—as indeed he had often answered such questions: should lose neither courage nor honour, I see myself fighting on till I am past lifting a finger: I sce myself carried before the princess—namely, Milly Barnes—who crowns me victor because I deserved to win, and whose heart holds me higher because I failed: she brings me back to health again, or clse I die in her arms. If one of my victors, more generous than the rest, has lent me his hand to help me to my feet again, I

‘embrace him as my friend for ever even if we have to fight again : I do my duty as a stout knight and true lover.” And now, instead of taking place in a dream, all this had happened in reality, word for word. And the dreamer, brought face to face with facts that gave him as wide a field for showing his knightly virtues as his soul desired, had not recognised that the college examination at

exactly explain, bu: you know what I mean. Not exactly what ow world cx!l ag:

He's Tom's tutor, is he? What could have put t down a tutor? Has his scholarship gt a spark of ‘ambition into him?-t most use of the tutor,” she thousit waste of time, after all.”

wants to cram for something, poor I want you to do me a favour, if you will.”

what it is, please.”

hard to explain—but I wish yow wouldst but nothing. I don’t mind what other people thi ow, but you see—I really Aaze been thinking ever since that talk we had at the Campbells’, if you haven't for- gotten ~

“T have. though. every word. I never can remember what people say at evening parties—except that the room is hot, and then I always forget at which party I heard it”

A look of disappointment came into the soldier’s eyes. “I dare say you've got better things to think of, but I haven’t, you see. Don’t you remember saying you wondered how a man could go drifting on through life without seeing an end to it, and not putting his back into something, if it was only, breaking stones on the road? You said more than that, but that was what it came to” —

“I said it? Why, everybody has said it. You must have heard it hundreds and thousands of times. Do you mean to say Mrs. Burnett left you to hear it from me?”

“I dare say you're right, but everybody isn’t you.”

“ And in that I’m sure you're right. Aren’t you getting hungry? I think we had better go in and’see if it isn’t breakfast-time.”

“Wait one minute, Miss Deane, please ! It's just all the difference who it is that says a thing. I want to see an end to it and to put my back into something. But you see life with us is such a con- foundedly easy-going thing” —

“True!” sighed Beatrice.

“That what's a man to’do?”

288 The Gentleman's Magazine,

out of kindness, while he looked at her sadly and silently, Ther was no doubt a great deal he might have said, but his tongue was, slow.

‘They came side by side, still in silence, up the steps of the temas, | and Abel thought it advisable to shift the position that had given hin a bird's eye view of this private scene. At first he thooght d returning to the house : but Beatrice caught sight of him and, gal enough of the relief of an interruption to her #fed-tée, nodded a good morning.

“ We are all early risers it seems,” she said with forced lightness, x Dick Burnett went back to the house dismally : for it was clear tht the poor fellow was more deeply wounded than he could tell himsdt even, and Beatrice could not see his disappointment, however absun it might be, without a pang.

Abel felt painfully shy at finding himself for the first time aloe with a young lady : for of course such a title did not apply to Mill Barnes. He had not the consolation of knowing that she stood in far greater awe of him and his prestige, and she had just been told, oa military authority, that he was not exactly a gentleman—a word he used in a sense different from hers.

‘This is a very beautiful place, Miss — Deane,” he said, adding the surname just in time.

“We think so. I suppose this country is new to you? It is vey different from what you have at Cambridge, I suppose.”

“Very.”

“T hear you are going to ‘coach’ Tom—is not that the proper word? I hope you will have a pleasant visit, but I suppose you will be glad to hear we are not usually very lively. I am so glad Mrs. Burnett is staying here just now.”

“So am I,” said Abel, without knowing why.

“Of course you know her books by heart, such a great mathema- tician as you are! [hope, Mr. Herrick, you are not one of those people who think that learning is unfit for girls?”

It was with such questions as these, dragged in by the head and shoulders by way of conversational challenge, that Beatrice had fallen out of masculine favour, except with those who were wise enough to tolerate any sort of enthusiasm and with those who, like Dick Burnett, were stupid enough to hold everything she said or did to be right and wise.

“I?” asked Abel, to whom the question was new, in a tone of surprise that sounded like wonder at his being suspected of holding such an idea,

He spoke with impolitic impatience. § with @ touch of impudence in his tone.

coin in his pocket, and that was the gold piece he

ing.

“Thank you, sir!" said the tinker in anticipation. word!” he whispered hoarsely through the hollow ee kare but to drop the sovereign, as if sixpence, over the parapet. The tinker stared for 2 mom pocketed the coin, "A regular chip of the old block you be, good luck to you and the young lady, that’s what I say," ‘he earned his tip by taking himself off down the drive,

“What docs he mean? Is he tipsy?” asked Beatrice, bev and scared,

“*T expect so," said Abel, more pale than she. “I th better to spend a few coppers than to run the riak of |

and thoughtfulness for herself all the more,

“Where's Dick, Mrs. Deane?” asked Mrs. B fast table. “In bed, of couse: He seldom arovrow, and not often then. They call him *S

—_ s

tion of a leg oran arm, performed within a gi ‘the sufferers, many of them peasants and 0) A careful analysis of this curious mass of i spite of the drawbacks incidental to poverty and room one in nine oly ofthe cases proved fatal. He a

five persons operated upon in similar cases died. on the publication of this startling comparison, ar controversy that ensued. For Sir James

nor silenced by medical rhetoric. It

partial cars to hear that he had not attacked |

i Rich Hospitals and Poor Homes. 295

umerous they perished ; that in proportion as they were ‘recovered; and that persons submitted to amputation in est, closest, and worst ventilated homes fared better than

‘Lawson Tait, his favourite pupil, writes in: April last (rom

a m: “Subsequent experience points in the same direction,

‘Simpson's tables, all the material of whi in my possession,

0 authority, and they show that the linger the

itals the greater the mortality. Investigations of my own give

‘same result, and lead me to believe that the next great medical

rma ought to be the disestablishment of all large hospitals.” Dr.

od, for many years resident surgeon of Glasgow Infirmary,

gh differing in some points of detail from Sir James Simpson,

d at a medical conference at Leeds “he agreed in thinking that

fisture hospitals ought to be small, numerous, and local, for as

‘they became old they became unhealthy.” Dr. Evory Kennedy, in

| & luminous exposition of the incidents of ordinary disease and the

"comparative methods of treatment, gave a3 the “result of careful

investigation in Dublin and other towns that zymotic or fever cases

onstitute one-fourth of the whole that have to be dealt with

‘Seriously ; and that of these nine out of ten are preventable, or easly ‘curable if taken ip time,"

_ Bat how can aid be given in time without an adequate orpinisation

for visiting and tending the sick in their own dwellings or in places

‘So accessible as not to involve the rending of family or neighbourly

and sisterly care, half the ills that flesh is heir to might be cut short

in their immaturity; but then what would become of the art and

‘myntery of founding and filling great institutions, and of the ever- wested interests involved in them ?

Dr, Rendle, of St. George's, Southwark, has always advocated, as ‘the best mode of treating typhus and smallpox, that in every parish from time to time a couple of wellsewered houses, not of the valu- able class, but cut off from contact by a moderate space on every| “side, should be kept for the afflicted who have no friends to ours them, or who have no separate rooms to be tended in where th | live, Mrz Jaber Hogg, surgeon to the Ophthalmic Hospital, says| | There can be no doubt about the weatinent of the poor in | “Heat their homes being in every way far better for their chances | wecovery: ‘This was fairly tried at the time of the cholera. In

a Gitted up near the church, Dr, Buchanan believes it was them

classes in their humble homes. sraalsgead were alike in vain. The mania for more |

forthe friends of public health for the fi the friends of the poor. Th. anv hes (Bee.

uestions rolled up in one, and, cor

Jook at each phase of the controversy sey y be necessary, somebody will, say, to segregate |

anay be neither indispensable nor cheap to

oldbed carey eat see awed not a papeilaa sis Hens eee it may not be after all the best way of preve!

THE Way TO FAIRYLAND. BY EDWARD SEVERN.

RNGNO/ORHAT'S the way to Fairyland? ‘Melts it through the meadow? Leads it where on silver sand Lies a golden shadow? Where the Spring, ‘neath Maia's hand, Shoots to Summer’s stature? ‘What is youth, but Fairyland— Fairyland, but Nature !

Lies thy lot by lake or land, ‘Steerest thou by stream or strand, ‘Strife and storm shall be at hand On the way to Fairyland.

Is it dewed with morning's kiss, Dimmed with sunlight setting?

Runs it through remembered bliss, Lurks it in Forgetting ?

Mid the mountains’ heaving mass ‘Must I dive to find it,

Where the gnomes beneath the grass Gather gold and grind it?

Be thy burden blest or banned, Gain'st thou gold from sea or sand, Woe and want will warders stand On the way to Fairyland.

I have worn both want and woe, Yet they lead not thither:

Must I grope no more, but go Flying up through Ether?

gi2 The Gentleman's Magazine.

selves the usual flagellation, and all then retire to rest, the hour bang somewhere about 10 p.m.

Silence and humility are constantly inculcated during the day, bh orally and by means of huge placards round the walls, whereoa ae inscribed “Silence,” “ Humility,” in large letters.

One remarkable fact which strikes the postulant upon his admit- tance into the convent, is the slavish ceremony with which te Superior is treated by his subjects. “Every monk who enters the presence of the prior falls upon his knees and kisses the grouda | his Superior’s feet. He then humbly asks for a blessing and pe- mission to speak. If a monk encounter his Superior in his passage through the convent, he must fall on his knees till the holy man has passed. If the Superior come into a room where a monk is engaged, the latter must prostrate himself and beg his spiritual father’s bext-

diction, though it were fifty times a day.

Another fact eminently worthy of notice is the stern distinction which is drawn between the choir brothers and the lay-brethren. Although the monk calls his lay companion “ Brother,” he by 20 means treats him fratemally ; the former is the aristocrat, the latte ‘the helot. To the lay-brother falls all the dirty work of the convest. He is not generally allowed, except on great festivals, to participate in the Divine Office in the choir, but must stick to his drudgery. He is not allowed, without special permission, to sit in presence of his clerical brother. At recreation times, when all are chatting in the common room, the lay-brother sits modestly against the wall, with his hands folded demurely under his scapular, hearing all and saying nothing. At the frequent spiritual conferences which are a pecu- iarity of monastic life, the choir brother answers seated any question that may be put to him by his Superior, while the poor lay-brother must first “flop” before he may open his mouth in reply. If humility and poverty are ducts of Divine Grace, surely the soul of a man who voluntarily embraces the life of a lay-brother is far more richly endowed than that of the superior monk, who is so reverenced by the world of the faithful.

To the young monk of vigorous intellect even this, one of the most stern of the contemplative Orders, offers a career in which he may obtain a world-wide reputation, and acquire as much glory as though he had a seat in the Senate and directed the affairs of the nation, Should he, during his noviciate, display any symptoms of talent which may hereafter redound to the profit and reputation of the Order, he is petted and caressed by his superiors ina remarkable degree. His health is most assiduously cared for, At Ws dignen

314 The Gentleman's Magasine.

cally his own, and it is therefore a mere question of words Indeed, there is as much difference between monastic poverty andi pinching, grinding poverty of the labouring poor, or the pangs of genteel indigence, as there is between the ailment ol te valetudinarian and the agonies of a fever-stricken wretch in the wal of a London hospital. It is merely playing at being poo Te monk is well housed and well clad, and undisturbed by the thasmd anxious cares of active life. He is not harassed by sordid ala lations of the value of a shilling, nor alarmed by the rise im the pie of his daily Lread. If he suffer at times the pangs of hunger theyae voluntary pangs, for he knows that the convent larder is well stocks, and that punctually at such an hour he may feed to repletionif be be so minded ; and in addition to this, he is supported by the beief that he is gaining merit by his endurance and earning his tilet eternal life. What though his rule forbid him to taste of fish meat? He has abundance of fresh eggs and good milk, bread and butter and delicate fish, strong ale and generous wine ; and if, ater all, his health should fail, in comes the doctor, and at his poweril word a dispensation is granted, and a juicy beefsteak or a tender pullet is soon smoking on his platter. Is this poverty? I can conceive this state of life telling with some severity upon one who has been reared in luxury and opulence, but for persons of the class from which the male religious Orders recruit themselves, itis a very com- fortable existence, whose occasional inconveniences are amply compensated by its periods of easy luxury and the odour of sanctity which attaches to every individual who wears a cowl.

With regard to the second vow of Perpetual Chastity, I believe it to be honestly and fairly observed. The great majority of those who embrace the religious life are actuated by a sincere conviction that they are called thereto by God, and they have been educated in a fear and horror of gross sin, In matters of this kind a man cannot juggle with his conscience. ‘Though he may persuade himself, in defiance of his rule, that a beefsteak is necessary to enable him tu execute the functions assigned him by his superiors, he has a suffi cient horror of breaking the law of God to prevent him trifling for a moment with a breach of his second vow.

‘The third vow of Entire Obedience is much more important in its effect upon the character of the monk than either of the others. In the observance of this vow he becomes a mere automaton moved by the will of his superiors, and requires a formal permission before he may perform some of the most ordinary actions of a man’s daily life. A monk may not shave, not cat bis Wuis, nor

vw

Pore Hyacinthe's Brethren. 315 nails, neither may he wash himeelf, after his regular morn

tion, without going upon his knees and demanding per

Of his immediate superior. He may not pen a thought

Ja scrap of paper, nor take up. book, nor speak to a brother going through the sane humiliating process, Of course, before remarked, in the case of one who is making his mark

the world all this is greatly mitigated, but even he has had (o

it, and it induces a habit of timid obedience, from which none strong mind may break away. The due observance of this

j together with the strict account which he ix bound to gi for of every phase of his mind, keeps the monk in ol

discipline—a faithfal and ever ready soldier of the Church.

324 The Gentleman's Magazine.

distinguishing characteristics from hitherto published pocket-bods Iwas among those to whom he applied ; and it was with no sail elation that I found myself for the first time in print under the wig of Leigh Hunt. The work appeared in red morocco case {or for consecutive years, 1819, '20, ’21, and 22, in the second of wtih he put No. I. of “Walks round London,” where I described oy favourite haunts to the south-west of Enfield, and contributed a small verse-piece entitled “On Visiting a Beautiful Little Dell near Ma gate,” both signed with my initials. Under various signatures of Greet characters and Roman capitals, Shelley, Keats, Procter (“Bany Cornwall”), Charles Ollier, and others, together with Leigh Ham himself, contributed short poems and brief prose pieces to the “ Literary Pocket-Book” ; so that I ventured forth into the world ol letters in most “ worshipful society.”

Leigh Hunt afterwards paid me a visit at Ramsgate, when the ship in which he and his family were sailing for Italy put into the harbour from stress of weather ; and it was on this occasion that my mother—who had long witnessed my own and my father’s enthe siasm for Leigh Hunt, but had never much shared it, not having seen him—now at once understood the fascination he exercised over those who came into personal communion with him. “He isa gentleman, a perfect gentleman, Charles! He is irresistible!* was her first exclamation to me, when he had left us.

Another visitor made his appearance at Ramsgate, giving me vivid but short-lived delight. Vincent Novello, whose health had received a severe shock in losing a favourite boy, Sydney, was advised to ty what a complete change would do towards restoration, and he came down with the intention of staying a few days; but, finding that some old friends of my father and mother were on a visit to us, his habitual shyness of strangers took possession of him, and he returned to town having scarcely more than shaken hands with me.

Not long after that, anguish kindred to his assailed me. In the December of 1820 I lost my revered and beloved father ; and in the February of 1821 my friend and schoolfellow John Keats died.

It was in the summer of this last-named year that I first beheld Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was on the East Cliff at Ramsgate. He was contemplating the sea under its most attractive aspect : in a dazzling sun, with sailing clouds that drew their purple shadows over its bright green floor, and a merry breeze of sufficient prevalence to emboss cach wave with a silvery foam. He might possibly have composed upon the occasion one of the most philosophical, and at

the same time most enchanting, of his fugitive reflections, which be

|

Recollestions of Writers. 325

“Youth and Age” ; for in it he speaks of “airy cliffs ing sands,” and— ‘OV thows trim skill unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wile, ‘That eek no aid of sail or oar, ‘That fear 00 spite of wind or tide.

had no companion, I desired to pay my respects to one of the ‘extraordinary—and, indeed, in his department of genius, the extmordinary man of his age. And being passessed of a for securing his consideration, { introduced myself as a and admircr of Charles Lamb, ‘This pass-word was suificient, T found hin imeneditely talking to me in the bland and frank of 4 standing acquaintance. A poor girl had that moming herself from the piershead in a pang of despair, from having Betrayed by 2 villain. He alluded to the event, and went on enounce the morality of the age that will hound from the: com-

y the reputed weaker subject, and continue to receive him who wronged her. He agreed with me that that question mever will

‘be adjusted but by the women themselves. Justice will continge in beyance so long as they visit with severity the errors of their own Sex and tolerate those of ours. He then diverged to the great mysteries of life snd death, and branched away to the sublimer question—the immortality of the soul, Here he spread the sail-broad ‘yans of his wonderful imagination, and soared away with an eagle flight, and with an eagleeye too, compassing the effulgence of his Breat argument, ever and anon stooping within my own sparrow range, and then glancing away again, and careering through the trackless fields of etherial metaphysics. And thus he continued for ‘an hour and a half, never pausing for an instant except to catch his breath (which, in the heat of his teeming mind, he did like a schoo} bay repeating by rote his task), and gave utterance to some of the Brandest thoughts F ever heard from the mouth of man, His ideas, embodied in words of purest eloquence, flew about my ears like drifts of snow. fe was like a cataract filling and rushing over my Pennyphial caprcity. 1 could only gasp and bow my head fn acknowledgment. He required from me nothing more than the simple recognition of his discourse ; and so he went on like a steam»

exigibe—t keeping the machine oiled with my looks of pleasure, while he siipplied the fuel : and that, upan the same theme too, would have Tasted {ill now. Wit would I have given for a shorthand report of, “Mist speech! And such was the habit of this wonderful man, Wike the old peripssetic philosophers, he walked abost, yrod

326 The Gentleman's Magazine,

‘scattering wisdom, and leaving it to the winds of chance tomk the seeds into a genial soil. My first suspicion of his being at Ramsgate had arisen from mother observing that she had heard an elderly gentleman in te public library, who looked like a Dissenting minister, talking 2: te never heard man talk. Like his own “ Ancient Mariner,” when be had once fixed your eye he held you spell-bound, and you we constrained to listen to his tale; you must have been more poweid than he to have broken the charm; and I know no man worthy ® do that. He did indeed answer to my conception of a mad genius, for his mind flowed on “like to the Pontick sea,” that “née feels retiring ebb.” It was always ready for action ; like the hare,it slept with its eyes open. He would at any given moment range fm the subtlest and most abstruse question in metaphysics to the ard tectural beauty in contrivance of a flower of the field; and te gorgeousness of his imagery would increase and dilate and flash fath such coruscations of similes and startling theories that one was ina perpetual aurora borealis of fancy. As Hazlitt once said of hin, “He would talk on for ever, and you wished him to talk on for eve. His thoughts never seemed to come with labour or effort, but as if borne on the gusts of Genius, and as if the wings of his imagination lifted him off his feet.” This is as truly as poetically described. He would not only illustrate a theory or an argument with a sustained and superb figure, but in pursuing the current of his thought he would bubble up with a sparkle of fancy so fleet and brilliant that the attention, though startled and arrested, was not broken. He would throw these into the stream of his argument, as waifs and strays. Notwithstanding his wealth of language and prodigious power in amplification, no one, I think (unless it were Shakespeare or Bacon), possessed with himself equal power of condensation. He would frequently comprise the elements of a noble theorem in two or three words; and, like the genuine offspring of a poet's Drain, it always came forth in a golden halo. I remember once, in discoursing upon the architecture of the Middle Ages, he reduced the Gothic structure into a magnificent abstraction—and in two words. ‘A Gothic cathedral,” he said, “is like a petrified religion.”

In his prose, as well as in his poetry, Coleridge's comparisons are almost uniformly short and unostentatious ; and not on that account the less forcible: they are scriptural in character ; indeed it would be

difficult to find one more apt to the purpose than that which We kas used; and yet it always appears to be unpremeditated, Here is

CURIOSITIES OF THE GEOGRA. PHICAL EXHIBITION AT PARIS. BY SPECTAVI.

So, to see the Geographical Exhibition whereit is, is not the least striking of its many curious features. It occupies the Pavillon Flora, which, built for the Prince Imperial’s habi tation, was being decorated when the war with Prussia broke out; and it fills all the waterside galleries of the Louvre, between the ‘Tuileries and the hall where the collection of old French masters is deposited. The Geographical Congress holds its sittings in the Salle des Etats, sacred half a dozen years ago to the great bodies of the State. It was there that an Emperor supposed to be all-porer ful opened his Parliaments with imposing pomp and ceremony, ia the presence of all the superior functionaries of the divers branches of his administration, Every brilliant as well as every solid element of French civilisation was represented at these mectings, at which the sex excluded by the Salic law from reigning appeared triumphant in native and borrowed charms, and came armed capui-pie for con- quest. Mars, who took a leading part in the ceremonial, was superb. and Venus was irresistible. ‘The allegory painted on the ceiling was brought down into the life of the nation in the splendid pageant below. ‘The Emperor now sleeps in a country church in Kent, to which he passed from the gilded prison of Wilhelmshoe. His wife, who, with the bevy of fair ladies painted by Winterhalter, and the princesses of the Bonaparte family, was a central object in the Salle des Etats, lives in a quiet English manor, into which the tempests of war and revolution tossed her. ‘The boy before whom courtiers bowed low as he advanced at the head of a military household to his place beside the throne, serves as a sub-licutenant in an artillery regiment of Queen Victoria. There is no more trace of the Senate and Corps Législatif than if they never existed. One of the marshals who stood near the throne at the last opening of the \inpedial Pasiament was condemned to death for his unso\dierly surrender of the waiden fortress of Metz, and now drags on an obscure existence in 2 fordg

The Geographical Exhibition at Paris. 329

‘is the septennial Sovereign of Republican France, lk capacity he some days ago inspected the Cartographic yof the War Office in the Salle des Etats. Learned geo- ‘assemble on the platform where the Imperial throne 50 firmly planted. The grec curtain, with the Carlovingian } that formed a background to the French Cvsar, and to the ‘the warriors, and the chamberlains grouped around him, is to the Garde Meuble, a sort of pantechnicon for official ries and palatial furniture. ‘of the swarm of gilded insects there are now three maps France, The central one is a cartographic giant, being fourteen by ning, and composed of 2#o sheets. This map, which is in Diack and white, is a very much revised and corrected edition ‘One used in the list war by the gémi¢, and which was found, it was taken as a guide, to be misleading, ‘The new is said to rival in precision thase found in the knapsacks of war prisoners, which materially assisted the French military ip their revisionary Inbour. ‘The two flanking charts repre- ent the routes and water-courses of France, and are also contributed the Minister of War. Strictly speaking, they do not come under | ‘the heading of curiosities,

the Salle des Etals for a starting-point in the search alter “yhe curious things of the Exhibition, not far from the platform I ‘fied the section of the “Topographical Commission of Gaul.” Of “Gaul, the vigorous and gay mother of the French nation, we knew scarcely anything twenty years ago beyond what Julius Cresar and ‘sath Other Latin authors told us. Our knowledge is much in: ‘creased through this learned body, who have disinterred a rich col-

ection of Gallic remains, and notably of inscriptions.

"The most ancient document in the Exhibition is the stone tabulet of Clandias Cesar, discovered in digging the foundations of a house at | Lyons, giving the speech in which that Emperor demanded of the | Roman Senate the admission of some Gallic chiefs among them. “Roman patricians fetched their cooks and hairdressers from Gaul, “The culinary utensils, the combs, and the rude portraits carved on [weapons and stone slabs, show from which side of the house the meh derive their culinary genius and skill in capillary adorn

h’s profound saying, “The child is father of the man,” this group of curiosities, The Gaul loved war, the inements af the table, and liked to shut bis eyes 1 froths, His sympathy with the g<iadsome Wik and

Tf

330 The Gentleman's Magazine,

gentle lamb induced him to mask their flesh (which

Frank did not recoil from eating in its crude state) in ngwa

‘The bronze stewpan was invented by him at a very cay

stage of his progress from the savage to the barbarou om

dition. The Gallic race in its very infancy renounced anthnop phagy. Its veneration for the dead, as shown in the cofims sd the treasures placed in them, indicates a delicacy of sestimat rarely found among savages. MM. Littré and Henri Martin ae assiduous visitors of this interesting section of the Exhibition, = which they find evidence to corroborate some ethnological thea they advance in their works, The former is inimical to the Fam, “against whose pernicious influence” he deems the Revolution tohare been a just revolt. A human skull mounted as a drinking cup, which is displayed elsewhere, shows how profoundly different from each other were the affinities of the two races. This utensil is Gothic, of the Pagan era, when warriors. believed their souls went to the Walhalla M. flenri Martin is a philo-Druid and rejoices to find unconsiows witnesses to the public and private virtues which grew up under the shelter of the dolmen. “The Topographical Commission of Gaul” opens a vista on the Gallo-Roman civilisation which was splendidly brilliont up to the fifth century. A high tide of barbarism then came to submerge what classic Paganism and the Druids had constructed. While the flood lasted feeble tapes glimmered in the monasteries. But art and science led in these places of refuge an unnatural existence, like plants cooped up in cellar, or, as an ancient geographer represented, the beasts which were confined in Noah’s Ark. An old bachelor impress is stamped on the works of the monks, who caressed some very quaint geogra- phical vagaries. ‘The desert into which the mystical woman of the Revelations fled was a favourite subject of conventual topogra- phers, some of whom placed it in Libya, others in Upper Egypt, others at the foot of Mount Sinah, and an Alsatian monk in Scythia. ‘They also laboriously drew maps of the lands on which the Seven Vials will be poured, and plans of the New Jerusalem. Marginal illustrations helped to explain the idea uppermost in the mind of the topographer, whose charts were rich in images drawn in the Byzantine style.

And here Jet me notice the predominance of Byzantium in pictorial art during the dark ages. The Catholic Church took much more from the Greek of the Lower Empire than she is aware of. ‘The section of the “Dépét de la Guerre” or War Department has a superb collection of ancient maps and geographical iwstramenta, a

The Gegraphical Exhibition at Paris, 333

of Orleans, and the reign of Louis XV., the French showed

ing aptitudes which have since to all appearance died out. fies explored and surveyed the St. Lawrence, the great

‘and the valley of the Mississippi down to the Gulf of Mexico. Gtablished stations, marked the sites of towns, and headed jof Norman and Breton colonists. About the time the battle of was fought, France was the foremost transatlantic Power, between the thirteen Eastern States of British origin and West, Simultaneously, the French East India Company with the English for the empire of the Moguls. Their hopes of success found a topographical expression in maps of and emporiums, the only one of which that ever became a reality Lorient. Mahé de la Bourdonnais' maps of the Coromandel which he drew in the Bastilic with coffee grounds and lamp- on pocket handkerchiefs steeped in brandy, are the obverse of ‘That gallant officer in these maps demonstrated to the

‘the difficulties he had to contend with, and the reasons of his

quitting the Salle des Etats to enter the Galerie des Fastes, Daliroom of the Louvre, the visitor is arrested in his passage the unique collection of Malay art formed by M. F, Van den- in the Indian Archipelago. A series of strange, wonderful, find Gantastic divini ties hard to describe—terms of comparison being jwanting—arrests his attention. If they came from Mars, or Mercury, hey could not be more foreign to all his previous notions, On fietlng them one instinctively doubts the unity of the human race, (Religion is the synthesis of the lar, politics, art, and philosophy of a pation. ‘The brain of Malay legists, sages, artists, and politicians Ipust be constructed on a radically different plan from that of the [Buropean. Those astonishing images present a lively ethnological interest. They are the last vestiges of the Haddhist warship in the Indian Archipelago. | Abthe beginning of the fifteenth century the priests of Buddha Hed from before the Arab invaders of Java to the Isle of Bali, which became the sanctuary of their rel » ‘This istand was conquered by the Dutch in 1345, and the town of Beliling was sacked, A rich [Batavinn, M. F, Van-den-Breck, a direct descendant of Peter Van- Wen-Brock, who defended from 1619 to 1628 Batavia againet the Sultan of Bantam, was allowed in the loot to carry off all the gods found in the temples and the palaces. Fe subsequently devoted ‘years to searching for ethnographic remains in Java, in Malacex Peninsula. Above the saves of Ue

id. E have no doubt the legend of * the | in the seventeenth century Amster-

‘might be easily filled about the Russian to patronise which the Grand

of the Lea fishermen, who are as keen ‘being most sensibly conserved by a

348 The Gentleman's Magasine.

‘Thorne tells an amusing story of Charles Lamb's tombstone, pe. facing it with the remark that Lamb himself would have enjoyed it Lamb was buried in Edmonton Churchyard, in a spot which, oat fortnight before his death, he had pointed out to his sister as tht which he would desire as his place of burial. Dr. Carey wrote te following epitaph on the stone :

‘Farewell, dear friend! That smile, that harmless mirth, No more shall gladden our domestic hearth ;

‘That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow,

Better than words, no more assuage our woe ;

‘That hand outstretched from small but well-earned store Yield succonr to the destitute no more.

Yet art thou not all lost ; through many an age

‘With sterling sense and humoar shall thy page

‘Win many an English bosom, pleased to see

‘That old and happier vein revived in thee.

This for our earth : and if with friends we share

Our joys in heaven, we hope to meet thee there.

‘Thorne, in his tour of the Lea, was copying this inscription, whea couple of working men walked across the churchyard and read th lines with grave deliberation. “A very fair bit of poetry that,” sid ‘one of them, “Yes,” the other answered, “I'm blest if it imit good a bit as any in the churchyard—rather too long though.”

332 The Gentleman's Magazine.

zt was cwing to bis consciousness that his giel ir was swiicwed up in mere selfish regrets and pag. ‘Chascse iseif into a more fitting mood of sorowby

bad done for him and suffered. And eg before this the grave had closed ovr ere. Eow she had nursed his childhood, ani

aps when he used to hurry to Durewoois sed to do all she could to make him hapy, ¢ sweets and preserves for him ; and how he used

Ser Eis confidante. and telling her every sm ¢ rleasure; and how, then, he began to think ssdersand him. and was not up to his mak peced she was always of his uniform and of

e ke should never see her any more ! Thos =p 19 the boiling point of emotion, and

=e steam of tears, and, disregarding all

csclation, he flung himself down upon his

é cried like a child.

In truth, he thought all the

ental and pathetic song-writing of the country

mame is the special Open Sesame of the feelings

ngs of the war were most often laments for or by absent

mothers. Professor Clinton looked on sympathetically, and resolved to tell kis wife and Minnie what a good heart young Cramp had, and how he ws not by any means the merely egotistic and feather- headed young fellow he. the professor, had sometimes suspected. ‘The women are generally right in these things,” Clinton mentally acknowledged, remembering how his wife and Minnie had always stood up for young Cramp.

‘The tears did poor Natty great good. They relieved his feelings and his conscience both. How could he any longer accuse himself of being ungrateful to his mother, or failing in profundity of sorrow for her, when he had felt his own hot tears run down his cheeks at the thought of her? The tears came again and again, until at Last

he rose, relieved, and told Clinton he was going to be a man once more.

|

Dear Lady Disdain. 353

‘A man’s never more of a man,” the professor said, ‘than when lamenting for his mother. But it’s as well to rouse yourself, if you can, and think of what you have todo. Come, we'll the open air. Put wp all these things for the moment, and

peal te. me why you are going to Europe, and when, and all it!

allowed himself to be persuaded to dress and to shut up the i of his trunks for the moment, and the profestor and he walked together. They made a little circuit to avoid the town and the 9 of the universit \d, to use the language of the place, “struck” the river a little higher up, They walked on by the ‘of the stream in silence for a while, Evening was coming on ‘was growing a little chilly. The skics were very clear, and the ‘sinking on the one horizon, was beginning to be reflected in jm, violet, and purple on the verge of the other. When } ‘was yet new to the place and fresh from the more misty ‘and Jess luminous skies of England, the Clintons used. to “chaff” ‘Bim mildly because he often mistook the glowing mirage of the ‘sanset that showed itself in the east for the genuine pageant that was thirning like a superb sacrifice in the west. Clinton put his hand gently upon his companion’s arm, and they SMopped fora moment. Clinton looked along the path of the river, sunlit between its quict hills. “And are you really going back to Europe?” he asked gently, turning Nathaniel to look upon the peaceful and lonely beauty of the ‘scene, 2s if im remonstrance against the thought of his deserting all that so soon for the noise and smoke of London.

“1 must go back,” said Nathaniel in a tone of melancholy dignity.

“My poor mother has—has left me some money in fact, and there ‘are things to look after. I must go back at once.’ Bur only en congé, Lhope? You will come back to us? ‘an oosily arrange things with the paper so as to have your place| Kept open for you. They'll do that for me, I know ; and if you like TW azrange it all.”

“TI really don’t know—I haven't thought of it—taken so Genly you sce—and all that. I can’t tell, Professor Clinton, wl may happen to me. I don't sec what I want here or anywh jin life at all.”

You think so now, and that’s natural enough. But you'll s

we Te Teurdomas’s Maguzine.

ae pec Sow, on em ae. [ zseere you tty wel ee ce At wie. om Mime came be gave 2 cavioms lok mow mS ce ses x Nur, ie zom seer so much, and wouldle evo ese aio suid |) ar seem mm hve taken bl aee swe gr. Sr wel”

Tamh tu ar Se crise a us cnc ine wife had lately beg we mess tor = “Esme: sme Sos “ee was growing up amt af rede Sr se il sat Sur vue Engiishwean who sometims wmkei oo soccer mi yuensily. Cimem hiceself even when ke

ail Se mre Secmmse he had so served Timm sssumef cae mocking ever would « 3 qasscm ir Wiss Chaloner; and he thought

smut sme 7 Nr

te Mimme wou wouc uwars £ site were aLowed the chance loo

xf such 1 parcuemsiip as the latter ever being 7 a yuik exreccmema! glance at Nat whe

Crazp—in New York when I was Leader net so long ago. I might have

she axentions—which I never expected, if I remained in London I should be a I bad made one or two hits, you know— stumbled on an odd asteroid or two—watching and calculating here of nights in the observatory yonder, and they made much more of me and my doings than I deserved. But I came back here”

“1 think I'd have stayed,” said Nat.

“If I had been a younger man perhaps: and yet I dont know. I should always miss those quiet bluffs and the sound of that river; and I Vke our pleasant parti wp

358 The Gentleman's Magazine.

like mine, you are mistaken! But a sacred duty calls me tom, the ocean, and perhaps a Fate! You may chance to hear someting of me. I don’t know. But think well of me, if you can. Tak the best of me you can.”

Despite all the grandiose inflation of Nat's language (a style to wiih Clinton had indeed grown somewhat accustomed of late) there wa certain earnestness, a sort of desperation, in his manner, wid impressed the professor and made him think of it long after. Thy walked home presently, and almost in silence. It had grown qit dark by the time they reached New Padua. Nat hurriedly declined an invitation to step in and see Clinton's “folks,” and went to he Franklin House alone.

The next evening, when Clinton and his wife and sisterinue were sitting down to their modest supper (the final meal of the diy was called supper there, and took place at least three hours earlier than an ordinary London dinner), a letter was brought to him fron the Franklin House, accompanied by a parcel,

“This is from Cramp,” he said to his wife, and both glanced ominously at Minnie.

The letter told in a few confused lines, written evidently under the influence of some excitement, that the writer would, “ before this reaches you,” have left New Padua. It thanked Clinton for all his kindness, and declared that he was Nathaniel Cramp’s best and only friend. It conveyed the writer’s kind and grateful regards to Mrs. Clinton and to Minnie, and finally begged that Clinton would accept the copy of the Girondists, by Lamartine (Bohn’s translation), sent herewith, that Mrs. Clinton would accept the photographic album, and Minnie the copy of Miss Jean Ingelow’s poems, also seat in memory of their devoted friend Nathaniel Cramp.

‘There were soft tears in the eyes of both the kindly young women. It was like Nat Cramp's luck, or, as he would have preferred to call it, his Destiny. A sweet and pretty girl might have loved him and looked up to him always, and he never knew it,

“Poor fellow !” Clinton said, “he has taken his mother's death greatly to heart.”

After his supper Professor Clinton went to the Franklin House to find out something about Nathaniel. He could only learn, in addition to what he knew already, that Nathaniel had gone east- ward on “the cars,” and had had his baggage “checked” for New York. He had not said anything about the probable time of his return, The people at the Franklin House assumed that he was only going to be absent for a few days.

Dear Lady Disdain. 363

Should he go and risk being disappointed? Perhaps it

mistake; and she is not coming? The sun will soon

sink, but long before he sinks that steamer will have

at into the broad Sound. Ah!—and see there is fair Inez

when the sun goes down !

that moment a carriage drove up to the ferry-gate, and Sir got out, calm, portly, and dignified. Then a tall

and hackmen and negroes! How beautiful she looked

‘hat and feather, and with that all unconscious expression of fin her eyes and on her lips which poor Nat but. too well knew to give place at a word to the bright, fresh look of kindly

She took the arm of the grey-haired man, and they

of board. ‘The skirt of Maric’s dress almost touched Nat as ‘Passed him in the crowd, for he had not a moment's time to from the spot where he had been standing and hide himself.

fhe had not been secnmshe would never have expected to fe ihim there. Nat paid his fare and wenton board ; and stationed Sscl{ for the present behind a huge pile of baggage, where he could tily see without much chance of being seen by those whom he was

fatching. |The steamer soon left the ill-paved, dusty, noisy wharves, and struck ‘straight for the sunset. Then she turned her side to the sun and ‘swifily along among small islands and large, by shores which by low and soft under young trees from amid which every now and hen a spire looked up, past great ocean steamers and vessels lying at fchor, and tiny tug-boats puffing with supernatural impatience and tomy, Nat saw from his retreat that Marie Challoner was walking up hd down the deck leaning oa the arm of her stately grey-haired host. fometines they passed quite near him—close to him, even—and he Quld hear them speak. Once he heard the grey-haired gentleman ( Miss Challoner if she had ever read Cooper's “ Water Witch,” fd when she answered that she had read it long ago, and used to be fay fond of it, he stopped in their promenade and pointed to one of he idtamds and told her that there was the spot where the Hater Vitek was eapposed.to be lying when the story opened. Nat looked (us fropa his ie ae vice ies be mgs sen the nan ene the wile rt for one moment he almost forget Ws love, ‘is | Seelgioad the memories that came back

Dear Lady Disdain, aie

why she's so pale—that’s why she's unhappy !” he repeated “She's got to marry somebody clse, and she’s in love fellow from Japan |” ‘Seamer now drew near to a long, low, softlyoutlined shore with young trees almost to the edge of the water, and spark- pere and there with the lights in homestends and little villages. ‘by the shore the steamer held her way, and Nat could hear the woods the shrill double-throb of the Katy-did, which to him to have a doleful and boding sound, congenial with hour and his own condition. The shore was indented little bays and creeks, and sometimes the steamer ran into ‘of these and landed some passengers, Each time Nat shivered ‘excitement, he knew not why, believing that they had come to ¢end of their voyage. What he proposed to do when they did to an end of it he had not yet asked himself. “Atlength the steamer splashed into a bay ot inlet, running ap- ly rather far inland. The moon had now risen in stronger and Nat could see that they were narrowed in by shores on both ‘so that for a time there was nothing but trees and water and 5 the white gleam of the moon above, and the yellow glow from saloon windows below.

Marie Challoner and her companion stood close to him now. | We are near the end of our voyage,” her companion said.

1 doo't know whether I ought to be glad or sorry,” she answered. (@ It hasbeen such a delicious little voyage among those islands, but this place is most beautiful of all. I love this place.”

* Tam so glad you like it,” her companion said, smiling at her \enthusiasen —" for this is my home,”

“Is it wrong of me," Nat heard outspoken Lady Disdain answer, if Tsay that] love it already because it is so like my home?”

And now a pier was seen, a rude, somewhat rickety wooden ‘pier, with twinkling lights, and sound of bustling men and stamping (Borses. Sir John Challoner came out from the saloon, and Nat drew ‘back again to escape observation. The boat panted, puffed, stopped, ‘backed, went on again, and finally settled at the pier, and planks were ‘Fun out. Two negro servants leaped on board and bustled up to (Miss Challoner’s companion, and took some orders from him, Then

-and she and Sir John went ashore. Nat followed them with a |little crowd of other passengers. He saw them get into a carriage han fisshing lights and drive away.

‘Natty’s first impulse was to run after the carriage. He thought of i omer before he had ventured on this niaicalous proceeding,

37e Tie Gentleman's Magazine,

APTER XXVIIL SAME Boar,

time of the last chapter Christms streaming night of rain and wid cz of Life lately. He had severd saintances, and passed a moods, He had not for some time era hz knew he might have been oa Iy abstained from writing to id Ey to prevail on him to lave d return, and he had not the

himself for the present. cer bad he grown in his Joha Challoner. I club, of which hewas m2'l steamer next expected again through the hal he OF all men he, Christms, to be enemies, Christmas they were; and yet they

friendly than usual, for how do?” and gracefil nod

way of ackno and had evidently something

s looked as ifhe did not quite you didn't expect them 1e shorter than he intended.

to Durewoods— only passed through town. ‘ow or next day. Miss Challoner won't

fiercely.

372 The Gentleman's Magazine.

and then while they were together just to tell her in plain, simple words that he was not in love with any other girl, that he had never dreamed of marrying any other girl—and even if he should be carried a little further and should say he had loved and did still only love her—what harm would that do to her? What kindly-hearted woman would think the worse of him for that? He would leave her ina moment, and she would be troubled with him no more. Why should she be angry with him for his tribute of a hopeless lore that asked not even a word of kindness in return ?

Christmas hurried to his lodgings, and packed up a few things and wrote a few letters and put his affairs, such as they were, as mucha possible in order. For he was determined that his leaving London— when he had seen her for the last time—should be rapid as a flight. He would go to Durewoods to-morrow by the earliest train, he would endeavour to see her at once, and that interview over he would hasten to Miss Lyle’s, say a few words of good-bye, then back to London, and fly thence across the Continent to take passage for the East in the first steamer that would receive him on board. Dione Lyle knew nothing of his rush to Durewoods or its purpose. When it was over she might guess it if she would, but there would be little time for guessing anything then.

He smoked many cigars and walked up and down his room and thought a great deal and burst out every now and then into wild fragments of song and felt very much as a man might do on the eve of a battle ora duel. He did not go to sleep until very late, and he had to be up early. He anticipated his hour of rising several times, fearing he had overslept himself, and sprang out of bed and turned his gas full on and looked at his watch only to find that there were hours yet between him and the time for starting.

At last he got up and found that it was six o'clock. His train was to leave at half-past seven. The station was but a few minutes’ walk from his chambers. He tried to look out of his windows, but there was a driving rain plashing against the panes, and a fierce wind was shaking the trees and rattling the window-frames, and there was out- side a denser than midnight darkness. It suited his mood of mind, this furious winter weather, this wind and this fog ; he was grimly glad it was not summer or even a bright winter’s day. He wondered to himself how the hollow among the trees at Durewoods—where he and she had stood alone that first day—would look on such a day as this. He determined that after he had seen ‘er for the last time he would go and stand there—and so bear with him into his exile a memory of the place not gladdened by summer and sok blue skies

374 : The Gentleman's Magazine.

passengers in Christmas’s carriage, but he spoke to nobody. Could it be that through this wind, rain, and darkness it was possible arrive at Durewoods, and its memories of the sun and the bright water and Marie Challoner? Could it be that Marie Challoner her self was now there? Could anything in life ever be bright again?

The livid spectral morning at last crept over the fields. ‘The rain grad- ually abated, and towards noon a dismal glint of ghostly sunlight broke through the clouds. Then this again was lost in masses of heaped- up cloud which the wind drove together. The rain and wind seemed to be contending which should put down the other. At present the wind appeared in a fair way to succeed, although every now and then a reinforcing gush of rain occupied the landscape to show that the contest was not yet over.

‘The train reached the junction where Christmas had to leave the main track and take the little branch line which led to the sea. Only one other passenger besides himself got out here. Christmas did not look at the other, but the other looked at him curiously, wonder- ingly, and then came up to him, and Christmas, to his amazement, recognised the face and figure of Nathaniel Cramp.

“Why, Cramp! What on earth brings you here? I thought you were four or five thousand miles away.”

“T have come back, Mr. Pembroke—as you see. But I thought you had left England before this.” ¢ your places, gentlemen,” cried the railway guard. “Train

for Baymouth !” the little port from which they were to cross to

Durewoods.

“Are you going to Durewoods?” Christmas asked as they took their places, with a faint hope that Cramp was perhaps not going there, and very reluctant to be troubled with his or any other society just then.

“Yes, I'm going to Durewoods,” Nathaniel answered, grimly. “Are you?” And he chafed at the notion of Christmas going there.

“T am going there—yes. But what on earth has brought you back from the States, Cramp? I thought you were getting on famously there.”

“So I was. My way was open there. But a sacred call has Drought me back; and I am going to Durewoods to perform a sacred duty.”

Christmas looked up surprised. be

“Iam going to see my mother’s grave, and to wise a monumer o her.”

376 The Gentleman's Magazine.

station. Christmas leaped out and made for the pier, not waitag to see whether Nat followed him. Pembroke’s mind misgave hs and he tormented himself by conjuring up obstacles and dificls to prevent him from getting on. The first sight of the pier om! firmed his forebodings. No Saucy Lass or other steamer was thet But that was nothing, he thought. She was delayed in her trip fm Durewoods by the wind and weather. She would be here present. ‘The delay was vexatious, however.

But Nathaniel, who had not hastened so wildly from the stim, had time to get some news there, which he brought to Chrismas now with the morose satisfaction of one who is rather pleased by anything that crosses the mood of any one else. The Seu las had received a severe injury to her machinery that morning owing the weather. She had been rescued from utter destruction by chance steamer of much larger size, which had towed her intot little port near, and there she was helpless for the present. Thee would be no steamer to Durewoods that day, and possibly not eva the next day.

Christmas assailed the railway-guard and station-master, who wer, however, utterly indifferent, and who blandly explained that ther company and their line had no more to do with the steamer tric than he, Christmas, had. Were there no people about who ba anything to do with the steamer? No, the officials thought not; they had probably gone round to the port where she was now laid up. Moreover, the station-master calmly expressed a doubt whether “anything much” would come of their being near at hand, secing that they certainly had no other steamer ready. Further, he it- formed Christmas that the Saucy Zass often did not move from the pier for days in winter, when the weather was bad, “like now"; there were so few people who wanted to cross to Durewoods in sucha season.

“But if people want to go, and have to go—what then? ”

Then he supposed the Saucy Lass could take them. But she couldn't take any one to-day, anyhow.

“Surely you don’t mean to say there is no way of getting to Durt- woods to-day ?”

‘There was the road ; but that went all round the bay—a matter of thirty miles and more.

“Come, that can be accomplished. Is there any sort of carriage or conveyance to be had in this confounded place?”

The answer was decisive. ‘There was none whatever. ; “Great heavens, what a place ; what 2 country 5 What 3 PEOT

382 The Gentleman's Magazine,

said, but I would suggest to the trumpeters to beware of laying much stress upon the wonders that have been achieved,

ing that in all history the greatest snare of the Present has been worship of the Past. Possibly one reason why we have done little during the last twenty or thirty years has been the temput to boast and crow over our achievements. Railway traveling begun and developed between 1825 and 1850, the electric te system, the extensive substitution of steam power for manual —all these are things the honour of which mainly belongs to time before the half century was turned. Self-congratalation those achievements was natural fiveand-twenty years ago, pethaps it is pardonable now ; but self-congratulation in such may degenerate into a sort of superstition of the kind that ares progress. It may be as well now to remind ourselves that the wud is still all before us, and that the past is dead.

I wave been made the medium of an amusing little friendly passage of arms between two of my contributors personally m known to each other. The author of “Al Lyn Sahib” asks of Mt Francillon, What constitutes “ virgin brains”? The question aise upon a passage in the third chapter of “A Dog and his Shadow,"ia which the author, describing the curious studies of the little untamgt and unguided Abel Herrick running free of the Manor House boot shelves, observes :—

Anything, so long as it is incomprehensible, will serve to fascinate vii

brains: they read unintended human faces, full of character, in the meanings zigzags of a carpet pattern, vague romances in the fireplace, and wonderfal 3 landseapes in the cross-threads of a blank window-blind. Frank Percival's contention would seem to be that these meal phenomena are not confined to “virgin brains.” “ Mine,” he ss, “have been spun into cobwebs, dulled by opiates (in sickness), tw tured to solve impossible problems, rarely allowed a wholesome rest: and yet it must be a bare tract indeed that does not furnish them with material for ‘unintended human faces’; and not only are thet fall of character, but their owners live and influence my life. On the old marble of my fireplace dwell Imogen, Barnes Newcome, and D'lsracli. ‘Three green leaves in a bedroom are the abode of an Italian bandit, Mrs. Caudle, and a Chinese female asleep, according as I elect to look for them. To the frayed bell-rope cling Pio Nono and a brace of cardinals; while, as you say, the cross-threads of a blank window-blind will suffice to portray whole groups of figures ‘Then what are ‘ virgin brains,’ and why this perpetual phantasmagoria of images? Is it a foretaste of that future abode where authors are bound to provide their creations with souls?” Mr. Francillon ia reply says: “As prose is often wanted to explain verse, perhaps verse may be able to explain prose,” and so he transmits to Mt Percival, through me, the following commentary upon my friend's letter :—

not alone the Virgin Mini Sees pictures where the dull ar "And hears the spheric quite:

Od,

The Gentleman's Magazine.

le spirit who has gone with the inert sd passed the frontier of Eternity. The had. every reader of his must feel, a grad swings Bank, and his way was say

¢ discussion of the season touching the played by Signor Salvini and his com-

Lane. Mz, Mapiesoa, he says, did not favour the public wih 2 Taiza version nor of the English adaptatioa panied opposite page. The latter, he imagines, kof an Eagshman who possessed some little nor ¢ think it incumbent upon him to adbere to the I:alian on the opposite page or to the text yn of the poet. In the matter of stage yn words were sometimes given on the English page without Page, and in very many instances there eTetan stage directions ne which did not ‘appear on the English while ia some cases part was translated and part omitted. In for exampie, “Isola di Cipro—Porto di Maré” is y Island of Cyprus.” Occasionally the scenes begas ed in different places in the two versions. Cassio’s exclam- rascal!” began a new scene on the English evious scene on the Italian side. These dis ies did not, however, arise from any respect for the original, ip one or two cases it happened that when the English version difiered from the Italian it agreed with some edition of shakespeare. One example is enough to clear the compiler from any imputation of an undue regard for the integrity of the author's wok 2, scene i, the Second Officer enters with the exclamation, lads” (or, in some editions, “News, lords”). This was jently well rendered in the Italian by “Ol, n and it comes back into Englis piler showed little regard for Shakespeare's reputation as a poet when he printed Iago’s conversation with Roderigo (Act 1, Scene ix.) as verse instead of prose, making the Bard of Avon the author of very Dlank verse indeed.’ But the most extraordinary blunder, which ‘ought to rank among the Curiosities of Literature, is at the opening ot the play, described thus: Vemice.—A street: on one side the Palax of Brabantia, with Verona on the other. So that Venice and Veroat are on opposite sides of the same street ! The rising of the curtain explained the mystery; the English translator had mistaken Veron, bay window, for Verona, the city !

aunts, I should like to know? It usedn’t ‘Come—let me sce it instantly.” Milly, in spite of her agitation, could no

to bear upon a large round blot in paper.

‘From tho dreamland by the sex ‘Rise a mist "twist him and thee!

‘solitary mote in the and-by she beginto not everything in he it be love or hate, at day—there must hae

“er of the attainment of 2 was necessifly good reason, cot

fact that Milly ing implicitly © conclusio®-

ought none of his health and cor Perhaps she unconsciously judge her own ; she, at any rate, was ni: visits of Mr, Adams to th one moment swerve. Nevertheless the days began to. dr: . dream at night, and her appetite b y to fail her—not the Mrs, Tallis noticed it, for she TOW as eateid Lo Tide the Serene as she had before been careful to cover We presence of = Since her aunt had given up a prejudice to Wess Yer NES

gle thought #*

ee Tite renscman's Magazine.

fe lenest Tadesmam to that of the bags, vel as if she ever told her adventure afterwamh ward: bu: the fog, the water the che depression of ber own spt cmazoc. ~(Good evening,” she sii, s i er actempt to pass on.

weat I call gratitude ° exclaimed ne. ~I go for to protect a youg don't say so much as thankye.

wus are scarce I'm not above shillings, ut grat Saubie myself to behave like a gentlemm

=p ax dowa the path, but nobody wslo fog left visible. She felt inber to find the smallest sum

wouldn't turn out a bad sat here? Here's a do! No, this here. And this here's to try and do a poor man.” I didn't mean "—— the law,” he said, shaking his head “©There's some that wouldn't let you off so easy. No I won't give you back the bad ‘un, or you'll be trying to do other poor tradesman that don't join sharpness to honesty. w That'd you say if somebody gave you a thousand pound note, and ent to put things right by begging your pardon? I'll bore a hole in the rim for a keepsake, and you'll Iet me help myself this time— I want to do what's fair.”

He advanced as if to lay hands on her: she shrank back into the hedge, that she might take out her watch and porse and gre hes up to him without fecling the touch of Wis hands, Awave sist

was blown between them by the rising Wind, and he Sse G

418 The Gentleman's Magazine.

erts on Whidd:

initial letters in a more modem had in his mind, speak eloquently of tina alin English history. Nearly eighty ye sidabie but luckless expedition from Fran] Hoche and piloted by Wolfe Tone, anchored i rested mission of delivering Ireland fom As far as cannon goes the invaders found ancka-' oF as no one had ever dreamed of the integiyd inged at this remote estuary, the approah

ned. as happened to earlier and noe cers, a great storm suddenly sprang up as the fet and so beat about the French ships that ah {were more immediately concemed to get out d y were gone the English Government, inamama far in these later days, vigorously set to wak

xo bari y Bay. Forts were thrown up on various beat lands up he long stretch of water, whilst Whiddy and several of its sister islands were seized upon as points evidently de

ed at the Creation for the erection of batteries wherefrom hostile

ships mizit be biown out of the water. Whiddy, offering a supe ficial area exceeded only by that of Bear Island at the mouth of the bay, was rezulariy garrisoned, and to this day one may read over the entrance to the low casemated rooms in the barracks the inscription: “ro M. 1 N.C. Q.,” which signified that here might be lodged ten men and one non-commissioned officer of the army of His Gracious ‘Majesty George III.

Men and non-commissioned officers have long ago marched oat into another world, and grass is growing among the stones of te courtyard in which they drilled and waited for the French who neve came. The fort is now garrisoned by the mother of a large family, the father whereof is chiefly occupied in feebly warning off the fying and ragged squadron that is perpetually “taking” the for. Ian well imagine that—say thirty years ago—when life was yet new 0 him, Patsey must have dashed at the boys and girls of the day with real earnestness of purpose and high hope of success. But years of daily and hourly defeat have broken his spirit and dimmed his eyt, and it is in a transparently perfunctory manner that he now chivies the invaders from the north or east end of the fort, conscious that they will immediately afterwards tum up again at the south or wet and audaciously shake their ragged locks at iva,

As far as Bantry is concerned this poor meancaaly for Wht rusty grate in which the shot was to be male redhat eiore We

422 The Gentleman's Magazine.

The gifted writer of “ Black’s Guide to Ireland” crushes Banty ina single sentence. “ As a town,” he writes, “ this place deseres little notice.” My recollections of the neighbourhood ar # pleasant that I wish it were possible to dispute this dictum Bat unhappily it is not. Bantry is one of the towns which suffered mos sorely at the time of the famine, and it has never recovered the blot then received. Its public buildings consist chiefly of a Court Howe —where one evening we had an amateur concert, the piano bei dexterously attached to the magistrate’s seat and the audience impartially disposed over the remaining area, excepting the dod, which, in addition to unpleasant associations necessarily lingerig around it, was too jealously enclosed to make it a convenient seat police barrack, a bank unexpectedly situated round the comer na ‘ge water-wheel, a Roman Catholic Chapel, a Dissenting Chapd, ‘opalian Church. This last carries away the palm d y. with its miniature square tower and bright ga wind the grey walls. The design is of no particu ture, but the effect is quaintly pretty, and moreore ts a site which the proudest cathedral might eam, ¢ it the long vista of bay, and behind a girdle of greet preached inside perhaps lack the originality of the church itself, and are not quite t the singing is rattled through in a curiously ts to the unaccustomed ear the explanation we building, and that we had better alll: = son as this hymn or chant is over. But he preacher and the choir is good, and Banty is he rest, the town is-approached from the cosh Hanked on one side by a row of tumbledom of business streets, displaying many more ation would appear able to support. The ne market town for a large tract of the J once a week wakens up to a state of com

mervial live of quite an exhilarating character. From an eatly hour on Sarurday mornings the country-people throng in to buy ot to sell, mostly riding in couples on horseback, the man in front andthe woman behind, Some come by boat from far off fishing villages hack o” Whiddy, and many walk long distances, the women em veloped in the heavy black cloak which they never dispense with from January to December, holding that 1 keeps of the edd in winks and forms an impregnable defence against the hears Sh sarmmex Bantry lays no claim to admiration on We score ot Pawnee

nthe urban po; fact is that Bantry is

AUTUMN. BY THE HON. RODEN NOEL,

AULHOR OF “LIVINGSTONE IN AFRICA,” “THE RED FLAG AND OTHER POEMS," Be,

I,—ALonE,

EAVES from lofty elms on high In pale air swim shadowy ; Fall, Till, level with a weathered wall, Glow their autumn colours all ; Faintly rustle, touching earth ; Where, in mimicry of mirth, With a crisper rustle dance, When the viewless winds advance, Driven leaves, decayed and brown, Eddying as they are blown, Dear illusions perish so, Summer nurselings, ere the snow ; Loosen from a fading youth, Leave us barren to the truth, Nay, they blossom forth again ! Spring from winter, joy from pain, Again !

How yon leaflet floats, returning

To the tree where leaves are burning ! _ Oris it a small dark bird

Nestling in the boughs unheard ? Lo! a latticed height of planes, Green athwart blue skyey lanes, Laving continents of cloud, Violet vapour thunder-browed : Yellowing foliage is fair, Gold-green as an evening air, Thronged upon a deep dove-grey ; Higher up the halls of day, Light-uncoloured boughs consume, Wind-waved in a fery tomb, In a gash of brazen fire, Early sunset’s ruddy pyte-

4 practical Englishaen ‘0. chimerical an wiéer LUished for propagating = converts, but thee, fy retummed to the des are without excejtioa : golden promises to s tke a pvor Polish Isnaci *: Ianguaze ana insist upon his cor of the souistes Gzem it desirave Tesorel 9 rt that never—atd sles manafactured a ral

evand if they feel inspired by ty. let thems set out te rec \d no exampes ians who contrivmte aim the conv y become sensiit of money to which they lend themselves.

The writer-—who has no hesitation in stating that he is a member of the house of Isrecl—has had not the slightest thought of casting ridicule on the Jewish community, Too long have m gained currency, and he has thought it his duty to give the general public an idea of the state, spiritual and social, in which the Jews of the present day exist. Whether he has succeeded or not he le to his discriminating readers to decide tor Memselves. “Yau abe

Jews are a great and thriving nation canmot pe dened, woe War WET occupancy of their present position wil remain wadyant @ WALT

aken notions

ow all that her father ssid. “We know that 51S nn legge gabe

‘imploringly. re is mare than that, Oh, can’t you guess? tT dou't care for him; itis that 1 do care for some-

d gentleman now, who had society and its proprieties his mind to school and mould him. But it would

(ubetolentaee At any rate he was trespassing.

fptiitegions bar Pm ecpecing har tack ey haar ¢ said, with a smile, “1 did want to see Mrs, Tallis, and. same time." After the first recognition was over, she it, that there was a slight shade of difference

ds her—it was not less courteous than yesterday,

4 little more condescending, “The fact is, Miss ‘been hearing such a lot from my old uncle about the Thave been seized with a desire to explore it—I

‘Milly could not know. It might be common with d the narrow bounds of Winbury and Eastington. she said, “my aunt isn’t at home—she would have

530 The Gentleman's Magazine.

with his own. King Mithridates, who knew all human speech, ws but at the beginning of a single alphabet in comparison with himwho knew by heart all the languages, not of his fellow-men, but of his fellow-creatures—of those wise brutes whose wisdom has never bea obscured by leaning. Thus he grew to be so wise that we bir never added one feather-weight to his wisdom.

‘One day, this philosopher of philosophers was limping by the sie of a little stream. Over the stream was a bridge: on the bridge nn a dog : between the jaws of the dog was a piece of beef, Below the bridge ran a second dog, who was at the same time both another and the same : and to the eyes of the first dog the piece of beef carried by the second dog was larger and better than his own.

Commentators are agreed concerning what happened. Had it been possible for the dog to have dropped the shadow and have snapped at the substance, and had he done so, he would have bees counted wise. Longworth was real: Fairyland but a dream, and Milly but the queen of a dream. And so, had Abel written to:her from the Longworth Library, where Beatrice Deane Fworked for ‘hours at his side, he would have proved himself a blockhead for whom morals are added to fables in vain.

CHAPTER IL.

‘Where is the worth of a word unspoken— ‘Where is the thrill of a silent tune ? Where are rubies till rocks are broken, ‘The sculptured life till the marble’s hewn ? yy ye that never an ear or eye lent Force to find where such things may be, But say ye never that souls are silent— Heyes unseen are the'eyes that see.

‘There, where no ray'from the ruby glistens, ‘There, where no thought from the stone is born, ‘There, where the master in rapture listens To the silent thunder of harp and horn— ‘There is the love that our loves betoken, ‘There is the life that our birth-bells toll : ‘There is the worth of a heart that’s broken— For a heart must break ere it grows a soul,

Mr. Deane, of Longworth, may fairly be set down as a country: gentleman of a transition period, belonging to the old school by instinct, but to the new by inclination, As beaonghng, arigmally 0

536 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“Very well. I—I don’t like Mr. Herrick, Bee.”

“Mr. Herrick? What has Mr. Herrick to do with Tom?”

“I don’t know. But—you wanted to change the subject, thats all I don't like Uncle George to like him so much—and what's be but a peasant, forjall that he’s a lawyer now? It comes to thesame thing, and sauce for the goose—and somehow, Bee, I wish you liked him less, as well as Uncle George.”

“1? What do I care for Mr. Herrick or anybody? Don’t tease me just now, Annie—I felt so_tired, and I so wanted to rest, and now you're spoiling it all. It’s hard I—But it doesn’t come to the same thing, Annie,” she went on quickly and eagerly. “Unde George may very well care about birth in his son's wife without being bound to want it in a tutor or a lawyer. And Mr. He- tick isn’t a lawyer—he's a barrister,” she added, with unintentional irony. “Do let us talk about something else, please !—What a heavenly day it is, to be sure !”

“Tt was you went on talking ubout it—not me.”

“T’ve been thinking”

“That's as much news as the weather,” said Annie, witha reviving smile.

“Don’t stare at what I'm going to say. I've been thinking— that I ought to go away from home.”

“Bee!”

“Yes—I really wanted to talk—that’s partly what I wanted to bring you out for. It'll be hard to tell Uncle George—he won't be able to understand it a bit—but it must be done. Longworth is no place for me.”

“Bee—what can you mean?”

“I mean it—I wish I knew how to make somebody, anybody understand. What do we live for but to do something? And what is there to do here?”

“You ask that?—Why you are always doing "——

“Indeed I'm not. Learning to do isn’t doing. I wish there was going to be a great war, or a great revolution "——

The very words did not belong to Annie’s language. She ' thought they belonged to the newspapers and were invented to amuse her uncle and his friends after dinner. She could only repeat in wonder, “Bee—what can you mean?”

“T mean that without such things no woman has a chance of doing anything at all. The prisons are all reformed, I believe, and if they were not there are no prisoners at Longworth, and not even any poor who are not well locked after. What do you

bit myself on ; weak—that’s humbug. She didn't know I cared a Me eae gees

it?" asked Annie, who had never seen anything that |a. real quarrel in her life before.

Herrick !—Abel_ Herrick !"" she exclaimed in

‘Tom. “{f Herrick had meant anybody to know of , he would have told my fther, who's been his best has any reason for keeping it so close a secret, it’s

of all people, to tell. Of course it’s different my telling

"sid Annie, And so perhaps it was, according to for, though at last a man, he was still a Horchester boy

‘of him, and a secret was therefore still a thing to be kept all superior powers, but to be as sacredly shared with He need not, and did not, add, “Of course you

nothing of that to my father,” for that belonged to the ‘Freemasonry in which his cousins were no less adepts

what did you tell Uncle George?" asked Annie. ‘that, T told him I'd still marry her if she'd have me— ot angry, I'm afraid, and said he hadn't mortgaged half ‘to build a house for—well, I needn't go on with that: ‘Tever did marry—Milly—he'd be obliged to do some- ‘A guessed what that meant "—— Te Is. dreadful! But he couldn't mean—I hope you ‘anything to make things worse "—— ‘I kept my temper. I only said that would be the could possibly make me take my own way, if I can he chance of it. He had made it a point of honour, you

‘could you be so foolish! You said the very worst » Bee—why where's Bee?"

5

‘Rome in England. We conceived the greatest affection cher on account of the winning gentleness of his manner ¢ devotion which seemed to inspire him, as well as for his

d laws; but gradually we learned to speak of the Pope as the and to believe it to be an unfailing sign of a lax Catholic to o abate by the minatest tittle the pretensions of the successor

this time we fell into the habit of adding the word to the Apostles Creed, saying > “I believe in the Holy

} pay ‘it spurious claim to Catholicity,

Tn those days there was « siogular uniformity in the internal ap- of the various Catholic churches and chapels ; the being in the two or three private monastic institutions

‘which were beginning to be established in obscure parts of the

‘suburbs of London, Mass every morning at seven, eight, and nine opal neared et emer ‘ +" and in addition, on Sundays, and holidays of obli-

ce with sermon, But by-and-by Ce ai ni converts,—comparatively

— Tie Gentieman's Maa

x

fans were ably seconded f aia by another zealous band ol the venerable and well-loved od se Catholic body in England; and vet the labours of the Passionists in te .¢ Redemptorists in the southern pars these bodies succeeded in so comple stricts as their fellow-workers = Oratorians had been but very fet en their hymns were whistled ani a in the neighbouring streets; asd Covent Garden in the early momia; chorus of some Oratory hyma. Oratory on Sunday evenings <3 me round. More than once I hx

puzvied the in the case cited above, Immaculate ! Immaculate “ irom Ignorance, Yardy from boyich mkichie! oh. Mack, you the 7 “The irc quent reyeisior Ora pro nobis” was a great exercise {or Woe ingens

a phrase s a

dan stagieeney

but in

i¢ 80 used to the spectacle that 4 nun

jeans

a

2

ire i

2 7 : 3 3 a6

Pi Stns fae pri a 549

upon “the ‘public streets Women in strange and outlandish “seen in the thoroughfares between the Oratory and a surrounded by crowds of grinning boys ; but in ‘the public became so used to the spectacle that a nun

5 and we have at last reached white wings and collar of the Sister

so met the Methodists and ey followed the practice of the wedding sacred words to secular tunes, and the local

me,” and “St. Patrick's Day in evenings, immediately in front of a

and drew many a lad to accompany his play- church who otherwise would never have entered the

The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's. 553

‘The bride sought her chimmer so calm and so pale ‘That a Northern had thought her resigned ;

‘Bat, to eyes that had seen her in seasons of weal,

Like the white cloud of smoke, the red battle-field’s veil, ‘That look told of havoc behind.

‘The bridegroom yet loitered a beaker to drain, ‘Then reeled to the linhay for more ;

Flames sprout and rush upwards wi’ might and wi’ main, And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar,

Young Sim in the distance, aroused by the light, ‘Through brimbles and underwood tears,

‘Till he comes to the orchet, where slap in his sight,

Beneath a bowed eodlin-trce, trimbling wi fright,

In an old coat she'd found on a scarecrow bedight, His gentle young Barbara appears.

Her form in these cold mildewed tatters he views, Played about by the frolicsome breeze ; Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall's chilly dews, While her great frightened eyes through her ringlets so loose ‘Shone like stars through a tangle of trees.

She eyed him; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, Her tears, penned by terror before,

Wi' a rushing of sobs in & torrent were strawn,

‘Till her power to pour ‘em seemed wasted and gone ‘From the heft of misfortune she bore.

“CO Sim, my own Sim I must call 'ee—I will! All the world hey turned round on me so }

‘Can you help her who loved 'ee, though acting so ill?

Caa you pity her misery—feel for her still?

When, worse than her body so quivering and chill, As her heart in its winter of woe!

le =

|

The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's. 53

Then the uncle cried, “Lord, pray have mercy on me!" And in sorrow began to repent But before ‘twas complete, and till sure she was free, Barbie drew up her loft-ladder, tight tummed her key— » Sim handing in breakfast, and dinner, and tea— ‘Till the crabbed man gied his consent.

‘There was skimmity-riding with rout, shout, and flare, In Weatherbury, Stokeham, and Windleton, ere They had proof of old Sweatiey's decay The Melistock and Yalbury folk stood in a stare (The tranter owned houses and garden-ground there), But little did Sim or his Barbara care, For he took her to church the next day.

‘Mind the pathetic simplicity of language in one of the most beautiful ‘of these poems, “ Liz," is one of its chief merits, and on the whole Sore of the poem is fully as excellent as the substance: if ‘it were more remarkable, the poem of course would not be a quarter #0 good. Ought Scott to have made Halbert Glendinning or Mary Avenel use the same language as Sir Piercie Shafton ? _ Some finical, fastidious gentleman objected to the word ““eostermonger” in “Liz.” It made him stop his cars and give a ‘little scream ; but it was appropriate where it stood, and I am sorry "Mr. Buchanan has altered it. He has “Joe Purvis” instead, and I am sure the gentleman will object to that equally. It should have ‘been “ Reginald Mauleverer,” so as not to offend cars polite. Speak- ‘ing of his indiarubber ball, the little boy said to his governess; “If ‘you prick it it will go squash !” © shocking, my dear!" said the prim Tndy ; “you should have said, ‘If you puncture it, it will collapse.” Bot Mr. Buchanan won't, we trust, make gravediggers call spades or housemaids call coalscuttles Pandoras (though per ‘haps they will soon in real life), for all his governesses may say to him. A poet may leave fine language of that kind to advertising tradesmen. ‘The “Last of the Hangmen,” however, seems to me too merely ‘coarse and grotesque—not sufficiently spiritualised. He might do in @ Dutch picture; bat he is hardly elaborately realised enough for a poetic study even of the Dutch order, Tt has been urged again that these poems are too sentimental so ‘that what seems to be desiderated is this—that costermongers and

somebody was right when he said that Mr. Buchanan makes

his townspeople and peasants talk a little too much about external ‘nature—but there is generally something in their circumstances that affords o clue to that Liz, in a very fine passage, expresses her ‘horror of the country, which she had once visited. How would the eritics set about presenting such people poetically at all—except ‘by the sid of arvificial cuphuism? What Mr. Buchanan docs is am men and women at moments and in moods when circumstance of their lives brings out the fmer and more uaa

= p them. Over them he sheds the mild light of sorrento Soe

“E55 ‘ements sound, that Mr Buchanan excels

ser ts arth rp nt to fill up the portrait of him quite characteristically. We have the same feeling as regards the portraiture of Bismarck, and the ‘Third Napoleon ; though one is rather more satisfied with the latter, ho indeed seems to have been a, brooding, irresolute, somewhat

‘ie the: imiution of Goethe's supernatural Faust machinery.

‘Out of Shelley, one can scarcely read choruses and semi-choruses

ad diditum in modern poety, and not rebel. The whole thing in:

‘Shelley is sublimated ; it passes in an sethercal region of unearthly ‘loveliness.

and seraphic ‘There: is, perhaps, a danger lest “the mystic” should not accept Bitiae lo rastegyea3 iatencsions and too arbitrarily sclecting from

the preacher or morse, sliding, into turgid and nebslous generale ties—far removed from the living order of Shakespeare's creations— ‘or at least into monotonous mannerism. af treatment; and this, even though be may not bevready to swallow whole merely conventional viows of virtue. There is always, moreover, @ danger A a wan

posing 190 much as mystic or prophet, and contemplating, uns,

oot

ee =

| Robert Buchanan's Poetry. 567 A Dare him children, and 1 closed his eyes: forth with tin”

«The man fs saved : Tet the man enter in !””

_ Still one feels inclined to congratulate Mr. Buchanan on his having “St Abe "and “White

of voatline ; -also the sacy, nervous, direct AngloSaxon. strength of - its language, for which weumust go otherwise at the present day “to ‘Tennyson's " Queea Mary," and Sir H. ‘Taylor's dramas; or back’to. Byron, Wordsworth, Pope, and: Chaucer—notable, too, its absence of affectation, artifice, and general excess. There is no qpoverty of matter, or extravagance of manner. All this used to be thought essential in the time .of Aristotle, and even since, It “msed tobe thought classical, Butacademies have changed their | «minds. Ofcourse one may tay too much. stress on selfrestrained

| vested fe, and in external natne. Fete we have mindi a [this withowe Josing breadth and decision of touch, ot Seyin ews

tee

Robert Buchanan's Poctry. s7t

ned in two writers. According to the bias of individual judg- gents, there must always be variation in the verdicts. And we ; ea ee ew ay he an tester

peste caper or enalvic verse is not poetry—

pee etc ahaa “Ranolf and Amohia,”

But in Popealways, in Dryden sometimes, we have wit play- ‘through all, like a spiritual flame ; in other similar poems we have All original poets flush the lives or objects they behold emotional light from the depths of their own souls; but this ight is a revealing, not a misleading one, whether it shine specially upon sensuous and zesthetic, or spon ‘moral anit intellectual aspects ; others partaking of the sme human sympathies are enabled thereby fo see asthe poet sees: this is the true transfiguring light of art. ‘Some, however, not gifted with the requisite ‘human elements, how clever and cultivated soever, can‘only mockand decry. But general as well as concrete truthihas !been aad may ‘pet be poetically pre-

‘Some poets again are more in harmony with their own age’s most advanced standpoint:than others—and a)man may be cither super ficially, or more profoundly and less apparently sin harmony with it. ‘While low clouds are moving one way, high elouds may be moving | another; but the motion of low clouds may be the most evident to careless glances of the many; and because I believe Mr. Buchanan [2 eeepc in imaginative rhythmical form to

(bekors hie to be one.of our foremost living poets, and Aesimned 0 : or indirectly) one, of our mastinfuents\.

ne

THE DREAM-GATHERER. BY EDWARD SEVERN.

EPL? OME, buy my dreams! From the meador They were gathered at mom by me Between the sun and the shadow, Between the wind and the sea.

From the path that the sleeper goeth, From the sun beyond the sun,

From the field that no man knoweth, They were gathered one by one—

From the light of a starless sorrow, From the fruit of a leafless spray,

Fom the sheen of a long To-morrow ‘That never will be To-day.

Alas for the ears that hear not, For the eyes that take no heed :

Alas for the tongues that fear not To call a flower a weed !

Buy Dreams, for hall and bower ! A Dream is a soul unchained :

A Dream is a passion-flower That never is passion-stained.

Buy Dreams, for bower and dwelling ! ‘A Dream is the heart of spring— A tale too deep for telling, And a song too sweet to sing.

Alas for the hearts that hear not, For the souls that are bind indeed — ‘Alas for the thoughts that fear nok To call a Dream a weed

Se lesbo cack 6 cn ecxvecon ie Seane

new order of things the company, and not the battalion,

| be regarded as the tactical unit. We, therefore, in planning: ation ought to: commence with the company. Looking at it~ ce to administrative considerations, it is plain that a should contain as many men as can be) conveniently,

9 action, A body of 100 men acting together can produce far ‘effect than ten bodies of ten men each employed at different ‘times and:not acting in concert.. The limit of size is reached when becomes so numerous that one man cannot directly cause’

‘the orderassumed. A mere word of command, even though in the: given from the rear of the centre cannot when the company, isin line and. ene cies bes inank mee For battalion manceuvres, therefore, taking. into consideration the roar of battle, a company of say 250. of all ranks is the largest that cam be properly handled: But that which may be regarded asx the normal formation for attack, and also in a less degree for’ the defence, is much less compact than the battalion, which may. be called the preparatory order. When the company is within. close range it is opened out enormously both in breadth and! LL. JS San galepreaameohades ommees captain—a fact which may be regretted, but cannot be ignored, He: umay give the impulse, but he is obliged to employ sexera wedinasns, —his-subsiterns-and sergeants—to communicare his oes to Soe

— =

for the fewer the links the greater the unity of ‘These conditions of efficiency can be secured strength of a company, If the strength of the

ir footing were raised to 253 of all ranks, the number necessary , would be about a2, At f contact with the enemy it is desirable that the line

= A eeepc ‘The captain then send forward one section of say twenty-five files strong, tern. This section would extend to about five paces to man, which, allowing cach man a space of twenty-one Jin, would give a little over 230 yards for the entire

‘three paces between files, the intervals increasing as the As s00n as the leading section had got over 200

Tt is the higher ranks naturally whiel are

pioneers, )

224 privates—total 255 of all ranks, the band not being A comparison between the percentage of captains and d officers to men in the two establishments will ‘great would be the economy of my scheme. It will be ‘each section would be complete in itself, that it would cer to command it, a drummer, and an active proportion of d officers. ‘The section would in faet be a small nearly as strong as a company on the present home ne ‘The captain would have a command of an ime corresponding with his tactical duties and his position in and might be expected to {tel that pride in his work

Modern Tactical Organisation. 583 ‘There is another consideration, namely, that a brigadier

nal d should extend less over breadth than depth. Tam ‘therefore, to recommend, as the most convenient ongani- infantry brigade should consist of four or, at the most, With four battalions a brigadier could occupy a section with two battalions in the fighting or first line, retaining in the second line as a support, and to ward off flank

‘of one brigade to assist another at the proper time, and immediately engaged can always tell what his requirements

ian one further to the rearand not able to realise the neces+

of the case. But even when the most cordial co-operation

Besides, the former would be more of a match fora foreign le than would be the latter, P best organisation of a division is a matter which it is not easy “to decide on. In most foreign armies the division consists of two of infantry, with a due proportion of artillery, cavalry, and In France there are two brigades of infantry, a battalion * Sexictaaeraxe & pled, a proportion of artery and engineers, and, I Imagine, a small force of cavalry; but there seems to be nothing positively settled with regard to the latter point. __A Prussian division consists of two brigades, one cavalry regiment, ‘and four batteries of six guns each. In Russia there are no infantry brigades, and a division consists of four regiments of infantry, a ‘brigade of artillery with forty gms and cight mitraillcuses, and a ‘regiment of Cossacks, In Austria the division consists of two bri- gades of two regiments of three battalions each, two battalions of ‘Tiles, three squadrons of cavalry, three batteries of eight guns each, and accompany of engineers. Our divisional organisation generally Ele apie ete omelet

reached us that another party was going to sleep at the and knowing that any addition of numbers to our would

Iyvetéte was to have Melchior, and I was to take Christian. masters were to be supplemented by local talent as second ~All this was arranged, and the two parties prepared to start ‘The Kastenstein rock cave is five or six hours distant

Beicietlaelorald glacier: descended wpott the glacier itself by the below the Beregg hut; crossed the glacier, and passed the nhorn, Here we had to recross the glacier through the seraca,

proved troublesome ; the way was hard to hit; and we spent a good hour among them, ‘The light was failing as we toiled up the steep ‘rough way that leads to the cave. At last we reached it, and surveyed & great pile of massive rocks, under one of which is the dark, low, in shaped hollow, in which we were to sleep, ‘The place might be the cavernous home of a wild beast or of a small ogre. A rode cooking place is improvised just outside the burrow, and our guides were soon busy with mountain cookery. ‘Then came the

‘the song and jest, and then the vesper pipe. Hillyer and ‘myself, joyous with the hopes of the morrow, reclined among guides

The Peak of Terror. 589

“The way lies downwards over great blocks of stone, ‘upon coarse grass. It is rough walking. You

the carly morning, and the foothold consequently slight, this up ascent is decidedly laborious. No prospect of the

‘The view is cut off above you by rocks, which seem to

cross the top of our snow gully. 1 am on the rope next to who does not cut any steps or notches. ‘The hard snow ‘steep that you have to put the foot down sideways, and it great muscular exertion to maintain your foothold. Still up ‘Where ways are steep you rise rapidly, and, as we attain to

cks so long seen above us we find that many a peak, hereto~ hidden by the Eiger and Finster-sarhorn range, soars up and. into our ken, Deep below us is the Strahleck pass, and we n the broad white snow a little black creeping line which means ‘We count five men, and know that Peter Anderegg, an

end of mine, is their leading guide. Suddenly the line stops,

d they evidently sce us. They are probably shouting, though we

ot hear them, and two of them wave hats, We respond ; and and Kauffmann emit terrific Jodels. Then they tum and : and we turn and go upward. Two ships on the ocean Dishes iet and greeted. _ We cross our rocks to the right, and then sit down to another break- fast. As we begin the meal the sun darts out and changes the whole 2 and character of the scene, It is a brilliant, deep-coloured “stinging sun—that sun, indeed, which comes between days of bad Weather, Before us lies a huge sloping snow basin, which comprises | mighty bergschrund, together with crevasses and abysses. The sun shines dazzlingly upon the smooth and sparkling snow, “That ‘mow won'tbe hard when we come down!” says Christian, with an ‘ominous shake of the head, as we finish breakfast and again prepare ‘to start,

‘We thread our way successfully through crevasse and abyss, and pags round the great hollow of the terrible bergschrund. By this time the sun has become very hot, and the snow is getting already very soft. There is a great depth of loose, fresh snow too; and I ee aes nie dismay of the descent. ‘he sky above is cloud-

The Peak of Terror. 5oL

balls with a sort of morbid interest; when, suddenly, Dicer wan, directed (il! ipen. ous rock, ‘One of these stones hit me on the side of the head and stunned me. , I must have been struck by the flat side of the stone,

killed shortly before on the Wetterhorn by a stone de-

in a similar manner, which struck him with its sharp edge.

recovered consciousness I found that the rope which attached

o Lauener had been severed within three inches of my waist os as the shears of Atropos would cut the thread of a life.

was an annoying though a dramatic incident. [had thought

ridge was out of the way of a Schreckhorn cannonade, but

that our selection of rocks was placed advantageously

45 an artillery target, and that I had been chosen by Fate

bullseye. I remained about an hour unconscious. During:

walking fast in order to get out of the way of the hill

Once on the Sattel we were beyond that danger, and went

more slowly. The final summit to our left was distinctly visible and

very near. We had done with ascent and with the perpen-

Te only remained to traverse with care the finalartte, ‘This

eee eee pepe

great depths below on cither hand, and with patches of snow be-

the blocks of rock, These upper rocks glowed with hear

om the near and fervid sun. My accident had lost a good deal of

and it was noon as we neared the last arte. ‘The rounded

oe ee

and you get the view as well from the top of the Sattel as you do

from the peak itself, so that the topmost knob offers no surprise in the way of prospect,

You pass the exact spot at which Mr. Elliott's sad and fatal happened, and find that the terrible slip occurred at a place es as a ee

‘was aching and throbbing painfully, and now and then

dizziness came over me. “=

(get

suggest humanity. The view descent-wards is appalling, and in this light it presented itself to

tain which you have to descend looks terribly long and stones are still falling from the top; sometimes in twos

il in the cannonade. Owing to these stones we cannot

re we came up, We have to cut steps across pure ice, rthe Sattel, in order to attain to another ridge of rocks down nearer to the Little Schreckhorn. Christian says hew ridge will be much more difficult than the old one. As downwards, the rocks, about five fect below you, bulge out, that you see nothing until you crane over and cateh a of the bergschrund level far, far below. ‘The mountain is | intoltwo parts by the plain of the great bergschrund. The etphatic in their injunctions to take care. Kauffmann a, and Christian was the last on the rope. Our new ridge ‘worse than the former one, and our progress was slow. one only could move while the others held ; seldom

Tatefaftemoon sun was shining as we stood on the top long%snow gullies in the steep couloirs. In these the ld not hold at all, It slipped with us at every step, and of the first man on the rope were useless to his narrow gully was far too steep, and the snow wns for glissading, We got on slowly, and with Inbour and

The Peak of Terror, 595

“Walking one day, under dull leaden clouds which ry main, from the Col Ferrex to Courmayeur, I was

‘Te seemed to my fancy as if the last day

+ as if the destruction of the world had commenced by

d waste this one melancholy spot which had already ye and life and hope in the pathos of final destruction.

: something cnnobling. Every time that I attain to a patella BA A orci

p elevation above the level of the carth, I recognise

e ly Ge play OF elag “uplified to rank with the crests and ‘of such lofty pecrs—I say pecrs, boastful though the

4 may sound—because one is, if the work be done in the right for the time at least etherealised, sublimed to the sky-piercing, cating loftiness of these majestic mountains, Such a climb

jin the mind a temporary grandeur, like that caused by

a noble poem or seeing a great actor; and mountain,

human history—so many experiences shrink up into a SS eee

h melodies to which his friend Moore had put words,

d rare were the gems she wore,"—and, as I listened to the ibered so well and had not heard for so long, the silent

It from my eyes in large drops of mingled pain and pleasure, $ the man in all the world to best interpret such an ebullition had he observed it I was thankful to perceive that he ca of the agitation I had been in, when he finished his ‘began his usual delightlul strain of conversation. Leigh

eration was simply perfection, If he were in argument warm it might be—he would wait fairly and patiently to other side.” Unlike most eager conversers, he never Even to the youngest among his colloguists he always attention, and listened with an air of genuine respect to

r they might have to adduce in support of their view of Me was peculiarly encouraging to young aspirants, fledgling authors or callow casuists ; and treated them with ‘of condescension, or affable accommodation of his intellect rs, or amiable tolerance for their comparative incapacity, but, placed them at once on a handsome footing of equality complete level with himself, When, as was frequently the hhe found himself left master of the field of talk by his hearers, only too glad to have him recount in his own

ous way one of his “good stories” or utter some of his things,” be would go on in a strain of sparkle, brilliancy, mess like a sun-lit stream in a spring meadow. Melodious alluring in accent, cloquent in choice of words, Leigh Hunt’s ‘a5 delicious to listen to as rarest music. Spirited and fine ‘mode of narrating a droll ancedoie in written diction un- ‘is, his mode of telling it was still more spirited, and still fine, Impressive and solemn as is his way of writing down a

Recollections of Writers. 599 2 resolved that I would quietly try whether certain

5 o Mr. Hone, under an assumed signature. ‘The initials’ were “M, H."—meaning thereby “Mary Howard ;”

‘TL always called “ my old woman” when she didme il service rendered by Molitre’s old maid-servant to her

‘im the light of egoism, but rather to regard as friendly chit-chat pleasant times agreeable in the recalling to both chatter

H nde nite no (M.C.C.) to spend a few dys with them in

r ‘suburban spot, then green with tall trees and and near-adjoining meadows, Pleasant were the walks taken Spam stbssn mich «host and ecveesiner ax Teigh Huse Some-

iol ae Se Treat t hilamannc er Coviionee | expatiate upon with Leigh Hunt, a8 we went on ea

—

Recollections of Writers. 603,

ther time x longer excursion was proposed, when Miss Lamb de d accompanying us, but said she would meet us on our return, walk was farther than she thought she could manage. It was to thaw: through charming lanes, and country by-roads, and we Bb Raelogiss baer dhtasoe old plant ook-cree ace, ‘This we could: Ot find ; it had perhaps fallen, after centuries of sturdy growth; but walk was delight(ul, Lamb being our conductor and confabulator. ‘was on this occasion that~—sitting on a felled tree by the wayside a hedge in deference to the temporary fatigue felt by the least le walker of the three—he told us the story of the dog® that he | sired? owt and got rid of by that means. The rising ground of the the way-side seat, Charles Lamb's voice, our own responsive ghter—all seem present to us as we write. Mary Lamb was as das her word—when was she otherwise? and came to join un B our way back and be with us on our reaching home, there tor ‘us comfortable in old-fashioned eaay-chairs for “a good reat” ore dinner. ‘The evenings were spent in cosy talk: Lamb often: taking his pipe, as he sat by the fireside, and pufiing quietly between ‘the intervals of discussing some choice book, or telling some racy ‘story, or uttering some fine thoughtful remark. On the first evening ‘of our visit he had asked us if we could play whist, as he liked a mubber; but on our confessing to very small skill at the game, he said :—"Oh, then, you'e right not to play T hate playing with bad

"However, on one of the last nights of our stay he said :— “Let's see what you're like, as whistplayers” ; and after a hand of ‘two, finding us not to be so unproficient as: he had been led to be- lieve, said :—"If I had only known you were as good as this, we ‘would have had whist every evening,”

His style of playful bluntness when speaking to his intimates was strangely pleasant—nay, welcome : it gave you the impression of his Hiking you well enough to be rough and unceremonious with you; it showed you that he felt at home with you. It accorded with what ‘you knew to be ut the root of an ironical assertion he made—that he always gave away gifts, parted with presents, and soi keepsakes. Tt underlay in sentiment the drollery and reversed truth of his saying tous: “I always call my sister Maria when we are alone together, Mary when we are with our friends, and Molt before the servants,”

‘He was at this time expecting a visit from the Hoods, and talked ‘over with us the grand preparations he and his sister meant to make in the way of due entertainment: one of the dishes he being no other than “bubble and squeak.’ We had a ‘sng, tox

* See p. 627 of Gentleman's Magazine, fox December, 1. 5

=.

DEAR Lapy DISDAIN.

JUSTIN McCARTHY, AUTHOR OF “LINLEY ROCHFORD,” “A FAIR SAXON,” “MY ENEMY’S DAUGHTER,” &.

CHAPTER XXXIL WHAT THE SEA GAVE UP.

AVRARIE was alone for a few moments when her father H leftherroom and went to make arrangements for their dismal Journey. Something in his manner distressed her. In all her personal pain and grief she had a Bra ercaconsiess that he did not seem to her very sory, His change in manner since the terrible news came made her heart sink. She suspected that since Christmas Pembroke was now removed from the way he would try all the more to persuade her | to marry Mr, Vidal, and she should have fresh arguments and new In a day or two perhaps Vidal would be in Durewoods, and nothing in life seemed to her now half so hard to bear as the thought of her engagement with him. She pressed her hands to her forehead. A resolve came.

“T'll break it off myself!’ she determined. “I have a right! ‘My life is my own—and I will doit! It is no shame now, since Ae is dead. I may love him now to my heart's content—and I could not even think of him while I remained still bound to Mr, Vidal,”

“ Marie,” her father said, quietly entering the room, “ get ready, dear, if you will come, We shall start in half an hour exactly. 1 have a letter or two to write first, which must go to the post.”

“*T, too, have a letter to write," Marie thought.

“Tn half an hour I’ll come,” Sir John said,

“I shall be quite ready, dear,” Marie replied with a composure which puzzled him,

‘The moment he had gone she went to her desk and began to write, ‘The purpose that she had in writing kept her nerves calm and steady. Her composure was surprising to herself now. Even while she wrote she found herself coldly looking the situation full in ‘the face, and resolving that this was the best thing and the right thing to do. Her whole soul was now set on being free of her

‘engagement with Ronald Vidal—free to think always over Christmas

Dear Lady Disdain, 607

d to believe that~—if it is any relief to you to condemn and ‘me. I don't know what the usage of the world may be, but ‘up my mind that there should be truth between you and

“I donot ask you to forgive me. Tought to have asked your for- 188 when 1 promised—not now when I release you from your and set you free. “Mane Crattonrr.”

_ “When that leaves Durewoods,” said Maric, “1 am free" She “made up the letter, addressed it, went downstairs herself and placed the old-fashioned post-bag, and having met nobody on the way ‘exine quietly back to her room, ‘There was a strange feeling of - exaltation—almost of exultation—about her, All high emotions are “in the same key ; and with resolve there always comes some thrill of ‘the exultant mood. When Juliet’s lover knows all and has surveyed ‘nt mind the worst and made up his resolve, there is something like exulting pride in the declaration that now after all he will visit Juliet, and that very night. Our heroine thought with a kindred pride that ‘now she was free to look on the face of the man she loved. At that ‘moment came back to her the quiet, warning words of Dione Lyle ‘the day before.

“Miss Lyle was right I suppose,” she thought, “f may think of him so now at least, since he is dead. Even the poor girl whom he loved would not blame me now, if he could know.”

Her father came and quietly handed herto the carriage, maintaining a dignified case while in the presence of the servants, but relapsing ‘into ostentatious sympathy when they were alone together and on their way. It was little more than midday, but the skies were covered ‘and the scene was dim with mist, They had a tong drive, and they did not talk much. The momentary elevation of spirit which Marie had felt when she made her resolve had passed away, and she had now only a sense of utter loneliness. She looked into the future and shuddered at its blankness : and she looked back on the past and wondered why she ever was happy.

“For all the sympathy Sit John Challoner now expressed, his daughter could not bring herself to turn towards him in confidence and love. It was not merely that she could not bring herself to this; ‘but it did not scem in the nature of things that she should make ‘the attempt, or that there could be any confidence between them

any more, Some vague idea that she had not been fairly dealt with floated across her mind, It had not much shape; but there it

lnc T)

he could once have her safely back in the e might faint then, or cry, or do anything she liked. ot himself think now of the sight they were to see, It was

something covered with a great rug or blanket. Marie The time has come, she thought to herself, now. conceit passed through her. “I know now that I could t i execution—it wouldn't be half so bad as this |"

_ “This is the body," Mr. Sands said with superiluous explanation, ‘The body covered with its rug seemed to lord it over the place Mke visible King Death himself, Mr. Sands spoke in a low tone as one

Cy H & a z

“Shall 1?” Mr, Sands asked, putting his hand upon the rug and making a motion as if to remove it,

“If you please,” Sir John answered.

‘Marie found hemelf murmuring some pryer—to whom, for what, she scarcely knew.

‘Mr. Sands tumed down the rug. A pale, waxy face was seen. At did not look awfal ; it did not look human ; it did not sccm as if

‘Marie stooped oyer it for a second holding her breath. Sir John Ps down too, puzzled, amazed ; and then Maric tore her arm from

Sanita se SO Sint UY ie BS RAT a “Oh, it's met de! Ob, thank God {”

= |

Vand her father, who did not speak much, brought her to the where he said she could rest more comfortably, and she there feeling like a prisoner reprieved before his death has ‘been wholly carried out and who has not quite ‘fnimself so far as to understand his joy.

* The young lady is better, T hope?” Mr, Sands asked, putting his a3 ede elcorcscsly manor ceepie|Shw/reo) Tae

“Sale well now, thank you, Mr, Sands," Marie answered, to speak to anybody. “I never fainted before. But I was so to find that it wag not the friend we thought.”

Grief we all know is easier to keep in its place than joy. But it is expecially hard to keep from talking of one’s Joy. Dear Lady Dis- ‘dain found it a severe trial not to pour out to her father all the sense of gladness which had so completely overmastered her, Something told her, however, only too surely that he would not share her emo- tions, and ft was therefore a sort of relief to her even to express them | thus faintly to respectable Mr. Sands.

| =From what Mr. Sands has been telling me, however, I fear we | ‘enust not look on things as quite so certain,” her father said, | chillingly. “Two yonng men, you say, took a boat at Baymouth, Mr, Sands?”

“Two young men, Sir John, Such is the information we have received—two young men take a boat at Baymouth; no one goes with them. Z#é body is supposed to be one of them.”

“Tam sure he is not drowned,” Marie said, ina low tone, “I ‘know he is safe.”

“Well, well, we needn't try to argue that point," Sir John said. * OF course we all hope he is safe.”

“Odd, this one having the letter to the young lady in his pos- session,” Mr. Sands remarked.

“No, not particularly odd,” Sir John was quick to observe, for he did not chooge to have it supposed that any odd things could ‘happen where his daughter was concemed. “I dare say this poor fellow was a messenger. Mr. Pembroke’s servant very probably. Tia real Marie? Was that he?”

ore ye fae” | -,

at her and flung her away ?

heart leaped with a nameless, indefinable terror as she heard ‘the door, and then saw it open and her father come in. dl wa BE Ge ae eter oe NT jiece. Dear Lady Disdain had never before known ie ad ‘never had anything to be afraid of; and the common fer death, storms, wrecks, axid such like would have fousid her d brilliant, But she was for the moment cowed by this arious man, who she supposed might beat her and kill her if) TE she was capable or conscious of any distinct wish or ¢ at the time it was that he would kill her in some quick way,

| not strike anc beat her first, if John was now as pale as she, and he trembled more than she

Marie—Marie,” he said, “1 have come to beg your pardon, T—I want you to forgive me. I do not know what came ‘me—but I didn't mean what I said. I used to be very pas- ‘once, but not this long time—only it came out then in x ‘mom Won't you forgive me, my dear?"

"He mistook Marie's hesitation. She was too much bewildered and alarmed to collect her senses and reply, for this presentation of

her father was as strange and dreadful as the other,

“ My dear, my dear, do you refuse to forgive me? Good God, are

you afraid of me? I'll go on my knees to you.”

“Ob, my dear,” the poor bewildered, heart-torn gitl cried, throwing her arms round his neck, “don’t speak in that way; it is like madness! I forgive you, dear. I forgive you, a thousand times, 1 ‘know you didn't mean it—it was nothing. Do not think about it

| any more, "am not afraid of you, dear—oh no, not a bit. Why should I be afraid?”

| She now petted and soothed him almost as one might « child,

seemed, indeed, a sort of child to her. At first she feared in her

emme he was really going mad, but at last she came to

understand things better, Tt was only the farious outburst of =

Dear Lady Disdain. 627 a pessoas ween che apne ae thewng

t ‘him by or through his child, but who could not quite fs ers nine of sis martyrdom. ‘Marie felt already like a

her claim to her father’s Jove and shelter. Could a itl endure this long? Would life on such conditions

having? she felt was that she had not merely lost her father, but that changed her futher, given her 2 new and sadly different ne whom she hardly knew how to speak to, whom she ‘at with uneasiness and dread, who seemed to shrink from her her eyen when he was most civil and kind in words, pg of the'fairy story is always the strange, unfamiliar, whom the perplexed parent cannot warm to—here the the parent. Seldom surely was a gitl’s heart more rly tried. For the new vein of love which had been breathed aisite ag was the sensation it brought, only seemed to have opened that her heart might bleed‘to death. Her love was to n endurance, a miserable secret, not a blessing, She ‘out that she could love and that she did love, only Just in to find out that she could not have a lover, If Christmas ‘Pembroke was not dead—if that hope and belief brought a rush of joy, what a cold reaction followed it! His name was nothing to her ‘bait a name to make her blush. By the strangest combination of unhappy chances, love seemed to have brought to her nothing but

_ the neevt of renunciation, of repression, and of concealment. ‘Vet in one way her heart and her spirit never changed. She was still glad that she had broken suddenly and decisively from her ement with Ronald Vidal. She felt her check burn with shame as the | ‘of him. She could have thanked Heaven now thathe had ov r It-was well to have any Vittle sense af reich emig- ‘as well as the foreground of nex Mhongpio.

em top hr pa a |

fiz The Gentleman's Magazine, mir i ite screr: tot we have talked of all that, and it cant he

whet mow.” cab went rear. m2 Marie was left for awhile to herself. Se very minextie and was oppressed with the conviction tht che Te? eecraces cos imow that she was fallen from power and wa wwas = some semse a relief to her when Janet, Die ¢ mit rresecced herself with a message from her mistes Mis: Lyie wocid Eke most particularly to see Miss Chal ism ¢ Miss Coacore wockd not mind venturing out, as the dy ces Ge, Nis: Cocmer would not have minded venturing ott in <x. Gxy for a Kindly look and a loving word from FF :ce in! se crocised 2o go to Miss Lyle at once. But ste = tas; Sears for she felt convinced that Miss Lyles mesg: Sox Sire senething w do with Christmas Pembroke S17 Eaow iz Swe minutes that he is safe, or that heis Jos 7 Mun: si.¢ <> bersel; and come what might she must, for he swe stk: ind ie woman's dignity, not show what she felt too much Miss Lxie might have sent only to ask something abost vagce romours perhaps. And Marie must be

ai the worst might have occured sFeaty tocched always by Dione’s affection for

somes and her own—they must not be told, even to sone Lyle. To no human heart could she reveal seth that her futher and she were divided for ever— ske had known him, was lost to her. Nor would 2 broken with Ronald until Ronald himself bad

zrthened with to meet the one only friend in the m she would gladly open all her heart! And Dione eyes and would see any sudden evidence of peculiar emozica, and would ask the reason, and if she did ask, what could ‘Marie answer? There was nothing for Marie, she thought as she went along, but to school herself into the most absolute self-control, and let no surprise betray her into emotion or into inconsiderate words. Of all tasks that could be imposed on her, any task of con- cealment, the accomplishing of even the Tost Yous (aud, was the hardest strain to put on Dear Lady Disdsin, whose words, Glew her thoughts as the sound follows the fash.

Dear Lady Disdain. 033 Lyle, why are you angry with me, and what have I done? understand a word, Surely you don't think I knew—ch, no,

y seeraed against. ‘her, though she was not conscious of injured any one except Ronald Vidal. She had come to Lyle for sympathy, and found that there too she was looked

ces. What good could come of that? He knew you were d to be married,”

plucked up a little spirit now. “I don't see what that has ‘todo with it, Miss Lyle, I suppose people are not to be cut off ‘from every word of kindness and friendship in this world because ‘they are engaged to be married. We—we—liked each other always he and I. We were friends, At least I liked him—of course I did —and I think he liked me. Why should he not wish to say good-bye Jo me when he was going away? It was very very kind of him— and I don’t think I deserved it.”

“ How would Mr. Vidal have liked it, do you think?”

“T shouldn't have thought it necessary to ask Mr. Vidal's consent even if 1 had known,” Lady Disdain said, colouring. “1 didn’t know. But he would never have thought of objecting—why should he object? 1 am sure sie would not have objected unless she is a greater fool than I hope she is, for his sake,” she added, with one womanlike and irrepressible touch of bitterness towards “the other,”

“Who is she?" x “That young lady—Miss Jansen, of course.”

“What has she to do with this, dear?"

“The girl to whom Mr. Pembroke is engaged?" : Dione had almost forgotten that old story, and in her present she could not even pretend to believe in it. For the ir erat le apa Marie was indulging in some

Tittle coquettish affectation. ey You don't believe that story, dear. You

you don’t, You know very well that the poor lad cares no pemedac zl tent do wis coeur

| =

634 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Marie opened wondering eyes.

“But he did care for her—he said so,” Marie faltered, ame | breathless.

“Not he, dear ; he never told any such untruth.”

“ But, Miss Lyle, whom then did he care for?”

Dione looked into her open, wondering eyes.

“Either you are a better actress than I thought, dear, or you are more innocent than some of us were at the age of ten. Did you never know with whom Christmas Pembroke really was in love?”

“ Never—except Miss Jansen. Every one said Miss Jansen” —

“ And you don’t know still—you don’t guess even now?”

“Oh, Ican’'t guess. I'll not try to guess,” Marie said, growing very red; “and it couldn't be, Miss Lyle,” she added rather incur sistently.

“It could be, dear—it was—and it is; and I can tell you I wish it had never been, for his sake. Indeed, I thought you must have known it”

“Oh”

‘The exclamation was partly a protest: but it was also a ay of

wonder and delight. “And that was why I was a little sharp, my dear,” Dione went on. “I thought you knew it, and were pleased with it—I mean I beganto think this when I got his message to-day, and found that he had been trying to see you. I never thought it before, and I don’t think it now. Yes, Marie, he was in love with you all the time.”

“It can't be,” said Marie, “I don’t think it can be”

“He told me so, Marie.”

Another irrepressible note of delight was heard.

~ Yes, I extorted it from him. Poor fellow! Well, I am glad to tell you all this now, Marie, because it is better you should know. 1 wish I had told you before.”

“So do I,” Marie said in a low voice.

“Yes, you might have known better how to act. Now you know, and your course is clear, Marie.”

“Is it? I wish it were.”

“Of course you must not see this poor lover of yours any more.”

Marie started.

“ You wouldn't surely think of seeing him again after that? What would be the use of it? Why should you torment him for no purpose? I think it would be very wrong of you, Marie; and I know you too well to believe you bee Ao anyling, wrong,

Promise me, Marie, that you will not see Hia”” : 3

Marie was silent. Hoersoul was too touch sbrorbed in werner

Table Talk. 639

as collected! and arranged by Maimonides, of which the first o the belief in the existence of God, the second five to

rom the time of Moses to ‘the present day: it has been the

" yin the Unity of the Godhead, immortality of the

, the divinity of the Jaw, and the inspiration of the prophets.

i¢ judicious reader, however, will not find it difficult to reconcile

ew of the stability of the Jewish faith with the “English Jew’s"

as to the changes that Judaism has undergone. I can

- synupathise with the critics who defend the old Jewish prayers

the charge of intolerance. Literally speaking there is, no

bt, a good deal of intolerance in all sectarian prayere—more

lly those which have come down from olden times; but if

matter is put comparatively, and if we make allowance for the

verlastingly disgraceful persecutions under which the sons of Abra-

ary sitions it will be easily granted by all reasonable Chris-

tigns that the tone of Jewish faith and observances has been

throughout the ages exceptionally and nobly tolerant. A writer in

the Queen, referring to that part of the article relating to conversion,

observes that the present Prime Minister is a Jewish convert to

Christianity. On this point I have a letter from the “English

Jew,” who say ‘The Premier's father had a quarrel with the

Portuguese synagogue about money matters, and thereupon [saac

D'Isracli left the synagogue, and his son somchow became a church-

goer; but it is a fact that Benjamin Disraeli has never been baptised asa Christian.”

From the descendants of the great Admiral Tromp in Holland, through my Dutch correspondent, come further items as to the pro» priety or impropriety of the English practice of speaking of the famous sea warriors of that fiumily as Van Tromps. According to these notes from the country between which and ourselves there existed « good deal of hostility, off and on, in the days of the ‘Tromps, I learn that the father of the first admini) was killed in a fight with an “ English pirate," while according to British author ities he lost his life in an engagement off the coast of Guinea with an “English cruiser.” This patriotic discrepancy, however, between the two stories, docs not go to the point of the name. Itscems clear ‘enough from these authoritative memoranda that neither the first

— wu

A Dog and his Shadow. 643

Jet's see what the lad has in him. Give him all the rope

i —."" She left her sentence unfinished, but it was taken

¢ ‘approval. In short, Abel at Longworth had at first ty much of a fly in amber, and, on that principle, treated asa curiosity. But, when all the various motives that actuated push him were combined into a whole, the result was

of generous aid and friendship that Abel would find

ed to taking orders when the choice was put to him, bring himself to face St. Kit’s again, while thé portrait Keeper who had singled him out from the herd still engraved upon bis memory. ‘Wars of the Stars" were unfinished still. ‘They lay at the of his old trunk, and had scarcely advanced beyond “ the seven mansions of the moon.” Abel showed his gratitude best way—by hard work and plenty of it. He had not his own career; but he accepted it, as he had accepted all that had come to him since he was born, Fortune was gil of favours ; it seemed only to those who tried to take them ce that she refused them. He thought he could understand houses like Longworth came to be built by stupid people :

_ Possibly, therefore, he had a right to be more grateful to Fortune herself than to her blind agents the Deanes, and all the more seause one who has trained himself to be a mystic ean never train

to became wholly otherwise, Even yet it is impossible to

| answer the question, What will he become? It is only certain that he is doing his best to grasp at the substance and to throw away the dream, and is therefore a preternaturally wise dog. 1 emve his

pardon—min.

Beatrice had not seen him for a considerable time: and when he ‘eame over to dinner the next day with Mr. Deane she found that he also had shared in the general change. The slave of fortune had set the laws of physiognomy at defiance by looking like a man of

inherent energy and iron will, even as he had sct other

eee ee tet being bom © tsp betas taal eR

maker, and looking so much like a gentleman that nobody would

‘ever dream of speculating whether he was one or no, He was

still grave and silent by habit, and unable to talk to men and 7 ete

— Pa

A Dog and his Shadow. 645 wait Uncle George?” she asked. “If it was murder,

ety een vias doyou ula of girls’ logic, eh? Fancy ve try murder at sessions, and not wanting rascals to be

jealing a pair of boots, and a very bad pair wo, He stole

certainly as if I'd seen him. And what do you think

's eloquence got the jury to find?” asked Annie,

® They found manslaughter.” Ob, uncle!" exclaimed Beatrice triumphantly. “ And you talk logic | I don't think I’m very stupid to ask what that means." I can't say you are, I suppose they'd heard of murder ‘manslaughter, and thought it the regular form for saying ght he ought to be punished in proportion to their doubts, muddle of that sort.” { had you to punish him for manslaughter?” asked Annie. bless me—there’s woman's law again! We sent them and then they found * Not guilty: and we recommend him to fey. Ah, Herrick, you muddled them gloriously.” “I did my best, sir,” said Abel. “I agree with you the verdict have been guilty and no mercy.” And yet you defended him !” said Beatrice obstinately. “ Would | you have spoken against him if you'd thought him innocent? To my girls’ logic that means the same thing. And is that the work of | men's most ambitious profession—to defend small thieves? At any rate, If I were a barrister, I would not go below a high ”

“Tt was my duty,” said her master, in the tone of authority that she had entitled him to use towards her from the beginning, and ee noel ty their relation of teacher and Pepi

frowned a as he spoke : she was opposing him for ‘he’

eeaeiar stiles cnn

—— a

A Dog and his Shadow, 649 T should have insisted on his making you his confidant—

right. I don't know who the girl is, and 1 won't know, that she is not a fit and proper person to be the wife of I did think—I did think,” he said quickly and loudly,

Twas proud of him: and let me tell you, though you ‘think much of such things, a young man doesn’t ride, and ot, and row, and bat like my Tom by being a fool He isn't _ “nine young men out of ten—he’s no milksop, but he never pleased me, nor his poor mother, since he was born, Girls are:

s ‘You astonish met? suid Abel: and he was astonished indeed. Tt would astonish a statue—if it only knew Tom from head to ‘T've known him ever since he was born! But I don't want T've told you all the circumstances, and I want to know what you'd do if you were me.” IRE nob ee case for en oplalons ac Really I don’t know"—— “Nonsense. You do know. Anybody would know, It's a ques- tion of right and wrong—everybody knows the difference between ‘ight and wrong, The Vanes, and the Deanes who came after them, have always looked forward to a baronetcy at least—we ought to ‘have had it long ago, and should if we'd been as ready to lick the mud off voters’ boots as some I could name, You don't suppose I built Longworth, and damaged my estate, for myself to die in, FE ‘built it for my great-great-grandchildren to live in. The Vanes of ‘Longworth, I needn't tell you, were one of the best families in all ‘England, and the Eliots another, and the Deanes represent them. And I'm not going to cross the stock by any deed of mine.” Abel's face turned deep red, Well had it been for him that he had bribed the tinker, though the vague purpose dimly gathering about him is probably far more defined in our eyes than in his own. ‘He had never forgotten the sting of that morning when Beatrice had. been told that he was no gentleman, and her uncle's angry contempt for peasant blood recalled it bitterly. It gave practical point to his re- verie, It became doubly needful therefore that he should now speak: asa gentleman would be expected to speak : and what better guide re eas tn way tn Which Wy Aa

Ime 4

= 650

The Cenllemay', Magazin

“OF course, si

TE Base blood must not mire. ee nd Eliots, and Deanes, That is clear, Ip jg ina” son should think of such g thing, I shop’ J thority.” i be There can be no doubt af cle: le thed freely, through the test 38 well as if hy be: Selves, “You are telling me exactly what hal a disappointe -,, To mess haye i yy : along, + must $4) , I am = all ise and ma’ JUst as wel proO!

ov -On't say you won', $2" *# 80 back from ny gett

finger, 7

A Dog and his Shadow. 655 to suspect Milly of disloyalty, but to be con-

he gencrous ring of his own speech startled him. Surely he was ing like a gentleman now: Beatrice herself must have owned it she been by to hear. It certainly startled ‘Tom. Abel was ‘the most generous of rivals or the coldest of lovers. To love y coldly being of course impossible, it followed that Abel was ‘most gencrous rival under the sun. His whole face opened into as he held out his hand. “Toknew you were a good fellow!” he said, in triumphant ad- on. “Then I know what to do, We start fair now, Dhave ‘horse, and you shall have the dog-cart and groom, as you're not nuch in the saddle. We are in good time to catch the first up-train; and then you must beat me if you can.” “Catch the up-train? What on earth do you mean ?” Bee wad trom, vyaratig with ooo licsen nt tateg | able to reduce the whole question to a trial of speed and energy. “I know what you're going to say—I shall not tell my father, must be able to come back and say to him either that I give her up freely, ar else that I give up Longworth to Bee and Annie with all the pleasure in the world. There would only be another row, and igs much best to do first and talk after. There—I’m off to the sable, and if you're aftaid I shall steal a start, you had better “come too,”

“ You mean you are going to tell her what I have told you?”

“Ofcourse Ido. If she’s free, she's free: but you ought to have ‘a fair chance of keeping your first place in the ficld, 1 might have gone off without telling you, just as you were not bound to tell me she is free. But we're quits now, and the deuce take the hind~ most."

"No," said Abel, “Whoever she likes best will come soon enough, whether he comes first or second, Go if you like—I only want her to choose freely, and shall not interfere,”

“And that's the man who fainted in the street)when he lost a

a S

A Dog and his Shadow, 657 how she bad first appeared to him in the garden : ep Bae

ly still, But he had no doubt that his choice was right and

sigh at the loss of what lay in his hand, but he was bound to the highest ideal he could find, and, if Longworth happened ne with it, that was Fate’s look out, for which he was in no way

ible. “Beatrice is not the less Beatrice for being rich,” he d himself; and there he cannot be said to have judged

from a waking or sleeping dream, he was roused by a confusion of bells ringing, of hurrying feet, and of shouts and ms, a5 if the house were falling about his ears. The i m was at the end of a long passage that Joined it to the bulk of ‘building, and was carefully removed from the approach of noise, 50 t for a moment he fancied he was in the midst of waking from a ¢. Then, for one moment more, he connected the con- with Tom’s departure. But that could in no way account for he heard. He ron out into the hall and was almost smothered ssmoke—he escaped to the terrace, where he was met with cries _ of what he had no need to be told—that Longworth was on fire. ‘Tt must have been discovered late, for the whole park was already filled with the glare, and showers of sparks were rushing up to the sky. ‘The houschold was gathered together on the terrace, looking ‘on helplessly. Indecd there was nothing clse to be done, for the ‘nearest town was many miles away. Abel caught sight of Mr. Deane, and Annie rin up to him, crying to him breathlessly— “ Bee—Tom—where are they ?” “Good God! Are they not here? I forget though—Tom is ‘safe—but “— Annie could only stretch her arm towards the house,“ Save her!” she cried out. “In the turret room over the laurels” — A Jadder might do it, miss,” said an under-gardener, who, having: ‘but few wits to mind, took care of them easily, “A ladder !” caught up a dozen voices in chorus, while dozen pairs of feet started off a dozen different ways. “ But there ben’t one nearer than the village,” said the under-

gardener. Annie clasped and wrung her hands. * Blankets!” suggested ‘Vou. XV, N.S, 1875. “Tai

Ee

A Dog and his Shadow, 659

se loss she remembered to have heard, ‘Then another gave way, nd was likewise buried. ‘Then a third, and then a fourth, till only

remained. These pressed on till one fell ill—it was like the climax of a tragedy. She hurriedly taraed to the title-page the name of the survivor, for she knew instinctively that the would dic—but there was none. And then she read how man, whose life was the nfost important of them all, bore like a hero, only anxious to bring home before he died of discovery that he alone could explain, But how was onward? Surely the nameless sixth man, who told the must haye been the greater hero of the two. He never said it was clear that he must have had the strength to have saved: a dozen times by pressing on and giving up the desperate his friend, He could not conceal that it was necessary to all night, and to carry and tend the dying man all day, and to he whole work of a whole expedition with one brain und one of hands, What if this sixth man also should give way! She ‘on breathlessly, heedless of how the time flew, absorbed in the nes of these madmen or martyrs, till a sense of actual heat began come upon her, as if her body had been carried to the tropics as asher mind, At first she wok no notice of this, for the night

household was no doubt in bed and asleep long ago. But no matter |\Bow fate or how exrly one may be, there is always sure to bo some ‘ody who fs earlier or later, Whether two in the morning is to be Tate or early ig a matter of opinion, but at any rate the | moonlight across the turf showed her that somebody was up and about as well as she, and that the somebody was a man, ‘The ae wan Nis Sy sot i es Bao wibo window, the hour, and the warm alr made up a theatrical combina

tion that absurdly suggested a scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet," and ~ = E R eee

A Dog and his Shadow, 66¢

think of Annie and ‘Tom, and her Uncle George, and pray SePiReSsatet hac whine aus ah Ee hak ao ‘ich moments the most unselfish must be driven by over- ering elemental rage to think first of self, and Beatrice had culti- self Gr too largely to be the most unselfish person in the _ Not that unselfishness would have been of the smallest use, that she could not ald herself, far less others, and there is

h oF eaping fora ber open window upon the gravel walk

Tt was just possible that by some marvellous accident she

t fall more than thirty feet without breaking a limb. But it was certain death, or worse than death, and not even the advan- flames behind her could bring her to consciously try the cast of through the air. Ifshe must kill hersplf to escape from death, ‘were better ways of suicide. It would have been better to be

‘daa buming ship, with the bosom of the sea as a refuge.

“And was she, the darling of the house, to be left to perish in her ison without a thought of aid? Her uncle and the servants might ‘de grappling with the fire; Annie, she felt with horror, might be

‘equal peril — but where was Tom? Where was he on whose ‘strength she had been learning to rely? Would Milly have been Teft in such a strait with these two young men both in the same house with her?

Neither came—neither made any sign of coming. Every now and then she fancied she heard steps or voices approaching the corer ‘of the house where she was waiting for death, but they as regu- arly died away again, She did not recognise the helpful sound of even one voice she knew. It wasas if she had not only been for- gotten by all to whom she was dear, but as if affection itself had perished in the flames, All this had been the work of moments, Tong as it has taken to tell. She herself would have said that she fainted away at the first sight of the flames.

And then happened what had all the semblance of a miracle. It would have been nothing out of the common in the Lives of the Saints, but in the case of an English young lady, who was not only ‘no saint, but thought herself something of an exprif fort, and did not believe in tuning so much as a hat without the help of flesh and ae ‘was much more than strange. ‘Though she turned faint, she

entirely lose consciousness. In this half trance-like condition hs hereeii into the air, and vwalted through it, ‘with no fear of falling, till she sank gently down upon the |

d anybody might be anywhere. Beatrice and Annie

ior sheinigte in the gardener’s cottage, while Abel

and forwards with Mr, Deane in front of the now

pile till it rose in the grey morning light too black and {00 to look spon,

talking till past sunrise, Annie fell asleep ; but Beatrice did

eyes. ‘To ber, the disasters of the night hud not been

ridden to think of Milly's lover in the most natural way, thought of him in every way but one, and could not find it to toll herself outright that it was not for her sake he had ‘none else had dared. It had been only because she was a ‘no doubt, and not because she was Beatrice Deane; but the that it might have been otherwise was too sweet to throw away. sort of girl could this Milly be, who had been chosen out of all d by an ambitious man who yet had it in him to risk life,

[Abel Herrick, like many another great man before him, was throwing “himself away.

“Everything that happens,” she thought, “comes to the same “thing—I must escape while there is time. I am actually come to the pass of thinking about love and lovers, like the silliest of them all. Twill not be turned aside, even by fire. Tam of no use here ‘A will sce Mrs, Burnett, as I intended, in spite of everything ; and ‘not another day shall pass before I have made up my mind what my life is to be. Only it shall be worthy of a human being, and there- fore it shall not be at home."

She rose and left the cottage while it was still carly, taking care ‘not to wake Annie, for fear of having to discuss a purpose that was fally formed but which no amount of explanation would ever make her sister understand. She avoided the house also, for she knew ‘that Abel was still upon the terrace, and she was shy of the first ‘meeting with one who had come to represent theJife from which she was really trying to fly. She must thank him, of course; but before others, and when her head was cool and her heart clear,

‘Mrs, Burnett lived in an old farm-housc, or rather farmer's eot- tage, about a mile from Longworth. She might bave hada much better dwelling, but she preferred this apparently for the reason that

Ss

A Dog and kis Shadow, 665 ch good in coming sooner, as there was nothing to be done, I pose you came to sce my mother? I’m sorry for that, as she has ‘over to see ifshe can be any help to you, I wonder you didn’t ‘by the way.”

trice felt more than vexed—if she had only thought of her first and herself afterwards she would not have had her walk nothing, beyond an interview with the Captain,

"Well, U'm very glad you did not disturb yourself," she said, "It ” Re ae Te eae nce eee

Biss to ereeet a “When a building blazes like

hat, and everybody is safe, the only thing ix to let it burn out, and "the quicker the better. It was ax much as I could do to keep that nother of mine from rushing out without a shawl to catch her death Feold." Beatrice shuddered as she thought of the death from which she _ herself had been saved by a miracle. To that, however, she could ‘not cven allude: something kept her from speaking to Captain ‘Burnett of Abel, “Quite right of you," she said. “I should never have forgiven myself if our fire had given you or your mother cold. But I am really glad to see you,” she said more kindly, thinking that Sleepy Dick was but Sleepy Dick after all, and was to be allowed the privilege of following out his own nature. “You are the very Jast [ expected to see. If I had been asked where you were I should have doubted between Canada and Australia, but I should never have guessed Longworth.” She thought it as well to show him at the outset of their renewed acquaintance that his movements were no concern of hers. A man who could sleep through a conflagration no more than a mile off might still be sleepy cnough to have some Fingering remnant left of his dream of folly.

Lee split the difference, you see. Here I am, and very glad, I can tell you, to be at home again, I suppose you're not inclined to wait formy mother? She won't be long, I fancy, when she misses you, and I'll go if you like and tell her you're here.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself I shall meet her, T dare say— and I have more to say to her than I have time for, I'm afraid, to- day. I'll say good bye, now—I ought to be at home." And so, having brought this exciting and interesting conversation to an end, she held out her hand.

‘The Captain, as if to avoid touching it, looked straight before him aad kept his hands in his pockets as he walked ‘by ‘nex site alateq, the Jane. It looked almost like —

‘i

The Philosophy of the Falk Laws. 675

don the bad: so do the elements, They knew the sorrows of and wept when he wept; they knew his joys, and joined

the festive circle; they laughed and sang and danced; ouched the lyre under the willow trec, and wrote immortal on the banks of flowing rivers. The worship of such deities

iferent the picture presented hy the Christian Chouretst

phich it appeared. But it had from the start a character of iov Te was + Church as well as a religion, It was content at the

to assert simply its independence of, or rather its distinction

the State, and to lay down for the guidance of its subjects the

unction “Render unto Ca:sar the things which are Cassars"— that may of course be made to justify all the different

»which the Church has assumed toward society. Take for

ce St. Thornas Aquinas, who was surely not without logical

0 ‘Mr. Hallam found but three men in. England whe had

Epes is. canocised philosopher, and. 7 shall surely. not claim the tile and honours of the fourth. But in an extract from St. Thomas, whieh has just fullen under my eye, there is given as his definition of Divine law that it is “concise, clear, and infallible” ; yet when ‘this same philosopher enters on the subject of Church and State he ds obliged to write a preliminary treatise to determine what is ‘Cresar’s and what God's. The same fallacy runs through the entire scholastic philosophy, indeed through the whole philosophical Witerature of the Church. It assumes that there is somewhere a consistent Christian theory of the relations between Church and ‘State, and it pays the secular reason the compliment of discussion ; ‘but in the solution of the grave problem the New ‘Testament, in spite of its authority, is of no more use than the Oracle of Delphi to ‘the leader of a Greek army. ‘The rule in question was accorded a place among the tenets of the Church, like so many other obscure ‘utterances, because, first, the mystical is always very effective in ‘seasons of religious fervour ; second, it avoided an immediate mpture Ce Neebilimlbede alight dire iat g iain

_—

The Philosophy of the Falk Laws. 677

“The natural result of this policy followed the Napoleonic ware. jeric Williaa 111. was nearly frightened out of his senses by the social convulsions through which he had passed, and like y weak minds unexpectedly delivered from great danger, he into a morbid and preposterous pictisen. ‘That which had with his ancestors a matter of selfish policy became with him a ‘of faith ; if they bad made the Church the domestic he made the bride of the nation. While the public service was going to “pieces from general demoralisation, the King was trifling with his P and his liturgies, and his schemes of universal salva~ ‘Stein tried in vain to give a more Protestant direction to the ‘royal mania, It was part of his Majesty's belief that Prussia needed ‘not sectarian spirit, but an exalted Catholic orthodoxy, and this he ‘determined to fuse into the life, and the character, and the institu- ‘ions of Prussia. Unfortunately the times were ripe for such an enterprise, and the poor King succeeded but too well. The two Establishments, which had been in some anxiety about the conse- ‘quences for religion, and even for a few years afterwards had wembled Test the cry for political reform should prove louder than the exhor- tations of the Church, accepted this solution of the problem with satisfaction, and continued to share their common patrimony in a manner,

Nothing indeed but the most suicidal jealousy could have disturbed their good relations, The two sects had lived so long together fn Prussia that each had won its own line of supporters, and an extensive conversion from one to the other was scarcely to be ‘expected ; so that they had proselytising zeal but in a feeble degree, ‘They were sagacious enough to see that secularism, their chief foe, ‘wasa common foe, and to combine against it, No trifling interests were indeed in question. During three hundred years the ecclesias- tical power had been tightening its grasp, and within that time it had succeeded in converting the State into a disguised theocracy. From his cradle to his coffin the subject was nursed by the ministers of religion, They baptised him at the font, they watched over him ar school, they married him, and they said the funeral rites over his grave. The only option was between systems of clerical service which might be equally odious. And if the power of the Church, by which term is to be understood the ecclesiastical element and not any particular sect,—if the power of the Church with the people had been nourished by three centuries of empire, its pride and dignity ‘were supported by the closest alliance with the secular nobility. The ‘spirit of privilege among the nobles, and the spititof privilege among,

ma 4

678 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the clergy, acted really as an homogeneous force. For want of a

better name it may be called the sacerdotal force, a name which ina

‘broad sense is here applied to that mixed sentiment of pride, reverence, and authority by which the inheritance of great powerand great gifts welds together sympathetic classes in society. A similar ‘union—or rather fusion—can be found nowhere else on the continent of Europe. It is as unlike the fitful coquetry of Church and aristo- cracy in France, as the power of the rural prediger is unlike that of the curé, A Duke of Guise and a Marie Alacoque would be equally impossible in Prussia. Not vanity nor superstition is the cementing principle, but the grave traditional feeling of a common superiority. Indeed the traces of the compact have now disappeared, and nothing remains but the sacerdotal spirit itself, acting with the method and directness of a single force, yet spreading through all the arteries of society. It is an element which the reason can hardly separate from the life of Prussia.

A minute analysis of this spirit reveals much that is admirable Within the limits of its natural action it is profoundly loyal, and has served efficiently in every great movement of Prussia. It is one source of that grave national virtue which, for being a good dal exaggerated, is not the less positive and real. It inspires that sombre, patient, unconquerable sense of duty which nerves the Prussian soldier. It spreads a chaste and devout piety through the State, and has its home with an aristocracy free from scandal. Ruling like an intellectual despot over the thought of the country, it values the fact more than the exercise of power, and is jealous rather than cruel. But it is a provincial spirit, narrow, sclésb, illiberal. It has neither the large speculative benevolence of pure philosophy, nor the warmth of a generous superstition. Teaching the principle of authority, it frowns on the expansive power of reason. It employs the formulas of religion to aid the sway of privilege, and thus surrounds absolutism with a halo of holiness. To the assaults of the sceptic it opposes a firm and complacent dogmatism. It in- spires awe by the splendour of its arrogance. In political life it makes the State an informal theocracy. In social life it establishes grades and teaches obedience. In ecclesiastical life it provides 2 stately faith, without the enthusiasm which warms the heart, or the simplicity which satisfies the understanding. It is devout without humility, proud without grandeur, and loyal without patriotism.

‘The fears of the Clericals and the hopes of the Liberals were alike deceived when Frederic William IV. ascended the throne. The new

king was endowed with a high wpright character and a poeke wit,

The Philasophy of the Falk Laws. 679

e had been trained in a school which locked resolutely away ‘the present He was enraptured by the romance of medixyval He read of tilts and tournaments, and polished up the misty of his fathers; he learned the rude poetry of the Minne- and fancied an age in which a king might sing ballads under dows of his lady love, He looked on the dull routine of on as Mr. Ruskin looks on railways, or as a pre-Raphaclite

0 Gein praduced, did) credit to. abe, muladsole sill aria or. All parties were surprised: but the Clericals, perhaps, in the micasure, They learned that a written Charter was mot neces-

an instrument of Satan, but that it might, if properly drafted,

the efficient bulwark of a safe social system, That this ene

was properly drafted must appear from its own provisions, It made | no attempt to throw off the yoke of ecclesiastical despotism, but left “all the old privileges of the Church in full sway, and with the addi- tional authority given them by positive written guarantees. Above all, the substantial union between the two great sects was confirmed “rather than shaken by this ordinance. Although they were theologi- “cally as far apart as Martin Luther and Pope Leo X., there continued. tobe between them a tolerably firm alliance against free thought, ‘secularism, and the revolution ; and both refrained from imperilling ide common cause by rashness and izopatience. ‘There was strategic without dogmatic unity, Te is impossible to reconcile the position here accorded to the ‘Church with the traditional idea in Prussian policy. ‘The “civil slavery," of which M. Janet speaks, was indeed fully realised, so far a8 the subject himself was concerned, by the course of discipline, social, smilitary, political, educational, religious, to which he was legally sub- jected ; but the element of political liberty could not be ascribed to ‘a State that surrendered a share of its sovereignty, a portion of its domestic authority, unreservedly to an organisation within itself, What ‘if the organisation were a member of a splendid hierarchy which had disputed with the mightiest princes of the world ? Whatif it were the

ee eee Si rich tae ee ee e3 of a German Reformation, and commanded the services of nds of earnest and faithful patriots? It might be the Church of Rome, or the Church of Luther, or the Church of Moses and the

680 The Gentleman's Magazine.

acting under an illogical arrangement asa bar to the orderly develop.

ment of the country. The subject was taught a double allegiance. ‘The State was master of one larger class of his movements oaly, through the jealous, haughty, and capricious medium of a spiritual patriciate. Instead of making religion a humble ward of the nation, as they had hoped, and moulding it wholly into the service of the State, the Kings of Prussia found that they had only called into being a powerful institution which could dictate its own terms of loyalty.

The evil being assumed, we pass to the second stage of the dis cussion: How shall the relations between Church and State as above described be modified in a manner to restore to the State its lot privileges, without trespassing on the just liberties of the Church? How shall a better adjustment between the one and the other be effected?

It has been often observed that there are but three systems ac- cording to which the relations of Church and State can be settled. ‘The Church must be the State, and society consequently a theocracy; or there must be a partition of functions more or less explicit and formal between the two; or the Church must be treated like any other organisation within the State, and be subjected to a supervision as severe as justice requires and as impartial as the interests of the State permit. These are the systems respectively of the Orient, of modern Europe, and of the United States. ‘The first system has probably no defender in Christendom. Even the Syllabus was directed rather against moral and scientific errors, and hardly contemplated the assumption by the Church of all the functions of civil government. Pure theocracy may therefore be dismissed without farther concern, The second system, which is or was that of Prussia and most European countries, recognises religion as a distinct social charge, and concedes it a certain degree of support from the State,

In the third of these three systems, that ot the United States, the State ignores the Church except when she comes in contac with general laws. To religion as such the Federal Constitution gives only the negative attention of two paragraphs, one of which simply declares that no religious test shall be exacted of public servants, and the other guarantees freedom of religious worship; while both together form the basis of a system which differs only in form, but not in principle, from that of the ancient republics. Both systems recognise the utility of religion to society, both treat it as deriving its social or corporate High's from the Sake. “Wary dif

Constitution asserts by implication the power of the over the Church. A power which may be voluntarily surren- "dered may also be retained, and a right which is conditionally waived by a constitutional enactment may be recovered by the same means. ‘It was so with slavery, Why not with religion? The guarantces of slavery in the Constitution were as clear and absolute as those of ‘religious worship ; and if a Thirteenth Amendment may revoke the former, another amendment, under a reasonable necessity, may cer- |) ‘tainly revoke the latter. | Am seeking an escape, therefore, from a system which had become | Gmtolerable, Prince Bismarck was contined to two other systems, of ‘which the one implies the complete surrender of the State to the interests of religion, and the other maintains the principle of the absolute supremacy of the civil power. It could not be diffieult for the Minister of a modern State to make the choice. The political institutions and with them the civilisation of Buddha and Zoroaster could not be reproduced in the nineteenth century and in educated Prussia; the forms of Paganism were equally extinct, It only re- amined, therefore, to adopt the principle of the classical system, and to apply it with such modifications as the times and the circumstances made necessary. That these pointed toward the American system Prince Bismarck was not one of the last to recognise,

Objection will, of course, be raised to the method of solution adopted by Prince Bismarck, but this is sufficiently explained by the wide difference in the conditions of the problem in the two countries, In America the separation of Church and State means the indepen- ence of the former ; in Prussia it means the disenthralment of the latter. The American Constitution lends to the Church certain social privileges which the State has no desire to control. The Falk Jaws in Prussia recover for the State certain civil and political func tons that the Church has usurped. The American legislators had to deal with sects, or, if the term be preferred, with religions, which had {not the will or the power to make seditious citizens out of faithful believers, and which were felt to be least dangerous when most free. The Prussian reforms aim at the restoration of that har- mony between the two powers which the arrogance and selfishness ‘of the priesthood have hitherto thwarted, and which is most complete when'the Church is most rigorously kept in her own field of action.

bee |

The Philosophy of the Falk Laws. 683 In the first place the Church has theological reasoms

pce of eteroal social ‘forms, wand to pretend thet she ‘has red rights as a Church over which society has no control is to ty of one of the essential clements of its being. In

n given, what reasoning can be given, to justify this monstrous n? ‘The right of conscience is of course quite another thing; that be meant it is perhaps not quite useless to try to show

terests of society cannot be a violation of the rights of conscience. ‘The error lies in supposing that a congregation of believers, or a “Church, can be inspired by a collective conscience. The meta- physicians tell us, at least those who admit any such thing at all, that conscience is the faculty of moral judgments, the adtéma radio of all men, except, perhaps, kings. As such it is and must be purely ‘personal with every human being. It is a passive, and not an active ‘organ. It interprets, but does not create; it judges, but does not ‘execute. Now from the genesis of history to the present time the ‘most determined enemies of conscience have been the great ‘ecclesiastical orders ; and of all these there is not one whose tenets ‘and pretensions are so irreconcilable with the free exercise of that. faealty as the Roman Catholic Church, ‘This is natural and eon- sistent, ‘The Church does not invite men toreason, she invites them ‘to obey; she is the oracle, not of conscience, but of authority. She acts on the sound maxim—though in times of adversity it suits her to forget it—that the human conscience is not a constructive faculty ; that it has organised, and from the nature of things can organise, absolutely nothing, But there is a cementing principle, higher than ‘mere blind obedience, which is commonly but wrongly called eon- science. It may be an acquired sense of duty, it may be a common ‘feeling of loyalty, or it may be only esprit de aps. Or if the term conscience be insisted on it must be called the educative or acquired conscience, in distinction from the natural reason, which is mot ac- quired, and cannot be educated. This quality is, of

ed

The Philosophy of the Falk Laws, 685

yé can it create nothing good; and if all the world accepted mule and was agreed on what is bad and what good, the process: orical analysis would be very much simplified. Prince Bis- himself would find much of his work condemned by an in- ble public virtue. He is a statesman on whose chamcter and ‘many true Liberals look with abhorrence, and the perpetua- his method would at least be a serious blow to civilisation. the present conflict the broader interests of free thought, political orm and progress have too often been sacrificed to what may be called the dynamic necessities of the State, There is really, however, @ question of Prince Bismarck’s value to society, but of the relative ‘of his sway and that of the Roman Catholic Church. In other Is, in the most sinister view of the case, is he not, by smiting the ;, overthrowing a power noxious to society, and thus doing “necessanly the work of Liberalism?

For my own part, I rejoice that the cause of the State is just now a the hands of this masculine politician. His name isa guaranty of - thorough work, and when he will have abolished the régime of cowls and tonsures some more Liberal successor may abolish that of swords and spurs and cavalry boots.

SiR PERCIVAL OF WALES.

A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD ROMANCE OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.

BY WALTER THORNBURY.

NE of the most popular romances of the Middle Ages was “Sir Percival of Wales,” a poem of 20,174 lines, written by Chrestien de Troyes at the end of the twelfth century. My paraphrase is founded on an early English condensation. It will show that a work like this did not delight sever centuries of people without being full of high feeling and touches of nature, while the curious metre gives it a simplicity which becomes * the subject.

The old romance begins with the death of Percival’s father by the hands of the Red Knight, a robber and an enemy. The mother has sworn in consequence to retire to a forest and relinquish the world :—

And now that Percival the Knight Is slain in that fell fight, His lady vowed that night (Hold if she may) ‘That her young son should bide ‘Nowhere where jousters ride Or deeds of arms be tried

By night or day.

But where creeps the burn

‘Through the high arching fern,

Watched by the silent hern, And the leaves play :

Far from the soldier's tent,

Tilting and tournament,

Out ’mong the briar and bent, They would away.

So the widow leaves bower and hall and goes into the wild wood, with only a maiden to wait upon her, and a small flock of goats, on whose milk she could subsist ; and of all her lord’s gear she takes only a little Scottish spear for her son when he could go hunting. Soon the strong, sturdy boy begins to Say small Winds with it, and

ll

Sir Percival of Wales. 687 Bhen harts and hinds—"“he was a good knave"—till at last “no Heast that walked on foot” could escape his dart —

‘Then it befell one day ‘His mother to him did sag

“* Sweet mother," thon said be, “Who muy this great God be ‘That ye now bid me Koel to and praise ‘Then said his mother fair; © It is the God of Earth and Air, “Who made this world so rare Allin six days.” “By great God," sal he then, “An! I can meet that map, ‘With all the power I ean ‘So shall I pray."*

| © One day in the holt the boy meets three of Arthur's knights— | Ewayn, Gawayn the courteous, and Sir Kay “the bold baratoun” a | man of pride and malice. They were dressed in rich robes, while he only wore a tunic and hood of goatskin. ‘The lad always expecting to mect the God of whom his mother spoke, and sccing these three great knights, thinks one of them must be the God he sought, and so goes up with his usual frank fearlessness and addresses them. I try to preserve some of the quaintiess of the original :-— He said: * Which of you all three May the great God be ‘That my mother told me ‘This great world wrought 1”

‘Then sald hat true knight's child,

‘Who had lived én: the woods wild,

‘Lo Gawayn the meek and mild, ‘And soft of answer,

+Y shall slay you all three

690 The Gentleman's Magasine,

Then said Percival the free, “If thou King Arthur be, Look thou a knight make me At once if it be so.” Though he was rudely dight, He swore by Godde’s might, “And if he make me not kni Till slay him with a blow.

ht,

The courtiers old and young were astonished to see the King bear these rough words, and still more so to see tears come gliding from his eyes. Then Arthur, looking at the daring young rider as he sat there boldly on his horse, said :-— “Ant thon wert well dight, e ‘Thou wert like to a knight That I loved with all my might ‘While he was alive.” ‘And he goes on to describe the death of his brother-in-law, Sir Percival, by the hands of that foul rascal the Red Knight. So crafty was this thief, however, he added, that he had never been able to seize him ; but he hoped that some day Sir Percival’s son might return and avenge his father. The fierce lad, not knowing his father's fate or name, grew angry at last at this long story and the delay of the knighthood, and the poet, carefully preserving the lines of the character, makes him here break out :— “Now out on this jangling, Of this keep I none.” He says :— “T care not to stand ‘With thy janglings so long, ‘Make me knight with thy hand, If it shall be done.” ‘The King, struck with the boy’s resemblance to Achefleur, his sister, then promises to dub him knight, and begs him courteously to alight and eat with him at noon, for, as the poet says :—

The child had dwelt in the woud,

He knew neither evil nor good,

The King himself understood He was a wild man.

So Percival leaps from the mare and ties her up among all the lords and ladies with the withy halter. But before he had time to touch meat or wine, who should come riding into the hall but that most objectionable person the Red Knight We bestrode a red

Sir Percival of Wales. 693

ut even of a good thing there may be enough, and it would take 2s to tell how Percival slays the Soldan who has imprisoned the . lady on whose finger he slipped the ring, and how he takes down pride of even Arthur’s bravest knights. The part of the poem re he resumes his goatskins and returns to the wild wood to g back his mother is very tearful and touching.

he poet ends his romance in the usual religious way :—

Since then he went into the Holy Land, ‘Won many townes fall strong, And there was slain, I understand, ‘And this way ended he. Now Jesus Christ, great Heaven's king, As he is Lord of everything, Grant us all his blessing, Amen for charity.

oe

Modern Yarmouth, 695

the lodging-houses; the beach, so lively and crowded during the dog

days, is mostly left to local children and native dogs. Yarmouth, in

short, is itsell again, and wholly given up to the harvest which the

Dounteous ocean invites it to come and win in the teeth of howling

gales and foaming seas. Nobody, I presume, who is not a gross

-pastisan would venture to say that Yarmouth is the kind of town a photographer in search of the beautiful would make the subject of views for an art album or patent stereoscope,

Mistress Peggotty, who for her part was proud to call herself a

Yarmouth bloater, told little Copperfield that Yarmouth was, upon "the whole, the finest place in the universe. Copperfield had not till

then held that opinion, you may remember. Quoth he: “ It looked

| rather spongy and soppy I thought as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wondering, if the world were really as round as my geography book ‘said, how any part of it came to be so flat Bur I reflected that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the poles, which would account forit Aswe drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent Prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to ‘Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it; and also that if the land had been a little more separated from the sea, and if the town and the tide had not been quite so mixed up like toast and water, it would have been nicer.”

Approaching the town from inland, from the far-reaching flats over which the North Sea is once supposed to have fieely ebbed and flowed, you must agree with the faithfulness of Master Copperficld’s portraiture, but, scen from the water, Yarmouth has a certain quaint picturesqueness of its own, very pleasing to the eye that rests upon it when the windmills on the low sandhills are revolving, when the autumn-sun smites the housetops with his ruddy hand, when the picrheads are crowded with amateur codling-catchers and spectators who gather there at the rate of twelve human beings for every fish hauled up, and when the heavy black boats on the beach are busily performing their duties a5 mediums between the fishing ‘vessels and the carts waiting to bear away their produce. It is worth incurring the disappointment of an unsuccessful two hours’ fishing in an open boat thus to see Yarmouth at its best, as you will see it, rocking furlong or so from shore, while your long line of a dozen or twenty hooks reposes on the bottom in wait for cod, whiting, eel, or gurnard,

Better, however, will it be for the student of modern Yarmouth to ‘stroll with observant cye and car into the quarters where the staple

.

Modern Yarmouth, 697

¢ extent their ocewpation gone, naturally complain of the change, is no consolation to them to know that it is for the public

ore the fishing vessel has fairly brought up alongside the wharf she is boarded by a number of men who are not, their eager gestures and impetuous language would signify, to murder the crew and scuttle the ship: they are as" on the look out for an engagement, and the large carry are not Welsh coracles, but “wills,” into eh the fish in the hold will be counted—cach swill, for the ‘of sale, to contain 500 fish. ‘The wharf is covered with ‘and a bell iy being rung to call the buyers together. ‘The 1 sometimes, as when the fishermen have been too suce ‘cessful, may have a difficulty in obtaining an auditory; but that is a case. He is 2 man of few words, and those few he wastes not. The late George Robbins would have mourned over his matterof | ct descriptions. “What diye say," he asks; “shall we begin with £5 a last?” ‘A last means 13,200 fish, and by the rules of the trade herrings | are sold by the last. But there is no response until a comfortable looking gentleman offers fifty shillings, Him the auctioneer evidently knows, forhe familiarly and chidingly remonstrates with his meanness, Atthis juncture there is an uproar in the rear, a fight between a sailor and a teller in the shed, and the auctioneer is left absolutely alone until the dispute is settled by the ignominious thrashing and retreat of the landlubber, Eventually the bidding begins at three pounds, and proceeds at advances of five shillings, until, amidst some Tnughter, the comfortable-looking buyer who had offered fifty shillings ‘buys the last for five guineas, Prices vary according to the supply of fish, and vary therefore immensely, Not long ago forty-five shillings per last was the highest price that could be fetched ; at another time herrings had been so scarce that the auctioneer dared not sell more than a hundred fish at a time, and then at cight shillings per hundred, or £40 a last. The briskest sale-time is when the earliest Vessels come into the river: at such crises everybody works “double tides” to catch the trains and get the fresh fish into the markets while they are saleable, ‘The auctioneer, it may be added, is a man ‘of some consequence. He provides the swills, and is responsible for the money produced by sales; in return he gets a good com- mission, and they do say about Yarmouth that the auctioneers make as mich out of the herrings as any.

Tila |

Modern Yarmouth. 699 wholesome food and shelter would be provided for them at a rea-

to me, they prefer a change of scene during their dinner ‘But it must not be supposed that this is a fair type of all the n who are employed in the herring trade; they are only the “resi- “ When in fall work in the curing sheds a skilful and indus- woman can carn a pound a week, and many are as respectable “im reality as in appearance. On the Denes yesterday there were bree or four girls repairing nets; they wore fashionable chignons, ‘silk dresses, smart hats, and no doubt represented the aris- of the Yarmouth workwomen, What a pity it is that these yackers, and curers do not wear some such neat costumes ‘those in fashion amongst the French fishwomen | By turing into the yard to the left we may watch the process of “herring pickling, ‘The fish brought here, it should be explained, ‘are the herrings which have been salted at sea ; that, at least, is the technical expression. In reality the fish are simply sprinkled with ‘salt as they are thrown into the hold. By this process the fishermen are enabled to remain afloat for days together, and this a run of il ick renders a disagreeable necessity. ‘The fortunate ones are those who, sailing out of harbour to-day, are able to return to-morrow ‘morning with a cargo of fresh herrings, which are despatched as such with all speed, ‘The fish which the women occupying our shed are manipulating are first washed by men, then passed on to the female hands, who pack them into barrels with Lisbon salt between the Jayers, and finally nailed in by a cooper who is ready with the catk- head. Fish thus treated are shipped to various parts of the United Kingdom, especially to Scotland, and to the Continent, and are in- tended for almost immediate consumption, Some of these lasses, I have said, are dreadfully rough ; it is an expression I cannot recall, nor dare I say that their converse, their jests, or their songs are in any Sort of fashion womanly; but they are thoroughly good-tempered ‘and overflowing with animal spirits, and there is room for hope that ‘they are not so bad as they seem, ‘The classic bloater is, or is supposed to be, a fresh fish faintly cured. Itis a popular error to suppose that it is a distinct species, @ kind of upper class fish, born, bred, and educated in exclusive shoals, It is only a herring of the best quality, and it may be ‘Selected from the mass. Now nothing is more foreign to a generous ‘man's nature than to play the Iconoclast with a household god, and ‘it would i! become me to shake the British matron’s

te

| Modern Yarmouth. jot

Carefully cleansed and delicately and artistically smoked. Mr, Buck- in his recent Report on our East Coast Fisheries, estimates & thousand lasts of herrings per year are now required for kip-

_ Yarmouth, however, docs not live by herrings alone. ‘Trawling is B equally important branch of the local trade. When the bloom is “gone from the herring sexson, the boats refit, and under the generic “mame of smacks spend the winter in trawling, a much more hha occupation than drifting, and altogether different in its “nature, ‘The drift net entangles the shoal swimming near the sur- face ; the trawl sweeps the bottom. ‘The one captures herrings, with ‘@ very occasional mackerel or cod in the meshes; the other brings tip the more remunerative sole, haddock, plaice, turbot, brill, and 4 Tris stated in Mr. Buckland’s interesting lite Blue Book ‘that the North Sea trawling ground covers, according to Yarmouth ‘calculation, 50,000, and according to Grimsby calculation 130,000 square miles—that is to say, it extends from the North Foreland to Duncansby Head in the Pentland Firth, and from the coast ‘of England to that of Norway. While forty years ago there were ‘but two Yarmouth vessels engaged in trawling, now some goo ‘boats sail from the Yare. In this matter Yarmouth and Gorleston Ahave prospered at the expense of Barking, whose flect of smacks were | transferred to the more convenient harbours of Norfolk. The trawlers composing the North Sca fleet are good sea boats, well found, and manned by excellent scamen, who dare much and do much that is never known to the world, ‘The smacks remain at sea from six ‘weeks to two months at a time, and as the voyages fall in the depth of the winter the close of every season brings a sad tale of missing boats and men. There was one memarable gale in November, 1863, which in one night destroyed seven Hull trawlers with all hands, and disabled twenty other boats.

‘The trawling fleets are sometimes composed of vessels from various ports, but there are a few wealthy merchants who own entire fleets of from sixty to eighty smacks, An admiral of the feet is appointed by popular election, and from his vessel signals are made directing the movements of the fleet, At night the orders are given by “flare- ups"—flashes of light visible like meteors for miles over the watery waste. According to the number of flare-ups the fleet goes about, or fies to, or takes in fishing gear.

Passing along the beach just now I noticed a handsomely-built and smarily-rigged cutter speeding towards shore, light and swift as a sea bird, Simultancously you might have observed unusual commotion

Modern Yarmouth. 723

& hundred tons of small fish. From the North Foreland far

‘the North Sea there are numerous fishing hanks well defined on

ye smacksman’s charts, and productive of the finest soles, which

found there (the water being deep) in the coldest weather in

numbers. The Dutch trawlers are great sinners against law. Itis the old story—

Tn matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch Ts giving too little and taking too much. ‘The Dutch smacks being of smaller draught than ours, the fishing is conducted too near the shore whenever it nay be done with impunity, ‘The Germans by the effective argument of an ever-present gunboat take care of their coast fisheries by allowing no trawling inside nine fathoms of water, At any rate the spawning grounds ought to be protected, and Mr, Frank Buckland will have done excellent service by the forcible manner in which he has called the attention of the Government to evils that English, Germans, and Dutch alike are pecuniarily interested in remedying.

‘The smacksman toils hard for his living, amidst perils of which we who are snugly housed ashore little wot. ‘The operation most dreaded by him is the conveyance of the packages of fish from his smack to the carrier cutter, The transfer is effected in the smack’s Tittle boat, and frequently in most dangerous seas. Many a man and boy has perished in the performance of this hazardous duty.

Avamble through Yarmouth—fish market, Denes, curing houses, ‘rows, streets, market-place—will always be appropriately terminated ‘by a final stroll along the Marine parades, piers, and jetty, After a Jong spell of north or south winds there are not far from a thousand sail lying in the safe anchorage of the roadstead. It is computed that 50,000 vessels annually pass and repass within sight of shore, and a seascape so animated is always worth studying, Yonder dark, heavily-laden brig, voyaging southward, is a collier carrying coals from Newcastle to London, Close behind her follows a round- nosed barque listing to starboard more heavily than the wind justi« fies ; she is a Baltic timber ship whose cargo has shifted, as such cargoes will, during yesterday’s gale. The screw trading steamers leave be- hind them long lines of foam below and long lines of black smoke above, A mist steals gradually overall, and each object dissolves into a shadow and is no more seen. The inshore fishermen, the amateur anglers, wend their homeward way with their strings of codling and whiting, and Yarmouth ashore settles down to the quiet leisure of ‘evening at the precise moment when Yarmouth aflont to # night's hard, and let us hope remunerative, work.

Wait Whitman, the Poet of Foy. 705,

not because he deemed the world a place unfit for hap- ‘With what honest and wholesome satisfaction he pourtrays life, not as a source of high and grandiose thoughts and

is ‘because it was delightful to live in the country! How genuine and human is the way in which he speaks of common household ires,—the making and pouring out the fragrant lymph, the

rival of the newspaper and letters, and all those common sources

‘satisfaction which a man can always enjoy without the fear that he

doing anything foolish ! After Cowper came a solitary and doleful

‘the universe, but not particularly polite or agreeable; Coleridge: logician, metaphysician, bard, but so wretched that he had to con narcotics; Keats : bent, indeed, on perceiving beauty, but only idealist, and with a view to poetic purposes—a “slovenly, slack« youth.” ‘These be our gods, ‘They were undoubted! ymen Relgestistarcl (06 a high and resaarkabic\natare, bal we have all ‘our faults, and that of these men was melancholy, a tendency to soli- tude, whose evil effects even men of genius are not suflered to escape any more than common people. They did not go freely with “powerful uneducated persons,” to use the strange language of the man whose name stands at the head of this paper. Except Shelley and Byron, they were all rather unfit for general society, and if nor with the stars and engaged in looking down upon the world, preferred the company of persons like themselves—persons suffering more or less from depression, and not likely to laugh at ‘them and their follies.

‘A taste for melancholy once acquired remains long. Dark, sombre, or ghastly personages rise to take the place of those who ave retired, and the literature of gloom docs not scem likely to die out from among us yet, Poetry, like all art, should be the flower and blossom of things, At present it seems a mildew and rot, attack- ‘ing the vigour, if not the existence, of the plant of which it ought to be the crowning excellence.

In atch an epoch and in such a country the appearance of literature which expresses happiness and communicates happiness ought surely to be a welcome event, at least to all those who see the fatal defect

Whitman is a poet, and one of high order. Tn the first Vou. XV,, NS. 1875.

wr Walt Whitnsan, the Poet of Foy. 7°7

| malllions’ of yeats—have been undergone, Now at last the guest has arrived, and that guest of the Universe is the reader.

t Or again, he will ask us if we think that the music exists in the catgut, and the hollow of the flute, or in the’ keys of the piano. And his Pierce 05 in yourcit the manic {x ‘You are the real source Beech harweny. ‘These things external to you onlyserve to awake it

_in’your own soul, where itslumbered, Why do you think those creeds

and religions of such enormous importance? They grew out of you

as the leaves out of atree: Vou shook them from you as the tree

"_-shulkes away ler dead leaves. It is you that are so great, not the

" eligions, for out of you they have all proceeded, Are you enamoured

of mighty architecture, or of the splendid appearances of nature—

‘the vast sea, the noble rivers, the waterfalls, the forests ?—alll these

are but manifestations of your own soul, Something external to you

affects: the eye and the soul, and this is the result. It is your own body and mind which have given birth to these glorious appearatices,

‘tis you that are the wonder, not they,

But even exultation is not enough to satisfy the boundlest ambition of this man. There is in him a suggestion of something enormous, something bursting the limits of mundane existence and pouring around on all sides, invading the supernatural world, in which, anlike: most literary men, he seems fully to believe. The supernatural world. isnot to him a vague faraway sphere with which we haveno practical connection. Itisuround him and its inhabitants are around him; they are only a sphere beyond. Man passes into that world carrying with him all that he has acquired in the body and in the soul in this world. ‘To express this he employs a remarkable metaphor,

“Not the types set up by the printer return their impression, the meaning, the main concern, any more than # man's substance and

dife or a woman's substance and life return in the body and im the soul indifferently before death and after death.”

"Thus death is more the beginning than the end. What it con- clades is glorious, but what it begins is divine, Whitman is a mystic. ‘He pours a glamour over the world. From the supernatural sphere, s0 natural to'him, strange light is shed that transfigures the universe before his eyes and before ours,

‘The sympathy of Whitman is boundless—not man alone or animals alone, but brute inanimate nature is absorbed and assimilated: in his extraordinary personality, Often we think one of the elements. ‘of nature has found a voice and thunders great syllables: im our errs He speaks like something more (han viaw—somethieng, wee

—_— i"

708 The Gentleman's Magazine.

comprehend. He is not over-anxious to be understood. No mm comprehends what the twittering of the redstart precisely means, or can express clearly in definite language the significance of the rising sun. He too is elemental and a part of nature—not merely a clever man writing poems.

It is said of Hugo that his praises of Paris are not meant to be true of the actual city ; that it is the ideal Paris he lauds so roundly —Paris as he would have her, and as her sons ought to make her. Doubtless there is a great deal of that spirit also in Whitman's praises of America. His poems will hold up a beautiful ideal to which the people shall aspire.

‘The splendid promise of those huge States has excited in him admiration and wonder of the deepest and sincerest character. The practical acknowledgment of equality in all the relations of life, the enormous territories over which the Flag of the Union floats, the terrible war so bravely fought and the excision for ever of the canker of slavery from American soil, the perpetual influx of immigrants from all parts of the world, the energy, vigour, and intelligence of all native Americans, the combination of central and local government, the enormous and rapid advance of material civilisation, the noble cities that start up in desolate regions within the compass of a few years, the numerous ports and maritime cities and the vast mercantile marine necessary to support the rapidly increasing commerce of the country, the mighty rivers that traverse the land, and the vast unin- habited territories of the interior and the West, which the ploughshare and the woodman’s axe are rapidly invading—all this has wondrously stirred and fired the imagination of Whitman.

Whitman lays strong emphasis on physical happiness and those forms of spiritual pleasure which are more closely allied with the physical. This has been to many a stumbling-block and rock of offence. Scholastic and monkish views have evidently not yet disappeared. In real life the importance of physique and of Physical health and the irresistible attractions of mere beauty are always recognised. They must be recognised. They make their mark as irresistibly as gravitation or any of the known laws of nature. Yet in our higher literature all this has been neglected for sentiment and the cultivation of pure and delicate emotions, A Teturn to nature has been imperatively called for; and Whitman, not

a moment too soon, has appeared singing the body electric.

The intellectualism which has marked the centary—the cultivation

of sentiment and the emotions—threatened to exfedie and emasciaie the educated classes. The strong voice of Whitman, dhowing wgit

rr Walt Whitman, the Poet of oy. 709

and again, in metaphors and images, in startling vivid memorable | language, the supreme need of swect blood and pure flesh, the de- | Hight of vigour and activity and of mere existence where there is | health, the pleasures of mere society even without clever canversa~

tion, of bathing, swimming, riding, and the inhaling of pure air, has #0 | arrested the mind of the world that a relapse to scholasticism is no | longer possible.

‘And yet Whitman, though he cries out for “muscle and pluck,” ‘untainted flesh and clear eyes, is very far from being a mere lover of ‘coarse material pleasures, He is a poet, and that says enough, His ‘eye sees beauty, his ear hears music. All things grow lovely under his hand ; deformity, ugliness, and all things miserable and vile dise appear. His touch tmnsmutes them. Ihave said he is elemental, and more than onec the wonder he expresses at the sight of Nature transforming things loathsome into beauty by her own sweet alchemy excites the thought that this poet desires to exert the same in- fluence. ‘The vast charity of the earth has struck him as it has struck ‘One Other, and the sight of the rain falling on the fields of the anjust man as well as on those of the just. He, too, will be com- passionate and impartial as Nature, making no mean and invidious distinctions, as the sun pours down his light on poor and rich, educated and uneducated alike. His sympathy embraces all, but especially those that work with their hands and spend their lives in the ‘open sir. He wanders along the docks and stops to watch the ship ‘carpenters at work, seeing each tool employed and learning the nature of each operation, and so wherever he goes his sympathy is attracted principally by persons who Isbour at manual tasks. In ‘our own country, where Democratic ideas have never leavened the whole population, in which Republicanism and the sentiment of equality are more a conscious effort than well understood and universally recognised principles, the labouring classes cannot be ‘expected to produce as many interesting specimens of humanity as the American masses can supply. Whitman talks frequently of ‘their fine bearing, their bold and kindly manners, the look they have as of men who had never stood in the presence of a superior, the fluency of their conversation, the picturesque looseness of their car- triage, the freshness and energy of their countenances, I think that, making all allowances for poetic licence, there is and must be a great deal of truth in this, Could any Englishman describe the labouring: classes of England in such terms? In the carriage of the English working man there may be stolidity and qlods, Yuh ceaaisis, wo | picturesque looseness, certainly none of that hd, cates, SIE

he cal

|

literatures, and the languagemakers on other shores in he commands them to retire for a space, and Jet him | America speak out now with original energy, with a vigour yout of the present, incarnating the actual moment Beets bby, inspired with the time-spirit and the genius of the » Every simile, thought, word which does not seem to him to the genius of the hour, which does not incarnate himself and America, he rejects, and words which all others rejcet find their _ Place in his poems, as acts and persons ignored by others appear _ there too. ‘hey represent Nature and the realities and actualities of our mundane existence, and he has vowed to allow Nature to speak + outnow with * original energy,” and to trust for guidance to her and tothe artistic sense, which, as 4 poet, he myst possess. And so in his “poems we have learning indeed, but strangely transfigured—not the Teaming represented by the stuffed birds and animals and preserved. ‘Tizards of the museum—no dry and withered accumulation of facts, but knowledge instinct with the freshness and beauty of real life. ‘There seems in Whitman to be this detraction from his genius, that he works after ideals and models in a conscious manner. His ‘notions on the subject are singularly profound and just, but one is prejudiced slightly against poetry which may be the result of effort, and the striving after a preconceived ideal. Whitman sees that in everyday life one must be natural in order to. please, that there is an ‘indescribable charm and freshness about persons who are natural. And so with industry prepense he labours to be so and to appear so, ‘The master-artist is he who unites simplicity to genius, “ You shall ‘not contemplate the flight of the grey gull over the harbour, nor the -metilesome action of the blood-horse, nor the tall leaning of the sunflower upon his stalk, nor the appearance of the sun journeying through the heavens, nor the appearance of the moon afterwards, with any greater satisfaction rban you sball behold him.” This is ‘true; but alas! the more one is resolved to sleep the more does

Walt Whitman, the Poet of Foy. 73

tons, as it is now between the sexes. In the dialogues of Plato we

‘Ste the extraordinary nature of the friendships formed by the young "men of his time. ‘The passionate absorbing nature of the relation, the craving for beauty in connection with it, and the approaching

degenercy and threatened degradation of the Athenian character | thereby, which Plato vainly sought to stem both by his own exhor- | tations and by holding up the powerfal exaraple of Socrates,

‘There cannot be a doubt but that with highly developed races friendship is a passion, and like all passions more physical than intcl- Tectual in its sources and modes of expression.

Twill sing the song of companionship, Twill show what finally must eompact these (the States),

‘Tbelicve these are to found their own ideal of manly Jove indicating it im mey

| Twill therefore Jet flame from me the burning fires that were thrmatening to ‘consume me,

will lft what has too long kept down those smouldering firos.

Twill give them complete abandonment. T will write the evangel-poem of comradés and of love, For who butIshould understand love with all its sorrow

and joy? And who but I should be the poet of comrades ?

‘This is strong language and doubtless genuine. Pride and love, T have said, Whitman considers the two hemispheres of the brain of humanity, and by love be means not alone benevolence and wide sympathy and the passion that embraces sexual relation, but that ‘other passion which has existed before, and whose latent strength the American poet here indicates as a burning and repressed flame. Elsewhere he speaks of the sick, sick dread of unreturned friendship, ‘of the comrades kiss, the arm round the neck—but he speaks to sticks and stones ; the emotion does not exist in us, and the lan- ‘guage of his evangel-poems appears simply disgusting.

Too much lias been said both by me and others on Whitwnan's admiration of physical beauty, of his love of muscle and pluck, of his hymns in honour of common things, common pleasures, and Jabouring men. Toattain a just conception of the scope and objects of Whitman itis necessary to read all his works, for he more than other poets contradicts himself and baffles those who would pluck out the heart of his mystery at the first introduction. The “Democratic Vistas” should be read by every person who desires to understand this poet. ‘There he will find none of the muscle and pluck doetrine,

i pondering over and statement of the

Walt Whitman, ihe Post of Foy. m5 asi esas ssNe iad anad messes ‘is of an incomprehensible but not confused. He has no hard state

‘no frantic twaddle, He glances at what another would strike and violently: he plays and coruscates around his theme,

' of things, move away like mists before the rising sun. He piste 100%e cl padnces, Shown ane Lior laee that of

h Rea manera Ranh abana One recalls the the steamship lrctic going down—the thought. of the last

Dericetewss, while the moon, like a mother's face in Jheayen grown brighter, looked down—the picture of the hospital and ‘its fearful sights, and the flame that burned in the heart of the Ampassive operator, the deep sympathy with suffering and degrada- tion at all times. If Whitman finds ita good thing to be alive it is snot because he refuses to see the evil side of life, but because he would sce the whole. “ Omucs, omnes, let others ignore what they may.”

% ‘Beautiful and perfect as the world appears, Whitman yet never regards

‘itinthe light of a house, Life and the world arealways awonderand a

"mystery to bir. ‘Vague influences, benign but awful, hover over and: around him. ‘The sound of the sea at night, the pale shimmer of the moonshine, the tossing of white arms out among the waves, and the wash upon the shore exercise a weird influence upon his mind as on that of common men ; a subduing, softening influence forbid a tone too familiar concerning the Universe and concerning man, Though Whitman professes to despise the slow, welancadhy Wwe wien oe says pervades English literature, yet, too, ike ak Woe Morbern WAS,

HEMEDL&VALCORPORATION AND COMPANIES OF THE CITY. __ BY JOHN ROWLAND PHILLIPS, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.

HE Corporation of the City of London is the most anti-

quated in the kingdom. ‘Through half a century of

Reform it has remained almost untouched by innovation.

‘ts great wealth and influence have been too much for the

oclasts. War has-often cnough been declared, and fierce battle pees ated, but the Corporation has come out each time more

he City covers a little aver 700 acres, Its limits have for several ‘centuries remained undisturbed. ‘The last addition was made in the ‘of Henry VIL, when the borough of Southwark was placed its control, ‘There was a time when the area comprised only ‘the City within the walls, What are now the wards, of Fare fingdon-Without and Bishopsgate-Without got. themselves incorpo- rated with the City proper, not apparently by charter, but by a natural ‘expansion of jurisdiction to meet the exigent requirements of a popu- ation in every way closely associated with the Cit ‘The Corporation derives its powers either by prescription or by charters. Many of these charters, though they were all confirmed by an Act of Parliament of William IIL, are obsolete; others are couched in such quaint words and such peculiar phraseology that it is very doubtful what are the rights which the Corporation derives under them. Some of the privileges have been Jost through want of user, while a few have been abandoned. The most valuable were those granted by the houses of Plantagenct and ‘Tudor, During those dynasties the City became a great centre of commerce, and. enjoyed vast wealth and influence. ‘That was the golden age of charters. Those Sovereigns being often hard pressed for money, found the City purse very convenient, and in return for cash they freely gave charters which created valuable privileges. One curious roll of King John without the slightest equivocation gives the condition upon which a charter would be granted ‘oy sting Yee ro itzelf that the charter “shall be delivered to \eiiry Eee

=

The Corporation'and Companies of the City. 719

‘the livery again is limited within narrow bounds. They to the aldermen, and it is not every alderman who is

‘permitted to elect any person qualified to be weommon whether actually a member or not, there would’ be, as the ss of 1854 say; “an opportunity afforded’ of electing:

both inconvenient and unequal. After we have taken out the wards of | Farringdon and Bishopsgate scarcely 500 acres’ remain to be divitled

whose boundaries are involved

line of streets, nor do they possess any natural borders. In area, in population, in value of property, ap agate sentient a

‘return made in 1865 the total number of electors in all the wards” ‘was barely 7,000, out of which Bishopsgate had 677 and Farringdon over 3,400. In 1867 the electorate was enlarged, and ‘now all persons who are on the’ Parliamentary register in the wards in respect of occupation have votes in the ward elections of alder- men and councillors.

‘The aldermen are clected for life. Individually cach alderman is the head of the ward-mote. Collectively in the Court of Aldermen they are possessed of many important functions, They have the wominal selection of Lord Mayor; they try all questions relating to

‘elections ; they have unlimited power over the City finds; they con trol the prisons, and they alone form the magistracy of the City; they’ have also considerable patronage in the way of appointments, cipally of a jndicin! character, such as that of Uie Recorder and Sone connected with the magistracy. ‘The powet ot a

The Corporation and Companies of the City. 72%

the City resident within the several wards. The reform of this "antiquated constituency was intended by the Bill which Sir George “Cornewal! Lewis introduced into Parliament in 1358. But the City ‘itself did not attempt to extend the franchise until 1367, when it that unless it soon effected a reform the Legislature would + Mr. Ayrton’s committee having gone into the matter in preceding year. In 1867, therefore, the City passed a Bill Parliament. That Act now govems the ward cléctorate, ‘and the manicipal franchise is conferred on all those whose names “appear on the Parliamentary Register, andjall who occupy houses or offices in the City rated upon an annual rental of ten pounds, The ‘constituencies of these wards are still very small. At the election of an alderman a few weeks ago some 2go only voted, and the suc-- “cessful candidate was clected by the suffmges of 161 voters. And 2s most aldermen in rotation attain to the mayoralty, it becomes manifest that the Lord Mayor of London may be elected by a mere ‘clique or handful, Moreover, at City elections bribery is no offence, sand as the prize is great it is enough for me to hint that the tisk of ‘corruption is considerable.

~The actual municipal government of the City is carried on by the Court of Common Council, presided over by the Lord Mayor. It is ‘composed of the twenty-six aldermen and the 206 common council- ‘men, The work is chiefly done by committees, who in some cases have the power to dispose finally of the masters entrusted to them, From £200 to £400 Is allowed for each committee, and the money is devoted, itis said, to entertainments and tavern expenses. Formerly “line money" was allowed. The Royal Commission of 1854 recommended that the practice of making pecuniary allowance to the members of committees for their attendance ought to be dis« continued, This has been done; but the allowance for tyern expenses is at the disposal of the committees themselves, who may spend it in dinners or divide it among the members as they please.

‘The City Corporation is, as every one knows, exceedingly wealthy. ‘Tt possesses yaluable estates producing close upon £100,000 fm rents and fines on renewal of leases. This is the freehold ‘estate of the Corporation, and to distinguish it from some other trust property vested in the Corporation it is called “the City Estate,” The estate also comprises all profits arising by way of rents, tolls, &c., from the several markets under the control of the Corpora- tion. These amounted last year to the sum of £85,935 178 7d. The estate is swelled by several other items, indwding Gk weaRE,

weights and measures, broker? rents, ene Vou. XV. N.S. 1875, a s

i

The Corporation and Companies of the City. 723

i)

| asalary of £1,800, In addition to his salary, the Remembrancer is ‘credited with £2,886 by way of charges or expenses out of the City Estate, pure and simple, exclusive of some £1,400 for some matters ‘relating to the Holborn Valley improvements, &c. In round figures, ‘out ofan income of about three-quarters of 2 million the Corporation spends in salaries and establishments about £170,000. Meanwhile the Corporation is in debt for municipal purposes in a sum now considerably exceeding five millions of money.

‘The Corporation of London enjoys certain privileges in trade. Some of these affect the right of following employments, others are Used merely as w source of revenue. “Those that relate to trading are exercised by the City cither in its corporate capacity or else through the medium of the trading companies or guilds, At one period the Jaw was very strict in maintaining monopolies. In London strangers were excluded from trading either wholesale or retail except under ‘certain restrictions, Gp orb tetas t done with by the provisions of the Municipal Reform Act of 1835, which ‘extinguished monopolies and rendered trade absolutely free. But to London the Act did not extend, and the City is the only place in England where this municipal interference with trade remains. ‘The

fions, however, have been limited. The privilege formerly ap- Pilicd ax well to wholesale as to retail, but for ages the custom has been relaxed with regard to the wholesale trade. Even now, however, no per- son may carry on any retail trade within the City or its liberties unless heis a freeman. There are three ways of obtaining freedom—by bi ‘servitude, orredemption. For along time while freedom was obtained by purchase it was the practice to restrict the privilege to the company: belonging to the applicant's trade; but by an Act of the Common Council of March, 1836, it was allowed to conferthe freedom of the City gn persons not free of any company, and since that date the common practice has been for the Chamberlain to admit without reference to the companies, Freedom by redemption is never denied, but it ‘entails some expenditure, and to enforce it on poor traders has aften Veen a great hardship. Some years ago the City insisted very strongly on the obyervance of this privilege, and many were compelled. to take up their freedom. Some even had their goods distrained upon. Since then the law has fallen very much out of use, and last year the only revenue derived from this source was £6 as. 6d, on eeticceesiet ee

Stony spermine wide! ttc ge patter aa of Edward TW1., whikca

_——

The Corporation and Companies of the City. 725

of the entire frechold of the City. It is indeed asserted that the total annual income of “The ‘Twelve Great Livery Companies” alone reaches nearly halfa million. But it is impossible to give any- ‘thing more than a surmise, secing that the matter is a profound secret —known only to the Court of Assistants, and kept even from the know- ledge of the general body of liverymen. They were also enriched by ‘bequests and legacies, and have an immense amount of property vested in them upon trust for charitable purposes. The Royal Com- wilson of 1835 was authorised to inquire into the condition of these ‘companies : but never were Commissioners treated a3 these were. ‘Many of the companies took no notice of their communications, others refused to give any information, and only two or three vouchsafed a civil answer. The Commissioners, therefore, found it ‘impossible to get at the truth, The Charity Commissioners were ‘more succeasful, ‘They at any rate obtained a list of the charities in ‘the control of the companies; but they discovered an extraordinary ‘state of things. Many charities had fallen into abeyance ; many ‘trusts had been broken and the revenues of the companies thereby ‘increased. ‘The principal of these companies at the present time are glutted with money which they scarcely know what to do with. ‘They feast and feast, and build gorgeous halls ; but it is difficult to say that they do much more. [t is true that some of them feast under powers conferred upon them in their charters. It is true, too, that in dealing out their charities they are narrowly watched by the Charity Commissioners ; but from quite recent litigation it is clear ‘that these companies are not above pocketing as their own private property money which was entrusted to them for the relief of the poor and the infirm, But charity exhausts very little of their revenues. What is done with the surplus the members of the respec- tive courts alone know.

Why should not a commission be appointed to inquire into the condition of the great City companies, with the fullest powers of investigation? ‘The companies themselves would probably grow frantic in opposition, and talk of confiscation, and use other hard words, but it is really high time that this vast wealth should be devoted to some useful purpose ; in fact, that it should be restored ‘to its original use—to the technical education of the young men of the metropolis. And is it mot equally high time that the Government of the City of London should submit to reform in accordance with the spirit and the demands of the age?

Recollections of Writers, 727 “the latest period of his life; and he had a smile of singular sweet« and beauty.

| We had the inexpressible joy and comfort of remaining in the home where one of us had lived all her days—in the house of her and mother. Writing the “Fine Arts” for the Adas news- and the “Theatricals” for the Zxaminer newspaper, gave us opportunity of largely enjoying two pleasures peculiarly to our “taste. Our love of pictorial art found frequent delight from attend- ing every exhibition of paintings, every private view of new J new large picture, new process of colouring, new of ' the old masters in woollen cloth, enamel, or mosaic, that ‘London season successively produced, while our fondness for “going to the play” was satisfied by having to attend every first c and every fresh revival that occurred at the theatres ‘This latter gratification was heightened by seeing frequently in the ‘boxes the bald head of Godwin, with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on the stage, his short thickset person im- “moveable, save when some absurdity in the piece or some mala- roitness of an actor caused it to jerk abruptly forward, shaken by ‘his single-snapped laugh ; and also by sceing there Horace Smith's remarkable profile, the very counterpart of that of Socrates ax known ‘to us from traditionally authentic sources. With these two men we ‘now and then had the pleasure of interchanging a word, as we met im the crowd when caving the playhouse; but there was a third ‘whom we frequently encountered on these occasions, who often sat swith us during the performance, and compared notes with us on its merits during its course and at its close. ‘This was William Hazlitt, then writing the “'Theatricals" for the 7wer newspaper, His come \ip was most genial, his critical faculty we all know; it may therefore be readily imagined the gladness with which we two saw him approach the seats where we were and take one beside us of his own accord. His dramatic as well as his tit Judgment was ‘most sound, and that he became a man of letters is matter of con- gratulation to the reading world; nevertheless, had William Hazlitt been constant to his first intellectual passion—that of painting, and 0 his first ambition—that of becoming a pictorial artist, there is ‘every reason to believe that he would have become quite as eminent as any Academician of the eighteenth century. The compositions that still exist are sufficient evidence of his promise, The very first portrait that he took was a mere head of his old nurse: and so re- markable are the indications in it of eqly excellence (in etyle aod

manner that ber of the profession inoxixed ok os whom Hazlitt tent it for bis ratification, o>

a

728 The Gentleman's Magazine.

get that Rembrandt?” The'upper part of the face was in strong shadow, from an over-pending black silk bonnet edged with black lace, that threw the forehead and eyes into darkened effect ; while this, as well as the wrinkled cheeks, the lines about the mouth, and the touches of actual and reflected light, were all given with a truth and vigour that might well recall the hand of the renowned Flemish master. It was our good fortune also to see a magnificent copy that Hazlitt made of Titian’s portrait of Ippolito dei Medici, when we called upon him at his lodgings one evening. The painting—mere stretched canvas without frame—was standing on an old/ashioned couch in one corner of the room leaning against the wall, and we remained opposite to it for some time, while Hazlitt stood by hold- ing the candle high up so as to throw the light well on to the picture, descanting enthusiastically on the merits of the original ‘The beam from the candle falling on his own finely intellectual head, with its iron-grey hair, its square potential forehead, its massive mouth and chin, and eyes full of eamest fire, formed a glorious picture in itself, and remains a luminous vision for ever upon our memory. Hazlitt was naturally impetuous, and feeling that he could not attain the supreme height in art to which his imagination soared as the point at which he aimed, and which could alone suffice to realise his ideal of excellence therein, he took up the pen and became an author, with what perfect. success every one knows. His facility in composition was extreme. We have secn him continue writing (when we went to see him while he was pressed for time to finish an article) with wonderful ease and rapidity of pen, going on as if writing a mere ordinary letter. His usual manuscript was clear and unblotted, indicating great readiness and sureness in writing, as though requiring no erasures or interlining. He was fond of using large pages of rough paper with ruled lines, such as those of a bought-up blank account-book—as they were. We are so fortunate as to have in our possession Hazlitt's autograph title-page to bis “Life of Napoleon Buonapatte,” and the proof-sheets of the preface he originally wrote to that work, with his own correcting marks on the margin. The title-page is written in fine, bold, legible hand- writing, while the proof corrections evince the care and final polish he bestowed on what he wrote. The preface was suppressed, in deference to advice, when the work was first published ; but it is strange to see what was then thought “too strong and outspoken,” and what would now be thought simply staid and forcible sincerity of opinion, most fit to be expressed. Hazlitt was a good walker, and once, While he was Wing at Winter"-~- Yut on Salisbury Plain, he accepted an intation Koma

Recollections of Writers. 729

| brotherindaw and sister of ours, Mr. and Mrs, Towels, to pay them ‘@ visit of some days at Standerwick, and went thither on foot.

‘When Hazlitt was in the vein, he talked super-excellently ; and we ‘ean remember one forenoon finding him sitting over his late break- ‘fast—it was at the time he had forsworn anything stronger than tea,

“of which he used to take inordinate quantities—and, as he kept ‘pouring out and drinking cup after cup, he discoursed at large upon Richardson's “Clarissa” and " Grandison,” a theme that had been ‘Suggested to him by one of us having expressed her predilection for ‘novels written in letter-form, and for Richardson’s in particular. It happened that we had once heard Charles Lamb expatiate upon this ‘very sabject ; and it was with reduplicated interest that we listened to Haclit’s opinion, comparing and collating it with that of Lamb. Both men, we remember, dwelt with interest upon the character of John Belford, Lovelace’s trusted friend, and upon his loyalty to him, with his loyal behaviour to Clarissa,

‘At one period of the time when we met Hazlitt so frequently at the theatres Miss Mordaunt (afterwards Mrs. Nisbett) was making her appearance at the Haymarket in the first bloom and freshness ‘of her youth and beauty. Hazlitt was “fathoms deep” in love with her, making us the recipients of his transports about her; while we, ‘almost equal fanatics with himself, “poured in the open ulcer of his heart her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,” and “lay in every gash that love had given him the knife that made it” He -was apt to have these over-head-and-ears enamourments for some celebrated beauty of the then stage: most young men of any imagination and enthusiasm of nature have them. We remember Vincent Novello ecstasising over the entapturing laugh of Mrs. Jordan in a style that brought against him the banter of his hearers ; ‘and on another occasion he, Leigh Hunt, and C. C. C. comparing notes and finding that they had all been respectively enslaved by ‘Miss M. A, Tree when she played Viola in “ Twelfth Night”; and, on still another, Leigh Hunt and C. C. C. confessing to their having ‘been cruelly and wofully in Jove with a certain Miss (her very name is now forgotten {}—a columbine, said to be as good in private life as she was pretty and gracefal in her public capacity,—and who, in their “salad days,” had turned their heads to desperation,

William Hazlitt was « man of firmly consistent opinion : he main- tained his integrity of Liberal faith throughout, never swerving for an instant to even so mach as a compromise with the dominant party which might have made him a richer man,

In an old diary of ours for the year 1830, under the date 418th September, there is this sad and simmyle manwsciry

ie

730 The Gentleman's Magazine.

«William Hazlitt (one of the first critics of the day) died. A few days ago when Charles went to see him during his illness, after Charles had been talking to him for some time in a soothing unde tone, he said :—‘ My sweet friend, go into the next room and sit there for a time, as quiet as is your nature, for I cannot bear talking at present.’” Under that straightforward, hard-hitting, direct-telling manner of his, both in writing and speaking, Hazlitt had a depth of gentleness—even tenderness—of feeling on certain subjects ; manly friendship, womanly sympathy, touched him to the core; and any token of either would bring a sudden expression into his eyes vey beautiful as well as very heart-stirring to look upon. We have seen this expression more than once, and can recall its appealing cham, its wonderful irradiation of the strong features and squarely.cut, rugged under portion of the face.

In the same diary above alluded to there is another entry, under the date Friday, sth March :—“ Spent a wonderful hour in the com pany of the poet Coleridge.” It arose from a gentleman—a Mr. Edmund Reade, whose acquaintance we had made, and who begged we would take a message from him to Coleridge concerning a poem lately written by Mr. Reade, entitled “Cain,”—asking us to under- take this commission for him, as he had some hesitation in presenting himself to the author of “The Wanderings of Cain.” More than glad were we of this occasion for a visit to Highgate ; where at Mr. Gilman's house we found Coleridge, bland, amiable, affably inclined to renew the intercourse of some years previous on the cliff at Ramsgate. As he came into the room, large-presenced, ample countenanced, grand-foreheaded, he seemed to the younger visitor 2 living and moving impersonation of some antique godlike being, shedding a light around him of poetic effulgence and omniper- cipience. He bent kindly eyes upon her, when she was introduced to him as Vincent Novello’s eldest daughter and the wife of her introducer, and spoke a few words of courteous welcome : then, the musician’s name catching his ear and engaging his attention, he immediately launched forth into a noble eulogy of music, speaking of his special admiration for Beethoven as the most poetical of all musical composers ; and from that, went on into a superb disserta- tion upon an idea he had conceived that the Creation of the Universe must have been achieved during a grand prevailing harmony of spheral music. His elevated tone, as he rolled forth his gorgeous sentences, his lofty look, his sustained flow of language, his sublime

utterance gave the effect of some magnificent organ-peal to our entranced ears, It was only when he came to a pause in his subject —or rather, to the close of what he had to say wyon What ee

Recollections of Writers. 73

to ordinary matters, learned the motive of our visit and the with which we were charged, and answered some inquiries

Me ests by the pentieat bik uirsady quctetl ls thaws Recah respecting is immunity from headache,

_A few other entries in the said old diary,—which probably came exceptionally preserved for the sake of the one on

the one on Huzlitt,—are also of some interest>—" r5th . In the evening we saw Poticr, the celebrated French in the * Chiffonnier,’ and ‘ Le Cuisinier de Buffon’; a fow afterwards the English Opera House was burnt to the ground, God be prised for our escape!” “4th March. One of the most delightful evenings I ever enjoyed,—John Cremer was with us.” *asth March. Saw Miss Fanny Kemble play Portia, in the ‘Mer chant of Venice,’ for her first benefit.” “21st April, Went to the Diorama and saw the beautiful view of Mount St. Gothard, In the evening saw the admirable Potier in ‘Le Juif' and ‘Antoine’" | “arst June. Heard the composer Hummel play his own Septet in D Minor, a Rondo, Mozart’s duet for two pianofortes, and he ex: temporised for about twenty minutes. ‘The performance was for his farewell concert, His hand reminds me of Papa more than of John Cramer.” “arst September. Witnessed Miss Paton’s first re- appearance in London after het elopement. She played Rosina in “The Barber of Seville.’ Mr. Leigh Hunt was with us." “ 1st Octo- ber. Saw a little bit of Dowton's Cantwell on the opening of Drury Lane; the house was so full we could not geta seat.” “18th October, Saw Macready in ‘Virginius’ at Drury Lane” " axst October, Siw Macready's ‘ Hamlet"

‘The references to two great musical names in the above entries recall some noteworthy meetings at the Novellos’ house, John Cramer was an esteemed friend of Vincent Novello, who highly admired his fine talent and liked his social qualities, Cramer was a

courteous man: polizhed in manner as a frequenter of Courts, as much an adept in subtly clegant flattery as a veteran courtier; handsome in face and person as a Court favourite, distin- guished in bearing as a Court ruler, he was a very mirror of court- Hiness. Yet he could be more than downright and frankspoken upon particular occasion: for once, when Rossini and Rossini’s music were in the ascendant among fashionable coteries, and Cramer thought him overweening in consequence, when he met him for the first time in socicty, after something pt Rosine fal eens and he looked at Cramer aa if in expectation of _ went to the pianoforte and gave a few burs from Mozart's “

Figaro” (the passage in the finale to the and Act, Ge

732 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the words, “Deh Signor, nol contrastate”); then tumed round and said in French to Rossini:—‘That’s what J call music, am maestro.”

‘As a specimen of his more usually courtly manner, witty, as wel as elegant, may be cited the exquisitely turned compliment he paid to Thalberg; who, saying with some degree of pique, yet with evident wish to win Cramer's approval :—“ I understand, Mr. Cramer, you deny that I have the good left hand on the pianoforte which is attributed to me; let me play you something that I hope will com vince you;” played a piece that showed wonderful mastery in manipulation on the bass part of the instrument. Cramer listened implicitly throughout ; then said :—“ I am still of the same opinion, Monsieur Thalberg; I think you have no left hand—I think you bare S100 right hands.”

John Cramer’s own pianoforte playing was supremely good ; quite worthy the author of the charming volume of Exercises—muost of them delightful pieces of composition—known as “J.B. Cramer's Studio.” His “/egato” playing was singularly fine : for, having a very strong third finger (generally the weak point of pianists), no perceptible difference could be traced when that finger touched the note in a smoothly equable run or cadence. We have heard him mention the large size of his hand as a stumbling-block rather than as an aid in giving him command over the keys; and probably it was to his consciousness of this, as a defect to be overcome, that may be attributed his excessive delicacy and finish of touch.

Hummel’s hand was of more moderate size, and he held it in the close, compact, firmly-curved, yet easily-stretched_ mode which forms a contrast to the ungainly angular style in which many pianists splay their hands over the instrument. His mere way of putting his hands on the key-board when he gave a preparatory prelude ere beginning to play at once proclaimed the master—the musician, as compared with the mere pianoforte-player. It was the composer, not the per- former, that you immediately recognised in the few preluding chords he struck—or rather rolled forth. His improvising was a marvel of facile musical thought ; so symmetrical, so correct, so mature in construction was it that, as a musical friend—himself a musician of no common excellence, Charles Stokes—observed to us :—‘ You might count the time to every bar he played while improvising.”

Hummel came to see us while he was in London, bringing his two young sons with him ; and we remember one of them making us laugh by the childish abruptness with which he set down the scalding cup of tea he had raised to Wis Vis, exclaiming in dismay

ACT heiss \”

Recollections of Writers. 733

‘The able organ-player Thomas Adams, and Thomas Attwood, who had been a favourite pupil of Mozart, by whom he was pettingty ¢: “Tommassino,” were also friends of Vincent Novello; and brought letters of introduction to him when he visited England, first time Liszt came to dinner he chanced to arrive late: the had been taken away, and roast lamb was on table with its “usual English accompaniment of mintsauce. This latter, a strange condiment to the foreigner, so pleased Lisat’s taste that he insisted “on eating it with the brought-back mackerel, as well as with every ‘succeeding dish that came to table—gooseberry-tart and all !—he good-naturedly joining in the hilarity elicited by his universal ‘adaptation and adoption of mint-sauce,

Later on we had the frequent delight of seeing and hearing Felix Mendelssohn among us. Youthful in years, face, and figure, he looked almost a boy when he first became known to Vincent Novello, and was almost boyish in his unatfected case, good spirits, ‘and readiness to be delighted with everything done for him and ‘said to him, Hewas made much of by his weleomer, who so appreciated his genius in composition and so warmly extolled his execution, both on the organ and on the pianoforte, that once when Mr. Novello was praising him to an English musical professor of some note, the professor said :—“If you don’t take care, Novello, you'll spoil that young man.” “ He's too good, too genuine to be spoiled,” was the reply.

We had the privilege of being with our father when he took young Mendelssohn to play on the St. Paul's organ; where his farts (as Vincent Novello punningly called them) were positively astounding onthe pedals of that instrument. Mendelssohn's organ pedal-playing ‘was a real wonder, —so masterful, so potent, so extraordinarily agile, ‘The last piece we ever heard him play in England was Bach's fagwe ‘on his own name, on the Hanover Square organ at one of the con- certs given there. We had the good fortune to hear him play some ‘of his own pianoforte compositions at one of the Dusseldorf Festi- vals; where he conducted his fine psalm "As the hart pants.” On that oceasion, calling upon him one morning when there was a private rehearsal going on, we had the singular privilege of hearing him siuy a few notes,—just to give the vocalist who was to sing the part at performance an idea of how he himself wished the passage sung, —which he did with his small voice but musicianlike expression. ‘On that same occasion, too, we enjoyed the pleasure of half an hour's quiet talk with him, a he leaned on the back of a chair near us and

asked about the Loadon Philharmonic Society, &¢,, like our- Selves, arrived at an exceptionally early time Yeloxe

DEAR Lapy DISDAIN.

BY JUSTIN MeCARTHY, AUTHOR OF “LINLEY ROCHFORD,” “A FAIR SAXON,” “MY ENEMY’S DAUGHTER,” &o,

CHAPTER XXXVI. THEY STAND CONFESSED.

HRISTMAS PEMBROKE had accomplished his resolve

so far as the getting vo Durewoods was concerned. The

day was bright, clear, and cold, when the Saucy Lass,

now in good condition again, brought him safely to the Tittle pier. The village looked melancholy in the wintry sunlight, and a keen pang shot through the poor youth's heart as he thought ‘of the bright soft summer evening when first he landed there ; when the whole place came up for him, rising beautiful and poetic like some Delos-island over the grey monotonous waters of his life. He could see the whole scene once more as he saw it then—and the pony-carriage at the pier, and the dark eyes of Marie Challoner looking kindly at him.

‘He had been wild with impatience to get to Durewoods, and now he walked slowly up the pier, and tumed to the left instead of the ight when he reached the road. He lounged along “ melancholy, slow” in the strict sense of “The Traveller,” and feeling unfriended to, although he knew that he had friends, He stopped and looked at the cottage in which poor Mrs, Cramp used to live, and he thought. of the night when Nat and he, dripping from the sea, found shelter there. He knew now of Nat Cramp's fate: the captain of the Samy Lass had told him all about it, and how Nat had been buried near his mother ; and Christmas had communicated to the captain in return his part of the story, which was news to Durewoods, As Christmas looked at the house he felt almost as if he were guilty of Cramps death, because of the piece of curious misfortune which caused them to meet at the station that unlucky day. He wondered what disappointment or disaster it was which had: given such wild- ‘ness to Cramp’s manner, and was sure it belonged tolove. .As Tear Delieves all miseries and madness to come of ungrateful daughters, so Pembroke naturally set down such human trials to the pangs of disprized Jove. ‘Then he turned quickly back, wishing be bad wk

736 The Gentleman's Magazine.

come that way or passed Nat's house, and thinking that if omens, good or bad, could matter to him any more it would have been of evil omen to look on the place.

Now that he was in Durewoods he began to wonder why he bad come there so precipitately ; why he had come there at all ; why be had taken such great trouble to save himself from the. sea with the hope of getting to Durewoods and seeing Marie Challoner. When he did see her—if she would see him—what was to come of that? What did it matter whether she knew the whole truth about Miss Jansen or did not know it? He felt at moments almost imclined to go back again to London. All the vague doubts and hopes and perplexing conjectures needing explanation, which had seemed to him when he was in London like a summons from Providence or fate bidding him to hasten to Durewoods, began now to wear a look ‘of blank absurdity. Probably he would have taken flight and gone back to London but that he knew full well the moment he got back there the dreams and longings would all set in again, and he should have to follow whither they bade him to go. Being here now he would go through with it; he would see her for the last time.

He turned again and passed the pier, and held to the right, and mounted the little hill. Winter now brooded over that scene, and winter over all his hopes ! The very ground was bare of leaves now. ‘They had lain there in heaps in the little hollow on cither side of the road for months until the rains rotted them into the earth or the keen winds scattered them far away. So, our young hero thought, had all his hopes—the hopes with which he entered London—been dealt with ; so scattered and trodden into the earth of prosaic common- place. He was in a sadly egotistical mood just now, after the fashion of the disappointed, and he could not help fancying that the wintry aspect of the place was purposely in keeping with his own desolate condition. Egotism alone, perhaps, could have soothed and consoled him now.

Yet the day was bright and cheery for a winter day in England. ‘There was a light frost, and all trace of rain and mist was gone ; and as Christmas tumed to look back upon the sea, one great tract of it glittered with a smile of sunlight, and it might have been summer for the moment, and not winter, if one looked but on the heavens and

the waves. Why not accept the smile as ominous when one is so ready to think of the grey clouds and the naked trees and the chill earth as symbolic? Christmas plucked up heart at the sight of the water and the gladdening sunlight. “ Come? he said to Virsa shall live all this down | T'\i get this \ost meeting over, and Yen TE

738 The Gentleman's Magazine.

womanlike she began to think of him with great compassion, and to blame herself for ever having listened to his proposal and to feel ashamed of herself, and ashamed even of being so glad to be free. She was in the midst of all this selfreproach, and her eyes were dimmed with tears, when the card bearing the name of Christmas Pembroke was put into her hand. Quickly she dropped the tee- gram and blushed, and started, and became half wild with excite- ‘ment, and it must be owned forgot all about poor Ronald. Whe she sent her message to Christmas by the maid she ran and plunged her face into water to wash away the traces of the tears, and she Jooked at herself in the glass and wondered what she should seem like in Ais eyes, and remembered the day when in his blunt boyish fashion he told her she was handsome. Strange, at that time she was only amused by his brusque frankness, and now as she remembered it and looked at herself in the glass she saw that the mere thought of it made her blush. ‘‘I wonder will he think me handsome now?” she thought—and then she hastened with her preparations to meet him, for the absurd idea came into her head, “Suppose I keep him too long—and he has to go away—and goes to Japan without seeing me?”

Christmas waiting nervously below heard the rustle of a dress at last and a light quick tread, and then had a confused impression of dark eyes and a sweet, fresh voice and a tall, shapely figure, and a hand with a kindly pressure; and Marie Challoner was with him. The whole place for the moment swam before his eyes, and he looked so pale and half distraught that Marie feared he must have suffered serious harm by his long wrestle with the winds and the waves.

“Tt is so kind of you to come to see me all this way,” she said. “But, of course, you would come to see Miss Lyle.”

“T have not seen her yet. I—I came to see you first.”

“But you look very pale. We were all so glad to hear that you were not drowned ; we never thought of asking whether you were hurt.”

“Oh, no, Twas only alittle shaken—not hurt at all—nothing to speak of.”

“ How glad you ought to be—and in such a sea so long! Hours upon hours, was it not ?”

“It seemed a terribly long time tome. I thought it would never have come to an end. But I don’t think it could have been very long in reality.”

There was a moment's pause.

“You had a wonderful escape,” said Mane. “Noo cogs ioe

very thanktus.”

Dear Lady Disdain, 739

“Yes,” he answered, “I didn’t want to be drowned just then.” _ “Ehope it did you no harm—being in the cold sea all that long ” .

“No: I don’t think it did. 1 felt very stiff and stupid for a day 's0, and not like myself: but it didn’t do me any harm.”

“ How strong you are!”

“Oh yes, nothing does me any harm—nothing of that kind. Poor p—you've heard of course 2”

“Wes, Lhave heard.” She did not say that she had fainted at the ‘aight of Cramp’s dead body, or why. “What a terrible thing! He "was 40 young, and 1 used to think once that he would come to

“Tt wasn’t any fault of mine,” Christinas hastened to-explain, “I

_ didn’t want bim to come in the boat; I begged of him not to come.

| But he would have been perfectly safe if he had only kept quiet. ‘don’t know what came over him, whether he was frightened out of his wits or not, but he scemed like a madman, Why, he would have ‘been alive and well now, if he wouldn't keep jumping up and ‘going on like @ lunatic. There wasn't the slightest danger, I do Delieve he was mad, and I hope he was: for I feel half guilty somehow of his death, although Heaven knows it was no fault of ‘mine, and [ would have saved him if I could—at the risk of my ‘own life-—not mich to risk, certainly.”

“4 think you risked your life far too much as it was, Why did you get into a boat on such a day?”

“Well, there was no other way of getting to Durewoods,”

“But why not wait until the next day: or until the weather was fine or the steamer was ready; or go round by the road? Why risk your life for nothing?”

“Yes, there was no need of so much impatience, indeed,” poor ‘Christmas said disconsolately. “I might as well have waited ; but anyhow, Miss Challoner, 1 should like youto know that it was only my own life I wanted to risk—if there was risk—and not poor

“1 know very well that you did not think of yourself, ‘hat is why [ blame you so much, Mr. Pembroke,”

She felt it a delightful thing to be talking to him. Me was “very much embarassed. She saw the end of all this, and he did not, So she trembled a little, but was very happy; and he stam- amered and was awkward and misemble. Now that he was with her be began to think there was not a great Geal oi qoryone ‘Nin coming, and to wish he had stayed away. a |

Dear Lady Disdain, 740

| couldn't leave,” he said, “I couldn't leave, you know, without good-bye," no! Iam sure you would not be so unfriendly as to do

Suppose, she thought, he only did come to say good-bye, and

‘nothing else, and goes away then—what am I to do?

“And besides,” he went on in a hesitating way, “it wasn't only ”

‘She drew along breath of relief She was happy again, since it

‘was not only that,

_ There was something else I wanted to say to you—and I eculdn't

you for ever without saying it—something I wanted to explain,

‘May I go on?"

_ “Oh, yes, Mr. Pembroke, if you wish! What was it you wanted a?!

“You won't be angry with me, Miss Challoner, if it seems odd? “You will be alittle generous with me, and believe I havea good motive, won't you? and you won't be offended ?”

“Why, Mr. Pembroke, this is a terrible preface! Why should I be offended? How could I possibly suppose that you meant to offend me?”

“Thank you—then I'll go on, I wanted to explain—Miss ‘Challoner, you beard, I know you did, something about me and a ‘young lady, whom I needn't name, about my being in love with her, and our being engaged. Didn't you?”

“Yes, I heard something of the kis

“ Did you believe it?”

“T suppose so, Why not? Was it not Bete She spoke with her best possible imitation of friendly carelessn¢

Tt was not true ; there wis hot Ghd bigia reel ROO

‘How absurd of people to spread such reports! I cannot think how such things get about. But after all, Me. Pembroke, I don’t see that you need complain very much, It is much more unpleasant for Aer to be talked about, She is a very pretty girl, I think, And was: there nothing in all that, really?”

“Nothing at all. She never cared anything about me, and I don’t eare three straws about her.”

“Come, now, what a very rude way to speak of a young lady! thought you had more chivalry, Mr. Pembroke.”

“Well, I only meant you to understand that there never was the faintest idea of anything Tike love between us. Lwant you, above

all things, Miss Challoner, to believe that q

742 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“Of course I believe it, since you tell me—but would it not have been a great deal happier for you if the story had been tue?”

“It couldn't be true, Miss Challoner, and I came here to tell sou why it could not be true. I know it was told to you, and I do not know why. Not for anything on earth would I leave England untt J had told you that that was not true, and showed you why it coud not be true.”

“And why could it—not—be true ?”

Now, thought Christmas, I cannot stop: now all must be said.

“ Because I loved you, Miss Challoner, and because I do love you, and shall love you all my life! Because I am all wild with love of you! No—don't draw away from me, or be angry. That's all I have to say. It is all over now—and I'll leave you this moment.”

“But why do you tell me this?” Marie asked, all palpitating with fear and joy.

“Heaven knows—I don’t know! Because I couldn’t help telling you. I couldn't live if I hadn't told you. After all, what harm has it done you

« But if it were true—if you really felt all that for me”—she began, not unwilling, perhaps, to tempt him into saying it over again, that she might hear it again.

“If it is true? Shall I tell you a thousand times over, Miss Challoner, that I love you? I will say it a thousand times over rather than go without knowing that you believe me. I love you—I ”——

“Oh, hush !” said Marie, almost borne down by his vehemence, and a little afraid of such emotion, which was so very unlike Ronald Vidal's way, “I do believe you, if you say so. But why do you tell this to me? It must make me unhappy to think that I am the cause of your being unhappy.”

“T should be ten thousand times more unhappy if I had not told

you. Besides it isn’t any fault of yours. You can’t help my falling in love with you. I insist upon my right,” Christmas said, with an attempt at a smile, “to love you if I like, and as much as I like, and aslong, and you can’t prevent that. It’s afreecountry! Well, that’s all. I should be perfectly wretched if you thought I loved or cared a rush for anybody else but you; and so in listening to me, Miss Challoner, and hearing me out, you have done all you could do to make my life endurable.”

“ That is not much,” said Marie. “ You know I would do a great

deal to make you happy if { could”

“Oh, yes Christmas hastened to say, with someting tte eine

and manly cheerfulness, “1 know AL hat. 1 know Gat you next

Dear Lady Disdain. 743

‘anything but the kindest ffiendship to me. Why, I should call um my dearest friend on earth, if I could only think of you in that » And how good of you to listen to all this! I felt terrified, t you have made it so easy. I felt that I must tell you this, but I us af it was wrong to do and would offend you, and that you ‘be angry, and then I should hate myself and wish I had never

told you. Now you know: and you are not offended ?"——

Oh, no ; only sorry ”"——

“Sorry? for what? For shining like a light across a poor fellow’s ‘way, and giving him always something to remember, and an ideal; and so much that I can't put into words? Why, I shall have the memory of your kindness and your friendship always! I would father haye seen you and loved you, and know that you knew I Toved you, and that you forgave me, than be a king—and I haven't Jost you after all," he added with a melancholy smile, “for T never had any hope of winning you. So I am all the gainer, you see!” ™ You deserve a better fortune, Mr. Pembroke.”

“Don't think about that. You have done all you could to make me happy—and now I've said all T wanted to say—except ”

“ Good-bye," she said very faintly: “if we must say it”; and wondering what she was to do next. We nmust say it! Good-bye. I need not iy how T wish you happiness. You and yours—and af yours.”

“ Yes,—thank you : and before you go—as you are going—should you like ?”. “Should I like, Miss Challoner?” “Should you like"—and an insane impulse carried her away,— * perhaps to kiss me?” ‘The blood rushed into Christmas’s face and into hers: and they both trembled, and stood trembling. There was a moment's silence, and then he threw one hand into the air with the gesture of a man who flings away some last chance, “No!” he said, “TE shouldn't! Ishould go wild if T had to Jeave you then—and your kisses are not yours to give away |" “Tee not true,” Lady Disdain replied with indignant emphasia. “You don’t know what you say. They are mine to give away or T should never have offered them, You may be sure I acyer mid such words before,”

She was as angry with him and with Wiis rejection of wer elles aa | he could have known the whole troth, She was angry WAN

—

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for having made the offer. She felt almost inclined now to le him go.

«J don’t understand,” he began.

Of course you don’t understand; men don’t ever understand any- thing,” and Lady Disdain found herself in her emotion parroting the commonplace sayings of angry women without thinking of it “Do you suppose, Mr. Pembroke, that because I offered to kiss youl must be in love with you?”

“Oh no, no,” he exclaimed quite earnestly, and with fervent disclaimer—“ how could I suppose anything of the kind? I assure you, Miss Challoner, such an idea never entered my mind— never !”

“Then why did you speak in such a way?”

“ But I didn't—indeed, I didn’t’ I knew you only meant good nature and friendship, and pity and all that : but I couldn't stand it, Miss Challoner, all the same.”

“ Well,” and she drew a long breath, “ it’s no matter, I meant it well. And you are really going to Japan?”

“Yes. 1am going.”

“I wish you could take me with you.”

“You wouldn't care to be there. You are much happier here.” He thought she was only jesting about her love for travel and seeing the world.

“T shall not be happy here.”

But you have everything to make you happy—and when you are—married—you can travel again, and”

“Tam not going to be married. No,—you need not look surprised. It is quite true—I am not going to be married. I have broken all that off—this long time—yesterday—I don't know when. But I am free.”

“ Why did you do this?” the wondering youth asked.

“Why? Because I had made a mistake in life. Am I the first girl who didn’t know her own mind? Because people persuaded me, and I didn’t know myself—not in the least. Now I do—and Tam free. But this is only personal talk—about myself, and I must not detain you. Good-bye, Mr. Pembroke.”

Our hero was for the moment all puzzled.

“You changed your mind?”

“Yes: No, though—I don’t think I did. I only found out my mind—found what I ought to have known long ago.”

Was any faint idea breaking in now on whe wis of Cosstmade mind?

Dear Lady Disdain. 7 aI

What ought you to have known long ago? Is it wrong to ask >”

“Tf ought to have known that I cared for—for somebody

(Christmas was standing with his hat in his hand. He tossed the ‘on to the table near, and moved towards her half in hope, Taalf in fear, hardly knowing what he did or felt.

“Yes,” she mid, “I um very sorry: it was very wrong, and thoughtless of me to Aim. but I didn't know—and they told me you were in love with Aer—and—will you kiss me now? and I'll 0 with you to Japan or anywhere if you like!"

Then Christmas Pembroke for the first time kissed a young woman's lips.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

“CONTENT SO ANSOLUTE”

‘Wintcet of these two young lovers was the more happy and the more in love? A question that probably the wit of man could not settle until at least the old and general question had first been | settled —is man or woman susceptible of the higher happiness and

capable of the stronger love? The wise person told of in classic story, whom the gods permitted to be changed for a time into a woman and then resume the form and the life of a man, is said to have reported as the result of his experience that the woman is more loving and the man more happy. If this be a true report, then let us say that Maric Challoner loved the more and Christmas was the more happy. ‘The latter part at Ieast would bear some sceming of truth, for im her fresh delight of love and happiness Marie felt some painful thought about her father arising in her mind, while Pembroke’s breast was all filled with his joy, and he could spare no thought for ‘obstacles—cared nothing about them, whether they were to arise or not. But, indeed, all one could say of these two is that he and she ‘were just as much in love and just as happy as aman and « woman ever could be. Curious to note that their love had been of such strangely different growth. ‘hat of the man had lit up almost the first moment he and she met, and kept burning always. Her love had been of slow growth, long unrecognised, unsuspected, only gradually making its presence felt, until at last it broke and glowed into fall flame, Perhaps, if any romantic person could have \adleed ints than #0 see a living chapter of love or romance, he or Dae wigyh wae)

746 The Gentleman's Magazine.

a little disappointed and might have wondered that there was not somewhat more of passionate demonstrativeness. But, indeed, the two lovers were a good deal embarrassed and even shy. The sudden- ness of the new relation which they held to each other made them wonderfully timid.

“T wish we were up in the wood—in that dear delightful litle hollow,” said Christmas.

“T don't think I could wish anything to be but just what it is.” Marie answered quickly ; for the little hollow in the wood had to him only a memory of her, but she remembered that she had been there with Ronald Vidal too, and therefore held it less sacred.

“T can hardly believe in all this too happy,” he said. “The change is too sudden for me to realise it yet. And I am afraid, Marie—would you believe it?”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“That Iam not half good enough for you, and can’t make you happy enough, and give you the position you ought to have. You have been always used to such a home—fall of luxury and all that”

“Yes. I have always been used to it, and so I don’t care about it, What good has it ever done for me? I have always had money enough—or rather I have never had any money at all, but every- thing has been bought for me that I wanted, and much that I never did want—and now it would please me much more to buy things for my- self. I know that I shall develop a perfect genius for domestic economy, and I shall be as delighted with it as a child with a new ‘toy, so don't be afraid of shat.”

«But I haven't much money.”

“Oh, but you will get more, or we shall find what you have quite enough for us—and I don’t care. It will not affect me. I am not talking like the romantic young women in the novels, Chris.”

It sent a delicious thrill through him to hear her call him “ Chris.”

She saw the expression of delight that passed over his face.

“T think I shall always call you Chris. I used to like to hear Miss Lyle call you Chris, But I wanted to tell you that I am not like a girl in a romance. I do know the value of money, and luxury, and all that—to me ; and I know that it is just nothing, and that as long as you care for me I shall never care what kind of furniture is in the room, or what sort of carpet we are treading on. I know now that I never was happy, or could be—until I found out that I could love some one—and that you were the some one””

“ Marie, suppose 1 had not come here to Durenonds, attra gone away—what should we have done?”

vr } Dear Lady Disdain. 747

“Ob you couldn't have gone away—it’s imposible. Heaven ‘would never have allowed that. But don't call me only Marie—like ‘everybody else.”

“What shall call you then?” For he still was shy and almost afraid to call his own his own.

“I don't know—something tender and loving—something which ‘will let me feel that you do really love me beyond all the world. Am 1 too outspoken and bold, Chris? Tcan't help it. You have saved ‘me from such a miserable life, and I want to be assured again and again that you love me and that I may love you."

And so all thoughts and plans for the future were put away for the moment and their talk for awhile was given to mere assurances of love, It was the youth of the world for them again, ‘They grew in courage both of them, and Christmas found that he could devise marvelously sweet and tender names for her.

‘Ves, it was for the hour a renewal of the world’s youth and golden’ days so far as these two were concerned. ‘They sometimes walked’ up and down the room, he with his arm around her waist and his tall, somewhat boyish figure bending’ a little down towards her, and his heart filled with a wonderful longing to be able to go out and fight lions or do something else for her to show how much he loved her. ‘They seemed to have forgotten that they were not in Arcadia, but in the library of a Londom financier’s country house, and that there ‘were such things in the world.as Iadies-maids and butlers, and pre- parations for luncheons and dinners, and possible moming calls. ‘The latter events, however, were only possibilities in Durewoods, so fie as Sir John Challoner’s house was concerned when Sir John him- self was absent. He brought his visitors with him from town.

So our lovers walked slowly up and down and talked and some= times laughed in that old library as if it were their own safe retreat, wholly sheltered from the intrusion of the outer world. It was the striking of the clock on the chimney-piece which first brought them back to the details of common life.

“Can it be so late?” Murie asked, "Two o'clock |" -

“T suppose I ought to go away?"

“T suppose so. I wonder if I ought to ask you to stay for Tancheon at three?”

“T don't know, I haven't the least idea,” the unsophisticated) youth answered. “Bur if I go away now you must Jet me come again very soon—or let me see you somewhere,”

“I used to go to see you at Mivs Lyles long ago wilhsaek uneq

hesitation,” Mae: said, smiling at the thowght. a —~_

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ould oot do car now. I womder wixt Miss Lyle will say when she hems ail <tis. She will gur all the blame on me, I know.”

“The question is.” Corisomes said, “what are we to do next? I smgpose we shail have some difficulty with your father. I ought to go > London amd ceil Sim of this at once.”

“Hee will be here. perhaps this very evening.” Marie said, turing alte gale at the thought. “If be will not consent, Chris?”

+I dont care about his consent, so long as I have his daughters You wort bresk your word, I know.”

“Ob, no—ITl not bresk my word—nor change. We must only wait”

“TT not wait,” sid Christmas “IM cany you off by force if needs be—and then no one can blame ya."

“I dont care about the blame It is not that I don’t even care aboct his anger. I mean it would not alarm me or put me from my purpose ; bet I should be so sorry to give him any more pain, and I should like him to Eke yw. He was always so good to me and so fond of me, and I used to be so fond of him, and of course this is a disappointment to him If we are to be—married—you and L, Chris ’>——

“ If we are to be married ”

© Well, uz we are to be married, I should like our married life to begin in kindness with him, and if it might be. with his good will. We are both young, and you seem so very young. everybody says— and we cocid wait I should be happy, no matter how long we waited, while I knew that you always thought of me, and loved me. You will promise me this—not to have any quarrel with my father if we can—if we can avoid it by waiting a litle. You will promise me this?”

She threw her arm over the young man’s shoulder—it was the first approach to a caress she had yet made—and looked pleadingly into his eyes.

“ My dearest dear, Ill promise you anything,” he said. “Til do anything you like that will make you happy.”

With a blushing cheek and growing courage she kissed him.

“And then you know,” she pleaded, “he has some right to com- plain of me. Yes, and of you too, Chris! Why did you say that you were in love with that poor girl? Did you say that ?”

“Oh, I never said it! I never said a word of the kind. How could I have said that?”

Well, but he came to believe it somehow, and he thought you said so. How could that have been?”

Dear Lady Disaain, 749

‘Christmas had thought of this many times, even during their first flush of surprise and happiness. Was he to let Marie Challoner know that her father had been guilty of such a cruel fraud?

“TI don’t know," he said, hastily, “He must have misunderstood somehow, 1 was awfully confused of course, and I suppose I didn’t ‘know what I was saying. I thought he would understand me,~or that he partly guessed already. It was a very different love-story I meant to tell him.”

“ About me?”

“About you, love; and only you! See what a piece ot work I must have made of it !”

“And what confusion it brought on everybody, If I had known then".

“ But you didn't care about me then?”

“Oh yes I did. I know now that I did. I felt towards you even then as I never felt to any one else. I ought to have known, Oh yes, Chris. I was beginning to be in love with you then! But of course I closed my heart against you when I heard that. Do you remember the day in Mrs, Seagraves’ house 2”

“DoT remember it? Didn't 1 walk the streets half that night and think of killing myself?”

“[ was very much in love with you that day, only I wouldn't allow myself to think of it, And that was the day when poor Ronald Vidal asked if he might come and see me."

“I saw him,” Christmas said, “and I hated him then, and I should have liked to kill him. Now I suppose he would like to kill me! Well, I don’t wonder at that.”

“Te was the next day you told my father.”

“Tt was,” said Christmas hurriedly, wishing that her memory of that fact at least were a little less clear, “It was all my fault, that terrible misunderstanding, Well, my dearest dear, this time when I go to Sir John Challoner with my love-story I'll make my meaning clear.”

“What will you say?”

“Sir John, I am in love with your daughter, Marie Challoner—in love with Marie Challoner, your daughter—as I do believe no mortal man was ever in love with a girl before! I am in love with a girl whose name is Marie Challoner, and who is your daughter { ‘That will be clear enough?”

“Yes, I think that will be clear enough; but you may add

ing.”

“What can I add to strengthen that?”

748 The Gentleman's Magazine.

could not do that now. I wonder what Miss Lyle will - hears all this. She will put all the blame on me, IF. “The question is,” Christmas said, “what are suppose we shall have some difficulty with yor: go to London and tell him of this at once.” “Fe will be here, perhaps this very ever: a little pale at the thought. “If he will r. “T don't care about his consent, so You won't break your word, I know.” “Oh, no—L'll not break my wor wait.” “Tl not wait,” said Christma needs be—and then no one can. “T don’t care about the b care about his anger. I me’ from my purpose ; but I sho: and I should like him to I" and so fond of me, and I this is a disappointmen'. § and I, Chris"— #4 “Tf we are to be m*

cathy ages sone Lyle.

«IIL.

¢ THE EYES.”

wn strolled into his sister's house in sen her afternoon reception was goitg «Well, sine we att + go there, for his opinions ,on most sib- begin in kindness w { _ °4 Teligious—concurred with those of vay Weare both young. | “6d themselves in that drawing room. Besides and we could we, 3Y visitors there who had no opinions whatever waited, while Ik. 20 these Captain Cameron regarded as worse than You wil promis 20% of wrong and strong creeds. ‘There were some ifee cant if w #81 be found there who hardly knew what sort of ine this?” slinistry was in power anywhere, and would not have ‘She threw J12 KNOW. Some of these persons, indeed, made a point Vert that it was a matter of absolute indifference to into his ey eoitical principles were up and what were down so long «My age pictures to paint and music to listen to; and one had dying fypnced to the appalled Cameron himself that he didn’t care bie poets prestige was gone or not, and that if half a dozen cag Bgsmies were to occupy London in succession it would not plain, Zptne slightest concem so long as they didn't interfere with you Gallery and Wagner's music. x. Agprticular Sunday, however, Cameron had heard a piece of ois a interested and puzzled him, and about which he thought Hi A Probably learn the truth from his sister, With all his dissemt a gee ovinions and the good-humoured chaff in which he occa wn “aptain Cameron thought Ws Sster avery deve

first ap

758

n sphere a. queen of ‘mesoe ee her as some oven of het fe asrunied, dharefore, Hat; nothing 20

Srl? Does she, though? How very sae now}. Fam sure I should love

75° The Gentleman's Magazine,

“Only this: ‘and Marie Challoner, your daughter, is in love with me.’”

“Yes, I will tell him that too, although I can still hardly believe in it myself! Shall we go together and throw ourselves at Sir John’s knees?”

“J fear he would only laugh or say something satirical. I have an idea, Chris—let us go together to Miss Lyle and tell her all, and ask for her advice.”

“Come,” said Christmas, “we will go. You are not afraid to be seen with me?”

“1 am not afraid of anything, except of being without you,” ssid Lady Disdain.

The two lovers went boldly out together, and presently appeared hand-in-hand before the wonder-stricken eyes of Dione Lyle.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. “THE ASTROLOGY OF THE EYES.”

One Sunday Captain Cameron strolled into his sister's house in Portland Place at the hour when her afternoon reception was going ‘on. He did not very often go there, for his opinions on most sub- jects—social, political, and religious—concurred with those of very few who usually presented themselves in that drawing-room. Besides, there were a good many visitors there who had no opinions whatever ‘on such subjects, and these Captain Cameron regarded as worse than persons with any sort of wrong and strong creeds, There were some artists and poets to be found there who hardly knew what sort of Sovereign or Ministry was in power anywhere, and would not have cared a rush to know. Some of these persons, indeed, made a point of frankly declaring that it was a matter of absolute indifference to them what political principles were up and what were down so long as there were pictures to paint and music to listen to; and one had ‘even announced to the appalled Cameron himself that he didn’t care whether England’s prestige was gone or not, and that if half a dozen invading armies were to occupy London in succession it would not give him the slightest concern so long as they didn’t interfere with the Dudley Gallery and Wagner’s music.

‘This particular Sunday, however, Cameron had heard a piece of news which interested and puzzled him, and about which he thought he could probably learn the truth from his sister. With all his dissent from her opinions and the good-humouted chaff in which he occa-

¥ indulged, Captain Cameron aoaghi Ws Geter awery devs

_ Dear Lady Disdain. 75"

and delightful person, and in her strangely-chosen sphere a queen of society, and he did not by any means see her as some even of her friends were pleased to do, He assumed, therefore, thar nothing so strange as the news he had just heard could be true if Mas, Seagraves did not know of it, and he therefore boldly plunged into. the midst of her society.

A young lady whose hair was wreathed in huge coils and compli- cations of twirls on the top of her head was singing some of Elsa's plaints from “Lohengrin” when Cameron catered, Jn that odd place the company usually listened when anybody sang or played. ‘Cameron therefore stayed for a while at the door and looked for his sister.

‘He saw her standing near a table and resting one hand upon a ‘huge blue china jar, while the forefinger of the other hand touched her chin; and her head leaned gracefully to one side in the attitude of a pensive listener, She was dressed in 2 dun-coloured silk, which clung 30 closely to her that it seemed a puzzle how she ever could have stepped into jt, or could now contrive to step in it, Standing sncar her was a pale, pretty, and slender girl, dressed in quiet colours. ‘The moment the music was over Mrs. Seagraves broke info raptures, which Cameron, making his way towards her, came just in time to hear.

“So glad I am, Robert, that you heard that enchanting music.”

“Music, eh? Leonfess | like something with a tune to it.”

“Ob, barbarian! Is he not barbarous, Miss Jansen—my brother?"

“Mes, Malaprop says men are all barbarians,” Captain Cameron observed.

“Does she really? Does she, though? How very delightal | I should love her, 1 know! I am sure I should love Mrs.—who, Robert?”

‘Robert did not stop to explain. He did not expect that clever ladies of to-day would have read Sheridan,

“What's all this cock-and-bull story 1 hear, Tsabel—about my charming little Lady Disdain and young Vidal?"

“So delightful, and so strange!" Mrs. Seagraves said, forgetting ‘Mrs. Malaprop in her new enthusiasm. “At least not strange—no, not by any means strange, but just what one ought to have expected, Tsappose, One should always look out dor the strange in these matters. Bat it is delightful! As least it is delightful to us who Alike it, and who love all the people—that is, of course, the principal people. Of course it can't be delightful to Mr, Vidal—oh, no. IT

is .

752 The Gentleman's Magazine.

should say it must be quite the reverse to him. And for that reason Iam so very, very sorry. I was very glad at first, but now I am very, very sorry.” :

“ But what is it, Isabel? I should like to know whether I am to be glad or sorry—or totally indifferent.”

“Robert! Indifferent—totally indifferent—to anything that con- cerns the happiness of my dear, sweet girl, Marie Challoner! Ob, for shame! But I know you didn’t mean it, and I couldn't think so badly even of a man. But men are very bad—oh, so very, very bad! Not deliberately bad, perhaps—no, I don’t say that ; but thoughtless, perhaps. Should we not say thoughtless? I hope you don't admire thoughtless men, Sybil dear? I think you girls generally do admire thoughtless men—and spoil them. I used to love thoughtless men once—I thought it made them like heroes. Now I don’t like them at all.”

“ About Miss Challoner, Isabel? That’s more to the point now.”

“ About Miss Challoner? Oh yes! Well, you know, she’s not going to marry Mr. Vidal after all 1”

“Indeed? Well, I'm deucedly glad to hear it,” the Legitimis said, “if it’s true.”

“But Robert dear—our dear Mr. Vidal ?”

“Well, he may be your dear Mr. Vidal if you like, Isabel, but he isn’t my dear Mr. Vidal. I never thought much of him. I like a gentleman to be a gentleman, and I’m glad to find Lady Disdain of my opinion at last.”

“Oh, I think he is so charming,” Mrs. Seagraves said, “so very, very charming. Not charming, perhaps—not exactly charming.”

“No, indeed—not by any manner of means charming, I should say.”

“Well, perhaps not ; but so clever, so very clever, and so hand- some! At least, I used to think him handsome once, but now I

don't know that he is so handsome as I thought him, He used to remind me of a troubadour, and I do so delight in troubadours. Sybil, my dearest child, you delight in troubadours, don’t you? Oh yes—a girl with your eloquence and your eyes must delight in troubadours.”

“T never saw any troubadours,” Miss Sybil curtly answered.

“Never saw any troubadours? How very, very strange! No, though—I don’t mean that it is strange, of course—it couldn't be strange, for there are no troubadours now any more, and you couldn't have seen any, Still the imagination does so much, especially with postic natures; and 1 should have thought That you were {ust the

vr

Dear Lady Disdain. 753

girl to have loved troubadowrs. And I am so sorry, my dear Sybil, to hear that you really don't lave troubadours. Robert, shouldn't ‘you have thought Miss Jansen would love troubadours?”

‘The Legitimist bowed rather stiffly to the little Sybil.

“But E had quite forgotten,” Mrs. Seagraves said, “that you don't know my dear friend Miss Jansen. How very strange! Dear Robert, how fortunate you are! Not fortunate in not knowing Miss Jansen—of course not that—what nonsense! Tut fortunate in having the opportunity now of being presented to her. My dear ‘Sybil, will you permit me to present my brother, Robert—Captain ‘Cameron? You ought to know each other, you two.”

Captain Cameron was dignified, but notcordial. He had heard of ‘Miss Jansen as a young woman who made speeches, and he cone sidered that young women who made speeches were coarse, mascue Tine, and rather indelicate creatures, utterly unladylike at the best. He had an impression that they were Atheistical as to their views on the subject of religion, and that they aspired to the wearing of trousers. When he heard Miss Jansen’s name mentioned he looked in instinctive alarm downwards, and was relieved to see skirts and not pantaloons. “ I look down towards her feet—but that's a fable,” murmured the soldier, one of his few memories of Shakespeare occurring to him with a whimsical appropriateness.

“Now, Robert, I shall leave you to talk to Miss Jansen, You ‘two are just made for each other—of course I mean for intellectual converse, for high argument.”

“T never presume to argue with 2 lady,” Captain Cameron re- marked, with grim and stony courtesy.

* Arguments with gentlemen are usually thrown away, T'fear,” Miss Jansen said icily. “They do not consider us worth listening to, of answering.” j

“Oh, but my brother is not of that sort, I can asyure you: he is far too chivalrous. Who is it—what great person—whe says that friendship rests on similarity of tastes—is it? and differences of opinions? There are you two just pictured, I am eure your inclina- tions are both just the same—to do good. Oh, yes! to do good and 40 clevate humanity : and your opinions are so very different. Sybil, - my dear, I leave to you the charge of converting my brother! I never could accomplish it, my dear; but it is reserved for you. Oh, yes! I know itis.”

“But, Isabel, just a moment.” She was switling away. “You ‘haven't finished telling me about Marie Challoner. Why won't she ammarry Vidal ”

Vor. XV., N.S. 1875, 7 i = i

ro

Dear Lady Disdain. 755

“That's why Tsay they must have been stupid. T always knew that he was in love with her, and when I saw her I knew that she was in Jove with him.”

“By Jove!—excuse mie) Miss Jansen—I never dreamed of {t," eee Tsabel, How on earth did you know

WE knew Te ty het eyée the ttomnt He cdma Tato the oom, Sybif'said contemptuously. “I didn’t want any moré instruction. It amuses me to watch the little weaknesses of my fellow creatures, and ‘Twas greatly amused that day when I found her out.”

“We must watch your eyes, my sweet Sybil,” Mrs. exclaimed, “one of these days, ahd We shall read some pretty there, for all your marble coldness and your contempt of our human weaknesses. But not too soon; oh, no! not too soon, We can't spare you just yet s'we want you and the world wants you for

fharriage.”

nobler work than “You all seem to like marriage pretty well, ba said C “And you don't, Captain Cameron, your sister tells ne) Oe teres ie ae ae a happy ago! Womeri are only when some lordly man patronises them el a “Tam so delighted to hear you scold him, my dear Sybil. he deserves ft, and I have often told himso. I am quite ashamed of himt—not ashamed really, you know, betause Robert, for a man, is nt [iad at all—but ashamed that he hash’t been married. You must look in his eyes and tell me what you see there.” “Y shall have to weat blue Roath peices 281K not So ilk-pleased with the conversation after all, and thinking Sy not so very di “ And so you found ¢ by look’ ‘Mis. Seagraves went on pial "go ae

oc iat bad, uk

ol Nd Anka

astrology of the eyes. thint

eh Ak Eo

4 Well that isn’t half a bad phrase,” said

odie 2G Ah Why, I

Dear Lady Disdain, 787

too quietly withdrew from the room, and from the house, and walked homeward, She felt a certain pride in herself such as the Spartan lad might have felt before the teeth of the fox prevailed and he fell and revealed his secret. Sybil had succeeded completely in hiding the wound in her bleeding breast. She had freed herself from the slightest suspicion of having been hurt. She could not perhaps have held out inuch longer, but so far she had succeeded, and she had a right to be prond. She tripped along the crowded Sunday streets quite lightly, and many an eye glanced as she passed after that neat figure and that pretty ankle, Her heart seemed bursting within her, and she walked so quickly because the streets seemed to rock under her and she longed to be safely home. When she got home she spoke to her servant with unusual sofiness and sweetness, and to her mother she was careful 10 show the gentlest temper, and not on any account to make a short answer. As the bleeding away of a wound sometimes changes fierce battle-natures for the time to a feminine gentleness so Sybil's heavy heart seemed to have reduced to mildness and docility the impatience and ocea- sional sharpness of an eager, feverish temper. Mrs. Jansen had had a headache in the morning, and Sybil asked so kindly and so much about it, and offered such suggestions of remedy and relief, that one might have thought her mother’s headache was all the girl had to trouble her in life. She helped to arrange their modest lithe Sunday dinner, and she tried to seem as if she was helping to eat it.

After dinner she remained a good long time in her own room. Mrs, Jansen did not go to her. She knew her daughter's ways and weaknesses, She knew that when Sybil remained alone it was Detter not to disturb her, and of course all Sybil's brave little play- acting had never deceived her mother for a moment, Her quiet watchful eyes had followed every motion of her girl, and she knew that something had happened, But she knew better than to ask any questions. She would let the girl alone, and in good time

Sybil would tell her all.

‘That night Sybil had to speak ata litle meeting in some one of the secluded, almost subterranean, buildings where on the Sunday evenings in London minds of an advanced order lay themselves out to instruct the race. Mrs, Jansen was sitting by the firelight without a lamp when Sybil came quietly in,

“ Would you like me to light the lamp, mamma?"

“YF you will, dear.”

“Well, in a moment, just."

a

Dear Lady Disdain, 759

say too that she hag another sweetener of life—not only an ideal love | Dut an ideal grievance? The wrongs of woman will wake her lies more than ever, and into their cause she will throw all passionate energies of her fervid little soul: and be happy even in her wrath against the injustice of the world. For her sake at least Jet us hope that the suffrage may not soon be granted to women, that some little of man's tyranny may continue yet awhile to oppress his weaker companion, so that poor Sybil may have a cause to occupy her energies and to keep her attention distracted from her own lonely state. Meanwhile it is known that Sybil has refused many apparently eligible young men who haye supplicated her : and it is generally believed that her sense of the injustices done to her sex by the oppressor is so keen that she has registered a vow neyer to mary while the least remnant of thoxe grievances still remains. If she is to die anold maid, then it is at least understood that this fate is of her own deliberate choice. So she can cherish her ideal love in secret, and keep the fire burning at its altar where the breath of change can never blow it out, nor the smoke of human weakness of passion obscure its brightacss,

CHAPTER XXXEX. THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE TOGETHER.

Wuen Sir John Challoner retumed to Durewoods he was not surprised to find a letter awaiting him from{Christmas Pembroke containing an carnest request to be allowed a few minutes’ conversa- tion with him. Sir John could hardly now be surprised at anything, and he knew what was to come, and had no idea of struggling any fonger. His castle of cards had all tumbled down, and he knew that it was hopeless to try to build up another of the same kind. Perhaps a little compassion, or at least a little pity, may be spared for him. His ambition and his schemes had not heen meaner than those of the avcrage middle-class man straining with all a life's fervour to reach the higher class ; and he had been so very near to

is cruel indeed when the falschood remains, having complish the success.

ES acuminate

=

Dear Lady Disdain. 76

Tmust have made a md bungle the last time when I told you my story, and led you into a misunderstanding which was near setting “tas alll astray.”

Sir John looked up quickly, and then their eyes met, and no doubt the two men quite understood each other. Sir John drew a Jong breath and felt relieved.

“1 told Marie,” Pembroke said—Sir John almost started at the “Marie”—what a bungle I must have made of it the last time, and how I was resolved to be clear this time,"

“Well, Pembroke, you certainly have been clear this time, and 1 thank you for that." (Probably the two again understood each other.) “Now what do you expect me to say to all this? To give my consent? I presume Marie and you have given each other away without asking me?”

“We do love each other very, very much, and I have not sch bad prospects; and even now, Sir John, she wouldn't be quite poor: T have some means, and she does not care to be rich. We shouldn't be paupers, you know. I am much better off—you have often told ‘me yourself—than lots of the younger sons of your aristocracy—and T mean to make my way, and to rise.”

“T needn't have any hesitation in saying that this is a disappoint- tment to me,” Sir John said. “You know all that, I had different views for my daughter. I haven’t a word to say against you personally, Pembroke, but you know—I told you from the beginning—that am- ‘bition and the world count for something with me, 1 am disappointed —I don't deny it.”

“Still, when Marie has not the same kind of ambition her feelings ought to count for something.”

“T think they have heen allowed to count for a great deal in this instance,” Sir John said, with a smile of melancholy irony, “I think her feelings have it all their own way, Pembroke, I am not a man to talk eloquently about ungrateful children and that sort of thing, ‘ut I was very fond of my daughter, Pembroke, and devoted to her — and—well, you may haye a daughter some day, and devote yourself to her, and find after all that—well, find that you will understand better what J mean,”

“ But Marie is devoted to you —no better and more loving daughter ever lived,” the young man protested warmly.

“Yes, yes, of course, we know all that. Still, Pembroke, 1 ama little cut up, you perceive. One can't help it; that’s the way fathers are made. Well, let us pass over all that and come to the more

‘Practicalquestion. Ts there anything for me to settle?”

r- Dear Lady Disdain. 765

at the mouth of the Mersey, and was leaving the long, lowly’ Lancashire shore on the gne side and the sand-hills and 1

= rocks and soft brond beach of New Brighton on the other.

“The vessel was throbbing through the great waters out to sea, and “the sca accmed only more tremulous than the sky—not less quiet. Maric and Christmas Pembroke had come from the saloon and "paced from the stern quite up to the bow of the steamer, to be free of other passengers for the moment, and to look out over the water through which they were cleaving their way. They were silent for a while with the very fullness of their content. ‘“'This £ an evening to begin a voyage," Christmas said at last in # low tone, “'See—the sun and moon together in the sky I" Marie said. “T wonder is that a good omen at the beginning of a voyage? I hope it is.”

Everything must be a good omen to me," said Christmas, “ You aire all the good omens in yourself.”

“ Lwonder is Miss Lyle in her baleony now, looking at that lovely sky, and does she think of us? How selfish we are in our happi- ness! I should like to know that Miss Lyle was thinking of us now, and her to know, Chris, that we were thinking of her.”

“She will believe that of us, Lam sure, and she is so kindhearted ‘and sympathetic I think she wouldn't grudge us a little forgetfulness of everything but ourselves just for the moment. I know she would not blame me, for J only feel still as if I had carried you off some- how, and as if somebody or other might still come up to claim you. Tcan't realise it all yet, When we are far out at sea then T shall begin to believe that [ have you safe! Then we shall walk the deck of nights, and talk of her and of the people and the places we have left behind.”

“Tp it not happy that we parted from my father on such good terms, and thot he is satisfied? Is he not very kind, Chris?”

She saicl this a little eagerly, for she wanted to be reassured about her father, and to have his broken image put together again a8 much ‘as possibile, now that she had had her own way and was so happy. Christmas did not fail to reassure her, Then, as was natural, they tell to talking of themselves again, and their happiness, and their prospects.

“I can hardly believe that we are going all across America, you and I together,” Marie said, “ If you knew what a sick, sad heart I had when I made that journey before! It seems wonderful to me now, but I did not know then why I was so wretched.”

766 The Gentleman's Magasine,

“Ours seems a wonderful story to me—so wonderful that I still ask myself Can it be true? The other day I was plunged in the very depths of despair, and now I am in a dream of happiness.”

“And we are going off together for a great holiday in a wonderful new world, you and I alone, and we are to travel together, and live together, and come back together.”

“And we shall stand, you and I together,” said Christmas, “on the shore at Saucelito and look on San Francisco Bay, and think of Durewoods there.”

“Yes,” Marie added, ‘and we shall pass, you and I together, as we are now, through the Golden Gate !”

THE END.

TABLE TALK. BY SYLVANUS URBAN, GENTLEMAN.

=

As amateur philologist submits for these pagts the following. curious bit of investigation and speculation:—“A passing revival of the question whether Swilt, Pope, or Byrom was the author of the famous picce of unmusical sarcasm ending—

‘Strange all this difference should be ‘Twist Tweedledum and Tweedle<lee,

suggests, in rather 2 roundabout way, another question ean | wo the philology of slang, In the first place, why has that King of in- struments the violin, of which the sounds are meant to be echoed in the above couplet, always been taken popularly to typify the ridi- | eiilous aspect of music, while the less royal instriiments of the of chestra are never named but with honour? Lute, harp, and thumper have a poetical aroma; but nobody would dream of putting a Fiddle into the hands of Orpheus ot Apollo, except a8 a stroke of ‘Durlesque humour. It is not because the word has a ridiculous sound fer se, for the phenomenon is by no means confined to Eng- Jand, and extends to lands where Fiddle is represented by more euphonious word:, Tze wandering harper is traditionally picturesque, the wandering fiddicr traditionally comic: and yet it may be doubted whether either artist ever had the advantage on the score of respects bility. Any how, the fact remains: and now for my piece of etymology. Tt is tolerably well known that a gréat many of the commonest slang words we have are pure Romani, or Gipsy: stich as ‘/7%/,’ literally a Brother; Rum Chap? Rom Chabo, a Gipsy Ind ; * Sharh? properly Chav, a boy, young j and so on, At toa Pape nthe nec of th Ltt Sit of Roby RADE L quoted by Dr. A. F. Pott in his work “The Gipsies in

IEG heater an tae Be ‘Theit dialect they call Roomus; and when they mean to

whether or nu he be of their tibe, they oy Cte re my

‘ahd ‘the Boh? That ix to say, Can Broo earns? tire HO ecb Nar eee

768 The Gentleman's Magazine.

been supposed to be of Eastern origin, and its introduction as a piece of slang—I think, at least—ascribed to Morier, the author of ‘ Haji Baba,’ &c. But we certainly have here our slang word for trash and nonsense used by our masters in slang, the English Gipsies, for another word for trash and nonsense—namely, Fiddle. We my have given them the latter word in its contemptuous sense, as toa race of vagrant musicians: they may have translated it into their own tongue and have given it back again in its new and stronger form. If this view is thought to be an example of the Gipsy for a Violin, it at any rate points to a curious philological coincidence. I make no apologyffor writing on the ungentlemanly topic of slang to the Gentleman's Magazine, as 1 believe the natural history of arget to be essential to the exhaustive study of language, which is other- wise what the botany of garden flowers would be without the botany of weeds.”

‘AN Irish correspondent asks me why Mr. Boucicault, whose pet- formance of Irish characters has now nothing in the same line to rival it on our stage, occasionally goes a little wrong in his “brogue” and drops into the conventional pronunciation with which Saxon authors and actors endow the Celt. For instance, he asks, why does Mr. Boucicault say “kape” for “keep” and “praste” for “priest”? This, it seems, is nut in the genius of the Irish Drogue, but is invariably the English misconception of it. The letters which the IrishJpeasant cannot manage are the “ea,” as in “meat,” or “sea,” or “tea,” and not the “ee” or the “ie.” He says “mate” and “tay” and “say,” but he does not say “praste” or “kape.” Where the letter “e” is doubled his tendency is rather to prolong it inordinately. Some English comic writers make their Irishmen talk of *‘Saint Pater.” But no one ever heard an Irish peasant speak of the blessed Saint of the Keys in such a way. He would call him “Saint Peether.” My correspondent avers that this is the infallible touchstone by which to know genuine from conventional or Cockney-manufactured brogue. Mr. Boucicault is himself an Irishman, but my correspondent assumes that he has been so long out of Ireland that he has to trust to memory for his brogue, and therefore orcasionally—and very rarely—is taken in by the sham article of the: British drama. There is a story told as true in a Scottish towno—Dunfermline, if I remember rightly—about some local disturbance a few years ago of which the Irish labourers were supposed to be the cause, and of a popular resolve therefore to expel all the Irish. One dificalty was how to distinguish these

Table Talk. 769

with certainty, A sure means was found. Every suspected person was asked to pronounce the word “peas,” and of course all the countrymen of the Shaughraun called it “pays.” Now if in reliance ‘on the traditions of the British stage the inquisitors had propounded the word “keep” or “priest” their inhospitable intentions would ave been frustrated. My correspondent adds that no writer not Trish has done Irish brogue so well as ‘Thackeray, and that the only weakness in Thackeray's Irish men and women is that the pecu- Marities of one province are sometimes mixed up with those of another. Captain Costigan, for example, is sometimes Munster and sometimes Leinster.

‘Te same correspondent is reminded by the wake in “The Shaughraun” of a story which he declares to be true, and which he says has never before been printed. In a city of Munster an old woman died, and the neighbours desired to give her a grand wake, ‘The floors of the house were very shaky, and the people were warned by the priest and other authorities that they must not haye heir ceremonies in the upper room where the dead body lay, ‘The friends paid no attention to the warning. It would probably have ‘been contrary to precedent to remove the corpse before the time for ‘its final remova). So the neighbours gathered in the upper room and Tnmented and were very merry until the floor gave way and they all came down into the.room below. It proved that the wake was ‘only the beginning of tragedy. Five or six of the “boys and girls” were killed. A doctor was sent for, who only arrived in time to certify the deaths, But the dead bodies were laid out with some order and decency in an undamaged room, and the doctor went to one after another, followed by a sympathetic crowd. “Who is this poor fellow?" he asked. “ Ah then rest his sowl,” went a chorag of yoices—" good son and good brother he was,"—and then his name was mournfully recited, and other praises added. “ And this poor girl?" “The Lord have mercy on her, for a better girl never drew the breath of life,” and then her name was given amid fresh praises and groaning choruses of assent, ‘Thus the doctor went his melan- holy way, and surveyed corpse after corpse. In every case thus far he has heard nothing but lament and panegyric, His iname mierias is nearly over when his eye lights on something like a bundle of old elothes thrust carelessly into a comer. “What is that thing there?” the doctor asks. “Oh then bad luck to der,” is the answer, accom- panied by a general sound of anger and disgust,—" sure ould corpse that was the cause of it all \"

Vols XV., N.S. 1875.

Table Talk, 770

‘Mr, Scuorz Witson, having, as he believes, discovered in Miss Ellen Terry an actress capable of restoring to the stage the fine ald. tone of high comedy, follows up the letter from which 1 made quota- tions three or four months ago with some remarks on that lady's Jatest characterisation, which, in the interest of that restoration of fine high comedy which I should be as glad as he to welcome, I have pleasure in printing. “Itis, as it seems to me,” he says, “a matter for regret that Miss Ellen Terry, alter her memorable success in Portia, should not have appeared in other parts equally suitable to her talents. The interest of a true artist is also the interest of the audience. If Kean, after his stupendous success in Shylock, had ‘been brought out in the part of a walking gentleman, he would have failed to sustain the public interest, Miss Terry, as Mabel Vane, has shown how much 2 genuine actress can do with a little part, and it has been pleasant to notice how strong a hold this lady retains of public favour. The part contains—for an actress who cam detect Tatent possibilities—the suggestions of an innate purity which con~ trasts with the stage tone of the day and with the other characters in the play, The guileless simplicity, the trac womanly worth and delicacy, the wifely tenderness and devotion, are at once touching and true, and area reproach to a good deal of the modern spirit in the art of the actress.”

‘Tue second “Jim Crow," we read, has died in Australin—the actor, that is, who succeeded Rice, the first Jim Crow. How many readers under thirty-five have any idea of who that hero of stage and song, the once universal Jim Crow, really was?) In front of a shop in Broadway, New Vork, is or was a wooden figure of a comic nigger which boasted itself to be the original effigy of Jim Crow. Once Jim Crow overran the world. All humanity—civilised, at Jeast— combined to “jump Jim Crow.” The redoubtable Feargus O'Connor ‘once crushed an opponent at an election meeting with a word, The ualucky person was named “Crow.” “ As I have not the pleasure,” said Feargus, "to know the honourable gentleman's first name, per- haps he will allow me to address him as ‘Jim!" As a hero of song Jim Crow was, I think, succeeded by a mysterious personage called “Jim along Josey”—at least such was the combination of words which used to din the cars of the afflicted world. Where do they vanith to, these passing favourites of popular song? Is there ‘a shadowy world where Jim along Josey rejoins Jim Crow? Where is Mr, William Barlow—Billy Barlow more commonly called—whose

varied adventures delighted London youth for years? ra

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